by A D Seeley
The Mark of Cain
The Cain Chronicles: Book One
By A.D. Seeley
Text copyright ©2012 A.D. Seeley
All Rights Reserved
For Greg, a modern saint.
You are sorely missed by all who knew you.
Prologue
***
New Year’s Day
Cain looked down at his crimson saturated hands. They looked so much like they had the first time he’d taken a life that, for a moment, it took his breath away. All this blood…too much blood. He should be used to it after all these years, thousands of years worth equaling oceans of the sticky fluid from all of the battles he’d fought in all that time. But this was different. This was wrong. And it was all his fault….
Cain looked into the beautiful dying woman’s lavender eyes, usually so bright and childlike, which were now becoming dimmer with every moment. Soon the glimmer of her essence would be gone. Cain knew this as surely as he knew anything. When a person has seen as much death as he had, especially from violent means, they can smell it in the air. And right now, the stinging copper smell was permeating everything, so thick that he almost couldn’t breathe. He had enjoyed the smell before—it had thrilled him even to the point where, though vampirism was a stretch, his ruthless actions had spawned the far-fetched legend of Dracula—but that had been many years ago….
Pink froth bubbled from her mouth, telling him that at least one of the bullets had penetrated a lung.
“Hara…I’m…I’m so sorry. I’m sorry…” he said as he cradled her slender form close into his body.
Even though her creamy face was losing its natural blush at an alarming rate, she gave him a small smile.
“I forgive you,” she whispered with some difficulty, the dim light from a streetlamp above making a slight tremor in her muscles visible that would otherwise be lost in all the gloom that surrounded them.
“Shh. Don’t speak, Hara. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he lied.
“I love you…” the dying angel managed to whisper despite the divine blood that was pumping out of her. Blood that was spreading across the asphalt like glorious, gory wings. Blood that was falling into her beautiful hair of silvers mixed with golds, vivid against the paleness of it.
Cain’s world crashed, as though the very Earth he’d walked upon for millennia had shattered into trillions of pieces, falling out from under him until he found himself floating in a dark place full of only heartbreak and agony. He knew, in this moment, from the way those words warmed him, at the same time that they broke his heart, that he loved her too. All of these years, with all of the beautiful women who had belonged to him in them, he had never before felt this way. Despite that, there was no doubt in his mind that that’s what he felt. Why had it taken him until now to realize that? Another cruel twist….
He bent and kissed her softly, ignoring the coppery taste of her lips that had once intoxicated him like a perfectly aged wine.
“Hara…I love you, too,” he told her. “For real. I’m not pretending.”
She lifted a hand to his cheek above the beard he’d grown in the past month of depression he’d been absorbed in, causing his hygiene to be like that of the Middle Ages, and lightly caressed it. As she did, he closed his eyes to take the sensation deep into his soul.
“Don’t cry…” she managed as she weakly stroked his cheek, leaving a warm smear along it. His chest constricted with the knowledge that her blood was now on his face. Would its warmth stay there forever to taunt him? Much like he could still feel his brother’s blood on his skin?
But he wasn’t one to cry. He hadn’t cried since he had been a boy so long ago. However, sure enough, when her hand fell away, he saw a drop of water on her long, slim pointer finger. Although he’d mastered his emotions, she was right. He was crying now. Crying for her pain, and for the fact that he was going to lose her the very same moment in which he had discovered how he felt about her.
Her heart was slowing. He’d taken her wrist in his hand to look at the tear on her finger and could feel it beating under the delicate, creamy skin. Wanting to comfort her in her last moments, he put what he hoped was a soothing hand to her cheek, mustering up the courage to tell her what he needed to before she left him forever….
“About your family…” he said.
Her head moved minutely as she attempted to shake it. “Forgive and forget.” A hacking cough took over her breakable form then, so he cradled her tighter despite the fact that he knew doing so most likely only suffocated her more. When she was finished, her breathing had taken on the death rattle. She wouldn’t last more than another minute at this rate.
“Pro…omise…me?” she said between gasping breaths.
“What? I’ll promise anything,” he said as he stroked her face with his bloody fingers, marring her perfect face with her own blood, which looked to be a deeper scarlet against her alabaster skin.
“No…more…bad,” she managed. “O…only…good.”
He took a deep gulp, trying not to let the sob escape that was making its way up from the darkest recesses of his soul.
“I promise, Hara. I’ll only do good. And I’ll atone for everything I’ve done wrong.”
She smiled as her eyes began to lose their luster, distancing her from the mortal realm. “Then my death is wor…orth—”
“No!” he interrupted, slightly shaking her. “Your death won’t ever be worth it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It should be me.”
“No,” she said in a gentle tone that had never been directed at him before he’d met her—his own mother had never been anything but stern with him. “Just use…immor…ortality…for good…do good….” She coughed a few more times, gasping between them. He knew her death was here. He could smell it as it saturated the air around him like filthy metallic water in a sponge. That, and the beautiful light that usually danced in her eyes was no longer present. But soon she’d be out of pain. Right now she sounded like she was drowning in her own blood. And that hurt. He should know….
