The Gathering Storm

by Varna, Lucy

  She’d found neutrality in an unlikely source suggested by Hawthorne: The Councilmember’s house-bound niece, a former Councilmember, and a member of the subversive Eternal Order, Isolde Zellinger.

  Never would Rebecca have trusted such a Daughter to judiciously mediate a dispute between younglings over a beloved toy, let alone a challenge of such import the outcome could reverberate through both the People and the Shadow for generations to come. Yet here they were, facing that exact situation.

  Isolde stepped forward, a hanbō in each hand, and began the proceedings. Rebecca forced her attention there, on the ceremonial rigmarole so necessary for the maintenance of tradition. She ached for it to be over and done with, so she could return to her husband’s side and the comfort of his love.

  When had she become so tired of it all, of her duty to the People, of the traditions handed down from time immemorial, of the fight she herself often spearheaded?

  The Shadow approaches and the Blade must yield

  She staunched the shudder automatically rising within her, but only just. The Woman spoke true, of that Rebecca had no doubt, but today was not the day for the Blade’s demise. Lukas would never dare go beyond the bounds of the challenge and kill her, not when his very life would be forsaken at the hands of the People assembled as witnesses.

  Not when his beloved nephew’s life was at risk.

  And Lukas was weakened today by his recent ordeal at the hands of his brother and uncle. He lacked the strength to win the challenge, let alone to kill a Daughter of Rebecca’s skill.

  No, today was not the day the Woman had foreseen. That time rested in the future, beyond the here and now that must first be dealt with.

  Lukas restated the challenge he’d issued to her only days past, Isolde laid out the standard terms of contact and handed them the hanbōs, and Rebecca dutifully tested the one given her. She fought today not for herself, but on behalf of the People, something she would do well to remember.

  Rebecca finished testing the hanbō and nodded at Isolde, then waited politely until Lukas did the same.

  “Begin,” Isolde said, and her voice held the regal ring of authority it always had, free of the imprisonment she’d faced over the past few months.

  Lukas nodded at Rebecca, a respectful salute. He rotated his wrist, swinging the hanbō in a small circle, and stepped cautiously to his left, his gaze fixed on Rebecca.

  Slow and easy then. She mirrored his steps, carefully tracking his movements around the mat. Whatever his strategy, it was obscured by the hard set of his blue eyes in a face so cold, it could’ve been chiseled from ice. It wasn’t determination she saw there so much as grit, and that worried her a bit. Determination was fueled by needs of the moment, but grit was in it for the long haul. Grit created future goals and stuck by them long enough to see them accomplished.

  What was Lukas hoping to gain here? What was his long-term goal?

  Nala.

  The answer hit her even as he swung out and swiped the end of the hanbō through the air a mere half inch in front of her stomach. She swiped the testing blow away, unrattled by the almost leisurely swish as it passed by.

  Was he toying with her?

  She lunged into a thrust aimed for the soft part of his torso, just below where the two sides of his ribcage met. He stepped back on one foot, dodging the blow, and pushed the tip of her hanbō aside with his free hand, then swiveled around and swung the hanbō in a backhanded arc toward her exposed ribs.

  Not toying, then.

  She spun away from the blow, out of reach, and settled into a ready stance. This time, he mirrored her, even going so far as to switch the hanbō to his opposite hand, so that they were, in a way, exact mirror images. Light and dark, good and evil, or perhaps both were subjective. Perhaps he thought himself the good here, the light, despite his role as the lead of an organization that had, for millennia, tried to eradicate her kin one brutal murder at a time.

  Around the mat they went, slowly revolving around each other as the crowd’s quiet murmurs stilled and silence fell around them. A testing blow here, a feint there, but it was gentle, like the first snowfall in early winter, when the ground was still warm from the summer’s sun.

  This could last all night.

  Rebecca parried a thrust, twisting her hanbō around Lukas’s in an attempt to disarm him. He easily countered and danced back, hanbō in hand, and she blew out a breath. It was time for this to end, time for young Lukas to receive his comeuppance.

