Dark Needs at Night's Edge

26

Hours after he'd arrived, Conrad squeezed his head, grappling for control of his thoughts. This frenzied overload of the gathering was wreaking havoc with him. If the Fallen reacted badly to quick movements and loud noises, then he'd just stumbled onto a special kind of hell.

Return to her...

He just wanted to find a way to tell her what he was thinking. To tell her that if he could take back his words, he would.

Right when Conrad was about to trace to Elancourt, he saw Tarut. All eight feet of him. The hulking demon was towering over an area crowded with other species of demons, accompanied by his gang of Kapsliga swordsmen. Each was shirtless with a wide leather band crossed over his chest. Conrad had once proudly worn the same.

His eyes narrowed when a haze of smoke suddenly appeared in the same area. A group of seven demons stepped from it, the Woede among them. Conrad had heard they'd somehow lost their ability to trace. Rök, the infamous fugitive, must be teleporting them. Just then Rök opened his mouth, sucking the smoke inside him again.

Tarut and the Woede—all three targets here for the taking, and more easily than normal. When Conrad engaged the Woede, they wouldn't hit their rage state completely, not without risking Conrad's life and the information he held. Rage demons in full demonic state were incredibly powerful, but near mindless.

And Tarut? Conrad no longer had to worry about being clawed by him.

Rydstrom and Cade didn't clasp forearms with Tarut in greeting. Instead, their hands remained near the hilts of their swords. Then Conrad saw Cadeon stiffen, his eyes narrowing on Tarut as if in realization. He dragged Rydstrom to the side, gesturing heatedly, while Rydstrom scowled in Tarut's direction.

So the demons knew they were hunting the same target—Tarut wanting to kill Conrad and the Woede wanting to keep him alive, at least for a time... .

Conrad tensed to attack, his fangs growing sharp.

That was exactly when he heard Néomi's laughter.

"Did you have to conjure that last bottle of wine?" Nïx said under her breath, but Néomi still heard her, even over the noise of the crowd and her own delighted laughter.

Fire. Creatures from myth. Revelry.

She was in heaven! For the first time in eighty years, Néomi was freed from Elancourt!

And, yes, she was a tad tipsy—had merlot always tasted so exquisite?

Now layers of sound meshed with layers of sensation: the constant rustle of leaves beneath her new leather boots. The scent of night-blooming jasmine and spent gardenias. A band tuning instruments in the background. The delicious closeness of her new dress.

When asked what she wanted to wear, Néomi had answered, "Anything but this godforsaken black satin party dress. Something with color! Something short and really sexy."

Mari had conjured a scarlet "body-conscious sheath" for Néomi. The shameless garment was long-sleeved but backless, and was shorter than anything she'd ever worn.

Hardly the couture of the pitiful!

Néomi's hurt over Conrad's words dwindled with each second—because she wasn't pitiful. Again she'd taken control of her destiny.

By God, it was heady. I'm like the old Néomi. The one who would roll the dice and laugh in the face of fate. She was going to get "capped," and she didn't give a damn!

"I had to do the bottles," Mari murmured in answer. "You saw her—she was freaking out."

At first the change had been overwhelming. Suddenly thrust into a world of perception, Néomi had stood in her studio, wide-eyed and struggling to adjust to the onslaught of feeling.

The weight of her body had abruptly pressed down on her feet, against a floor that was impossibly rigid. Her hair had pulled heavily along her back, and shivers had glanced over every inch of her skin.

It hadn't seemed to Néomi that she alone was changed, but that the entire world was altered, as if she'd been living in a dim bubble. Her new corporeal self had been shaking with sensation, dizzy with it. She'd patted her face in astonishment and whispered, "M-maybe this wasn't a good idea."

Mari had called what she was feeling hypersensitivity and said she had gone through the same not long ago. It would improve... .

"And we never would have gotten her to climb into the mirror otherwise," Mari added. "It was like trying to dunk a cat in acid."

Women with small boxes fastened on chokers walked by. "What are they wearing?" Néomi asked, a tad too loudly by the look on Mari's face. Each box had individual decorations or sayings painted on it.

"Voice modulators. The Sirenae are being polite," Mari explained. "If they sing, they could captivate all the unmated males here. Not very sporting."

One box read: "Yeah, you're welcome." Another read, "Boom! I got your boyfriend." Néomi laughed with delight. Sirens! Of course!

A group of elven-looking women strolled by, wearing nothing but gauzy skirts. Their chests were bare except for body paint styled in intricate leafy designs.

"Goody," Nïx muttered. "The dendrophiles."

"The dendro what?" Néomi said.

"Tree lovers—the tree nymphs."

