Dark Needs at Night's Edge iad-5

by Kresley Cole

  Suddenly, the underfloor web of attached heating pipes burst up through the floor, foot after foot of groaning metal and exploding marble and splinters.

  The three men dove for him once more, the pile of them skidding to a stop right at her slippers.

  She gaped. Her home, her beloved home. In fifteen minutes, the madman had wrought more destruction to Elancourt than it had sustained in the last eighty years.

  Her hands fisted. Control it. But her hair had already begun to swirl about her face, rose petals floating in a tempest around her body. Outside, the wind kicked up, streaming through the holes in the high windows, sweeping the grit and dust until she was able to see all the destruction.

  The marble! When her eyes watered with frustration, rain poured outside.

  Tamp it down.

  Too late. Lightning bombarded the house, illuminating the night like successive bomb blasts. From under the pile of men, Conrad yanked his head up at her.

  In a flash, Néomi twisted round, sweeping her hair over her face as she dissipated. Reemerging on the landing, she gazed down at him.

  Conrad continued to stare at the spot where she'd stood, blinking and easing his struggles as if dumbfounded.

  Had he... had he possibly seen her?

  No one ever had before. Ever. She'd been so uniformly ignored for so long that she'd begun to wonder if she truly existed.

  Up close, she'd been able to see that the whites of his eyes were... red. She'd thought he'd been injured, with burst blood vessels shooting across, but in fact, they were wholly glazed with red.

  What were these beings? Could they truly be... vampires? Even in light of what she'd become, she still struggled to believe in anything supernatural.

  With a shake of his head, Conrad frenziedly renewed his flight for the door, gaining inches, even as the three wrestled with him.

  "I didn't want to have to do this, Conrad!" Nikolai said, digging into his jacket pocket. As the others pinned Conrad, he bit the end off what appeared to be a syringe and injected its contents into Conrad's arm.

  Whatever it was slowed him, making him blink his red eyes again and again.

  "What did you give him?" Sebastian asked.

  "It's a concoction from the witches—part medical, part mystickal. It should knock him out."

  For how long would it knock Conrad out? How long were they expecting him to stay here? To spit across her floor and roar within her halls? She'd be damned if she allowed another of Louis's ilk to taint her home once more! This Conrad was an animal. He should be put down. Or at the very least, put out.

  She'd show these trespassers power like they'd never seen, sweeping them into the yard like trash! She'd toss them by their feet all the way to the bayou! Néomi would demonstrate what happened when a ghost went poltergeist—

  "Where... is she?" Conrad grated between heaving breaths.

  Néomi froze. He couldn't be talking about her, couldn't have seen her.

  "Who, Conrad?" Nikolai demanded.

  Just before the shot knocked him unconscious, he rasped, "Female... beautiful."

  3

  Dawn had come and gone, and still Néomi was reeling. Because apparently Elancourt was filled to the rafters with real vampires.

  Any lingering doubt had evaporated when she'd seen the brothers vanish and reappear as they'd gone about repairing parts of the house.

  And this wasn't even the most astonishing development of the night. When Conrad had said, "Female... beautiful," had he possibly been talking about her?

  Now she could only wait impatiently for him to regain consciousness so she could find out.

  He remained as the brothers had left him last night—lying on the new mattress they'd brought in for him, with his wrists chained together behind him, his muddy boots and the ankle restraints removed. His ripped clothing had dried, the material stiff with dirt. The angry red gashes on his chest had healed within mere hours.

  She floated in a sitting position above the foot of the bed wondering how much longer he would be out. She'd thought all vampires would be comatose during the day, but his brothers were in and out downstairs, busily teleporting goods into the manor.

  This waiting was unbearable. Because he possibly... saw me. Yes, no one ever had before, and, yes, this development was based solely on the idea that he'd deemed her beautiful. Maybe if he wasn't one to quibble about pink cheeks and the appearance of blooming health... ?

