The Relic (Cradle of Darkness 2)

Wouldn’t that be nice?

A fresh start that I could improve upon in all ways from our last union.

With a reverence I felt down to my unbreakable bones, I said her new name. “My Pearl.” Adding, “And I agree, Steven is too bland. You could just call me ‘darling.’ ‘Sweetheart.’ Oh, I’m partial to ‘honey.’ Bees are such fascinating creatures.”

I said it with love—my eyes, though glowing red, my skin, though black, cracked, and fiery, all of it softened with an adoration more eternal than the stars.

In this, she found me hideous and screamed.

How ashamed she was to be naked before her husband.

How brittle her mind after so much damage had been wrought.

And even as she was now, pathetic and weak, I was moved by the very being of her. I always had been a bit obsessive when it came to my soul.

Just as enticing as the original, her form was a song. And though she tried to cover her breasts and pubis, I did look my fill.

I drank her in.

As she had drank me so she might live again. As my blood fortified her body and would strengthen her beyond measure.

As my care would heal her.

This little hiccup of fear… it would be forgotten once she had more time to learn how wondrous her bridegroom was.

And despite fate’s fuckery, one day, Pearl would find me beautiful. For it was not our features that defined what we were, but our shared godhood. And I had spent mine as rationally—as purposefully—as any holy man might. Monitoring legions of vampires while trying to leave them free will, an impossible feat I really did not receive enough praise for.

She would appreciate that.

Perhaps that was reason enough not to kill them all? Let them sing my praises and scrape at my feet for her to see.

And once I calmed, fed, and tended to this mess, I would choose a form to please her. One known by vampirekind the world over. One not so beautiful as to stun, but approachable, real.

Despite my hold on her wrist, the woman I adored, coveted, and craved above all things fell to her knees before me.

So unlike the queen she had been.

“Queens do not kneel, even to kings.” But I wasn't a king. I was a God. And she was not a queen. She was a defanged Daywalker.

Where was my possessive, violent vixen under all this meek ineptitude?

Where was the impulsive, warlike beastie—the mirror of our great father?

Where was the warrior, who the first night I’d taken her to bed had tried to cut my throat? Not that I’d ever faulted her for it. From the day she’d been born, I’d watched her, coveted, peered through the garden walls in which the female offspring of the king were kept, knowing one day I’d be the first man, the only man to have her.

Not even the eunuchs had been allowed to touch, look upon, or pleasure my Jewel.

The Jewel of our kingdom—one of dozens of offspring from hundreds of wives, concubines, slaves, and fodder. But she was the daughter of the Queen. Pure-blooded. A prize no intact male, save our father, was allowed to look upon.

It was even forbidden to me, his favored son. Yet I looked, and I looked often.

She was my soul, and I was her shadow. As she’d breathed softly in sleep, I’d smelled her hair. When she raged against captivity, I’d witnessed her tempers. As she plotted her violence against a fate she did not crave, I’d unraveled her every attempt to be free.

And when I spilled my seed—as was my duty—within the conquered women our empire gathered, it was only her face I saw. Only her body I imagined.

That body that haunted me for millennia.

Her new form, despite the decay and filth, still smelled the same. Like sunshine and the very garden she’d despised. Which had always amused me, as she’d loved flowers, but only so long as they’d been cut, vased, and set out to die.

She smelled like life itself. Uncompromising life.

Troublesome, wondrous princess she’d been.

Dangerous, passionate, wife stolen from me by death.

Pure-blooded sister of a bloodline worshiped by the entire known world.

I’d always admired the incessant and clever attempts to be free of her garden prison before I might claim her and raise her to Queen. That was to be expected, and despite her severe punishments, her every act of insubordination pleased our father greatly. Only a true-hearted Goddess would fight the shackles of luxury for freedom. My docile sisters were left to breed with foreigners and courtiers, their offspring impure. No, only the most determined deserved the role of Queen. Of Goddess.

My Queen. My Goddess.

She dared break her maidenhead on an ivory dagger handle. An attempt to diminish her worth and unravel her destiny.

The knife was delivered to me, blood still drying as a report was made. Though it was long before this world was born, I still remember that first taste of her when I licked it clean. A memory worthy of a smile.