“I just want to make sure you’re safe.”
“I will be. I promise. Get some rest tonight, and try not to worry. Everything will work out in the end. You must believe that.”
“You’re right. I will. Thank you, Amaia.”
“Good night, Michael.”
“Good night.”
It was getting harder to extricate herself from his presence. There were times, like tonight, when it was easy to forget that her life was elsewhere. It was amazing how quickly Lawrence, Meg, and Liam just faded into the distance and became memories, dreams, not reality. Sitting in a small stone hut eating rabbit stew with a man whose very existence was a mystery to her seemed more rooted in reality.
•••
Amaia stepped into the village tavern. The bartender likely knew everyone in the area. He would have the answers she needed.
“What can I get you, miss?”
“Some information, if you don’t mind. I was wondering if you know Juan Medina?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you know where I might find him?”
“Right behind you. Table in the corner. The one who looks like he thinks he owns the world.”
Amaia looked over her shoulder and easily spotted him. Despite the humble surroundings, he wore a formal wig that was currently askew, though Amaia doubted he noticed given his inebriated state. Wine stains spotted his protruding gut. He was surrounded by men dressed more appropriately for the setting, chatting and laughing. Facing the bartender, she grinned. “That would be him. Thank you. I’ll take a pint.”
A businesswoman herself, she wasn’t about to sit in this man’s tavern all night without buying something. She situated herself by the fire where she could easily watch Medina without appearing obvious. Amaia steadily sipped her drink. It would be easier to just entice him away, but that would cause too much of a scene. It was bad enough that the bartender was likely to remember her.
Finally, at nearly midnight, Medina made his move to leave. Amaia waited a few minutes and then followed. Tracking him would be easy. The scent of the tavern hung heavy on him, and she followed him down the darkened street. When she saw an alley ahead, she made her move. He didn’t even falter as she crept up behind him. She slipped a hand over his mouth and pulled him into the alleyway in one swift movement. Shoving him against a wall, she waited until his frantic eyes slowed enough to settle on her.
“Are you Juan Medina?”
The foolish man nodded.
“Good, I’d hate to kill the wrong man.” She slid her fangs down and dove for the man’s neck. He screamed, barely audible through her tight hand, frantically trying to shake her off. It had been a long time since her last kill. Too long. She savored more than just his blood. The draining of his life, the ending of his hopes and dreams, were much more gratifying. Just before he lost consciousness, she put her lips to his ear. “This is for trying to take what isn’t yours.” She dug her fingernails into his skin as she sucked the last of his blood.
Outside the village, she found the nearest place to bury the body without risking it being found too quickly. She hated digging with her bare hands, but there was nothing else available. Once she’d buried him, she started toward home. Her hair and fingernails were a mess. She could bathe somewhere, but her dress was ruined. A worthy sacrifice. After all, what were friends for?
Chapter Thirty-One
Algar, February 1748, 4 months later
There was no justifiable reason for her absence from Madrid. Lawrence wasn’t away. She had simply told him she was leaving for the day. Today was too important. She didn’t even bother to see if Lawrence suspected anything.
“Amaia? What is it?” Michael had been seated at his table chopping potatoes when Amaia entered the room, but he stood when he saw her.
“Nothing.” Such a pathetic lie. She knew it was written all over her face.
“No. Something troubles you. Let me know so I can help.” Michael lifted her hand to his lips, cupping it in both of his after kissing it.
“You can’t help, Michael. After today, you won’t be able to help me for a great while.”
Comprehension dawned on his face. “Today’s the day, isn’t it?”
Amaia couldn’t confirm it with words, only a nod of her head.
Michael pulled her to him, burying his face in her hair. “It’s going to be all right.”
“How can you say that when you don’t know?”
“I just do, Amaia. It might not even happen this time. We’ll just have to see.”
“It’s always happened right on time, like clockwork.”
“So? Even if it does, things are different this time. We’re different. You know I’ll come back. I know you’ll find me. We won’t have to waste so much time anymore. We can be together.”
“I want it all to stop.” Amaia couldn’t help the vulnerability she felt. In the moment, she didn’t see any reason not to be completely honest.
“I know. I do too. I wish I could stay alive, marry you, have children, live out our lives together until we’re old and gray. We’d make good old people, you and I, one of those old couples who seem to not care about the world because they have each other. That could be us.”
No, it couldn’t. No matter what happened today, no matter if the cycle was somehow broken, that could never happen. If Michael didn’t die, he would age, and Amaia would stay forever youthful. They would be able to pretend for a while, but eventually there would be no denying the truth. She would have to reveal herself to Michael or just disappear. Disappearing seemed the more likely route.
When Michael finally released her and stepped back, Amaia didn’t know what to say, other than, “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know. You’re sure it’s going to happen today?”
Amaia nodded. “In a few hours.” It was an impossibly small amount of time. She could blink, and it would be gone.
“How can you know that?”
“I’ve had practice.”
