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.

A handful of teenagers rushed onto the floor and scrubbed the mat down, then another judge stepped forward and beckoned toward Sigrid and Chana, summoning them for their match. The judge, an immortal Daughter whose nearly black, almond shaped eyes glinted impassively in the olive-toned rectangle of her face, was a newcomer chosen by Rebecca as a neutral party of a line other than Sigrid’s or Chana’s.

Sigrid knew her by sight only, and cared not at all who the woman was. Any judge was better than the alternative, traditionally the highest ranking Daughter at hand, usually a Councilmember. As far as she knew, the only Councilmember nearby was Will’s grandmother.

Rebecca had had enough mercy to eschew tradition in favor of a fair fight, thank Ki.

The judge held two bastons at her side, one in each hand. “Face each other and repeat the challenge.”

Sigrid stepped onto the mat to the judge’s right and waited for Chana to take the opposite position before speaking. “I challenge you, Chana Wolfbane, Daughter of Pari Bakhshesh, of the line of Eleni, for your untoward interest in my lover Will Corbin, beloved Son of Wilhelmina the Fierce, grandson of Anya Bloodletter, the embodiment of Abragni and a member of the Council of Seven.”

Chana’s eyes rounded slightly, as if she were surprised by the mention of Will’s status among the People, but she merely said, “I accept your challenge, Sigrid Deathknell, Daughter of Glyvyn the Ice Warrior, of the line of Bagda.”

The judge handed each a baston. “Three points scored with the baston to the front torso from waist to shoulder. No other hits will be scored. Test your weapons.”

Sigrid took the baston offered her and inspected it from one rounded tip to the other. Rattan was a lightweight, flexible wood when cut correctly. This baston appeared to be newly made, though it had to be older as the People had stopped purchasing rattan bastons a decade back due to issues with unsustainable harvests. No cracks appeared in the baston’s gleaming, unmarked finish, and it felt solid under the firm fist she slid down its length, testing for weaknesses. She gripped one end and swung it across her body, then up in a sideways slash. A satisfying whistle accompanied the swings, and Sigrid grunted. Good enough.

Across from her, Chana finished testing her baston with a circling swing over her head followed by a downward cut. She nodded at the judge, then faced Sigrid squarely, her chin high and her shoulders squared.

“Ready?” the judge asked, and at their nods she stepped off the mat and said, “Begin.”

Sigrid stepped to her left and in, slightly closing the distance between her and her opponent as Chana mirrored the action. Slowly they circled the mat, each step bringing them closer, their eyes focused not on each other’s faces, but on the torso, taking in every action the other made, waiting for the first strike.

Chana led there. When they were five feet apart, barely within striking distance, she leapt forward and stabbed the end of her baston at Sigrid’s heart. Sigrid swept her baston up and over, easily countering Chana’s thrust, then swung it up under Chana’s striking arm. Chana hopped back, evading the blow, and the fight was on in a flurry of attacks and counterattacks around the mat.

Sigrid’s focus narrowed to the woman in front of her. The restless stirrings in the crowd faded away, their quiet commentary silenced, and the tether strung between her and Will muted to a bare whisper of awareness in her mind. She lost track of time and of the room, and left only enough outside attention for the judge hovering on the mat’s periphery.

Her body moved smoothly, efficiently deflecting each blow, or accepting it if doing so lead to an opening in Chana’s defenses. She left offensive strikes to instinct, thrusting when Chana overreached or slashing when her opponent’s step seemed hesitant, never allowing her own defenses to falter, ignoring the bruises accumulating up and down her body, and the pain.

If you cannot kill quickly, her mother had counseled, wear your opponent down. You have the stamina of an immortal Daughter in your blood, passed down through generations from one of the greatest warriors of our People. Use it well, Daughter.

Sigrid always had, in battle when her life and livelihood were at stake, and now, when her future hung in the balance. One mistake could lose the day. One lapse of judgment and victory could go to Chana.

Her heart trembled in her chest. She clamped down on it and forced her attention where it belonged, on the baston Chana wielded so gracefully. It snaked toward Sigrid, aiming for her ribcage, and Sigrid shoved it away with a sweep of her left hand.

Sneaky little Persian. Perhaps a change of tactics was in order.

Sigrid eased away from Chana, forcing the other woman to follow her, and circled around the mat, waiting for an opening. It came soon enough. Sigrid had been sidling to her left, allowing Chana to become complacent. Chana executed a rapid series of punishing blows aimed at Sigrid’s left rib cage. Sigrid deflected them, her breath a shallow pant in her lungs, then slid to the right and cracked her baston into Chana’s left thigh, just above the knee.

Chana’s leg crumpled, throwing her off balance. Sigrid swept her foot under the injured leg, helping her opponent down, then slid the end of her baston under Chana’s scrambling defense and tapped her in the sternum.

