by Amy Sumida
“Ve are cutting short vacation,” Kirill said after I finished.
“Kirill, no.”
“Ve can go back to Russia,” he offered. “Ve don't need to stay in Latvia.”
“This is where your mother was born,” I said gently. “Let's not be scared away by a human killer. That's silly. Lesya could take down a human.”
Kirill chuckled. “Da, she probably could.”
“Not to mention, there was a killer in Saint Petersburg too.”
Kirill blinked. “You zink it's same person?”
“Could be. I don't know. It's odd that there have been drownings in both places.”
“Both places ve have been,” Kirill whispered.
“This can't be about us; killing some random humans who we don't know doesn't affect us beyond darkening our vacation.”
“Unless Loki is involved.”
“But what would Loki gain from this?”
“I don't know. Maybe it's coincidence and I'm overreacting.”
“Give it one more day,” I suggested. “We can go sightseeing tomorrow and if you still feel uneasy at the end of the day, we can trace somewhere else.”
“Okay,” he gave in then grinned mischievously. “But only if you run vith me tonight.”
“You want to go for a run here?” I asked in surprise. “In the cold?”
“Vhy do you zink I got cabin?” He asked with a grin. “Ve can be ourselves out here.”
“And what if someone happens to be in the woods and spots us?”
“Happens to be in woods at ten o'clock at night in cold veather?” Kirill lifted a dark brow. “And how vould zey see us in dark?”
“You may be a black lion, but I'm not.”
“You'd be mistaken for lynx.”
“A lion mistaken for a lynx?” I asked skeptically. “Wait; there are lynx here? Lynxes? Lynxi?”
Kirill chuckled. “Zey avoid humans, but da, lynxes are here. Don't you smell zem?”
I took a deep breath. Beneath the smoke and earth and cold scents, I picked up a few, faint ribbons of animal musk.
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “I've never smelled a lynx before.”
“Zen you vill just have to trust me.” He stood.
“We can't leave Lesya alone in the cabin,” I pointed out as he pulled off his T-shirt.
I instantly turned up my body heat; just watching him undress made me shiver. And not in the usual way.
“No one is out here, Vervain.” Kirill stretched his shoulders and basked in my warmth. Then his hands went to his waistband.
There went Kirill's pants and with them, my rational thought.
“Vervain?” Kirill lifted a brow at me then lowered his boxer shorts.
“I...” I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Okay. A run sounds good.”
Kirill chuckled deep in his throat as I scrambled out of my clothes. Then his amusement faded and his stare lowered. Down my body. Up again. My heart sped up as my lioness roared inside me. Kirill reached for me. I grinned wickedly and shifted; my bones lengthening with the feel of a good stretch and fur sprouting from my skin. I dropped onto all-fours; hands and feet morphing into paws. Lion eyes gave me a different perspective; my vision going sharper but also losing some colors. The lack was made up for in scents though, and my nose became a third eye, able to add some dimension to my vision that it didn't have in my human form. My senses are heightened in all of my shapes, but certain bodies have their advantages. This one was good for running.
I made a soft growl and leapt into the woods.
Kirill, his shift settling moments after mine, chased after me. I heard and felt and scented him on my heels. My heart pounded in excitement as my paws flew over the forest floor. The scent of soil and resin and prey burst in my nose. I felt free in ways I never could in my human form. Free of the restrictions that other shape placed upon me and the clutter of its thoughts. As a lioness, I became focused on simpler things; the sounds of nature, the breeze bringing bright scents to me, and my mate eagerly hunting me.
Life could be purely this for a few hours. The feel of the earth giving way to my padded feet. The light of the moon setting things to glowing. The magic in my blood. The power in my muscles. Lions aren't meant for cold weather but my dragon made up for that. We conquered this place together. I let out a roar without meaning to, and my mate answered as he came up beside me.
