Dark Needs at Night's Edge

18

"And we'd been doing so well... " Néomi muttered, which only angered Conrad more.

Over the last three days Conrad's road to recovery hadn't been straight and even—more curving, filled with hairpin turns and many double-backs.

They were presently on a double-back.

"Néomi, make the vow that you'll get me the key!" He paced menacingly in front of the window seat she occupied. "My brothers will doubtless return tonight."

They were already a day overdue. "I've told you I don't want to talk about this." Giving him his freedom wasn't even an option for her. Murdoch had said that Conrad would relapse if released too soon, and she still feared he would attack his brothers if he went into a rage at the wrong time.

If her resolve wavered, she had only to remind herself that Conrad had spit blood at Nikolai's face less than two weeks ago. For centuries, his loyal brothers had searched for him—Néomi wasn't going to be the blunderheaded ghost who stupidly freed him just when he was improving.

Hiding the key from him was risky—she could predict the anger she was inviting, but she didn't want Conrad to dwell on it, not when he was slowly but surely recovering. If he was aware that she had it, he would do nothing but browbeat her for it, obsessing over it.

She'd never lied to him, instead evading the subject, but she knew if he ever discovered she already had the means to his freedom hidden in a slipper in her studio he'd be murderous... .

He halted his pacing. "I know you see my brothers as heroes, but if I don't improve, they will kill me, Néomi."

She didn't believe that but knew she couldn't convince Conrad. "Do you think I would ever let you be harmed here?" Anyone who tried to kill her vampire would find himself tossed into the bayou pour les alligators.

"You don't understand what's at stake!" he snapped, raising his voice to just under yelling. "In case you didn't hear them, they're keen to 'put me out of my misery'!" A muscle in his jaw ticked—a portent that always signaled a rage was nearing.

Unfortunately, he still continued to have them. A male like him simply couldn't stand to be trapped. This situation was making him feel powerless on a continual basis, and he had difficulty moderating his aggression.

Sometimes he seemed like a powder keg about to go off. And yet she found an honesty, a purity about his fierceness. Louis had been all false faces and deception. Conrad's ferocity was raw and bare. You knew exactly what you were getting.

This didn't mean she would meekly accept it when he was hurtful. She'd once read an article about setting boundaries with the people in your life. If their behavior proved unacceptable to you, you didn't reward them with more attention. When Conrad grew unpleasant, she simply left—which had the lamentable outcome of angering him even more.

Eventually his temper would cool, and he'd find her at the folly or in the tangled garden. As he gazed at anything but her face, he'd hold out his hand and gruffly say something like "Come" or "Do not stay away... ."

"Damn it, Néomi! Why wouldn't you do this for me?"

When he punched her wall, she reached her limit. "I've asked you over and over not to damage my house, Conrad," she said in as calm a tone as she could manage. "My home might not look like much, but it's all I have. If you can't respect my wishes, then I don't want to be around you."

So he couldn't follow, she traced outside into the late-afternoon sun. Starting at the overgrown gardens. From there she floated along the buckling, overgrown path to the folly.

As she approached, she heard unseen creatures slipping beneath the water. They sensed her easily enough. Why couldn't others? Why did it have to be only Conrad et les animaux... ?

Anytime he tried to get control of his temper, he strode out here and paced. When she spied a worn path winding around the cypress knees along the bank, she felt another pang. What am I going to do with him?

He was trying so hard. And he had made progress.

She'd seen him take a rag to his dirty boots, cleaning them as best as he could, like the soldier he'd once been. He showered every day, brushed his teeth, and shaved. Well, maybe he shaved every other day. But she liked the stubble. Every sunset, she battled her repugnance and brought him a mug of the blood left by the brothers, which Conrad drank only because it obviously cost her so much to serve it. Already his color was better, his muscles growing even bigger.

And as he improved, they talked more and more—two people who desperately needed to. Often they'd hit a rhythm, a bandying back and forth, as if their thoughts were interlocking pieces. She'd told him, "When we talk, I like how our words ebb and flow. There doesn't seem to be a need to remark on each comment, no need to clarify—it's as if we both understand that we understand each other. It's like dancing."

"Or sex?"

She'd smiled. "Only if it's great."

He'd given her a confident nod. "Then we would have great sex."

Lord, we would... .

They seemed to fit in every way. Yes, he was half-mad, but as a Prohibition-era ghost with a penchant for stealing condoms, moon pies, and bras, she wasn't exactly in touch with reality herself.

Conrad could see her; her presence seemed to be the only thing that calmed his mind. He was healing, and she was happier than she'd been in eighty years. Two broken souls together in this broken place had found a kind of contentment.

