Dark Needs at Night's Edge

22

When one is insane, it's best to simplify things.

To get by in life, Conrad had organized his existence into a system of rewards and obstacles to rewards. He'd identified the reward he wanted: Néomi in the flesh, his to possess.

The obstacles: his captivity, her lack of a body, and Tarut's possible curse.

Essentially, Conrad had a list of things to do, a short list. Get free, execute Tarut. Figure out how to resurrect Néomi.

The last wasn't impossible. Conrad just had to find and coerce the right sorcerer to do it. He knew that there were only so many in the entire world and all other dimensions who could resurrect beings. And even fewer who would.

As for his captivity—the bottom line was that his brothers were not coming back, or at least, not soon. Not until after a war. If they got out alive.

Could the Valkyrie take Mount Oblak? Certainly possible. But it would take time to prepare.

Time he didn't have. His blood supply wasn't infinite, and the threat of Tarut weighed on him.

Tonight Conrad would get started on his list.

When he'd awakened this evening, Néomi had brought him a cup of blood, then set off on the paper quest. Good. He wanted her away. Collecting a bath towel, he started down the stairs.

One way or another, Conrad was going to remove the chains. He couldn't break them, so that left him with one other option.

He'd found a woodcutter's ax in the old toolshed. A cutting stump sat behind it.

If he was drinking heavily of blood, he could regenerate a hand in three to four days. He'd have to do them one at a time of course, so regenerating would take at least six days. Which meant he would miss the gathering, a promising hunting ground. Killing tended to get complicated without hands—

Suddenly, he heard... a phone ringing? Frowning, he hastened after the faint sound, coming upon a small sitting room downstairs, well off to the side of the house.

The ringing seemed to come from inside the wall. Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he raised his bound hands to slap his palms against the wall—it sounded hollow. His lips curled. A moving panel. He'd seen them in older houses before.

After determining the edges, he scanned it for a latch. Maybe it was in the wainscoting? He felt along the dingy white wood. Got it. When he pressed it, a faint click sounded.

He shoved the panel open and found newspapers were stacked behind it, but then she wouldn't have to enter through an opened door.

Inside, he narrowed his eyes. The room was a studio—her dance studio, with attached barres and mirror-covered walls. So this is here-and-there, her secret place.

The space was overtly feminine, decorated with faded pinks and reds, silks and crumbling lace. But the mirrors were all broken, with strike patterns as if someone had taken a fist to them—or a shot of telekinesis.

Against a far wall was a small cot, padded with blankets that would never warm her. An unused pair of ballet slippers was tossed casually atop them. Beside a safe on the floor, he spied a sizable pile of pebbles and stockpiled cases of liquor.

On a table, he found masses of odds and ends displayed like treasures. Among the offerings were Sebastian's money clip, Nikolai's now quiet cell phone, and the hair comb from Murdoch's pocket. Néomi had probably treasured the comb because she found it pretty.

She's going to have a thousand of them.

He'd stumbled upon a little ghost's nest, filled with trinkets stolen from the living to connect her to them. Feeling dazed, he sank onto the cot. This is everything she has. 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.