Table of Contents

- Dedication

- Chapter One

- Chapter Two

- Chapter Three

- Chapter Four

- Chapter Five

- Chapter Six

- Chapter Seven

- Chapter Eight

- Chapter Nine

- Chapter Ten

- Chapter Eleven

- Chapter Twelve

- Chapter Thirteen

- About the Author

Saving her people could mean losing her man.

In the months since an unexplained sickness wiped out most of their women, Sif and Ragnor have managed to hold their people together. Yet nothing can overcome the tribe’s overwhelming grief, and their future as leaders—and as a couple—is at a dangerous crossroads.

A series of sensual omens convinces Sif that a fertility ritual to honor the goddess, Freya, is the only path to healing, but it requires a sacrifice. One Sif is more than willing to make—but puts Ragnor’s heart in the middle of an emotional tug of war. He would give his life for his people, but share Sif’s body with his greatest rival? The goddess asks too much.

Refuse, and Ragnor will fail his duty and doom the tribe to violent destruction from within. Accept, and their trust could be rewarded with renewal for their people and themselves. Or shatter a love already stretched to the breaking point.

Warning: This title contains m/m/f sex, gay sex, anal sex, double penetration and good, clean fun with two hot Vikings and an ancient spring.

eBooks are not transferable.

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

Macon GA 31201

Freya’s Gift

Copyright © 2010 by Corrina Lawson

ISBN: 978-1-60504-951-9

Edited by Jennifer Miller

Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: March 2010

www.samhainpublishing.com

Freya’s Gift

Corrina Lawson

Dedication

For my husband, who bought me a desk.

Chapter One

Desire and grief warred within Sif as she watched her husband swing his warrior’s long axe. Would that Ragnor would handle her again with the same easy skill and power he applied to the axe.

Her husband was stripped to his leggings, his long, red hair was pulled back behind his head, and his muscles gleamed with sweat as he demonstrated to the crowd of young warriors surrounding him.

Once, Ragnor’s powerful hands had held her, gentle, loving and passionate. He would seize her, laughing, lift her off her feet and kiss her until she could not think. He would toss aside her clothes and run his mouth and his fingers all over her until she quivered with the need for him. They would take each other, and then they would do it all over again…

She hugged herself, chilled. That had not happened for far too long. It might never happen.

Ragnor had held their tribe together through the sickness that had taken nearly all the women. He had been a rock of calm leading them to their new home where they hoped to escape all that death. He had been all a leader should be.

But he was not the husband he used to be.

His brother Leif’s insanity and grief had driven a wedge into their marriage. Why else would Ragnor look at her with such cold eyes and stay away from her bed? Leif was a solid ghost between them.

Her husband stopped swinging the axe and ordered the warriors to begin their drills. Sif glanced to the left and noticed another watching, a grown warrior who was leaning against a large oak tree with his arms crossed.

Gerhard.

While Ragnor was the symbol of their survival, Gerhard was the symbol of what they had lost. Once their best warrior, now Gerhard sometimes did not speak for days. He had lost his wife and the baby son she carried. Since then, he’d been half a man.

How could Sif help Gerhard and the others if she could not even heal herself of grief? She must find a way.

Sif heard tiny footsteps coming closer. Eric, her brother’s son, pumped his little legs hard across the square, running toward her. He reached her, gasping for breath, and tugged at the hem of her deer-hide tunic. He held something tight in his hand.

She scooped him up in one arm and gave him a big hug. He giggled, his dark hair falling in front of his face. Eric was a blessing. Children were what her people needed.

And I never will receive a blessing like Eric, a child of my own, if my husband does not return to my bed.

“What’s that?” Sif smiled, pointing to something clutched tight in Eric’s stubby hand.

He held it up. A crude carving. She narrowed her eyes and looked closer. “It’s wonderful. Tell me about it.” Some sort of animal?

“It’s a cougar!” he said. “Papa said cougars mean good luck in the spring.”

She took the carving from him and studied it carefully, treating it like a precious object. “So they do. Big cats are sacred to Freya, goddess of fertility.”

“What’s that mean?” He frowned.

“She makes plants grow.”

“Oh.” He squirmed.

She laughed and put him down.

“You keep it!” he said. “I’m gonna go play warrior.”

Eric danced away, back toward his longhouse, probably to search for sticks and rocks to make into an axe.

Sif closed her hand tight around the wooden cougar. Maybe it was a good sign that Eric had been moved to make it for her. Or perhaps she was merely grasping for any good omen from the gods, no matter how slight.

In the square, Ragnor handed his axe over to a student. The young warrior, fumble-fingered, nearly dropped it. Ragnor cursed at him. The warrior gritted his teeth, spat and tried again, working hard to make up for his mistake. He raised the axe, his arms shaking and his body drenched in sweat. Would that they all had the young man’s determination.

The young warrior kept at it and the others joined him, practicing with their own axes. This was no game. They’d moved to this place to escape the Lenape threats, but Ragnor was certain they would encounter new enemies. When the Vikings had come across the ocean several generations ago, the new world had seemed full of hope and promise. Now, it seemed full of danger and death.

Ragnor finally called an end to the lesson, clapping the young man on the back for his efforts. He pointed toward the river, where they could all cool off.

Ragnor turned and walked to Sif, still holding the axe. Hers. He belonged to her. He’d waited so long to take a wife but once he’d looked at her, he’d never looked at anyone else. In her ignorance, Sif thought their union unbreakable.

She clenched the wooden cougar tight in her hand and closed her other hand over the long scar on her forearm, a scar that was the physical legacy of Leif’s crazed attempt to rape and kill her. If only the emotional scars had been as easy to heal.

Ragnor’s face did not change expression as he saw her. He set the axe down carefully against the side of the longhouse. “Sif. You wake early today.”

“I am feeling better.” Sif almost reached out to lay her hand on his chest. He smelled so sweet, so musky, so much like he did after lovemaking. She still found him irresistible. But she’d always known he’d welcome her attention before.

“Good.” Ragnor nodded.

Behind Ragnor, men carrying spears, bows and arrows gathered in the square.

“A hunting party?” she asked.

“It will do the men good.”

Meaning that it would be something to occupy him. “Yes, it will.” Her tongue nearly caught in her throat.

He set his hand on her hip. “Sif.”

“Ragnor.” She felt her face flush and fought the urge to fall at his feet and beg for him to touch her further.

A chief’s wife does not beg.

“I’m glad you feel better.” Ragnor’s thumb moved over her skin, a light caress.

Her heart pounded. She put her hand on his bare chest, feeling the heat of him and fought the urge to fall against him.

“I am well enough for you to return to my bed.”

Ragnor removed his hand from her hip. Her insides clenched. She should not have been so blunt.

He looked her in the eye, face grave. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

“You hurt me by staying away.”

He frowned. “What? That isn’t punishment.”

Of course it is. “Then what, husband? I have been well enough for days.”

He shrugged and looked down. “I do not have to explain it to you.”

He’d wanted to grieve alone, perhaps. Without her. The ache in her chest grew.

Sif enclosed his face in her hands and rubbed her fingers along that strong jaw. Those broad shoulders, big enough to carry the burden of the tribe. But big enough to carry her burdens as well? She could feel his breath, warm and moist.

“You always trusted and depended on me. Before,” she said.

He looked down at the knife wound, barely healed. “I did not protect you. You should not trust me.”

She was so surprised that she dropped her hands from his face. “I do not blame you.”

“Yet the blame is mine.” Ragnor looked her in the eye again. “I should have killed my brother sooner for what he did to you. It makes me—” he looked away from her again, “—weak to have let Leif live long enough to fall on his sword.”

“No. It makes you Ragnor, the man I love, who cares about what happens to his people, even his crazed brother.” Had she resented that Ragnor had split his worry between her and his brother? Maybe. “It is past now.”

“No, not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Ragnor looked over at Gerhard. The blond warrior hadn’t moved at all, though he was now watching the hunting party form up.

“Until we help all of them, it’s not over,” Ragnor said.

“I know.”

And until the rest of his people were healed, Ragnor wouldn’t allow his wife to heal him.

She took Ragnor’s hand and squeezed it. “I will do something to bring Gerhard and others like him back to life. I will.” Before they became like Leif.

“Be careful. Some of the men are…unbalanced.” Ragnor rubbed his thumb alongside the slice on her arm.

Sif flushed, wondering if all the women who’d survived the sickness felt this way, vaguely threatened by grieving men, yet at the same time wanting to comfort them.

“I’ll be careful. And so should you.” She opened her hand and presented him with the wooden cougar. “For luck, husband. Eric made it.”

Ragnor’s eyes widened as he recognized what animal was carved into the wood. He smiled and it warmed her almost as much as touching him had. There is still joy in him, somewhere.

Ragnor put the cougar in a waist pouch attached to his leggings. “I’ll take all the luck I can get, especially from Freya.”

“It is time our fortunes change.”

“Yes.” He turned to leave.

“Bring back several deer.”

Ragnor turned his head, smiling. “Oh, we’re not hunting deer,” he said. “Bear.”

Bear? “Double luck, then, husband.” Such dangerous prey. But Ragnor would not want her to mention that.

“Not luck. Skill.” And he strode to the hunters.

She sighed and curled her hand against her chest.

She had called him “husband”. But he had not said “wife”.

Chapter Two

Ragnor led the hunting party from the square. Sif leaned against her longhouse, watching Gerhard, who had barely moved. Relieving the grief in the tribe by starting with Gerhard would be like trying to stop an army with one axe.

She needed to start smaller.

Sif went inside her home and threw more logs on the fire to keep it stoked. The longhouse was well built, despite the haste, but it was too big for only her and Ragnor. It needed family. It needed children. She used a wooden handle to lever off the cover to the stew pot and stirred, inhaling the smell of corn combined with meat broth. The hunting was well-timed, as this was the last of the stew.

She dipped a wooden mug into a barrel near the fire and slaked her thirst with the water. Once, there would have been many women and children in her home, all part of her extended family. She missed her sister, quiet and kind. She missed her forceful mother, who would have been amused at the combination of a native home, the longhouse, with Viking items such as barrels. But then, her mother had been half-Lenape, half-Viking, comfortable in both worlds.

And now Sif would not know her Lenape kin. They’d declared the Vikings “half-breeds” and accursed because of the sickness.

Still, perhaps she should look to her mother’s traditions. Women were leaders among the Lenape. Yes, that was where she should start. She would organize the few women left, create a plan to heal their men. They could do it together.

She should have done this before, but everyone had been so busy building the village, and then Leif had attacked her and she’d taken so long to recover.

It was past time to tend the tribe, before someone followed Leif’s example.

She walked outside, intending to see Bera first. Bera was one of the few young and unattached women to survive. If something were not done soon, the men would be fighting over her. There would be bloodshed again.

As Sif walked, her leggings slid down from her hips. She tied the rope at her waist tighter. She’d lost weight recovering, but at least her energy was returning. A few days ago, simply walking to Bera’s longhouse at the edge of the village would have left her out of breath. Today, she made it without fatigue.

She crept up to the doorway quietly, her sandals silent against the wet dirt and her tunic tight against her skin from the morning dew. Her heart pounded harder, which was silly, because Bera was no threat. No doubt it was because this was the first step to doing something in which she could not afford to fail.

Inside the longhouse, a woman laughed, high-pitched and musical.

A laugh?

Sif walked to the side of the longhouse, not wanting to show herself and cut off that laughter. Joy had been so rare. She did not want to dampen it.

A deeper voice laughed, a male voice. She peered into the longhouse through a gap where mud and straw had not completely filled in the space between the boards.

Three people were inside the house, gathered near the hearth. She recognized Bera. A girl just grown to womanhood, with long blonde hair that attracted men like a longboat attracted a sailor.

There were two men.

Now that was an interesting solution to the imbalance in their tribe, although it wouldn’t suit her. She wanted only Ragnor. Besides, her husband would certainly not accept another man in their bed.

One of the men walked in front of Bera. Sif recognized him as Ragnor’s grown nephew, Mykle, by his height. Only Ragnor was taller. Mykle, Leif’s son. Mykle had rebuffed her efforts at condolences. He was not rebuffing Bera’s arms around his neck.

The second man said something and she recognized the voice as the young warrior who’d tried so hard to use the axe earlier. The spear tattoo on his upper arm jogged her memory. Torger, Mykle’s closest friend. And more than friend, by some accounts. This bothered some of the tribe, but Sif knew her mother’s people viewed such preferences as god-sent.

Torger pulled Bera against him and Mykle laid hands on Bera’s hips from behind. Sif’s eyes widened. Oh! All three of them? Now?

Her breath quickened. She should leave rather than watch them in secret. But her fingers dug into the mud and straw covering the wood slats and her throat grew dry.

Sif had been without comfort too long. She’d been without feeling too long. If she couldn’t feel Bera’s joy, she wanted to at least see it.

Besides, perhaps she would learn something new to entice Ragnor.

Torger put his hands on Bera’s cheeks, smiling, and kissed her long and deep, a kiss that made Sif breathless.

I wish Ragnor would kiss me like that again.

Sif imagined Ragnor’s arms holding her close, her hands wrapped around his neck, his mouth on hers, drinking deep… Her hand wandered to her breast of its own accord.

A loud male groan of pleasure broke Sif out of her fantasy. Inside the longhouse, Mykle, standing behind Bera, slipped her tunic off, leaving the young woman completely naked.

Bera moaned, broke the kiss with Torger and laughed again. Mykle caressed Bera’s bottom and wrapped his hands around her hips.

Sif let her forehead fall against the wood. If only she could somehow switch places with Bera, to experience the lust, to stop being so dead inside. She squinted to see better, praying they hadn’t finished.

With Bera still between them, Mykle reached out and grabbed Torger’s shoulder, pulling his friend into an embrace. He leaned down and planted a passionate kiss on Torger, his hands leaving deep impressions on Torger’s golden skin.

Oh. Sif blinked, now fully wet between her legs for the first time since her injury. She’d never seen men kiss before. She hadn’t realized it would be so…primal. She’d thought the kiss between Torger and Bera had been passionate. This made that one look like a small peck on the cheek.

Apparently not wanting to be left out, Bera dropped to her knees, pushed down Torger’s leggings and exposed his erection.

Sif swallowed and felt her entire body heat. She bit her lip to prevent crying out and reached between her legs.

Ragnor had not responded to her offer to use her mouth lately. Bera had more cooperative bedmates. And Bera was letting go, not thinking, only feeling. Sif slipped her hand into her leggings to where she was wet and throbbing already.

Mykle released Torger from the kiss. Torger looked down at Bera. The woman smiled eagerly, awaiting his next move. Torger shed his deerskin vest and tossed it to the corner. A lovely sight he made naked, Sif thought. Though Ragnor was much larger, Torger had the advantage of wiry muscles with beautiful brown, curly hair on his head and around his penis. No beard, though. Like Sif’s high cheekbones, the lack of beards among the men was a legacy from their Lenape blood. But the hair, showcasing Torger’s erection, was plenty to enjoy.

Bera practically pounced on Torger, taking his erection into her mouth with a squeal of joy. And why shouldn’t she, Sif thought. Mykle watched, a smile growing on his face, his even white teeth visible. She thanked Freya that Mykle was only her nephew by marriage, not by blood, else she could not have kept watching.

Sif began stroking her nub with her own fluids. Her other fingers dug into the wood of the longhouse. She bit her tongue to keep a moan from escaping her lips.

A branch cracked. Sif froze and looked around for anyone who might notice what she was doing. All she saw was a squirrel. And she was at the back of the house, facing the woods rather than the square. No one would see her.

Inside the longhouse, Torger threw back his head, eyes closed, in something close to ecstasy. Sif swallowed hard as the sounds of sucking grew louder. She stroked herself quicker, with more urgency, and shuddered.

Mykle left her line of sight for a moment and returned with a ceramic bottle in his hand. He poured liquid into his palms. The liquid glistened in the flickering light of the house fire. Oil, scented with flowers, if the smell that tickled Sif’s nose was right. She put her other hand around her breast, enclosing her nipple again.

Mykle pooled the oil on his hands and then spread it over Torger’s back. Torger opened his eyes for a moment, grinning, and closed his eyes again as Mykle massaged his back, going lower and lower with the oil. Many times, Ragnor had done that to her, but none recently. She’d enjoyed it as much then as Torger seemed to be enjoying it now.

Torger groaned, loudly, and nearly toppled over. He grabbed Bera’s head for balance, and she wrapped her hands tighter around his thighs, never letting her mouth lose its hold on his erection. Mykle set the oil down on the table and shed his deerskin jacket and his pants.

Oh my. Mykle’s full arousal was impressive, as fully impressive as Ragnor’s own manhood. Sif grinned, thinking of how she’d teased Ragnor about having the equivalent of a short sword. It seemed some things did run in the family. That would more than fill Bera.

Sif closed her eyes for a moment, lost in a memory of Ragnor taking her, filling her. She stroked herself with long, slow touches, her body lost in shivers, and it was hard to open her eyes and watch.

Torger’s groan brought her back to the present.

Mykle rubbed the oil over his erection, making it glisten in the firelight. The wetness between Sif’s legs grew and her heart began pounding harder against her chest, as if she was the one in the room with them, not Bera.

Mykle closed in on Torger and Bera. Bera’s mouth still worked Torger’s erection, first taking it inside, then licking it up and down, then back inside again.

Mykle leaned over and whispered something in Torger’s ear. Torger’s eyes opened and he nodded. “Hurry,” he said. “Soon.”

Sif’s breath caught in her throat. Mykle wasn’t going to wait, then take Bera when she’d finished off Torger. No, Mykle was going to enter Torger. Sif nearly collapsed against the longhouse, her mind weak at the very idea, her body close to its own climax.

