“Well, our coven’s tracked her, too,” Laima continued, apparently too caught up in the story to dwell on any discomfort she might have noticed in him. “After we saw her in the dreams, we drew a sketch and took it to the LVPD. Their software found and printed her picture. She's friends with Erika's niece. We'll meet up in Salacgriva.” Laima and Erika became friends at Riga’s University during one of the times Laima blended as a human.
Reinis focused on the photograph, careful to leave his mind empty, his feelings calm. Laima could read anyone, anywhere, even from a distance, but the defenses that protected his mind had strengthened, and he was able to keep his mother out. Still, he wouldn’t take chances.
“I'll find her.” He slid the picture in his black leather jacket pocket. Right next to his heart. They’d been to Salacgriva many times with Erika and her family.
“Things are going to be different, though. I'll explain in the car. It's late, and we need to leave,” Laima said.
They waited for a few minutes more for Velta, but Laima sensed she was far away. They left without her for Salacgriva.
At night, Reinis stayed in a cabin alone instead of with Laima, which he did in past years. She instructed him to remain separate so the special bestower wouldn’t catch sight of him. As soon as he was inside the one-room place, he closed the door and whipped the photo out of his breast pocket to verify he’d seen the correct person. No question. It was Sirsniņa.
His entire body tensed, screwed tight. An electric jolt ran up and down his legs. He paced to stop the burning. He punched a pillow to get rid of the sensation that coiled within him from the first moment he saw the picture. But nothing changed the fact that Sirsniņa was now a duty. A duty and nothing more. Ever. The only one he’d ever felt a genuine attraction to, the only woman he’d ever wanted to see again, was a goddamn, cold-hearted assignment. He stuffed the picture back into his leather jacket pocket as if the whole situation would disappear as soon as he lost sight of the photograph.
Gatis had approached him about the bestower. There was no question that Gatis’ and the House of the White Swan had bad intentions. Their objectives were always self-serving and never good.
What if they got to her first?
Sirsniņa, the conduit of life for Auseklis.
The gift to save all vampires from destruction.
He repeated the words, rubbing his face, palming his chin, striding back and forth in the confined room. Unaware of anything going on around him, he focused on the fact that the entire species’ future rested on his damn shoulders.
From the moment he left the club, he spent every day devising a plan to find her. He replayed the moment he first glimpsed her. The demure expression on her face. The way that black dress clung to her body. And there was more. Far more. It wasn’t just physical. It was her—the soul in her eyes. He wanted to speak to her; he wanted to know her.
What in the seven layers of hell was he thinking! How could this happen? Sirsniņa was the ocean tide pulling him into the deep-blue depths of a vortex. The problem? He didn’t care. His craving to dive in, to learn every fine detail about her, consumed him.
He tipped his head back and let an anguished roar rip from his throat. He curled his hands into fists and raised them to the ceiling, demanding answers. His arms trembled as he pulled them back to his sides, punching the air out of his lungs as he exhaled. How could he feel this way? He was supposed to be a scientific bastard.
Every cell in his body felt compromised. He ached from the loss of her, even though he never had her. A hollow sensation sucked desperately at his soul. It was Sirsniņa he longed for, Sirsniņa he craved. In total disbelief, he scanned the room, as if something there could change his situation. An attraction to a human was one thing. He could sleep with anyone he wanted, anytime. But Sirsniņa? He might as well put a gun to his head and pull the trigger.
Why hadn’t he connected things? He didn’t know the special bestower had arrived, or that she was Sirsniņa. She was a random person. A woman dancing.
Even so, the news mortified him.
If only he could have stayed with Laima tonight, anything to get his mind off the war raging within. Laima set up tents outside with a few other coven families. In the past, he had stayed with his mother, sister, and sometimes his uncle Miervaldis, in the same tent area. It was different and lonely in the cabin with no one around. Worse, it gave him a chance to repeatedly take the picture out and obsess.
Snarling, he clenched his jaw. He pulled out the photo without thinking. Sirsniņa had a natural smile. Full lips. She stood tall and carried her head high. He remembered how well she danced, how she held back her smile from him, and the provocative scent of her perfume as he passed her. Not to mention their brief, intense kiss he stole from her on the street.
