Dark Needs at Night's Edge

19

"Who's your best friend, mon grand?" she cooed, levitating two bottles. "Who does Conrad love?"

He was kneeling at the fireplace, finishing his fire. Outside the night was blustery, but inside it would be comfortable. "What have you got?" He stood, brushing his hands off on his pants, then sat on one of the chairs in front of the hearth.

"A gift for you."

"A... gift?" Even he knew his tone sounded perplexed.

"Oui, also known as a present. Or as the French say, un présent."

He accepted the bottles from her, dusting off the label of one. His jaw slackened. "This is Glen Garioch, nineteen twenty-five!" He hesitated even to read the other label. "My God," he breathed. "Macallan, 'twenty-four. Néomi, this is about a hundred thousand dollars' worth of whiskey. I can't drink this—you could sell it. Or have someone sell it for you."

"What would I do with money? I have plenty in my safe. Besides, I'd get much more pleasure out of seeing you drink it." She hovered just behind him, peering over his shoulder, which put her soft words right at his ear. "And then you must describe it to me, very slowly, in that deep, rumbly voice of yours. Is it smoky or earthy like peat? How does it unfold on your tongue? How long does it take for the heat to stroke through you inside?"

She could read the phone book and make it sound erotic. "You're sure?"

"Cheers!" She gave him an odd little smile as she said, "Á votre santé." To your health.

"Then I want to drink this and watch you dance."

She looked delighted with him; he'd never get enough of that look. "I want to dance and watch my vampire drink."

My vampire... Damn, he liked it when she called him that. He knew it was flirting at best, but he couldn't stem the flush of pleasure.

He opened the Macallan, letting it breathe. The scent of it hit him, and his lips curled. This would not be whiskey that he would use, as he had in the past. For one thing, he didn't need it to dull his rage as much as he had before. More importantly, a bottle like this demanded to be savored—

"I'll be back," she said, then vanished.

He tensed, anxious whenever she left, but she returned in minutes, bearing a windup gramophone over one hand and a crystal tumbler over the other. She handed him the glass, then positioned the gramophone on the floor. Once she'd wound it and set the record needle in place, scratchy music began to play, a slow jazz ballad.

Making her voice like an announcer's, she said, "And now! For the matinee! The supremely talented Miss Laress will perform for a lucky audience! Of one!" She smiled coyly. "I've remembered an old dance I used to do when I was younger. I think you'll like it... ."

As his rare whiskey breathed, Conrad leaned back in the chair in front of the fire, watching the most beautiful female he'd ever seen dance solely for him.

Though Néomi wasn't blushing with color, she was still lovely to him—especially when she moved. Hypnotic. This dance was so effortless for her, she would turn to him in the middle of pirouettes or standing splits to smile or wink at him.

Néomi lived in the moment, laughed easily, flirted constantly. Her natural state was happiness, which both mystified and attracted him. Over his long life, that state had continually eluded him. But she had a theory why: "People think happiness will simply fall into their laps. You have to aspire to it. And sometimes you have to seize it when it's kicking and screaming."

Néomi had been murdered, possessed no body, and was still seizing all the pleasure she could. Conrad respected that.

Now she danced as if she knew by instinct precisely how to attract him alone. How to be irresistible to him. So why try to resist? Why struggle against his attraction?

Because even if she returned his feelings, he would only end up disappointing her.

He was improving here, but he wasn't right in the mind by any means, still suffering from occasional rages and grueling nightmares. How would he do once freed into the real world? Would he be able to keep from drinking his foes when he was addicted to harvesting their power?

For centuries his adversaries had been determined to discover anything he cared for. But then, that was an unspoken rule in the Lore. Immortals could be blasé about death after living so long—the best bargaining chip was revenge against family or loved ones. Yet for all those years he'd had no liabilities.

Conrad had acquired his first. Was running headlong to her.

He shook his head. No, his enemies couldn't hurt Néomi, could never abduct or wound her. Maybe that was part of the reason he'd found such an unusual feeling of ease with her—because he knew he couldn't harm her either. Even when he got free, he wouldn't be able to accidentally injure her if he lost control.

But how to get free? Not one of his brothers had returned since that day he tried to convince them of Néomi's existence—the day they'd left for Mount Oblak, the Forbearer Castle.

Conrad knew that meant one of two things had happened.