Mykle pressed his body against Torger. Sif gripped her breast so hard that it almost hurt. She’d done so many things with Ragnor. But not this, she had not seen anything like this. Well, neither of them had wanted another in their bed. She still didn’t. But this, this she must see to its end.

Mykle slipped a finger inside Torger, moving it up and down and cupping Torger’s balls with the rest of his hand. It was almost too much to watch, Sif thought. But not quite.

Mykle wrapped an arm around Torger’s chest, holding him tight, pinning his friend, not allowing him to squirm away. Torger’s head fell sideways and he let out a small, intense groan. He didn’t seem worried. They must have done this before, as the rumors said, even if this was Bera’s first time with them. Sif bit her lip again to quiet a moan that would give her away.

Bera ran her hands up Torger’s chest, long slim fingers over the hard muscles. She caressed the spear tattoo. Mykle removed his finger and replaced it with his penis, fully aroused. Torger’s head snapped back and his eyes widened and nearly rolled back in his head.

Bera froze, keeping Torger in her mouth, though Sif could see a little of Torger’s come leak out from Bera’s lips. Sif closed her eyes, imagining how that might feel, to orgasm in two directions. She slipped her own finger inside her, so close, so close…

Mykle slid in and out of Torger, both of them moaning together, over and over. Mykle gathered his friend tight against his chest and thrust one last time, with a long, low moan.

A long shudder took Sif’s body as she came with Mykle, her breath so fast and her knees so weak that she almost collapsed to the ground. Every nerve in her seemed to explode as her muscles inside gripped her wet fingers.

Oh, dear gods. I wish Ragnor would look that enraptured with me. He did once. He must feel that way again.

“I think you’re forgetting someone.”

Sif opened her eyes at the voice, trying to take low, deep breaths to let the orgasm drain out of her.

Bera stood rubbing her knees, eyeing the two men, still locked together. She cleared her throat. “You have forgotten me, have you not?”

Shameless, Bera was. And why shouldn’t she enjoy herself? Sif had certainly enjoyed it. Surely Bera could do better than just watch.

Torger opened his eyes and smiled. Mykle released him.

“Come here, love.” Torger crooked a finger at Bera.

Bera leaped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. He held her there for a bit, kissing her intently. He rubbed his hands all over her bottom and laid her on the table near the fire. “We owe you,” Torger said.

“You do.” She nodded. “What is the point of two of you if I don’t get the attention of both?”

Very true, Sif thought. She idly stroked her nipple, the tremors from her climax still coursing through her. She pressed her eye tighter to the wood to see better.

“Together, we might hurt you,” Mykle said.

Bera giggled. “Try.”

Mykle shrugged, Torger smiled, and they each attached a mouth to one of Bera’s breasts. Sif blinked. Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. Ragnor was inventive but, well, one couldn’t invent an extra mouth. Or an extra pair of hands.

Sif knew that if anyone touched her right now, she would explode all over again.

Mykle poured the oil over Bera’s waist, rubbing lower and lower with his hand until it touched the right spot, Bera’s small nub, just below her fluff of blonde hair. Bera bucked against Mykle’s hand, thrusting her hips, whining, moaning, her noises growing louder and louder. Torger muffled the sounds with a deep, bruising kiss on her mouth, caressing her breasts with his hands at the same time. Only their hold kept her on the table as Bera’s orgasm let loose and her body erupted in ecstasy.

Sif blew out a long breath, slowly, to calm down. The first climax had been wonderful but she wanted more. This was no good, alone.

Torger released Bera’s mouth and shifted to the end of the table. Bera’s face grew more intense. An orgasm, yes, but the men were not about to stop there.

What would it feel like, Sif wondered, to keep going like that? To be so completely overwhelmed? I need it.

Mykle grabbed Bera’s left hand, Torger enclosed her right hand, and they pulled her to a sitting position. Bera shuddered, falling back against Torger. Torger idly cupped her breast and fingered her nipple.

“You first,” Torger said. “It’s new for you.”

Bera’s eyes flew open, focusing on Mykle’s erection. His second one. He recovered fast, Sif thought. He had that in common with Ragnor.

“Oh, yes, you first, Mykle.” Bera handed him a wool blanket. “But wash off and apply oil, yes?”

Mykle hesitated a second, staring at Torger as something unsaid passed between them. How did they do this without jealousy? Did they all belong to each other? Torger picked up the blanket and oil. He cleaned Mykle’s erect penis slowly, with water from a bowl on the table and the blanket, stroking, ever stroking. Mykle moaned.

Torger rubbed in the oil last, bent down and kissed the tip of the penis before stepping back. He smiled.

Mykle grasped Bera’s hips tight and shoved himself inside. Bera gasped, her body bent back. The heels of her feet rested on Mykle’s shoulders, banging against him but to no effect. One could sooner try to move a mountain.

Sif dug her hands into the packed dirt of the longhouse.

Torger caught Bera’s head before it slammed against the hard, wooden table. He wrapped his arms around her breasts from behind as Mykle thrust himself inside over and over and over until Bera seemed to be nothing but great shudders and moans. Sweat and oil mingled, making all three of them shine in the light from the house fire.

Sif’s limbs grew heavy. She wanted to slide down to the ground but then she would not be able to see the climax.

When Torger moved his hand down Bera’s body, to the right spot, the nub, now slick with oil and wetness, Bera completely lost control, flailing about with passionate moans and cries. Mykle went rigid, holding himself in her, and they screamed with one voice, though Mykle’s cry seemed one of challenge rather than joy.

Mykle cleared his throat, looked at Torger and pulled himself out of Bera. His penis dripped with wetness and come.

“Not yet,” she said, “it feels too good. Don’t—”

Bera still wanted more? Sif blinked. What was more than that? She was not sure she could stand to watch more.

Well, maybe a little more.

Torger released Bera and slid around to the front. “You’ll get more. My turn.”

And either he liked it more than Mykle or had more control over when he came, because Torger took Bera on the table with long, slow, deep thrusts that threatened to turn Sif into a quivering mess by association. Her own body was drenched with sweat. She rubbed her nipple and grew closer to orgasm again.

If Ragnor showed up now she’d not let him deny her. If any man showed up, she’d be ready to claim him.

Torger wasn’t finished. He put Bera on top of him and she rode him on the table, two bodies writhing together. Her head was thrown back. Her hands gripped his torso. He clamped his hands on her breasts, eyes wide, watching her ride.

And then…Mykle entered Bera from behind.

Well. Sif tilted her head for a better view, letting go a long, shuddering breath. Did bodies work that way? It seemed they did.

Bera screamed, almost spent. She made unintelligible noises, arms flailing, her body going back and forth between limp and rigid. Bera could not have gotten away if she tried. Maybe that was the best part, Sif thought, to not be able to get away from all that pleasure.

The men shifted their heads to the side and kissed again, then they kissed Bera, all three rocking together in the same rhythm, hands all over each other.

Finally, they collapsed on the mound of bedrolls in front of the warm fire. The men gasped for breath. Bera seemed unconscious.

Sif felt like collapsing too. Only a little more and she would be over the edge. Maybe she should go somewhere quiet, finish herself. She let the wall take most of her weight. If only Ragnor hadn’t gone to hunt today. And if only she had some oil.

“Sif. Enjoying the day?”

She whirled and almost stumbled.

Gerhard stood a few feet away, leaning against a nearby tree, looking as inscrutable as ever.

Chapter Three

Sif wished she could cover her face and hide the blush creeping over her cheeks. The other part of her wished to step forward, push Gerhard to the ground and ride him.

“I was checking on Bera,” she said, her voice as steady as she could manage.

“Mmm…is she well?” Gerhard raised an eyebrow.

She fought the urge to slap him and take that smug expression off his face. And then I would throw him to the ground… “They are doing better than you, Gerhard, I am sure.”

Gerhard laughed. Not a long laugh, more a short bark, but more emotion than she’d seen from him since his wife died.

“Bera is persuasive and passionate,” he said. “Torger and Mykle are fortunate.”

Sif stood straighter and gathered more of her dignity together. “You know of this?”

“I noticed something between the three of them on the journey. It was a distraction,” Gerhard said, no trace of sneering in his voice. Odin bless, he was actually talking, not brooding.

“Mykle watched Torger,” Gerhard continued. “Torger watched Bera, Bera watched Mykle. A nice tangle.”

“And Bera untangled it.”

“Women usually do. Torger and Mykle were already known to each other and Torger was certainly not averse to sharing with Bera.”

“Mykle seems to be handling his grief well.” And handling Bera and Torger well, too. No worries inside that longhouse, no responsibilities, probably no thought either. She wished that she could join them.

“Mykle deals with grief better than his father.”

“And better than you, Gerhard?”

“That would not be hard.”

“You don’t even try,” she said. “You could have gone hunting with the others.”

“I am doing something. I am praying quite hard for the gods to strike me down. So far, they have not obliged.” He shrugged. “They did not answer my other calls for help, so I suppose I am not surprised.”

She reached out a hand to him, as comfort not lust, but he scowled and she snatched it back. Once, years ago, her mother had favored a marriage between her and Gerhard. Her mother said, “Pick Gerhard. He is your age. He will be a fine warrior and a good companion.” But for her, it had always been Ragnor. He was the bright, laughing sun, already respected as a hunter and warrior.

She’d grown up with Gerhard. She saw all his faults, especially that brooding streak. He’d been well-matched with his wife and so obviously filled with joy at the news of her pregnancy.

“I wish it was not so hard for you,” Sif said. “I could help, if you’d let me.”

“Could you?” His voice turned harder. “No. You don’t understand. You still have Ragnor. And he has you.”

Sif clenched her hands into fists, all thoughts of comforting Gerhard gone.

“I lost my mother, my sister and my niece. And I have no son or even promise of one. Do not stand there and compare my pain and your pain. We are all in this.” She took a deep breath, letting go of the anger. “What you say was Leif’s complaint.” She held up her healing arm. “Do you want your piece of me as well?”

“I meant no disrespect to your dead. And Leif was wrong to hurt you.”

She let her arm fall to her side. “Thank you.” She resisted the urge to rub the scar. It had begun to itch. “I will not be whole until the tribe is whole.”

“How will you do that?” Gerhard gestured to the longhouse. “I grant you, Mykle, Torger and Bera seem to have it sorted. But I do not think this solution, as enjoyable as it seems to be for them—” he inclined his head toward the longhouse, “—will work for everyone. It may cause more problems.”

“Why?”

“They are willing to share. I would not be, if Bera were mine. I would never let another set his hands on my wife. The few who have wives left will never let anyone else put hands on them, Ragnor least of all. That, you should know well.”

As well she did. “But not all the women are married. Some are as young as Bera.” But as flexible?

Gerhard picked a small green leaf from the maple tree above him and looked at the veins in it. “Other men wouldn’t enjoy each other like Mykle and Torger. What those three want is not what most of the warriors want. Though some warriors turn to each other out of—” He cleared his throat. “Need.”

“But perhaps if women were involved, they would be willing to share.”

“No. A man wants his woman to himself.”

“So you believe there will be more fighting and more attacks soon? That there will be more bloodshed?” What had he heard? Sif walked closer to Gerhard. He retreated under the boughs of the maple.

“Grief makes men do unhappy things. As you know.” He bent down another branch of the tree, studying the buds. “Bera is enjoying this. Her choice. That will be lost on men who simply decide to take.”

“Are you saying that this, which is bringing joy to the three of them, is something that could tear our tribe apart?”

“Yes.”

“So we will drown in blood after all?”

He shrugged.

Sif thought of the sideways glances at her during Leif’s funeral. Some had blamed her for not submitting to him, though if she had, she would be dead. Leif had been after revenge, not sex, in the end.

They had all liked Leif, with good reason. He had been a fine brother. Until…

“You say you don’t care about what happens, Gerhard. But you must still care, to have seen all this, to be worried about it.”

He looked away, up at the sun streaming through the leaves, seeming to take her question seriously. The light framed his dark blond hair and his sharp cheekbones. Beardless, he was, like Ragnor, a sign of native blood. His face had depth, character, and he could charm when he wanted. He only showed grief now.

“I care,” Gerhard said.

“But you don’t wish to act.”

“The problem belongs with you, as chief’s wife. If you wish to lead us, then lead us.” Gerhard turned the full intensity of his gaze on her. “Find a way. Or else we will be planting bodies in the ground instead of seeds this spring.”

Chapter Four

Ragnor took the lead in the bear hunt. If someone wanted to stab him in the back, if he had misjudged his men that much, so be it. He would not live that way, doubting them.

But the only threat so far had been the elusiveness of the bear that they had been tracking since the morning. Now, the sun was high in the sky and they’d still not cornered him. Yet the end must be fruitful or it would be a horrible omen. Everyone was on edge. The smallest things mattered.

Loud rustles in the berry bushes ahead. The bear could not be seen, not yet, but Ragnor heard the chomping teeth and smack of its lips.

Now.

Ragnor raised a hand and gestured. The men with bows fanned out, forming a loose circle with their prey in the middle. Those with spears lowered them, eyeing the bushes warily. Bears would not go down with just arrows. Sometimes even arrows and spears were not enough.

Snorts. Movement a few yards away. Ragnor heard the rustles of wildflowers, berry bushes and thorns. There, through the slats of sunlight slicing between the leaves, he saw the bear, a large brown mass of fur.

Even on all fours, it was nearly as tall as his shoulders. Pray to Odin that it did not stand on two feet when attacked. Pray to Odin that he survived such an attack if it happened.

Around him, others fixed their spears, waiting for the archers to herd the prey their way and impale itself on the sharp spikes that they held. Ragnor made sure his spear was slightly ahead of the others. He must be the one to strike the bear first. He must be the one to take the most risk.

They all froze, watching, wary, and waited for the animal to move.

Across the clearing, one of the archers drew back his bow. Ragnor raised a hand. The archers must hit something vital rather than merely angering the bear with pain. Ragnor would take the brunt of the wounded, charging bear after it was flushed. That was the way it should be. But he didn’t want to die because of bad aim.

Ragnor dropped his hand. The arrow flew straight, sinking into the bear’s flesh. A loud, long, low roar filled the clearing, so loud that Ragnor wished to cover his ears. But he kept his hands curled tight around the spear, his eyes focused on the ground in front of him.

The bear rushed him on all fours. Yes! He could get it in the throat now, rather than have to face the claws, if he could hold his balance. Several more arrows struck the bear in the rear. The bear roared, exposing sharp, long teeth, and charged faster. Ragnor stepped forward, just to the left, and struck hard.

The sharp metal sank into the bear’s neck and scraped against bone. The animal stopped and whipped its great head around to snap at its attacker, nearly tearing the spear from Ragnor’s grip. He ignored the pain in his back and shoulders, ignored the roaring of the animal and the gnashing of those sharp teeth. He held fast.

Ragnor’s wooden spear shaft cracked but didn’t splinter. A claw flashed by his nose, just missing him, kept back by the length of the spear.

You are a worthy opponent.

The bear pushed again and Ragnor stumbled backward, into the trunk of a tree. He braced himself and held tight to the spear, hoping the bear would impale itself in its fury. Ragnor gritted his teeth, determined never to let go, not ever. The bear raised its head, yowling in pain, teeth snapping just finger lengths from his face.

More spears struck from the other side, turning the bear’s challenge into a scream of pain. Now, now, they almost had him. Ragnor shouted and his hunters moved as one, pushing the bear off his feet, giving him no way to escape. Ragnor dropped the spear, drew his hunting knife, slipped under the flailing claws and sank the knife into the bear’s throat. Blood gushed onto the dark soil of the clearing. The bear stilled. Ragnor raised his knife, red with blood, and shouted in triumph. The others answered his shout, yelling in celebration along with him.

Now, they would be able to feast tonight. Ragnor dropped his head and murmured a prayer.

A huge roar sounded from his right, drowning out the triumph. He whirled, raising his belt knife in reflex at the new threat. He caught a glimpse of something large and brown. Another bear charged from the woods, angry, roaring, growling furiously.

Ragnor scrambled back from the carcass, looking for his spear. He held his knife up. I am not ready!

The bear rose on two feet, enraged, and resumed its charge.

The men beside Ragnor scattered or reached for arrows or spears stuck in the dead bear. Ragnor pulled at his spear but it was wedged in the carcass. His heart pounded, his stomach turned over in panic.

No time.

He bent his knees to make ready for the impact. He would go down fighting. There were worse fates. But what would happen to Sif when he was dead?

A flash of light brown from above, a howl, a glimpse of white teeth and claws and then suddenly the charging bear was engulfed in snarling…cat?

Ragnor could hardly breathe and his throat was so dry that he couldn’t swallow.

A cougar!

A cougar as large as a man had leapt on the bear from above. The two great animals rolled in the dirt, roaring and biting, the victor uncertain.

The hunting party scattered into the deeper brush. Ragnor backed off, to escape, but his foot hit the dead bear and he stopped, unwilling to move again and attract the attention of either of the combatants. He rubbed the crude wooden cougar through the pouch at his waist, sending prayers to Freya. Sif, I should have touched you these past days. I am sorry.

Roars and the clash of claws and teeth, a high-pitched yowl and the two animals stopped moving. It was over. Ragnor bent low, knife at the ready to face the victor.

The bear stayed down. The cat had ripped its throat out.

The cougar rose to full height, snarling, put a paw on its prey and screamed at Ragnor. All the blood drained from his face.

