"Fabulous addition to this cutting-edge paranormal series."
Reviewed by Louisa White
Posted April 14, 2008
Romance Paranormal | Romance | Paranormal
Celebrated ballerina Néomi Laress has been haunting her New
Orleans estate since a jealous ex-lover murdered her there
in the late 1920s. In the last 80 years, no temporary
tenant of Elancourt has fascinated her as much as the most
recent arrival -- Conrad Wroth, a mad vampire being held
captive by his brothers. Amazing enough to find out about
the Lore, the supernatural underworld of Valkyrie, nymphs,
werewolves and the like -- but even more astonishing is
Conrad's ability to see and hear Néomi in her ghost state. Conrad is one of the Fallen: a vampire who's surrendered to
his bloodlust and drunk straight from the living vein. With
that blood, he receives his victims' memories, crowding
into his own mind and distorting reality to the extent that
he thinks he's hallucinating the ephemerally beautiful
Néomi. Her presence calms him as his brothers' drugs and
lectures can't, and Conrad begins to believe she's real. He
also wonders if she might be his Bride, the one woman who
can bring his heart -- and other parts -- back to life. When
Néomi strikes a deal with a witch to become corporeal
again, Conrad must fight to protect her from his enemies --
and even more, from himself. Kresley Cole is a uniquely talented author with a
gift for twisting romance clichés into fabulously original
plots. In DARK DEEDS AT NIGHT'S EDGE, the ghost protagonist
is the heroine, rather than the hero -- and not only that,
she's a sexually liberated woman full of independence and
verve, who really should write a self-help book. Her words
of wisdom on life and love are priceless -- e.g. "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." -- but she never comes across
as preachy or smug. She's someone you'd love to have as a
friend. While Conrad, on the surface, appears to be all the
hero no-no's rolled into one; he's psychotic, a violent
killer, an addict, and to top it all off, a virgin! And
yet. Conrad leaps off the page and into your heart. He's
unexpected and unpredictable, fiercely determined to get
better and to protect his mate, and an absolute fantasy
lover in his devotion to Néomi's pleasure. Their sizzling
attraction transcends the limits of the physical; Conrad
loves her before he ever touches her, and the evolution of
their romance is among the most believable and engrossing
I've ever read. Cole's Immortals After Dark series
continues stronger than ever with this latest installment.
SUMMARY
A RAVEN-HAIRED TEMPTRESS OF THE DARK... Néomi Laress, a famous ballerina from a past century,
became a phantom the night she was murdered. Imbued with
otherworldly powers but invisible to the living, she
haunts
her beloved home, scaring away trespassers -- until she
encounters a ruthless immortal even more terrifying than
Néomi herself.
A VAMPIRE WARRIOR CONSUMED BY MADNESS... To prevent him from harming others, Conrad Wroth's
brothers
imprison him in an abandoned manor. But there, a female
only he can see seems determined to drive him further
into
madness. The exquisite creature torments him with desire,
leaving his body racked with lust and his soul torn as he
finds himself coveting her for his own.
HOW FAR WILL HE GO TO CLAIM HER? Yet even if Conrad can win Néomi, evil still surrounds
her.
Once he returns to the brutality of his past to protect
her, will he succumb to the dark needs seething inside
him?
Excerpt A femme fatale? With a history of burlesque
dancing? You must have the wrong girl. I'm naught but a
humble ballet dancer, a mere delicate sparrow.—Néomi Laress, prima ballerina, former femme fatale and
burlesque dancer (b. approx. 1901—d. August 24, 1927)
I hereby vow to devote my life to annihilating the
vampiir. None shall know my presence and live. —Conrad Wroth, age thirteen, upon being inducted into the Order of Kapsliga Uur in the
year 1609 * * * * Prologue New Orleans August 24, 1927
I'll kill you for spurning me. . . . Struggling to block out memories of Louis Robicheaux's
latest threat, Néomi Laress stood at the top of her grand
staircase and gazed out over the packed ballroom. As she might cradle a babe, she held bouquets of roses
swathed in silk. They were gifts from some of the men in
the crowd of partygoers below, a motley mix of her
rollicking set, rich patrons, and newspaper reporters. A
sultry bayou breeze slid throughout the space, carrying
strains of music from the twelve-piece orchestra outside. . . . you'll beg for my mercy. She stifled a shiver. Her ex-fiancé's behavior had become
more chilling of late, his atonement gifts more
extravagant. Néomi's long-standing refusal to sleep with
Louis had frustrated and angered him, but breaking off
their relationship had enraged him. The look in his pale eyes earlier tonight . . . She gave
herself an inward shake. She'd hired guards for this
event—
Louis couldn't get to her. One admirer, a handsome banker from Boston, noticed her
aloft and began to clap. The throng joined in, and in her
mind she envisioned a curtain going up. With a slow,
gracious smile, she said, “Bienvenue to you all,” then
began descending her stairs. No one would ever sense her anxiety. She was a trained
ballerina, but above all things, she was an entertainer.
