The Craving sd-3

by Лиза Джейн Смит

  After admiring the fresco of winged cherubs above me, I pushed off the soft covers and forced myself out of bed. Every muscle in my body rippled under my pale skin, full of strength and Power, but every bone in my ribcage showed. The Sutherlands had taken my clothes to be washed but hadn’t given me a nightshirt. I enjoyed the feeling of morning sunlight on my flesh, the glowing warmth fighting with the chill in the room. Though I’d never forgive Katherine for turning me into a monster, I was grateful at least for her lapis lazuli ring that protected me from the sun’s otherwise fatal rays.

  The window was open slightly, ushering a cool breeze into the room and setting the diaphanous curtains aflutter. Though temperature no longer affected me, I closed the window, locking the latch with some puzzlement. I could have sworn all the windows had been shut tight last night. Before I had time to further consider the matter, the tell-tale thump of a heartbeat sounded close by, and after a light knock, the door cracked open. Lydia stuck her head in, then immediately blushed and looked away from my nearly naked form.

  ‘Father was afraid you might try to leave without saying goodbye. I was sent to make sure you didn’t charm a maid into helping you.’

  ‘I’m hardly in a state to sneak away,’ I said, covering my chest with my arms. ‘I will need my trousers to do that.’

  ‘Henry will be up shortly with your trousers, freshly pressed,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the ground. ‘In the meantime, there is a bathing room just down the hall to the right. Please feel free to refresh yourself, and then come down to breakfast.’

  I nodded, feeling trapped.

  ‘And, Stefan.’ Lydia looked up briefly and met my eye. ‘I do hope you’ll be able to locate a shirt as well.’ Then she smiled and slipped away.

  When I finally came downstairs for breakfast, the entire Sutherland clan was waiting for me – even Bridget, who was alive and stuffing toast into her face as though she hadn’t eaten in a fortnight. Except for a slight paleness to her complexion, it was impossible to tell that she’d nearly died the night before.

  Everyone turned and gasped as I approached. Apparently, I cut a different figure from the hero in shirtsleeves the night before. With freshly polished fine Italian shoes, neat trousers, a new clean shirt and a borrowed jacket Winfield had sent up for me, I was every inch the gentleman. I’d even washed my face and combed my hair back.

  ‘Cook made you some grits, if you like,’ Mrs Sutherland said, indicating a bowl of gloppy white stuff. ‘We don’t usually indulge, but thought our Southern guest might.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I said, taking the empty seat next to Bridget and eyeing the spread on the large wooden table. After my mother passed away, Damon, my father and I made it a habit to dine casually with the men who we employed on the plantation. Breakfast was often the simple stuff of workers, hominy and biscuits, bread and syrup, rashers of bacon. What was laid out at the Winfield residence put to shame the finest restaurants in Virginia. English-style toast in delicate wire holders, five different types of jam, two kinds of bacon, johnnycakes, syrup, even freshly squeezed orange juice. The delicate plates had blue Dutch patterns, and there was more silverware than I was accustomed to seeing at a formal dinner.

  Wishing I still had a human appetite – and ignoring the fire in my veins that thirsted for blood – I pretended to dig in.

  ‘Much obliged,’ I said.

  ‘So this is my little sister’s saviour,’ said the one woman in the room I didn’t know.

  ‘Allow me to introduce the eldest of my daughters,’ Winfield said. ‘This is Margaret. First married. And first with grandchildren, we’re hoping.’

  ‘Papa,’ Margaret admonished, before turning her attention back to me. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Where Bridget was full of life and the plumpness of youth and Lydia was the elegant, cultivated one, Margaret had something of a practical and inquisitive good sense, an earthiness that showed in questioning blue eyes. Her hair was black and inclined to straightness.

  ‘We were just discussing what prompted my child’s rash actions,’ Winfield said, bringing the conversation back to the previous night.

  ‘I don’t know why I ran off,’ Bridget pouted, drawing deeply from a cup of orange juice. The elder sisters gave each other looks, but their father leaned closer, worry lines marring his forehead. ‘I just felt that I absolutely had to leave. So I did.’

  ‘It was foolish and dangerous,’ her mother reprimanded, shaking her napkin. ‘You could have died!’

