Page 1 of The Gathering Storm

Chapter One

Sigrid Glyvynsdatter leaned against the bar inside The Omega, Tellowee, Georgia’s only nightlife, and sipped her lager. Duke and Carolina were playing hoops on the TV hanging in a corner above the bar. She kept one eye on the game. It wasn’t all that interesting, but it beat staring at the people crowded into The Omega. Word had already spread in the close-knit town. Jerusha Mankiller had discovered the bones of two Sisters. For the People, the find might as well have been the Holy Grail.

Carolina scored, and Moira Firebrand shot a triumphant grin at Sigrid. “Three minutes.”

Sig snorted and set her mug on the bar’s smooth, burled oak surface. “The game isn’t over yet.”

She wouldn’t have worried about its outcome at all if she hadn’t bet a night of babysitting on Duke blowing Carolina out of the water. Moira had gone through her needing recently and, of all things, had submitted to the father, Tom Fairfax, and become mortal. Apparently, they were in love. The very idea rankled. If Moira had truly wanted to protect her child and lover, she would never have submitted to him. A Daughter’s best strength resided in her immortality, not in her tender heart.

The bartender switched Sigrid’s nearly empty mug for a fresh one. She ignored him. Men were one and the same, good to warm her bed for a night or two and not much else. What use was it to get to know one? She had no intentions of falling in love and her needing was months away. Even if she wanted another child, now would be the worst possible time for her to have one. The People were on the cusp of change, positioned on the verge of finally gaining the strength to overcome their greatest enemy. Now of all times, Sigrid needed to concentrate on her duty, not fritter her time away chasing after a handsome face.

Though she’d be the first in line to examine the Sisters’ bones, the discovery held only mild interest for her. Extracting DNA, analyzing it, and comparing it to the Institute for Early Cultural Studies’ growing database of modern DNA samples was child’s play. That she might have a hand in reuniting the People with a significant part of their history excited her not at all.

She tossed her braid over her shoulder and stifled a sigh. At her age, boredom was to be expected. She’d spent centuries doing exactly what she wanted, fighting wars, raiding and pillaging. The pillaging had been fun, especially when it ended with a strapping man chained to her bed.

Good times.

Duke stole the ball and passed it down the court, and one of the guards scored on a beautiful layup. Sig cut a side-eyed glance at her red-headed companion. “Two minutes.”

Moira twisted her wide mouth into a grimace. “Feckin’ butterfingers.”

“Should I say I told you so now or wait until Duke wins?”

“Keep dreaming, you cockeyed Viking.”

“I’d rather be cockeyed than knocked up.”

Moira whirled around, her blue eyes hot. “No swipes there, Sig, or I’ll take ye down a peg.”

Sigrid pushed away from the bar and eyed the temper sparking in her friend’s eyes. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be such a wash after all. It had been ages since she and Moira had gotten into a row, and they always proved interesting. The younger Daughter’s fighting tactics were as creative as her language and twice as fun to counter.

The bartender smacked his fingers against the bar, drawing Sigrid and Moira’s attention. “No fighting, not tonight.”

Moira rolled her eyes and slumped against the edge of the bar, muttering under her breath.

The bartender’s finely arched eyebrows furrowed over leaf green eyes. “Don’t test me, Moira.”

Sigrid hid her humor behind a sip of her lager. As if he had a chance of winning against a Daughter, mortal or not.

Carolina scored, and Moira whooped. “Forty-five seconds.”

“You’re counting your chickens,” Sigrid said.

“That I might be, but at least I know the difference between a bird and a basketball player.”

Sigrid slapped her mug onto the bar. “Are you calling Duke’s men’s basketball team chickens?”

Moira waggled her strawberry blonde eyebrows. “If the shoe fits.”

The bartender braced his hands against the edge of the bar. “Why is it that nobody else comes in here and gives me trouble except the two of you?”

Moira flashed a grin at him. “Ye’re just lucky that way, cousin.”

“More like cursed,” he muttered. “No fighting.”

He hustled off to fill an order, and Sigrid turned back to the game. The problem was, she was bored. Her life had settled into the most humdrum of routines. Get up early, workout, go to work at the IECS. Come home at the end of the day and workout again, then drop by the Omega and snipe at Moira for an hour before the Irish Daughter’s husband dragged her home. Where was the adventure, the action, the sheer lunacy of Sigrid’s youth? The world had changed in the twelve centuries since her birth, and she didn’t like it one bit.

Perhaps a trip to the darkest reaches of Africa might be in order. There were still wars being fought there, plunder for the taking, innocents needing a hand against the hammer of the cruel and unjust. She could wrap up her work at the IECS within six months at the most and hand the remaining details over to her assistant, George Howe. He was intelligent enough, for a man, though a bit bashful for her tastes, and should be able to finish their work on his own with no major glitches.

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