Surfer boy’s eyes went round. “Oh, shit—I mean shoot. I didn’t realize there was a kid around. Sorry about the knock.”
“It’s fine,” Makeda said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “But she’s really fussy about her sleep so…”
“No worries. But promise me if there’s anything too heavy for you guys to handle, you’ll set it aside. I’m happy to help another time, you know?” He craned his neck to try to look inside. “When the baby isn’t around and everything.”
Just then, Jake let out a war whoop designed to wake the dead and came racing down the hall, his tiny bare feet sounding like a herd of small, rampaging elephants.
Philip frowned and opened his mouth, but Makeda broke in before he could say anything else.
“Okay, bye! Thanks for the offer, how about another time? Bye.” She shut the door and spun to face Natalie, who wore an amused expression.
“Subtle,” she said.
“I am not good with men. Especially men who are flirting with me. It makes me very uncomfortable.”
“I thought he was cute.”
“He is. He’s very cute. And sweet. Philip strikes me as the human equivalent of a yellow lab.”
Natalie snorted and herded Jake back to the kitchen. “He’s smart too. A software designer?”
“I think that may be code for ‘Grandma gave me a trust fund so I can play around developing apps,’” Makeda said. “He’s never actually mentioned what company he works for, and he seems to spend far more time with a wet suit or walking Mrs. Gunnerson’s terrier than in his home office.”
“Interesting.” The wheels were turning behind Natalie’s distracted gaze. “I might have Baojia run a check on him.”
“Oh, please don’t. I’m sure he’s fine. He just doesn’t understand hermits like me.”
“Still…” Natalie shrugged. “If he’s your neighbor, Baojia probably already checked him out. He’s thorough that way.”
“Exactly.”
“So sit back, relax”—Natalie peeked out the window at Philip’s retreating figure—“and enjoy the scenery.”
❖
Carmen, the last of the Elixir victims from Southern California, was slipping in and out of consciousness when Makeda finally met her. She’d heard the story, how Baojia and Natalie rescued a group of women trafficked in from Northern Mexico who had been deliberately infected with Elixir. The women were intended to be objects of a hunt designed to amuse powerful and rich immortals. Baojia, Natalie, and their friends had stopped the hunt and killed those immortals involved, but they hadn’t been able to cure the human women. Like all infected by the drug, they wasted away.
The one survivor had only lasted as long as she had because they had caught the virus early. Carmen had been on immunosuppressant drugs, tried various vaccines and countless diet and alternative therapies designed to help her body fight off the illness. Nothing had worked. The virus was consuming her body, and no amount of intravenous feeding seemed to help.
Makeda sat in the chair next to Carmen, reading through the translation of Lucien’s notes one of his assistants had given her in a moment of pity. Though the immortal physician might have come across to her as cold and territorial, in his notes she caught a glimpse of the man behind the stoic facade.
November 6, 2013—We lost Felicia today. Though an autopsy would show acute liver failure, the cause was Elixir, of course. Renal function had decreased in the week before her death. I considered dialysis and talked it over with her, but she did not want to suffer through the treatment when she had only months, if not weeks, left anyway.
We made her comfortable and allowed the other women to say good-bye. She will be missed.
March 4, 2014—Magdalena will be dead by the end of the week. Her heart is giving out.
April 25, 2014—Alma’s liver is failing. I can’t discern a connection among these causes of death.
October 16, 2014—I can’t save them. I can’t save any of them.
At times, Lucien’s notes read like case studies. Other times, they descended into a familiarity akin to correspondence. But throughout her examination of the notes, she felt as if she knew him a little. Makeda saw that the man who wrote so passionately about treatments and diagnostics felt as deeply as any caregiver for the patients he treated. It softened her attitude toward him but made his current behavior more and more of a mystery. Far from warming to her, every night that passed, Lucien’s hostility to her presence seemed to grow.
“Knock, knock.” Baojia’s voice came a moment before a faint tap on the door. “Am I interrupting anything?”
Makeda shook her head. “I’m just reading over her case notes.”
Baojia pulled up a chair. “He’s tried everything.”
“It appears so.”
“And nothing worked.” The quiet immortal pulled out a paperback book. “She liked to read.”
“Carmen?”
He nodded. “When her eyes started to go, I read to her. Me or Natalie, depending on when she was awake.” Baojia reached over and smoothed Carmen’s hair back from her forehead. “She looks older now, but she’s only twenty-two.”
It was hard to miss the sadness and affection in the vampire’s voice.
“You’re a good man, Baojia.”
“I’m a failure.”
“No, you’re—”
“Don’t.” Baojia held up his hand before Makeda could refute his words. “I know logically that I am not a doctor. I know that I protected Carmen and the others from numerous plots and attempts on their life over the years. But at the end of the day, I’m more powerful than they could ever be. I’m stronger. I am their guardian. It was my job to protect them, and I couldn’t protect them from this.”
She kept quiet, not wanting to disregard his guilt. Baojia had a right to feel however he wanted. Makeda knew what it was like to watch a patient die.
