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  Dark Needs at Night's Edge

  ( Immortals After Dark - 5 )

  Kresley Cole

  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?

  Dark Needs at Night's Edge

  Immortals After Dark 5

  Kresley Cole

  For Lauren,

  my phenomenal editor and a dedicated champion

  of the books. This is our tenth project together,

  and it's still as crazy and exciting as the first.

  Acknowledgments

  Many, many thanks to my fantastic agent Robin Rue. So happy to be working with you. To Caroline Phipps, my steadfast friend who's always willing to do a midnight line-edit. To Gena Showalter, because my life's a more meaningful (and riotous) trip with you in it.

  And to Roxanne St. Claire, a.k.a. G.U.F. Did I happen to mention you're my rock?

  Glossary of Terms from the Living Book of Lore

  The Lore

  "... and those sentient creatures that are not human shall be united in one stratum, coexisting with, yet secret from, man's."

  The Lykae Clan

  "A proud, strapping warrior of the Keltoi People (or Hidden People, later known as Celts) was taken in his prime by a maddened wolf. The warrior rose from the dead, now an immortal, with the spirit of the beast latent within him. He displayed the wolf's traits: the need for touch, an intense loyalty to its kind, an animal craving for the delights of the flesh. Sometimes the beast rises... ."

  Also called werewolves, war-wolds.Enemies of the Vampire Horde.

  The Vampires

  Two warring factions, the Horde and the Forbearer Army.

  Each vampire seeks his Bride, his eternal wife, and walks as the living dead until he finds her.A Bride will render his body fully alive, giving him breath and making his heart beat, a process known as blooding.Tracing is teleporting, the vampires' means of travel. A vampire can only trace to destinations he's previously been or to those he can see.The Fallen are vampires who have killed by drinking a victim to death. Distinguished by their red eyes.

  The Horde

  "In the first chaos of the Lore, a brotherhood of vampires dominated, by relying on their cold nature, worship of logic, and absence of mercy. They sprang from the harsh steppes of Dacia and migrated to Russia, though some say a secret enclave, the Daci, live in Dacia still."

  Their ranks are comprised of the Fallen.Enemies of most factions in the Lore.

  The Forbearers

  "... his crown stolen, Kristoff, the rightful Horde king, stalked the battlefields of antiquity seeking the strongest, most valiant human warriors as they died, earning him the name of Gravewalker. He offered eternal life in exchange for eternal fealty to him and his growing army."

  An army of vampires consisting of turned humans, who do not drink blood directly from the flesh, unless from an immortal Bride.Kristoff was raised as a human and then lived among them. He and his army know little of the Lore.Enemies of the Horde.

  The Demonarchies

  "The demons are as varied as the bands of man... ."

  A collection of demon dynasties. Some kingdoms ally with the Horde.Most demon breeds can trace like vampires. Some breeds are bound to obey summonses.A demon must have intercourse with a potential mate to ascertain if she's truly his—a process known as attempting.

  The House of Witches

  "... immortal possessors of magickal talents, practitioners of good and evil."

  Mystickal mercenaries who sell their spells.Strictly forbidden to create personal wealth or grant immortality.Separated into five castes: warrior, healer, enchantress, conjurer, and seeress.The only witch known to possess the powers of all five castes is Mariketa the Awaited.

  The Valkyrie

  "When a maiden warrior screams for courage as she dies in battle, Wóden and Freya heed her call. The two gods give up lightning to strike her, rescuing her to their hall, and preserving her courage forever in the form of the maiden's immortal Valkyrie daughter."

  Take sustenance from the electrical energy of the earth, sharing it in one collective power, and give it back with their emotions in the form of lightning.Possess preternatural strength and speed.Without training, they can be mesmerized by shining objects and jewels.Enemies of the Vampire Horde.

  The Talisman's Hie

  "A treacherous and grueling scavenger hunt for magickal talismans, amulets, and other mystical riches over the entire world."

  The rules forbid killing—until the final round. Any other trickery or violence is encouraged.Held every two hundred fifty years.Hosted by Riora, the goddess of impossibility.

  The Turning

  "Only through death can one become an 'other.'"

  Some beings, like the Lykae, vampires, and demons, can turn a human or even other Lore creatures into their kind through differing means, but the catalyst for change is always death, and success is not guaranteed.

  The Accession

  "And a time shall pass that all immortal beings in the Lore, from the Valkyrie, vampire, Lykae, and demon factions, to the phantoms, shifters, fey, and sirens... must fight and destroy each other."

  A kind of mystickal checks-and-balances system for an ever-growing population of immortals.Occurs every five hundred years. Or right now...

  DARK NEEDS AT NIGHT'S EDGE

  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.

&nb
sp; 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 soirée 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.

  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.<
br />
  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 most coveted dream and most dreaded nightmare would follow the mark.