She would work this room, dispensing teasing nibbles of
sarcasm and softly spoken bons mots, charming any critics
and coaxing laughter from even the most staid. Though her arms already ached from cradling so many
bouquets, and flashbulbs went off in glaring succession,
her smile remained fixed. Another gliding step down. She'd be damned before she'd let Louis ruin her night of
triumph. Three hours ago, she'd given the performance of
a
lifetime to a sold-out house. For tonight's soiree
celebrating her newly renovated estate, Elancourt, the
Gothic manor house was resplendent with the glow of a
thousand candles. Through her dancing, she'd paid for the
painstaking restoration of her new home and all the
sumptuous furnishings inside it. Every detail for the party was perfect, and outside, a
sliver moon clung to the sky. A lucky moon. Her dress for this evening was a more risqué version of
the
costume she'd worn earlier, the satin as black as her jet
hair. It had a tight bodice that she laced up the front
like a bygone corset and a slit in the skirt that almost
reached up to where her garter belt snapped to her
stockings. Her makeup was styled after the Hollywood
vamps—
she'd kohled her eyes with a smoky hue, donned lipstick
of
oxblood red, and painted her short nails a dark crimson. With her jeweled choker and dangling earrings, the
ensemble
had cost a small fortune, but tonight was worth it—
tonight
all her dreams had finally come true. Only Louis could ruin it. She willed herself to ignore
her
apprehension, inwardly cursing him in English and in
French, which helped ease her tension. Until she nearly stumbled on the stairs. He was there,
standing at the periphery, staring up at her. Usually so perfect and kempt, he had his tie loosened,
his
blond hair disheveled. How had he gotten past the guards? Louis was filthy rich—
had the bastard bribed them? His bloodshot eyes were burning with a maniacal light,
but
she assured herself that he wouldn't dare harm her in
front
of so many. After all, there were hundreds of people in
her
home, including reporters and photographers. Yet she wouldn't put it past him to make a scene or
expose
her scandalous history to everyone. Her uptown patrons
winked at her and her friends' colorful antics, but they
had no idea what she was—much less of her past
occupation. Chin raised and shoulders back, she continued down, but
her
hands were clenching the roses. Resentment warred with
her
fear. So help her, God, she'd scratch his eyes out if he
ruined this for her. Just before she reached the bottom step, he began
elbowing
his way toward her. She tried to signal the burly guard
at
the opened patio door, but the crowd enveloped her,
effectively trapping her. She attempted to make her way
to
the man, yet everyone wanted “to be the first to
congratulate her.” When she heard Louis pushing people behind her, Néomi's
soft-spoken apologies—“Pardonnez-moi, I'll just be a
moment”—turned to “Let me pass!” He neared. Out of the corner of her eye she spied his
hand
fiddling with something in his jacket pocket. Not another
gift? This will be so embarrassing. When that hand shot out, she whirled around, dropping her
bouquets. Metal glinted in the light of the candles. Eyes
wide, she screamed— Just before he plunged a knife into her chest. Pain . . . unimaginable pain. She could hear the blade
grating past her bones, felt a force so jarring the tip
pierced through her very back. As she clawed at his arms,
ugly sounds erupted from her throat; those nearest her
backed away in horror. This can't be happening. . . . Only when he released the knife with splayed fingers did
her body collapse to the floor. Rosebuds scattered around
her, their petals wafting around the jutting hilt. She
stared dumbly at the ceiling as warm blood seeped from
her
back, pooling all around her. She perceived the silence
of
the room over Louis's harried breaths as he knelt beside
her, beginning to weep. This isn't happening. . . . The first hysterical scream rent the quiet. People fled
the
scene, shoving and tangling all around them. She heard
the
guards finally yelling and fighting past the crowd. And Néomi lived still. She was dogged, a survivor—she
would
not die in her dream home on her dream night. Fight— Louis fisted the hilt once again, jarring the knife
inside
her. Agony . . . too much . . . can't bear this . . . But
she had no breath to scream, no strength to raise her
limp
arms to defend herself. With a choking bellow he twisted the blade in the pocket
of
her wound. “Feel it for me, Néomi,” he gasped at her ear.