“I’ll be a saint,” he promised as he played with her hair in the way that she had always loved.
She smiled again, though he could barely detect it. “Remember?”
“What?” he asked when she didn’t go on. “What do you want me to remember?”
“I love….” But she didn’t finish. Her breathing spluttered for a moment before it stopped and he watched the last glimmer of her leave. Soon her eyes were staring blankly up at him, drying up like water in a desert, her heart and breathing no more. She was dead.
“Hara?” he cried, not wanting to accept what he knew to be true. “Hara?”
When she didn’t answer, Cain let out a wail so intense it scared even him. But he couldn’t control it.
“Why God? I know that I’ve made myself Your greatest enemy, but why? This isn’t fair. I’m sorry. I’m…I’m so sorry. She didn’t deserve this. Not Hara…. Not when it’s only because of my manipulations that she’s no longer Your Chosen One. Please? I’ll do anything; I’ll give You anything. Take my life, my immortality, and give it to her. Let me die and give her my life. Please God?” he sobbed to the very person he hadn’t gone to in this way for many years. He spoke to Him all the time, that was for sure, but it was always curses full of anger and hatred for His abandonment and the misery that He had wrought upon Cain.
“Please God. Take me. Take me instead. Even if it’s only to send me to Hell. Just take me instead of her. Please?” he cried.
“Please…” was all he could soon manage as he rocked Hara’s lifeless body back and forth, his wails slowly becoming hysterical. He didn’t care about anything in this moment other than her, the love of his life. Was th
ere nothing he could do? Nothing to bring her back? He was willing to do anything—sacrifice anything—if only He would answer his mournful cries….
But Cain already knew that He wouldn’t. Not after everything he’d done to Him. Not after years of shunning Him and doing whatever he could to ruin His plans for peace on Earth. He had pretty much been His own personal “Anti-Christ” since the beginning of time.
Also, He wouldn’t help Cain now after he’d spent the last five hundred years waiting for this very moment to take place. Since before Hara had even been born, Cain had been obsessed with this very end. It was the only way for him to win. The prophecy about her was only too clear on this. She had to die. Besides, this day had supposedly taken place twenty years ago when she was only a toddler. He should be happy to finally have what he’d wanted for so long. He should be taunting God with his victory.
But now that everything had ended this way, he could only ask himself two questions. Would he have chosen differently twenty years ago if he’d known this would be the outcome? Or would he still have killed everyone dear to her…?
Chapter One
***
Approximately Five Months Earlier
Sipping a glass of dark garnet wine, Cain looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his contemporary penthouse apartment at all of the twinkling lights deep within the most sought after real estate in downtown Los Angeles. Far below him people scuttled about like ants, as clueless about the reality of the world as the insects themselves were.
That naïveté was something he himself would never have, and he was glad of it. Not even millennia worth of life, and the evils therein, could make him wish for even a moment that he could be as oblivious as they were. He very much enjoyed the superiority that came with being the only person alive to know the truth of God and the history of the world. In fact, with his omniscient view of the city, he liked to consider himself a god. He certainly enjoyed playing with humans as much as the ancient gods of Greece and Rome had. But could he really be blamed? When you’re the only immortal being on the planet, you had to find things to amuse yourself with to pass the time.
He took another sip of the heady wine into his mouth and rolled it around his taste buds, attempting to discern every note within it. Smelling its luxurious bouquet of mint-eucalyptus-butter-soy-coffee-pine scent was one thing, but its other flavors exploded over his tongue like bubbles of velvety essence. When he rolled the liquid to one side he tasted the cherries, plums, cassis, and other berries. Then he rolled it the other way, and suddenly wood, cigar, and leather. This way and his taste buds would catch truffles, and that way, calla lily. Really, he could do this all night until he had discovered and determined each and every undercurrent the wine had. As he swallowed its smoothness, he closed his eyes to get every silky flavor at the forefront so he could truly enjoy it before it dissipated.
To the casual observer, had there been one, they would probably think that he never gave in to self-indulgence, which was why he was savoring this experience so. But that wasn’t true. He indulged his every desire. However, usually, he had the proverbial world on his shoulders and, therefore, could never fully enjoy any moment. His mind was always too full of manipulations, his heart too full of anger and revenge, or more minor things like annoyance. But, right now, he had been liberated of all of that. Right now, he was able to cast that off, for his future was now free. He could do whatever he wanted now that his five-century-long obsession had finally come to a resolution.
He had spent the past twenty years tying things up since having little Anahara—the girl the five-hundred-year-old prophecy had talked about—and her immediate family murdered. In all that time, he hadn’t touched American soil. But now he was back. He’d been back for three months. Three months since he had lost those “righteous” zealots who followed his every move. Three wonderful, blissful months free of Them and Their annoyances. It would be different this time. This time—this life he led—would be his chance to really enjoy himself for the first time in many years.
