The Craving

“Oh yes. Money without the tracks,” I said bitterly. “Much less obvious than robbing a bank vault. So tell me, what about the cab driver? A dead man in the middle of the road—what about those tracks?”

“Him? No one will notice him,” Damon said, obviously surprised by my interest. “Look around, Stefan. People die in the streets here all the time. He’s no one.”

Damon had become the type of vampire who had no problem with killing even when it didn’t directly benefit him, and he committed murder at the drop of a hat. When I killed in my first days, it was always for thirst, or self-protection. Not for sport. And never simply for the kill.

“Besides, it really, really irritated you,” he added with a grin. “And isn’t that what it’s all about?”

He gave a little bow and indicated I should enter our new home first. Looking up at its beautiful gray walls and growling gargoyles, I wished no one had ever invited me in, that I had been forced to remain outside forever, a poor creature relegated to the park.

And then somebody screamed.

Damon and I both rushed in, practically tearing the door off its hinges in our effort to get through.

Margaret was standing in the living room, white as a sheet, her hand over her mouth. And it was very obvious why.

The entire place was spattered in what my spinning mind could only assume was black paint, until its smell hit my nose with the force of a truck: blood. Human blood. Gallons and gallons of it slowly dripping down the walls and congealing in pools on the floor. It threw me off guard, my vampire senses reeling from the sheer quantity.

Damon held one hand over his face, as if trying to stifle the sensations, and pointed with his other hand.

At first all I saw was a pair of stockinged legs askew on the rug, as if someone had too much to drink and fell down. Then I realized they weren’t attached to a body.

“No . . .” I whispered, sinking to my knees in horror.

The bodies of Lydia, Bridget, Winfield, and Mrs. Sutherland were scattered around the room in pieces.

The family I had married into to protect, the innocent humans I was trying to keep safe from Damon’s psychopathic tendencies, were all dead. But they hadn’t just been murdered—they had been torn apart and brutalized.

“What did you do?” I growled at Damon, fury turning my eyes red and beginning the change. “What did you do?”

I was going to rip his neck out. It was as simple as that. He was a monster, and I should have killed him long ago, long before he had a chance to destroy other people’s lives.

But Damon looked just as shocked as I felt. His ice-blue eyes were wide with unfeigned surprise.

“It wasn’t me,” he said. Margaret shot him a look that could have killed. The way he spoke it was as if he could have been him, just as easily—just not this time.

“I believe you,” Margaret said softly, shaking her head in abject grief.

I was surprised. Why, after all the questions, all the glares, all the arguments, why did she believe him now? Why, when she—again rightfully—assumed he was just after the money and had fled the moment the documents were dry, did she believe he wasn’t the murderer? But oddly I believed him, if for no other reason than the callousness of his tone.

As if she could read my thoughts, Margaret turned her eyes to me. “I can always tell when someone is lying,” she said simply. “It’s a . . . gift, I suppose.”

I thought about what Bram had said—how Margaret had hurt him just by looking at him. I touched my ring, thinking of the witch, Emily, who’d cast a spell over it to protect me from the sun. Was it possible that Margaret had powers, too?

I opened my mouth to ask her, but tears were leaking from her eyes. Now was not the time for an interrogation. Taking a deep breath I rose and went over to what was left of the bodies, trying to discover a clue or reason for the massacre.

The other half of Mrs. Sutherland’s body was sprawled on its belly next to the couch. One arm was stretched out, as if she were trying to get up, trying to crawl to her youngest daughter.

Bridget’s throat had been torn out and all of her limbs had been snapped in half. Her face was untouched, however. In death she looked like the little girl she really was, the soft rose of her cheeks slowly fading to an icy white, her lips opened slightly as if she were asleep. Her eyes, wide and green and clear as a china doll’s, were still open in shock. I gently put my hand over her face and pulled her lids down.

Lydia was frozen with a hand over her face, like an ancient Roman tomb carving, dignified even in death. I turned away from her ruined torso, the white bones of her back sticking through her cracked chest.

Winfield looked like a big, slain animal, a buffalo brought down in its prime. There were surprisingly neat gashes down his side, like something had been trying to butcher him.

Finally, I went over to Margaret and put my arms around her, turning her head so she wasn’t staring at the scene of carnage anymore. She clung to me, but stiffened in surprise when my hand brushed the skin on the back of her neck.

After a moment she pulled away. Shock seemed to slowly settle down over her features. She sank into a chair and regarded the room again, this time with a blank face.

“They were like this when I arrived,” she began slowly. “I stayed at the Richards’ longer than everyone else, looking for the two of you, trying to find someone who had seen you leave. Bram and Hilda and the usual gang had left earlier, planning some silly antics for your wedding night. A shivaree or something. I just assumed you two took off for Europe with your dowry.”