Kristoff had possibly discovered that they were keeping Conrad alive. The second law of the Forbearer order? Kill the Fallen without measure. Just by keeping Conrad alive, they'd been committing treason. Kristoff had likely imprisoned them at Mount Oblak, vowing to free them as soon as they gave up Conrad's location.

Which they would never do. For all their faults, they were as loyal as men came.

The other possibility? They'd fallen in battle. And Conrad didn't know how he felt about that. Over the last week, he'd become keenly aware that if not for his brothers, he would never have known Néomi.

Now that he was somewhat more rational, able to quell the worst of his rage, the thought of losing all three of them left him unaccountably troubled.

Revealing details of his past to her had forced his mind back to better times. He'd recalled how Nikolai had bailed him out of scrape after scrape. He'd thought back to the day the four brothers had made the fateful decision to take control of their country's defense: No one else is getting the job done. Conrad remembered being proud because not one of them had hesitated.

If his brothers lived, he would not be able to destroy them as planned. He didn't want to have anything to do with them, but he couldn't kill them... .

"Don't you want to try the whiskey?" she asked, pausing her dance.

"What? Yes." He'd planned to let it breathe a minute for every year of its age. But she looked so expectant. He supposed more than half an hour would be sufficient, and the taste would only grow increasingly complex with time. He poured a dram, swirling it in the tumbler, letting it coat the glass.

He took his first sip, just preventing his eyes from sliding closed in pleasure. "My God, that's what it should always be like." The taste was bracing yet smooth, the elements distinct but complementary.

"Is it better than what you usually drink?"

"Other whiskey or blood?" he asked.

"Either one."

"It shames other whiskey—and it's better than the blood I've been drinking."

Conrad instinctively knew that it wouldn't compare to hers.

"Bien," she said, resuming her steps.

As his gaze followed her, he wondered what would it be like to pierce her pale skin with his fangs. If she were a flesh and blood woman, what would it be like to cup her breasts as he sucked her neck?

He had never touched a woman's breasts. He often tried to imagine what Néomi's would feel like from what he'd seen of them. They'd be soft against his rough palms, giving to his grasp... .

He'd always yearned for a woman of his own. He'd dreamed of not letting her leave the bed for days as he explored her, discovering how to pleasure her. He'd wanted to learn how to make his woman pine for him if he had to leave and cry his name as he entered her.

Cry his name in a sultry voice tinged with French.

Suddenly fantasies ran riot in his mind, of kneading her ass at the same time he suckled her nipples. Of petting her pale little body for hours until she came again and again for him—

"You look content, mon trésor."

He coughed into his fist. "I have to say, I've been in worse jails." And having such a desirable cellmate didn't hurt either. Though the need to pursue Tarut grew more pressing with each hour, and a promising hunting ground awaited, he also found himself on edge from the idea of leaving her here for even a short time.

Suddenly, she twirled around and brushed a sizzling kiss on his cheek. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at her, but she merely laughed. "It's called—say it with me—a-fec-shun."

He'd just assumed she flirted because that was her nature. Yet could she... could she truly be interested in him? Even be attracted to him—with his red eyes and scars? Maybe she wanted more, as he did.

But then there was no one else to attract her. He had no competitors here.

"Why would you show me affection?"

She answered, "Because I... feel it?"

"Why?"

With a laugh, she asked, "Why, why, why? Must you question everything good?"

"Yes, when it's illogical. You know nothing about me—"

"I know more about you than any other woman does, n'est-ce pas? You don't have to muster up the nerve to divulge your secrets to me, while secretly hoping I don't run away screaming. I know them all. I'm still here." Eyes bright, lips curling, she said, "And I know that you're my favorite man. Dans le monde entier."

"Because I'm the only one in the entire world who can see and hear you." She gave him that mysterious shrug. He knew she was likely playing, the flirtations meaningless. But damn it, her words still got to him. It was becoming easier to pretend the sentiment was real.

"You don't know what to do with affection, do you?"

"I... have no idea," he admitted. "I don't know my way around this. It makes me feel weak. You make me feel that way sometimes."

"How a man as powerful as you could feel weak, I'll never know. This disturbs me. What would you suggest I change so you don't feel that way?"

He scrubbed a hand over his face, struggling to convey what he was thinking. "You make me uneasy at times because you and everything you do are so unfamiliar to me."

"Like what?"

"Your laughter. It's as if you spend every second of the day merely awaiting a time to be able to laugh or tease."

"I sound très terrible. How do you stand being near me? It must be because of your saintlike patience and calm?" She topped off his glass.