For now, he would keep his head low and play nice. He would no longer be “Cain, Adam’s First Son.” “Cain, The World’s First Murderer.” Now he would take upon himself a new name. Because he was immortal and never aged, he had to become a new person every decade or so. For the past couple of years he’d been in an ironic mood; a mood that made him hold his true self close at the same time that he pushed it away. This time—this life—he was to go by an anagram: “Inac.” “Inac Adamson” would be his identity for the next few years.
He knew that They knew this name because he’d used it twenty years ago when he’d shattered all their hopes and dreams by killing the child but, in all his years, he had never before recycled a name, so They would not be looking for him with it.
When he’d first used that name over two decades ago, he had purchased real estate all over Los Angeles. Then, over the past few years, using the same name, he’d purchased even more, including this lot. Upon doing so, he had immediately demolished the previous building and had this grand new complex built while he gallivanted throughout Europe with a different alias as They all watched. That way, They would not know that he was already making himself a life to slip into when he finally managed to escape Their prying eyes.
When reports came stating the entire building minus the top floor had been finished—he had wanted to do all the work himself on his apartment so he could put in a secret vault that wouldn’t be on any plans, as well as so his place would be exactly the way he wanted it—he had come out here, making a trek so erratic that They had lost him and wouldn’t know where he had gone.
It wasn’t that he feared Them. He just needed a vacation. A life that would be full of only decadence and enjoyment. And now that the work of building his penthouse apartment was finished, he could begin that life.
As if on cue, his phone rang from inside his pocket.
“Yes?” he asked without taking his eyes off his view.
“Sir,” his man, Santoni, said, his deep bass pleased. “I was able to set up the meeting you wanted. He tried to put it off a couple of days, but I talked him into tonight like you wanted.”
He had already planned on the meeting whether or not the club owner had said yes. He was used to people working around his schedule, as well as giving him everything he wanted.
“And you told him my name was Inac Adamson?” he asked, really hoping Santoni hadn’t become inept after their years together. So far, he had always been able to count on his man. Of course, when a person is properly motivated with their death should they fail, they always succeed.
“Yes, sir. Inac Adamson.”
With a smile, he turned and walked into his kitchen and began rinsing the empty glass.
“Good.” Then, without another word, he hung up the phone. Now, as “Inac Adamson,” he would go throw money at some club owner who had a very successful club/grill, but was going bankrupt because he didn’t know how to manage his funds. “Inac Adamson” would purchase that club and add it to his collection.
Ready to get this started, “Inac” threw on a simple black T-shirt and some jeans and walked toward the metal elevator that doubled as his front door. He had a meeting to get to. The moment he left this house, his quiet new life would officially begin….
***
“Hara! I need you to get back up front. And before you make some ‘witty’ comment, I don’t care that you haven’t gotten a break. It’s crazy out there!” her jerk of a boss Vinnie yelled as he tucked his white button-up shirt into the black slacks belted around his enormous stomach. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he topped it with a tacky leather jacket until he appeared, as her co-workers liked to say, like a bad imitation of a mafia hit man in movies. But she’d have to take their word for it since she’d never seen a mafia movie in her life.
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” she replied, rolling her eyes at her best friend Tracker—he was one of the cooks at the club—as she plopped another fry into her mo
uth.
“You know, I could always fire you. I have a million more of you girls begging to get a job here,” Vinnie said once he seemed to think that he looked presentable again. But really, his stomach only looked larger as it attempted to escape the meager buttons holding his shirt in place.
Not wanting to lose a job that paid as well as this one did, she made sure that her work uniform—a miniscule black spaghetti-strap mini-dress—was in place before walking out of the kitchen and into the loud and body-laden bar area, now unable to hear whatever other snide remark her boss would undoubtedly come up with. Putting on the rest of her “uniform,” she fluffed up her long cascade of thick blonde waves and flashed her pearly whites.
Tonight had been so busy that she hadn’t even had a chance to use the little girl’s room. But at least she’d be going home with such a large wad of cash that she would be able to pay all of her budgeted expenses and get tons more shoes this week.
“What can I get you?” she asked the first face she saw the moment she was back in her place behind the bar.
“I want a Fuzzy Navel, a Sex on the Beach….”
Either this guy was extremely gay or with a lot of lightweight girls who followed every trend no matter how ridiculous they were. It was funny how you could usually tell exactly what kind of a person someone was by the kind of drinks they consumed…or so she was told. She herself was partial to Shirley Temples. Okay, so maybe that was the only drink she’d tasted other than club soda, but it was way better than the latter. She really liked the cherry flavoring.
It wasn’t until past midnight that she noticed a man walking into the packed club, Vinnie sucking up to him major, basically following in the guy’s self-assured stride like a servant following his emperor, begging to do whatever he could for his master. The guy, dressed in a tight black tee and fashionably distressed jeans, looked like a rock star. And, since they came to the club all the time, it meant that he probably was one. From what she could see of him, he was at least a good-looking rock star; not one who only got girls because of fame, but because he was hot! Not the type of guy she was taught to like in the orphanage, but the type she liked. The bad boy type; the dangerous type.