The Craving

I closed my eyes, wishing I could close my ears. How I longed to be back in my grotto in the park.

“Seems like old times, doesn’t it, brother?” Damon sighed, adjusting one of his cuffs. “In another life, you and Rosalyn would be married already.”

“Shut up,” I said. He was right, though. If Katherine hadn’t killed my childhood playmate, I would have married her. Back then, I thought a forced marriage with someone I didn’t love was the worst fate imaginable. How innocent I was. . . .

I continued smiling, although it must have looked forced by that point. My eyes darted over the crowd, seeking out anyone in a badly matched scarf. That morning I had managed to grab and drain a pair of white doves, initially intended to be released as a romantic gesture after the wedding ceremony. But when was the last time Damon had fed? Or did he have a big, bloody feast planned?

“Look at us, together,” Damon whispered, nodding at someone in the crowd and smiling. “We make quite a handsome pair.”

“I’m doing this,” I whispered, “to save lives. Now be quiet.”

Damon rolled his eyes. “You’re no fun, brother. I hope you develop a sense of humor soon, or it’s going to be a loooooong eternity.”

The wedding march began, saving me from having to respond.

Margaret’s husband and Bram, ushers, came down the aisle first. The remaining ushers were callow youths who flirted outrageously with the bridesmaids they escorted. The girls wore pretty matching peach gowns and absolutely giant hats . . . but I noticed that one had a slightly different accessory from the rest. Hilda wore a hastily tied kerchief around her neck.

I glared at Damon.

He shrugged. “I got a little peckish waiting around.”

In truth, I was a little relieved—it meant he wasn’t starving himself in anticipation of something later.

Finally came Winfield, proudly striding down the aisle with a daughter on each arm. Lydia walked regally and easily. She wore a simple white gown of heavy material whose folds rustled with her movements. It went to the top of her neck and the bottom of her wrists, and its only ornamentation was a line of pearl buttons down the front. A net veil hung behind her, floating down her back. She looked like a fairy-tale queen, and smiled with a secretive look that only added to her beauty.

On Winfield’s left arm was Bridget, wearing her brocade and satin. She actually looked quite beautiful, if a bit overdone. An enormous lace veil perched on top of her head like a crown. It was hard to imagine, now, that I’d ever seen anything of Callie in her. Where Bridget was frilly and immature, Callie had been independent and practical.

Thinking of Callie now was a bad idea.

Time slowed down. Bridget’s foot rose and fell, bringing her a few inches closer to me. Her skirts drew forward, as if of their own accord. Her mouth opened and closed in a giggle that sounded far-off and distorted. And then came the distinctive scent of lemon and ginger.

Everything blurred—

Katherine?

Suddenly, instead of Bridget coming toward me dressed as a bride was the woman who had brought me to this place. Her thick black hair was caught up in a lace veil, revealing her perfect shoulders and neck. The blue cameo gleamed on her neck. She lowered her head demurely, but beneath her long lashes her eyes danced mischievously in my direction. She pursed her lips and I felt my knees weaken.

Did Damon see her, too? I looked askance at my brother, to see if he was thinking or seeing the same thing I was. Whatever compelled me to feel the way I did about Katherine, true love or a vampire’s Power, I was still under her spell, haunted by her. But Damon’s face was a perfect mask of happiness and love.

Time started back up again. Bridget resumed her place in my sight, smiling excitedly up at me.

And then the girls were before us, and the priest was there, and rings were in our hands.

It was, thankfully, a fairly short ceremony. The priest gave a speech about love and read several nice passages from the Bible that I would have liked in any other circumstance. I wasn’t sure whether to pray that the priest go on, and on, and on, and give me as much time as possible before the inevitable, or if he should just hurry up and get it over with.

“If anyone here knows of any impediment why these two couples may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, you do now confess it.”

I looked around the room, hoping someone would stand up and object. Maybe Margaret would speak out, with some sort of proof that Damon DeSangue wasn’t who he said he was, or that I was some sort of Confederate spy, or . . . The oldest sister shook her head and gritted her teeth, but kept silent. I may have imagined it, but I think her mother’s hand had an iron grip on her knee.

Damon went first, marrying the elder bride. I wasn’t listening; there seemed to be a dull roar in my ears that was so loud I was surprised no one else could hear it.

What was going to happen when it was over? Would the Sutherlands make it through this night? Would I be forced, on my wedding day, to fight my own brother to the death?

“Repeat after me,” the priest finally said. I did as I was told.

“I, Stefan Salvatore, take thee, Bridget Lynn Cupbert Sutherland, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till . . . death us do part.”

I almost choked, and could only hope that the audience thought I was overwhelmed with emotion.

“I, Bridget Lynn Cupbert Sutherland, take thee, Stefan, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.” She forgot my surname, and from the look in her eyes it was because she was thinking about the night before.