  Néomi didn't necessarily seek an acknowledgment of her presence. She could float a sheet spray-painted with "Bonjour! from le spectre!" if she wanted bad attention, or a possible exorcism. No, she wanted to be seen. She yearned to converse.

  The possibility of this meant that all her grand plans to evict them had evaporated, her rancor over the damage to Elancourt temporarily soothed. Now she wanted to keep them close—especially Conrad.

  Curiosity ruled her. Why after eighty years of sporadic tenants had the blood-spitting vampire been able to see her? Why not his brothers? When they'd been chaining up Conrad for the day, she'd waved her hands, yelling as loud as she could. She'd even thrown herself through their torsos, to no effect.

  Was Conrad able to see her because he alone had red eyes?

  She stood to float from one peeling blue wall to the other. The brothers had unerringly chosen for Conrad the Blue Room, the most masculine of all the guest rooms. The heavy curtains were a deep navy, and the spare pieces of furniture—the bedstead, the nightstand, and a high-backed chair by the fireplace—were dark and stout.

  Though she'd expected them to sleep in coffins, they'd put Conrad in the made-up bed. She'd also believed that even indirect sun would burn them, but the room was aglow with enough pallid sunlight to illuminate the dust motes. And when the curtains wavered from a draft in the house, light would encroach all the way up to his feet.

  He turned over on his back then, reminding her how massive he was, his broad shoulders seeming to span the bed, his feet hanging over the end. He must be over six and a half feet tall.

  She floated above him, tilting her head as she peered down. He looked to be in his early thirties, but it was difficult to tell with the mud and blood covering his face. With a nervous swallow, she concentrated and used telekinesis to draw back his upper lip, jabbing his nose before she got it right.

  She saw a slash of white teeth gleaming against his dirty face and... unmistakable fangs. Just like in the novels she'd read long ago. Just like in the vampire movies the last young couple had loved to watch.

  How had these men become vampires? Were they turned? Or born that way?

  At that moment a loud bang sounded from downstairs. Though she dearly wanted to investigate what they were doing to her house, she feared Conrad would wake in her absence.

  The brothers had already boarded many of the windows that didn't have heavy curtains, and had brought in folding chairs, mattresses, and sheets—even a modern refrigerator. The plumbing had been repaired in the master bathroom. Earlier, electricity had surged to life so abruptly that the lightbulb and fixture overhead had popped and shattered, raining glass.

  She'd floated the shards off the prisoner, a good move because he now began to twist in the tangled sheets.

  When his ripped shirt rode up a few inches, she noticed a thin scar beginning just above the waistline of his loose pants. How long was it? She waved her hand to tug the shirt farther up his torso. The scar continued. Nibbling her lip, she painstakingly manipulated the buttons until she could unfasten them all and spread the sides wide.

  The scar nearly reached up to his heart. It appeared as if a razor-sharp blade had entered at his stomach and slashed upward.

  When she could drag her gaze from the mark, she surveyed his bared chest. It was broad and generously packed with muscle. With his hands behind his back, those rippling muscles seemed to flex even at rest. His entire torso looked hard as rock, with not a spare ounce on him.

  She wondered what his skin would feel like. She would never know... .
>
  His pants waist sat so low that she could see the line of crisp, black hair descending from his navel. That dusky trail taunted her to ease his pants lower, but she resisted—barely.

  The men Néomi had been attracted to in the past had been older and handsome in a soft, cultured way. In contrast, this male was all hardness and sharp edges.

  So why did she find his battle-scarred body so attractive?

  "Oh, wake up, Conrad," she said with difficulty. Speaking was an arduous undertaking for her—she often felt like she was trying to shove elephant-sized sounds through a pinhole. To her, the words came out echoing and extended. "Just... wake up." She wanted to jump on the bed or scream in his ear. If she'd had a bucket of water—

  Conrad's eyes shot wide open.

  He comes to. The light is murder on his sensitive eyes. Pain shoots through him. He grits his teeth against waves of it.

  Get free. He fights his bonds. Limbs feel leaden. Drugged. Rage stabs him, the need to kill strangles him like clenched hands around his own throat.

