The Craving

“Yes, thirst is a terrible thing,” I said, “but you’ll have to excuse me.” Then I turned and cut my way through the merrily dancing crowd, determined to search out my brother before he had the chance to slit anyone’s throat.

Chapter 8

I found Damon dancing with Hilda, ushering her around the dance floor with the lightest touch. Wherever his fingers touched she bent, curling into him a trifle more than was acceptable and falling against him more than was necessary. Other girls looked on enviously, clearly hoping to dance with him next. He pretended to devote all his attention to the poor girl, but glanced up just long enough to shoot me a dazzling smile.

I waited impatiently for the dance to end, wishing I could compel the musicians to stop. But whatever Damon’s powers of compulsion, mine were severely lacking thanks to my meager diet.

As soon as the last beat was played, I marched up to my brother.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to . . . ?” he asked, innocently, indicating Hilda. “Because I’m sure she will. If you’d like her to.”

Hilda studied her dance card, the picture of confusion.

“Let’s go get a drink,” I said, taking him by the elbow.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” he agreed, mock-seriously. He snapped his fingers, as if at a dog. “Hilda . . . ?”

“Leave her alone,” I ordered.

Damon rolled his eyes. “Fine. A waiter will do just as well.” But he allowed me to place an iron grip on his arm and guide him through the crowd, past the refreshment room, through a library and into a poorly lit study.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded the moment we were alone.

“Trying to enjoy myself,” Damon said, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. He dropped his accent immediately. “Did you see the spread? The salmon’s from Scotland. And Adelina Patti is here, too—Father would have just died. Oh wait.” He snapped his fingers. “He did die. You murdered him, in fact.”

“Only after he tried to kill us,” I pointed out, clenching my fists.

“Correction: after he succeeded in shooting both of us. We’re dead, brother.” Damon grinned at me.

He was circling me. Casually, as if he didn’t mean to, as if he was just walking around idly, making conversation while admiring the decor. It reminded me of how he’d paced the ring at the circus back in New Orleans, when Gallagher had forced him to fight the mountain lion. Damon picked up a small statuette and turned it over in his hands, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. I squared my shoulders, feeling the predator’s response as he challenged my personal space.

“I’m asking you again, Damon: What are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you, brother. Starting a new life, far from home, and war, and tragedy, and all of those other things immigrants like us are escaping. New York is where the action is. I figured if it’s good enough for my brother, it’s good enough for me, too.”

“So you did follow me,” I said. “How?”

“You stink,” Damon said. “Don’t act surprised! It’s not just you. Everyone stinks. We’re hunters, Stefan. About halfway up the coast, it wasn’t hard to figure out where you decided to go after New Orleans. I just made sure I got here first. There isn’t a train yet that can beat me on a horse. Well, several horses. A couple of them died of exhaustion. Like your poor, poor Mezzanotte.”

“Why, Damon?” I said, ignoring his casual cruelty. “Why follow me here?”

Damon’s eyes narrowed and a flash of rage shot through them, exploding from the hidden depths of his soul.

“I told you I was going to torment you for the eternity you blessed me with, Stefan. Did you think I would break my promise so quickly?”

I was used to Damon’s fits of pique. His anger had always been like a summer storm, quick and violent, causing damage to anyone or anything nearby—and then it was over and he was buying a round at the tavern.

But this fury was new, and it was all because of me.

I averted my eyes so he couldn’t see the pain and guilt written there. “What do you want with Lydia? What does she have to do with anything?”

“Ah, Lydia,” Damon sighed, infusing his voice with pretend longing. “Charming, isn’t she? Definitely the best catch of the three sisters. Not that Margaret doesn’t have her own charms, of course, but she’s a bit sarcastic for my tastes, and, well, married.” He shook his head. “But then there’s Bridget. Such a lively girl! Such verve!”

“. . . anyone seen Stefan?” As if on cue, we could both pick out her whining, childish soprano from four rooms away.

“. . . and such an irritating voice,” Damon finished, wincing. “First thing I would do, brother, is compel her to silence. You’d be doing the world a favor.”

I clenched my jaw. “You were obviously involved with the Sutherlands long before we crossed paths here.”

“Oh was I?” Damon asked. He put down the small statue he had been holding and turned it this way and that on the desk, as if deciding which way it looked best. “Poor girl was getting soaked—did she tell you the story? She loves it. For all of her pretending to be hard-nosed, she’s a weak-kneed romantic as bad as the rest of them. A sudden storm out of nowhere, a dry cab for Lydia . . . rich, rich Lydia . . . with a sheltered upbringing and open, welcoming family.”

“Oh, you are a master of subtlety. Controlling men’s fates,” I said, rolling my eyes at Damon’s preening.