I swung my head toward Kirill. He had become a creature of shadows and silver. Even his eyes had lost their color to the night. But I could still see the love and loyalty burning within them. And feel the steadiness that was my black lion. He nudged me, his mane, nearly as glossy as his human hair, whipping across my rear. I rumbled back teasingly and put on more speed. Zigzagging through the trees, I tried to shake him, but Kirill knew my tricks. He split off from me and circled around the opposite side of a group of trees, barreling into me from the right.
We went tumbling—snapping and clawing like playing kittens—then came up in crouches; fronts lowered and backsides swishing. My tail smacked the ground eagerly before I pounced. My mate's neck in my jaws and his thick body beneath mine. My blood raced with happiness. Kirill flung me off and knocked his head into mine, making me snort in irritation. He made a wheezing sound; laughing at me.
I leapt again but this time, I went sailing over his head and kept going. Lion laughter stopped and Kirill gave chase once more. We raced in a circle around the cabin, never venturing further than Lesya's scent extended. But we did roam; learning the lay of the land lion style. By the time we made it back to the campfire, we were both panting from exertion and excitement. I came to a stop on a soft patch of ground and settled, waiting for my mate to catch up. I had run and he had chased but playtime was over. Now, we'd celebrate life in another way.
Kirill slowed when he saw me, his massive paws coming down silently, even on crisp leaves. His eyes shone like the surface of a lake and, for a brief moment, a human worry reared its ugly head. Six couples drowned. Then my lioness snarled the thought away, and our black lion replaced it thoroughly. I stared over my shoulder at him, body trembling as he settled above me. Kirill's jaw opened, teeth set over the back of my neck, and he filled me in all ways.
With the freedom of our lion forms, we gave in to a different sort of love; one unrestricted by humanity. The pound of our bodies matched that of our hearts and our wild magic lured us into pleasure so savage that it could only be called love by those who experienced it. By Kirill and me.
Chapter Fourteen
I was buried alive. Soil pressing down on me, enough of it to hold even my enormous dragon body hostage. It crawled into my nose, coated my tongue, and filled my claws. I could hear Arach nearby; he was buried as well. Suffocating. Dying.
This was a memory. I knew the outcome. Somewhere in my mind, I had the assurance that we'd both be fine. Marduk wouldn't kill us. Marduk was dead; killed by a jinn. But my dreaming mind wasn't getting the memo. The earth kept pressing down no matter how I tried to claw my way free, and Arach's roars were growing fainter. Panic shredded my chest.
Then I heard a different kind of roar.
Kirill?
Anger and pain were in that roar. Pain of the heart. The sound drew me forth as nothing else would. My grave vanished, shifted into a luxurious room. Moroccan tiles covered in thick rugs, lush potted plants, lanterns shedding glowing light, fountains bubbling, and a mattress set on the floor, covered in pillows. Had my thoughts of the Jinn influenced the décor?
No, this place was familiar and it wasn't because of the Jinn. Had I been there before? I had; I was certain of it. A memory trembled just out of my reach. I caught enough of it to recognize the differences. This room was darker, the shadows full of menace, and the tile beneath my feet seeped cold like a glacier. That other place had been warm and welcoming, although I had the sense that its welcome had been a lie. Something had gone wrong here. Or perhaps the lie had been stripped away. I stepped onto a Persian rug, my toes curling in relief, but my anxiety
only increased. Something rode the air. Or someone. I could feel their fingers on my spine. Walking upward and leaving frost in their wake.
Kirill roared.
“Kirill!” I ran toward the sound; toward the bed on the floor.
Kirill sprawled amid the pillows, eyes wide open but unseeing and hair tangled beneath him. He writhed, hands reaching out blindly, fingers curled into claws, and teeth bared.
“Kirill!” I shouted again as I dropped to my knees beside him.
I grabbed Kirill's shoulders and started to shake him but as soon as I touched him, his eyes focused on me and his body went limp.