His body went into overdrive—his heartbeat buffeted his ribcage, his muscles twitched, he grew so hard in his jeans he ached. He turned the picture face down on the bed. That didn't help. Her face was etched into his mind like acid on glass.
She was a duty.
Welcome to the worst assignment of his life.
A two-headed dragon, he fought himself. In Riga, he wanted to go outside with her, walk down by the Daugava, kiss her properly against the railing, and keep her warm in the cold night air. Heat gathered in his abdomen. If only she were here now, so he could press her against an oak tree and take her under its protective branches.
He wished he could delete his feelings, grab hold of himself, and shake the emotions free like dust from an old rug. But the reality—he could never have her—made him want to retch.
Their entire family line was uncorrupted with human blood. Beside fatalities from vampire wars, humans had murdered too many of them—not only in Latvia but also around the world. He had a duty to replenish the stock. Vampire females had strong children, but pregnancy was a fragile and dangerous situation. Even the best-matched full bloods lost many children before birth. The human half-blood pregnancies were no better. It was with difficulty human women withstood the vampire gene. For each twenty encounters he completed, only one child would survive—another reason duty drove him insane.
Dressed in jeans, a charcoal t-shirt, his leather jacket, and sneakers, he walked into the night, away from the noise, away from the humans and the tent city. Darkness enveloped him, and he reveled in it. Fear couldn’t touch him. In the night, he was in his element. The scents were crisp; his sight, sharpened. Even without the light of the moon, he could see a tiny beetle traipsing across a pine trunk.
Forest followed by open fields surrounded him for miles. He found a small clearing in the trees and situated himself on the sandy ground. Darkness and the earth normally returned his focus and cooled his anguish like a cold rag on a feverish forehead. He always carried a piece of rye bread in his pocket in case he needed an upuris, offering. After he broke it up on the ground, he flopped on his side, shifted onto his back, then sat up and folded his head onto his knees. Squeezing his head until the pain almost made him fall, the edicts of his kind scraped through his mind like a screeching, broken record: human women were for reproduction purposes only. No feelings. No relationships. All connection other than duty—strictly prohibited.
There was no way he was going to get through the interaction with her like this. He would come undone. The worst part—maybe that’s exactly what he wanted to do. He needed to get a grip. He hadn't even come close to her, and he was already tearing apart into a million pieces.
Chapter 9
When they arrived in Salacgriva, tents were pitched and bonfires lit but Sarma wasn’t in the mood to camp. She should be enjoying the beautiful countryside, but nothing felt right. The disk remained in her pocket, and every once in a while, she would rub it, still unclear why it had been gifted to her. Why did those elders tell her she needed protection against evil? They seemed so sure in their words, and wise, she couldn’t help but believe them.
That morning, Lilija, Marita, and Sarma explored the celebrat
ion area. Near the campgrounds, people crowded walkways; there were two stages for folk dancing and singing in an amphitheater. Although crews prepared for the festivities that officially began the next day, tourists roamed the area. She examined the area, the crowd, everyone who walked by. Maybe she exaggerated and needed to forget about all that silliness, but she couldn’t unwind. Though she couldn’t pinpoint the strangeness, her instinct told her something wasn’t right.
After returning to camp, Sarma took a short walk alone while Lilija and Marita headed to the small general store. Beyond the meadow lay a strip of pine forest and a white beach. Clouds rolled in, but no rain fell. She strolled down the shore, found a pine tree to rest under, and inhaled the musky scent of sap mingling with salty sea air.
She leaned back, reached into her pocket and removed the disk. Heavy in her hand, she palmed the silver and examined the symbols. Why did the elder woman choose her? The past few days, it felt like a spotlight focused on her wherever she went. Did everyone conspire to make her ill at ease? She broke into a nervous laugh. Had this all been in her imagination like Marita had said? She tried to convince herself she simply imagined everything, but Marita never saw the people who followed them around, never noticed a thing.
