Page 10 of The Gathering Storm

Everyone was being tested and retested, Daughters mortal and immortal, Sons, and those having frequent contact with the People.

The printout of the sample she was studying contained mitochondrial DNA of the same haplogroup and pattern as the descendants of the Sisters. Sigrid flipped to the lead page of the report and checked the sample’s origins.

James Edward Terhune. Interesting.

She closed the report and stuck it in her outbox for filing, then selected another report and centered it on the calendar aligned precisely on the top of her desk. It wasn’t unusual to find a genetic commonality between an outsider and the People. The pre-agricultural human population had been small, and while genealogical and other records for that era didn’t exist, there were plenty of records from later time periods. Combined with lore, oral and written, such connections could be found, and often were.

Finding a direct maternal link to the Sisters among outsiders was far less common. Mitochondrial DNA was passed down only in the maternal line. Children born to Sons carried the mitochondrial DNA of their mother, and Sons didn’t always marry Daughters. Mortal descendants of the People were only tracked for a few generations before their lines were considered outside the People’s close kinship.

How far back would James Terhune’s maternal line need to be traced in order to pinpoint his exact relationship to the People?

A soft knock rapped on her door, drawing Sigrid’s attention to the entrance of her office. George Howe, her young, mortal assistant, stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. His eyebrows were furrowed beneath a cap of golden hair, his mouth was turned down at the corners, and his clothes were wrinkled and ill-fitting.

She eyed him again from head to toe. Had his clothes always hung so loosely on his sturdy frame?

George shuffled half a foot inside her office, still frowning. “I’ve got the latest batch of test reports.”

Sigrid waited for him to continue. The reports weren’t urgent. She usually picked them up on her way through the building and scanned them during lulls in other work, as she’d been doing before George interrupted her.

When he simply stood there filling space she’d rather remain empty, she arched a single eyebrow.

He flushed and hunched his shoulders underneath the worn shoulders of an old sweater. “You’ve got some messages.”

“And?”

“Director Upton called and said she’d reminded the Council of Seven about the DNA tests.” He shifted his grip on the reports he was holding, fumbling them as his hands shook, and fished out a yellow post-it note. “Will Corbin called and said he might be a few minutes late. An emergency at the Omega?”

Sigrid folded her hands on the desk and willed her patience to hold. “You are not my secretary, Mr. Howe.”

He glance down at the floor, failing to hide the flush staining his cheeks. “No, ma’am.”

“You’re my assistant, and my assistant is not paid to ferry messages to me.”

“No, ma’am.”

His voice was quiet, cowed, and for a moment, anger spiked through Sigrid. Where was this boy’s spine? Where was his fortitude? No Son would ever bow under the gaze of another as this one did. No Son would whimper his fear, whether he felt it or not, and no Son would stand quivering in the face of her fury.

But George was not a Son.

Sigrid clamped down on her anger and ruthlessly quashed it. This young man was a brilliant geneticist. She’d handpicked him from among dozens of candidates. That he was timid and weak detracted not one whit from his genius, and though those characteristics annoyed her no end, George showed no signs of overcoming either.

After months of living among the People, shouldn’t he have?

She deliberately unclenched her fists and rested her hands flat on her desk. Losing her temper would do no one any good and would ruin the good mood Will had put her in earlier when he’d answered his door wearing only shorts over a body honed by years of disciplined exercise.

“Why are you here?” she asked, deliberately softening her voice.

George lifted his head, and for a moment, stark emotion filled his expression. Before Sigrid could pinpoint it, he shook his head and held up the stack of files and papers clasped in his hands. “We’ve finished testing the Boston skeletal remains.”

He scurried to her desk, dropped his burden in an untidy pile on one corner, and left without once looking her in the face again, nearly bumping into Will on his way through the door.

Will smiled at George and said, “Hey, man,” but George ignored him and walked rapidly away, each step a sharp staccato against the tiled hallway floor.

Will’s smile faded. He turned to her and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s eating him?”

Sigrid refused to feel one iota of guilt. Young Howe needed to toughen up, else he’d never survive among the People, and she needed him here, needed his brilliant mind and keen insight.

She rose and retrieved her suit jacket from a hanger in the closet tucked away to the side of her office, adjacent a small bathroom. “Are you ready?”

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