The Craving

“Europe,” Damon said thoughtfully. I glared at him.

“The door was open,” she continued, “and the stench . . .”

We fell into silence. I didn’t know what to say or do. In ordinary, human circumstances, my first move would have been to get Margaret away from the house and call for help.

“Did you call for the police?” I asked suddenly.

Margaret met my gaze. “Yes. They’ll be here soon. And they’ll think it was you, you know.”

“It wasn’t,” Damon repeated.

She nodded, not bothering to look at him. Her skin was milky pale, as if some of the life had gone out of her when her family had died. “I know, but you are not innocent, either.”

“No, no, we are not,” Damon said in a distant voice, looking at Lydia’s cold body. For a moment, his features softened and he looked almost like a human in mourning. Then, he shook his head, as if snapping himself out of a reverie. “Margaret, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said perfunctorily. “But Stefan and I must run.”

“Why should I leave with you?” I challenged, the blood making my head spin, my thoughts whirling dizzily in my brain.

“Fine, stay here, get arrested.”

I turned to Margaret. “Are you going to be all right?”

She gave me a look as if I was mad. “My entire family is dead.”

Her voice quavered on the edge of sanity. I put my hand out and touched her shoulder, wishing I could say or do something. No one deserved this. But words wouldn’t bring her family back.

As Damon and I turned to go, the telltale clip clop of a police wagon pulling up in front of the house sounded, along with the firm orders of a chief directing his men.

“Out the back,” I said. Damon nodded and we ran through the dining room and kitchen to the door that opened on the courtyard. My hand was just about to touch the doorknob when Damon grabbed me, finger to his mouth. He pressed himself up against the wall, indicating I should do the same. My predator’s senses picked up what Damon had already figured out: There was a man, no, a pair of men, waiting silently outside with guns drawn, exactly prepared for us to escape that way.

“I’ll just quickly dispose of them,” Damon said.

“No! Upstairs,” I whispered. “Window.”

“Fine.” Damon sighed, and the two of us started to creep quietly up the servants’ staircase.

An explosive bang from the front hall made us freeze in our tracks.

“You, upstairs, you and you, to the parlor!” A stern voice was barking orders. From the sounds of footsteps, an entire fleet of policemen was beginning to sweep through the house.

Damon and I gave up any attempt at being quiet, storming up the stairs as fast as we could. There was a casement window at the top, which he threw open triumphantly, prepared to jump to freedom.

Below, in the side yard, a dozen armed policeman stood, aiming rifles at the building. And with his drama, Damon had neatly alerted them all to our presence.

Bullets began to fly.

Though they would not kill us, they would slow us down. I threw myself to the floor, feeling the sting of lead graze my neck.

“Coal chute,” I suggested. Without bothering to wait for an answer I streaked back downstairs with vampiric speed, my brother close behind. Police now swarmed all over the rooms on the main floor, but even those who caught a glimpse of us running to the cellar didn’t quite know what they saw: blurry shadows, a trick of the eye.

The darkness of the basement proved no problem for us, and in a split second we were in the coal room, behind the furnace. I forced open the tiny slanted door that led to the driveway and leaped out, turning to give my brother a hand.

And that’s when I felt the gun at my neck.

I turned around slowly and raised my hands. A small crowd of New York’s finest stood there, along with most of the neighborhood, who had come to watch the manhunt.

Damon and I could, with little difficulty, have taken them all. And it looked like my brother was itching for a fight.

I shook my head, whispering, “We’ll draw far more attention resisting arrest right now.” The truth was, it would be far easier to escape later, when we didn’t have a crowd gawking at us. Damon knew it as well as I did.

Damon sighed a dramatic sigh and pulled himself out of the chute, leaping neatly to the ground.

An officer strode forward bravely—but only once his men had our arms behind our backs and jostled us a bit, letting us know who was in charge.

“You two are under arrest for grand larceny, murder, and anything else I can find that will have you hanging from a tree in Washington Square for the death of the Sutherlands,” the officer said through even, square teeth.

They dragged us out, pushing more than was necessary. With shoves and a final kick each we were thrown into the back of a paddy wagon, and then the door was slammed behind us.

“They were good people,” the chief hissed in Damon’s face, through the bars.

Damon shook his head back and forth. “I’ve had better,” he whispered to me.

Through the bars of the wagon I stared back at the house I’d called home for the past week. Margaret stood framed in the doorway, her black hair stark against the glowing lights of the house. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she said something so softly that even my sensitive ears barely heard it.

“Whoever did this will pay.”

Chapter 20

The New York Halls of Justice and House of Detention was a slablike stone structure that rose heavily from the street like an old tombstone. The interior was a portrait in gray, with grim-faced policemen and haggard criminals.