“Vervain?” As Kirill spoke, he vanished.
“Kirill?” I screamed. “Kirill!”
“Vervain,” his voice echoed around me.
“Kirill?”
“Vervain, vake up.”
Kirill's words pulled me out of my dream—my bizarre dream—and I opened my eyes to find him leaning over me. Behind him, the cabin was dark but early morning sunlight drifted through the lace curtains and lightened the shadows with a hint of morning. There was no menace to these shadows, only sweet darkness, and the cold had retreated beyond the thick walls. As for Kirill, his eyes were clear and his stare steady.
“Zere you are,” he said gently. “Vhat vere you dreaming? You vere muttering my name.”
I frowned, the fog of my dreams drifting away. Ever since I'd met Morpheus, a Greek god of dreams, I'd paid more attention to what happened in my head while I was asleep. I now know that our minds go into the Dream Realm when we slumber; a realm of misty veils built by the Fey for rather nefarious purposes. As a faerie, I have more control of the Dream Realm than other people do, even Morpheus. I can manipulate the realm and the dreams unfolding within it. Nothing is barred to me there; I can go into any dream I wished. Even the dreams of Gods.
I had thought I'd done that with Kirill; walked into his nightmare. But—awake and staring into his calm eyes—I realized that it had all been my dream. To enter another person's dream, I would have to first leave mine through a veil of dream mist, and I couldn't remember doing that. Without crossing a veil, there was no way that I could have been in Kirill's dream. I'd simply been having a regular nightmare. Well, maybe not regular, exactly.
“I... I saw you on this bed... on the floor...” as I spoke, I remembered the room I'd found Kirill in and remembered where I'd seen it before. “Oh, sweet sugarplums,” I huffed. “I'm an insecure wife.”
“Vhat do you mean?” He asked with a small smile.
“My nightmare, it was in Nastasija's dream world. A darker version of it, but definitely the same place.”
Kirill's face went solemn with the mention of the Russian Sleep Goddess. “Original place vas dark, just not on surface.”
Awhile back, Nastasija had crept into Kirill's dreams and turned him against me. No, that's not exactly correct; she sort of hypnotized him by using his dreams as a doorway into his mind. I guess I should know more about what a dream god could do, what with my power over that realm, but I'd never felt right about messing with people in their sleep. Maybe because I felt guilty that my kin had created the realm for just that purpose or maybe it was because of the experiences I'd had there. The worst of which had been with Nastasija. Under her influence, Kirill had become more and more withdrawn until we finally argued viciously and he left me; went to Russia to be with Nastasija. I got him back, obviously, but it's haunted me; that dark, cold time when I nearly lost Kirill.
I had been merciful and let Nastasija live; something my beasts disagreed with but giving second chances to people who I think have the potential to change is a policy I try to stick to. Not for them as much as for myself. My life and work pummel the human part of me, and there are times when I fear that I'll lose my humanity entirely. Mercy is an integral part of preventing that. It holds the monstrous part of me at bay. In fact, I'd recently shown mercy to another god who had wronged me; Sin. Yes, that's his name. I suppose that should have been a warning sign. Sin had betrayed me horribly, but I knew there was good in him. So, I'd let him go when I could have killed him and I think that, combined with our visit to Russia, had pulled Nastasija out of my memories and into my nightmare.
“She vouldn't come after me again,” Kirill continued softly as he sat up. He eased me up with him. “She knows how powerful you are; in every realm. She can't fight you.”
“I know, but my subconscious doesn't seem to have gotten the memo.” I grinned to make light of it even though a shard of ice seemed to have taken up residence in my belly.
“Maybe zis trip vill be good for you,” he suggested. “Cathartic. For both of us.”
“So, you don't want to leave anymore?” I asked in surprise.
“I had better dreams zan you.” Kirill grinned and pulled me into a hug. “I feel good zis morning. You're right; a human killer shouldn't scare us away. Ve are only ones in Alūksne who have nothing to vorry about. If killer does come after us, ve kill him and do town a favor.”
