The Craving

I slunk into a back pew and regarded the rose oculus window. The scene depicted a grieving Mother Mary in lapis lazuli blue as the sun, a bloody garnet, rose behind her. I closed my eyes and thought, hard. Why had Lucius thrown me off his scent? Was I wrong to assume that he wanted to bait me, so I could arrive at the correct church just as he put the match to the powder keg? What church would he choose—and why?

Then it hit me: I was being stupid. The vampire had done due diligence and found out exactly where my bride’s family lived; he wouldn’t have just chosen a random church to burn down. He would have picked the chapel in which I was married.

I knew the truth of this deep in my bones. But just as surely I knew that I couldn’t go after him by myself. And there was only one person who was capable of helping me.

Damon.

Damon, who had trapped me into the stupid marriage that got the Sutherlands all killed. Damon, who had killed Callie. Damon, who swore to make my life a living hell for all eternity. But in the end I needed him. I had seen him control his powers in ways I could not. And I would need all the Power I could get on my side if I was to find a way to defeat an old one. Lexi had rescued us from prison, and surely even someone as debased and fallen as Damon would recognize that we owed her.

The only problem was finding him.

And now, I think I’m ready for a drink was what he had said. For most vampires that only meant one thing. For my brother, well, he could easily have meant hitting the bottle as well as draining a person or two. But where?

In the weeks between following me to New York and “finding” me at the Chesters’ ball, he had, as Lexi said, been sweeping the New York society scene as an Italian count. He had probably talked—or compelled—his way into any number of private clubs or restaurants. I wracked my brains, trying to remember the prattle Bridget had bored me with, about who was seen where with whom, and where was the latest place to go, and how there was an oyster bar serving genuine Pimm’s Cup, just like in England. For lack of any better idea, I went there first.

It was a lovely place in an otherwise unwholesome area at the southern seaport. Uncertain-looking sailors wandered from pool of streetlight to pool of streetlight, gathering in twos and threes to quietly discuss the seedier side of import and export, laugh loudly, and sing old drinking songs. Among all of this rotting seaweed, though, fancy livery and decorated carriages were parked: society men lured by the oysters, Pimm’s Cups, and the dangerous aspect of the place.

Inside there were quite a few of the young men I had seen at the Chesters’ ball, as well as at my own wedding. Even Bram was there, but he was keeping to himself and looked ill. His face was ashen and his eyes sunken, and he wore black ribbons around his sleeves for mourning. His drink was untouched and he just stared sadly out the windows at the river.

I turned my back to him, not wanting him to call out that a murderer—as he no doubt thought I was—was in their midst.

I beckoned for the hostess to come over.

“Has D—uh, the Count DeSangue been by here tonight?” I asked.

The girl looked me up and down, face flushing with excitement. “With him accused of murder and this being his favorite place and me being his favorite girl, what on earth would make me tell you something like that?”

I could see by the thick scarf she wore around her neck that she wasn’t just warding off the cold night air—this had definitely been one of Damon’s haunts.

I started to reach into my pocket for bribe money. She saw where I was going and shook her head. “Not on your life, love. Not for Damon.”

“You have no idea who he is, or what you’re getting involved in,” I growled, grabbing her wrist. Her face fell and she tried to struggle out of my grasp. “Listen to me. I’m Stefan Salvatore—the other man accused of murdering the Sutherlands. Neither one of us did it, all right? We’re both on the run from the police. Now tell me where he is.”

I didn’t compel her. I didn’t exactly threaten her. But she nodded mutely and I relaxed my grip.

“I don’t know,” she said, rubbing her wrist. “I know he liked a drink at some of those fancy uptown places like the Skinny Black Cat and Xerxes’ Repose. He even had his own table at the Twenty-Two Club.”

At that moment a waitress came out. “Are you talking about the count?” she asked, an excited grin spreading across her face.

I sighed. “Yes.”

“Well, he once took me to Strange Fruit just a few blocks down.”

“He took you on a date?” the hostess said, envy apparent in her voice. The waitress nodded proudly.

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it. Lexi or Damon would have compelled the women to forget me at that point. I sighed, thinking about how much easier life would be if my Powers were stronger and my will weaker.

I checked Winfield’s pocket watch. It was five A.M.; an hour had passed since Lexi and I had first entered the mansion. Time was ticking by far too quickly for my liking, and every minute seemed to seal Lexi’s fate more completely.

Seconds later I was standing inside the door of Strange Fruit, a large, low, dark bar with giant wooden fans slowly turning overhead. The sailors who couldn’t get into the oyster bar were there, along with every type of shady personality, lost soul, and criminal genius that managed to stay just this side of the law.

Damon sat at a small rickety table by himself in just his shirtsleeves, a half-empty bottle of bourbon before him.

“Nursing your wounds?” I asked, walking over. He didn’t even bother looking surprised.