The bear had been dangerous but the cougar was even more deadly. Yet it had saved his life. So magnificent, such green eyes, such fierceness, such grace. He could see why Freya favored the great cats. He wanted to honor this animal and prayed that he would not have to fight it and sink a knife into that beautiful flesh.

Ragnor swallowed hard, trying to regain his voice. “Secure our kill,” he whispered to his men, eyes never leaving the cougar. “Take it home. I will follow.”

“Ragnor, are you—”

“Do it!”

Behind him, Ragnor heard the sounds of furtive movement and whispered orders. The carcass slid away, something that Ragnor heard, rather than saw. His eyes were all for the cougar. Such a proud head. It seemed like a statue now, unmoving, like some godlike being. Perhaps it was. Perhaps this cat was one of those who drew Freya’s chariot. But what did the goddess Freya want with him? His death?

As the sounds of his men moving the dead bear faded, Ragnor dared a step backward. The cougar flicked its ears and posed over its kill.

Would he be another such kill? Surely, he would not be saved only to die now. He stared at the cat some more. He thought of Leif’s eyes in the moment just before he’d fallen on his own sword. They’d been lost and empty. These eyes, cat’s eyes, threatened to engulf Ragnor and conquer him. They deserved worship.

Thank you, cat. Thank you, goddess Freya. I pray this is one of yours and a sign of your favor.

If he was to move, he must move now. He lowered his knife hand and nodded to the cat in salute. The cat flicked its tail and settled on the bear. Ragnor began backing away never taking his gaze from the cat. When he was on the other side of the clearing, the cat lowered its head and began tearing into the bear, giving all the signs of ignoring him for good.

Ragnor bowed more formally to Freya for answering his prayer and set to follow the others on the path to home. What did this mean? Could Freya be promising fertility, a future, a new life for his people? His hand closed around the wooden cougar Sif had given him.

He increased his pace in order to catch up to the rest of the men. Sif, he must find out what Sif would say about this.

For the first time since the women had sickened, Ragnor felt hope.

Chapter Five

Sif set out into the wilderness to sort her thoughts. Gerhard had many good points, and she did not want to act until she had a plan.

She turned in a circle, using her palm to shade her eyes. The spring melt had revealed more of the land beyond the river plain where they had settled. The maize would be planted in that long flat area above the flood line. What was the rest of this land carved by the great river like?

She passed under the trees and the village faded behind her. For the first time in a long while, she was completely alone. Her mother had talked to her of the spirit guardians of the land. She called on them now to guide her way.

Her steps slowed as she negotiated the tangled underbrush. The spring wind, cold and moist, cut through her body but the warm sun slicing through the leaves prevented a chill.

The dirt, not quite muddy but not completely solid either, deadened the sound of her footfalls. The wind brought the smells of pine, some sweet flowers and plant decay from the winter. Birds twittered above, squirrels skittered on the branches and rustling in the plants around her indicated larger animals like deer. Perhaps there was even a moose in these woods. Wolves would not be out in sunlight. At least, she hoped so.

High above, silhouetted against the sun, an eagle cried, gliding without effort.

The land was waking up.

Her mother would have said that the gods were prowling around with the wind, making sure their charges were in proper order. If only she could rebirth her people the way the land was being born again.

She had heard tales from her father about rites in the Norse land that sacrificed both animals and people, using their blood to fertilize the earth and ensure a bountiful crop. But it did not seem right to use a death like that, not when her people had already suffered so much. If the gods wanted sacrifices, surely they had enough souls by now.

Sif stopped at the gurgling of water rushing over rock. It was louder than it should be, with the river so far behind. She closed her eyes, listening hard, and turned left. Her sandal sank into water, all the way to her ankle. Cold!

She grabbed a hanging tree branch for balance and pulled her foot out of the mud. The sucking sound as the mud released it echoed in the woods. She stared down at the mud, expecting to see a puddle leftover from snow and rain.

But it was clear water, part of a little stream that seemed to begin under a huge rock that was mostly hidden by the boughs of the maple trees looming over it. She shook her foot to shed the water and followed the stream’s path to the giant rock, intrigued.

Pickers scratched her legs, cutting through her leggings. Low branches slapped her face, and she stumbled over several tree roots. When she reached the rock, she leaned against it to rest, too tired to feel triumphant. I must not be completely healed yet, if that exhausts me.

She wiped sweat from her face with the back of her hand and took several deep breaths. Well, why not have a drink? She knelt down to the water bubbling from under the rock, cupped her hands and sipped.

The water tickled her nose. She swished it around in her mouth. It was like having bubbles inside her mouth. It felt as if the liquid were alive in some way. And it tasted different than usual—partly salt, partly sweet. Sif swallowed the mouthful and bent her head down to the stream, wanting more.

Like ambrosia!

She splashed her face, grinning. Surely this was a gift from the gods, some sort of natural spring that had turned water into this bubbling creation.

This was the sign she’d been searching for.

She must climb to the top of the rock and see the head of this spring. But the rock did not seem to offer any obvious handholds. It would be a difficult ascent. She flexed the fingers of her injured arm. The muscles around the healing wound protested. She should go around. She turned right, only to be blocked by trees growing too closely together. She stomped to the left, to be blocked by the same. She could try going farther around but she might get lost.

And I do not have the patience for a long trek. I want to see. She put her hands on her hips and stared at the solid gray stone as if it would move just from her irritation.

She set her foot on the lower edge of the stone, where it jutted out slightly. Almost immediately, her feet lost traction and she slipped back to the ground.

A fine start.

She kicked off the sandals, hoping her bare feet would grab the stone better. Her toes curled into small crevices in the rock, and she gained several handspans without too much use of her injured arm.

But the stone scraped her fingertips raw. Her feet slipped again. She flailed and reached for a ledge jutting out just over her head. Her good hand curled around the ledge, arresting the fall but leaving her swinging in midair. She groaned as her shoulder took all of her weight.

She dug her scraped fingers in for a better hold. Her feet scrambled against the rock and found an outcropping not longer than two of her fingers put together. She curled her toes around the hold, temporarily stable.

She breathed in, breathed out and prayed that her fingers held. Steady, steady.

She pushed up with her knees and grabbed the outcropping above with her other hand. Pain stabbed into her forearm, slicing up to her shoulder. She closed her eyes as tears formed. Some of the rock ledge flaked off, sticking to her sweaty fingers. She swallowed and took a deep breath. Stuck, she was stuck.

She looked down. Double her height. Too far to just let go. She should have thought of that before going up, eh? She gritted her teeth against the pain. Up, then. She braced again and pulled herself up against the rock, letting the pain in her half-healed arm flow, trying to take most of the weight on her good arm and shoulder, raising herself bit by bit until she was able to get her elbows on the ledge. Skin scraped against rock but she made it.

Yes!

She rested on the outcropping. Her head fell against the rock as her chest heaved in and out, drawing breath against pain and exhaustion. No, she was not completely healed yet. At least no one was around to see her weakness.

She glanced up. Less than half a body length to the top. Surely, she could do that. A little more shifting and pulling, and her feet finally grabbed the outcropping. She stood on it, chest heaving, keeping her body against the flat of the rock, not entirely trusting the ledge to hold.

She shaded her eyes from the brilliance of the sunlight and looked over the edge of the rock.

The light reflected off a pool below her. Another rock, twin to the giant one where she stood, framed the pool, making it a quiet grotto.

The pool seemed to be at least as deep as she was tall. She could hear the bubbling from below and realized the water must be coming from under the ground. The grotto opened into a clearing of wildflowers just beginning to bud, ready to burst with rich hues of purple, yellow and green.

She promptly forgot about the pain in her arm.

Dear goddess, her climb was worth it.

She stood on the narrow top of the rock, for a better view. She must show Ragnor, she must bring him here. She bent her knee to lean over and look closer.

Her foot slipped. She completely lost her balance and fell.

She tumbled sideways down the wet rock. She hit the pool with a great splash, her shoulder going under first. Cold slapped at her as the water covered her whole body, soaking her clothes and her hair and entering her nose. She opened her eyes. The water was so crisp and clear that she had no problem seeing which way was up. The panicked pounding of her heart slowed. She kicked once, twice, and her head broke into open air and sunlight.

It was like being birthed again.

She sucked water into her mouth and swallowed. The bubbles tickled her throat and nose.

I must bring Ragnor here, today. Perhaps to clean up after the hunt.

She rolled over in the water, took another drink and swam around, feeling alive, awake fully for the first time since Leif’s attack.

After a while, she swam the few feet to the grotto’s edge. She stood and stepped out into sunshine. The wind had died down, preventing any chill. She needed to get back to show this to Ragnor.

She turned around, thinking to try the way she’d come. But both rocks were slick and moss-covered on this side. She could not climb back over. She shook out her hair, drew her belt knife and knelt at the water’s edge.

Animal tracks. There must be a path back to the river and, from there, she could find the village. She followed the largest set of tracks, wolf from the look of it, and marked the trees with two slashes as she passed, in case she started circling.

She looked up at the sun one last time to orient herself before going under the tree canopy. The gods had brought her this far. Surely, she would find her way home now.

Chapter Six

Ragnor caught up with his men about halfway home, as they’d been slowed by the burden of their kill. They looked up in surprise as he rounded the path. Some had clearly not expected him to live.

Most smiled. None said anything, still worried that they’d attract the cougar. He could not blame them.

Ragnor took his turn carrying the trussed-up bear, letting the others ponder his rescue by the cougar. It could not have come at a better time, as it confirmed a goddess’s blessing on his leadership, even after so much hardship. It would make a good story, one to tell his grandchildren, if he ever had any.

He would not tell his men that the rescue seemed less like the favor of the goddess than being dismissed as inconsequential by the cat.

Ah well. One did not meddle with a goddess, one was just grateful that her attention was not harmful.

But they would feast tonight. And he would feast in another way with Sif. He had let his brother’s dying curse have too much weight.

“You should have let me have her, brother. At least I can get her with child. I have a son. You never will.”

Perhaps Freya’s intervention meant the curse would have no effect. It was true there was Sif and the women before his marriage and yet no children from any of them. Not even any sign of a pregnancy.

Some blamed Sif. It was likely his fault. But to admit blame would be to admit he was no man at all. It had been easier to avoid his wife than risk knowing for certain that it was his fault and that Leif’s curse was a true one.

But now the goddess had smiled on him.

Ragnor’s hunting party burst into the village with a great shout, attracting the attention of all those in the square and bringing people out of their longhouses. Eric, his nephew by marriage, pounded up to them. The boy’s eyes rounded in awe of the dead bear. Ragnor looked around, searching for Sif.

“A fine kill, Uncle.”

Ragnor turned. Mykle, his nephew by blood. Leif’s son. Ragnor forced his hand not to reach for the belt knife. Mykle was not a threat. Not yet.

“Thank you,” Ragnor said.

A warrior came over and slapped Ragnor on the back. “And it is a fine tale to go with it, isn’t it? You should have seen it, Mykle.”

“I had things to do,” Mykle said.

Ragnor took out his knife, drying it on a piece of hide looped into his leggings. “Next time, perhaps?”

Mykle smiled and nodded. “Next time, yes.”

Promising.

Gerhard walked over and knelt to the bear. Aha. Gerhard was another possible troublemaker, possessed of more acid than even Mykle.

“A nice clean kill, Ragnor,” Gerhard said. “Excellent. We will feast tonight.”

“So I hope.” Ragnor put his knife away. Another good sign, if Gerhard talked without sneering. “We missed you on the hunt.”

Gerhard shrugged. “I fear I am little help to anyone lately.”

“Perhaps a full meal will solve that.”

Gerhard shrugged again. “Perhaps.”

“Ragnor!”

Now that was the voice of the person that he’d been looking for. Sif rushed up to him and flung herself into his arms.

“You are all wet!” He held her close anyway. Bursts of emotion from his wife, like this, were rare enough before the sickness. Since then, there had been none. What had happened this morning to change her mood?

She smiled and he set her down. Her long, dark hair lay flat against her skin and she was missing her sandals.

“I have something to show you,” she said.

“Your missing sandals?”

She laughed. He wanted to stop time and preserve the joy in that lovely sound.

“In a way. I’ll show you where I lost the sandals. You must see it.”

Sif turned to the hunting party and the people who had gathered. In short, crisp sentences, she gave orders for the central bonfire to be stoked and for the bear to be skinned and prepared for cooking, dividing up all the tasks neatly. His tribe jumped at their orders with little hesitation.

Partly, that was because of Sif. Partly, he thought, it was because they’d not had such a feast in a long time.

“Save the claws and skin for me,” Ragnor said, as several men set their knives to the pelt. “I want to make a necklace, so I remember the day always.”

The men nodded.

“You want to remember this hunt always?” Sif said. “Why?”

Ragnor took her hand and led her toward their home, the activity buzzing behind them. “It is a long story. I would rather see what has put a smile on your face.”

“A discovery.”

“Does it involve getting wet?”

“Yes, but with magic water. Come with me.”

“Ah.” Should he press her? No, let her have her fun. And he could use a soaking to wash off the blood and grime from the hunt. He followed her as she steered away from the longhouse.

“I felt like Freya led me today,” she said.

“That would be two of us.”

She stopped. “What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “Take me to your surprise first.”

She pushed the wet hair back from her forehead.

“Perhaps what happened to you has something to do with what I found.”

“Well, then show it to me, so I can judge.”

She laughed again. “All right. We have to go slow. I had to mark the path on the trees.”

They set off into the woods. It was well that they were married this long, because he would have lost patience with anyone else who led him on such a meandering path, especially not knowing where he was going and with constant scratches from the berry bushes. His shoulder ached from holding the spear so tightly during the bear hunt. His stomach rumbled. His joy had completely vanished by the time the fourth branch slapped him in the mouth.

“If you wanted to end me, Sif, you could have picked a faster way.”

“Not an end. A beginning. Come, we’re almost there.”

As if to echo her words, the trees opened into a clearing of wildflowers only just beginning to bud. The sound of gurgling water filled his ears. “I could have washed off in the river.”

“It would not feel the same as this water.”

“What do you mean?”

“Follow me. Strip off your clothes and you’ll see.”

She began running to a pool at the end of the wildflowers, tossing off her tunic and letting her leggings fall to the ground. He could have run after her but it was more fun to watch her run naked, those long legs striding forward, her breasts jiggling just so…

She ran right into the water, still graceful, like a deer. He walked to the pool and shed his tunic and leggings at the edge.

“Get in!” She splashed him.

He took a deep breath and smelled something different about the air. Lighter and it held a sweet scent. He stepped into the water. The pool went from shallow to deep in one step and he let himself fall into the water, not attempting to stay afloat, letting it cover his head and his hair. His feet touched the bottom just as his head was fully engulfed. He opened his mouth and drank the water. A small dance erupted on his tongue. He broke above the surface, sputtering.

Sif threw her arms around his neck. He tasted the water clinging to his lips. Salty but also sweet, like a ripe fruit of some sort. “What is this?”

“Water from an underground spring,” she said. “I was thinking on the walk back. I remember my mother mentioning them to me once. She said they were rare near our tribe but that some northern tribes, like the Mahicans, had seen many of them. They are considered a sign of good fortune.”

“It is a gift, then.” Like the cat saving his life.

“A great gift, which we must celebrate,” she said. “My mother said this kind of water had special healing elements. We will have to show the tribe.” She splashed some water at him. “But I wanted to share it with you first.”

“Sharing is good.” He reached out and pulled her against him.

He kissed her, feeling her nipples press against his chest, his desire growing as her lips parted for him and her arms wrapped around his neck. Here, in the pool, they seemed nearly the same height. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He bent his knees, pulling them both underwater, holding the kiss. Some of the bubbling water seeped into his mouth as he opened it to engulf her tongue. He wrapped a hand around her breast.

He kicked to the surface, allowing them to breathe in air. She broke the kiss and smiled.

“Is this what you wanted when you led me here?”

“Why else?” She smiled.

He moved his hand lower, between her legs. She let her head fall back, her dark hair spilling all over the surface of the pool. So few women in the tribe had been spared but his wife, his love, had lived, though neither of them had been the same. Today, they would be together again, as before.

He braced himself against the rock at the side of the pool and pulled her closer, attacking her mouth, kissing her lips, her ears, her neck and her throat. He traced kisses on her as the water bubbled around them. Her moans mingled with the gurgling of the pool.

“Sif,” he whispered.

He put his hands under her arms, pulled her up and latched his mouth onto her breast. His tongue teased her nipple, tasting her and the water together. Her body floated on the surface, and he reached his hand between her legs again, feeling for the sweet spot. He knew he’d found it when she started splashing and her moans grew louder.

He pushed her to the edge of the pool, scooped her up and laid her on her ground among the wildflowers. She ran her hands down his chest, spreading her fingers out. He grasped her hands tight, holding both her wrists easily in his hand.

He licked between her legs, tasting that incredible water again, mixed now with the familiar scent of her arousal. She bucked in his arms, groaned and tried to pull her hands free, but he held them fast. She needed to let go, to completely let go, as neither of them had in a long time.

So good, she tasted so good. All that wetness, all his, and he would take as soon as she was ready. She twisted into him, surprising him enough that he rolled to his back and lost his grip on her hands.

She framed his face with her hands and kissed him. Her mouth was still full of the taste of the water. He was full of the taste of her. His hand played with her breast, teasing the nipple with the moisture from her body. She pushed at his shoulders, and he was too lost in her kiss and his arousal and his hand on her breast to object to her taking charge.

“Now.” She straddled him. He’d wanted to take her, push her into the ground, feel her writhe under him, but—

His head fell back as she began riding.

“Not…what…I…planned,” he gasped, watching her breasts move up and down.

She grinned. “Shall I stop?”