Michael appeared satisfied with that answer and gave a grim nod.
“What do you want to do?” Michael’s voice was strong. She would call it courageous, but the word courage denoted an acknowledgement of fear. She wasn’t entirely sure Michael felt any. He faced death, but all he wanted was to ease her burden.
“Could we just hold each other?” Amaia felt small making the request. Perhaps that was best. Something in her yearned to be small enough to fit into the palm of his hand where he could keep her safe and warm. There was no use pretending anymore, no need to keep a physical distance. It seemed safe now to admit to herself that she regretted not being closer to him during his life, not marrying him as he’d wanted, even though she knew it was foolishness. Love had crept up on her, and it seemed silly to deny it. Somehow along the way, listening to his memories of their time together, creating new memories to share, she’d been forced to acknowledge that she’d always loved him, no matter how much she wished she didn’t.
A soft smile graced his lips. “Of course. I can’t think of anything better.”
Michael retrieved the blankets from his bed and arranged them in front of the fire. Hours passed in silence as Amaia rested her head on Michael’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Are you scared?” His heart beat steadily. She didn’t think she would be able to face death so bravely.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know what’s coming. I know that I’ll survive, and I know that you’ll be waiting for me.”
“Oh.”
“What about you?” Michael nudged her.
“What about me?”
“What happens to you each time I die?”
Amaia was silent. She hated that he had to ask questions she couldn’t answer. She didn’t realize the danger of her silence until she saw the anxiety creep onto his features.
“You die too, don’t you?” It was accusatory, as if she had been holding a painful knowledge from him. �
�How else could you always be waiting for me at this age?”
“You don’t need to worry about what happens to me.” The words were ironic considering that this was the first time she had feared. Given their new relationship, Amaia wasn’t sure exactly what would happen.
“How can you say that? Of course I worry about you. I don’t want you to suffer.”
“I won’t suffer, Michael. I promise. You really have nothing to worry about. I’ll be here waiting for you when it’s time.”
Wrinkles still creased his forehead. Amaia tried to smooth them with her thumb. When that didn’t work, she graced his lips with a kiss, peaceful rather than passionate. It was the first time their lips had touched in over one hundred years, yet it felt as natural and right as if they did it daily.
When they broke apart, Michael asked, “How much time left?”
Amaia shook her head. “Not much.”
“I love you.” Michael leaned in and kissed her. When he pulled away, his face was drawn. “I’ll see you soon.”
Amaia couldn’t help it. She wasn’t brave. “No, Michael.” She shook him, as if that would somehow stall death.
Michael’s face grimaced, and Amaia knew he was trying to keep the pain from showing. It was no use. She felt it in his energy. She wouldn’t disclose her knowledge, not when he was working so hard to keep it from her. It would hurt his pride, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him dying without that.
Through the pain and panic, he somehow forced a smile on his face. She gripped his hand, holding it to her chest, maintaining eye contact. It took a great deal of effort to suppress her strength and not crush his hand. She forced a smile, grateful that vampires were unable to cry. His last sight in this life needed to be a good one. And then, he was dead.
Amaia lowered his hand and closed his eyes. A strange peace descended on her. She knew he would be back, and she knew they would be together. She could wait until it was appropriate. In that moment, she knew, just as vampires died for their mates, she would live for hers.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Daventry, December 1770, 22 years, 10 months later
The manor rose three stories and was built of the finest local limestone. It sat atop a hill overlooking the land it commanded. Everything as far as the eye could see would belong to Michael. A thrill coursed through Amaia. There had been no point in approaching him when she lived too far away to visit often. She was sure he would captivate her attention as he had last time, and there was no sense making her life more difficult. Her last eight years had been spent in the court of Empress Catherine II of Russia.
Russia had been marvelous. Knowing that she could look forward to an open friendship with Michael when the time was right made it easier for her to focus on the work before her. Not only had she played her part in political intrigue well, but she had furthered her skills in aura manipulation. Each day she improved her speed, the range of her reach, and her ability to affect multiple energies at once. Her skill had played an integral role in the assassination of Peter II and Catherine’s subsequent accession.
The cultivation of patience finally paid off. After twenty-one years of feeling the pull of his energy, she was once again in a position to see Michael. Two weeks ago, they had moved to London, little more than an hour and a half away. It had been nearly one hundred and fifty years since she had been to her mortal home, but all she could think of was finally meeting with Michael again.
Amaia knocked on the door to the servants’ entrance. It didn’t feel right simply walking up to the front door. For a moment, she worried that he wouldn’t want her, that he had decided that mere friendship wasn’t enough, and she wasn’t worth the headache. It was easy to forget the strength of their bond. If he turned her away, Amaia would learn to cope. After all, as long as he was happy, she didn’t have cause to complain. She knew they could never be mates the way others were. Her gloomy thoughts were interrupted when a harried woman opened the door.
“What do you want?” The harsh tones nearly made Amaia wince.