  ‘I am glad to see you are doing so well today,’ I said politely. Bridget grinned, displaying teeth that had little bits of orange pulp stuck in them.

  ‘Yes. About that.’ Margaret spoke up, tapping her egg spoon on the side of her plate. ‘You say you found her covered in blood in the park?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I answered warily, taking the smallest piece of bacon on my plate. This sister sounded more astute than the others and wasn’t afraid to ask uncomfortable questions.

  ‘There was a lot of blood, and Bridget’s dress was torn.’ Margaret pressed, ‘Did you find it odd that there was no actual wound?’

  ‘Uh,’ I stammered. My mind raced. What could I say? The blood was someone else’s?

  ‘I thought there was a knife wound last night,’ Mrs Sutherland said, pursing her lips and thinking. ‘But it was just clotted blood, and wiping it down cleared it away.’

  Margaret pierced me with her eyes.

  ‘Maybe she was afflicted with a nosebleed…?’ I mumbled lamely.

  ‘So you’re saying that you didn’t see any attacker when you came upon my sister?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Oh, Meggie, you and your interrogations,’ Winfield said. ‘It’s a miracle that Bridget is all right. Thank goodness Stefan here found her when he did.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Thank goodness,’ Margaret said. ‘And what were you doing in the park last night by yourself?’ she continued smoothly.

  ‘Walking,’ I said, same as I had answered her father the night before.

  In the bright light of morning, it struck me as odd that Winfield had asked me nothing more than my name and why I’d been in the park. In times like these, and after his daughter had just suffered a great blow, it was hardly standard to accept a stranger into one’s home. Then again, my father had offered refuge to Katherine when she’d arrived in Mystic Falls, playing the part of an orphan.

  A nagging piece of me wondered if our story could have ended differently, if the entire Salvatore brood would still be alive, if only we’d pressed Katherine for answers about her past, rather than tiptoeing around the tragedy she’d claimed had taken her parents’ lives. Of course, Katherine had Damon and me so deeply in her thrall, perhaps it would have made no difference.

  Margaret leaned forward, not politely giving up the way Winfield had the night before. ‘You’re not from around here, I take it?’

  ‘I’m from Virginia,’ I answered as she opened her mouth to form the next, obvious question. In a strange way, it made me feel better to offer this family something real. Besides, soon enough I would be out of this house, out of their lives and it wouldn’t matter what they knew about me.

  ‘Whereabouts?’ she pressed.

  ‘Mystic Falls.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s fairly small. Just one main street and some plantations.’

  There was some shuffling movement under the table, and I could only assume that either Bridget or Lydia was trying to give Margaret a good kick. If the blow was successful, Margaret gave no sign.

  ‘Are you an educated man?’ she continued.

  ‘No, ma’am. I planned to study at the University of Virginia. The war put a stop to that.’

  ‘War is good for no one,’ Winfield said as he stabbed a piece of bacon with his fork.

  ‘The war put a stop to much casual travel back and forth between the states,’ Margaret added.

  ‘What’s that to do with anything?’ Bridget demanded.

  ‘Yo
ur sister is suggesting that it’s an odd time for me to come north,’ I explained. ‘But my father recently died…’

  ‘From the war?’ Bridget demanded breathlessly. Lydia and Mrs Sutherland glared at her.

  ‘Indirectly,’ I answered. A war had claimed my father’s life, a war against vampires – against me. ‘My town…it burned, and there was nothing left for me anymore.’

  ‘So you came north,’ Lydia said.

  ‘To try your hand at business, maybe?’ Winfield suggested hopefully.

  Here was a man with three daughters, three beautiful daughters, but no sons. No one to share cigars and brandy with, no one to push and encourage and compete with in the world of business. I was both worried and amused by the gleam in his eye when he looked at me. Surely there were families with sons in Manhattan who would make for more auspicious marital alliances.

  ‘Whatever I can do, I aim to make my way in the world on my own,’ I replied, taking a sip of coffee. I would have to, without Lexi or Katherine to guide me. And if I ever saw Damon again, the only thing he would guide me towards was a newly sharpened stake.

  ‘Where are you living?’ Margaret continued. ‘Do you have family here?’