Pain exploded, radiating out from her heart to every inch
of her body. “Feel what I have suffered!” Too much! The temptation to close her eyes nearly
overwhelmed her. Yet she kept them open, kept living. “See how much I love you? We'll be together now.” The
knife
made a sucking sound when he yanked it from her. Just
before he was finally tackled to the ground, he sliced
his
own throat ear to ear. Her blood had begun to cool by the time a doctor crouched
to grasp her wrist. “There's no pulse,” he said to
someone
unseen, his voice raised over the commotion. “She's
gone.” But she wasn't! Not yet! Néomi was young, and there were so many things she had
left
to experience. She deserved to live. I'm not dying. Her
hands somehow clenched. I refuse to! Yet as the breeze picked up once more, Néomi's vision
guttered out like a candle. No, no . . . still living . .
.
can't see, can't see . . . so scared. Rose petals caught on the wind and tumbled over her face.
She could feel each cool kiss of them. Then . . . nothingness. CHAPTER 1
Outside Orleans Parish Present day
Stay sane, act normal, he chants to himself as he strides
down the rickety pier. On either side of him, water black
like tar. Ahead of him, muted light from the bayou
tavern.
A Lore bar. A lone neon sign flickers over flat skiffs
below. Music and laughter carry. Stay sane . . . need to dull the rage. Until the endtime. Inside. “Whiskey.” His voice is low, rough from disuse. The bartender's face falls. Like last night. Others grow
skittish. Can they sense that I ache to kill? The
whispers
around him are like metal on slate to his ragged nerves. —“Conrad Wroth, once a warlord . . . madder than any
vampire I've seen in all my centuries.” —“A killer for hire. If he shows up in your town, then
folks from the Lore there'll go missing.” Missing? Unless I want them found. —“Heard he drains 'em so savagely . . . nothing's left of
their throats.” So I'm not fastidious. — “I heard he eats them.” Distorted rumors. Or is that one true? Tales of his insanity spreading once more. I've never
missed a target—how insane can I be? He answers himself:
Very fucking much so. Memories clot his mind. His victims' memories taken from
their blood toll inside him, their number always growing.
Don't know what's real; can't determine what's illusion.
Most of the time, he can scarcely understand his own
thoughts. He doesn't go a day without seeing some type of
hallucination, striking out at shadows around him. A grenade with the pin pulled, they say. Only a matter of
time. They're right. Stay sane . . . act normal. Glass in hand, he chuckles
softly on his way to a dimly lit table in the back.
Normal?
He's a goddamned vampire in a bar filled with shifters,
demons, and the sharp-eared fey. Christmas lights are
strung up in the back—through the eye sockets of human
skulls that frame a mirror. In the corner, a demoness
lazily strokes her lover's horns, visibly arousing the
male. At the bar, an immense werewolf bares his fangs,
bowing protectively as he tosses a small redhead behind
him. Can't decide if you should attack, Lykae? That's right. I
don't smell of blood. A trick I learned. The couple leaves, the redhead all but carried out by the
Lykae. As they exit, she peers over her shoulder, her
eyes
like mirrors. Then gone. Out into the night where they
belong. Sit. Back against the wall. He adjusts the sunglasses
that
shade his red eyes, dirty red eyes. As he scans the room,
he resists the urge to rub his palm over the back of his
neck. Watched by someone unseen? But then, I always feel like that. He swoops up the drink, narrowing his eyes at his steady
hand. My mind's decayed, but my sword hand's still true.