“I am friends with a friend of your master’s, and I’ve come to call on him.”
“You are acquainted with Lord Whittaker?”
“Indirectly, yes. If you would tell him that a friend of Jocelyn’s is visiting, I’d be much obliged.” Nerves fluttered in her stomach. In a moment, she would see him. Would he be as excited as she was?
The woman put her hands on her hips and stared down at Amaia, not the least bit cooperative.
“I know it sounds rather strange, but I promise I’ll cause no trouble. If you could just let him know I’m here, I’d be very grateful. If he says he doesn’t want to see me, I’ll leave. I promised I’d stop by on my way through. I wouldn’t want him to be upset when he’s discovered he’s missed me.”
“Hmph. Stay here.” The door shut resolutely, and Amaia stood outside, awaiting her fate.
Time was supposed to move faster for her, but the minutes dragged by. Amaia half wondered if the woman would even deliver her message. Perhaps Michael didn’t want to see her, and the servant didn’t think it was worth relaying that information. Amaia had always known the day might come when he didn’t want her. She had even hoped for it. All she wanted was his happiness. A little demon inside her whispered that she lied to herself. Maybe she did.
Just when she thought she would go mad with waiting, the door reopened to reveal a footman.
“Come this way. The master will see you.”
Amaia followed the man through the house to a study on the main floor. When she entered, Michael’s back was to her as he stared out a window. His appearance this time surprised her. He was average height and broad without the lean muscle from his last life, with a healthy head of thick, light brown hair. Hair she longed to feel with her hands.
“Your guest, Lord Whittaker.” The footman made his announcement and then withdrew. Michael didn’t move until the door had shut behind the servant, and when he did, Amaia wished he hadn’t.
Gray eyes, icier than the frosty lochs of Scotland, stared at her. And just like the lochs of Scotland, under the icy exterior, the water churned. It was a blessing Amaia didn’t require breath—her lungs were so chilled she didn’t think she’d be able to move them.
“I remember what happened now, Amaia.” His tone held no warmth.
“What do you mean?”
Heat flashed in his eyes. In an instant, the fire replaced the ice, and Amaia realized that the frost had been an attempt to control his temper. “Stop the lies. You’re not my Jocelyn. You are a demon. You killed my sweet lady, and then you killed me.”
Oh, that memory. She had been a fool to think he would never recall the circumstances of his death. “I’m not a demon.” The truth was the only argument she had, and she knew it was weak.
“You sucked the blood from my body.” An accusatory finger jabbed in her direction.
“Yes, I did, but you don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t understand how you can stand there looking and sounding like my dear Jocelyn and yet betray me so heartily.”
“I didn’t mean to. I am the same woman. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t, not without revealing what I am, and that knowledge is too dangerous for you to possess.”
“What are you then, if not a demon?”
“I can’t tell you. I won’t endanger you that way. I’m not sure I’m any better than a demon, but I assure you, that’s not what I am.”
“Tell me!”
There was no chance for her if he continued to believe she was a demon, not when he was always so religious. She wasn’t sure the truth was any better, but at least it was the truth. “I’m a vampire. Lawrence turned me.”
“What?”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s ludicrous.” Michael’s tone betrayed his words. Anger, not disbelief, tinged his voice.
“You know it’s true.” Amaia took a tentative step toward him.
“A vampire? Standing here
in my home in the middle of the day? How is that any better? You are not the woman I loved.” Michael paused. When he spoke again, his voice held a deathly chill. “Get out. I don’t want to ever see you again.”
“Michael, please.” Another step, less tentative than the first, desperation making her bold.
“I said get out.”
What could she do? He needed time. “Fine. I’ll leave. But please, Michael, give me some hope. Don’t throw me away.”
“How can I throw you away? You were never mine.”
His words sliced through her. “Michael, please. You know that’s not true. I understand you’re angry. You have every right to be, but we can resolve this.”
Michael snorted. “Really? You think I could ever love you? You are not the woman I pledged myself to. You took her from me.”
“I swear, Michael, I’m the same woman. Your anger blinds you. If you look at it rationally, you’ll see that I’m just the same.”
“Don’t make me escort you from the premises.”
Amaia saw his hands shaking and knew the reason he had kept his distance was to refrain from striking her. “All right. I’ll leave, and I won’t bother you again unless you want me.”
“I will never want you.”
“Still, Michael, you used to leave a candle out for me back when I was mortal. Remember? If you change your mind, leave two lit candles in your window, and I’ll come. I’ll be watching for you, always.” She stood for a moment, hoping for something, although she couldn’t have said what. Silence crackled between them. There was nothing more she could do. With a last look at his new form, she turned and left.
•••
The air toyed with Amaia’s hair as she ran, whipping it behind her and tossing it on the breeze. If she ran fast enough and long enough, maybe she would outrun the nerves in her stomach. Three days. It had been three days since Michael had flung her out of his life. It might as well have been three lifetimes.
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