Immortals After Dark 05 - Dark Needs at Nights Edge

the place back to life for you.”
    “Why not?” She sighed, stroking his hair from his forehead. “You did with its mistress.”
    A crash sounded from downstairs, followed by a bellow.
    Néomi gasped. “Was that Bowen? They’re still here?”
    “Oh, Christ, the witch!” Conrad said. “She got entranced.”
    “Take me to her, Conrad!” He helped her dry off and don a robe, then traced her to the studio.
    They found Bowen clutching Mari to his chest. He was covered with blood and gaping wounds all over his body, while Mari was pale and dazed.
    “It worked, then?” Bowen asked Conrad, but his attention was focused on the witch in his arms.
    “Yes, you have our thanks—”
    “I’m takin’ the lass home.” To Mari, he said, “And then you’re on indefinite leave.”
    Mari nodded weakly. “Never glancing at a mirror again. Never.”
    As Bowen stood, carrying Mari into the glass, she peeked back from his arms, her expression pensive. Just before they disappeared, Mari put her forefinger over her lips, a warning to Néomi.
    What does that mean? Néomi’s brows drew together.
    And then they were gone, leaving unbroken glass behind. As Néomi peered at the mirror, her reflection flashed to her ghostly visage and back.

43

    The weeks that followed her embodying would have been the happiest of Néomi’s life.
    If not for the fact that I came back wrong, she thought, stroking Conrad’s hair from his forehead as he slept... .
    Shortly after her return, they’d married without fanfare. Initially, she’d been weak from the events of that turbulent night, but as soon as she’d recovered enough, Conrad had gotten a Lore officiate to perform the simple ceremony at Elancourt.
    She’d felt guilty marrying Conrad without revealing her misgivings to him. Especially when she’d learned that Bowen had barely managed to pry Mari from the glass. The spell had somehow gone awry.
    Néomi could feel it. She was altered.
    She continued her new habit of sleeping during the day, but now she only needed about four hours. She could leave or take food, though Conrad had learned her favorite dishes and tempted her with delicacies from all over the world.
    She’d tried to call Mari, but was told that she and Bowen were on an island off the coast of Belize or somewhere fantastic like that.
    Though Néomi yearned to confess her new secret to Conrad, she didn’t want to worry him—this was the best he’d ever done. He was just so excited, making plans for them, eager to start their life together. He’d already begun restoring Elancourt, and he was happy, genuinely satisfied with what he imagined the future held for them.
    Yet when Néomi had healed from a small cut in under an hour, she’d been so confounded that she’d tentatively broached the subject. “I worry, Conrad. Sometimes, I don’t think I’m... human,” she’d told him.
    “Of course, you are,” he’d said, gathering her into his arms and spinning her around until she was forced to smile. “What else could you be?”
    The morning after her embodying, Néomi had woken to the sound of hammering. Conrad had taken his task of restoring Elancourt very seriously. But once she was well on the road to recovery, his labors were hindered by the fact that she found his sweat-slicked body irresistible.
    Whenever she came upon him with his shirt off and his muscles all hot and lathered, she had to have him. “I’m back to normal,” she’d informed him. “And normal for me is quite lusty.” He’d declared himself “eagerly at your service.”
    One day she’d found him in the studio, but hadn’t thought he’d heard her. She’d gazed at him with pride and a desire so strong it had left her shaken.
    As he’d lovingly oiled the mahogany barre, he’d said, “I’ll see you dance here.” His voice had been husky, as if he was imagining it even then. “I’ll watch you for hours, then I’ll taste your damp skin.”
    They hadn’t made it even close to getting to the bed... .
    His care had made her long to dance again, to use this studio as she’d never been able to. Once she’d gotten stronger, she’d begun practicing again, her love for it undimmed by time.
    Néomi could never take the stage again, but she’d decided to open a Lore ballet school. There was not a single one in existence, and she’d been heartbroken to learn that many Lore children—with their horns and wings and siren screams—couldn’t attend human classes.
    When she’d asked