Lucien doubted a human researcher would solve a mystery that had puzzled the finest vampire minds for centuries.

No, it wasn’t doubtful. It was impossible.

Lucien and Baojia stood at the gates of the compound waiting for Dr. Abel’s car to arrive. Though there were living quarters at the lab available, the woman had insisted on taking a small rental house in the town twenty miles away. She’d also insisted on taking her own car.

Basically, she was already driving Baojia to distraction.

“Just because the worst doesn’t happen doesn’t mean it can’t,” he muttered, standing next to Lucien. “Does she think whoever is funding this wants you to find a cure? Do you think threats aren’t constant? My people intercepted two spies from India last month asking questions in San Francisco. Three months before that it was a Macedonian assassin.”

“Ah yes. He was delicious.”

Baojia wasn’t amused. “I can’t believe Katya agreed to let her live in town.”

“I’m rather surprised myself.”

“Who is this woman?”

He’d done a little research on her. “Apparently she’s the daughter of Katya’s archivist. The man has worked for her for thirty years, so he’s loyal.”

“Dr. Abel should not be allowed to have this much independence.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Better not let your wife hear you say that.”

“Natalie has learned that security is no longer an option.”

“She only learned that when the children were born.”

Baojia frowned. “Nevertheless.”

Lucien hid his smile. He wasn’t at all pleased about the new doctor coming and disrupting his lab, but he couldn’t stop Katya. So he decided he would be… amused. He’d pawn Dr. Abel off on one of his underlings and give her all his original notes in Latin. That would keep her occupied for a while.

Under different circumstances, he would look forward to collaboration with a colleague—some of his best work had been done with partners—but he was not in a collaborating mood. He could scent the growing instability in his world, and he didn’t like it. Some of the most ancient of their race were dying. Rumors of war drifted in the wind, and currents of power were shifting.

His mother, the most reclusive vampire he knew, had even gone roaming from her mountain home. He’d received a letter not too long ago from the Caucasus Mountains.

I go to see the fire king and your theios. I would have their counsel on a matter of some concern.

Night had fallen, and the ocean mist hung heavy over the low buildings that created a horseshoe facing the sea. Though Baojia and Natalie lived in the original farmhouse on the property, the rest of Katya’s people, including doctors, lab assistants, support and maintenance staff—human and immortal—lived in the low bungalows and dormitories. The patients, the reason the lab had been built in the first place, had lived in the comfortable and luxurious quarters closest to the ocean.

All but one of them was gone.

“How was Carmen feeling today?” Baojia asked.

“As well as can be expected. She’s not as dehydrated.”

“Good.”

The virus caused by the Elixir drug made vampires lose their grip on their amnis, which slowly starved them as their bodies stopped processing the living blood they needed to survive. They lost their bloodlust, control of their element, and eventually their minds. In humans, the virus was harder to pinpoint. It seemed to affect everyone differently, though a surge of health followed by an eventual slow wasting was universal in all the patients Lucien had treated in California and those he’d observed at Patrick Murphy’s facility in Ireland.

Headlights shone on the road. Lucien and Baojia waited as Dr. Abel’s car twisted over the low hills leading toward the house. As she approached, Baojia triggered the gate to roll back, and the small hybrid vehicle coasted to a stop in front of the farmhouse.

The woman who exited the vehicle provoked an unexpected surge of pure male admiration in Lucien. Surprised by the unexpected heat of his reaction, he tried to shove it back.

Makeda. Queen.

Her ancestors hailed from the Horn of Africa or very close to it. Her figure and features were typical of the region. Her first name should have tipped him off, but Americans were so odd about naming their children, and Abel was not a typical Ethiopian or Eritrean surname.

Late thirties. Clear skin. Nonsmoker. Muscle tone indicates regular exercise.

She walked toward them. “Baojia? Is that correct?”

Second language speaker. First language Amharic? Ethiopian?

“Katya sent your picture for security reasons,” she continued, taking Baojia’s hand. “She said you preferred to use your first name.”

“That’s correct.” Baojia said. “Welcome, Dr. Abel.”

“Thank you.”

Konjo.

The Amharic word for beauty popped into his mind. Makeda Abel’s skin was pure mahogany with gold undertones. And though her hair was pulled back in a very professional twist, he could see the tendrils around her neck curling in the mist. Her eyes were large and cinnamon brown, her lashes sweeping her cheeks when she blinked.

She turned to Lucien and held out her hand. “Are you Dr. Thrax?”

“Lucien.” He kept his body under strict control. Lucien realized after he’d taken Makeda’s hand that he hadn’t even heated his skin to be polite. Which was fine. She was his colleague, and she knew he was a vampire. Subterfuge was hardly necessary.