The Relic (Cradle of Darkness #2) - Addison Cain Page 0,8

holy man. One who had offered absolution, the Eucharist, the blood of Christ. I was falling for the trickery.

Because this was hell.

“Father Patrick, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

I knew he used the door, as I could see him holding it for our guest, but I had been so frustrated, so distracted, that I failed to notice just who had come into my room. Rocking back in my chair, out of it so quickly it toppled, I was at the window, wringing my hands, desperately trying not to look directly at the father of evil.

“Ahh, Vlad. Good morning to you.” The older clergyman stood, shuffling toward the door. Pausing to add, “We’ve read through more of the book of John. She had questions I’ve yet to address. Considering your theology expertise, perhaps you can enjoy a discussion together on John’s finer points.”

“Noted.” Vladislov gestured toward the door, polite yet brooking no refusal. “Leave.”

Not once had the priest questioned such rudeness. It seemed much more than daily prayer could be bought for whatever sum the diocese enjoyed at Vladislov’s expense.

Rebuilding churches.

When the door clicked shut and it was just the two of us, he offered a smile. One I could feel, for I still only showed him half my face and tried my best not to look.

He spoke aloud to my private thoughts. “The catholic faiths do love their glitter. I agree the fortune should be spent on the message, not the architecture where limp men try not to ogle the patrons.”

Dry lips parting, I dared to defend. “Celibacy keeps the heart close to God.”

“But my heart is here.” Fingers carded through my hair, the length cut as short as it had been my last night at the Super Club selling cigarettes. Bobbed and angled to land with a sweep at my cheek. A comforting familiar thing in a world of absolute strangeness.

Such as how the man could cross a room so quickly I had not seen him move.

I used to scramble, in those first days when he’d touch me. Cower and cry. I used to feel a heartbeat of pain between my legs, recalling what a demon had done to me in a room Father Patrick had sworn never existed. A room I would understand if only I would keep taking my medication.

Now, I just froze and waited for torment.

In its place, I got a kiss. One on the top of my head. A kiss and a soliloquy. “The book of John was actually written by a woman. When the Christian biblical canon was compiled—the various known gospels sorted through—only four were chosen to tell the message and story that best suited a clear agenda. Her name was stricken, and John was given credit in her place. Isn’t that fascinating? The account of the disciple who loved your Jesus the most was written by his wife. Which brings me back to the topic of celibacy. He was not celibate.”

I could feel myself splitting down the middle already. “Please.”

He took my hand in his, the hand of a man. Veins upon the back, large and warm. Not burning-hot, coal-black inferno.

In place of talons were trimmed nails.

But I knew what he was underneath.

“Would you prefer I came to you that way?” The whisper at my ear was intimate, unwelcome, and sent a shiver down my spine.

Quick to answer, breath left my lips. “No.”

“Why won’t you look upon me then?”

The father of lies could manipulate his voice in such a way that it stirred me to act. That I felt his longing as if it were honest.

Up went my gaze.

He wore his hair long, in ordered waves any woman would covet. Though handsome, his face was also not. A strange combination of desirable and forgettable. His eyes….

Hooking a finger under my chin, gently encouraging, he murmured, “There’s my daring queen.”

I burned, thoroughly, inside and out. Felt it so much deeper than just the flush that ran from my chest to my roots. Those eyes….

“You are safe with me. Safe enough to muster the courage to step outside that door and eat your breakfast at the table… in my presence.”

And somehow we were already moving, my sandaled feet walking over the rug, though it felt I left my mind behind me. Still lingering at the window, staring down at a world one hundred years past anything I knew.

Until I was at that window. As if I had always been there.

And Vladislov stood at my door, looking down at his empty hand with