A
ruinous combination. He takes a liberal swallow. The drink. The whiskey dulls
the need to lash out. Not that it has disappeared. Small things enrage him. An off look. Someone approaching
too quickly. Failing to give him a wide enough berth. His
fangs sharpen at the slightest provocation. As though a
living thing hungers inside me. Ravenous for blood and a
throat to tear. Each time he acts on the rage, others'
memories blight more of his own. He still has enough sanity to stalk his targets—his
brothers. He will mete out retribution to Nikolai and
Murdoch Wroth for doing the unspeakable to him.
Sebastian,
the third brother, was a victim like him, but must be
slain—
simply because of what he is. And my time grows nigh. Like an animal, he recognizes
this.
He's found them in this mysterious place of swamps and
haze
and music. He's seen Nikolai and Sebastian with their
wives. He might have felt envy that his brothers laugh
with
them. That they touch them possessively, with wonder in
their clear eyes. But hatred drowns out any confusing
jealousy. Offspring will follow. He'll kill their females as well.
Destroy them. Destroy myself. Before my enemies catch up
with me. He adjusts the bandage under his shirt on his left arm.
The
slashed skin beneath it will not heal. Five days ago, he
was marked by a dream demon, one who tracks him by this
very injury. One who promised that his most coveted dream
and most dreaded nightmare would follow the mark. His brows draw together. The hunter will soon become the
hunted—his life is nearing its end. A whisper of regret. The thing he regrets most. He tries
to
remember what he covets so dearly. Another's memories
bombard him, exploding in his mind. His hand shoots up to
clasp his forehead— Nikolai enters the bar, Murdoch behind him. Their
expressions are grave. They've come to kill me. As he expected. He thought he
could draw them out by returning here again and again. He
lowers his hand, and his lips ease back from his fangs.
The
bar empties in a rush. Then . . . stillness. His brothers stare at him as if
seeing a ghost. Insects clamor outside. Rain draws near
and
steeps the air. Just as lightning strikes in the
distance,
Sebastian enters, crossing to stand beside the other two.
He's allied with them? This he hadn't expected. He removes his sunglasses, revealing his red eyes. The
eldest, Nikolai, stifles a wince at the sight, but shakes
it off and advances. The three seem surprised that he'll
stay to engage them, that he hasn't traced away. They are
strong and skilled, yet they don't recognize the power he
wields, the thing he's become. He can slaughter them all without blinking, and he'll
savor
it. They haven't drawn their swords? Then they walk to
their doom. Can't keep them waiting. He lunges from his seat and hurdles the table, knocking
Sebastian unconscious with a blow that cracks his skull
and
sends him flying into the back wall. Before the other two
can raise a hand in defense, he snatches them by their
throats. One in each tightening hand as they grapple to
free themselves. “Three hundred years of this,” he
hisses.
Their struggles do nothing; their shocked expressions
satisfy. Squeezing— Wood creaks behind him. He shoves back and heaves his
brothers at a new enemy. Too late; that Lykae's returned
and slashes out with flared claws, ripping through his
torso. Blood gushes. He roars with fury and charges the werewolf, dodging
claws
and teeth with uncanny speed to barrel him to the ground.
Just as his hands are about to meet around the Lykae's
corded neck, the beast claps something to his right
wrist. A manacle? Clenching harder, he grates out a rasping
laugh. “You don't think that will hold me?” Bones begin
to
pop beneath his palms. The kill is near, and he wants to
yell with pleasure. The werewolf cuffs his left wrist. What is this? The metal won't bend. Won't break. They
goddamned mean to take me alive? He leaps to his feet,
tensing to trace. Nothing. Sebastian on the floor,
pouring
blood from his temple, has him by the ankles. He kicks Sebastian, connecting squarely with his
brother's
chest. Ribs crack. He whirls around—in time to catch the
bar rail the Lykae swings at his face. He staggers but remains on his feet. “What the fuck is he?” the Lykae bellows, swinging the
rail
again with all his might. The brutal hit takes him across his neck. A split second
of
faltering. Enough for his brothers to tackle him. He thrashes and bites, snapping his fangs. Can't break
free . . . can't . . . They attach the manacles at his
wrists to another chain. He kicks viciously, stunned when
they trap his legs as well. Choking with rage, he strains against his bonds with all
his strength. The metal cleaves his skin to the bone.
