Amaia returned to the bridge, staring at the fish below, letting their languorous movements entrance her. What would she have to do to be reincarnated as one of these fish? The thought brought a smile to her lips. As she’d told Cho, she would not be reincarnating. Death for her was an absolute, which made it even more frustrating that it wasn’t for Michael. They played the same game with different rules. It didn’t bother her that other mortals played with a different guidebook, but Michael had engaged with her, and it felt incredibly unfair that they weren’t evenly matched.
Dusk fell, and it would soon be night. In the sky above, Amaia made out the first stars. If there was one thing she missed about her mortal life, it was dreaming, the concrete line between reality and fantasy. The eyes would be easier to handle if they only appeared in her dreams. Less disturbing.
At one time, she had given up feeding in the hope that eventually it would make her weak enough to sleep. The experiment failed. Starvation only deprived her of the energy to move. It did nothing to bring on drowsiness. In the absence of sleep, all she could do was blankly stare ahead, trying to will her mind to blankness, to empty itself of tormenting thoughts. It was easier here in the garden, where tranquility hung in the air like a pleasant perfume. She lost herself in the movement of the fish, the stillness of the trees, the rhythmic hum of a world full of life, soldiering on through the ages in an endless cycle until the day came when she would no longer exist. It would happen eventually. She couldn’t live forever, and she didn’t particularly want to. What was forever anyway, other than an endless parade of waking hours? One day, someone would want to kill her more than she wanted to keep living.
In the morning, they were leaving for Poland to monitor the war with the Turks for Zenas. It was disheartening. Warsaw, while still almost a full day’s journey from Michael, was much too close. She had become adept at determining distance by the strength of his energy. Her respite hadn’t been nearly long enough.
The situation in Lhasa had been on the verge of disastrous. Amaia and Lawrence had actually seen four vampires fighting in broad daylight when they arrived, not one hundred yards from the town. It was reckless. Both Ezekial’s clan members and Zenas’s had taken to feeding upon and killing an absurd number of humans as a way of marking their territories. She and Lawrence had made quick work of the rival vampires with help from Meg and Liam. After they’d finished destroying Ezekial’s minions, Zenas had ordered them to kill his children who had let the situation escalate. As if killing fellow vampires weren’t bad enough, killing members of her own clan was even more difficult to stomach. The lesson was learned: no loyalty to one another, only to their maker. They only remained to await the new vampires Zenas had assigned to the area.
Her mind wandered over the vampires she’d killed in her lifetime. They were gone forever, mourned by no one, their names already forgotten. One day, it would be the same for her. Tomorrow or a thousand years from now, she would cease to exist. Perhaps she missed mortality. What was so wrong with living a simple, short life? Could she and Michael have been happy together? Would she feel different if he belonged to her the way Liam belonged to Meg?
Those were foolish thoughts. Mating with a human was a ridiculous proposal. She didn’t want to know how to live with the situation; she wanted to know how to end it. Somehow, it seemed the key lay in this garden with the peace she felt. If she could only learn how to embrace peace the way Cho did, then maybe she could learn to inhabit the same world as Michael without going insane.
She was granted only a few more hours before the ache in her belly demanded she leave. Her thirst overwhelmed her. While she wanted to remain in the garden forever, she would not feed from the monks. She felt there was something inherently wrong about violating their bodies that way. As she walked out of the gate, she turned and took one last look, burning the image into her mind. Perhaps in the coming years, she could summon the memory of this place and recapture some of the peace. Even as she thought it, she knew it was a vain hope.
Chapter 21
Warsaw, September 1697, 6 years, 1 month later
Amaia focused back on the elegant Tibetan characters in front of her. Each time her mind wandered to Michael or his eyes appeared before her, she sought refuge in the pages of the book Cho had given her. She knew it by heart, and if it wasn’t at hand, she recited it to herself. The comfort was strengthened, however, when she could immerse herself in the tactile experience of reading it. The feel of the paper, the smooth, worn edges, the graceful lines of the text, the smell of those who had pored over its wisdom before her, all grounded her more firmly than simply reciting the words did.
This couldn’t last much longer. Amaia already counted the days until Michael died again. Less than four months left. It was little solace. Shortly after he died, he would come back.