“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.”