  She was going to let him stay.

  The thought echoed in the back of her mind as she attacked, vicious now in a sharp contrast to the almost leisurely blows they’d been trading. It was time to end the challenge, but whether he won or not, he was too valuable to let go. He’d been right the day he’d issued the challenge. The People needed him as a go between with the Oracle. He knew her too well, knew too much about her, to risk having him wander about on his own, unprotected, following his own agenda.

  He’d earned Rebecca’s respect here in a way she’d never expected.

  But she must best him today, for the sake of every Daughter and Son who had fallen at the hands of him and his forbears. Justice must be met.

  Still, she tempered her blows, refusing to strike hardest where he was most vulnerable. Humiliation wasn’t the aim here, merely defeat, and that could be accomplished with honor, as she had always fought. As she’d taught her own daughters and granddaughters, and the many, many others she’d counseled or taught or lead over the long, long centuries of her life.

  It was time to end this.

  And so, she did.

  Three minutes after her real attack began, after a dizzying array of strikes Lukas had barely been able to counter, if at all, and two points earned for her part, Rebecca caught him in a rare defenseless moment, when his body was turned slightly away from countering a thrust, and swiped the hanbō against the back of his legs. His feet flew out from under him and he landed flat on his back.

  Quickly, she tapped his chest lightly with the end of her hanbō, then stepped back. “Do you yield, Shadow?”

  He rolled over on his side and onto his knees, and to his credit, not a single groan issued from his throat. He placed the hanbō across his thighs and looked up at her, pride shining from his eyes in place of the defeat she’d expected to see.

  A burst of whispers in the bleachers interrupted his answer. Rebecca glanced around and located the disturbance. The Oracle, followed by four Handmaidens, was stepping calmly down from the seat she’d assumed at the beginning of the first match earlier in the evening.

  Lukas sighed, and when Rebecca looked back at him, his head hung low and his shoulders were slumped. He rubbed a hand over his sweat soaked hair, ruffling it into dark spikes, then looked up at her, and his expression was no longer that of a proud warrior, but one of a man facing certain hardship.

  He opened his mouth, pressed his lips together into a thin line, then said, “Take care of Stephen.”

  She arched a single eyebrow. “I thought that’s what we were settling here.”

  Lukas shook his head. “Take care of him if Nala kills me.”

  “What?”

  “She’s done it before, so many times.” He laughed, low and bitter, and closed his eyes tight. “Probably will again.”

  The Oracle stepped onto the mat, startling Rebecca out of her confusion over his answer, and walked straight to Lukas. The Oracle said something in her guttural, oddly familiar language. Lukas responded with a single word, then she slapped him hard and spoke again, her voice so dispassionate, chills ran down Rebecca’s spine.

  She tightened her grip on the hanbō, ready to step in. Domestic violence was unacceptable, whatever form it took. She would not allow anyone to abuse an individual under her care regardless of the sins he’d committed. Battle was one thing, attacking a defeated man something else entirely.

  Lukas held a hand up, though whether he meant it as a plea to the Oracle or to Rebecca, she couldn’t say.
He spoke in a low voice in the Oracle’s language. Nala shook her head once, then he glanced up at her and Rebecca nearly gasped. His cheeks were red and the muscles of his neck and arms were pronounced, as if he were holding himself in check.

  “Tell them who you are,” he gritted out, and when the Oracle shook her head again, he screamed, “Tell them!”

  The Oracle stood there for a moment gazing down at him, then at long last, she spoke in the same, indecipherable language she’d been using.

  Lukas laughed wearily and hung his head, his rage abruptly gone. “In English, Nala. English.”

  The Oracle tilted her head up, chin high, and said, “I am Abragni, the Light of the People and the youngest of the Seven.”

