“Will that get rid of it?” The woman leaned forward.
“Possibly. If not, you will become gravely ill, and your children will have to nurse you. Whether you will survive or not will depend on their care.” Amaia saw the light in the other woman’s eyes dim.
“I will die then.” The woman slumped, resigned to her fate.
“No, I told you it will not kill you. Your children will rally around you, and you will be saved. I see it.”
The woman brightened. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Now if you have another question, it will be another coin.” Amaia pulled back. She had given the woman what she wanted. She could return home and complain that her children were killing her, and when she didn’t die from the mysterious wart, she would feel in her heart that her children loved her. If she did die, then she wouldn’t be around to care.
The old woman left, and another customer took her place, this time a young girl, no doubt wanting to inquire about whether she would end up happily married to whichever handsome boy she had spotted.
“Coin.” Amaia nodded to the table, and the girl paid. “What is your question?” Amaia reached across the table and held the girl’s hands.
“I—” Amaia didn’t hear the rest. A dramatic twisting in the energy that always lurked in the background arrested her attention. Michael’s energy surged to the forefront of her consciousness. Something painful was happening. The intensity of his energy shocked her into stillness.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was gone.
Completely gone.
Amaia stood—the girl, the money, all forgotten. She went outside and looked down one street and then the next, as if she had simply misplaced Michael’s energy and would find it. The streets of Paris teemed with thousands of energies, but none of them were Michael’s. She made her way out of the city and ran in the direction from which the disturbance had come. At any moment, she expected to feel it again, but there was nothing.
The shadows lengthened, and Amaia made her way home. Back in her room, she lounged on the couch and gave a little giggle. It was gone. His ghost no longer stalked her. She set about getting dressed, steadfastly ignoring the little loss she felt inside.
Chapter Twelve
Paris, October 1648, 8 months later
Cardinal Mazarin’s jewel collection impressed even Amaia. She had been to the Royal Palace on many occasions, but this was the first time she had ever seen the famed collection. Today’s party celebrated Mazarin’s work in negotiating the peace treaties signed earlier in the month. That was the official reason. It was really an attempt to distract and calm the nobles after a summer of troubled relations between the parliament and the royals. The dowager queen had convinced Mazarin, as the guest of honor, to allow his jewels to be displayed.
“Please tell me Zenas has something to do with this. It doesn’t seem right for mortals to be able to accumulate this much wealth.”
Lawrence chuckled through their bond. “Let’s just say this wealth wasn’t made without a little help from our kind.” Cryptic as always when it came to Zenas. Lawrence liked to distance her as much from possible from his sire. “How are things with the young count?”
Amaia glanced at the man on her arm. “I think his eyes might fall out of his head.”
“Let’s hope not. It would make the night extremely awkward. Try to have a good time.”
The count she escorted had paid a handsome sum for the pleasure of her company and even provided her with a gown and jewels. It was no secret that she was as much of an accessory as the wig and rings he wore. An even more impressive one: she certainly cost more.
“Your Eminence, it is a pleasure to see you. I trust you know Mademoiselle Christine?” The count knew very well that Amaia and the cardinal were well acquainted. It was one of the reasons he’d reserved her for the evening even before the invitations were delivered.
“Of course. She puts these jewels of mine to shame.” Mazarin kissed her hand and eyed her knowingly.
“You flatter me, Your Eminence. You must be proud of such a collection. Though I daresay it pales in comparison to your achievements in bringing peace. You’ll have to tell us sometime how you manage it all at once.” Amaia flashed him the large smile she knew he liked.
“I’d be thrilled to tell you my secrets, Christine. Perhaps some other time, in a more intimate setting.”
Amaia demurely curtsied, and the count whisked her away to speak to some of the other attendees.
After acquiring some wine, the count presented Amaia to a group of nobles. “It is my pleasure to present Mademoiselle Christine.”
Amaia curtsied.
“Of course. I know Mademoiselle Christine quite well. You’re a lucky man to possess her for the evening.” A marquis nodded to Amaia.
“I’m afraid I’m the lucky one tonight, Marquis. The count has been the most pleasurable company I’ve had in a great while.” In truth, the count was an insecure man who was much too brash in his effort to appear confident.
The orchestra played a gavotte. “May I have this dance, mademoiselle?” The count bowed to Amaia and held out his hand.
“I’d be honored.” Dancing was an aspect of her job that she enjoyed. She just hoped the count would prove decent at it.
As he walked her out onto the floor, Amaia felt a faint pull. She convinced herself it was nothing and focused on the dance. While the count was less than graceful, at least his feet and arms always ended up in the correct positions.
“You dance quite well, my lord.”
“It is made easier by having such a lovely partner.”
Amaia forced her blush. “I’m flattered. The gavotte is one of my favorites.”
“Mine as well. You float across the floor like an angel.”
Angel. Something in his words triggered a memory. You look like an angel tonight. Words said in a different lifetime, by a different man. As she turned on the dance floor, she saw around her masked faces from that night. As quickly as they appeared, they were gone, but in their wake was a hum. A distant vibration.
Michael.
Almost a year had passed since she’d last felt it. Months of peace shattered.
