Van Helsing can't remember much of his first life, the one that had included angels and Heaven. It comes back in pieces sometimes while he dreams, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth and he finds it's best not to dwell on any of it, even the flash of a dimpled grin or the ring of laughter that conjures up a picture of a sweet girl with brown eyes.

His next lifetime, the one with all the monsters and vivid memories of grief, seems to follow him no matter where he goes. He still expects to see Carl smooth-talking his way out of trouble in the Vatican, but the Friar's been dead for a hundred years or more; walking through the forests of small country towns makes him think of a beautiful Princess that had stolen his heart and left him raw; women sewing make him think of Mary and the expert way she'd brandished a needle like a knight would brandish a sword.

Perhaps that's why he returns to Vaseria every ten years like clockwork, that consistent draw to the place where he'd had his entire family in one piece until a vampire took it all away from him in one swoop. The village hasn't grown much over the centuries, though it's more modern with bicycles and cars instead of horses or carriages.

He has a small cottage there, always neat and tidy when he returns to it thanks to a dedicated set of relatives that aren't quite sure how they're related to the old-fashioned man that lives in Rome.

An old soul one of the older women had whispered twenty years ago, snow white hair wrapped up in a colorful scarf. An old soul reborn in a younger man's body. He'd given her a wry smile, the old woman not aware of how close she was to that point. While there is nothing reborn about him, his soul is certainly old and strained at this point.

And now here he is again, walking through the marketplace and looking for anything that looks appetizing that he can eat on the go. He figures he'll go for one last hike up to the old Valerious Manor and take a look around the grounds before heading out to the location that the Cardinal had emailed him that morning. Apparently, there's a banshee in California that's causing trouble, but that'll be easy once he narrows it down.

As his thoughts become occupied with the different inventions he can use to trap the spirit, he never notices a small child heading his way. It's not until the breath is knocked out of him and he's sprawled on his back with the child on his chest that he even notices anything out of the ordinary.

He'd planned to crack a joke, but the words seem to shrivel up on his tongue when he meets the child's gaze. She's probably eight or so, skinny for her age and sporting a pair of clear blue eyes; her brown hair falls in thick waves from a high ponytail, nose pert and upturned near the end. What really catches his attention is the resemblance she shares with another little girl Van Helsing had helped to raise.

"Brielle," comes the admonishing tone of a woman and the girl is being picked up. Brielle, he thinks almost hysterically, she used to call me that, didn't she? She'd hated calling me by my full name, so it was Brielle. A tanned hand clasps his wrist and helps him to his feet, the twin of the hand brushing dirt off his gray sweater and the black trench coat. "Gabrielle, you apologize for knocking him down."

But Van Helsing isn't concerned with that anymore, his gaze is on the man that had helped him up; the man with blond hair and a strong jaw and those bright blue eyes. The man is studying him the same way, those eyes widening first in alarm and then settling into smug satisfaction.

Van Helsing can guess what he's thinking, I told you so, didn't I? Reincarnation is entirely possible, and you owe me three silver coins.

"Darling, look," Carl says, wrapping an arm around the woman's waist. A gold band glints on his finger, Van Helsing notes, a matching one to the wedding band the woman wears. "Look who it is. Didn't I tell you that I saw him when we were teenagers? I told you so."

The woman finally meets his stare and the breath seems to be knocked out of him once more. The same brown eyes, the same little quirk to her lips that isn't quite a smile, and the same laughter like bells as she launches herself forward into Van Helsing's arms.

"I've missed you, Brielle," she whispers against his chest, fingers tight in the material of his sweater. She's clutching at him with all she has, like she's afraid he'll float away on the next breeze if she lets him go.

And Van Helsing finally allows himself to breathe again.