  The hanbō slid from Rebecca’s grasp and thudded onto the mat, and she sank down behind it, her legs suddenly too weak to hold her weight. “Abragni?” she whispered, and the name was echoed around the gymnasium, over and over again until it built into a roar that was a single name, obliterating the sounds of the attendees rising from where they sat and filing down onto the floor. Soon, a circle of people spread out around Abragni, kneeling down as close to her as they could.

  A Sister, alive. After all this time.

  The Oracle slid her fingers into Lukas’s hair, stroking gently. She glanced around at Rebecca, her expression like stone. “He will stay.”

  Rebecca bowed, touching her forehead to the cool mat on which she knelt. Yes, Lukas would stay, and not just for his own sake or that of the boy bound to his care. How could she possibly turn away the mate of her own progenitor, the last surviving member of the Seven Sisters and a founder of the People?

  The Light.

  Rebecca eased upright as the Prophecy floated through her mind. All along, they’d had its key hidden here within the refuge she’d helped create, and now, the pieces were falling into place one by one.

  It was a good time to be alive, she thought, and stood, as the leader she was, to officially welcome this oldest member of the People back into their fold.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After the last match, Sigrid allowed Will to lead her out of the gym and home. They’d caught the tail end of the Blade’s challenge match with the Shadow. What a revelation that had been. Will had stood stock still beside her at the opening of the locker room as people flowed past them onto the floor where Abragni stood, her hand on Alexiou’s dark head.

  A Sister, alive. How could that possibly be?

  Sigrid shoved aside the impossibility of a human body surviving for nearly ten millennia. The curse trumped basic biology. Hadn’t she learned that first hand, as her own life extended into century after long century?

  At home in her bedroom, Will gently tugged off her clothes and his, then urged her into a hot shower and washed her, his hands tender on her bruised skin.

  “The fight was rough on you,” he murmured.

  She rotated a sore shoulder, shrugging his words off. “No more than usual.”

  He slid a soap-lathered washcloth under her breasts, across her stomach, and in spite of the stiffness in her body, in spite of the cuts and bruises and the awful aftermath of the challenge, heat flared to life within her.

  She turned abruptly, crossed her forearms against the shower’s wall, and rested her forehead on them. Her heart ached for Will, for the loss she’d known he would suffer. How could a mother forsake her own son? And over a woman, no less. It was unthinkable, and there was nothing Sigrid could do about it.

  And so, her heart filled with sorrow and teetered on the edge of breaking, something it had never done.

  Will scrubbed her back, rinsed her off. Tugged the showerhead out of its holder and washed her hair, then washed himself quickly, while she leaned against the wall, sorting through her own emotions.

  “Come here,” he said, so low she almost missed it, then she was in his arms under the hot spray, nestled against his bare chest, hiding the tears she’d never shed over a man in the hollow of his throat.

  How could she ever face him, now that she’d caused such a huge rift between him and his family?

  His hand cupped the back of her head and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Shh. It’ll be ok. You’ll see.”

  “How?”

  The word slipped out, muffled against his skin. His arms tightened around her, solid, strong. “You’ll see,” he repeated, and ushered her out of the shower into a soft, fluffy towel.

  She watched him while he cared for her, drying her off, tending bruises and cuts, sliding a loose t-shirt over her head. He towel-dried her hair, twisted it into a loose braid. His spring green eyes remained hidden behind a tightly fixed expression.

  “You’re staring,” he said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

  “Mmm.” She reached out to him and caught his hand, and kissed his palm. “You’re quiet.”

  “Not a lot to say.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “What’s to talk about?” He opened the bathroom door and strode out, and was back in a moment wearing a clean pair of underwear. “Bedtime.”

  A laugh huffed out of her on a soft breath of air. “I’m not a child.”

  “You’ve had a rough night.” He took her hands in his and helped her stand, pulling her against his chest. “Maybe I need to hold you.”

  She sighed against his chest and relaxed into him. “That sounds lovely.”