  I cleared my throat, but before I had to tell my first real lie, Bridget groaned.

  ‘Meggie, I’m bored of this interrogation!’

  A hint of a smile bloomed on Lydia’s lips, and she quickly hid it behind her napkin. ‘What would you prefer to talk about?’

  ‘Yourself?’ Margaret said with an arched brow.

  ‘Yes, actually!’ Bridget said, looking around the table. Her eyes glowed as green as Callie’s, but with her petulance on full display, she no longer reminded me of my lost love. ‘I still don’t know why I ran out on the party.’

  Margaret rolled her eyes. Lydia shook her head.

  ‘I mean, you should have seen the looks I got!’ she started up, waving her knife in the air for emphasis. ‘Flora’s dress was the worst, especially considering she’s a newly married woman. And my new sash – oh no, was it ruined last night? I would hate to have it ruined! Mama! Was it on me when Stefan brought me home? We have to go back to the park and look for it!’

  ‘How about we go back to the park and look for the person who tried to kill you,’ Margaret suggested.

  ‘We’ve already had a discussion with Inspector Warren about it. He promises a thorough investigation,’ Mrs Sutherland said. ‘But, Bridget, you must promise not to run off from the Chesters’ ball this evening or I will be forced to stand watch over you in your bedroom.’

  Bridget crossed her arms over her chest with a huff.

  ‘And neither shall you run off,’ Mrs Sutherland said more pointedly to Lydia. The middle sister blushed.

  ‘Lydia has fallen in love with an Italian count,’ Bridget confided, her pout evaporating as she indulged in gossip. ‘We all hope he asks her hand in marriage – wouldn’t that be splendid? Then we’d all be like royalty, sort of, and not just rich merchants. Imagine, Lydia a countess!’

  Winfield laughed nervously. ‘Bridget…’

  Bridget fluttered her thick eyelashes. ‘It’s so wonderful that Lydia has a suitor, much less a count. After Meggie was wed, I was afraid Mother and Papa would become traditional and not let me marry until Lydia did and who knew how long that was going to take.’

  ‘Lydia is…particular,’ Mrs Sutherland said.

  ‘Oh really, Mama,’ Bridget rolled her eyes. ‘As if anyone even had an interest before. And now she has a count. It’s really…it’s really not fair, you know, if you think about it…if I had a proper coming out…’

  I shifted in my seat, at once embarrassed for everyone, and yet glad to be involved in something as ordinary as a family squabble. This was the first time I’d been among company since leaving Lexi in New Orleans.

  ‘So many handsome, strange men in our lives these days,’ Margaret said, somewhere between whimsy and warning. ‘What an odd coincidence, Mr Salvatore. Perhaps I needn’t make the grand tour, after all.’

  ‘Hush now, Margaret,’ Winfield said.

  ‘And actually I have no one to go to the Chesters’ with anyhow, Mama,’ Bridget was continuing, actually growing red in the face as if she was trying quite hard to cry. She looked at me sidelong the entire time. ‘I am sure Milash won’t escort me after last night…I am in dire need of rescue…’

  Bridget widened her green eyes at her father. Winfield frowned and stroked his mutton chop whiskers thoughtfully. In that moment, Bridget seemed as powerful as a vampire, able to compel her father to her every wish. Margaret put a hand to her head as if it ached.

  ‘Mr Salvatore will take you,’ Winfield said, gesturing at me with a forkful of biscuit. ‘He’s rescued you once; I’m sure he’s a gentleman who wouldn’t leave you in distress again.’

  All eyes were turned on me. Bridget perked up, smiling at me like a kitten just offered a bowl of cream.

  I balked.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the proper attire…’ I began.

  ‘Oh, that is solved easily enough,’ Mrs Sutherland said with a knowing smile.

  ‘Once again,’ Lydia murmured, too low for anyone else to hear, ‘we are holding poor Mr Salvatore at our mercy. With trousers.’

  CHAPTER 5

  At the close of breakfast, maids whisked away the Dutch china and jam, and Winfield retreated to his study, leaving me with the Sutherland women in the sunlit parlour. Bridget, Lydia and Mrs Sutherland had installed themselves on the brocade couch, while I perched on the edge of a green velvet chaise, pretending to gaze at an oil portrait of the family when in truth I was calculating the best way to make my escape. My last paltry feeding seemed a distant memory, and the sweet symphony of beating hearts in this grand mansion was becoming difficult to resist.

