Dark Needs at Night's Edge (iad-5) by Kresley Cole

Author:Kresley Cole [Cole, Kresley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: love_sf

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.

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