  “I’ve wanted to, for so long. Wanted to hold you, love you, fuck you.”

  He laughed, but there was a bitter undertone to it, an emotion Sigrid couldn’t quite put her finger on. She eased back and glanced up at him, studying him beneath the fringe of her eyelashes. “Talk to me, Will.”

  “And say what? That I’m sorry my mom couldn’t accept the woman I lo—?” He bit the word off, then heaved a sigh so heavy, Sigrid’s heart broke all over again. “In bed with you now, my beautiful warrior.”

  “If you insist,” she said, aiming for a lighter tone, and missed it by a mile.

  He loved her.

  She shook her head as she climbed dutifully into bed and settled against her pillow. No, she’d misheard surely. Will wouldn’t hold something like that back, would he? Not now, when he needed her support the most.

  Yet he cut off the light and climbed into bed without another word, and settled down beside her so far away, only his hand touched her where he draped it over her hip.

  “Will,” she said softly into the darkness stretching between them. “Come to me.”

  He shifted on the bed, and his knee grazed her thighs. “You need rest.”

  No, she needed him. The thought struck her hard, slicing right through the sorrow, carrying a hope she’d tried to deny for so long.

  Will could break her curse, but in the doing, he would lose his family.

  She lay there for a long while, torn between hope and sorrow and a rising tide of emotion she scarcely recognized. In her torment, she shifted on the bed and curled into him, needing him now as she’d never needed another man. “Make love to me, Will.”

  “Sigrid,” he said, his voice strained. “You were barely able to walk out of the gym under your own steam.”

  True enough. The bout had taken a lot out of her, physically and emotionally, but the stiffness was fading already, replaced by a growing urgency to bind him to her while she could, to have this moment with him before he came to his senses and realized what he was giving up to be with her.

  She slid her fingertips down his chest, reveled in the sharp breath he hissed in, and delved under the waistband of his underwear. He was warm there, rigid under her touch, and so very, very tempting.

  “Sigrid, come on.”

  She tightened her hand around his erection and stroked downward, once. “Please, Will. I need you.”

  “Fuck,” he said, but there was no rancor in his voice. He wiggled out of his underwear and tossed them aside. His mouth found hers in the dark shadows sliding across her bedroom, and that emotion surged upward again, brea
king through every barrier she’d erected against him and the world waiting so eagerly to destroy her and every Daughter like her.

  She gave in to him, kissing him back with a thirst she hadn’t felt in so long, she’d nearly forgotten it, and in that moment, the name of that emotion came to her, like a bolt of lightning in the midst of a storm.

  Love.

  She nearly laughed then, nearly shouted it out for him to hear. She loved him, deeply, truly, so much it hurt to think it, knowing her love would tear him in two. His sacrifice was larger than her own, and yet how could she give him up, when he was the key to her happiness, to her heart?

  Will rolled over onto his back, taking her with him, and she slid over him, silently sharing her love in the only way she could, with her touch and her kiss and her acceptance of him in every corner of her soul.

  The next day, Will got up early and tended to Sigrid’s scrapes, the ones that hadn’t healed in spite of her immortal juju, then made her breakfast and tried to avoid talking about the elephant in the room, his An-cursed mother.

  As soon as he’d settled Sigrid on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book, he slipped away and drove the short distance to his grandmother’s house.

  He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the truck’s steering wheel. Damn his pride. No way was he standing for his mother’s poor treatment of Sigrid, or of him. A Son had rights among the People. Sure, he could stand aside and let his mother ostracize him and Sigrid both, but damn it, he loved the ornery cuss too much not to mend the rift if he could.

  He loved his family, so he had to try.

  Anya met him at her front door dressed in her usual weekend attire, also her usual weekday attire, a peasant blouse over faded jeans. As soon as she saw him, she sighed and stepped back, then closed the door behind him against the cold. “I’ve already heard.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the peg fastened to the wall behind the door. “Good. That’ll save a lot of time.”