“Are you all right, Christine?” The count peered at her.
“Yes, of course. I’m afraid the wine may have gotten to me.” She quirked her mouth into a charming smile. This was not the time to indulge her wandering mind.
“Come, let me find you a seat.” The count escorted her to a chair. Normally, she would refuse, but she sorely needed time to gather her wits. She couldn’t think about this now. She was working. This count was the only person with whom she need concern herself.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps you could entertain me with stories of your hunting trips?” The count was an avid hunter, and so far he had mentioned no less than half a dozen times that he had bested every man he hunted with. While he regaled her with tales of his prowess as a marksman, she calmed her nerves and focused back on the job at hand. Michael would have to wait. She had always put her work first.
•••
Michael’s energy proved an annoying distraction throughout the evening. Her heart wasn’t in her work, making it less pleasurable. She heaved a sigh of relief when the count finally fell asleep.
“I’m done.”
“Good. Was the evening pleasant?”
“Not particularly.”
“I think Meg is waiting for you at Notre Dame. Go have some fun.”
Amaia didn’t want to see Meg, and she felt guilty for it. She wasn’t prepared to talk about the night’s developments, not until she had sated her curiosity and determined the source of the energy. She hated keeping secrets from her best friend, but she felt she had to.
Meg awaited Amaia at the Portal of the Virgin, where they usually met. Meg found the irony amusing.
“How was the party? Did the cardinal really have his jewel collection on display?” Meg’s eyes were wide, eager to hear about a place she had never se
en.
“Yes, it really was on display. The amount of wealth he has is staggering. I don’t know what he plans to do with it all. It’s not like he can take it with him when he dies.” They entered the cathedral together. Amaia assumed Liam was inside having a little fun.
“No, but he gets to look at all those pretty things until his time comes. That has to make life more enjoyable.”
Amaia remembered when she had first experienced the thrill of owning something whose sole purpose was to be pretty. “They’re meant for other people to look at, Meg. You and Liam should sneak into the palace and see them some time.” Amaia seated herself in one of the pews, and Meg followed. “What are you two up to tonight?” Amaia hoped they wouldn’t want to be out long.
“Not much. We saw a play.”
“Which one?”
“Heraclius, Emperor of the Orient.”
“How was it?”
“It’d have been better if the writer had actually been to the Orient, but it was good. Afterward, Liam gave me this.” Meg produced a hand-carved miniature from her purse: a perfect rendering of a stag. Amaia handled the wood figure, examining it closely. The delicate antlers were intricately detailed, texture adding to the lifelike appearance.
“Meg, that’s remarkable. I don’t know how he does it with those large hands of his.” Amaia handed the stag back to Meg.
“He’s patient. He likes that it’s something that can’t be done at regular vampire speed. After he gave it to me, we went to a bookshop, and he bought me a new book, Dodona’s Grove.” Meg loved reading. Amaia read only to increase her knowledge and prepare for the intellectual conversation she engaged in while working. Meg, though, had a love affair with the written word. She often told Amaia about whatever she was reading, growing as animated as any actor on the stage.
“Good. I bet you’re anxious to get to it.” Amaia’s blood felt as if it would break through her skin from the pull of the energy. Her body wanted to be somewhere else. Amaia couldn’t discern if her need arose from the energy itself or from her own curiosity.
“I can wait until we’ve had some fun.” Meg stood and dragged Amaia down the aisle toward Liam.
“That’s all right. I really don’t mind. Lawrence is going to want a full run down of what happened tonight.” She didn’t enjoy lying to Meg, but the thought of the conversation that would follow the truth was even less enjoyable.
Meg stopped walking and looked at Amaia. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am.” Amaia smiled and nodded at her.
“All right. But I’ll see you later.” Meg embraced her.
“I’m counting on it. I can’t wait to hear all about this new book.” Amaia gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and then went back to her townhouse to change into a simple dress. She didn’t want to explain a ruined gown to Lawrence after running through the night. Her cloak only protected her dress from curious eyes, not from the dirt of the countryside. Before she slipped out the door, she went to her vanity and retrieved the ring Michael had given her. The pearl and rubies felt at home on her finger.
She headed north. That seemed to be the direction that strengthened the connection. Each inch brought her closer to the source. She didn’t know what she would find when she reached her destination, only that she needed to face it. It was unlikely that this energy—that Michael—could threaten her, especially if he was simply a reincarnated human as Lawrence suggested. She was prepared to take her chances. The fear she had felt upon seeing Michael over two years ago drowned in her curiosity. Why would the energy return? Why had it stopped to begin with? She didn’t understand how Michael had ever come back. Too many questions lacked answers, and she worried that when she got where she was headed, she would only find more questions.
The moon hovered fully over the horizon when she stopped outside a manor house in Calais. The energy was precise and led her to the northeastern window on the upper floor. An external staircase led to the second floor, and from there it was easy to lift herself onto the roof. The rough, wooden shingles scratched against her hands as she lowered her upper body over the edge until she could peer in the window. A piercing cry rent the air. A baby. Michael had a baby. It was a strange thought.