A twinge pinched her shoulder. Instead of relaxing, she became more wound up. The fact that no one believed her had started to drive her nuts. She didn’t know who was right. Marita had said they would go berry picking so Sarma heaved herself off the ground and returned to a packed campsite. New arrivals plunked their tents down and built bonfires. As she approached their small circle, Sarma spotted a woman she didn't recognize. Tall, with porcelain skin, and a jet-black braid twisting to the base of her back, she wore a long, stylish blue dress. Their eyes met and goosebumps spread over her skin.
Erika and the woman worked, chatting in Latvian while they sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. She wanted to help, but shyness held her back. She didn’t know what to do with herself or where to sit.
Behind the women, two children played while a younger woman with a short, black pixie cut supervised. They appeared to be around eight years old. The boy had sandy blond hair, and the girl was a redhead. They rolled a ball between them while the woman glanced up at Sarma then returned her attention to the kids.
Right when Sarma contemplated leaving, Lilija arrived from the store and called her to harvest red currants. They walked past the stages into the forest and wandered along sandy paths sprinkled with pine needles. Sarma carefully chose her berries and placed a handful into Lilija’s basket.
“Lilija, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all.”
“Who was the woman with your mother?” Sarma popped one in her mouth and savored the sweet, tart flavor.
“An old friend of my mum's. They’re like sisters. I’ll introduce you later. They’re so busy—I leave them to do their work. Laima’s from Liepaja, a town southwest of Riga. It’s about a three-hour drive.”
“Were those her children? Behind her?” Distracted by the conversation, a few squished between her fingers, staining them a bright red.
“Oh, no.” Lilija laughed. “Adopted grandchildren. The older one is her niece, Daina. She cares for them.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn't. I laughed because Laima has grown children. She must know the secrets of the fountain of youth. She always looks amazing!”
Sarma agreed with the last comment as they headed toward the camp, their baskets full.
That night Sarma and Marita slept outside surrounded by the voices of other campers and the crackle of the fire Armands skillfully kept roaring. Too afraid to let go of her protection, she fell asleep with the disk in her hand.
When Sarma and Marita woke up, Laima and Erika were already cooking breakfast. Lilija introduced Sarma to Laima. Sarma shook Laima’s satin-smooth hand then stood by the others to help.
“Farm fresh.” Lilija handed Sarma a bowl and a few eggs.
Happy to be included, she cracked the first egg on the side of a bowl. The egg yolk tumbled out blood red.
“Marita, what's wrong with this egg?” Her stomach soured.
“Eww! Weird.” Marita clinked her egg against the bowl and pointed to a bright, yellow yolk. “Mine’s good.”
Sarma opened another in a separate bowl. The yolk again plopped out blood red. Nausea gripped her stomach. She gagged as bile rose in her throat. “Gross.” Sarma sprinted away from their makeshift kitchen barely reaching a bush.
Laima followed Sarma then motioned for her to sit on a foldout, camping chair. She handed her a glass of water and prepared chamomile tea from fresh blossoms. Erika and Laima leaned over the bowl with the bloody eggs. Laima poked one of the yolks with a serious expression and said something in Latvian.
“She said blood came out of the yolk.” Marita winced as she translated.
Erika's face paled with fear, but Laima remained calm, grabbed the bowl of eggs, and poured them into the fire. Instead of dying down, the flames sprang up crimson red, crackling, and curling a thick black smoke into the blue morning sky. The sulphurous odor overwhelmed them all.
Sarma collapsed onto the cool, wet grass, slinging one arm across her forehead and another across her aching tummy. No one requested her help anymore. She couldn't see herself but felt she lost all color. She only drank the tea as they cooked breakfast. No one mentioned the eggs. Every egg after that came out perfectly normal.
After a short nap, Sarma ate a snack then wandered toward the stage area with Marita and Lilija. The audience crowded the amphitheater. Most women wore billowing flower wreaths around their heads; the men wore twisted oak twigs. Vendors sold the wreaths along the borders of the stage area.