He shook his head and grabbed her hips, digging his fingers into her skin. “No.”

“Good.” She tossed her wet hair about and lost herself in the ride, her eyes closed, her throat utterly exposed, her hips thrusting over and over into him. He rose to meet her, holding back, not wanting this to end, wanting to keep his hands on her forever. He watched her, hair flying as she moved her head, her breasts bouncing, her body convulsing. He drew in a deep breath, his body jerked, his fingers clamped down on her hips and he thrust into her, letting it all go. His seed spurted into her.

She cried out, a low quiet scream, and kept moving, drawing it out until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He reached up, grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down against his chest. She sighed, deeply, and entwined her fingers in his loose hair.

“If that is the influence of the spring, it will soon become very crowded with our people.”

“All to the good.” She sighed again. “I am glad that I fell in.”

“I am glad to be in.”

She giggled and ran a finger along his chest. She snuggled into his chest, settling in. “What is it that you wanted to tell me? Now that my surprise is over?”

“Not completely over, I hope.” No, he would not let her move off him. He would recover, soon. And this time, he would be on top.

“It will be over if you don’t tell me, Ragnor.” She lifted her head. “Something happened on that hunt. The men looked different.”

He should not tease about the gifts Freya had provided. He cleared his throat and told her of the first bear, and the second that had charged, and the cougar that had leapt from the trees to save his life.

She sat up, eyes wide. “Freya. Freya saved you.”

“Yes.” He steadied her, making sure to stay inside her. “So the others thought as well.”

He fondled her breasts, watching her face flash with all sorts of emotions. Even naked, with him inside her, she could think of the implications. Ah, not for long. Soon, he would make her not think at all.

“Do you think that could mean a child? The cougar, this sparkling water…”

“I hope,” he said. “Until then, we keep trying, eh? I would not want to disappoint the goddess.” He put a hand around the back of her neck, trying to drag her back against him, so he could roll on top of her.

“Trying, yes. I—”

Her body stiffened, her face paled and her eyes widened again but this time with fear. “Ragnor,” she whispered. “Look up, at the top of the rocks. But don’t move.”

Without moving his head, he looked up and nearly jumped out of his skin.

The cougar.

It stood at the top of the rock, silhouetted against the sun. It might even be the same cat that had saved him. It was not looking at them but instead was looking into the sky. Ragnor tried to keep from breathing. He dared to hope that this was another goddess blessing and not a prelude to an attack. He could not save Sif without weapons.

The cat snarled. Ragnor rolled them both to the side, pushing Sif against the rock, where he might be able to protect her with his body. He twisted, putting his back against Sif, covering her as much as he could. Could he reach his knife, several handspans away, before the cat leapt for them?

The cat snarled again but it still made no move to attack. What was it waiting for?

Tree branches rustled and a second cat appeared to the right. Both of Freya’s cats! What did they want from him? Had the goddess led them here, to a spring, to sacrifice them?

The second cat stared at the first. More branches rustled and yet another cat jumped to the top of the rock. Three of them!

He heard Sif gasp behind him, though he couldn’t tell if it was fear or awe. Perhaps a little of both. “Three,” Sif whispered. “A trinity.”

A trinity was unusual for Freya. She was a twin. All tales told of that. What did three mean, other than his certain death, if they attacked? He kept his eyes open but sent out a wordless prayer for his life, for Sif’s life, and a last plea that if he was to die, it would be as a warrior.

For what seemed like forever, the three cats stood there, looking at the sky, to him, and back to the sky. And then, between one heartbeat and the next, they were gone, leaping down to the other side of the rock, away from them.

Ragnor scrambled to his feet, grabbed his knife and put it in his teeth as he dressed. Sif moved as quickly, snagging her clothing and pulling out her knife as she dressed. But there was no further sign of the cats. They both turned for home, following Sif’s marks on the trees, knives in hand, alert for the entire walk.

“They could have easily killed us,” Ragnor said. They still could. What was that noise, there?

“That’s only a deer,” Sif said. “Three. Freya wanted to tell us something, not to kill us.”

“What does it mean?”

She shook her head. “It is for me to interpret, I think. I found the pool.”

“There were three cats. Freya never has more than two. Maybe they were just ordinary cougars. Maybe they were not from Freya.”

“Do you believe that?” she said.

“No.” He knew that the cat who’d saved his life on the hunt had been divinely sent. That leap from the tree, too fast for him even to see, proved it. He shook his head. “But why three?”

“Three may have something to do with what I saw earlier, before I found this place.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “No, no, until I am sure, Ragnor. If it means what I think it does, then Freya is asking for a sacrifice to grant fertility.”

He took her hand, leading the way back. “What kind of sacrifice? Blood? Three…?”

“Not death,” Sif said. “Life of some sort. A sacrifice, something sacred to be shared by three, I think. I need to be sure, Ragnor, before I tell you. I will have to consult Gunnhilda.”

“She would know.” Gunnhilda, their wise-woman, was responsible for the tribe’s worship.

Ragnor put his knife back into its sheath. He would not feel safe, however, until he reached his longhouse. “The signs are from a goddess. It is for a woman to be sure about.”

Sif dropped her head, avoiding a tree branch. “It is for all of us to be sure about. And I do not think it will be easy. Gods never are.”

Whatever this sacrifice was, Sif knew more than she was telling. But he would trust her. He’d always trusted her.

“Whatever you are thinking, you do not like part of it, that I can tell. But whatever it is, if the goddess wants it, it must be done. Freya saved my life, Sif. I must pay her back for that.”

“Pray that you do not regret those words, husband.”

Chapter Seven

Was she wrong? Perhaps the goddess had not meant what she thought. But why else had she stumbled on Bera, Mykle and Torger, only to immediately be shown the three cougars by Freya, including the same cat that had saved Ragnor?

Freya needed Sif to do what Bera had done.

Sif did not know if she could.

She went inside her longhouse to stoke the fire and to warm her body, now a little chilled from the walk home and her fears. At the very time that she and Ragnor might regain what was special to them, she might have to do something that could tear them asunder. So much could change in a few hours.

She poked the fire with a stick, turning the embers, and stirred the stew in the pot hanging over the fire. What would being with another besides Ragnor do for the tribe? She thought back to what Gerhard had said. He thought what Bera did might cause jealousy.

This must be what Freya wanted to prevent. Freya wanted the choice to reside with the women, a choice that was goddess-blessed and could not be denied or altered by men. A goddess might be the only thing that would keep the men from fighting.

Sif sighed. The whims of goddesses were hard to interpret. She wanted another opinion. She laid her wet clothing on the bench and changed into something dry. Gunnhilda would know. Hopefully, the wise-woman would tell her this was wrong, that she was misreading the signs, that it was something else.

Because there was no way that Ragnor would agree to this.

Sif walked outside to the sound of a spit turning over the fire. Bera, in charge of the meal, had done well. The fire blaze had been controlled, cooking the bear slowly. Other women were to the side, still working on the rest of the carcass and harvesting anything usable.

Ragnor was with a group of his hunters, repairing his spear shaft. Others were making new arrows. They all cast sideways glances at Ragnor when he was not looking. If they’d looked at him with awe earlier, it was doubled now.

Sif found Gunnhilda in the clearing where the maize would be planted. It would be time soon, now that the ground had thawed.

Gunnhilda leaned on a rake and looked up at the sun. Sif frowned. Why would she be doing the work of hacking at the soil? The men should be doing that. As she drew closer, Sif saw that Gunnhilda worked only on a small, narrow row, mixing seeds into soil that had already been turned.

This had not been back-breaking work. Gunnhilda had merely taken her right as wise-woman for first planting.

Gunnhilda hailed her. “Sif. Welcome. Say a quick blessing with me.”

Sif nodded.

Gunnhilda patted the soil with the rake and said a few simple words. “There. That should be enough.”

“What did you plant?”

“The first of the three sisters, as your mother would have said. Squash.” Gunnhilda leaned on the rake, her long gray hair hanging over her face. Sif didn’t remember Gunnhilda with anything other than gray hair but over the years, her body had grown more stooped, her face more lined. But Gunnhilda’s mind remained as sharp as ever.

“Squash should grow well in this light.”

“All the plants will,” Gunnhilda said. “You and Ragnor chose this place well, despite the snow that covered it.”

Sif nodded. “I will tell Ragnor that. He’ll be pleased.”

“Good. But you did not come to me for compliments. What do you want?”

Gunnhilda also didn’t like to waste time. “I am not sure what I want. Wisdom, I think.”

Gunnhilda smiled, showing the lines grooved into her face. “It would be nice if age brought wisdom. But it depends on the subject. I could tell you about squash. But I suspect you are not worried about what to plant.”

That was exactly what she was worried about. But she wanted to grow something far more complicated than squash. “I think Freya is trying to tell me something. But what, I’m not sure.”

“Does this have to do with the cougar that saved Ragnor’s life today?”

“You heard already?”

“The story grows in the telling, even this early.” Gunnhilda smiled. “I’ve not heard of it happening before in my long lifetime. So if you think that is one of the signs from Freya, then I would say that you are right.”

Sif took a deep breath. “One sign, yes. But there are others. I think Freya is asking for something from me to ensure the fertility of our people and of our new land.”

Gunnhilda straightened and gestured toward a nearby tree. “And it disturbs you, that is plain. Over here.”

The old woman used the rake as a cane in the walk to the tree. Sif would have offered to help but she suspected that she would be rebuffed. Gunnhilda had been a chief’s wife once, before her husband had died. She still had pride, though she’d also lost most of her family. A son in a long-ago fight, and now both daughters. Gerhard was her grandson.

Before the sickness, she’d been one of those behind Gerhard’s interest in being chief. Death seemed to have knocked all the ambition out of her, as it had knocked it out of Gerhard.

Gunnhilda set her shoulders against the tree and closed her eyes. “Tell me.”

Sif started with seeing Mykle, Bera and Torger together.

“Not surprising,” Gunnhilda said.

Sif shook her head. “Did everyone know but me?”

Gunnhilda grinned. “Mykle is my grandson too, remember? My younger daughter’s son. I was trying to keep an eye out for him after his father’s death.”

Ah, yes. Sometimes, it worried Sif that the tribe was so entwined. Too much close blood was not good.

“So you watched out for him,” Sif said. “It does not bother you that he is more interested in men?”

“The Lenape honor men who like being with other men as shamans, god-touched. Your mother noticed it long ago and thought that Mykle had a bit of the native god in him. I think we are Lenape enough that most will shrug. And no one will want to fight with Mykle.”

“Very true.”

Gunnhilda jabbed her rake into the dirt. “I would have watched out for Leif as well, if I’d had warning. But Leif, he never much cared for his wife’s mother. At least Mykle has my daughter’s sense.”

“Some say that Ragnor’s reluctance to kill Leif makes him weak.” Was Gunnhilda one of those?

“Then they are looking for an excuse, something to complain about,” Gunnhilda said sharply. “I didn’t think Ragnor would be a good leader, but he is. It was a miracle how he managed to get us all here in winter, then set up the village during the time we were in the caves. But even he has limits. There’s been too much bad luck.”

“I think Freya is showing me a way,” Sif said. “I fear I will have to do more than plant squash, however. Plant something else, I think. Or be planted.”

Gunnhilda snorted. “It’s good you married Ragnor. You and Gerhard would have killed each other by now. Too much bluntness in both of you.” She sighed. “What other signs have you seen, besides Mykle and the others, and the cougar that saved Ragnor?”

Sif told of her discovery of the spring, of leading Ragnor to it and the appearance of the three cats after their lovemaking.

“Three?” Gunnhilda dropped the rake.

Sif nodded.

“That is…”

“Yes.”

“Three. That is a new number for Freya. You must worship there again, as you did with Ragnor. But when you go back, there must be three of you.”

Sif paled. Confirmation of her own fear. “You think I should do what Bera did?”

Gunnhilda shook her head. “Freya asks for a sacrifice, not wantonness. It must be as a ritual before the goddess.”

“Why me?”

“You know why. You are the chief’s wife and first of the women. Freya clearly chose both you and Ragnor because of it. But she wants three.” Gunnhilda picked the rake back up. “It could be worse. It could be a blood sacrifice.”

“No. No more of my people will die.”

Gunnhilda nodded. “You see? It is clear and you know it. But if it was easy, it wouldn’t be a sacrifice.”

“I am tired of things not being easy.”

“We all are.” Gunnhilda tapped the rake with her fingers. “But the goddess is giving us a chance to get past it. Perhaps the third is needed to help you grow a child.”

“As I have not before.” Venom led fuel to Sif’s words. She’d heard the whispers about her. “One of the few women left and not much good, one who did not bear the tribe more warriors.”

“Sif, I mean no insult.” Gunnhilda grasped her hand. “But it is true, is it not, that you have never been pregnant?”

Sif stared at the ground. “I cannot deny that.”

“The fault may lie with Ragnor, not you. To get a child, Freya may need to work through a messenger, as she worked through the cougars. The third may be her messenger, to provide…”

“What Ragnor has not.” Sif let that hang in the air.

Gunnhilda let go of Sif’s hand. “If you did bear a child, it would be the best omen possible for our people, no matter how it came to be formed. Especially if it was conceived during a goddess ritual.”

“I know.” Sif wanted to defend Ragnor. She wanted to say the lack of a child was her fault but she did not know if that was true.

“Would Ragnor accept this worship?” Gunnhilda said.

Sif shook her head. “I would have to talk him into it, all while I am unsure myself. It scares me. I’ve only ever been with Ragnor. But I…” She stared at the sky, as if an answer would fall from it. Maybe it already had and she was fighting it.

I want a child. I want the future to begin.

“You want a child,” Gunnhilda said, echoing the thought. “This may be the way the goddess is answering your prayer. Do you have other signs?”

Sif paced away, to the river.

“Yes. Gerhard spoke to me today. He was concerned about Bera’s being with two men causing some unrest. He made good sense.”

Gunnhilda followed her to the river’s edge, using the rake as a cane again. “Ah. How did he seem?”

“Gerhard seemed interested in others for once.”

“That’s good and he’s likely right. What’s between Torger, Mykle and Bera could cause problems between them. Torger likes his fun but Bera will lead and he’ll follow. Mykle’s no follower.” Gunnhilda played with the handle of her rake, rocking it back and forth between her hands, making a bigger hole in the mud. “But that is something for them to sort out. So. The ritual. There must be three of you. You and Ragnor. Who else?”

“I don’t know.” Sif smiled. “I’d hoped you would tell me I am being foolish so I wouldn’t have to think about it.”

Gunnhilda shrugged.

Sif leaned against the tree at the water’s edge, content to stare out at the river and let the water lap at her feet. Maybe if she never moved from this spot, she would not have to face this. “If we believe Freya led my footsteps today, that would point to Mykle as the third. But he is my husband’s nephew. That is not acceptable. And certainly not Torger. He is—”

“—not enough of a leader. Your third must be worthy of you.” Gunnhilda snorted again. “Besides, Mykle and Torger have a woman, eh?”

Sif couldn’t help the smile. “True.”

“You know who it is, Sif. The only other person you have seen today. The one who immediately understood the problems caused by Bera taking both men. It’s part of why you came to me.”

Sif breathed out. “Gerhard.”

“Of course, Gerhard. He is worthy of the goddess.”

“And if I raise Gerhard up, equal to Ragnor, will he challenge Ragnor for leadership again? How can I do that, when Ragnor fought so hard for control?”

“You and Ragnor offer, chief to tribe member. Gerhard will not be equal.”

“So you say. But you can’t know.”

“Does Gerhard repulse you?”

“No. But, as you said, he and I would kill each other in a week, had we married.”

“Doing this will make Gerhard beholden to Ragnor. He would never betray him, after. I know Gerhard. He would take this seriously, for what it is, as ordered by the goddess, not as a means to gain power.” The old woman closed her eyes, suddenly deflated. “I also think that this might help him. He barely eats and he barely exists. I think the goddess might touch him, might make him want to live, if he is part of the ritual.”

“If he is so trapped in his grief, will he agree to do it?”

“I think Gerhard needs his own words thrown back at him.” Gunnhilda knelt down, cupping some water from the ground, and drank. She stood and stared over the river, much like Sif was doing. “I think it’s clear from how Gerhard saw that Bera’s actions might affect the tribe that he worries about this. He cares. I’ll speak to him. It is my right, as his grandmother. I will talk to him.”

“Ragnor still might not agree,” Sif said.

“Freya saved his life. He will have to see reason.”

“Hah!”

“There should be a ceremony,” Gunnhilda said, her voice gaining strength. “Something before all the tribe, something on Freya’s day. And under the next full moon, to honor her.”

“And must we do it in front of all too?” Sif realized that her voice held panic.

“No, no, I shouldn’t think the sharing should be public,” Gunnhilda said. “The ceremony will ask for the blessing of the gods, an omen, maybe, and then the three of you will go to the spring.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is simpler than burying daughters,” Gunnhilda said.

Sif drew in her breath. “So it is.”

Chapter Eight

Would the time to the full moon be enough to prepare herself, never mind Ragnor? As she walked back to the longhouses, Sif had no answer to that.

She would not trade Ragnor for a child. Or for the favor of all the gods, even. But she might for the safety and happiness of the tribe. Ragnor would give his life for that. So would she. This was not so different.

Sif spent the rest of the day letting the problem roll around her mind while she helped prepare for the feast. They had not much to go with the bear meat as their dried vegetables were almost entirely gone. But they did still have a few skins of mead left over from last fall. They’d been saving it for a special occasion.