Inside, a nursemaid rushed to the cradle. Amaia both hoped and feared to catch a glimpse of Michael. It was unlikely that he would be bothered to rise in the night to tend a crying child. The maid lifted the baby and rocked the infant in a nearby chair. All Amaia could see was a wide, wailing mouth in the middle of a scrunched face.
The maid softly sang a lullaby, the gentle undulations of her voice quieting the child. “There, there, sweet Jean. Go to sleep.”
It was a baby boy. Without the distraction of his cries, Amaia focused back on Michael’s energy. It was so close, but he was nowhere in sight. The nursemaid appeared to be alone with the child. From the red splotchy skin and white bumps on his face, Amaia suspected he was a newborn. His mother most likely lay resting from her labor. He’d probably been born within the last day. Right about the time Amaia first felt the energy.
Concentrating on the baby again, Amaia realized she had it all wrong. She didn’t feel Michael’s energy because of his excitement over becoming a father. The energy came from the baby. That baby was Michael.
Amaia sat on the roof. Of course. It made sense. There was no way the man she’d seen in the tavern outside of Vienna was the same man who owned this manor. Amaia took another glimpse at the child and left, finding it too strange to see a baby she knew was Michael.
She couldn’t go home yet, not before she gathered her thoughts. At the beach, she removed her shoes and walked in the wet sand. The cold water and rough sand calmed her and allowed her to think. Across the Channel, she could make out the white cliffs of Dover, where Michael had been born into the life she had shared with him. The entire situation was crazy. The man Amaia had seen in the tavern had been Michael, just as surely as this baby was Michael.
The man must have died. That would explain the cessation of his energy. And now he was back as this baby. Amaia’s fists clenched as her heart raced. She wanted to kill his parents for bringing such an abomination into the world. It wasn’t right. When mortals died, they were dead. How had Michael returned? Did other humans return, or was this only a special torture for her? The last didn’t make sense. That would imply there was a god or some other being to exact this torture on her. No, as Lawrence had said, she had simply found the proof of reincarnation. That knowledge didn’t make the situation any better.
Back at the manor, Amaia toyed with her ring as she paced in the darkness. Her eyes traced the building, isolating the energies of the baby’s parents. They were down the hall from the nursery. She would kill the father first. For some reason, he didn’t seem to be as much to blame. It would be quick and silent. Then she would take her time with the mother. There were a myriad of games she could play with the woman, taunting her, prolonging her misery.
Yet her feet stayed planted on the ground outside. As much as Amaia wanted to, she couldn’t commit to the idea of killing the parents. That would leave the baby Michael without a family to care for him. She certainly wasn’t going to raise him. Looking at the ring on her finger, she knew she couldn’t hurt him, directly or indirectly.
Resigned to the fact that her bloodlust would not be satisfied, Amaia made her way back onto the roof. The maid snored softly, baby Jean still in her arms. In sleep, he appeared peaceful, blissfully unaware of the turmoil his very existence caused Amaia. She was grateful his eyes remained closed. She didn’t know how she would handle those gray eyes staring out at her from the face of a baby.
There was no more time to delay. She needed to return to Paris before Lawrence missed her. As she set off, she knew she hadn’t stopped back by the manor out of a desire to kill his parents. That explanation was simply easier to live with than the pull that even now urged her to turn around and stay near him forever.
Chapter Thirteen
Calais, Apr
il 1668, 19 years, 6 months later
Her feet led her to the woods southeast of Calais. They knew the path well, whether they were making the journey from Paris, or Amsterdam, or her new home in Aachen.
Amaia wished they could stay in Paris forever, but they had spent far too much time there. Not long after Michael’s birth, the unrest in Paris had erupted into civil war, and they’d left. From there, they headed to Amsterdam. Amaia enjoyed Amsterdam, a bustling city full of intrigue, wealth, and strong auras to breed. In 1655, a plague had ravished the city, and Amaia and Lawrence were tasked with disposing of opportunist vampires who increased the death count.
After a lengthy stay in Amsterdam, her little clan relocated to the Free Imperial City of Aachen where it took her almost five hours to reach Calais. She made the trip to see Michael once a month. About a hundred yards away from his energy, Amaia stopped and hid her body behind a tree. Perched on a large white mare, she saw Michael attired in a crimson tunic with a thick gold chain. Lucky for her, he was hunting with his friends. He was much more interesting to watch when he was out and about instead of attending to business matters.
Michael—it was easier to think of him as Michael than Jean—nocked an arrow into place and tossed his long, light brown hair out of his eyes. The bow strained under the pull of Michael’s hand on the string. His whole stature shifted, assuming a precise pose. His eyes focused down the length of the arrow on the stag at the other end of the clearing. The shoulders relaxed first, followed by the rest of his body. A measured exhale and then twang. The string made a satisfied sound behind the slice of the arrow. Amaia knew the arrow would hit its mark before it landed.
“A fine kill, sir.” One of the plainer-dressed men in the party spoke.
“Thank you, Marc.” Michael’s voice sounded so familiar to her, even as it spoke a different language. Whenever she heard him, she felt as if he spoke directly to her, even though he wasn’t even aware of her presence. Her heart reacted to the vibrations of his particular timbre.
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