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 13
Calais, April 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.
Amaia enjoyed watching particularly skilled people. She loved the way his hands deftly moved without thinking, the smooth line of his body as he perfected his stance. It was rare that a man took such exacting care in his work and a refreshing change from the usual human foolishness.
His manner was the same as it had been when she’d first known him. Michael had always been sure of himself. This life could just as easily have been his first; there were differences in circumstance and environment, but he was the same. The way he tossed his head, the smile that graced his face when he came to a decision, they were all the same, merely painted on the canvas of a different body.
Amaia watched him ride to the stag carcass. He dismounted and examined the kill shot with his gray eyes. It had been spooky to see those eyes in a young boy, but he had grown into them nicely. It was a clean kill, keeping the meat intact. Four other men rode up beside him as two men tied the carcass to a pole to carry it home.
“That’s seven. I think it’s time I should be heading back.” Michael swung back up into his saddle.