"Nineteen fifteen?" Delilah echoed, her teeth bared slightly as her hand went white-knuckled on her fork. That was just over three hundred years from her own time.
Three hundred years that bitch lived on, when her own children would never see their fifth birthday. But there was nothing to be done. Dante was not there, and there was no one to strike, to hurt for this. She swallowed back the bitter rage and stabbed an innocent strawberry with the fork, her hand trembling as she lifted it to her mouth.