The Relic (Cradle of Darkness #2) - Addison Cain Page 0,23

The beast melted into the form of a man yet kept those wings. Though it had not kept the tatters of its clothing. “And on the third day, rise.”

Yawning, the thought of a three-day-long sleep divine, my taunt came out a tease, “You really are Satan.”

Wind settling over me, shutting out intrusive daylight, he hummed. “And you do so love to call me names.”

Already half asleep, I turned my face into the pillow. “I never liked my own, so it’s only fair.”

This made him laugh. “I’m not surprised. You were always extremely difficult to please.”

Which was utterly incorrect. “All I ever wanted was kindness.”

“And you were so starved you fail to see it when it’s right before you. Even if the form offering it is hideous in your eyes.”

When he sounded sad, it stirred me in a way I thoroughly disliked. But I was too tired to consider, already dreaming of evergreen forests when his awful lips scraped over my cheek.

“Three days, Pearl. Then I shall wake you with a feast.”

On the third day, I rose.

In an entirely different room.

To the sound of church bells.

Chapter Nine

Pearl

The clothing hanging in a room called a walk-in closet was enviable. Gowns and blouses any working girl from my era would have spent their hard-earned pennies on. Out of date, yet still so beautiful I didn’t want to touch in case I snagged the fabric.

A time capsule of the best years of my long life.

The 1920s had passed a century ago. Yet I’d clung to them and been indulged.

There was no mistaking that truth. Having been beaten, hung, drowned, shot, tortured, I still lived. And I was going to live forever. The more I imagined those immortals, those vampires, who wore mud or powdered wigs—how they failed to move forward out of insanity—the more I saw a reflection in myself.

I saw it in the walk-in closet. In the cosmetics provided for me that were nothing like the advertisements on television. Cake mascara and rouge had not been used in decades, it seemed.

I saw it in my unwillingness to wear a bra, opting for an “old-fashioned” step-in.

I saw it each night when I dressed and looked in the mirror, my reflection, wearing clothes so beyond my means, so pretty, that any cigarette girl would have envied me.

Yet there were no cigarette girls anymore.

No one dressed this way save for themed parties.

And I was doing it by choice.

I—the hard worker, the adaptive employee—was stuck, stubborn, and willfully pouting about a world I had never been able to change. An ultimately pointless pursuit God would not approve of.

“I need modern clothing so I can get a job.” Daring one last time, I touched one dress, a pale-pink number I admired and longed to deserve. “That restaurant with the terrible seafood platter had a sign in the window. They were looking for help. I could work there to pay for the clothes.”

“I mean…” Vladislov sighed at my back, as if I had mentioned a topic he anticipated and loathed. “If you wish to work, it can be arranged. But the question of money? I have more wealth than the entire United States and continent of Europe combined.”

“I like to work.”

I felt the shrug in his words, imagined wings elongated in a careless flutter, though I knew he was in human form. “Many immortals do. I’d be the first to admit it’s a great way to immerse oneself. But, may I counter your suggestion with one of my own?”

Turning so I might look at the person who’d woken me with a gentle kiss, to sacred bells of a church specially rung for me, to a priest speaking in French and a breakfast of pain au chocolat, I felt a bit beholden.

No.

I felt a sensation I’d never known outside of desperation. I felt grateful.

Gratitude had always come from begging just so I might survive. With this monster, gratitude came like it was a normal emotion.

“What do women wear? I’ve seen trousers. I’m not comfortable with that.” Considering the final decade I remembered was all about women breaking free, my sentiment was silly. Women had already thrown off corsets, shortened their skirts, cut their hair.

Hell, I had cut mine!

Hell?

I began to laugh. As did my host.

“Husband.” A smooth voice paired with a smooth hand down my arm. “I am your husband, not your host.”

Something in me bantered easily, was playful in a way I had never been with a man. “But we’re not married.”

“My sweet soul, if a ceremony would please