Their obvious leader said, "Well, if it isn't Nucking Futs Nïx and the hex hack."

"Well, if isn't the hookers," Nïx replied blandly. "Oh, I'm sorry, nymphets, this isn't the orgy—that's down the road."

"Nïxie, every party is an orgy waiting to happen."

Nïx opened her mouth, then closed it, dragging Néomi and Mari away. "Well, you can't argue with reason, can you?"

And nymphs!

Almost at once, Néomi's excitement was tinged by a tug of disappointment. Murdoch had said that nymphs would be in attendance. These startlingly lovely women reminded her that Conrad might have one like them for his Bride.

Luckily, there were gorgeous males too, and soon Néomi, Nïx, and Mari were surrounded by a number. They were all huge. A couple were even taller than Conrad.

Néomi felt dwarfed, but they seemed to be making every attempt not to startle her, especially since Nïx had introduced her as "Néomi, the mortal." Néomi smiled in greeting, while furtively peering around them for a glimpse of the vampire.

"This is Uilleam and Munro," Nïx said, indicating a pair of Scottish twins who were roguishly handsome. "We just call them Hot and Hotter, or is it Hotter and Hot?" She shrugged. "They're Lykae. And here are the demons Cade and Rydstrom, also brothers—the ones I was telling you about."

"Nice to meet you, sweet," Cade said. But he seemed preoccupied, absently rasping the blond stubble over his jawline.

"It's a pleasure, Néomi." Rydstrom gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his remarkably green eyes.

The brothers' features were so alike, and yet their overall appearances were so dissimilar. Their bearings and even their accents differed. She could hear the colonial British in them, but Rydstrom's sounded more upper-class.

Rydstrom turned to Nïx. "I've been looking for you, Valkyrie."

"Oh, why? Did you find the one who seeks him in sleep?"

"As a matter of fact... " Rydstrom took her upper arm and guided her to the side.

"Help, help!" Nïx cried over her shoulder. "I'm being ravished by a demon!" When Néomi started after her—as if she could do something—Nïx mouthed, "I'm really not."

"Here's Bowen!" Mari said. He'd seemed to be following a scent. When he caught sight of Mari, he charged for her, gathering her in his arms.

After receiving a deep, seeking kiss that had Néomi fanning herself, Mari introduced him. He smiled at Néomi, then glowered at Cade, who returned the look. Intéressant.

The musicians she'd heard earlier began playing a melodic ballad with a heavy drumbeat that, of course, Néomi didn't recognize. But the song flooded over her. She could feel the percussion in her belly, and for the first time in eight decades she needed to dance.

"Go on and dance, Néomi," Mari said. "We'll wait right here. Just don't go too far."

Néomi nodded happily. At the fire, the music commanded her and she obeyed. With each second she grew more used to her body, recalling how she could coax it to move, to glide... .

Everything felt dreamlike. It seemed a night of magick.

Soon, she sensed she was being watched. As she spun, she spied glowing red eyes in the dark, following her every movement.

Conrad. Like a lion stalking a fawn.

This must be a hallucination.

She can't be real. Conrad couldn't process this. He'd wanted to go to her tonight. Over the last week, he'd ached to be able to touch her.

Now, like an offering, she was here for him. In flesh and blood, so alive. Somehow she was no longer a ghost, no more black-and-white. Her cheeks were flushed with pink, her lips as red as her short dress.

How could this change have happened?

She looked like a pagan dancing by the fire with her wild flowing hair. The way her body turned and swayed was decadent, wicked. "Tantsija," Conrad murmured.

As ever, when she moved, he grew hypnotized. But now instead of merely soothing his mind, her dancing made his body feel taut, stretched like a wire. She'd been beautiful as a ghost. Like this, she was beyond compare.

He could actually take that kiss that he'd burned for, could touch her full breasts... . No, he couldn't—she surely hated him now.

Even across the distance, he could hear her heart pumping with excitement, which meant that she could bleed. Which meant that he could hurt her. Or kill her.

He'd fantasized about sucking at her neck. Would I ever be able to stop once I'd started?

The ease he'd felt with her because he couldn't harm her disappeared, replaced by dread.

And now his enemies could target her. Tarut had just escaped him moments ago. Conrad bit out a vile curse when his arm began to ache under his bandage. Because my most fervent dream just materialized. What he'd coveted most was dancing right before him.

You have to have a dream to lose it... .

Yet his own heart lay dead in his chest. No breaths began to expand his lungs. Though Conrad was seeing her in the flesh, his blooding still wasn't triggered. Disappointment welled inside him.

Turn your back and leave.

Just when he was about to trace, someone yelled, "Fight!"