The judge said, “Point, Sigrid,” even as Chana caught Sigrid’s free arm, lifted her uninjured leg into Sigrid’s stomach, and used Sigrid’s slight forward momentum to tumble her into a somersault over Chana’s head. Sigrid’s hands slapped down onto the mat, automatically cushioning her fall. Chana rolled into a handstand following Sigrid’s tumble, landed on one leg, and tapped her own baston against Sigrid’s ribcage just above the waist, evading Sigrid’s defensive swipes.

The judge called, “Point, Chana. One each.”

Pain blossomed around the point of the blow. Sigrid shook it off and rolled into Chana, hoping to unbalance her again, but Chana deftly hopped over her and settled into a fighting stance along one side of the mat.

Sigrid pushed herself upright and mirrored the pose. A stitch in her side pulled her up short, right where Chana had smacked her, and the first prickle of fear tightened her spine.

Damn it. She didn’t need this now, not when she was beginning to wear Chana down.

Chana took two running steps and leapt into the air, her baston raised high. Her face was set in a rigid mask, fierce and determined, and Sigrid’s heart pattered into double time. She scrambled back as she raised her baston. Chana’s came down hard, slapping rattan against rattan, and Sigrid’s baston twisted down, slipping out of her grip. She fumbled it as Chana immediately reversed her swing and stabbed at Sigrid’s side, exactly where she’d hit before, and Sigrid slapped the baston away with her free hand, nearly losing her hold on her own baston in the process.

A sharp inhale caught her attention. Not Will. He had too much discipline to show emotion during such a crucial fight.

The inhale came again, and horror swept through her. Her breath, hers, ragged and harsh in her throat, like the irregular gallop of her heart in her chest.

She was going to lose.

Chana pressed on, her baston swinging in alternating sweeps with her free hand. Thrust, slap, sweep, lunge, forcing Sigrid around the mat, and Sigrid’s parries grew ever more panicked.

He would be lost to her forever.

Her heel hit the edge of the mat, and she teetered there, reeling away from Chana’s rapid fire blows, deflecting them as best she could, and still they came, relentlessly.

Will gone, nevermore hers through the long, lonely centuries ahead.

Chana double tapped the baston against Sigrid’s shoulder, numbing it, then backstabbed the grip end into Sigrid’s chest.

“Point, Chana,” the judge called, and Sigrid froze.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Will standing steadfast, his feet spread wide against the gym’s painted floor, his arms crossed over his chest, his leaf green eyes shuttered. No emotion stained his expression, nor taughtened his muscles, but it was there. She could almost taste it, a smooth sweetness under the acrid fear coating her mouth.

Her heart squeezed tight in her chest, flipped over, and in that moment, something she had felt only rarely trickled into her, and she found her balance, found her strength in the purpose he’d given her, in the love he shared.

In the love she’d found with this man, this beautiful, gentle man who’d tamed her even as she’d sought to tame him.

Her focus homed in on Chana, razor sharp, and she lunged forward, shoving Chana away. Chana stumbled backward along the mat, and Sigrid pressed her advantage, following with a flurry of quick, light strikes. Shoulder, wrist, hip, arm. Chana scrambled to defend herself, easily evading the blows even as she regained her balance, but Sigrid would not be put off this time. She had something to gain, something to win for, a drive she’d never before had in all her long life, a motivation beyond the ingrained, instinctive will to survive.

She calculated each blow, placing them squarely where they would do the most accumulated harm, and struck when Chana’s defenses left her vulnerable, a clear double tap to Chana’s sternum.

“Points, Sigrid,” the judge said. “Challenge met.”

Sigrid backed away immediately, her shoulders heaving under every breath. She met Chana’s gaze evenly and bowed. “Well met, kaetyrm.”

Chana’s expression flashed through a series of subtle shifts, then a small smile tugged at her mouth. She cupped her hands into a fist over the baston and bowed. “Well met, Sigrid Deathknell. I wish you well.”

“And you, Chana.”

They turned in near unison and bowed to the judge, who returned their salutation, then strong hands turned Sigrid gently around, and there he was, the man whose daring had captured her heart.

“Hey,” he said, his voice gruff. “You ok?”

“I’m fine, Will. I—” She swallowed down the words crowding her throat and arched an imperious eyebrow. “This is not how a Son greets the woman who’s won him in combat.”

His lips quirked into a half smile. “Screw that, honey.”

He yanked her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her, and his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding, claiming her there in front of his family and hers. The baston slid out of her hand and she curled her fingers into his waist, holding him, giving everything in her heart as whispers rose around them and Will’s arms tightened on her and someone nearby coughed politely.

He eased away, breaking the kiss, and touched his forehead to hers. “We’ll talk about how not traditional we’re going to be later, ok?”

She nodded, unable to contain a happy grin. “We’ll talk, yes.”

A soft hand touched Sigrid’s shoulder, almost lost among the throbbing bruises. Sigrid forced her gaze away from Will, and found his youngest sister standing beside them, her expression drawn into a troubled frown.

“Mom,” Casey whispered, then Wilhelmina marched up to them, her husband in tow, and by the fury tautening the other Daughter’s posture, Sigrid needed only one guess as to exactly what was on Wilhelmina’s mind.