“I'm glad you got something better from your dreams than I did,” I grumbled.
As sunrise brightened the room, the pound of little footsteps confirmed that it was indeed time to get out of bed and leave my nightmare behind.
“I'm ready! Get up! Get up!” Lesya called through the bedroom door.
Lesya knew better than to come in without permission. We'd installed doors at the base of the towers in Pride Palace to prevent her and her brother from doing just that. No one wanted the children stumbling in on an intimate moment. Being locked out and shouted at through doors, especially in the morning, had become a common thing for Lesya and she'd finally learned that certain doors were boundaries you didn't cross without an invitation.
“I'll get her,” Kirill offered as he climbed out of bed. “One minute, Lesya,” he called through the door as he pulled on his jeans. Before he left the room, he added, “You are ze only dream goddess who has power over me, Vervain. Forget nightmare; it means nothing.”
Chapter Fifteen
Alūksne Lake isn't circular, not even vaguely. Its shoreline meanders in and out, forming bays. The most pronounced of these is the bay that the town of Alūksne wraps itself around. Formed by the largest peninsula that juts out into the lake and curls toward a slight extension on the opposite shore, this bay also holds Pilssala—Castle Island in English—with the town embracing a fair amount of shoreline and thick forest taking up the rest, including the peninsula. Beyond that forested outcropping, the lake curves back in then moves out into other regions, though no other towns border the lake. Castle Island itself is nearly half the size of the bay, named such for the ruins of the old castle of Alūksne that stand there, or partially stand there. The New Castle, creatively named exactly that, stood on the mainland, directly across the bay from the old one.
A bridge near the new castle crosses from the smaller peninsula to the island, and after we'd explored the English Neo-Gothic castle and its extensive gardens—filled with follies similar to Peterhoff but not nearly as grand—we drove over the bridge to explore the largest of the four islands that inhabited Alūksne Lake.
After running wild through New Castle's grounds, Lesya should have been tired but her Intare blood was doing her proud. She chattered on about the Castle's glowing room and birds and jewelry and fountains. New Castle didn't merely have furnished rooms to explore but also housed exhibits and a Nature Museum. A nice man named Aldis had spoken to us about the collection in the Nature Museum—evidently his collection—and then had taken us into a room full of phosphorescent minerals. He turned off the overhead lights and turned on a blacklight along with a recording of Celine Dion's “Power of Love.” The minerals lit up like a bunch of teenagers at a rave and my daughter was instantly enthralled. Thus, the moniker; glowing room. Lesya had liked the glowing rocks even more than the fountains or even the temple to the Greek Wind God, Aiolos. To be fair, it wasn't a real temple, only a folly, and my daughter has been to Olympus where true Greek temple
s abound. Also, it was a rather odd choice for a folly. I'm an Olympian and I only vaguely remember meeting Aiolos. Once. Maybe. Not the most popular of the Greek Gods.
We parked on the island then headed inland, unleashing our cub on the unsuspecting castle. It was already in ruins; what more could she do to it? Lesya went scampering ahead of us, doubling back every few feet to tell us what she'd seen. As if we couldn't see it for ourselves. Modern brick paths had been laid out for tourists, leading safely around the ruins, but Lesya isn't a path-walking kind of girl. She forged her own trails, over the grass and to the crumbling castle. It wasn't much more than some walls, the base of a tower, and a couple of arches, but Lesya seemed more excited by it than by the fully maintained castle across the water.
I peered at the stacked stones as Kirill and I approached and had to agree with Lesya. There's something romantic about a ruined castle. There are stories in the stones that are tempered by hardship. Those tales have an obvious tragic ending but every great romance has some tragedy to it. That sounds sad, I suppose, but it can be difficult to truly appreciate a lover without nearly losing them. I know that better than most.