Nothing. Caught. He roars, spitting blood at them, dimly hearing
them speak. “I hope you came up with a good place to put him,”
Sebastian says between ragged breaths. “I bought a long-abandoned manor,” Nikolai grates, “place
called Elancourt.” Chills course through him even through his fury; pain
erupts from the injury on his arm. A dream. His doom. He
can never go to this Elancourt—knows this with a savage
certainty. He's too strong for them to trace him—there's
still time to escape. If they take him there, they won't take him alive. . . . * * * Under a clouded nighttime sky, the spirit of Néomi Laress
knelt in the drive at the very edge of her property line,
gazing hungrily at the newspaper, lying wrapped in wet
plastic. Today the deliveryman—that capricious fiend—had missed
the
drive again, this time tossing the bundle squarely onto
the
desolate county road. Néomi was starving for that paper, desperate for the
news,
reviews, and commentary that would break up the monotony
of
her life—or her eighty-year-long afterlife. But she couldn't leave the estate to seize it. As a
ghost,
Néomi could manipulate matter telekinetically, and her
power was nearly absolute at Elancourt—she could rattle
all
the windows or tear off the roof if she wanted to, and
the
weather often changed with her emotions—but not outside
the
property. Her beloved home had become her prison, her eternal cell
of
fifteen acres and a slowly dying manor. Among fate's
other
curses, each seemingly designed to torture her in
personal
and specific ways, Néomi could never leave this place. She didn't know why this was so—only that it was, and had
been since she'd awakened the morning after her murder.
She
recalled seeing her haunting reflection for the first
time.
Néomi remembered that exact moment when she'd realized
that
she'd died—when she'd first comprehended what she'd
become. A ghost. She'd become something that frightened even her.
Something unnatural. Never again to be a lover or friend.
Never to be a mother, like she'd always planned after her
dancing career. As a storm had boiled outside, she'd
silently screamed for hours. The only thing she could be thankful for was that Louis
hadn't been trapped here with her. She stretched harder. Must . . . have that . . . paper! Néomi wasn't certain why it continued to arrive. A past
article had recounted the problems inherent with
“recurrent
billing of credit cards,” and she supposed she was the
benefactress of her last tenant's credit card negligence.
The delivery could end at any time. Every one was
precious. Eventually she gave up, defeated, sitting back in the
weed-
ridden drive. Out of habit, she made movements as if she
was rubbing her thighs, yet felt nothing. Néomi could never feel. Never again. She was incorporeal,
as substantial as the mist rolling in from the bayou. Thanks, Louis. Oh, and may you rot in hell—because surely
that's where you went. Usually, at this point in the newspaper struggle, she'd
be
battling the urge to tear her hair out, wondering how
much
longer she could endure this existence, speculating what
she'd done to deserve it. Yes, on the night of her death, she'd refused to die, but
this was ridiculous. But even as desperate as she was for the words, she
wasn't
as badly off as usual. Because last night a man had come into her home. A
towering, handsome man with grave eyes. He might return
this night. He might even move in. She shouldn't get too excited about the stranger, to have
her hopes crushed yet again— Lights blinded her; the shriek of squealing tires ripped
through the quiet of the night. As a car shot forward onto the gravel, she futilely
raised
her arms to protect her face and gave a silent cry. It
drove straight through her, the engine reverberating like
an earthquake when it passed through her head. The vehicle never slowed as it prowled down the oak-lined
drive to Elancourt.
CHAPTER 2
Néomi blinked, her strong night vision returning slowly.
Even after all these years, she was still surprised that
she was unharmed. She recognized the sharp, low car from last night, so
markedly different from the trucks that usually chugged
by
on the old county road. Which meant . . . which meant . .