  During the meal, I’d tried several times to free myself from the Sutherlands’ presence, with the aim of slipping out of a window or escaping through the servants’ quarters. But as though my intentions were written plainly across my forehead, I was unable to shake my company for even two minutes. When I’d excused myself to the facility, the butler had insisted on escorting me. When I mentioned I’d enjoy lying down in my room, Mrs Sutherland had pointed out that the couch in the parlour was the perfect place for a repose. I knew that they were grateful to me for returning Bridget to them, but I couldn’t explain their acceptance of me into their home. Especially given the state I was in when I first entered it: dirty, torn clothes, dishevelled and bloody.

  ‘Mr Stefan,’ Margaret said, leaning against the column that separated the parlour from the foyer. ‘Are you entirely all right?’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re shaking your leg so hard you’re rattling the chair.’

  I pressed my hand to my knee to steady my leg. ‘I usually start my morning with a walk,’ I lied, pushing myself to standing. ‘In fact, if I may excuse myself, I think I’ll take a stroll around the park.’

  Margaret raised a perfectly arched brow. ‘You certainly seem to spend a lot of time in the park.’

  ‘I consider it my second home,’ I said with a wry smile, picturing my cave with its cadre of statues. ‘I’ve always found nature comforting.’

  ‘What a lovely idea!’ Mrs Sutherland said, clasping her hands together. ‘Would you mind if we joined you? It’s a beautiful day, and we could all use some fresh air.’

  ‘Mama, I think it would be best if I rested instead,’ Bridget said, putting a hand to her very healthy-looking brow.

  ‘You mean, stay in and receive visitors all day so you can tell them about your adventures,’ Margaret said, shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid I shall have to beg off, too, Mother. I’ve things to attend to at home, now that it appears my sister is fine – and my husband misses me.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ Bridget muttered uncharitably.

  Lydia shot her younger sister a look and lightly slapped her arm. Mrs Sutherland ignored the sisterly sniping, s
haking out a light cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders. ‘Come with us, Mr Salvatore. We shall make a fine party of three.’

  Resisting the urge to shout in frustration – what would it take to leave this family’s clutches? – I forced a smile on my face and held out my arm to Mrs Sutherland.

  The second we stepped outside the massive front door, the sun assaulted my eyes. It was a bright, lemony yellow and the sky a perfect blue. For early November up north, it was a remarkably mild day. If not for the sun’s low angle in relation to the earth, it would have been easy to mistake it for a brisk spring morning.

  We headed south, then crossed at Sixty-sixth Street and walked through the wrought iron gates of the park. Despite the events of the night before, neither Lydia nor Mrs Sutherland showed any hesitation or fear. I suppose they felt safe enough in my presence. I took a deep breath of the morning air, which seemed so clear and pure after the events of the previous night. It was as though, with the rising sun, the entire world had been washed clean. Seed heads bobbed at the ends of long grasses and flowers opened towards the sky, taking in the last bright sun of the year. The droplets of dew had already dispersed from the previous night.

  We were not the only ones out to enjoy the day. The park was packed with families and strolling couples. I was struck once again with how different the North was. Yankee women wore bright colours, such as we hadn’t seen in the South for years – scarlets, brilliant yellows, bold sky blues in silk and velvet and expensive cloths like European lace, delicate stockings, tiny leather boots.

  Even nature was different here. Northern trees were round, quaint, elliptical maples where our lush oaks spread out, soaking up the sun to the furthest tips of their branches. The pines were spiky and blue, not the tall, soft, grand ones the soft Southern breeze whispers around.

  Mrs Sutherland and Lydia prattled on about the weather, but they had lost my attention, for at that moment a squirrel crossed our path. A sudden darkness overcame me, as if one of the few clouds in the sky had momentarily passed in front of the sun. My predator instincts awoke. There was nothing delectable about its beady eyes or bushy tail, but in a flash I could taste it – the blood of yesterday. It invaded my nostrils and tickled my throat with desire.