Page 65 of The Gathering Storm

Chapter Seventeen

Sigrid stood on the sidelines watching the fiercely competitive matches taking place on two large mats placed on opposite ends of the gym floor.

Will had snuck a kiss from her while she was dressing, though she’d sworn to avoid him before the match. His presence was a distraction she could ill afford, yet when he’d banged on the locker room door and shouted for her, she’d obeyed his summons like a schoolgirl in the first throes of a crush. As soon as she’d appeared in the doorway, he’d dragged her into the hall, pinned her to the painted concrete block wall, and kissed her senseless right there where any passerby could witness her defeat.

Even now, her lips tingled from his touch, and she was keenly aware of his presence some twenty feet distant. His gaze rested on the match taking place closest to him, yet his attention seemed elsewhere, as if he were pondering a matter of great import.

Two guesses as to what.

A woman settled into the spot beside Sigrid. She glanced out of the corners of her eyes, scarcely moving her head, and sighed. Chana. Wasn’t their forthcoming match soon enough for another confrontation?

“You have no family here?” Chana asked.

“In the bleachers,” Sigrid said. “Should you wish your companions to remain on the floor, it can be arranged.”

“I prefer them far away. A Daughter fights her battles alone, yes?”

Sigrid grunted. No matter how far the People scattered across the ends of the Earth, or how varied their practices, some things remained the same.

Chana jerked her chin at Will. “I see the way he looks at you. His heart will not stay my hand, or temper my blows.”

“Nor will it mine.” Sigrid shifted toward Chana, one eyebrow arched. “Why do you pursue him, knowing his heart lies elsewhere?”

Something flashed across Chana’s expression, a moment of vulnerability, perhaps, and was gone just as quickly. She ducked her head, inhaled a long breath, and when she raised her head, her expression was hard and resolute. “He reminds me of someone I knew long, long ago.”

An understandable reason, even under the circumstances. A Daughter’s long life brought many loves, if she was lucky, though not every beloved mate could break a Daughter’s curse. Only one special man could do that, the one a Daughter could trust and love above all others.

Sigrid’s gaze drifted to Will. He stood exactly where he had since she’d walked out of the locker room and onto the gym floor, still as a statue with his arms crossed over his wide chest and his lower lip pinched between thumb and forefinger. Was he that special man for her? Could he break her curse, give her the Son she’d only thought of in her most secret dreams? Would he be the man she would live out the remainder of her natural life with, side by side, in a bond so eternal, even An’s curse could never stand between them?

For a moment, she yearned. What would it be like to have that all-consuming connection with Will, to love him so much, she gave everything to him?

A whistle blew, signaling the end of a match, and Sigrid snapped out of her reverie. She had sworn to never submit to a man, to serve the People always as an immortal, until the day their enemies were defeated and the curse was broken by the fulfillment of the Prophecy, leaving them free to love as they chose.

That day could be soon, her heart murmured, and she cut it off, snuffing every emotion as if they were lights glowing within her. She would give Will what she could, though she could never give him what he wanted. To do that, she must win, and to win, she must be cold, ruthless, unfeeling.

As she had once been to Will.

She shoved the small pang away and focused on the Daughters streaming on and off the floor, preparing for another bout. “Have you decided on a weapon?”

“A baston made of rattan,” Chana said promptly, and her dark eyes cut sideways toward Sigrid. “I have no wish to permanently maim you.”

Sigrid nodded, oddly relieved. The baston was a simple stick a little more than two feet in length, and one of the first weapons modern children of the People learned to use. Deadly enough for combat in the right hands, but lacking the sharp edges of many of the People’s other favored weapons. She’d picked up stick fighting at a more advanced age, but it had become, like swordplay, so ingrained she could fight blindfolded. Sticks weren’t her best weapon, no; swords were and always had been. Still, the baston was a fitting weapon. It would be a good fight, well-matched, and in the end, the best Daughter would win the prize.

Sweet Will.

“Nor I you,” she said at last.

She stood next to Chana in a companionable silence, her blood thrumming with purpose and determination, and a hope she could scarcely acknowledge.

Theirs was the second challenge match scheduled, succeeding a bout between Ethan Phillips and Levi Ewart over a slight of honor involving Levi’s mortal wife. The two Sons, one of the line of Abragni, the other of the line of Bagda and a distant cousin to Sigrid, ruthlessly exchanged blows using their fists or open hands, or any other body part positioned within striking distance of the other Son.

The match was refereed by a neutral judge, one not directly related to either party. The men were evenly matched, tall and strong and creative in their attacks and defenses, and equally determined to win. At two points each and nearly twenty minutes into the challenge, both stood ready for more.

It might have stayed that way if Ethan hadn’t lost his balance at the end of a half-roundhouse kick aimed at Levi’s knee. Levi reacted quickly, pushing Ethan down in the direction of his stumble, then followed him onto the mat. A single fist rose and fell, striking a hard blow to Ethan’s jaw, then to his chest. The judge blew her whistle and counted the point for Levi, ending the match.

The younger Son levered himself upright and said, his voice hard, “Stay away from my wife, Phillips.”

He stalked off toward the locker room as the crowd’s murmurs slowly increased in volume and Ethan rolled over and pushed himself off the mat, looking not one whit defeated by the challenge’s outcome.

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