The Relic (Cradle of Darkness #2) - Addison Cain Page 0,7

never hurt her, but I would transform her. Through tears, gasps, frantic kicking, and ultimate release.

But not today. Not like this.

Not when even after all these years I still remember that… it had taken her some time to love me eons ago.

In that, I was prepared to reevaluate my approach.

These days, I was nothing if not a gentleman.

In my formative years, my father had taught me the ways of our people, of our Queens, of their power and frustrations. How to cow them as a man must a woman, how to physically please in the process, so they might be safe in their furious release and bear strong sons. The strongest sons were always made in battle. Their bodies growing under the changing heart of resentful yet passion-drugged wife.

Until resentment bloomed into respect upon seeing that first bloody baby.

Until it became more than passion shared between a lusty warrior and a strong-willed woman.

Until it became love.

But such was the world long lost.

Such savageries were no longer considered romantic or rightful in this time.

I would not rape her.

This time, I would woo instead.

Chapter Three

Pearl

Three weeks. I knew it had been three weeks, not only by the rise and fall of the sun outside my windows—windows, as in more than one—but because something called a digital clock also confirmed the hours and date. Three weeks and I had not left that room, despite the fact that the door was unlocked.

A cozy room, with simple furnishings and warm cream walls.

A room with a feature, a luxury I could hardly describe—a private bathroom.

A private bathroom, where no line for the entire floor collected. Where the warm water never ran out.

Though when I locked myself in the bathing space—who enjoyed such luxuries?—upon leaving, freshly cleaned, covered from neck to toes, I found one wall had been papered. Little flowers, exactly like the paper from my apartment.

Which I now understood had been demolished and something called a mall had been put up in its place.

The exactness of that wallpaper, even the way it was faded and dingy, frightened me.

The exactness of all the things left for me, as if the demon who kept me knew my every secret, was precisely why I knew I was still in hell. This was all a trick of Lucifer.

Even the priest, as he heard my confession, looked at me as if my ravings of demons, of the black abyss, were only a trick of my mind.

I wept when I told him why I was here, that I had killed a man who had followed me home from work and left his body in the snow. That I was damned. His eyes grew sad. “Chadwick Parker died in 1923. That was practically one hundred years ago. What you blame yourself for... it isn’t possible.”

“You’re not listening to me!” And that had to be part of the torment. Those kind eyes so full of pity as I paced and told my story day in and day out. “I’ve been locked away. There was this book full of entries written in my hand. A box full of notes about demons and hell.”

“You were released from the sanitarium, into the care of your husband and his staff. He loves you, and he’s concerned, which is why I was called upon. You’re very much alive, and though not many may find Manhattan to be heaven, it is a far cry from hell. At least for most.”

Pointing—the glass of my windows bright with morning sun, where people walked in multitudes, where I watched them in utter confusion for days—I cried, “This is not the right world!”

Where were the slender cracked roads and cable cars? Everything from my view was paved and shiny. My eyes took it in with such precision, despite the fact that this room loomed high over the city. Women wore trousers! Men failed to make way for them. Nothing, at least the room that was slowly turning into an odd amalgamation of this new world and my former apartment, smelled like cheap cologne or piss.

“You have the influence to change the world. Wealth beyond measure. The donation made to the diocese will go far to rebuild crumbling churches, extend community outreach. This world is not right, I agree. Change it.”

“You don’t understand what I’m saying…” Because he would not listen. According to him, Vampires weren’t real; there was no desecrated church at the heart of the city filled with evil.

And I was falling for kind, brown eyes. The soft tenor of a patient