Immortals After Dark 05 - Dark Needs at Nights Edge

And Elancourt is the entire world to her.
    Yet you threatened to burn it down.
    He tried to imagine being trapped alone here, if their situations were reversed. Yes, he was trapped as well, but he’d always known that sooner or later he’d get free.
    No wonder she’d cleaved to him so strongly. She’d been desperate.
    The back of his boot hit something. Bending down, he found a leather scrapbook. He brushed off a layer of dust and cracked it open, the stiff leather protesting.
    The pages were neatly marked, the contents—playbills and articles about her successes—meticulously lined in wax.
    He glanced up, half expecting her to appear and start haranguing him for trespassing in her secret room, but she was doubtless after that paper like a terrier starving for a bone. So he read... .
    One article was entitled Bastardizing Ballet? Not Just for the Cultural Elite Anymore. Néomi had made sure that children from the French Quarter and Story-ville were guaranteed seating at her performances.
    According to another article, Miss Néomi Laress had violated parish decency laws with her coterie on more than one occasion.
    Local Ballerina Courted by Russian Prince, read another headline. Conrad’s fingers bit into the leather. Always with the bloody Russians!
    When the interviewer asked Néomi if she was moving to Moscow anytime soon, she’d answered, “Leave New Orleans? Never, especially not for a man, prince or not. The city’s in my blood.” At least Néomi had been prophetic. Even death couldn’t make her leave.
    Why would she ever choose Conrad when she’d refused a prince? Disappointment settled over him like a weight on his chest. She’d said they were too different. In any other situation, he wondered if she would have glanced twice at Conrad.
    But then, everyone was a prince in Russia!
    Just as he was setting the album away, he found an article in the back that seemed to have been clumsily tacked on and was disintegrating in places without the wax treatment. Brows drawn, he read what he could:
    Famous Ballerina Savaged by
Spurned Oil Millionaire
    Néomi Laress, a colorful and well-regarded citizen of New Orleans, died in her home Saturday night when Louis Robicheaux, a first son of the city, stabbed her in the chest. Immediately after, he turned the blade on himself, slitting his own throat.
    ... from a past shrouded in mystery, Laress rose in the ranks of professional dancers, gaining national recognition as a prima ballerina...
    “It was so awful,” one witness said on the condition of anonymity due to the illegal alcohol served at the party. “She was still breathing when he twisted the knife in her chest and told her to feel it for him! There was blood everywhere, all over her. I thought I would faint.”
    Conrad’s shaking hands fisted on the sides of the album. He stared up at a mirror, and his eyes were redder than he’d ever seen them.
    Not only had she been murdered, the monster had made sure she’d... suffered. Conrad had known she’d been stabbed to death, had imagined her pain a thousand times. He couldn’t have imagined anyone would have taken hold of that blade and twisted it in Néomi’s fragile chest—while telling her to feel it for him.
    And I can’t even slaughter the miserable fuck.
    Stunned, he cupped one of her diminutive slippers in his hand, stroking his thumb over the silk. Her death had been horrific, her afterlife wretched—but he could make her existence better.
    As soon as he got free.
    Even if she didn’t want him as he wanted her, she was good and deserved more, certainly more kindness than he’d given her.
    His resolve renewed, he set the slipper away, then headed outside.
    When he reached the cutting stump, he grasped the ax. This operation would be problematic with his chains, but he thought he could get enough leverage to swing for one clean strike.
    Was this more madness? No. He would do this for her. Then what are you waiting for?
    Raising the ax, he regarded his hand pitilessly.
    Obstacle.

23

    “Maybe I can reach it,” Néomi murmured as she gazed at the paper. “And maybe I can’t.”
    In the end, she decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. She was turning her back on a possible paper, and she didn’t care. As she floated down the drive, a placid breeze blew and the stars were out in a cloudless night sky, and she couldn’t stop smiling over last night.
    She’d decided that she was going to give Conrad the key this eve, because she believed