Cathedral (Cradle of Darkness 1)

“You’re a little bit insane. You know that right?” Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, she gave me a look of pity. “Neither of us will survive whatever game Vladislov plays.”

From across the room came an overly gentle, “You may call me Grandfather.”

She screamed, jumped right out of my hands, portal and all. To appear twenty feet away. Tottering on her feet, unsure how she did it, Jade fell flat on her ass into one of her piles of my broken gifts.

And there she cried like a baby. Mind a ruin, body abused for so long she couldn’t differentiate what was her choice from what wasn’t, and in pain. When I stepped forward to go to her, to try again to explain, Vladislov appeared from the shadows and held up his hand.

Eternal fealty. I had to obey.

So that entity—that creator of great, evil things—went to her instead. Crouching down, wiping her tears, and whispering things I’d never know.

I’d never know them because part of our arrangement was that I could never ask. And Jade, she never offered information. What I’d pulled from her over the years, was taken by force.

But my lady calmed: the type of forced calm minutes away from violence. A kind of violence that came from desperation should the beast who had cornered her make one wrong move. The kind of violence that would see her ended. Wounded rabbit, rabid wolf.

For this woman, I was not above begging. “Please, don’t hurt her.”

“She…” The man’s long, thin fingers, stroked her wet cheek. “She is my family. Are you not, child? If I let your daddy run wild for eons, why would I tarnish this precious flower?”

“Please,” I said again. Darius knew sweet words too. Darius had learned them from him.

And I had bet our entire futures on the whims of a God.

“I cannot recall the last time I offered someone succor.” And how chilling such a phrase could be from something so powerful.

For he had not offered it to little Jade. I had paid for it. But now he looked amused, long hair draped over his shoulder and waved, impeccably combed, just like the rest of him. A fancy man for all his less desirable features.

The being came to a decision. “If she’ll drink once more, I’ll leave her be. Comfort your wife and tell her to open her jaw.”

It was there I saw how he’d already tried to tempt her, a wrist offered, the same wrist he’d fed her from the night she’d been left in pieces. And Jade shook her head.

So I obeyed.

I went to her side, knelt, pulled her head to my shoulder as I whispered whatever sweet things an old warrior might think of into her hair. I promised her the River Seine. A life of joy free of corruption. Pretty things.

So many pretty things I had found and hoarded for her to smile at.

Freedom. Even from me should she wish it.

And with those words, she parted her lips and drank of death.

For a third time. For yes, I had watched this woman’s every breath for the last agonizing days.

Two painful gulps, and her eyes would never be blue again.

Red as fire, mind deconstructed, she met my gaze, and she saw me for what I was.

Her slave.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jade

I cannot even imagine what my father’s body must have gone through when he’d been changed from man to immortal. Once upon a time, a proud Persian king, then the creation of something powerful beyond measure. Did my father even recognize what gifts were given to him in his early state of ignorance? Did he think all vampires were like the man who’d offered him eternity? Had he any idea what Vladislov was?

For I was certain, Grandfather was as powerful then as he was now.

Yet in the two interactions I’d witnessed between the men, I had seen no familial conversation. Vladislov had received no more formal a greeting than other emissaries or visiting ancients. There was no closeness, no endearment.

No sense of shared history.

At least none that I understood. Maybe because they were so old. Maybe because my father had no heart. He certainly didn’t love his people, neglecting the throne for months at a time, hidden away and secretive.

One day you’d turn around, and Satan would be in the room. Smiling, dressed in glittering robes. Beautiful, devious, and ready to rend. Like clockwork twice a year or so.

Twice a year to mangle my mind, send his hive into a manic uproar, and then leave after ripping apart enough of our numbers to keep the flock in line. I expected little more from my grandfather.

In fact, I expected less.

Considering what he’d just unleashed within me.

I knew what his blood was, and I knew how insignificant this flock was in comparison. Not even an afterthought. But he was drawn to this place, so for that reason alone, he was going to take it. And when he was bored—and he would grow bored—he’d wander on to walk the River Seine, philosophizing about concepts beyond my understanding with God only knew who.