by L. J. Smith
“Tsk-tsk,” Damon chided. “Didn’t Father teach you that part of being a man is living with your choices?” He pressed my cheek into the tar roof, scraping open the skin there. “Then again, you were such a disappointment to him at the end—not wanting to marry Rosalyn, taking up with a vampire, killing him . . .”
“You were always a disappointment,” I spat. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Damon let out a dry laugh. “Well, that would have been a shame, because then I couldn’t do this.”
The pressure on my spine abated as Damon hoisted me up by the back of the shirt.
“What are you—” I started.
Before I could finish, Damon launched me forward with the force of a lit cannon. My body careened through the night air, and for a brief, weightless moment, I wondered if I was flying. Then the hard pavement of the alley between the Sutherlands’ and their neighbor’s home rushed up to greet me, and my bones cracked loudly on the impact.
I groaned, pain radiating through my limbs as I rolled to my back, blood dripping down my face. I lay like that for hours, staring at the stars until my Power healed me, resetting my bones and stitching up the gash in my cheek more swiftly than the most skilled medic could.
But when I stood, a new pain shot through my chest. Because there on the brick wall of the Sutherlands’ home, written in red ink that could only be blood, were three terrifying words:
I’m always watching.
Chapter 14
On Friday Winfield took Damon and me to get fitted for a custom suit. A visit to Pinotto’s Tailoring might have been fun at some other point in my life—as it had been the night I went shopping with Lexi in New Orleans. Pasquale Pinotto was a master of his craft, descended from a long line of tailors to kings and queens of Europe. With his pince-nez glasses and chalk and measuring tape around his neck, he could have been someone out of a fairy tale. I enjoyed trying to speak the few words of Italian I knew to him; he took pleasure in it as well, though he corrected my accent. Damon, of course, pretended that he only wanted to speak English now that he was in America—which is how he got around the tailor’s delight at meeting a fellow countryman.
“Look at this.” Damon held up a bolt of scarlet red silk to his face. “We could have our jackets lined with it. Doesn’t it just bring out the color in my lips? Or . . . Lydia’s neck?” He moved it to the side, just about where the fang wounds would have been on him.
Winfield looked confused. “She has taken to wearing scarves around her neck, lately. Is that what you mean? It’s dashed peculiar—she never used to.”
Damon flicked him a quick look, a flash of surprise and annoyance so fast only I caught it. It was interesting that Mr. Sutherland noticed the subtle changes occurring around him, even if he was ultimately powerless against Damon’s compulsion. Although any safety the rich old man had was in staying completely ignorant of my brother’s schemes.
I leaned against the wall for support, tension exhausting me. I felt claustrophobic among all the rolls of expensive fabric and labyrinthine rooms of mirrors and sewing machines, as trapped in that room as I was in my life.
Mr. Sutherland made his way to a chair to rest his ponderous bulk. He seemed a touch fidgety—he kept reaching for his cigar, but he was not allowed to smoke one of his famous cigars in the atelier, as the smoke would ruin the fabric.
“Now here is some cloth I am thinking you will like,” Signor Pinotto said, presenting us with black wool crepe so fine and soft it might have been silk. “I get it from a tiny village in Switzerland. They work . . .”
“Leave the cloth to me,” Winfield said, twirling an unlit cigar in his hand. “I know the business. Let the young men pick out whatever style they want.”
Damon started looking through the jackets, pulling one out and holding it against him to see how it fit.
“In this morning coat and that black crepe, we’ll look like real creatures of the night,” Damon observed. “Don’t you think so, Stefan?”
“Yes, yes we will,” I agreed stonily.
“Here, try this on.” Damon tossed me a smaller version of the jacket. Dutifully, I took off my own and put it on. The jacket fit me well except for being too big in the shoulders and chest. Damon was distracted by the tailor and Winfield, discussing patterns and linings and buttons. It occurred to me in that moment that I could leap out the window and run away. Would my brother actually carry through on all of his threats? Would he really kill the Sutherlands—or worse?
But then I thought of the message in blood and realized I would never let the world find out the answer to that question. I wanted no more deaths on my conscience.
“Is that the sort of thing young men prance around town in these days?” Winfield asked, frowning at my jacket. “I’ve never really been a—what did you call it?—‘creature of the night.’”
Damon gave him a cold smile. “Never say never.”
And then Damon was suddenly standing next to me in front of the mirror, buttoning up his jacket and fluffing out the tails. Very assiduously he fixed mine as well.
“Well, would you look at that,” he said to our reflections, putting an arm around my shoulders. “We could almost be brothers.”
“We were brothers at one time,” I hissed so quietly that only Damon’s highly tuned ears could hear. “Though you are now as alien to me as the devil himself.”
“Eh?” Winfield looked up. “You do resemble each other a little. The . . . hair. And the . . . face.” He waved a hand vaguely at us. Then he smiled widely. “I’ll have a whole set of matching grandchildren! Dozens of them, dandling on my knees.”
Damon grinned. “Absolutely. I plan on having a large family, Mr. Sutherland. It’s important that my bloodline goes on.”
“You’re really pushing it,” I said.
“I haven’t even started,” he whispered, smiling.