Sif laid claim to the bearskin on Ragnor’s behalf, and no one objected. While the others prepared it, she took the claws and sat in a corner of her longhouse with string, a knife and the bear claws. Ragnor came in as she bored holes in the claws, careful not to crack them.

“Can the necklace be done by tonight?” Ragnor knelt down next to her.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Why the rush?”

“I thought to keep it for myself but now I would like to give it to Mykle. It seems fitting to give him a token to show there are no hard feelings between us. It will show we are still family.”

“I like that.” Sif curled her hand around Ragnor’s cheek. “I think he’ll be pleased.”

Ragnor looked into the fire. “Leif or Mykle?”

“Both. If Leif had been in his right mind, he never would have done what he did. Maybe he’s at peace now. And he would like you taking care of his son.”

Ragnor nodded. “Have you given more thought about what Freya wants?”

“A great deal. You are involved, of course, else the cat would not have saved you.”

He knelt and kissed her. His mouth tasted warm and inviting. She kissed him back, letting him draw her against him, letting him engulf her, letting herself be lost in him. His tongue flicked over her teeth and his hand fondled her breast. He drew her into his lap, rubbing his fingers between her legs. “We did not finish today,” he whispered in her ear.

Sharpness pricked her hand. She looked down and saw that she still held the bear claw. It had stabbed into her palm and drawn blood. Ragnor raised her hand to his mouth and suckled it. She shuddered, looking at the intensity in his eyes, his strong face and his mouth, which could be fierce and kind, sometimes both at once. How could she betray this feeling between them, even for the goddess?

“I did not finish what I wanted, at the spring.” He pulled down her leggings.

“I might not complete the necklace in time if you interrupt me.”

“You can.” He kissed her where her neck met her shoulder. His tongue flicked out to lick her skin. She shivered, dropped the claw, and her body curled around him. She licked his shoulder, his neck, and took his earlobe in her mouth. He still tasted of the spring water and sweat, and everything that meant Ragnor.

He captured both her wrists in his massive hand. “No, I wanted to finish my way.”

He gathered her into his lap, holding her wrists together, and pushed her leggings completely off. She squirmed, growing warmer. She went wet, ready for him. Part of his long red hair fell over her breasts, just barely touching her nipples. Sweet torture, enough to send delicious sensations through her body but not quite enough for what she really wanted.

“More,” she whispered.

“Quiet.”

She bucked, pushing herself against his hand, wanting his touch. “You. Need you.”

“Not yet.” Ragnor smiled and adjusted his hold on her wrists.

Her mind melted, capable of focusing only on his touch. There was only now, with Ragnor. It was what she’d wanted when she’d watched Mykle, Bera and Torger.

Ruthlessly, Ragnor did not let her go and did not stop. His hands flicked between her legs, teasing, barely touching her bud for a second, pausing and then touching again.

Sweet torture.

“Please,” she whispered, raising her hips, offering herself.

“Ah.” He bent down to kiss her, taking her mouth, suckling on her lips. She responded, opening her mouth wide for him as her body was open wide.

He slipped his fingers inside her, filling her. She thrust against his hand. His thumb tickled her bud. She twisted her hips, almost fighting his command, wanting release…

The orgasm took hold with force, curling her toes, curling her fingers as her body wrapped around Ragnor.

Too, too much, and yet not all of what she wanted.

“Please,” she asked again.

He took his hand out of her and spread it flat on her stomach, holding her down. “Mmm…so beautiful.” His hand snaked upward and teased her nipples, using her own moisture as lubricant.

She closed her eyes and turned her head away, her body uncontrollable now.

“Eyes open.”

With difficulty, she turned her head back and opened her eyes, only to be confronted by his eyes, almost gray in this light. “Now?”

“Now.”

He shifted, keeping hold of her wrists, and loomed over her. Her bare legs felt the soft fur of the pelt underneath her. He spread her legs with his knees, kissed her hard and plunged into her.

She gasped, her hips driving to meet him, pushing herself at him. Inside, he filled all of her, touching places that his fingers had never reached. She writhed and closed her eyes again, totally lost in her body as it seemed to burst. Ragnor thrust, harder and harder, and she could not breathe and did not care. She could not escape and did not want to escape.

Sif could not get enough air. She could not get enough Ragnor. She could not get enough feeling. He thrust one last time and came, sending her into yet more moans and spasms that were cut short by his body covering her.

Her breathing grew more regular as he stopped moving. By the time he rolled off her, she could see properly again. Ragnor let out a deep sigh. “Very good,” he said.

“More than that.”

He raised himself on one elbow. “A new beginning, yes?” He played with a strand of her dark hair, rolling it around his fingers. “Perhaps this is what Freya meant us to do?”

She snorted, amused. “Because we love it, you assume it’s exactly what the goddess wants. I wish it were that easy.”

“I’m glad that you love it.” Ragnor kissed her cheek, tender now.

“Freya wants something more than our love.” She grasped his hand and entwined their fingers, feeling her body’s juices still on him. “We have always loved, from the beginning. It did not save our people.”

He rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. “Do you know what Freya wants, then?”

“I was thinking on it. You interrupted me.”

He laughed and stood. “I am not sorry.”

“Nor me.”

So handsome, with the wisps of red hair on his chest, all the way up to his powerful shoulders and his wonderful flowing hair.

“I will never be sorry to have you.” He leaned over and kissed her on the head. “Finish the necklace.”

After he left, she dressed, her fingers still trembling. For so long, there had been nothing but the sickness. First only a few women that sickened, then nearly everyone, always after they’d been to the women’s hut for the monthly bleeding. She’d done little in those months besides nurse others and then recover herself. There had been the move and making the caves livable. And the men had been busy building this village.

During none of that time had she been with Ragnor like this. Some hurried fumblings when she was not exhausted, yes, but this was like the first years of their marriage. She wanted to hold onto it with all her body and soul. And what the goddess wanted, a ritual that required giving herself to Gerhard as well as her husband, threatened it.

She set to work on the necklace.

Chapter Nine

The tribe feasted that night. It was the long-awaited celebration of thanksgiving for their new home. No one mentioned that it had been delayed because of Leif’s attack and funeral.

After the meal, all hailed Ragnor as he produced the mead that had survived the trip from their southern home.

Sif and the other women also served water from the newly discovered spring. She’d led a small party that afternoon and they had brought it back in ceramic jugs. The women who’d come with her had been more than impressed with the spring and all agreed it was a sacred place.

It confirmed Sif’s opinion that the place belonged to Freya. But it did not make her coming talk with Ragnor any easier. She tried to relax, drank down some mead and watched the others, soaking in their pleasure. Torches illuminated the square and the night cooperated with warm temperatures that signaled winter was truly over. Ragnor was in a particularly fine mood, circulating among their people, smiling, clapping men on the back or laughing at some old joke. Even dour Gerhard had come, sitting in Gunnhilda’s circle along with Mykle, Torger and Bera.

Sif wondered if Gunnhilda had talked to Gerhard yet. And what Gerhard’s response had been. But Gerhard would not meet her gaze, so Sif could not guess.

There were songs, and no one minded if they were sung badly or that there were few women to hit the high notes. Dancing, too, also done badly but with much enthusiasm. All seemed to be going well. Sif sat cross-legged on the ground, leaning back against a log. Laughter. It should always be like this.

Voices shouted, angry male voices. Sif jumped to her feet and stood on the log, looking for the problem. Two men stood to the edge of the square, hidden in shadow, barking insults at each other. By his height, she recognized one as Mykle. The other, she couldn’t tell, but he was the one doing most of the insulting.

How drunk was he to confront Mykle, of all people?

Sif began to walk to them but Ragnor cut in front of her, striding purposely to the confrontation. Gerhard appeared from the crowd and fell in behind Ragnor. Would Gerhard help or stir the anger? Silence fell on the square and the laughter died away.

Sif took deep breaths, praying this would not turn into something like Leif’s attack. The man arguing with Mykle tried to hit him. Mykle caught the fist with ease and sneered at his attacker, twisting the hand.

The man cried out and reached for his belt knife with his free hand.

Ragnor stepped between them, his back to Mykle. Mykle froze. The belligerent man kept his hand on the hilt of his belt knife.

Torger. She finally recognized the young warrior. What had happened since the morning? Torger must be crazy or very drunk to confront Mykle this way.

Mykle snarled something.

Ragnor cut his arm through the air, motioning for quiet.

Sif moved closer.

“Back away, Mykle,” Ragnor said.

Mykle glared at Torger but stepped back a pace, leaving Ragnor and Torger to stare at each other.

“I was only teasing Mykle,” Torger said.

“If you draw on me, boy, the joke will end in your death,” Ragnor said.

Torger changed his stance and rolled his shoulders. “Your nephew is at fault. He has a bad temper, just like his father.”

Sif winced. Torger must not only be drunk but harboring a death wish.

With a roar, Mykle tried to push past Ragnor. Ragnor shouldered him back.

“You are begging to die,” Ragnor said to Torger. “That makes you crazier than he is.”

Torger swallowed and stepped back, giving ground for the first time. Perhaps he’d gained some sobriety. “It was a joke. I do not know why he took offense.”

“Jokes that lead to bloodshed are not jokes,” Ragnor said. “Especially when it’s your blood, boy.”

“I—”

Gerhard cut in front of Torger and pushed him back, neatly knocking Torger’s knife out of his hand at the same time.

Sif let out the breath she’d been holding.

“I didn’t mean it,” Torger said. “Mykle should have known that.”

Not mean it? Stir up trouble and then disavow knowledge? That one was going to get himself killed one day. But not tonight.

Sif gave Ragnor a jug of mead. He took a swig and handed it to Mykle, who took a long drink and returned it to Ragnor.

Ragnor frowned and offered the jug to Gerhard. Gerhard took the jug with flourish, bowing in thanks. He took a quick swallow, turned and offered it to Torger. The young warrior flushed, looked at the other three and reluctantly accepted the jug.

His drink lasted almost too long for good manners but when he lowered the jug, all the fight seemed gone and Torger’s face was pale. He should be scared about what he’d done. He’d nearly taken on three of the tribe’s best warriors. While drunk. Over a damned joke.

No, not a joke. Probably it was fueled by real resentment or jealousy over Bera. Even these three could not share right. All the more reason for Sif to carry through Freya’s orders.

Gerhard took the jug, handed it back to Ragnor, then draped an arm over Torger’s shoulders and led him away, presumably somewhere to sleep off the mead.

The crowd went back to their feast. Sif walked around and spoke to a few people, making light of what just happened. Others followed her lead. No one wanted anything to ruin the night. Satisfied, she sat down on the log once more.

Ragnor came up from behind, kissed the top of her head and sat down next to her. She put her head on his shoulder. He could have been so easily hurt or killed by those two idiots.

“What was that about?” she asked.

Ragnor shrugged. “Something Torger said about Mykle getting too much, especially when he hardly wants it. Mykle might have insulted Bera back. It was hard to tell.”

Ah. Bad feelings. As Gerhard had warned. “About a woman. Not surprising.”

“No, sadly,” Ragnor said. “I gathered that Mykle and Torger were fighting over Bera.”

Sif drank the last of the mead, nearly coughing over the dregs. “They were not exactly fighting this morning.”

“What do you know?”

“Both men are interested in Bera.”

“You might have told me sooner,” Ragnor said, “especially if it would cause this problem.”

“Yes. I should have. But they seemed content enough this morning.”

Ragnor nodded. “You’d think this anger would end. Especially after…”

“After today seemed like a new beginning.”

“Yes.”

“Not yet.” She entwined their fingers. “About the ritual for Freya—”

“Tell me.” He slid off the log to the ground and pulled her into his lap. She cuddled, secure in his arms. Around them, people began heading to their homes. The sky had cleared and the half-moon provided light to the night. There was time until the full moon. But not much. She shouldn’t delay this.

“Sif?” Ragnor whispered in her ear. “Speak.”

“Ah, Ragnor. I think I know what Freya wants. But I don’t know if I can do it. Or if others can.”

“Because it’s not possible or because you don’t wish to do it?

“It’s possible and I don’t wish to do it.”

“Sacrifices are never easy. Gods don’t like it that way and goddesses are worst of all.”

In the darkness, he reached down to caress her breast through the tunic. She closed her eyes, content.

“How bad is this one?”

“A fertility ritual is needed. And it must be with three of us.” She told him exactly, and in detail, what Mykle’s arrangement with Bera and Torger was.

“Huh,” Ragnor said. “How…no, don’t answer. It does explain the insult that started that fight. You think these three should do this at the spring? That is the ritual needed? That is easy enough. Why so worried, then?”

Ragnor was being particularly thick tonight. Perhaps it was the mead. “No, not those three. Ragnor, think. Freya saved you from the bear. You have to be part of the ritual. I found the spring. We both saw the cougars. We both must be part of the ritual.”

“So…um…you want Bera to be with us, at the spring?” He kissed her bare shoulder. “I see that troubles you. But she would mean nothing to me. It is for the goddess. Nothing for you to worry about.”

How easily he accepted the idea of another woman. She admitted that if it had to be Bera, she would be jealous. How jealous would Ragnor be? She sighed and tried to gather her patience. “No, not Bera. The three must be the same as I saw. Two men. One woman. Because the men must learn to share.”

“What?”

“You, me and another man.”

The arms around her tightened. “And you have another man in mind, do you?”

His voice was low, dangerous and threatening.

“I do.” She swallowed and tried to calm her suddenly churning stomach. She should not have had the last of the mead.

“Who?” The word was said through grinding teeth. The tight arms around her kept her pinned against his chest.

“The goddess—” her voice broke, “—the goddess must have someone worthy of her.” She took a deep breath, for her voice seemed almost gone. “Gerhard.”

“No.”

That was it. A single word. His arms were clamped around her, so she could not move. She stared at the moon, trying to guess what Ragnor was thinking. Lots of curses, she bet. How long they sat there before he spoke, she didn’t know. All she knew was that her legs lost all feeling.

“Gerhard. Are you trying to replace me, woman?”

“No, I am trying to please the goddess. The signs all point to this.”

“You’re not thinking about the goddess. You’re thinking about what you want. You think he can get you with child. Gerhard’s proven that he can, even if his child died, unborn, with its mother.”

And Ragnor had never proven the same. To mention that, however, would make this far worse.

She pushed away from Ragnor and stood. Her hands clenched into fists.

“So you think I would dishonor the goddess, is that it? You really believe I would use her as a shield to replace you?”

Ragnor rose slowly. “I don’t know.”

“I think if you accept that this is what Freya wants, you’ll be honor-bound to do it. But if you blame me, then you have an excuse.”

“So eager for Gerhard?”

She tossed the empty ceramic jug at him. He ducked and it hit a log behind them and broke into pieces. Those lingering in the square hurried to their homes.

“I’ve never wanted Gerhard, idiot,” she whispered, hoping her voice didn’t carry. “It’s Freya that does.”

“You are guessing.”

“Who else, then? Who else has the standing to be worthy of Freya?”

“Mykle.”

“Your nephew. Your brother’s son. You want to watch him take me?”

Ragnor picked up another jug and smashed it into the remnants of the bonfire. “You are mine.”

“Freya saved you today. You would be dead otherwise. And you would turn your back on that?”

Ragnor sighed, the fight seemingly gone out of him. “I…yes. No.”

“Think of me not as Sif but as the vessel for Freya.”

“Oh, so I sleep with a goddess now? That explains much.” He stomped away, to their longhouse.

She followed him in silence, her stomach still churning. But after all these years of marriage, she did know some things about Ragnor. Despite his anger, he would sleep on it, ponder it, chew it and spit it out before he finally decided. He might even change his mind. But he needed to do it soon, before the full moon. Who knew how angry Freya would be if they refused her bidding?

Chapter Ten

Childish to sleep on the other side of the fire from Sif, he knew, but Ragnor did not much care. At least sleep came easily after the mead, though morning came too fast. He heard Sif moving around and pretended to be asleep until she slipped outside. Maybe she knew he’d pretended but, like him, didn’t want to talk about her so-called ritual.

Freya be damned.

He took the ladle and drank from the stewpot over the fire and splashed the water in the basin onto his face to wake himself up. He took his axe and went outside. He should teach this morning but doubted anyone would be in shape to learn. Practice, then. By himself. Hitting something seemed appealing.

He made an X on a nearby tree and backed up ten paces. Usually, in battle, throwing the axe was a bad idea. But sometimes, especially if the enemy was mounted, throwing it was the only way to win.

He set his feet, felt for the balance in the handle, gripped it tight and let it fly. Hair fell in front of his eyes as the axe left his hands.

The axe sank into the tree with a loud thunk. He grunted. He’d hit too high. Not good enough. He strode to the axe, put his hands low on the handle and slid it out of the wood. Good, the axe head had stayed secure to the handle.

He stomped back to his spot and tried once more, taking just a little off the throw. Thunk. Hah! Just to the left of where his two lines crossed. Not perfect but a killing blow. He retrieved the axe to continue practicing. Two throws were not enough. In battle, it must come without thinking.

He set again but he heard footsteps behind him and pulled the throw, worried someone was too close. He turned to see who it was.

Sif stood, several paces back.

“You watch me.”

She smiled. “I could watch all day.”

His eyes narrowed. Was she trying flattery now? He set the handle to the ground and put his weight on it, studying her. She insisted on another man for this ritual. Did she want another that badly?

No, fool. She wants a child that badly. And how badly did he want one? Ah, that was the question.

“Do you regret what the mead made you say last night?” Forget this folly, Sif.

“The mead gave me the strength to say it,” she said, chin jutting out.

Sif had never lacked for courage. Even when he’d been ready to give up after all the deaths, even after all the days spent in the longboats, looking for shelter for the winter, watching his wife had kept Ragnor strong.

