The Craving

We entered a dark-paneled smoking room, and Winfield immediately set about pouring some ruby-red sherry. Damon pulled out a silver flask and right there in front of Winfield spiked his drink with blood. Human blood.

“To marriage eternal,” Damon said, raising his glass.

Winfield agreed energetically. “To marriage.”

I just nodded and tossed back the drink, hoping the cool liquid would sate my thirst.

“There’s a serious matter I need to talk to you lads about.” Winfield settled his frame into a large desk chair. Damon leaned forward expectantly. I tensed in my seat, ready for whatever would come next.

“The matter of a dowry.”

I squeezed my hands together. Damon grinned, exposing his gleaming canines. He threw himself on to a velvet couch. “Just what I was going to ask you about, Father. You don’t mind me calling you that, do you?”

“Not at all, my boy,” Winfield said, offering Damon a cigar.

My brother took it, carefully trimming and lighting the end in a matter so professional I wondered where

he picked up the habit.

The two sat puffing for a moment, releasing large clouds of smoke into the tiny room. I coughed. Damon, enjoying my discomfort, took the effort to blow a smoke ring my way.

“Now here’s the thing. I want you two boys to be able to stand on your own two feet. My girls deserve real men, and if anything should happen to me, I want to make sure they’re taken care of.”

“Of course,” Damon said, out the corner of his mouth, around the cigar.

“I have several mines in Virginia; one is gold. They could use some managing. And then there are the railway shares I’ve bought into . . .”

My brother widened his eyes. I looked away, unable to bear watching him compel this poor man. “I would prefer cash,” he said.

“All right, that seems reasonable,” Winfield said without pause or even blinking. “An annuity, then? A living salary?”

“Up front. All of it,” Damon said pleasantly.

“One twentieth of my estate, capital, and holdings, then?” Winfield asked politely.

“More like a quarter.”

An automaton, Winfield mindlessly agreed to everything Damon suggested.

But I couldn’t figure it out—would this keep Winfield safe? Would Damon just keep him around, ordering whatever he pleased out of him?

“I’m glad you’re so concerned about taking care of my girls in the manner to which they have been accustomed,” Winfield said, but his voice sounded hollow, as if somewhere some tiny part of his mind knew something was terribly wrong.

The poor man drew out some checks and a pen. In a moment it was done, and Winfield presented me with a check with so many zeroes on it, it was barely readable.

Damon bared his teeth in something that was less a grin than a rictus of victory. He stood up, holding his glass of blood-laced sherry next to me. The smell was intoxicating. It took every ounce of my strength not to leap up and drain the cup.

And then Winfield said the most amazing, banal thing in the world.

“Those checks will take a while to clear,” he apologized, unaware of how those eight words might have just saved his life.

Damon glowered, thunderheads in his eyes. It was a look of angry frustration that was famous in Mystic Falls, and something no one wanted to be responsible for causing. It was a dangerous thing to disappoint my brother. He crumpled the check in his hands.

“You didn’t mention that before,” he growled, waving the sherry under my nose. I stiffened, my thirst making my fangs burn.

“I’m going to have to sell a great deal of my estate, capital, and holdings to get the cash to back this,” Winfield answered so plaintively it made me sick.

“So do it!” Damon ordered. But I was no longer paying attention. I had to get out of the room. My Power reacted to my hunger—to my anger—and I felt the beginnings of a change.

“I have to . . .” I didn’t even bother making up an excuse.

I pushed my way out of the room, past my evil brother and our sad father-in-law, out of the castle, and into the black night where I belonged.

Chapter 18

There were two hundred blocks between the Richards’ mansion and downtown New York City. Just under ten miles. But moving like a vampire isn’t like running in a normal sense, especially as I had just drained one of the Richards’ goats. If I was a blur to the world, so was the world to me. My head was down as I spent my entire focus on avoiding the obstacles right before me and trying to exhaust myself. Down from the rocky cliffs and heights of Fort Tryon with its cool trees, and through the valley that separated it from the rest of the city. Back into civilization, the unpaved dirt roads that smelled of dust and plants, particularly the tobacco I recognized from my native Virginia.

After enduring a week of waiting and watching and trying to outthink my brother, I just wanted it to all be over.

And now it wasn’t.

Damon couldn’t kill Winfield until the cash was available, and who knew how long that was going to be. In the meantime I had to stay with Bridget, keep tabs on the Sutherlands, pretend to be happily married, and continue to try and figure out Damon’s endgame.

I was caught in a web of guilt; every move of mine stuck another limb deeper. I just wanted to break free.

I wish I could live in solitude. If I had to live out eternity as a vampire, at the very least I could leave no evidence of it. No deaths, no injury, no hurt, no evidence of my unnatural existence at all. I was running from myself, my new self, and could never escape, just as I ran from Damon, my shadow in this endless afterlife.