Her stomach still felt raw, but the dancers on the stage distracted her. Children swayed with adults to music playing over the speakers. The dancers formed geometric symbols, similar to those on her disk and those seen on the road, which according to Lilija originated from Latvian folklore. After a while, Sarma relaxed and even smiled, tapping her feet to the rhythm to the music.
“I love the wreaths the woman wear,” Sarma said scanning the crowd.
“We’ll show you how to make them,” Lilija offered, her eyes apologetic about the eggs.
Marita took her hand to leave the stage area, but Laima walked onto the stage alone, and they stopped. Laima wore a fire-orange folk dress and a cream-colored shawl draped over her chest. Her hair, now in two braids, hung over her shoulders. She sat on a stool and placed a small, flat, wooden harp on her lap.
“That’s a kokle.” Lilija pointed at the instrument.
Accompanied by dainty strokes on the instrument, Laima sang a melancholic, haunting song. Not once did she look up at the crowd. Her eyes remained shut. The words vibrated through Sarma's body evoking a tugging nostalgia. After Laima finished, a thunderous standing ovation thanked her. She stood, bowed, and shot a glance at Sarma, her gaze intense.
A chill passed through Sarma. Marita took her hand.
“You shouldn't mind Laima; she's incredible but a bit odd. I grew up with her, so I'm used to it.” Lilija lightly touched Sarma’s arm. “She is a very kind person. And the best healer around.”
They drifted to a nearby open field to pick flowers. Sarma breathed in the fresh scent of the green grass as Lilija gathered a bundle and lined them up to make a crown. She softly bent them with her hands, formed a circle, and then measured it around Sarma's head.
“Lilija, have you ever seen eggs like that before?” Sarma asked trying to appear nonchalant.
“Fresh eggs from the farm can be fertilized. The farmers don't realize it.” Lilija's brown eyes glinted, and Sarma recognized the resemblance between Marita and Lilija.
Sarma wrinkled her forehead. Blood coming out of the egg didn't seem normal. But Lilija would know better.
Marita pulled on the garland she had made. Lilija completed Sarma’s wreath and placed it on her head.
“I fee
l more Latvian now.” Sarma giggled.
The three of them ambled through the tall grass back to camp. Sarma preferred the tranquil field to the camp, but she followed. Along the path, soft dirt dusted their shoes.
Sarma narrowed her eyes and stopped dead in her tracks. “Marita. Let's go another way.”
Too late. Andis spotted them and waved them over. He wore an oak wreath and held a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands. Ilze accompanied him, a wreath around her head. How annoying.
“Come on. We’ll just say hello.” Marita led her ahead.
“How is it that these people find us everywhere we go? Don't you think it's weird?” Sarma whispered a little too loud.
“I wonder if they’re saying the same thing about us,” Marita quipped.
“Like my brother said, you are quite lovely, Sarma,” Lilija answered.
That didn't explain things. Before she had a chance to reply, Andis called out to her.
“Hi, Sarma!” he yelled. “I hoped you’d be here. You’re as lovely as these wildflowers,” he said as he handed her a bouquet. Marita was quick to interpret.
“Uh, thanks.” Sarma smiled tightly.
“Can we hang out later?” His big, blue eyes glinted.
She stepped back. An overwhelming sensation—as if he wanted to grip her mind—pulled at her. The desire to escape his attention shot through her, but it was hard to turn away.
“Thanks for the flowers.” Sarma broke the connection and studied the ground. Something told her not to meet his eyes. She signaled to Marita that she wanted to leave.
Ilze cut Sarma off and peeked at Andis.
“Wait, we want to spend time together later,” Ilze pouted.
“We’re busy.” Marita jerked Sarma forward and kept walking, leaving Ilze and Andis staring. Down the path, Marita handed Sarma the bouquet without looking back.
Back at camp, Sarma dumped the flowers next to the tent. Shaken, she sat around the campfire with the others. Erika offered fresh, warm Jani cheese. Sarma nibbled the savory, caraway-seed piece Erika had made. Laima joined her eating a chunk of rye bread with a slice on top. She spoke to Sarma through Marita.
Forbidden Darkness (Immortal Desire Series Book 1) Page 6
