end had come, vowing to return and make things rightâ¦
With a groan, he tore himself back to the present. A cool breeze murmured through the tower window and eased the smarting of his skin.
He could still smell the acrid smoke and hear Taraâs screams. The scene seemed more real than this house and this time.
Brushing back a hank of hair, he began to pace. Aunt Cyndaâs gifts were limited, but well-defined. She saw little of the future but much of the past, which was why she had assumed the role of family historian.
She had seen that Chance and Tara were Valdemar and Ardath in a previous lifetime, and she had been right to notify him. Their story echoed with unresolved longings, with anguish and with the need to put things right.
Pausing by the window, Chance stared down into thecourtyard. Small white Malibu lights pricked the darkness, outlining the curving spaces with fairy-tale fragility. As if the computer were amusing itself, the fountain sprang to life, flinging glittering droplets into the night in a soothing play of pink and blue lights, before falling silent again.
He had sensed since adolescence that it would be wrong to abuse his powers. His father, of course, had disagreed, calling him selfish and shortsighted for refusing to take advantage of others. Sometimes Chance had wondered how he came by such a fierce determination to stick to his principles.
Now he saw the temptation and the danger more clearly than ever. Valdemar and Ardath, blinded by their love for each other and their hatred of the count, had joined their minds to attempt murder.
It had backfired. The count had survived, and their son was left alone.
Now they were living again, in new bodies. There was no evil count here. But now, as then, they had created a son together.
Perhaps it was the emotional echoes of the story, but Chance got a strong sense, as Cynda had also, that his reunion with Tara had revived an unresolved conflict. Anything left unfinished, in any lifetime, would seek to close the circle.
Would they be tempted to misuse their psychic link again? That would be playing with fire, figuratively if not literally.
Chance could not and would not remove Tara from his life. But what had happened between them that night seven years ago must never be allowed to happen again.
Chapter Six
It wasnât a formal softball game, but the kids were getting excited, including Harry. He jumped up and down after he hit the ball and ran two bases, sending one player home.
They were still behind, 3-2, but Sammi was on third base and he was on second. All the next batter needed to do was get to first base, and theyâd at least tie the score before the recess bell sounded.
âWhoâs next?â yelled Sammi, shaking her dark-blond ponytail. As the best player in the first grade, she got to boss other people around.
âMe! Me! Itâs my turn!â Al loped forward, tried to snatch the bat from the ground and missed. He had to turn around and bend to pick it up.
Harryâs heart sank. In the past few days, heâd enjoyed Alâs friendship, and it was fun swapping secret codes for video games. But the boy couldnât hit a ball to save his life.
âLet somebody else play!â shouted Sammi, and the other kids chorused their agreement.
Behind his thick glasses, Alâs face crumpled. âBut I got skipped last time!â His voice quavered. âItâs my turn. Youâre not being fair!â
Sammi made a quick check to be sure the playground monitor wasnât watching, then yelled, âWe want to win, you wimp! Now get out of here!â
Harry wanted to win, too. But it wasnât fair to make Al miss two turns. Besides, he knew what his mom would say, that the point wasnât to win but for everyone to have a good time.
âLet him play!â he shouted. âCome on, Sammi. Fairâs fair!â
Her mouth twisted as she glared at him, but then she shrugged. âIf
With a groan, he tore himself back to the present. A cool breeze murmured through the tower window and eased the smarting of his skin.
He could still smell the acrid smoke and hear Taraâs screams. The scene seemed more real than this house and this time.
Brushing back a hank of hair, he began to pace. Aunt Cyndaâs gifts were limited, but well-defined. She saw little of the future but much of the past, which was why she had assumed the role of family historian.
She had seen that Chance and Tara were Valdemar and Ardath in a previous lifetime, and she had been right to notify him. Their story echoed with unresolved longings, with anguish and with the need to put things right.
Pausing by the window, Chance stared down into thecourtyard. Small white Malibu lights pricked the darkness, outlining the curving spaces with fairy-tale fragility. As if the computer were amusing itself, the fountain sprang to life, flinging glittering droplets into the night in a soothing play of pink and blue lights, before falling silent again.
He had sensed since adolescence that it would be wrong to abuse his powers. His father, of course, had disagreed, calling him selfish and shortsighted for refusing to take advantage of others. Sometimes Chance had wondered how he came by such a fierce determination to stick to his principles.
Now he saw the temptation and the danger more clearly than ever. Valdemar and Ardath, blinded by their love for each other and their hatred of the count, had joined their minds to attempt murder.
It had backfired. The count had survived, and their son was left alone.
Now they were living again, in new bodies. There was no evil count here. But now, as then, they had created a son together.
Perhaps it was the emotional echoes of the story, but Chance got a strong sense, as Cynda had also, that his reunion with Tara had revived an unresolved conflict. Anything left unfinished, in any lifetime, would seek to close the circle.
Would they be tempted to misuse their psychic link again? That would be playing with fire, figuratively if not literally.
Chance could not and would not remove Tara from his life. But what had happened between them that night seven years ago must never be allowed to happen again.
Chapter Six
It wasnât a formal softball game, but the kids were getting excited, including Harry. He jumped up and down after he hit the ball and ran two bases, sending one player home.
They were still behind, 3-2, but Sammi was on third base and he was on second. All the next batter needed to do was get to first base, and theyâd at least tie the score before the recess bell sounded.
âWhoâs next?â yelled Sammi, shaking her dark-blond ponytail. As the best player in the first grade, she got to boss other people around.
âMe! Me! Itâs my turn!â Al loped forward, tried to snatch the bat from the ground and missed. He had to turn around and bend to pick it up.
Harryâs heart sank. In the past few days, heâd enjoyed Alâs friendship, and it was fun swapping secret codes for video games. But the boy couldnât hit a ball to save his life.
âLet somebody else play!â shouted Sammi, and the other kids chorused their agreement.
Behind his thick glasses, Alâs face crumpled. âBut I got skipped last time!â His voice quavered. âItâs my turn. Youâre not being fair!â
Sammi made a quick check to be sure the playground monitor wasnât watching, then yelled, âWe want to win, you wimp! Now get out of here!â
Harry wanted to win, too. But it wasnât fair to make Al miss two turns. Besides, he knew what his mom would say, that the point wasnât to win but for everyone to have a good time.
âLet him play!â he shouted. âCome on, Sammi. Fairâs fair!â
Her mouth twisted as she glared at him, but then she shrugged. âIf
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