“Oh really? Then what was that message you left for me in blood?” I said.
Damon’s forehead crinkled. “Message?”
“Actually, I rather like the scarlet.” Winfield held a bolt of the fabric in his hands, and didn’t seem to notice the tension in the air. “It’s perfect. Damon DeSangue—bloodred, or of blood, right?”
Damon looked surprised. I was taken off guard, too.
“I speak four languages, boys,” Winfield said with a bit of a growl in his grin. “And can read another four. I-tal-ian is just one.”
So Sutherland wasn’t quite the buffoon he appeared to be. There were layers in him, and of course there had to be for such a successful businessman.
“And speaking of languages, ho bisogno di vino, something to wet my throat. I brought something from my own cellar, a fantastic amontillado. Care to join me?”
“I really could drain a good Sutherland dry just about now,” Damon said gamely, clapping me on the shoulder like our future father-in-law did.
I slumped in despair. When we’d first become vampires, I’d wanted nothing more than to spend eternity with my brother. But now I couldn’t wait to be rid of him.
Chapter 15
The night before the wedding, I stood staring out the window of my bedroom. A beautiful quarter-moon shown through the ornately paned glass. It felt like the entire nighttime world was teasing me, calling out: Come play. Come hunt. Come disappear into the darkness. My skin prickled whenever a hint of the night air breezed through, and my nostrils flared at the thousand and one scents it carried.
I am not meant to stay captive inside at night. . . . I had thought I was miserable in the park hunting squirrels, but here I was trapped by my word, by my guilt, by these stupid walls, by a family of humans under a spell, by my brother.
Mrs. Sutherland came in earlier that evening. She didn’t say much, just patted my hand and pinched my cheek, telling me not to worry, the wedding would soon be over and then we all—we all—could get back to the normal happy business of being a family.
Little did she know that after Damon was throug
h with them, the Sutherlands would never be able to be normal or happy again.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I turned and tightened the nice silk smoking jacket Winfield had loaned me, wondering if Mrs. Sutherland had left something behind. But then the door cracked open and a pink, mischievous face poked through.
“Bridget,” I half-groaned. I looked around me desperately, as if some sort of exit would suddenly appear that I could escape through.
She giggled and suddenly shoved her way in, slamming the door behind her, leaning against it like she had just shut out an invading army.
“Stefan,” Bridget said in what she probably thought was a sexy, dulcet tone. She was dressed in a chiffon robe with giant chenille cabbage roses. Underneath, instead of a simple nightgown, she wore a complicated corseted dress made of bright pink silk with a rose-red sash that left her shoulders and neck bare.
“Bridget,” I said warningly, backing up. My head hit one of the beams of the four-poster bed.
“I thought maybe we could start the honeymoon early,” she whispered, pushing herself into my arms.
“Uh—” I stammered.
Her cheeks were red and her eyes were heavy-lidded. Despite Damon’s compulsions, she was also under the sway of her own emotions, stirred to amorous feelings for the man she was about to marry.
She pushed me—with remarkably strong arms—down on to the bed and fell upon me, crushing me under wave after wave of silk. Her breasts heaved over the corset, and I could feel her warm skin through my robe.
I had a perfect view of her bare white neck. Her heart pumped quickly, giving her skin a hot, rosy glow and filling my senses with her blood. I could smell it all over her, salty and warm and human. A shiver went through my body as her chest pressed against mine, and I could feel the pain begin along my jaw. Such a sweet pain—and it had been such a long time since I had had human blood. . . .
It couldn’t hurt, part of me said. She wouldn’t mind me biting her, even without compulsion. It didn’t have to be painful, and she might even enjoy it. Before I knew what I was doing I had pressed my lips to her shoulder, just to feel the skin, to take a little lick . . .
She felt me moving beneath her and misinterpreted it, kissing me harder and getting into a more comfortable position, entwining her legs in mine.
“No!”
I managed to get control of myself and shoved her off me. I didn’t mean to do it so forcefully, but even in my weakened state I was still several times stronger than a human. She fell to the end of the bed, against one of the posts, looking shocked.
And then she began to cry.
“You . . . don’t want me . . .” she wailed, fat droplets of tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Bridget, no, I . . .” My fangs retracted and I was aching with the pain and my need for blood. “It’s just . . . we’re getting married tomorrow, Bridget. Just one more day. If we wait until it’s . . . uh . . . proper, it will be even more special. Just think, we’ll have completed a . . . beautiful day . . . with you in your beautiful, uh . . .”
“Cream brocade with Flemish lace on the sleeves and bodice and an ivory satin sash with a veil of matching ivory silk flowers,” she sniffled.
“Right.” I touched her elbow delicately and tilted her chin up so she had to look at me. She wiped the tears off her face with a piece of her robe. “Let my first night with you be with that image of you in my mind, my blushing bride.”
She nodded, sniffing again, giving me a faint smile. “All right.”
Then she giggled again, back to her old self, and flounced off the bed and to the door.
“Good night . . . lover,” she cooed before exiting.