“I’m not a doctor,” Baojia said. “I’m a grunt. A soldier. A killer.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Now imagine how Lucien feels. Imagine watching them waste away by degrees. And all the knowledge, all the experience, all the wisdom you’ve picked up over thousands of years… means nothing.”
“I know what it feels like to lose a patient.”
“He’s not cold, Makeda.”
“I didn’t think he was.”
“Didn’t you?” Baojia cracked open the paperback with a fresh-faced girl on the cover. “I need to finish this for her. We’re almost done.”
Makeda felt her throat tighten, but she didn’t rise. Instead, she put her notes aside and listened to the soothing voice of a self-admitted killer reading a romance novel in Spanish. She heard a noise at the door and turned to see Lucien standing with his back against the opposite wall, his cool grey eyes fixed on the dying human.
❖
Two nights later, Makeda heard a knock on the door just as she was pulling out the ingredients to make her favorite comfort food.
Oh Philip…
The man was nice enough. And he was very helpful. But Makeda had been looking forward to an evening alone. Every time Philip came over and asked to help with something, that meant she had to work too. She didn’t want to work. She wanted cooking and wine.
Earlier that night, Carmen had taken a turn that caused everyone to rush to her room. Makeda ran in with the nurses only to have Lucien shove her out before he took over with his team.
It was jarring. And a stark reminder of where the lab’s loyalties lay.
She walked to the door expecting to see Philip’s blond-brown mane, but instead she saw a dark brown head, hair thick and sprinkled with silver. Lucien’s hair reminded her of a fox’s coat.
Makeda opened the door. “What’s wrong? Did Carmen—?”
“She’s stable.” His hands were shoved in his pockets. His eyes were locked on hers as if he was making every effort not to look into her house. “That’s why I came by. To let you know.”
“I have a phone.”
“I hate
phones, and I needed a run.”
“It’s fifteen miles from here to the compound.”
He couldn’t help himself. He glanced around her entryway, his eyes lighting on the painting over her left shoulder. “Is that Lalibela?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been there?”
“Only when I was a child. I haven’t been back to Ethiopia since I was eight. I don’t remember much.”
Which was a lie. The imprint of her childhood home had never faded.
“I don’t believe you,” Lucien said, walking into her house, his eyes locked on the painting. “The light in this…”
“It’s very good. The artist is a friend of my uncle’s. He lives there. I’m surprised you recognized it. Most Americans don’t.”
“I’m not American.”
Of course he wasn’t. If his accent didn’t remind her, his age should have. Lucien had implied he was over two thousand years old. He would hardly consider himself an American. And he was clearly making himself at home. His perusal of her art had shifted to the Salish moon mask she’d bought at a gallery in Vancouver several years before.
“This isn’t African.”
“American. Pacific Northwest.”
“Extraordinary.” His eyes moved to a photograph from the Omo Valley in southern Ethiopia. His fingers rose to the glass covering the photograph. “Look at her scarring. That pattern is very beautiful.”
“It’s ceremonial.” She glanced at his arms and legs, now wholly covered by his clothing. “Are you interested in body modification?”
She’d never known a vampire to have tattoos like his. He must have gotten them during life. She didn’t think vampire skin could take ink. She wasn’t even sure it could take regular needles.
“You’re thinking about my tattoos?” He glanced at her. “We all had them in my tribe, even our women. Legs. Arms. Backs.”
“Face?”
“Sometimes, but not for me.”
“A historian would probably have a field day examining them.”
“Probably.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and moved on to another painting. “But I’m not a subject for study.”
Makeda couldn’t stop the slight smile. “I hope you appreciate the irony.”
“Oh, I do.”
He didn’t seem in a hurry to go, so Makeda left Lucien admiring the art she’d hung. It was a personal quirk. A house didn’t feel like home to her unless there were things decorating the walls. In her mother’s house it was family photographs and crosses. In her own house, it was the art collection she’d taken so many years to acquire.
She walked back to the kitchen only to have Lucien appear in the doorway before her.
“Please don’t do that in my home,” she asked. Not prey. You are not prey.
“How do you do that?” Lucien asked.
“Do what?”
“Regulate your heart rate so effectively. You have very few pulse spikes, even during emergency situations like we had with Carmen tonight.”
“Increased heart rate does no one any favors,” Makeda said. “It makes higher brain function less effective. During an emergency I have to think, not revert to primitive impulses like fight or flight. I learned how to control my heart rate during my emergency medicine rotation.”
“And you still use the technique now?”
“I don’t forget lessons.”
“Ever?”
“No,” she said. It wasn’t a point of pride. There were some lessons she’d prefer to forget. “I don’t forget anything.”
Lucien stepped toward her. “What was I wearing the night we met?”
“A black or dark blue dress shirt. It was too dark to tell. And a pair of light brown slacks. They looked a bit like chinos, but with better tailoring. There were three buttons undone, though you normally only unbutton two buttons at work. Perhaps you were trying to subconsciously gauge my reaction to you. Black walking shoes. Black socks.”