  How long have I been out? He remembers where he is. The manor—as forbidding as he'd sensed it would be. When he'd been in the car, the sight of it had made him sweat and thrash.

  The feeling of being watched is multiplied here, the tingle on the back of his neck unrelenting.

  He tenses. He'd seen... had he seen a spill of shining black hair as some female twirled round? Can't determine what's real and what's illusion. Before she vanished, he'd thought he'd glimpsed blue eyes going wide with surprise. He'd smelled roses and had seen a bared shoulder—slim and impossibly pale. Yet no one else had reacted to her.

  Which means she can't be real.

  Anything he sees that others don't is suspect. She's likely a figment in his mind from another's memory. Someone that he's drunk had known her as a wife, a mistress... or one of their own victims.

  He strains harder against the chains. Nothing. Metal like this shouldn't be able to hold him. Unless... Mystickally reinforced.

  Damn his brothers to hell! Why in the fuck would they bring him here? This place feels wrong, menacing. He doesn't know how or why. Doesn't care. Just know I have to get free.

  Suddenly the smell of roses surrounds him. I'm not alone in this room. Though he sees nothing, there's another presence here. Is it the female from before? Was there a female before? He begins to sweat.

  Something is inches from him, creeping closer... he could swear he feels warm breaths against his ear. He writhes, baring his fangs in warning. The need to kill seethes inside him.

  Closer... closer...

  From directly beside his ear he scarcely hears a voice. He can't make out the faltering words.

  But he senses expectancy—a yearning that hits him in roiling waves. His head feels like it's about to explode. He's supposed to do something. "What? What?" He doesn't know... doesn't know what he's supposed to do...

  He hates this need he senses.

  "Seeeeee meeeeee?" the faint voice says. He jerks his head back and forth. Sees nothing.

  He lunges upright, feeling a shock of something, like static electricity.

  Conrad's body drifted through hers, making her gasp and him shudder.

  He stumbled to his feet. Confusion appeared to mount within him. "Someone's here. Real?" His voice sounded even raspier than last night.

  "Conrad, be calm," she said slowly.

  His eyes glowed a deeper red. "Show—yourself!" Could he possibly be responding to her words? Or did he merely have some kind of vampire's sense that he wasn't alone?

  With a low growl, he backed against the wall as he worked on the manacles. Finally he looped his bound hands under his feet to bring them forward. Seeming to relish the chance to fight, he intently scanned the room for an enemy, for a kill.

  As Néomi hovered about him, waving her hand in front of his face, his eyes darted wildly, his head jerking right, then left. Frowning, she brandished her forefinger, stabbing his eye, passing straight through it.

  He didn't blink.

  She floated backward as if pushed. He can't see me. Heavy disappointment settled over her.

  Beautiful female? Just the ramblings of a madman. She'd seized on the words no matter how unlikely they were because she'd been desperate.

  The elation of the night had set her up for the bitterest disappointment. She gave one last frantic wave at his eyes—

  He snapped his teeth, the sound like a bear trap; she reacted with a startled cry and raised her hands, shoving him away, sending him like a cannonball into the high-backed chair. When the chair slammed into the opposite wall, it collapsed from the impact, exploding into a cloud of splinters, tufts of upholstery filler, and plaster.

  Battling to be freed from the shambles, he yelled in a foreign language, what had to be oaths. Yet he appeared to like the violence—or at least to be accustomed to it.

  "Conrad... wait!" she managed to bite out. Where are the brothers? With their syringes? Yes, the three men were in and out, but they were never gone long.

  Once he made it to his feet, he began tearing through the room, banging on the walls with his chained hands, knocking holes in the brittle plaster.

  "Stop hurting... my house!"

  He didn't. Instead, he snatched up the fireplace tools and swung them round, chucking them with so much force that the poker embedded itself into the brick of the fireplace, bobbing there. When his frenzied gaze landed on the defenseless nightstand, she said, "No closer."

  Conrad charged for it. Without thinking, she swept him up to the ceiling. He closed his eyes tight, then opened them, seeming astounded to be still regarding the floor.

