The Relic (Cradle of Darkness 2)

Heaven, help me.

“Would you like to stay, enjoy the view… with a drizzle of black blood on top?” He was ever the tempter, and I smelled a drop of blood bloom in that icy air, unsure which part of him had been pricked. But certain I was being toyed with. “Or would you prefer to dine on Marquita, back home, at the table?”

The option of remaining sequestered in my room was not offered.

Yet before I might choose, a thumb dragged over my lips. Chilled cheek cupped in the palm of a monster, I tasted eternity. And opened my mouth for more.

The devil always won in hell. I was learning that daily.

Sucking his fingers because there was no resisting such flavor, his groan weakened my knees.

By the time I was full, sleepy, and drawn into unnatural serenity, I found my legs hooked over his arm, my ear to a chest of cracked pitch. Cradled. Like the heroes did in films once the actress swooned.

Warmed by wings that ended in hooked talons so sharp there was no denying they could tear through flesh.

And I began to burn, engulfed in flame for the split second it took for the mountains and ice to vanish and for my room to form around us. There hadn’t even been time to scream, and already my skin had mended.

But my clothes were badly scorched. And Vladislov’s? His were hanging from his human form in tatters.

“How would you feel about a party?” All smiles, he clapped his hands as if he struck upon the perfect idea. “Tonight! Yes, rest now. I’ll handle everything. And I promise you, no corny shopping montage will be included.”

And he poofed away, like a puff of smoke, leaving the scent of pine and firewood.

Falling flat on my rump, I stared at that spot that moments before held the shape of a man, certain I was completely insane… or he was.

Chapter Four

Pearl

It looked like some movie prop dagger. Curved, the ivory handle etched with figures worn down by ages of handling. Old.

Brandishing the weapon like a dinner knife, a blade gently tapped the goblet of a chilled glass of white wine. Which, considering I’d been told to expect the toast, startled me to the point I twitched.

And then blushed in embarrassment when every pair of eyes in the room darted to and from me so quickly it almost seemed imagined.

The party’s host, Vladislov, greeted his—or as he continued to remind me, our—collected guests with a smile. “Welcome to our little soiree. As each of you has been given explicit instructions addressing the theme of tonight’s fun, I will not insult you with a repetition of the rules. Only to say this. If anyone touches or so much as brushes up against my bride, I will end you and your entire bloodline.” Jolly, completely unconcerned with the level of violence just threatened, his smile grew. “Are we clear?”

Cheers came as if such an insane declaration only enhanced the drama and pleasure of the handful of vampires in attendance.

“To Pearl!” A man bearing silvered hair and a thin moustache raised his glass—one filled with a far more viscous red liquid.

And cheers arose, my plain name sung as if in praise.

These creatures were as crazy as their king, holding up crystal goblets full of pungent blood. As the only person in the room who ate or drank food, as a Daywalker, what they drank would make me ill. And what I drank was done in private.

Servants in black-tie, tails, each bearing a platter with a single hors d'oeuvre, entered, leaving Vladislov to amend his singular warning with another. “If any of you try to eat any of the special treats for my Pearl, you won’t care for those consequences either. They are not for you, no matter how tempted you may be.”

How often did this man threaten to kill his friends?

Again, no open animosity on the faces of the twenty or so gathered in the apartment’s grand room. Only attentiveness as they looked me over, as they lightly chatted and touched one another a great deal. A brush of the arm, a peck on the cheek.

A staged production where every last player was dressed as if they were patrons of the finest club from the 1920s. The ladies: beaded gowns. The gentlemen: starched waistcoats, white bowties, satin lapels in perfectly tailored tuxedos. The music, coming from a source I could not find, was no record. Instead, it was clear as if the singer sat at the empty piano seat across the room to entertain us all.

“Ahh, live music would have been a nice touch. I’m sure someone here has some talent at something.” He handed me the stemmed glass of white wine, brushing his fingertips over mine as I took it, because I needed a drink. The host, just as spectacularly dressed as the room, eased ever closer. “Olivia, the one in the red dress, dear. She was some kind of performer a decade here or there, though I have no idea if she was even awake during the 1920s.”