The Craving

The admiring crowd clapped and then Damon’s eyes flicked back toward me. Just once. Like he had the power to compel me. And in a manner of speaking, he did. I knew exactly what he wanted me to do.

I drained my second champagne before stepping forward, turning toward Bridget.

Here I went again. It seemed only yesterday that I was in Mystic Falls, yearning to go to school in Charlottesville, waiting out the war in the lazy, endless summer, and being forced to court Rosalyn. Each time I called upon her it was with a leaden ball in my stomach, and each visit was an exercise in frustration and despair. I never wanted to marry her—our parents wished us to marry. My father expected us to marry. And so I was forced into an engagement I didn’t want, anticipating a marriage I didn’t desire.

Once again I was being being forced into a marriage. But perhaps this was all part of the punishment I deserved. And if it meant saving lives . . .

“Bridget.” I turned to her, bent at my waist and holding my drink out, toasting her. I was the very form of romantic etiquette, exuding Southern charm the like of which these Yankees rarely saw. “From the very moment I . . .” Saw your near-lifeless body covered in blood in Central Park and almost finished you off. “. . . had the fortune to come to you in the hour of your direst need, I just knew you had to be mine. And thanks to the generosity of your parents, I already feel like family. Bridget, will you make this the happiest night of my life?”

With a porcine squeal Bridget threw her arms around me—after first carefully handing her glass of punch to Hilda.

“Good show,” Bram clapped, his cheeks flushing even redder. “I knew you were a decent chap! I could tell right away!”

The crowd exploded with cheers and thunderous applause; buckets of champagne were ordered all around. Winfield Sutherland looked so puffed up with pride and joy I feared he would explode. Mrs. Sutherland looked quietly pleased now that the last of her daughters were matched. Only Margaret shook her head angrily before freezing her face into a good show of sisterly pride.

The leader of the dance had a Nebuchadnezzar of champagne brought forth, a giant glass bottle that held the equivalent of twenty bottles’ worth of champagne. In an elegant display of sabrage, he took a sword from his butler and dramatically sliced along the bottle, causing the neck to fly off in a beautiful explosion of sparkling golden liquid.

“Let’s have the weddings this weekend!” Damon cried out, as if caught up in the general excitement. “We’ve waited our whole lives to find these ladies—why wait now?”

Yes, why wait? I thought. Let Damon’s games begin.

Chapter 10

November 6, 1864

Damon is back, though it seems he was never actually gone. He has been watching me, baiting me, controlling me. He is the puppet master and I am his hapless marionette, forced to do his bidding.

Until I saw Damon, I had not realized just how fond I had become of the Sutherlands, of how they eased my loneliness and gave me hope that I might not have to live in exile. Though I knew I had to leave them, I had dared to hope that by proving I could stay in control around them, my journey through this world might ultimately be less solitary.

But Damon knows me all too well. He might have compelled the Sutherlands to accept me, but he didn’t compel me to stay in their presence. I could have slipped out this morning, could have run off in the park, could have disappeared into the crowd at the ball. And yet I stayed, because, as Damon no doubt predicted, I liked being part of a family again, even if just for a few fleeting days.

Damon’s plan terrifies me—precisely because I don’t understand it. Why New York? Why the Sutherlands? Why involve me? If Damon was able to orchestrate everything, to so seamlessly weave his way into the Sutherlands’ lives and pave the way for my arrival, why stage such a spectacle? Why bother with a marriage? Why not just take Winfield to the bank and compel him and the teller to empty his vast accounts? Does he intend to live as a human? Does he need the marriage for legitimacy in New York society? Is he simply intent upon torturing me?

Or is there something I’m missing? Some secret aim I can’t possibly begin to imagine . . .

All I have are questions. And I fear that the answers won’t come until the first dead body shows up.

Later that Monday afternoon, I stood on the roof deck of one of the most amazing Federal-style houses ever built. Slim columns supported a soaring porch over a formal entrance, to which a grand, curved driveway rolled up as royally as a red carpet. From casement to cornice every detail was thoughtfully considered and never overdone. The dining room, large and oval, was (as near as I could tell) exactly the same as the one in the White House. The White House. In our new capital. That’s the sort of place the Commandant’s House was, as befitted the man who looked after the Brooklyn Naval Yards.

What it lacked in size and modern touches (such as the Sutherlands’ residence), it more than made up for in perfectly manicured lawns, a fine orchard, and a spectacular view of Manhattan. The property was perched almost on a cliff surveying the East River and the city that was under the Navy’s protection. Commodore Matthew Perry himself had lived there earlier. I sighed at its magnificence.

“No,” Bridget said, shaking her head decisively and heading back downstairs, picking up the train of her skirts in a very businesslike way.

Her little entourage followed, laughing good-naturedly.

“It’s too white,” joked Bram.

“It’s too small,” added Hilda.

“But it’s incredible! The views! The size! The . . .” I said. “What’s wrong with this one?”