Immortals After Dark 05 - Dark Needs at Nights Edge

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