Immortals After Dark 05 - Dark Needs at Nights Edge

Squeezing—
    Wood creaks behind him. He shoves back and heaves his brothers at a new enemy. Too late; that Lykae’s returned and slashes out with flared claws, ripping through his torso. Blood gushes.
    He roars with fury and charges the werewolf, dodging claws and teeth with uncanny speed to barrel him to the ground. Just as his hands are about to meet around the Lykae’s corded neck, the beast claps something to his right wrist.
    A manacle? Clenching harder, he grates out a rasping laugh. “You don’t think that will hold me?” Bones begin to pop beneath his palms. The kill is near, and he wants to yell with pleasure.
    The werewolf cuffs his left wrist.
    What is this? The metal won’t bend. Won’t break. They goddamned mean to take me alive? He leaps to his feet, tensing to trace. Nothing. Sebastian on the floor, pouring blood from his temple, has him by the ankles.
    He kicks Sebastian, connecting squarely with his brother’s chest. Ribs crack. He whirls around—in time to catch the bar rail the Lykae swings at his face.
    He staggers but remains on his feet.
    “What the fuck is he?” the Lykae bellows, swinging the rail again with all his might.
    The brutal hit takes him across his neck. A split second of faltering. Enough for his brothers to tackle him.
    He thrashes and bites, snapping his fangs. Can’t break free... can’t... They attach the manacles at his wrists to another chain. He kicks viciously, stunned when they trap his legs as well.
    Choking with rage, he strains against his bonds with all his strength. The metal cleaves his skin to the bone. Nothing.
    Caught. He roars, spitting blood at them, dimly hearing them speak.
    “I hope you came up with a good place to put him,” Sebastian says between ragged breaths.
    “I bought a long-abandoned manor,” Nikolai grates, “place called Elancourt.”
    Chills course through him even through his fury; pain erupts from the injury on his arm. A dream. His doom. He can never go to this Elancourt—knows this with a savage certainty. He’s too strong for them to trace him—there’s still time to escape.
    If they take him there, they won’t take him alive... .

    Under a clouded nighttime sky, the spirit of Néomi Laress knelt in the drive at the very edge of her property line, gazing hungrily at the newspaper, lying wrapped in wet plastic.
    Today the deliveryman—that capricious fiend—had missed the drive again, this time tossing the bundle squarely onto the desolate county road.
    Néomi was starving for that paper, desperate for the news, reviews, and commentary that would break up the monotony of her life—or her eighty-year-long afterlife.
    But she couldn’t leave the estate to seize it. As a ghost, Néomi could manipulate matter telekinetically, and her power was nearly absolute at Elancourt—she could rattle all the windows or tear off the roof if she wanted to, and the weather often changed with her emotions—but not outside the property.
    Her beloved home had become her prison, her eternal cell of fifteen acres and a slowly dying manor. Among fate’s other curses, each seemingly designed to torture her in personal and specific ways, Néomi could never leave this place.
    She didn’t know why this was so—only that it was, and had been since she’d awakened the morning after her murder. She recalled seeing her haunting reflection for the first time. Néomi remembered that exact moment when she’d realized that she’d died—when she’d first comprehended what she’d become.
    A ghost. She’d become something that frightened even her. Something unnatural. Never again to be a lover or friend. Never to be a mother, like she’d always planned after her dancing career. As a storm had boiled outside, she’d silently screamed for hours.
    The only thing she could be thankful for was that Louis hadn’t been trapped here with her.
    She stretched harder. Must... have that... paper!
    Néomi wasn’t certain why it continued to arrive. A past article had recounted the problems inherent with “recurrent billing of credit cards,” and she supposed she was the benefactress of her last tenant’s credit card negligence. The delivery could end at any time. Every one was precious.
    Eventually she gave up, defeated, sitting back in the weed-ridden drive. Out of habit, she made movements as if she was rubbing her thighs, yet felt nothing.
    Néomi could never feel. Never again. She was incorporeal, as substantial as the mist rolling in from the