Page 6 of The Gathering Storm

Chapter Two

Sigrid unlocked her front door and flipped lights on as she wandered through her house. The three-story, brick Victorian was hell to maintain, but its size and cozy rooms were perfect for her needs. Here, her family could visit whenever they wished, stay as long as they liked, and never interfere with her privacy.

She trailed a hand over the antique Chippendale settee in her office, then settled into the sleek, ergonomically designed chair behind her desk and booted up her laptop. That hadn’t always been the case. The first two centuries of her life had been rough. She’d lived hand to mouth, hired her sword arm to foreign princes and the occasional queen, took work whenever she could find it, and otherwise did whatever she had to do to survive. It was a typical life for an immortal Daughter, even now in the luxurious golden age of affordable technology and easy access to work.

A few well-placed taps on the keyboard and the tax assessor’s website popped up in the browser. Sigrid input the address for The Omega and waited patiently for the results. If Moira had told her the young barkeep’s identity, it wouldn’t be necessary to snoop on his parents, the most likely owners of the tavern he worked in. Stubborn Irish was getting a little big for her breeches.

The search netted one entry. Sigrid clicked into it and frowned. The owner was listed as Wilhelmina Corbin, and Sigrid knew of only one Daughter with that given name. Wilhelmina the Fierce was a child of Anya Bloodletter, a member of the Council of Seven representing the line of Abragni, the youngest of the Seven Sisters.

Sigrid relaxed into her chair and drummed her fingertips on the top of her desk. Anya was younger than her by sixteen years. They’d joined forces often in the first few heady decades of their lives, battling marauding armies, reaping precious bounty, sharing the spoils of their labor.

Men being the primary spoil.

Assuming the barkeep was Wilhelmina’s son and, by extension, Anya’s grandson, he would be under the protection of women who knew Sigrid by personal acquaintance rather than rumor. Anya would protest a dalliance on that knowledge alone. A permanent alliance in the form of a concubinage or marriage would be welcomed by the councilmember, given their longstanding friendship, but Sigrid was far from wanting one, even as tempting a figure as the barkeep cut.

But that kiss.

She touched her fingertips to her mouth and smiled at the memory of his caress. Masterful, patient, delicious. Would he offer her another at their next encounter, or would she be forced to maneuver him into one?

Unwelcome memory surfaced. Moira had said the barkeep had his eye on a woman. If so, what was he doing kissing her instead of pursuing this other female? Would his interest in another forestall his involvement with Sigrid?

She swiveled her chair around and pushed out of it. What did it matter? She could claim him on the kiss alone, by dint of the People’s long-standing traditions concerning the management of male progeny. Whether she wanted to or not was another matter entirely.

Now that she knew his probable family, she could discover his name through the People’s extensive genealogies, currently maintained by Robert Upton, the husband of another battle-hardened acquaintance, Rebecca the Blade, one of Anya’s nieces. Until then, Sigrid could bide her time. Patience was a warrior’s companion, determination her abiding strength. The barkeep would be in her grasp sooner or later, and when he was, perhaps he could be coaxed into sharing more than a simple kiss or two.

Will woke up with an aching hard-on and the memory of Sigrid’s kiss lingering on his mouth.

He cursed under his breath and buried his face in his pillow, ignoring the painful throb of his dick pressed into the mattress. Sleep had eluded him while his mind flirted with tasting her again, touching her, her fingers gliding around his shoulders as she studied him.

Friggin’ Daughters and their friggin’ games. Maybe he would’ve been ok if she hadn’t put her hands on him. Maybe then he could forget her the way he ought to and start moving on with his life.

He shoved Sigrid out of his mind and threw the covers back. The air in his apartment chilled his heated skin, doing not a damn thing to ease his hard-on. He padded into the bathroom, brushed his teeth while he waited for it to wilt. Remembered the smooth stroke of Sigrid’s fingers on his shoulders and cursed the blood surging into his groin.

Two years he’d been playing this game. He spat toothpaste out, rinsed his mouth, patted it dry, and avoided the grumpy stare of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Futile to keep hoping. Hadn’t he decided that on Friday? Futile to dream, futile to want, and yet there it was, a grinding need built deep into his bones.

It was the quickest he’d ever broken a resolution before and it didn’t sit well with him. A Son should have more discipline than that, especially where women were concerned, and most especially when a Daughter entered the picture.

A sharp rap on his front door interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts. He heaved a sigh, snagged a pair of shorts on his way through the bedroom, and loped into the living room.

A lightly accented feminine voice called, “Will?” and he froze where he stood, half into his living room, naked as the day he was born with a pair of loose-fitting gym shorts hanging from one hand.

Sigrid.

Questions swirled through his mind, eddying into a torrent of anticipation and curiosity. What was she doing at his apartment? How had she even found him? Why had she bothered after ignoring him for so long?

Only one way to find out.

He shimmied into his shorts and jogged to the door, swung it open before remembering the hard-on he still sported and the fact that he hadn’t washed his face, combed his hair, or put on deodorant.

His first look at her drained every other concern out of his mind. She was a cool breath of fresh air dressed in a slim, ivory skirt and a tailored navy button down under an ivory colored wool coat. Her toned legs ended in heels the same color as her shirt, putting her on eye level with him. He slouched against the doorframe and looked his fill, reveling in the light musk of her perfume, the filtered sunlight glinting off her golden braid, the perfectly arched eyebrow she aimed at him.

“Will Corbin?”

“Yeah.” And just to be contrary, he crossed his arms over his chest and let the cold, winter air wash over him, raising goose bumps on his skin. She was there, sure. Didn’t mean he had to let her in, though he’d be a fool not to, if only to satisfy his curiosity. “What can I do for you?”

She waggled the small paper bag she held in her gloved hand. “DNA sample. Everyone needs to be tested.”

He shrugged. “And?”

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