possible that Conrad and his brothers could be taken down without his lifting a finger.
âAre you ready to drink?â Nikolai asked.
âThe only thing I drink thatâs not fresh from the vein is whiskey,â he lied.
In the past, Conrad had drunk bagged blood, but he refused now. Though he was getting thirstier, he didnât need nourishment as often as other vampires, and heâd be damned if he bent to their will in this.
Murdoch had called him stubborn, and Conrad couldnât deny it. After being captured, chained, and drugged, Conrad wouldnât prove obliging to their futile plansâespecially when he wouldnât be here much longer.
Heâd noted that each brother had a key to his chains. When the ghost returned, he would get her to steal one. And then heâd be gone.
Nothing could be simpler.
11
T wo goddamned days. The female hadnât come back to his room for two days. For that time, Conrad alternated between a burning desire to get free and a need to discover what she was to him.
During the nights, his brothers had returned and tried to reach him, but he had no time for them. Even if he was improving, the part of him that might have responded to his family was dead.
Besides, his mind was consumed with thoughts of Néomi.
Now he gritted his teeth, struggling to remain calm. He was trapped, unable to seek her out. If he went into another rage, his brothers might force him to leave this place, jailing him somewhere else.
And he wasnât through here, not yet, not until he figured out if she was affecting his mind. Though he was still having episodes of uncontrollable violence, his aggression and rage were becoming more manageable. Just the fact that heâd pulled back from the edge in the shower attested to that.
Maybe itâs not herâmaybe itâs something about the house. After all, he was lucid now, and she wasnât here.
No, that didnât matter. He could still sense her constantly. Yesterday, it had drizzled all day, and he could swear heâd felt that she wasâ¦sad. He routinely heard her late in the night, roaming the hallways of her home. He could make out the ghostly rustle of her skirts or even an occasional sigh. When she passed his roomâs door, he perceived the change in the air and had learned to search for that faint scent of roses.
Heâd called for her, but it was always Nikolai whoâd hastened into the room. âWho are you talking to?â heâd asked in an anxious tone.
Now Conrad felt like he suffered a different kind of madness. Need to find her. Want her here. Questions about her plagued him. She wore jewelryâearrings, a choker, a wide band on her forefingerâbut sheâd had no wedding ring. If this had been her property, then sheâd been wealthy, but apparently she wasnât wed. And he didnât think sheâd been born well-offâthere was something about her demeanor that spoke of a past with nothing to lose.
Would a dancer have made enough to afford this place?
Hell, with her sensuality and complete lack of inhibitions, she could have been a courtesan.
Sheâd have made a fortune.
Whoever this Néomi had been in life, she was now dead. Was he sick to desire a womanâs ghost so much? Over the past two days, heâd envisioned her nude form again and again. He might not have been hard for her before, but heâd wanted to be.
He was sick. Not only mad, but sick.
If Conrad was wise, heâd crush this growing obsession with the ghost and get on with his business, with his escape.
He was driven; he wouldnât be sidetracked because he couldnât stop recalling how sheâd arched those pale breasts right to his hands.
At twilight, the last of the sunâs rays painted the bayou in hazy hues. Along the cypress-cluttered banks, moss dripped from limbs. A rickety folly persisted near the waterâs edge.
Decades ago, this little inlet of
âAre you ready to drink?â Nikolai asked.
âThe only thing I drink thatâs not fresh from the vein is whiskey,â he lied.
In the past, Conrad had drunk bagged blood, but he refused now. Though he was getting thirstier, he didnât need nourishment as often as other vampires, and heâd be damned if he bent to their will in this.
Murdoch had called him stubborn, and Conrad couldnât deny it. After being captured, chained, and drugged, Conrad wouldnât prove obliging to their futile plansâespecially when he wouldnât be here much longer.
Heâd noted that each brother had a key to his chains. When the ghost returned, he would get her to steal one. And then heâd be gone.
Nothing could be simpler.
11
T wo goddamned days. The female hadnât come back to his room for two days. For that time, Conrad alternated between a burning desire to get free and a need to discover what she was to him.
During the nights, his brothers had returned and tried to reach him, but he had no time for them. Even if he was improving, the part of him that might have responded to his family was dead.
Besides, his mind was consumed with thoughts of Néomi.
Now he gritted his teeth, struggling to remain calm. He was trapped, unable to seek her out. If he went into another rage, his brothers might force him to leave this place, jailing him somewhere else.
And he wasnât through here, not yet, not until he figured out if she was affecting his mind. Though he was still having episodes of uncontrollable violence, his aggression and rage were becoming more manageable. Just the fact that heâd pulled back from the edge in the shower attested to that.
Maybe itâs not herâmaybe itâs something about the house. After all, he was lucid now, and she wasnât here.
No, that didnât matter. He could still sense her constantly. Yesterday, it had drizzled all day, and he could swear heâd felt that she wasâ¦sad. He routinely heard her late in the night, roaming the hallways of her home. He could make out the ghostly rustle of her skirts or even an occasional sigh. When she passed his roomâs door, he perceived the change in the air and had learned to search for that faint scent of roses.
Heâd called for her, but it was always Nikolai whoâd hastened into the room. âWho are you talking to?â heâd asked in an anxious tone.
Now Conrad felt like he suffered a different kind of madness. Need to find her. Want her here. Questions about her plagued him. She wore jewelryâearrings, a choker, a wide band on her forefingerâbut sheâd had no wedding ring. If this had been her property, then sheâd been wealthy, but apparently she wasnât wed. And he didnât think sheâd been born well-offâthere was something about her demeanor that spoke of a past with nothing to lose.
Would a dancer have made enough to afford this place?
Hell, with her sensuality and complete lack of inhibitions, she could have been a courtesan.
Sheâd have made a fortune.
Whoever this Néomi had been in life, she was now dead. Was he sick to desire a womanâs ghost so much? Over the past two days, heâd envisioned her nude form again and again. He might not have been hard for her before, but heâd wanted to be.
He was sick. Not only mad, but sick.
If Conrad was wise, heâd crush this growing obsession with the ghost and get on with his business, with his escape.
He was driven; he wouldnât be sidetracked because he couldnât stop recalling how sheâd arched those pale breasts right to his hands.
At twilight, the last of the sunâs rays painted the bayou in hazy hues. Along the cypress-cluttered banks, moss dripped from limbs. A rickety folly persisted near the waterâs edge.
Decades ago, this little inlet of
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