A mystery. How could a figment of his mind clear his mind? Even as he's debating her existence—he's realizing that something is actually making him coherent enough to fucking debate her existence.
Maybe the shots they keep forcing on him are helping.
He can't recall much of what happened the morning he'd tried to escape. But he thinks that she'd been trying to undress him and possibly had attempted to kiss him—before casting him about the room.
Yet the being never attacked him again. Usually she stays near the window seat. Though he has sensed her at the foot of his bed on more than one unnerving occasion.
For years, he's constantly felt as if he was being watched by something unseen—now he actually could be.
No. He sees shadowy figures every day. Why should he think she's different? Because she has a scent? Because, for the first time, he wants a hallucination to be real?
He knows there's a line between suffering from hallucinations and interacting with them. You can live with the former; the latter means you're lost.
Over the last century, he's held on to the last of his sanity by his fingertips. Acknowledging her might just be the weight around his ankles needed to drag him down.
Even as he knows this, he speculates about her constantly. If she exists, then she's a ghost. Weren't ghosts born of violent deaths or murder? So how did she die? And when? Is she even sentient? He's seen her eyes and her long hair. What does the rest of her look like?
Why are my goddamned thoughts so lucid around her?
His brothers sound as if they're about to come to the room. He doesn't want this. Each day the entity grows clearer as the sun sets and the room dims. But when his brothers arrive, she fades. He's realized that the uncovered new bulb above is too bright—the unnatural light obscures her. Darkness would reveal her to him.
It wasn't in the lightning bolts that he saw her that first night. It was in the dead black lulls between them.
Twilight's coming. Which means if his brothers will stay away, he would be closer with each minute to discovering what she looks like. He's hungry for the sight of her, hands clenching and unclenching behind his back in anticipation.
5
Am I reaching or does he seem much better?' Nikolai asked when the three traced into the room.
'He doesn't appear as... disordered,' Sebastian said.
As if to prove them wrong, Conrad began to mutter unintelligibly in a language Néomi had never heard, his gaze darting to the window.
'Why don't you try to talk to him alone?' Murdoch said. When Nikolai nodded, Murdoch and Sebastian left.
Nikolai set the thermos on the nightstand, then pulled up a folding chair, turning it around to sit astraddle. Néomi loved it when men sat that way. His voice low, he said, 'Where have you been, brother?'
Brother. She was still startled at the idea that Conrad was part of their family. Sebastian seemed determined and studious, Murdoch was quiet and mysterious, and Nikolai was authoritative like the general he was. In contrast, the madman was aggressive and struck her as dishonorable, as if in a stand-up fight between gentlemen, he'd fling dirt in his opponent's eyes.
'What do you want with me?' Conrad abruptly grated. 'Why haven't you killed me?'
Seeming surprised by the interaction, Nikolai said, 'That's not our intention.'
'What is—to drug and starve me?'
Nikolai shot to his feet for the thermos. 'I've some blood here. Will you drink?' He quickly opened the top and poured into the attached cup.
Néomi saw that the liquid was thick and dark. When it made a glug-glug sound, she wondered if it was possible for her to vomit.
'You feeding me blood.' Conrad's tone was scathing. 'How familiar.'
Nikolai seemed to stifle a wince at that, but then he brought the cup to Conrad's lips.
Drinking. Blood. Conrad accepted obediently, drawing deep.
I want to vomit—
He spit a mouthful at Nikolai, hitting him in the face. Then he laughed, a rough, sinister sound. His red eyes brimmed with a hatred so virulent, Néomi believed that only death would cure it.
Nikolai wiped his face with his shirttail. When he seemed to draw on an unearthly supply of patience, Néomi felt sympathy for him. How much he must care for his brother to tolerate this. Nikolai didn't strike her as a normally forgiving male.
Of course, Néomi didn't bother hiding her disgusted expression. Strangely, when Conrad's eyes darted in her direction, she could swear he became more restless. Then his gaze slid to the window once more.
'Bagged blood is all you're going to get,' Nikolai said. 'If you don't drink it, then you go without.'
'I hunt. I feed from the vein. Unlike you unmanned traitors,' Conrad bit out, facing him again. 'I know you hide me from your king. Your Russian king. He'll execute you for this—favored general or not.'
'Possibly. So you know the risk we take.'
'Why?'
'We want to help you—'
'Like you did last time!' Conrad bellowed, wrestling against the chain that trapped him to the bed, those tremendous muscles straining.
Undaunted, Nikolai continued, 'We're going to help you combat your bloodlust.'
'Never.' Conrad's bloody fangs seemed to sharpen. 'No one comes back. The red on my eyes will never go away.'
'It would if I bled you out, drained you completely dry. But you'd only want to return to that state, killing even more than before. And you'd lose all the power you'd amassed.'
'I know this!'
'Then did you know you can learn to control the memories if you're not constantly adding new ones?' At Conrad's mildly surprised look, Nikolai said, 'We're aware of the memories. They're a sickness. You can't differentiate between those of your victims and your own. They make you hallucinate constantly, and your head feels like it will explode from them.'
What did they mean? Conrad was sick? Was there an actual medical reason behind his madness?
'Yet what if you could turn them on and off, accessing them at will?' Nikolai asked. 'How much better do you think your life would be without them tormenting you? If we can get you stable, you can learn to hold them at bay.'
Conrad shook his head sharply. 'I want blood from the vein. Only from the vein—'
'That's why we're going to help you find your Bride. Because there is one drive that's strong enough to compete with bloodlust.'
His Bride? Did Nikolai mean the need for sex?
'And the need to kill?' Conrad bit out. 'I savor it... ache to end you right now.'
'Just as there's one drive that can overcome bloodlust, there's one need that's stronger than the need to kill.'
'And what's that?' Conrad sneered.
Nikolai said only, 'You'll know when it hits you.'
Conrad glanced at the window yet again. 'What are you injecting me with?' Sometimes when he spoke, he would hesitate as if even he couldn't believe he'd just sounded sane. He must have been mad for a very long time.
'A soothsayer got it from the witches for us. It's a sedative of sorts. It'll continue to weaken you physically, but after a few days, it shouldn't put you in a stupor.'
Attention back to his brother, Conrad snapped, 'You've no right to drug me!'