As soon as she was gone I fell back on the bed, muffling a groan in my pillow. It did nothing to abate my frustration. I stood, pacing from the window to the door, wanting to leave, to escape, to hunt, to do something. But I had no choice, no option. I was trapped in this room, in this situation, in the terrible in-betweenness of being neither a human nor a monster.
I ripped the pillow straight in two, feathers exploding around the room like a white powder keg.
Damn you, Damon, I thought violently, for putting me in this position. And damn you, too, Katherine, for beginning all this.
Chapter 16
November 12, 1864
Life with Damon is like playing chess with a mad person. I can think of a thousand different possibilities to defend against, a thousand different moves he could make, and then he goes and changes the rules of the game.
It’s just his newfound predilection for casual violence that makes him so incalculable, but the way he revels in it. Though blood is our diet, we as vampires at least have a modicum of self-will. Damon doesn’t have to let his dark side win, and yet he embraces it.
I view this change in him with horror and guilt, as I was the one who set him down the path of the vampire. Katherine was the one who changed him, but I force-fed him his first human.
After seeing his message to me I can’t consider leaving the Sutherlands until I have figured out a way to keep them all safe. What my brother did to Callie . . . it obviously isn’t beyond him to just dispose of the entire family once they serve their purpose.
But when will he take action? At the wedding? After the wedding? After the honeymoon? Next year? Could I spirit the girls away somewhere? Could I convince them to hide? Could I compel them to? Damon managed to find me here, could he find me—or them—anywhere?
I have to come up with a plan, in case Damon doesn’t just leave town with his newfound fortune.
Of course, the simplest solution would be to kill Damon.
Voilà—one maniacal, insane, unpredictable, murderous vampire gone, the world, and myself, a thousand times safer. That’s assuming I could do it. I am so much weaker than he is, it would have to be done by surprise or guile or something equally underhanded, like a knife in the back. Like he killed Callie.
There isn’t any point in thinking that way. I will not stoop to his level. He is my brother. And as awful as he is, he is the only relative left to me.
The next day, time flew by as if it had nothing better to do than gallop me toward matrimony. Before I knew it, I’d been stuffed into my suit, force-fed pancakes, and spirited over one hundred blocks north to the altar, where I stood awaiting my fate, as the Sutherlands unknowingly awaited their own.
Damon and I stood side by side in Woodcliff Manor’s great hall—the pretty family chapel nearby was far too small for Bridget’s tastes. The Richards were kind enough to let her use their home at the tip of Manhattan Island. It was really more of a castle than a home, with gray towers, parapets, and decorative portcullises, all made from the gray rock that jutted seamlessly out of the rocky promontory on which it sat.
Not so far from there, outside the arched gothic windows, were the remains of Fort Tryon, the site of a sad defeat of Continental forces under George Washington by the British.
My thoughts drifted as I imagined redcoats and scrappy American soldiers and puffs of gunpowder . . . and then something occurred to me. Katherine could have witnessed such a battle. I never asked how old she was—perhaps Damon did—but she was far older than her appearance suggested. She had probably witnessed events I only read about in history books.
I shivered at the thought, but the chill was instantly dispelled by the incredible heat in the room. Damon and I stood in front of a crowd of more than two hundred of New York’s finest socialites, all sitting uncomfortably in hastily pulled together pews. They had no idea how dangerous it was for them to be there.
I pulled at my collar and tie, which suddenly felt too tight, my vision blurring. The room shifted and morphed, and for just a second, the finery and skin of every wedding attendee melted off as though they’d been caught up in a blaze. Skin flaked off like corn husks, leaving behind pure-white bone and twisted tendons.
“Stefan!” Damon hissed, elbowing me. I realized then that I was clutching his arm. “Do I need to call
a medic for you?” he asked sarcastically.
I shook my head, wondering what illness had overcome me. The crowd came back into focus, alive, happy, laughing, and fanning themselves discreetly.
Even I had to admit that Mrs. Sutherland had done a fantastic job working with Mrs. Richards and her housekeepers. A rich red carpet had been laid out, and it was scattered with so many rose petals you could scarcely see the fabric beneath. Pink, white, and deep, deep red, it looked like a beautiful trail through a magnificent rose garden. Garlands of expensive and exotic flowers hung along the pews, and the scent of orange and lemon was heavy in the air. Overhead hung giant balls of flowers like fireworks in petals. Vases in every gothic arched nook and cranny held elegant arrangements of grasses and blooming branches of quince, enhancing the woodland effect.
Everyone wore full formal regalia, tailcoats for the men, some with diplomatic sashes. Heavy moiré silks for the older women, lighter for the young women, yards and yards of fabric swirled around their feet like more rose petals. Hats were decked out in plumes and gems and sometimes entire birds. And the real heirloom jewelry had been pulled out for this occasion, pearls and diamonds and rubies on every neck and wrist, some gems the size of my thumb.
All the women had fans, of course, made from silk and painted in Japan or England, and they tried to flutter them delicately, but most wound up just flapping them as fast as they could. The ladies’ countenances remained stubbornly rosy despite their efforts to keep pale.
Everyone whispered and talked excitedly, and of course I could tune in to any conversation I felt like listening to with my enhanced hearing. I almost didn’t mean to, because it was the same in every seat:
