Except, apparently, to Lucien.

Saba

Tobruk, Libya

Inaya lounged in Ziri’s lap, laughing as he offered her grapes. She snatched them from his fingers, at ease in the scowling presence of the old wind vampire. Two of her harem lounged nearby, blowing kisses when Inaya or Ziri glanced their way.

Saba and Kato exchanged looks, but they’d long ago accustomed themselves to Ziri’s particular appetites and frequent whims.

“Take Ziri and leave us,” Saba said to Kato. “I want to speak to Inaya alone.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” Saba said. “And it’s none of your business.”

Kato leaned over and breathed the words into her ear. “Don’t think I don’t see you, my queen.”

“See what?”

“The look in your eye.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kato drew back and kissed her temple. “Liar.”

The two old vampires departed, leaving Inaya with Saba and the delicately trickling fountain in the center of the courtyard.

“What did you want to talk about?” Inaya dropped her flirtatious demeanor once the males had left.

“I’m considering.”

“Considering what?”

Saba stared at the woman. In many ways, Inaya was the culmination of centuries of immortal progress and civilization. She’d been turned at the peak of her human health, chosen deliberately by a thoughtful and cultured immortal leader to be his protégée. She’d been trained in the Ottoman court of Rosetta. Progressed through the ranks of her sire’s business and political organization until she’d struck out on her own, slowly building alliances until she could conquer the corrupt leader of Libya and Egypt. She took his territory for her own and established her own modern immortal empire.

She was cultured. Educated. Civilized. Progressive.

And still her court was stricken by Elixir.

“How is your friend?” Saba asked.

Inaya’s eyes sharpened. “How is your son?”

“Progressing.”

Not fast enough.

The sentiment remained unspoken between them, for Inaya knew she was nothing to Lucien. Speaking against the last of Saba’s true offspring was a quick way to find death.

“We trust your guidance, Mother.” Inaya murmured the expected platitudes, but Saba could see rebellion in the curve of her mouth.

Saba had once ruled all the African continent, and she’d found the responsibility tiring. She recognized now that she’d been shirking her responsibilities. These were her children. All of them.

And sometimes children needed a mother’s discipline.

She cupped Inaya’s chin in her palm. “A twisted bone must break in order to mend correctly,” Saba whispered, pinching Inaya’s chin. “Do you understand, daughter?”

“I understand.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lucien listened to music when he worked. Unless he was working in a lab with myriad assistants and staff bustling around, he listened to music. Bach sometimes. Other times African artists or Latin American. Western folk music. He found anything with a droning element soothing. When he needed to focus, he often turned to bagpipes.

None of those options seemed to suit Makeda.

He held up a few cassettes. “Pick something.”

She looked up from her notebooks. “Why? I don’t like to listen to music when I work. I prefer silence. Don’t you have headphones?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my lab. Which means we listen to music.” He was only being polite giving her the option of which music to listen to. He found a cassette of Tibetan throat singers and snapped it into the player with half a smile on his face.

A few seconds later, she slammed down her notebook. “You have got to be kidding me.” Makeda marched over to the cassette player and reached for it, but Lucien grabbed her and swung her around.

He was perched on a work stool, and he pulled her between his legs, braceleting her wrist in one hand with his other hand on her hip. “Leave my music alone.”

“This is awful.”

“I find it quite soothing. There’s something about the nasal droning—”

“Let me look.” She huffed out a breath. “If you have to have music, I’ll pick something inoffensive.”

“You can’t do that.” He brushed his thumb back and forth over the inside of her wrist. “Good music should always be a little offensive. Otherwise, it’s boring.”

He wanted to lick her wrist and bite her shoulder. The night before had been highly interesting. In typical newborn fashion, Makeda had swung from excitement to confusion to anger to passion in the space of minutes. She fascinated him. He was too curious not to explore it.

“Classical music isn’t offensive,” Makeda said, still frozen between his legs. Her eyes were on the hand holding her wrist.

“It was when it was written.” He stroked her again. “Beethoven was a bastard. Stravinsky caused riots. I’m fairly sure Mozart was thrown out of a church or two.”

She tried to turn, but he wouldn’t let her. “Will you let me go please?”

“I don’t want to.”

Anger and pleasure flickered across her face so quickly he nearly didn’t catch them. Oh yes, he’d have to watch Makeda Abel very closely to understand the secrets she tried to conceal.