. He's returned! The grave-eyed man who came here last
night! The paper forgotten, she materialized to Elancourt's
landing, overlooking the front entrance. She moved as if
to
clutch the sides of the window there, her arms floating
outspread. And there sat his car in the drive. Won't you move in? she'd wanted to beg last night as the
man had examined the manor. He'd tested the columns,
drawn
sheets off some of the remaining furniture, and even
yanked
on the radiant heater in the main salon. Appearing
satisfied that it was solid, he'd followed the
contraption's underfloor pipes by stomping on the marble
tiles. The heater will work, she'd inwardly cried. Ten years
ago,
the manor had been modernized by a young couple who'd
stayed for a time. Yet she couldn't relate the merits of Elancourt to this
mysterious stranger. Because she was a ghost. The act of
speaking, or at least talking in a way that others could
hear, had proved impossible for her, as had making
herself
visible to others. Which was probably for the best. Her reflection was
haunting even to her. Though Néomi's appearance was a
close
facsimile of how she'd looked the night she died—with the
same dress and jewelry—now her skin and lips were as pale
as rice paper. Her hair flowed wildly with rose petals
tangled in it, and the skin under her eyes was darkened,
making her irises seem freakishly blue in contrast. She focused on the car again. Deep masculine voices
sounded
from within it. Was there more than one man? Maybe there'd be two more “confirmed bachelors” like the
handsome couple who had lived here during the fifties! Whoever was within the car needed to hurry inside. Autumn
rains had been tentatively falling all night and
lightning
had begun flaring in a building rhythm. She hoped the men
didn't catch the front façade lit by the glow of
lightning.
With its arches and overhangs and stained glass, the
manor
could appear . . . forbidding. The very Gothic traits she'd admired seemed to drive
others
away. The vehicle began to rock from side to side on its wide
wheels, and the voices grew louder. Then came a man's
bellow. Her lips parted when two large boots kicked
through
the back window, shattering it, glass spraying out into
the
gravel. Someone unseen hauled the booted man back inside, but
then
a rear door began to bulge outward. Were cars so weak in
this age that a man could kick it out of shape? No, no,
she'd dutifully read the crash test reports, and they
said— The door shot off its hinges, all the way to the front
porch. She gasped as a wild-eyed, crazed man lunged out
of
the vehicle. He was manacled at his wrists and ankles and
covered in blood. He immediately fell into a deep slick
of
mud, only to be tackled by three men. One of them was her prospective tenant from last night. She saw then that they all were covered in blood—because
the chained one was spitting it at them as he thrashed. “No . . . no!” he yelled, struggling not to enter the
house. Could he possibly sense there was more here than
could be seen? No one ever had before. “Conrad, stop fighting us!” the tenant said through
gritted
teeth. His accent sounded Russian. “We don't want to hurt
you.” But the madman named Conrad didn't let up one bit. “God
damn you, Nikolai! What do you want with me?” “We're going to rid you of this madness, defeat your
bloodlust.” “You fools!” He laughed manically. “No one comes back!” “Sebastian, grab his arms!” this Nikolai barked to one of
the others. “Murdoch, get his damned legs!” As Murdoch
and
Sebastian rushed to action, she realized that they both
resembled Nikolai. All three had the same grim
expression,
the same tall, powerful bodies. Brothers. Their captive must be one as well. They carried the bloody and flailing Conrad toward the
front double doors. Blood in her home. She shuddered. She
detested blood, hated the sight of it, the scent of it.
She'd never forget how it'd felt to be bathed in her own,
to have it thicken and cool around her dying body. Hadn't Elancourt seen enough of it? In a panic, she raced downstairs and shot her hands up,
exerting an invisible force against the doors. She used
all
her strength to keep them sealed tight. No one could bust
through this hold— The doors flew open. The men barreled through her, making
her shiver as though she'd walked through a cobweb. A
gust
of wind rushed inside, following them in to stir the
leaves
and grit coating the floor. Just how strong were they? Yes, they were huge, but she'd
held the doors with what had to be the strength of twenty
men. Once inside the darkened room, Nikolai cast a chain
across
the floor with no care for her Italian marble. The lunatic broke free once more, making it to his feet.
He
was towering! He lumbered toward the door, but his bound
ankles ensured that he careened into an antique armoire
covered with a sheet. It collapsed under the impact.
