Immortals After Dark 05 - Dark Needs at Nights Edge

dancing? You must have the wrong girl. I’m naught but a humble ballet dancer, a mere delicate sparrow.
    —Néomi Laress, prima ballerina, former femme fatale and burlesque dancer
(b. approx. 1901—d. August 24, 1927)

    I hereby vow to devote my life to annihilating the vampiir. None shall know my presence and live.
    — Conrad Wroth, age thirteen, upon being inducted into the Order of Kapsliga Uur in the year 1609

Prologue

    New Orleans
August 24, 1927

    I’ll kill you for spurning me... .
    Struggling to block out memories of Louis Robicheaux’s latest threat, Néomi Laress stood at the top of her grand staircase and gazed out over the packed ballroom.
    As she might cradle a babe, she held bouquets of roses swathed in silk. They were gifts from some of the men in the crowd of partygoers below, a motley mix of her rollicking set, rich patrons, and newspaper reporters. A sultry bayou breeze slid throughout the space, carrying strains of music from the twelve-piece orchestra outside.
    ... you’ll beg for my mercy.
    She stifled a shiver. Her ex-fiancé’s behavior had become more chilling of late, his atonement gifts more extravagant. Néomi’s long-standing refusal to sleep with Louis had frustrated and angered him, but breaking off their relationship had enraged him.
    The look in his pale eyes earlier tonight... She gave herself an inward shake. She’d hired guards for this event—Louis couldn’t get to her.
    One admirer, a handsome banker from Boston, noticed her aloft and began to clap. The throng joined in, and in her mind she envisioned a curtain going up. With a slow, gracious smile, she said, “Bienvenue to you all,” then began descending her stairs.
    No one would ever sense her anxiety. She was a trained ballerina, but above all things, she was an entertainer. She would work this room, dispensing teasing nibbles of sarcasm and softly spoken bons mots, charming any critics and coaxing laughter from even the most staid.
    Though her arms already ached from cradling so many bouquets, and flashbulbs went off in glaring succession, her smile remained fixed. Another gliding step down.
    She’d be damned before she’d let Louis ruin her night of triumph. Three hours ago, she’d given the performance of a lifetime to a sold-out house. For tonight’s soirée celebrating her newly renovated estate, Elancourt, the Gothic manor house was resplendent with the glow of a thousand candles. Through her dancing, she’d paid for the painstaking restoration of her new home and all the sumptuous furnishings inside it.
    Every detail for the party was perfect, and outside, a sliver moon clung to the sky. A lucky moon.
    Her dress for this evening was a more risqué version of the costume she’d worn earlier, the satin as black as her jet hair. It had a tight bodice that she laced up the front like a bygone corset and a slit in the skirt that almost reached up to where her garter belt snapped to her stockings. Her makeup was styled after the Hollywood vamps—she’d kohled her eyes with a smoky hue, donned lipstick of oxblood red, and painted her short nails a dark crimson.
    With her jeweled choker and dangling earrings, the ensemble had cost a small fortune, but tonight was worth it—tonight all her dreams had finally come true.
    Only Louis could ruin it. She willed herself to ignore her apprehension, inwardly cursing him in English and in French, which helped ease her tension.
    Until she nearly stumbled on the stairs. He was there, standing at the periphery, staring up at her.
    Usually so perfect and kempt, he had his tie loosened, his blond hair disheveled.
    How had he gotten past the guards? Louis was filthy rich—had the bastard bribed them?
    His bloodshot eyes were burning with a maniacal light, but she assured herself that he wouldn’t dare harm her in front of so many. After all, there were hundreds of people in her home, including reporters and photographers.
    Yet she wouldn’t put it past him to make a scene or expose her scandalous history to everyone. Her uptown patrons winked at her and her friends’ colorful antics, but they had no idea what she was—much less of her past occupation.
    Chin raised and shoulders back, she continued down, but her hands were clenching the roses. Resentment warred with her fear. So help her, God, she’d scratch his eyes out if he ruined this for her.
    Just before she reached the bottom step, he began elbowing his way toward her. She tried to signal the burly guard at