But this?

“Do you regret your answer last night?”

He scowled. “I hoped you would give up this plan.” Foolishness.

“How can I? After feasting on the bear last night with you?” She spread her hands in front of her.

The bear. A constant reminder, all night, of the cat that had saved his life. Freya, who saved his life. For this.

“We, you and I, can have the ritual at the spring. As we did yesterday, but make offerings to the goddess. Gunnhilda can even preside.”

And he could touch her, loosen the braids in her hair, bury himself in her again. As it should be.

“As much as I want to be with only you, Ragnor, what you suggest will not solve the problem about the shortage of women in our tribe, or did the outburst last night teach you nothing?”

“The words of a drunk.”

“And we have no more drink? Hah.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

She would not appear so angry if he picked her up and had her against the tree. He smiled at the image.

“Ragnor.” Her sharp tone brought him back to reality. “You know it will happen again. There will be fighting. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re too good of a leader to deny that the ritual is needed. We must make any sharing about the goddess, not about men’s…hunger. It has to be about how to control that hunger.”

Ragnor walked to the longhouse and set his axe against the wood. No more practice, not today. Damn the woman. “And do you propose to let Gerhard touch you in front of all? Quite a show for our tribe.” Gerhard, with his quiet ways, veiling his thoughts, always judging the rest of them.

“No. Gunnhilda promised that would be private. There would be a ritual here, promises made as part of a ceremony and then privacy at the spring. But we must do it. We cannot cheat Freya.”

What was there to say to that? Nothing. So he set his jaw and remained silent.

“Gerhard wouldn’t be the only one touching me. You will be there.”

“You want Gerhard there because you know he can get a woman with child. As I haven’t.” There. He’d said it.

“You’re saying that you could get past another man touching me. But not another man fathering your children?”

Ragnor grunted, wanting to pick up the axe again and hurt something. “Freya be damned.”

“You can’t out-stubborn a goddess.” Sif leaned against the wall of the house, also staring out into space.

“Gerhard’s child would not be my child,” he said.

“It would be mine and therefore yours. Ours. A god-touched child.” She didn’t look at him. “That is, if the goddess blesses your grudging worship.”

He slapped the wood with his open palm. “Quiet.”

“Maybe the ritual is for me. Maybe I can’t have children. Maybe creating life needs two men to help that along.”

He let the silence grow.

She cleared her throat. “Maybe my body requires it, to be fully open. Not Gerhard’s seed but that.”

Ragnor put both his hands on either side of her head, bracketing her. She swallowed, hard.

“Please. I never want to lose you,” she said. “But maybe it’s the price I must pay for surviving.”

“And I must pay it as well?”

“You’re the leader. So many have lost their wives and families. But we can have a family, if we dare. We can show our people the way.”

Leader. Yes. In another life, he’d wanted that. He dropped his hands to his sides.

Sif put her hands on his face, a soft touch. “You smell good.”

He grunted. “Flattery again.”

“No, truth. We have responsibilities. You cannot hide from them.”

He took her wrists and pulled her hands away. “I know that.”

He turned from her, took his long-axe, picked up sharpening tools from inside and walked away.

Damn cat. I would rather be dead now than beholden to Freya for this.

***

Ragnor heard the footsteps. Boot steps, he corrected himself. Few wore boots. Most wore sandals like Sif or had adopted the moccasins of the Lenape.

Gerhard had boots. The boots stopped, short of reaching him. Ragnor did not look up and didn’t raise his head. He just kept sitting on the rock, preparing to resume sharpening the axe head.

Gerhard had probably decided to wait and watch, as was his nature. Always, he wanted others to come to him, that one. It made him a patient and successful hunter.

Well, not this time. Ragnor Magnusson was not prey.

Ragnor set the axe head on his knees, bracing it, dull end against his legs, sharp end outward, and set to work with the stone. He’d not start this conversation. If Gerhard wanted Sif so much, let him speak first.

For a long while, the only sounds Ragnor heard were his own scrapings and the roar of the river beyond. The same river they’d traveled to flee the Lenape. Perhaps they should have headed out to sea, back to the Norse lands.

No. Focus on the axe and the stone. Careful, too much and he’d make the edge too thin. Too little and not sharp enough. The river breeze cooled the sweat on his chest and brow, relaxing him. He forgot about Gerhard, about Sif, about Freya.

Boot steps again, very close.

“Ragnor,” Gerhard said.

“Gerhard.” Ragnor kept sharpening the axe.

Time passed. He heard boys swimming in the river, laughing, then the shipmaster’s orders to stop and help work on the longboat.

“Gunnhilda spoke to me of a ritual,” Gerhard said.

Ragnor nodded. “What of it?”

Speak, Gerhard. Tell me why you think you are deserving of my wife’s touch. Or the touch of the goddess.

“I told Gunnhilda that she was mad.”

“I told Sif the same.”

Gerhard sat on the far side of the rock. Ragnor still did not look at him. Gerhard sighed. “Gunnhilda pointed out the signs of the goddess. The spring. The cat who—”

“Saved my life.” Ragnor finally lifted his head. Gerhard seemed honestly reluctant. Why? Wouldn’t any man want to get hands on Sif? And then perhaps seize leadership?

“The cougar also saved the lives of several in that hunting party,” Gerhard said. “We feasted, instead of mourning.” Gerhard tapped his foot against the ground, over and over. “I grow sick of mourning.”

“We all do.”

Gerhard stood and walked in front of Ragnor to face him. Ragnor stared, trying to read the man’s face. Gerhard had always kept his own counsel, save for his late wife. A fine woman, if a bit too quiet and too thin for Ragnor’s taste.

“You are considering this?” Gerhard said.

Freya damn him, he was. Sif was right. The fight between Torger and Mykle would not be the last. The next one could end in death. And Ragnor kept flashing back to how the great cat had watched him. Judged him.

“Yes.” Ragnor stared past Gerhard. “I am chief. That means my life belongs to the tribe. As does Sif’s life. I consider it.”

Gerhard’s tight face eased. “I would not expect you to sacrifice for me. It’s… We’ve been…enemies.”

“Not enemies. Rivals.” Ragnor shook his head. “You gave way when you saw I had the support. You could have pulled us into a blood feud.”

Gerhard’s jaw unclenched. “I thought I could do better than you. I was wrong.” He sat down, unthreatening, no bluster, no emotion at all. “I’ve done nothing since my wife and son died. You saw your own brother go mad and yet you manage. How?”

Flattery? No, truth. Gerhard did not do flattery. He never had. One reason he’d not had the support for chief. “I have Sif.” Ragnor looked at the sky. “I am—” terrified, “—worried that if there is no ritual, the goddess will be angry and take her, like all the others.”

“And worried if you have the ritual, I will steal her,” Gerhard said.

“I would split your head with my axe if you did.”

“I would not give you such cause.” Gerhard dropped his head, making designs in the dirt with his fingers. “It is one night, and that will be with the goddess. Gunnhilda says that we will be changed when the goddess enters us.”

“Perhaps.” Gunnhilda had access to a priest’s potions, did she? That might make a difference.

Gerhard shook his head. “I’m not like Mykle. I don’t like men.”

“I don’t either.”

So they understood each other there.

“We will not be part of the ritual that way. If Freya wants it, she’ll be disappointed.” Ragnor could do much. But not that.

He stood. Gerhard remained seated, cross-legged.

Submissive. He’d do this. Gunnhilda had talked him into it, somehow. And Gerhard was trying to show that he’d not come after Sif by his manner. But what about a child?

“You’re going to do this,” Gerhard said.

“It takes both of us, Sif said.”

“Gunnhilda said the same.”

“A fertility ritual means there could be a child.” My son. Not yours.

Gerhard stood. “If I can help you and Sif have the child you deserve, then it is something. Be glad you have your wife. And a chance of a son. It’s far more than most.” He turned and walked away without waiting for an answer.

Ragnor flung his axe to the ground. Gunnhilda, Sif and now Gerhard, who had some sense, thought the ritual was needed. Odin damn him for agreeing with them.

Chapter Eleven

The day of the ritual was the longest day of Sif’s life. Longer even than the night she’d spent in vigil, willing healing to her sister, healing that never came. That day, her mind had been too exhausted, too numb, for thinking, and the exhaustion finally pushed her into sleep.

Today, her mind betrayed her. It would not still, it would not rest.

She must face the truth of it, if only to herself.

The coming ritual excited her.

It was more than just the excitement of finally getting this done. It was the sense that this could be a new beginning for everyone. She wanted Gerhard to be healed. She wanted her people to be healed. Most of all, she wanted Ragnor to be healed.

And she kept flashing to how the two men had touched Bera that day, how she’d completely lost herself in the moment.

Sif would never tell Ragnor. He wouldn’t understand. She didn’t want to betray him, but she wanted to be utterly lost like that, to give up control and allow the goddess to lead her in total abandon.

She’d felt a little bit of that, making love at the spring with Ragnor. She wanted so very much to forget pain. Add a ritual and Gerhard, and how much more would it be?

She wanted to find out.

But had she twisted the signs of the goddess so she could allow another to create children in her womb, even though it betrayed Ragnor? Had Gunnhilda agreed about the signs because she wanted to help Gerhard heal?

No. No doubt today.

Doubt would dishonor all of them. She was allowed to be excited and intrigued. Without that, her fear would overcome her. Even Ragnor agreed that it must be done. Maybe it was that he would love a child of her body, even if the father was uncertain.

More likely it was that Ragnor would do anything for his people, even share his wife and himself. A true leader.

In the morning, she bathed in the spring, returned to her home and laid out her best clothing for the ritual. Her deerskin vest with the moose beaded on the back and the skirt with fringes, rather than her leggings. A skirt would make things simpler in the end. Finally, a headband dyed in several colors, an heirloom from her mother, a symbol of her kinship to the Lenape. She left her feet bare. Let them touch the earth.

Ragnor had spent the night before holding her but left with the sun’s rise. She heard that he and Gerhard had both cleansed in the spring, too, though probably not at the same time. Since agreeing to this, each had pretended the other did not exist.

Where Ragnor went besides the spring, she didn’t know and suspected she never would. She knew Gerhard had spent the night working on one of the longboats—repairing the sail though they would not need to sail for a long time, if ever—and then plugging holes in several canoes. If he’d intended to work himself into a stupor, he succeeded.

When Sif went to Gunnhilda to speak about the final details of the ritual, she found Gerhard, snoring, on the pallet before Gunnhilda’s fire. Gunnhilda had rolled her eyes. Sif wished for such sound sleep.

Sensing her discomfort, Gunnhilda gave her some water with herbs to “relax”. Normally, Sif would not have taken it. But it was still too many hours to sundown, so she swallowed it down and went back to her home to meditate and pray. At some point, sleep came. A loud rap on the doorway awakened her. She stood. Darkness had fallen.

Ragnor stepped inside. “Gunnhilda wants to begin as soon as it is full dark.”

She nodded and stood, rubbing the cramped muscles of her legs. “Are you ready?”

He nodded. “Best to get it done.”

“We had a ritual together once before. Our wedding. You didn’t seem nervous that day.”

He smiled. “Grown warriors do not go around dancing like mad at winning the most beautiful woman in the village.”

“That morning, my mother still said that a younger warrior would be better. I laughed at her then. I laugh at her now.”

“Even though she was right to worry about my ability to sire children?” Ragnor whispered.

“We don’t know she was right.” Sif rose on tiptoes and kissed her husband’s cheek. “I was more worried about never having you.” And I’m still worried about losing you.

He smiled, held out his hand to her and they left the longhouse together. “If this does not work,” he said, “we’re done.”

“You and I?”

He shook his head, moonlight glinting off the red of his hair. “All of us.”

His people, the only other thing he loved as much as her, the only thing he’d sacrifice her for. As it should be.

“It will work,” she said.

They stopped at the center of the village square. The fire pit held dried wood and brush, to start the fire easily. Wood slats and branches were stacked to the side, each decorated with symbols or runes to represent a loved one lost in the sickness.

Ragnor would be first to feed the fire.

He knelt to the pile and picked up three slats. The first held a rune with the first letter of his sister’s name. The second, a berry-bush rune, for his mother who had loved berries. The third, a sail, for his brother, Leif, who had commanded one of their longboats. Sif rubbed her healing arm and wished for Ragnor’s compassion.

“Let me help with the last.” She put her hand over Ragnor’s wrist.

He nodded and they gripped Leif’s wood together and tossed it in. With a sigh, she reached down for her branch, one painted with an eagle feather, in remembrance of her sister. It fell into the pile with a clunk. Around them, the tribe spilled into the square, each person quietly adding their wood into the fire pit. The full moon overhead plus the torches broke the darkness, so it almost seemed like day.

Nothing broke the stillness, save a few muttered prayers from the others. Even the woods seemed quiet, waiting for something, anticipating.

Ragnor held her hand throughout.

Gerhard arrived last, following Gunnhilda. The old woman carried the priest’s torch, the one that had lit the fires for all the funerals. Blessings were engraved on it, though some were wearing thin. Legend said that Ragnor’s grandfather, Old Magnus, had brought it from the Norse land and that it was wood from Odin’s tree.

Gerhard picked up the last slat of wood and tossed it into the fire pit with a muffled oath. Curse or prayer, she couldn’t tell. Gunnhilda stepped to the pit, lowering the torch.

“All of you, help me,” she said.

Sif, Ragnor and Gerhard all put their hands to the torch. Gerhard, Sif noticed, placed his hand the lowest, under hers. Together, they knelt and set the wood to flame. Gunnhilda chanted something and the fire pit burst into a high blaze. They all stepped back from the flames.

Gunnhilda turned to face them. No longer did she seem a feeble old woman. Instead, backlit by the blaze, dressed in her finest clothing, it seemed some of the goddess inhabited her.

“Kneel,” she said to them.

They all knelt. Sif closed her eyes, to shut out the brightness. It burned.

“Clasp hands,” Gunnhilda said.

Ragnor grabbed Sif’s right hand with a reassuring squeeze. Gerhard slipped his hand around her left, with a grip not too tight but not too loose, either. His hand was smaller than Ragnor’s but callused in the same places. It also gave off more heat than she’d expected. He seemed absolutely calm. As a child, Gerhard had had a habit of going still like this before an explosion. Would it be the same tonight?

Sif took a deep breath, inhaling smoke both from the fire and the torch Gunnhilda still held. It smelled different. Gunnhilda had put something else in with the tar on the torch. Sif took a deeper breath, inhaling more, and her throat burned.

Gunnhilda laid her hand on each of their heads, calling on the gods to bless this night with life, with fertility. She started with Gerhard, calling on Thor. Next, Ragnor, and calling on Odin. When Gunnhilda put her hand on Sif’s head, it felt like the weight of the world. Sif’s neck bowed of its own accord.

“Repeat after me,” Gunnhilda said.

Sif gathered saliva, hoping her voice would work. Her head felt so heavy, so strange. Gerhard rubbed his thumb along her wrist, sending tremors down to her toes. If he’d meant to be reassuring, he wasn’t.

Gunnhilda repeated the same blessing she’d used for the men, only calling on Freya this time. Sif repeated it, her voice steady, at least for now. Gunnhilda motioned for the three of them to stand. Sif allowed the men to stand first, content to use the support of their hands to keep her own balance. Her head spun. The night seemed nothing but fire. She closed her eyes against the brightness. When she opened them again, three women had appeared beside Gunnhilda. For a moment, she thought they were illusions, until she recognized Bera as one of them. All three held cups full of water. Gunnhilda took the first cup and handed it to Gerhard, urging him to drink it all. He took it all in one long swallow. Ragnor did the same when it was offered.

When Gunnhilda presented the third cup to her, Sif didn’t know which hand to drop to seize it.

“I will help you,” Gunnhilda said.

Sif nodded. Gunnhilda held the cup to her lips and tipped it. Sif swallowed, the bubbling spring-water taste mixed with something a little grittier, something she’d not tasted before. Fear gripped her, tightening her stomach. What had Gunnhilda done? She squeezed the hands holding her tighter. Gerhard entwined their fingers, allowing her to squeeze harder. Ragnor seemed not to notice the extra pressure.

The world spun a bit more but the brightness vanished. Sif focused on Gunnhilda as she finished. The old woman bent to her ear.

“You will be Freya’s vessel tonight, Sif,” she said. “This will help you get closer to her. No fear.”

“Thank you,” Sif whispered.

Gunnhilda nodded. The three women melted back to the crowd. Gunnhilda raised the torch to speak to the tribe but Sif couldn’t hear the words. Sounds from the crackling fire roared in her ears. The sky seemed bright with all sorts of light, shooting off in all directions. Her skin felt covered with living smoke, prickly, intense, hot, throbbing.

Freya, help me.

Gerhard dropped her hand, only to put his arm around her waist, steadying her but also bringing her closer to him. His arm enclosed her back, sending that strange second skin enclosing her humming. She licked her lips, her whole body awakening to the touch. Ragnor followed Gerhard’s example and she was enclosed by both of them. She bit back a moan, almost turning to watery clay in their hands.

Her breathing grew faster, her face hotter, the lights in the sky more intense. No longer could she tell which hand was Ragnor’s and which hand was Gerhard’s. They seemed as one, all the same person, her body ready to reach out and absorb both of them.

The arms around her tightened.

“Sif,” Ragnor whispered. “Are you well?”

“More than well.”

He kissed her cheek, the soft brush of his lips setting her face as aflame as the bonfire in front of them. Vaguely, she realized that both men had moved behind her, their shoulders touching, to better support her. Ah, now, if they would just touch her… If she could strip off her clothes, fall to the ground with their bodies entwined with hers…

“To the spring.”