Crushed. She'd had to dance two performances to afford that piece
and remembered lovingly polishing it herself. It was one
of
the few original furnishings that remained. After Murdoch and Sebastian hoisted him out of the
wreckage, Murdoch wrapped his thick arm around Conrad's
neck, cupping the back of Conrad's head with his free
hand.
She could see that Murdoch was tightening this hold with
all his might, his face drawn with the effort, the
muscles
in his neck standing out with strain. Somehow Conrad was unaffected for long moments.
Eventually,
his thrashing eased and he went limp. While Murdoch laid
him on the ground, Nikolai hastily affixed the chain to
the
same radiator he'd tested last night, then attached the
other end to Conrad's handcuffs. That's why Nikolai had been assessing it? Because he
intended to jail this lunatic here? Why here? “Could you have found an eerier place to keep him?”
Sebastian said between breaths as they all stood. At that
instant, lightning crackled just outside. The high
stained-
glass windows were broken in places and cast tinted
light,
distorting the shadows within.“Why not use the old mill?” “Someone might come across him there,” Murdoch
answered. “And Kristoff knows about the mill. If he or
his
men discover what we're planning . . .” Who's Kristoff? What are they planning? Nikolai added, “Besides, Elancourt was recommended to
me.” “Who would ever recommend this?” Sebastian waved a hand
around. “It looks straight from a horror movie.” She
wished
he was wrong, but a bolt flashed then; hued shadows
appeared to slither and pounce. Sebastian raised his
brows
as if his point had been made. Nikolai's gaze focused on his brothers' faces, studying
their reactions as he answered, “Nïx did.” He hesitated,
seeming not to know if they'd laugh, rail, or nod. Murdoch shrugged and Sebastian nodded grimly. Who's Nïx? Sebastian glanced around. “Raises my hackles, though”—
another flash of lightning—“almost like it's . . .
haunted.” Sebastian gets a cookie. “And it spooked Conrad as well.” Yes, because otherwise he clearly would be fine. “The weather makes it seem worse.” Nikolai ran his hand
through his wet hair, then wiped his face with his
shirttail. “And if there are spirits lingering about? You
forget what we are—any ghosts would do well to fear us.” Fear them? No living thing could touch her. “It's actually ideal because the place scares people
away,”
Nikolai continued over another bout of thunder. “And the
Valkyrie compound isn't far from here—not many from the
Lore will venture anywhere near their home.” Valkyrie? Lore? She remembered a newspaper article a few
years back on “Gang Speak.” These men were speaking Gang.
They had to be. Murdoch said, “Perhaps the Valkyrie won't appreciate
vampires so close to Val Hall.” Vampires? Not Gang? They're all mad. Mon Dieu, I need a
bourbon. “Is it even habitable?” Sebastian asked in a scoffing
voice. Nikolai nodded. “The structure and the roof are solid—” As rock. “—and once we do some modifications, it'll be suitable
for
our purposes. We'll fix just what we need: a couple of
bedrooms, a shower, the kitchen. I already had the
witches
come around today to do an enclosure spell along the
perimeter of the estate. As long as Conrad's wearing
those
chains, he can't escape the boundary.” Witches? Oh, come now! Néomi moved to rub her temple,
felt
nothing, but was somewhat soothed by the familiar act. In the lull, Murdoch cased the main salon, plucking at
cobwebs. “Conrad knew we were going to be at the tavern.” “No doubt of it,” Nikolai answered, crossing to a dirt-
caked window to glance outside. “He was awaiting us. To
kill us.” “Obviously he's gotten good at it.” Sebastian patted his
ribs in an assessing manner and winced. Looking more
closely, she could see that they all seemed injured in
some
way. Even Conrad appeared to have been clawed across the
chest by some beast. “He likes it.” Likes to kill? A murderer in my home. Again. Was he the
same kind of man as Louis—one who would stab a
defenseless
woman through the heart? Tamp it down, Néomi. . . . The
wind picked up. Control the emotion. Murdoch said, “I suppose he'd have to, if the word about
his occupation is true.” A professional killer? “Finding him now . . . it couldn't come at a worse time,”
Sebastian said. “How are we going to manage this?” “We fight a war, deceive our king, try not to worry about
our Kaderin and Myst, all the while attempting to salvage
Con's sanity,” Nikolai replied evenly. Murdoch lifted a brow. “And here I thought we would be
busy.” The brothers began exploring nearby rooms, testing wood
for
rot and pulling sheets from furniture, examining their
surroundings. In the past, she'd been fortunate with those who'd
occupied
Elancourt. Nice families had come and gone, a few
harmless
vagrants. Nothing about these men said We're nice and
harmless! Especially not the chained murderer. He lay on the floor,
blood collecting at the corner of his parted lips to drip
down. Drip . . . drip . . . A crimson pool was stark against
her
marble. Just as before. Tamp it down. Control it. The madman's eyes flashed open. She couldn't warn the
others! In the space of a bolt of lightning, he somehow
shot to his chained feet, hobbling forward with unnatural
speed. Before she could even raise her arms to exert
pressure against him, he'd stretched the chain taut . . .