Maybe his being here wasn't the accident she'd thought it. She couldn't believe this was all random. Maybe he was supposed to save her from this cursed afterlife?

And maybe she hadn't learned her lessons from Marguerite L'Are. If anyone was going to save Néomi, it'd be herself... .

At dusk, Conrad came to her.

Somehow looking both proud and contrite, he said, "I won't damage your house anymore."

"Merci d'avance."

He held out his hand. "I want you to come inside with me."

"No, Conrad, not tonight," she said, making him grind his teeth.

She knew her refusal frustrated him not only because he wanted to be near her. She believed he had a deep-seated need to protect her, as if she might actually need him to.

As if he felt that it was his right to.

Whenever he looked at her now, his eyes would darken in color and were becoming more and more possessive... .

"I might have damaged things, but I've repaired parts as well," he pointed out.

"C'est vrai." After finding some tools in the old shed by the drive, he'd fortified the manor, patching up or covering window openings and reattaching the front door he'd leveled.

Then, seeming to obey some undeniable instinct to keep her warm and safe, he'd set about rendering the master suite livable for her. He'd transferred the new mattress to the suite's bedstead, adding any available furniture to the area. In the attic, he'd unearthed an antique dresser and a chair that even she hadn't known were up there.

Once he'd miraculously cleared the chimney flue and was able to make a fire though he didn't seem to be cold and she certainly wasn't—he'd informed her that she would sleep with him in that room from now on.

His tone had reminded her that he'd been born an aristocrat and had become a warlord in the seventeenth century. Conrad Wroth was well used to having his will obeyed.

He'd seemed perplexed when she'd just laughed and deemed his domineering ways très charmant, and then he'd been angered when she'd reminded him that she already had a place to stay.

The fact that she had a hideaway she adjourned to every day annoyed him to no end...

"So you will come?"

When she made no move to, she could tell how badly he itched to force her inside. If she'd been corporeal, she had no doubt she'd be to force her inside. If she'd been corporeal, she had no doubt she'd be bouncing along over his shoulder as he hauled her away.

This mountain of a man was learning that his considerable might—which he'd clearly relied on for everything—was futile with her.

For once, her incorporeality was proving to be an advantage.

If he desired to be with her, then he either had to persuade her to come back or prevent her from leaving in the first place.

"I said not tonight." Willingly separating from him was just as miserable for Néomi. But she couldn't let him get accustomed to taking his anger out on her house—or her.

"Do as you will," he said in a seething tone, leaving her. But not before she spied that muscle tick in his jaw.

Late in the night, she'd just been dozing off in the studio when she heard his yell.

Before Néomi had even decided to, she'd traced to him. The second she arrived, he shot up in bed with another yell at the top of his lungs, so loud it rattled the windows.

When she hastened beside him, he swung his legs over to sit on the side of the bed.

"Conrad, it's all right. It was just a dream."

He held his head with his bound hands, elbows to his knees as he rocked. "My head... too full." He was squeezing it so hard, she feared he would crack his skull.

"Shh, shh, mon coeur." She gave a telekinetic stroke down his back. "It's over."

"I don't... I don't want to be like this anymore!" His tone was anguished.

"You're getting so much better," she murmured. "Soon you won't have these nightmares."

He narrowed his gaze at her, as if just noticing she was there. "You were... murdered—you remind me of the things I've done, of consequences," he choked out. "And you show me what I could have had... if I'd been... different." He grasped his head again and muttered, "You're what's wrong with my past. What has to be missing from my future."

She knew he would remember little to none of these words—but she would. "Conrad, your future's not settled. You can have good things in your life again."

"You're the perfect punishment for me."

"Oh." Stunned, she rose to leave.

He reached out to stay her. When he closed his big fist around air, he turned and struck the headboard with frustration. Eyes vacant, burning red, he rasped, "Did any man ever want his penance so much?"

She said nothing, just settled back beside him to stroke his hair from his forehead. She hated that he was in so much pain and wished she could draw it from him. He'd once been a hero, his life given over to something greater, but now he suffered.

Néomi had known that he was a broken man who needed saving. Over the last three days, she'd become convinced that he deserved saving.

Right at that moment, she realized it might just fall to her.

But how could she help him? She sighed, coaxing him to lie back once more. Néomi had been a dancer, raised in a demimonde concerned with little more than revelry and drinking. What did she know about bringing vampires back from the brink?

She'd simply have to use the tools she had at her disposal. And really, the medicinal values of Scotch and laughter were underrated.