“No,” I said without thinking. And it was true. I knew then they would not hurt me. I’d always known.
Fenrir’s eyes lit in triumph. I stood facing them, scrubbing my hands over my dress. Something between us had shifted, and I knew not what. Or perhaps I didn’t want to know.
“Go then, little mother.” Fenrir handed me the buckets and nodded for me to return to the lodge. “Tell the unmated spaewives to prepare for a feast in a few day’s time. Later, we will bring you the day’s meal.”
“Very well. Thank you. And...don't call me that.” I hurried off, wondering if I’d made a fool of myself.
Fenrir
I watched the little nun hurry across the fields. She met her friends, two unmated spaewives younger than her. They embraced her and went back inside the lodge.
“She’s coming into heat,” Jarl muttered. “She hopes to hide it. But I caught the scent.”
“She can’t hide from us.”
Down at the lodge, a throng of young girls tromped out, led by an older one. Juliet had a little one balanced on her hip. She did not glance at us as she ushered the girls along toward a flower-filled meadow in the other direction.
I crouched and touched the flowers Juliet had plucked and discarded. “She will resist, brother,” I said.
Jarl’s lip curled. “Easily overcome.”
“And what about the Alphas’ decree?”
“What about them?” he shrugged. “The Alphas say what they must, but when they found a spaewife they wanted for themselves, they did not hesitate to claim her.”
“It’s not the Alphas I’m concerned about. Their mates are protective of the unmated spaewives, especially the younger ones.”
“Juliet is not young. She is old enough to feel her desires.”
“And reject them.”
Jarl glanced at the sky. “In four night’s time, at the feast. There will be a full moon, and she will be in heat. We can make our desires known.”
I let the broken petals filter through my fingers and fall to the ground. “Juliet is smart. She knows what we desire. She desires the same. The question is, will she accept it?”
3
Juliet
Four nights later, we all gathered on the other side of the mountain for the feast. As night crept over the fields, the full moon hung low in the sky, big and round and golden.
“Harvest moon,” Sage said, traipsing from Laurel’s large hearth to the great bonfire nestled down the hill.
“Hunter’s moon,” Hazel corrected and set a platter of shiny braided bread down on a rough hewn plank that acted as a table.
“Honey Moon,” Laurel said without thinking and flushed when her friends giggled. Her figure was as lush as ever, her belly starting to curve under her full breasts.
I smiled at her and the others. I was older than these four, but we’d grown up together in the orphanage. They were the only sisters I’d known. “I hear that we will expect more than one babe after winter. Laurel’s is one, but who is the other?”
As one, Sage, Hazel, and Willow put hands over their flat bellies. Then their eyes grew wide as they looked around at each other.
“You, Hazel?” Willow cried, at the same time Sage said, “You two, Willow?”
“And Sage also,” Hazel announced. The three young women burst into squeals and started hugging one another.
“Oh. Oh my.” Fat tears rolled down Laurel’s face, even though her cheeks curved into a smile. “I’m happy, truly,” she waved us off when we’d comfort her.
My breath was sharp enough to cut my chest. “Congratulations.” I busied myself organizing the platters to make room for the meat. The Berserkers preferred to eat outside by the fires. Indeed, their main source of fun was building the bonfire as high as possible. Twice I’d had to warn the young girls back from the blaze. I’d brought a few blankets and spread them over the grass for us all to sit. Meadow, Angelica, and Fern were there now, keeping the little ones from running and getting underfoot.
Laurel was still crying. A huge warrior whose face was a mass of scars came up behind her. He bent and whispered in her ear, and pulled her close. She sighed and reached up to cup his neck as she leaned back on him. They made a lovely picture, the huge warrior cradling his curvy, pregnant bride.
I’ll never have that, I thought. When I made my vows, they came easily. I did not want to leave the abbey and marry a man of the friar’s choosing. I would be a nun. I would live my whole life in the shelter of the stone walls. I would be safe. I would live a life of my choosing. I loved children, but I could help in the orphanage and be surrounded by them without having them on my own.
The only thing I really had to give up was a future husband, and that was easy. What use did I have for a man? And if some nights I went to bed aching with loneliness, well, at least I would not have to submit to any man. Only God. I could conquer my own desires.
But that was before I met the Berserkers.
I finished with the food and trekked back to my own group. The unmated spaewives, as the Berserkers called us. But even among them, I didn’t belong.
“Juliet,” Meadow waved at me and made room on the blanket for me to sit. The sun was sinking, but there was still enough light for games. A group of warriors played a violent game of some sort, dashing and darting, trying to catch a leather bound ball. Of course, the Berserkers played half naked. Only a scrap of leather covered their nethers.
Some of the men didn’t even have that.
Meadow’s eyes were huge. I resisted the urge to put my hands over her eyes, and scrubbed my own instead. Sleepless nights and smoke from the massive bonfire made my head ache.
But it was more than that. Deep in my belly, I felt it brewing. The heat, rising in me. It had come on me before, but it was worse tonight than it’d ever been.
Sage and Willow called it the fever. They and many of our sisters had felt it. From what they told me, the heat called to the Berserkers. It marked the women who could break their curse.
And now it had come upon me.
“The heat comes when the spaewife is ready to mate.” Fenrir had told me. I put a hand to my belly and gnawed my lip.
Maybe I was a spaewife. Or maybe I was just wicked, and destined to burn. This sickness was the heat of hellfire, warning me to renounce all sin.
A half-naked warrior strolled past me and Meadow gasped. On her corner of the blanket, Fern ducked her head to her knees, though she peeked out from time to time.
Rosalind sat on a boulder some feet away from us. She sat straight and stiff, her honey gold hair streaming out behind her like a flag. Half the warriors blatantly stared at her. A few even tried to catch her attention. But she stared out at nothing, proud as a princess, refusing to acknowledge her captors.
“Look,” Meadow nudged me. “The Alphas are here.”
And so they were, taking their place on a crop of boulders nearer to the fire. Their women came with them, Brenna of the Berserkers, dark-haired and lovely in a white fur robe that trailed upon the grass. Sabine of the Lowland pack, tall and flanked by two warriors—one of whom had more tattoos than Jarl. Muriel and her hulking, scar-faced mate. A fourth slender, bright-haired woman who held a staff taller than her head. When she strode past us amid a tight pack of three warriors, I noticed the wood staff was carved with runes and topped with an eagle feather.