“The shirt was blue. So were the shoes and socks. If you were a vampire, you’d have been able to tell the difference.”
“Perhaps. But as I don’t ever want to be a vampire, I’ll have to live with that slight disability.” She paused and tried to remember her manners even if she wanted him gone from her space. His presence was unnerving. “Would you like a glass of wine? I was just about to pour one.”
“Yes.” His answer seemed to surprise him. “I would like some wine. What were you doing tonight? Did I interrupt you?”
“No. I was going to cook and drink. Not very exciting.”
“Who are you cooking for?”
“Myself. And I freeze some for during the week when I don’t want to cook.” She poured two glasses of wine and tried to understand just how Lucien Thrax—a vampire she didn’t particularly like who clearly didn’t like her—had come to be sitting at her bar watching her cook. She pulled out the garlic and onion from the refrigerator, setting them beside the jar of berbere spice and shiro powder.
“You’re making shiro?”
“Yes.” She handed him wine. “You know shiro?”
A smile touched his lips. It was the first time she’d seen a smile from him. “Yes, I know shiro.”
“Clearly, you’ve spent time in Ethiopia if you know Lalibela and shiro.”
He sipped his wine, and Makeda could feel his eyes on her as she worked. “My mother is Ethiopian.”
Makeda glanced up. “Not your human mother.”
“No.” His eyes almost laughed. Almost. “My sire. She lives in the highlands around Chencha.”
“It’s beautiful there.”
“Have you been there?”
Makeda shook her head. “Only seen pictures. My mother and father have friends who live in Arba Minch.”
He paused and took another sip of wine. “Why did they move? Your parents, I mean.”
Makeda looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Academics were not always so welcome.”
“True in too many places,” he muttered. “So you came here?”
“My father had a friend under vampire aegis in Addis Ababa. This friend knew my family wanted to leave—needed to leave—so he wrote to people who might have need of a translator. My father is highly educated in ancient languages. One thing led to another…”
“And he came to work for Katya.”
“Yes.” She poured the chopped onion into a bowl with the garlic. “And he has worked for her ever since then. He’s very loyal.”
“Who was the immortal in Addis?”
“I don’t know.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “There are some things a child is not permitted to know. By the time it was appropriate to ask, it didn’t seem important anymore. We’re American, my sisters and me.”
“You’ve never felt the urge to go back?”
A sharp stab of longing. “Of course I have,” she said. “But how could the reality of a country live up to my childhood dreams of it?”
“Maybe it would be better.”
“I doubt it,” Makeda said, reaching for the knife without looking. “That’s why”—she sucked in a breath when she turned and Lucien was standing inches from her, his hand clutching her own—“they’re dreams. What are you doing?”
He held her hand inches from the knife. “You were about to cut yourself.”
She glanced down to see that yes, she’d been careless. The blade was pointing toward her, and her hand was poised to grab the blade and not the handle. “Thank you. I was distracted.”
He didn’t let her hand go. Makeda had the distinct impression she was being analyzed in an entirely unclinical way. Her heartbeat picked up even as she willed her breathing to slow. She tipped her head up and watched Lucien’s eyes.
They were extraordinary eyes. Warm brown around the edges with a cool grey surrounding the pupil. Stunning eyes. Inhuman eyes. She’d been told some vampires’ eyes changed color when they turned, but she didn’t want to ask. The question felt too intimate. He was looking, not at her
face, but at her hair. His head cocked to the side as he ran his gaze all over the natural curls she’d let down that night.
“What do you want?” Makeda asked. “Why are you really here?”
“I want you…” He blinked and his eyes came back to hers. “I want you to leave me alone.”
“I have a job to do. Just like you.”
“I know.” His eyes flicked down to her lips. She felt an inexplicable pull toward him. She’d forgotten about her pulse. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest at his proximity.
Damn him.
“You should go back to Ethiopia,” Lucien murmured. “Reality is always better than dreams.”
“It’s not.”
“It is. Because it’s real. How can you love something that isn’t real?”
Makeda blinked, and Lucien was standing in the doorway again. “Someone is at the door.”
A quick, cheerful knock told her Philip had finally come calling, but her eyes never left Lucien.
“I don’t have any desire to share your company with another,” he said. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow night.”
“I’ll bring some shiro… if you want.” Makeda heard Philip knock again, and she turned her head toward the door.
When she looked back, Lucien was already gone.
Saba
The Caucasus Mountains
Arosh stroked his finger over her short, cropped hair, smoothing a line down her spine and over the round curve of her buttocks. Saba sighed and moved closer to his touch.
“My queen, why do you come to me with such a heavy heart?” he whispered. “Do you need my fire for your vengeance?”
She blinked her eyes open, staring at the silks draped over his bed high in the mountains of Georgia. She could hear the soft, slippered feet of the women who served him shuffling in the corridors outside. A brazier burned low, not that she needed it when she was in Arosh’s bed. It could be the middle of winter and the man would still walk shirtless through the snow.