the radiator was bending under the pressure. He couldn't break it. Imposs— Like a whip, it snapped free as he charged across the
room
for the door—the door where she stood. As she stared in
disbelief, the radiator trailed in his wake, destroying
everything in its wildly sweeping path. Suddenly, the underfloor web of attached heating pipes
burst up through the floor, foot after foot of groaning
metal and exploding marble and splinters. The three men dove for him once more, the pile of them
skidding to a stop right at her slippers. She gaped. Her home, her beloved home. In fifteen
minutes,
the madman had wrought more destruction to Elancourt than
it had sustained in the last eighty years. Her hands fisted. Control it. But her hair had already
begun to swirl about her face, rose petals floating in a
tempest around her body. Outside, the wind kicked up,
streaming through the holes in the high windows, sweeping
the grit and dust until she was able to see all the
destruction. The marble! When her eyes watered with frustration, rain
poured outside. Tamp it down. Too late. Lightning bombarded the house, illuminating the
night like successive bomb blasts. From under the pile of
men, Conrad yanked his head up at her. In a flash, Néomi twisted round, sweeping her hair over
her
face as she dissipated. Reemerging on the landing, she
gazed down at him. Conrad continued to stare at the spot where she'd stood,
blinking and easing his struggles as if dumbfounded. Had he . . . had he possibly seen her? No one ever had before. Ever. She'd been so uniformly
ignored for so long that she'd begun to wonder if she
truly
existed. Up close, she'd been able to see that the whites of his
eyes were . . . red. She'd thought he'd been injured,
with
burst blood vessels shooting across, but in fact, they
were
wholly glazed with red. What were these beings? Could they truly be . . .
vampires?
Even in light of what she'd become, she still struggled
to
believe in anything supernatural. With a shake of his head, Conrad frenziedly renewed his
flight for the door, gaining inches, even as the three
wrestled with him. “I didn't want to have to do this, Conrad!” Nikolai dug
into his jacket pocket. As the others pinned Conrad, he
bit
the end off what appeared to be a syringe and injected
its
contents into Conrad's arm. Whatever it was slowed him, making him blink his red eyes
again and again. “What did you give him?” Sebastian asked. “It's a concoction from the witches—part medical, part
mystickal. It should knock him out.” For how long would it knock Conrad out? How long were
they
expecting him to stay here? To spit across her floor and
roar within her halls? She'd be damned if she allowed
another of Louis's ilk to taint her home once more! This
Conrad was an animal. He should be put down. Or at the
very
least, put out. She'd show these trespassers power like they'd never
seen,
sweeping them into the yard like trash! She'd toss them
by
their feet all the way to the bayou! Néomi would demonstrate what happened when a ghost went
poltergeist— “Where . . . is she?” Conrad grated between heaving
breaths. Néomi froze. He couldn't be talking about her, couldn't
have seen her. “Who, Conrad?” Nikolai demanded. Just before the shot knocked him unconscious, he
rasped, “Female . . . beautiful.”
What do you think about this review?
Comments
1 comment posted.
Re: Fabulous addition to this cutting-edge paranormal series.
Sounds like it is the type of book I can lose several hours in. I'm sure I have a copy, so off to my TBR pile to hunt it out so it is next in line. (Lisa Richards 8:01am April 6, 2009)
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