The Craving

It’s just his newfound predilection for casual violence that makes him so incalculable, but the way he revels in it. Though blood is our diet, we as vampires at least have a modicum of self-will. Damon doesn’t have to let his dark side win, and yet he embraces it.

I view this change in him with horror and guilt, as I was the one who set him down the path of the vampire. Katherine was the one who changed him, but I force-fed him his first human.

After seeing his message to me I can’t consider leaving the Sutherlands until I have figured out a way to keep them all safe. What my brother did to Callie . . . it obviously isn’t beyond him to just dispose of the entire family once they serve their purpose.

But when will he take action? At the wedding? After the wedding? After the honeymoon? Next year? Could I spirit the girls away somewhere? Could I convince them to hide? Could I compel them to? Damon managed to find me here, could he find me—or them—anywhere?

I have to come up with a plan, in case Damon doesn’t just leave town with his newfound fortune.

Of course, the simplest solution would be to kill Damon.

Voilà—one maniacal, insane, unpredictable, murderous vampire gone, the world, and myself, a thousand times safer. That’s assuming I could do it. I am so much weaker than he is, it would have to be done by surprise or guile or something equally underhanded, like a knife in the back. Like he killed Callie.

There isn’t any point in thinking that way. I will not stoop to his level. He is my brother. And as awful as he is, he is the only relative left to me.

The next day, time flew by as if it had nothing better to do than gallop me toward matrimony. Before I knew it, I’d been stuffed into my suit, force-fed pancakes, and spirited over one hundred blocks north to the altar, where I stood awaiting my fate, as the Sutherlands unknowingly awaited their own.

Damon and I stood side by side in Woodcliff Manor’s great hall—the pretty family chapel nearby was far too small for Bridget’s tastes. The Richards were kind enough to let her use their home at the tip of Manhattan Island. It was really more of a castle than a home, with gray towers, parapets, and decorative portcullises, all made from the gray rock that jutted seamlessly out of the rocky promontory on which it sat.

Not so far from there, outside the arched gothic windows, were the remains of Fort Tryon, the site of a sad defeat of Continental forces under George Washington by the British.

My thoughts drifted as I imagined redcoats and scrappy American soldiers and puffs of gunpowder . . . and then something occurred to me. Katherine could have witnessed such a battle. I never asked how old she was—perhaps Damon did—but she was far older than her appearance suggested. She had probably witnessed events I only read about in history books.

I shivered at the thought, but the chill was instantly dispelled by the incredible heat in the room. Damon and I stood in front of a crowd of more than two hundred of New York’s finest socialites, all sitting uncomfortably in hastily pulled together pews. They had no idea how dangerous it was for them to be there.

I pulled at my collar and tie, which suddenly felt too tight, my vision blurring. The room shifted and morphed, and for just a second, the finery and skin of every wedding attendee melted off as though they’d been caught up in a blaze. Skin flaked off like corn husks, leaving behind pure-white bone and twisted tendons.

“Stefan!” Damon hissed, elbowing me. I realized then that I was clutching his arm. “Do I need to call a medic for you?” he asked sarcastically.

I shook my head, wondering what illness had overcome me. The crowd came back into focus, alive, happy, laughing, and fanning themselves discreetly.

Even I had to admit that Mrs. Sutherland had done a fantastic job working with Mrs. Richards and her housekeepers. A rich red carpet had been laid out, and it was scattered with so many rose petals you could scarcely see the fabric beneath. Pink, white, and deep, deep red, it looked like a beautiful trail through a magnificent rose garden. Garlands of expensive and exotic flowers hung along the pews, and the scent of orange and lemon was heavy in the air. Overhead hung giant balls of flowers like fireworks in petals. Vases in every gothic arched nook and cranny held elegant arrangements of grasses and blooming branches of quince, enhancing the woodland effect.

Everyone wore full formal regalia, tailcoats for the men, some with diplomatic sashes. Heavy moiré silks for the older women, lighter for the young women, yards and yards of fabric swirled around their feet like more rose petals. Hats were decked out in plumes and gems and sometimes entire birds. And the real heirloom jewelry had been pulled out for this occasion, pearls and diamonds and rubies on every neck and wrist, some gems the size of my thumb.

All the women had fans, of course, made from silk and painted in Japan or England, and they tried to flutter them delicately, but most wound up just flapping them as fast as they could. The ladies’ countenances remained stubbornly rosy despite their efforts to keep pale.

Everyone whispered and talked excitedly, and of course I could tune in to any conversation I felt like listening to with my enhanced hearing. I almost didn’t mean to, because it was the same in every seat:

“. . . so quick. Only met a month ago. Did you hear the story? He was so chivalrous. . . .”

“. . . lucky girl. I hope my Lucretia marries as well. . . .”

“Apparently, the youngest Beaumont threw herself at DeSangue, but he only had eyes for Lydia. . . .”

“. . . such a handsome man! And a count! . . .”

“. . . yes, but who’s that other one again? Marrying Bridget?”