He closed his eyes and rested, allowing his mind to drift like a sailboat over the sea. He felt a modicum of guilt for the way he’d treated her—first, allowing her to exchange her freedom for his assistance with her friends, and second, exacting her painful history in exchange for Emerson’s life. Don’t you get tired of death? Her sweet voice echoed in his ears. The truth was he did tire of it. When the Black Death scourged Florence and he had to scavenge for uninfected humans on which to feed, he tired of death. When the old prince allowed the brethren to kill without limit, including infants and children, he tired of death. He overcame his fatigue by killing the Prince and taking over the principality. He accumulated wealth and power, he allowed his appetites to be fed, and he derived a measure of satisfaction from all his pursuits. But he lacked hope. He lacked peace.
