The Craving

Again, nothing happened.

“Together!” she insisted. On the count of three we both kicked.

“Maybe there’s vervain in the stone . . . ?” I suggested.

Lexi looked grim. “Vervain doesn’t make things indestructible. But there are other things that can be done to lock something up. Permanently. What about the walls?”

For the next hour we ran our fingers over the white walls, ceilings, and floors, our highly sensitive skin picking out even the most minute gaps. We ripped open sarcophagi, ransacked the corpses for tools.

“No knives, no diamond crosses, no silver-plate Bibles, no pennies for Charon, no lucky stone, no nothing,” I growled, throwing my hands up in frustration.

“This doesn’t look good,” was all Lexi said.

Twenty-four hours later there was a service in the chapel. We could hear it with our Powers. It was a memorial to the Sutherlands, to the two brides who were killed, to the proud parents . . . along with a biting invective against the young men who did it, running off with the dowry money. Murderers, thugs, con men, robbers . . .

The only accusation that didn’t make the list was “demon.”

But none of the insults stopped us from screaming.

“Help!” I yelled. “In here! We’re in here!”

Lexi added her voice to mine, screeching in different high-pitched tones that nearly blew out my eardrums. At one point I could hear a hollow-voiced Hilda whisper, “Do you hear something?” And our hopes were raised.

And then nothing. The service ended, people filed out, and once again we were completely, utterly alone.

With sigh, Lexi gave me my ring back.

“Many thanks for its loan,” she said quietly, slipping it on my finger. “But I don’t think it will do me—or you—much good now.”

I hugged her tight. “Don’t give up yet,” I whispered in her ear.

But the words echoed hollowly within the crypt, having nowhere else to go.

Chapter 27

There was nothing to indicate the passage of hours inside the windowless vault—not the barest suggestion of sunlight ever made its way under its doors. Days melted into weeks, maybe months. It felt as if an eternity had passed, and yet another stretched out endlessly before us.

Lexi and I had stopped talking. Not out of anger or hopelessness, but just because we couldn’t anymore. We didn’t have enough strength to force ourselves to scream when we heard someone approach, much less get up and fight the stone that kept us buried. There was no more strength to fight the darkness, no strength to stand up. If I’d still required my heart to survive, I’m not sure I’d have had the strength to keep blood pumping through my veins.

We lay silently next to each other. If anyone ever found us, a hundred years from then, we would look pathetic, like a sister and brother in some horrible fairy tale trapped in a witch’s basement.

Each passing second drained me of my Power. My eyes no longer parsed the darkness. The silence was absolute as sounds from the outside world faded into oblivion. All that I had left was my sense of touch—the feel of Lexi’s waxy hand, the rough wood of the battered coffin next to me, the cool metal band of my useless ring.

I felt almost human again, in the worst possible way. And as my Power retreated painfully, so with it went my immortality. I had never noticed its continual presence until it began to disappear, leaving meat and bone, brain and fluids, and taking away all that was supernatural about me with it.

Except for my hunger.

My vampire side reacted to starvation. My teeth ached and burned with need so badly that I would have shed tears if I’d had any. Blood weaseled its way into my every thought. I dreamed of how it had beaded up, jewel-like, on Callie’s finger when she’d cut herself. How smoky my childhood crush, Clementine Haverford, had tasted going down. How, as my father lay dying on the floor of his study, his blood had spread out around him like greedy, searching fingers, staining everything in sight a dark, delicious red.

In the end, everything comes back to blood. Vampires are nothing but hunger personified, designed expressly for the purpose of stealing blood from our victims. Our eyes compel them to trust us, our fangs rip open their veins, and our mouths drain them of their very life source.

Blood . . .

The word whispered to me over and over, like a song caught in one’s head, filling every crevice of my brain and coating each memory with its tantalizing scent.

And then a very familiar voice began to talk to me.

“Hello, Stefan.”

“Katherine?” I croaked, barely able to get the words out.

I managed to turn my head just enough to see her sprawled voluptuously on a set of silk pillow cushions. She looked exactly as she had the night of the massacre, before they took her away and killed her. Beautiful and partially undressed, her pouty lips giving me a knowing smile.

“Are you . . . alive?”

“Shhhh,” she said, leaning over to stroke my cheek. “You don’t look well.”

I closed my eyes as her intoxicating scent of lemon and ginger swept over me, so familiar and so real that I swooned. She must have fed recently because the heat from her skin burned in the cold tomb.

“I wish I could help you,” she whispered, her lips close to mine.

“Your. Fault,” I managed to breathe.

“Oh, Stefan,” she scolded. “You may not have been as willing as your brother, but you didn’t precisely object to my . . . ministrations.”

As if to emphasize her words, she leaned over and pressed her soft lips to my cheek. Again . . . and again . . . dragging them down my parched neck. Very, very delicately, she teased me, letting the tips of her fangs just puncture my skin.