  He thrashed and fought her hold. He was strong, and soon she was forced to drop him, more hastily than she'd intended—he landed flat on his face. When he rose, she saw that his forehead was gushing blood into his eyes and alongside his nose.

  She hadn't meant to hurt him! "Dieu, je regrette!"

  "Conrad!" Nikolai yelled from downstairs, appearing in the doorway a split second later. He swept a baffled glance over the chaotic scene. "What the hell are you—"

  Nikolai never finished his question because Conrad swung his bound arms at him. As though hit by a battering ram, Nikolai flew out of the room and over the landing to the first floor.

  Conrad charged out the door with a wide-eyed Néomi right behind him. Though his speed was still superhuman, he was slower than he'd been last night—even with his ankles free. They'd already weakened him drastically.

  As Nikolai lumbered to his feet, Sebastian stood on the stairs, arms outstretched. But Conrad planted his chained hands on the railing and leapt down, evading any contact. When he turned toward the front entry, he found Murdoch barring his way.

  Nikolai yelled, "Conrad, it's impossible for you to leave! Damn it, the sun!"

  What would happen to Conrad in the direct light of day? She gasped when he charged Murdoch, tackling him into the mahogany front doors. They wrenched one completely free of its hinges, flattening it onto the front porch.

  Just before they surged into the morning sun, Murdoch traced back to the protective cover of the porch; Conrad continued. Should she try to stop him?

  Nikolai started to follow, but Sebastian snatched his shirt and lugged him back to the shade. "He won't get far, Nikolai."

  Néomi stood beside the brothers. Out of habit, she shaded her eyes as the four of them watched Conrad racing down the drive. I didn't mean to drop him like that. He must be so bewildered.

  "He's going to burn," Nikolai said, sounding in pain.

  Just as Néomi had, Murdoch put his hand to his forehead. "And then he's going to learn."

  The sun sears his eyes as if they've been doused with acid. Fight on. The bayou is just down the drive, then across the road. He can scent the dark water.

  His skin begins to burn. He grits his teeth against the pain.

  Bayou just across the road. He can make it, could survive in the shade there. Flames growing.

  He nears
the property line. Gaining distance away from whatever entity seems bent on tormenting him. A being he can't see to fight, with no throat to savage. A disembodied voice had echoed all around him.

  Almost there... Burning... burning...

  Suddenly his sight goes black; a force shoves him back on his ass. Once his vision clears, his eyes widen. Crumbling blue walls surround him. He yells in disbelief. Confusion wells.

  The same bedroom! He's in... the same goddamned room.

  Crouched on the floor, he knocks his head against the wall again and again until the needle pierces his arm.

  4

  Something is happening to the patient.

  Over the last week, Néomi had begun noticing an eerie awareness in those red eyes that wasn't there before, the blankness in his gaze receding with each day.

  And she would know. She'd done little else but study him since his bizarre return, seldom retiring to her own room—her secret studio, hidden downstairs. Even now as Conrad lay in the bed once more, sleeping, she floated above the end of his mattress, continuing her vigil.

  When he'd returned that first morning, he'd been raging, banging his head against the wall as if to blunt whatever was inside his mind. Plaster had snowed down on him and stuck to his bloody cheeks. Once the brothers had rechained him—tethering him to the bed this time—Conrad had been unreachable, drugged and muttering foreign words in his low, harsh voice.

  To be fair, she would've been addled, too. One moment she'd been watching him running, the next she'd heard his unholy roar just upstairs.

  No longer was Néomi the only one trapped here. Apparently, witches truly had put a boundary spell on Elancourt. As long as Conrad wore those chains, he couldn't cross the property line. The chains also rendered it impossible for him to teleport—or trace, as they called it.

  Néomi couldn't put her finger on exactly when she'd first sensed a change in him. Whenever his brothers had spoken to him, Conrad had muttered incoherently, and yet she'd begun to get the feeling that he was... coherent. At least intermittently.