Gunnhilda’s voice again. Sif shook her head, wondering what exactly had been in that cup. And had she given the men the same? If so, why did they seem able to stand on their own?

The walk seemed less of a walk than floating above the ground. Colors kept flashing in front of Sif’s eyes. The noises of birds flapping overheard and animals rustling in the brush felt amplified and strange. Her feet seemed to not feel the soil and grass under them. The hands that connected her to both men seemed to burn, almost scald.

They took the new path created to the spring and reached it in what seemed like no time at all. They stood, bathed in moonlight so bright that Sif squinted against the glare. It even reflected off the water, which seemed to double the glow. Imagination? Or some blessing from Freya?

Gunnhilda bowed to them, said one last blessing and retreated with the torch, leaving them alone before the goddess.

A night breeze, moist and crisp, blew through Sif’s loose hair. The breathing of the men beside her seemed loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Someone should move, do something, and it should be her but she didn’t know what should be done or how to break out of this trance.

“Goddess,” breathed Ragnor, and she couldn’t tell if it was a prayer or a curse word.

Her knees buckled and took her to the ground. The moonlight seemed to be pouring blessings into the spring. She reached a hand forward, cupped the water into her palm and drank. Liquid magic, bubbly, poured down her throat and into her.

The men followed her example and drank too. Gerhard threw back his head and screamed, equal parts anguish and challenge. In the forest, something screamed in return. Gerhard seized her shoulders and scrambled to his feet, pulling her with him.

He crushed her against him. Her hands flailed out in silent protest at his fierceness but stilled the instant that his mouth came down on hers. A wordless moan traveled from her throat all the way through her body. Her toes curled. Her hands clutched at his forearms for balance, her fingers welded around strong, corded muscle.

Gerhard’s tongue probed inside her mouth, licking at her teeth, winding around her tongue, demanding more, as if he was trying to possess not only her body but her soul. She kissed back, demanding more from him, not conquest, but equal sharing. He groaned and tightened his group on her shoulders.

Hands ripped her deerskin vest, tearing it apart at the seams. Her headband was tossed aside. Night air, moist and warm, caressed her bare upper body. A pair of hands covered her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples. Her body convulsed, trying to get away and yet wanting to feel more.

A hand pulled at her skirt and her last bit of clothing slid down her legs. So sensitive was her skin that the hide felt akin to the soft touch of a lover. Too many hands. Whose were where? Her head fell back, breaking the kiss with Gerhard. She gulped for air, her chest heaving under the hands that still possessed her breasts.

“Sif.”

The word, breathed into her ear, nearly brought her back to crushing reality. Ragnor’s hands on her breasts, Gerhard’s hands, sliding ever so slowly down her stomach, banished reality again. Gerhard used his fingertips to touch everywhere, explore every bit of skin, sending waves of magic to engulf her body. She’d expected some gift from Freya to help her through the ritual but this…this was…too much?

Gerhard’s fingers stroked the hair between her legs, soft and careful, just at the edges of the tiny curls. She breathed a long sigh and curled her shoulders into Ragnor’s chest. Her husband pulled her tight against him, his hands still cupping her breasts from behind, his thumbs teasing her erect nipples, sending warm shivers through her. His erection, hard and long, poked against her bottom, eager.

Gerhard’s touch abruptly vanished from her body. She blinked, trying to clear the brightness from her eyes. Had he run off, had he—

Ooooo… A warm, moist tongue explored the area between her legs, turning her body in a boneless, quivering mess. Gerhard’s hands tightened on her thighs, pushing them farther apart, offering her no choice but to allow him access.

“Are you well, Sif?” Ragnor whispered into her ear.

Well? What was well? This was something one gave in to and felt with one’s soul. Whether it would be well in the end, only the goddess knew.

She nodded, her throat too thick for words. Ragnor licked her earlobe, worked his tongue down her neck, causing another wave of shivers through her, combining with the ones from between her legs and somehow increasing them twofold. She groaned, long and loud. The sound echoed around the clearing and reverberated back from the rocks around the spring.

Gerhard found her nub and enclosed it within his mouth. His lips suckled it and the tip of his tongue teased it. The first wave of the orgasm tore through her. She opened her mouth with a wordless cry. Her body stiffened, shivered, convulsed. She wanted to curl into herself but Gerhard kept licking, kept her body going over the edge, again and again.

Thought broke apart, shattering.

Her hands clenched into fists and her nails tore into her palms. Her toes dug deeper into the moist soil around the spring. Gerhard slid his fingers into her. She bucked, wanting more. The pressure grew tighter as more fingers joined the first inside her. She thrust her hips, pushing against them.

Ragnor’s hand traveled down her back to between her legs, almost touching Gerhard’s fingers. Ragnor rolled his fingers in her wetness, coating them. The sensation almost sent her spinning away from them. She squirmed and fought, unable to control her body. Ragnor and Gerhard both held her fast, preventing any fall, any escape, for which she was thankful.

Ragnor slipped one of his wet fingers inside her other hole. Her body went insane, her hips dancing in rhythm with the orgasms. Her screams found voice, filling the clearing. Her body no longer belonged to her, it belonged to the waves of heat and magic filling her. Red appeared in her vision, then black. She raised one hand, tearing at the hold Ragnor still had on her breast.

“Stop,” she whispered, voice spent. “Please.”

Ragnor lowered his hand from her breast to her stomach. He spoke quiet endearments in her ears but she couldn’t seem to translate the sounds. Ever so slowly, he took his finger out of her. She hissed, her body relaxed and her knees began to give way. As she fell back against Ragnor, Gerhard let go. But his fingers came out of her so quickly that she convulsed again, reaching for them.

Ragnor lost hold of her and she fell to her knees once more, gasping for air, for life.

Hands reached for her. She waved them away and, for the first time, touched the men. She put her hands around their erections.

This was Freya’s ritual. A woman’s ritual. I will take charge.

Ragnor was on her right, hard and familiar. She knew every tiny ridge of his penis, every indentation by simple touch. Gerhard, in her left hand, his member fully as hard, pulsing, new, different. His skin somehow felt just a bit smoother, his tip just a little strange, maybe wider. Both men stood quiet while her hands explored them, smooth skin sheathing great hardness. They both groaned when she dropped her hands away from them.

She reached between her legs and gathered all her moisture, rubbing her sensitive nub as she did, bringing herself close to the edge again. She bit her lip. Yes, she was ready for more. For them to take her.

She closed her hands loosely around their erections again, pumping gently, trying to prepare them, prepare herself.

Gerhard discarded patience once more.

He lifted her up against his chest. He’d grabbed her so quickly that it felt like she’d flown, but that sensation vanished as he thrust his erection inside her.

Powerful. Overwhelming. The orgasm started immediately, and she lost control of her body with her next breath. Her vision clouded and her breath came in short, desperate gasps. Gerhard buried his face in her neck. Her hair covered his head and shoulders. Each thrust brought shudders of pleasure so intense that it was impossible to separate them from pain. Gerhard lifted his head and the moonlight showed his face, his mouth tight, his blue eyes open and intense, focused not on her but on something else entirely. The goddess? The shade of his wife?

Sif wrapped her hands around his neck to keep from slipping off. It kept her from falling to the ground but not from falling more into the orgasms. Hands gripped her hips from behind, steadying her. Something hard and warm poked her backside, seeking, until it found the other entrance. Ragnor slammed into her, joining Gerhard in possession of her soul.

She shrieked, long and loud, unable to contain anything within. Both men wanted more, faster, harder, anything that she could give. Her body became liquid, a vessel for both of them, overburdened by the sensations of them touching places inside that she had never even known. They touched just…so…they even seemed to meet and brush against each other through her body. They froze in that instant, and the three of them were one.

One more thrust and they both came.

Gerhard threw back his head, eyes closed, his mouth sealed shut in silence. Ragnor moaned, loud, deep, guttural. Her head lolled to the side, her arms fell slack. Ragnor cupped her breasts, more supporting her than fondling her. Gerhard opened his eyes and took a step back. They all lost balance and fell, tangled together, into the spring.

The water woke her up, brought back consciousness and thought. The men slipped out of her. She went under, lacking the energy to swim. Once more, hands reached under her arms, pulling her to the surface. She broke into the brilliant moonlight, feeling immeasurably pleased to be alive. Her husband stared at her.

Ragnor.

She cupped his face with her palm, looking for something. Approval? Forgiveness? Love, maybe. But his face did not change expression. Instead, he pulled her close and kissed her, hard and bruising, just like Gerhard had done. Water splashed around them. Bubbles on her tongue tickled her mouth and lips. Under the water, more bubbles took on a life of their own, seeming to deliberately caress her skin and all her parts. Nearly spent for real, she went limp, moaning under Ragnor’s kiss, letting him pull their hips together. He slipped into her, filling her once more, sending spikes of pleasure through her. Her head snapped back, going under. She broke the surface again. Gerhard took her shoulders and steadied her. He prevented her from going under as she splashed, lost to the last bit of magic within her.

Gerhard didn’t attempt to caress her, he merely lent support. Perhaps he sensed that this part belonged to Ragnor.

Ragnor grunted, pulling almost completely out with each thrust, only to return, with more force. Her legs snaked around his hips, to pull them even closer. He came with a wild howl into the darkness.

He let her go and dunked himself under the water, drinking deep from the spring. She followed his example, slipping down, letting the water soothe her throat and bubble down to her soul. One kick took her back to the surface but she lacked the energy to climb out. Perhaps sensing this, Ragnor scooped her up and carried her to land. Spent, she let her head loll against his shoulders. She could barely keep her eyes open. Sounds came to her ears all faded and distorted.

She looked to the side and saw Gerhard pulling on his leggings. Ragnor stilled, watching, holding her. She swallowed and took a long look at Gerhard, naked in the moonlight, dripping wet from the spring, his short hair plastered to his head, his powerful chest rising up and down, slowing its rhythm with each breath.

Gerhard was still hard, the blond curls surrounding his erection now limp and dark from the water. Was it the goddess who’d made her want Gerhard so completely? Or the drug Gunnhilda had used? Perhaps it had been some secret desire of her own that she’d cherished, unknowing, since the first stirrings of lust in her childhood.

It did not matter. What was between them was done. But she would remember this sight. Always.

The leggings on, Gerhard threw his tunic over his shoulder. He stared at the two of them for a moment, a curious half-smile on his face, bowed and left.

She hugged Ragnor as tightly as she could. He bent his head and kissed her nose.

“Home, husband,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

But he did not say “wife”.

Chapter Twelve

The last few months had been torture.

But now Sif had proof that it had all been worth it.

Sif dropped her gaze from the afternoon sunlight beating down on her, taking the now-familiar path to the spring. Gunnhilda had simply confirmed what she’d felt from the start.

Freya had answered her prayer.

But, she still did not know how Ragnor would react. He’d been so careful with her through the spring planting and into the summer. Unfortunately, the playfulness had gone from him, at least with her. Not angry but not close either.

She longed for the return of their intimacy. Would he see their child as the gift that it was? Or would he be consumed by jealousy? He was the child’s father, by the magic of the goddess.

The path was more trodden now, though her people had been careful of the wildflowers. They treated the spring with reverence, as she hoped. There were signs near the pool that others had taken the sacredness of the grotto to heart and had their own rituals. Perhaps there would be many pregnant women in a few months. Perhaps her child would have friends and eventual lovers among them.

She knelt just before the water, cupped it in her hand and lifted it to the sky in the direction of the rocks where the three cougars had appeared, calling out to Freya in thanks. After, she let the water dribble from her hands. Then she knelt and drank, letting the bubbles fill her mouth and throat. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

“Thank you.”

A footstep sounded behind her and a branch broke. Ragnor? She turned her head.

Gerhard.

They stared at each other for a time in silence. The only sounds were the rustling of the trees and the gurgling of the water. Gerhard finally nodded.

“I did not wish to disturb you. I should have been more careful.”

“You don’t disturb me. I need to speak to you. This is the best place.” She stood. She should tell Ragnor first. But Gerhard was here, now, and he had a right to know. He knelt down and drank some of the water, perhaps not wanting to look at her so directly. Gerhard remained, as ever, hard to read, despite what they’d shared that night.

“I am going to have a child.”

He drank deeply before standing to face her. There was the shadow of a smile on his face. “The goddess was generous.”

“She accepted our sacrifice.”

Gerhard shook his head. “The sacrifice was yours and Ragnor’s, not mine. For me, it was…” He looked at the sky. “A healing. I can think again and breathe without pain. Well, sometimes.”

“That is…very good, Gerhard.”

“I think so.”

She took a deep breath. “We owe you, Gerhard. But the child is ours, mine and Ragnor’s child.”

“And not mine. As it should be,” Gerhard said. “For whatever reason, Freya wanted three. Perhaps it took three of us to make the magic. I have received my healing. The child will be the healing for you and Ragnor.”

She drew in breath. She had not thought of it that way. “I hope that my husband sees it as the same.”

“He is a fool if he does not. He has you. He has a child. What more could a man want than a woman who loves him and their child, a warrior to pass on his sword to?”

“This was not easy for him.”

“Sacrifices never are.” Gerhard looked into the sky again. “If I had been Ragnor, I could not have done it. It makes him a better chief and a better leader than I could ever be.”

She laid a hand on Gerhard’s forearm. “You are younger than Ragnor was when we married. There is time, you may find a woman and have a family.”

He drew up her hand, kissed it and let it drop. “Among our tribe, I won’t find another. But I will enjoy watching your child grow, Sif. I will enjoy knowing that I was there that night the goddess touched us. It warms me.”

“It warms me as well.”

He nodded. “Ragnor will understand.”

“I hope so.”

“I do not know if I do.” Ragnor stepped from the trees.

Chapter Thirteen

Gerhard clasped his hands behind his back. Ragnor scowled and wished he could break Gerhard in half, but Gerhard seemed to not want to give him a reason. Instead, Ragnor was forced to turn to his wife.

“You tell him about our child before me?”

“He was here and he had a right to know.” But her face flushed.

If Ragnor hadn’t heard her name the child as his, he wouldn’t have bothered to keep his temper. Instead, he only clenched his hands into fists, uncertain what to do. He’d agreed to this thrice-damned ritual. If he punished them, he punished himself. But was he not already being punished?

Why shouldn’t they suffer with him? “If you want the leadership of the tribe, Gerhard, you will have to fight for it. And if you want him, woman, I’ll not allow it.”

Sif’s flush disappeared. “If you heard us, you know what I said. You’re not making sense.”

“I did not hear you. I only saw you, talking together. I came closer and heard of the child.” I should have been the first to know.

Rage roared through him, drowning out all other sounds in his ears. He put his hand on his belt knife but it felt like slow motion, as if he couldn’t control it.

Gerhard stepped in front of Sif. “You’re like me, or what I would be like, if I had to share my wife with another. Or have others whisper about whether our child was my child in truth.”

Gerhard raised his hands and opened them, palms up, to Ragnor. “Freya help me, it felt good to touch your wife. Strike me down. If I were you, I would.”

Rage receded. Ragnor could hear properly again. He took his hand off the belt knife. “No. I agreed. I chose the ritual. Only someone weak blames others for their choices.”

Sif slipped out from behind Gerhard. “You’ve never been weak.”

“Neither have you.” Ragnor sighed. “I did not hear all you said. Just the last exchange, when Gerhard talked of being happy to watch a child grow. It seemed like you were offering the child to him.”

Sif walked to him, head held high, looking much like a goddess, as she had that night. She stopped just in front of him, took one hand and put it on her stomach.

“We are going to have a child. Our child. Freya’s reward for the ritual. My son. Your son.”

His hand grew warm and he braced his arm at the elbow to keep it from trembling.

“Gerhard is warmed and healed from that night. But the fire was ours, husband.”

He looked into her face, so strong. But fear lurked in her eyes. Not fear of death. Fear of him. Fear that he’d walk away.

He pulled her against him, remembering her trembling hands before she drank the ritual potion that night. She’d been terrified, risking all to do what she thought would help her people. A true priestess, a true leader.

She shuddered as he held her close. If she’d wanted Gerhard, if she’d thought him better, she could have chosen differently. She chose him instead. Her husband.

This goddess-chosen woman wanted her husband.

Gerhard knelt in front of them. “Any challenge I wanted to make to you was before my wife died,” he whispered. “But I would rather take an arrow in my heart to save you now, than allow either of you to come to harm.”

“Gods, that’s a long speech, Gerhard.” Ragnor almost smiled. Gerhard felt bound to him, then? Well. Unexpected, but Gerhard always was. “Get up.”

Gerhard stood. Keeping one hand tightly wrapped around Sif, Ragnor put his other hand on Gerhard’s shoulder. “My son will not be old enough to lead for many years.” He squeezed Gerhard’s shoulder tight. “I want you to swear to Freya that if I fall, you will take up leadership and do what is best for all. And take care of Sif.”

“I don’t need Gerhard to take care of me,” Sif said.

Gerhard, amused, almost smiled. No, Ragnor knew she would not want someone to take care of her like that.

“I have you to take care of me,” she said.

Ragnor smiled, feeling light for the first time in months. “So, then, Gerhard swear that you will protect the tribe at all costs, if I am gone.”

Gerhard nodded, face tight, giving away nothing. “I swear.”

“I will let it be known that you are the choice to follow me,” Ragnor said. “If needed.”

“No choice, because you will be here.” Gerhard nodded and glanced over at Sif. “Thank you.” He turned and headed back into the woods.

Sif curled herself around Ragnor with a deep sigh. He picked her off her feet. “I came close to hurting you.”

