“Carmen, you don’t want me to—”

“I was never meant to live this long,” she said, her voice stronger than it had been in months. “I was supposed to die months ago. This is not life. This is only suffering. God would not want this for me. He is not that cruel.”

He sat back in his chair, his eyes locked with hers.

Please, she mouthed. Please.

An hour later, Natalie and Baojia sat on either side of her, Natalie singing a lullaby he’d heard Carmen sing to baby Sarah. Baojia held her hand with both of his, a pillar of quiet calm compared to the riot of Lucien’s emotions. Carmen’s breathing was labored, her pulse erratic. The feeding tube she hated was out. The intravenous fluid had been taken away. Lucien stood with the syringe of morphine in his hand, watching his friends say good-bye.

He reached over Natalie and inserted the syringe in the port on Carmen’s arm.

A few minutes. Less. The monitor had been switched off, but Lucien heard when Carmen’s heart stopped beating. One last breath rattled out.

She was gone.

And he had failed.

Lucien turned to see Makeda standing on the far side of the room, tears running down her cheeks.

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t recognize his own voice. It was hard. Cold.

Makeda’s watery eyes met his without flinching. “She was my patient too.”

“You barely knew her.”

“Lucien,” Natalie said from Carmen’s bedside. “This is not the time.”

Makeda said, “I know you’re feeling—”

“You know nothing about how I am feeling right now,” Lucien snapped. “You know nothing. Get out.”

Baojia stepped between them. “Both of you get out. Right now. You disrespect Carmen with your petty bickering.”

Lucien didn’t argue. He walked out the door, down the hallway where a clutch of other researchers had gathered, and through the double doors leading outside. He walked to the edge of the cliffs and stood, staring at the sea.

Mist soaked his coat and shirt. He stripped them both off until the water coated his body and drenched his hair. He could feel it dripping down his back as his amnis coursed through his body, reaching for something—anything—to release it. He broke into a jog. Then he ran. He ran along the cliffside, kicking off his shoes and socks. He sank his feet into this raw, untamed land and went to his knees.

His fists slammed into the earth, and he heard the edge of the cliff break away, sliding into the ocean below. He gripped the earth and pulled it apart. His amnis punched down into the soil and spread through tiny fissures in the ground. More of the cliff broke away and fell into the sea. He gripped a boulder between his hands, roaring as he sent his energy into the rock, fracture after fracture cracking the boulder until his amnis had turned it to gravel.

He ached with failure. Thousands of years of power and learning had done nothing to heal them. All his efforts. Years of research.

It’s finished.

Lucien curled into the ground and let the soil embrace him.

Please.

The raw earth closed over his body as he sank down to the bedrock.

Let me go.

He woke knowing it was dusk. He’d passed the previous night and day in the comfort of the earth, but that was all the self-indulgence he could allow. There was work to be done. He rose to the surface and surveyed the damage to the landscape.

Deep cracks lined the edge of the cliffs, and several boulders had been beaten into gravel. He shored up the cliffside and spread the gravel so it wasn’t noticeable. He walked back to the lab, soil coating his skin. Clamping down the grief that threatened to make him rage, he pushed open the doors and walked to Makeda’s office. He knocked but didn’t wait for permission to enter.

“Dr. Abel,” he said as he walked in, “make sure you take the necessary samples of the patient’s body before it’s sent to the incinerator.”

Makeda turned slowly, her eyes raking up and down his body.

Lucien knew he looked savage. Pants torn and dirty, no shirt, caked mud covering an upper body marked with the ceremonial tattoos he’d inked in mortal life. His tattoos were why he rarely went without long sleeves.

He made his voice as clinical as possible. “Samples need to be taken as quickly as possible. Even with the body chilled—”

“I took them last night after you left,” she said quietly. “Lucien—”

“You were there to collect samples,” he said. “I apologize if I misunderstood your reason for being in the patient’s room. You were following protocol.”

“That’s not why I was there, and you know it.”

He heard the angry bite in her voice, and the dark part of his mind reveled in it.

“Nevertheless, if samples have been taken, then the body should be disposed of as quickly as possible. It’s still unknown how the virus—”

“Baojia and Natalie are arranging the cremation. Her ashes will be sent to her family priest in Ensenada. Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t care. There was a minor earthquake just north of here last night. I suppose that was a coincidence.”

He paused. “My caring didn’t save her life. The only thing that’s important now is the research. I don’t expect you’ll need time off since you barely knew the patient. Please have your assistant send me a progress report as soon as possible. I’ve been lax on oversight with you, but don’t expect that to continue.”