Immortals After Dark 05 - Dark Needs at Nights Edge

countless offspring of Conrad’s victims, all seeking to avenge their fathers, swords in hand.
    And it was only a matter of time before he became the target of Rydstrom Woede, the fallen king of the fierce rage demons, and Cadeon, his heir.
    Conrad had come by information that they would kill for.
    Dozens of demonarchies held Conrad as enemy number one; he worried about none of them—except for the Woede, as the pair was called.
    None of these adversaries would hesitate to destroy anyone who stood in their way. It was possible that Conrad and his brothers could be taken down without his lifting a finger.
    “Are you ready to drink?” Nikolai asked.
    “The only thing I drink that’s not fresh from the vein is whiskey,” he lied.
    In the past, Conrad had drunk bagged blood, but he refused now. Though he was getting thirstier, he didn’t need nourishment as often as other vampires, and he’d be damned if he bent to their will in this.
    Murdoch had called him stubborn, and Conrad couldn’t deny it. After being captured, chained, and drugged, Conrad wouldn’t prove obliging to their futile plans—especially when he wouldn’t be here much longer.
    He’d noted that each brother had a key to his chains. When the ghost returned, he would get her to steal one. And then he’d be gone.
    Nothing could be simpler.

11

    Two goddamned days. The female hadn’t come back to his room for two days. For that time, Conrad alternated between a burning desire to get free and a need to discover what she was to him.
    During the nights, his brothers had returned and tried to reach him, but he had no time for them. Even if he was improving, the part of him that might have responded to his family was dead.
    Besides, his mind was consumed with thoughts of Néomi.
    Now he gritted his teeth, struggling to remain calm. He was trapped, unable to seek her out. If he went into another rage, his brothers might force him to leave this place, jailing him somewhere else.
    And he wasn’t through here, not yet, not until he figured out if she was affecting his mind. Though he was still having episodes of uncontrollable violence, his aggression and rage were becoming more manageable. Just the fact that he’d pulled back from the edge in the shower attested to that.
    Maybe it’s not her—maybe it’s something about the house. After all, he was lucid now, and she wasn’t here.
    No, that didn’t matter. He could still sense her constantly. Yesterday, it had drizzled all day, and he could swear he’d felt that she was... sad. He routinely heard her late in the night, roaming the hallways of her home. He could make out the ghostly rustle of her skirts or even an occasional sigh. When she passed his room’s door, he perceived the change in the air and had learned to search for that faint scent of roses.
    He’d called for her, but it was always Nikolai who’d hastened into the room. “Who are you talking to?” he’d asked in an anxious tone.
    Now Conrad felt like he suffered a different kind of madness. Need to find her. Want her here. Questions about her plagued him. She wore jewelry—earrings, a choker, a wide band on her forefinger—but she’d had no wedding ring. If this had been her property, then she’d been wealthy, but apparently she wasn’t wed. And he didn’t think she’d been born well-off—there was something about her demeanor that spoke of a past with nothing to lose.
    Would a dancer have made enough to afford this place?
    Hell, with her sensuality and complete lack of inhibitions, she could have been a courtesan.
    She’d have made a fortune.
    Whoever this Néomi had been in life, she was now dead. Was he sick to desire a woman’s ghost so much? Over the past two days, he’d envisioned her nude form again and again. He might not have been hard for her before, but he’d wanted to be.
    He was sick. Not only mad, but sick.
    If Conrad was wise, he’d crush this growing obsession with the ghost and get on with his business, with his escape.
    He was driven; he wouldn’t be sidetracked because he couldn’t stop recalling how she’d arched those pale breasts right to his hands.

    At twilight, the last of the sun’s rays painted the bayou in hazy hues. Along the cypress-cluttered banks, moss dripped from limbs. A rickety folly persisted near the water’s edge.
    Decades ago, this little inlet of Elancourt’s had been navigable, but over the years, debris and grasses had choked the cove until the area looked more