“You were never close to that.” She kissed his lips.

“Then why did you hide behind Gerhard?”

She punched his shoulder. “Fool. I stayed behind him to let you and him sort it out. It seemed better to stay out of it and let you lance the wound instead of allowing it to fester.”

He laughed. She hugged him. Perhaps Gerhard’s seed had been the seed to create the child. But it did not matter. It was still Ragnor’s child. Sif was still his. Always.

“The goddess touched us all that night,” she said. “If anything, the child belongs to Freya.”

He turned. “A divine child.”

“A child raised by both of us, a divine gift to the tribe.”

“Yes.”

“The goddess borrowed me for a little while. But I—”

“Shush.” He stared above them, awed. “Sif. Look up. Slowly.”

She did. There, at the top of the rocks, stood the cougar once again.

Freya’s messenger.

Sif caught her breath. Ragnor’s grip around her tightened. A cub padded out into view. The mother licked its head while the cub drank. A cub! They could not have a better omen.

More rustling. From the other side of the mother cat, a second cub appeared. Two? Sif let out her breath. Ragnor tried to keep from dancing. Two? Two!

He put his hand over her stomach. She laid her hand over his.

The mother cat turned her head and stared at them. They froze, returning the cat’s stare. Ragnor could not tell how long it was, only that he felt as if the cat laid a spell on him, rendering him unable to move.

The spell broke when the mother cat nudged the cubs with her nose. She led the way back into the woods and the cubs followed her.

“Twins!” Ragnor said.

Sif laughed. “Twins! Now, that is a sign, yes. Twins, Ragnor. Two sons.”

“Or girls, like their mother.” He turned her around, kissed her and lifted her to the sky. “Thank you, Freya!” He lowered her and kissed her again.

She wrapped her arms around him and looked up into his eyes. “I love you, husband.”

“I love you, wife.”

About the Author

Corrina Lawson is a former newspaper reporter with a degree in journalism from Boston University. When her twins were born, she needed a way to relax and began writing fiction. Being mostly a reader of science fiction and mystery stories, she surprised herself when she started writing romance instead. But it turned out to be a great deal of fun.

Corrina is currently a core contributor to the Geek Dad blog on Wired.com, a parenting blog which averages 1.5 million unique hits per month.

She is a Golden Heart finalist and winner of several regional RWA contests. Freya’s Gift is her first published story. You can find her at her blog: http://corrinalaw.livejournal.com or at Geek Dad, www.wired.com/geekdad.

A passion to appease the gods…or call down their vengeance.

Ritual Passion

© 2009 Cathryn Brunet

The jungle-wrapped city of Challas is dying, crumbling under the weight of its corrupt priesthood and degenerate new gods. But an even greater threat looms on the horizon. Outside the city walls, a pestilence breeds. Unless stopped, it will crawl through the city’s decaying streets and destroy everyone.

Phalandria wants to see her magnificent city reborn and freed from the perversion of the priests who murdered her father. And she wants Massilis, the man who has stood by her side since childhood. The man who’s developed into a magnificent, jungle-hardened warrior…and ignites her unquenchable desire. Although Massilis has always protected her, only once has he allowed his hunger for her to show.

Now the water oracle has called for Phalandria and Massilis to perform the Concubitia, a sexual rite to propitiate the gods. But the priests suspect a conspiracy and will do anything to protect themselves. And Phalandria realizes that the priests are not the only ones sabotaging the ritual.

The man she loves has an agenda of his own.

Warning: This title contains steamy jungle sex with a magnificently proportioned warrior, sex with multiple partners, and sex in front of overexcited onlookers…who sometimes join in the fun. And many rude words your mother wouldn’t like you to read.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Ritual Passion:

My mother smiles, unexpressed dreams fogging her eyes. “Perhaps tomorrow…”

I know what she wants to say. That Massilis will offer to be my husband is my dream also.

She shakes her head, straightens and places the brush on a side table as though by voicing her hopes she has embarrassed herself. “I will fetch you some nectar.”

My breath becomes shallow. If ever I needed a reminder of the responsibility Massilis and I carry, she has just provided me with it. We bear the tomorrows of all Challasians on our young shoulders. Tomorrows that could end in ravaged bodies and putrefied corpses. A city and people destroyed by its blasphemous complicity and the whim of a fickle goddess.

My mother returns with a cup. I take it from her hands and drink greedily. She picks up the brush to resume her ministrations, but I am discomposed by the dread that dries my throat and tangles my stomach, and want air. Even Challas’s thick, cloying stench is preferable to the confines of the house. I want Lake Muchato. I want to sit at the water’s edge and bathe my feet and feel a cool breeze caress my skin.

I want to escape my troubled mind and retrieve the hope that has slipped through my fingers like sand.

Abruptly, I stand up, surprising Mother. She stills, the brush held out, stroking air.

“What is the matter?” Her tone is frightened, as though she thinks I am about to refuse the call of the Concubitia, that I am about to announce that I refuse to have sex with Massilis.

If I weren’t so agitated, I would laugh at such a preposterous notion. But I cannot laugh. Not now. Tomorrow perhaps, when I can reflect on these moments of awkwardness. But not now. “I am going to the lake, Mother.”

She places the brush carefully on the side table before turning back to me. “You are afraid.”

I am, but not of what she thinks. I shake my head and force a smile. “No.”

Mother purses her lips as though disappointed in me. “Massilis will not hurt you. He is a good man. You know this.”

I do. I know better than anyone. “Yes.”

“So why are you frightened? It is unlike you to be afraid.”

“I am sorry, Mother. I must have air.” I turn toward the door, angry with myself for being so transparent, for hurting her unnecessarily.

It is not her fault she does not know the task that faces me. I have wanted Massilis for a very long time but I do not want it to be like this, heavy with responsibility. Our lovemaking will be about pleasure, yes, but it will be tainted with the need for survival.

I cross the room and embrace her tightly. She is bemused by my uncharacteristic show of affection and makes a husky sound in the back of her throat, one I have not heard for many years. I smile. It is a remonstration, her “foolish child” sound, but it is filled with affection, not reprobation. It is unique to her, and I want to thank her for giving it to me one last time. Whatever happens tonight, I will have this memory to treasure.

I let her go, then on impulse, cup her face and kiss her forehead.

“Phalandria—”

“Goodbye, Mother.” I am out the door before she can protest further. Humidity hits me like a wet falling curtain and immediately I feel my skin prickle with moisture.

The inner city’s air is always close and dense. No breeze flows through this area and the stench of rot and decay is everywhere. My feet make a slapping sound as they hit the stone pathways. It is foolhardy to run, but the cloying atmosphere is turning my stomach and I want the lake. I keep my hands out, ready to brace myself against a wall should I slip. My fingers skim the tufa, sliding over mossy walls, and I cannot help but wonder if this will be the last time I feel them on my skin.

I burst into the marketplace, panting. It is late. The artisans, stallholders and merchants have packed their goods away for the night and returned home. The lack of noise confounds me. I did not realise it was so late.

My skin contracts, as though suddenly affected by cold. Slowly, I turn to the left, toward the main avenue that leads to the Golden Temple. The gilded walls glow red, stained by the dropping sun. Around the base, the lawn lies in shadow, its thick sward the colour of congealed blood. A carrion bird circles the roof and squawks its ghoulish cry, then turns its head to regard me with savage eyes. Fear stalks its way into my heart and threads icy tentacles down my spine. This is either a message or a warning. My shivering heart tells me it is the latter.

Menace lurks in the Golden Temple. Only this time, like my ill-fated friend, Delicaxia, I may not escape it.

Someone grabs my hand from behind. I yelp and try to run but the grip is strong.

“Come,” says Massilis.

In my distress I have not sensed his approach, but I am glad for his presence in the eerie, empty marketplace. Massilis tugs at me and I have no choice but to follow.

Only our footsteps break the quiet. Challas is preparing itself for the evening. The Zarbithnath are bathing and dressing for the ceremony. I can picture them washing genitals, applying parthenate and skin oils, humming the sacred chants under their breath, impatient for the night’s debauchery. This would be me also were I not their source of entertainment.

A warm breeze touches my flesh and I look up. Lake Muchato spreads like rippling molten lead before me. The water stretches to the horizon and the brilliant sinking sun. In sections, the lake surface appears aflame, glittering gold and orange. It is stunningly beautiful and in an instant I feel my spirits rise.

I glance at Massilis. He gazes across the water as if mesmerised, with the pyrites in his eyes glowing as though his irises are filled with stars. His shoulders are huge, the physique of a hunter, and shadows define the muscles of his magnificent arms and legs. His powerful, broad chest shines like polished timber, and I am overcome by how godlike he appears in the falling light. A mortal made divine by the lowering sun.

But he is better than any god, for he is human and tonight his body will be mine to explore. I glance toward his loincloth. Although he is not erect, it bulges, the outline of his enormous penis clear. I ogle it unashamedly and let my desire simmer. I want him with a need that comes from the primordial sludge of human creation. Soon, some of my prayers will be answered, but I hope the gods will grant them all.

“The lake is receding, Phalandria,” he says.

I stare at him. It is an observation I have made many times, but one that engendered no concern in others.

When I was young, the lake lapped at the very edge of the city. On stormy nights, it would rise and creep through the low-lying areas, washing the stinking alleys clean. But it has been many years since the last flood and now a sloping black pebble shore forms a border between the city and the water, and the city remains uncleansed.

Massilis locks his eyes on mine. “We are surrounded by decay. Our lake is drying, our walls disintegrate before our eyes, and our city wallows in filth. Every day, the animals and fruit that sustain us become harder to find.” He sweeps an arm toward the shadowed, dangerous jungle. “The jungle draws ever closer. Soon, it will hold us in its deadly embrace. Our destruction is upon us and yet no one sees.”

I blink and stare mutely at him, surprised by his words. This is something I know from the water oracle and yet Massilis has mouthed it like a truth, as if he too is aware of our approaching extinction.

I shiver and feel my confidence slide once more. I do not want to die. I want tomorrow to rise bright and clean and fill me with joy, but I know it may not.

“Will we fail, Massilis?” My voice is tremulous, afraid, and I hate the sound of my weakness but suddenly I cannot control my fear.

He regards me with an odd expression, as though he thinks the question strange. But it is not. He does not know of the pestilence.

“It is possible. For the priests, the omens have been unfavourable of late. They are frightened and want us to fail. They do not forgive us the things we know. Or our fathers.”

I take a deep breath and speak before my nerve further fails me. “Then I must tell you something. I cannot let this moment pass with my secret unspoken.” I pause, ready to say the words, but Massilis interrupts.

“Do you love your people, Phalandria?”

I swallow and stare back out over the lake. Massilis does not want to hear my confession. Like a stupid infatuated girl, I have made a fool of myself.

“Yes,” I say, but only to fill the painful silence.

“Then keep your counsel. We have a task ahead. There can be no distractions.”

I nod, but humiliation creeps over my skin like fire ants. I have mistaken tenderness and friendship for something more. Massilis will never be mine, but for this one night.

I square my shoulders and clench my jaw. So be it. But I will take this night and savour it like no other. And then the gods may do as they desire. For after burning so long in the fire of my lust, I will at last see it quenched.

Massilis turns from the water, his face set like mine, determined, resolute.

“It is time.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it, then smiles at me as though he knows of my embarrassment and wants to give comfort. “Be strong, Phalandria. Hold faith. Perhaps your wish will be granted.”

“Yes. Perhaps it will. It is in the gods’ hands.”

“No, Phalandria.” He marches off the pebbled shore like a warrior heading for battle, dragging me behind. “It is in ours.”

Her arrival stirs something deep and dark. Perhaps even deadly…

Face of the Maiden

© 2008 Emma Wildes

Celia Fairmont’s new home on the wild coast of Cornwall is a sprawling ancient mansion steeped in history and deep, dark secrets. From the first night her dreams are plagued by images of clandestine meetings with a handsome, reckless lover. The man in her visions looks disturbingly like the oldest son of her new guardian, the Earl of Ashbourne, but there the resemblance stops. Phillip Leighton is practical to a fault and too preoccupied with estate business to even notice her presence.

Phillip Leighton does not have time for illogical romantic fantasies about his father’s young ward. The very lovely Miss Fairmont is unsophisticated and innocent—not at all suited to be the next Countess of Ashbourne. And besides, he is practically engaged to a titled widow. But erotic dreams disturb his nights, and by day she preoccupies his thoughts, and he finds himself fascinated against his will.

Phillip can’t seem to keep Celia out of his head—or out of his arms. When a series of puzzling accidents begins to happen, he knows with chilling certainty that their future is on a collision course with the past…

Warning: This title contains explicit sensual love scenes, sexy ghosts, violence, some bad language in a polite Regency way, and a devilish wayward rake or two.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Face of the Maiden:

The mist sent long tendrils like ghostly fingers out of the darkness to cross the path. It hung in gray banks over the trees, shrouding the surroundings and making everything seem still and dead. As she ran along, something moved in the black shadows to her right, snapping twigs and rustling leaves. She paused, her heart beginning to pound the blood through her body in a rush, panic rising on a knife-edge of control, when some creature shot out of the bushes and streaked into the night. Her breath went out in an audible whistle of relief and she caught up her heavy skirts in her hands, hurrying forward.

She was late. Again.

Excitement and anticipation grew, overcoming some of her fear over the solitary walk in the eerie fog. Ahead she could see vague shapes begin to take form, squares suggestive of human mortality, and she swallowed down a quick shiver.

She should have insisted on a different meeting place, she thought, weaving her way through the headstones. Discretion was one thing…this flair for the dramatic was another.

Almost there.

A dark figure detached itself from the swirling gray.

The materialization was unnerving, startling, and even though she had expected him…a cold ache of fear twisted in her stomach. The black edge of his cloak flapped in the wind as he stood still.

He outstretched his hand slowly in unspoken command and invitation. She ran into his arms and he wrapped the cloak around them both as she buried her face in his chest and clung to him.

“For a moment,” she whispered breathlessly, “I…I wasn’t sure it was you.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, my love.”

She snuggled deeper into his embrace, her heart still jerking erratically in her chest. He lifted his hand to stroke her hair and she felt the ripple of muscle under her cheek, relishing his strength, the strong clasp of his arms around her.

Reproachfully, she said, “Meeting in a graveyard sets the mood for a good fright, would you not say?”

His laugh stirred her hair. “I didn’t order the mist, my sweet. It was a gift from the gods themselves. And as for our meeting place…think of us as ghosts, as would anyone who might see us here.”

She was silent. He was only too right. It was an unfortunate reality; this necessary secret that sent them creeping to each other among the sleeping dead.

His heartbeat had quickened already under her ear. So impatient, she thought with a small smile, always so ready and impatient…

“Come.” He released her and took her hand, picking his way through the headstones.

This time it was past the silent church, toward the sea. A squat shape loomed through the trees and she remembered it. The old sexton’s shed, abandoned for years. He opened the door and it swung outward with a protesting keen of rusted hinges.

A scrape and a flare. A wavering light played about the tiny room. The floor was bare but recently swept, and there was a pile of soft new blankets and a shaded lamp which he knelt to light. The soft glow sprang forth, revealing the sheen of moisture on his dark hair, hollows under his high cheekbones, and the slow sensual curve of his mouth. He stood in a smooth, fluid movement, with that controlled grace that was so much a part of him—part skilled swordsman, part dancer, part muscular animal.

“What do you think, lady mine?” His sweeping hand indicated the interior of sagging roof and rough walls. Reaching to his throat, he unfastened his cape and tossed it aside.

“Elegant, sir. With every luxury at the ready. You spoil me.” She arched a brow and let her own cape slide free, shaking out the dampness from her skirts.

She was instantly sorry for the jest. His long fingers stopped in the act of removing his neck cloth, his dark brows snapping together. He said tersely, “Would that I could spoil you, madame, and be rid of this accursed secrecy.”

In remorse, she moved forward and touched his arm, looking into his sapphire eyes. “Floor or bed, with you it matters not.”

His hand came upward, cupping her cheek and he said huskily, “I want you.”

“And I you.”

“Loosen your hair.” It was a command.

Obediently, she lifted trembling hands to pluck the pins from her long hair and let the golden strands tumble down her shoulders and back.

“Perfect,” he muttered in approval, tangling his fingers in her loose tresses and tugging her head backwards.

His mouth came down, hot and hungry, to cover hers. She kissed him back fiercely, possessively, and offered no protest when he unfastened her dress and pushed it from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet in a heap of lace and satin. He lifted his head and his breath went outward in an audible hiss.

She wore absolutely nothing underneath. Blushing slightly under his heated gaze, she said shakily, “We have so little time. I hate to waste any fumbling with corsets and my chemise and…”

“I’ve never agreed with you more.” A low laugh escaped him. Then he scooped her up in his arms, moving a few feet to lower her to the makeshift bed. His gaze locked with hers as he removed his clothing and boots.

It always shook her. The depth of his desire to have her. His cock stood erect already against the taut plane of his stomach, the tip beaded with semen, the prominent veins pulsing slightly with the beat of his heart.

Then, naked and aroused, he lowered himself over her. His hands roamed freely over her skin and he sought her right breast, taking the nipple deeply into his mouth. Desire shot through her whole body and she moaned, threading her fingers through his hair, feeling the faint abrasion of his beard on her tender flesh. He suckled, swirling his tongue, his hand sliding at the same time between her legs. She parted for him, eager for the pleasure he gave her so generously, for the slick penetration of his skillful fingers. His thumb brushed her clitoris in a persuasive motion and she arched into the caress, a bolt of rapturous sensation making her quiver.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

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