The Craving

been no hard task, even in my weakened state. An unpleasant thought rattled at the back of my mind, an alternate explanation, that I was still with this family because I wanted to be.

‘Mr Salvatore, you’re awfully quiet,’ Mrs Sutherland observed. I stole a glance at Lydia, who gave me a smile, clearly acknowledging that her mother did not deal in subtlety.

‘Forgive me. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the midst of people,’ I admitted as we turned onto the bridle path.

Mrs Sutherland squeezed my hand. If she noticed its icy pallor, she must have taken it for a chill. ‘Since you lost your father?’ she asked gently.

I nodded. That explanation was easier than the truth.

‘I lost a brother in the battle with Mexico,’ Mrs Sutherland confided, as we passed a little girl and her father walking a long-haired dachshund. ‘We were the closest of nine brothers and sisters. Despite our numbers, none of my siblings could ever replace him in my heart.’

‘Uncle Isaiah,’ Lydia murmured. ‘I barely remember him. But he was always kind.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I did not mean to turn this outing into a sad affair,’ I apologised.

‘Remembering and mourning needn’t always be sad,’ Mrs Sutherland pointed out. ‘It is simply…what it is. Keeping their lives present in our own.’

Her words cast a true light through all the confusing thoughts that had been clouding my mind of late: how to remain in touch with my human side even as I embraced becoming a vampire, how to not lose my soul. Keeping the past present was paramount. Just as my memory of Callie kept me from attacking Bridget, my connection to my family, to the life that had once been mine, would help me keep my humanity.

Though she didn’t resemble my own mother at all, for one instant, with the sunlight shining down through her cap and illuminating her greying hair, her sharp blue eyes softened with feeling, I suddenly felt she could be my mother. That, were the circumstances different, I could be happy in her home.

Oh, how I missed my mother. While my deep grief for her had abated in the years since she had died, there was a dull ache that was never absent from my heart. How much of the tragedy that engulfed our lives could have been avoided if she were still alive?

I missed my father, too. Up until the moment I killed him, I respected and loved him. I had wanted to follow in his footsteps, to take on the family estate, to please him as much as possible. My deepest wish had been that he could respect and love me back.

I even missed my brother, or rather who he used to be. Though he vowed to get revenge on me for turning him into a vampire, in life he had been my truest companion in the world, my playful competitor and my closest confidant. I wondered where Damon was right now, and what harm he might be doing. I couldn’t judge his bad behaviour – I’d had my share of bloodlust after I had turned. I only hoped his humanity would return to him as mine had.

‘You are a wise woman, Mrs Sutherland,’ I said, returning the squeeze of her hand. She smiled at me.

‘You’re a remarkable young man,’ Mrs Sutherland noted. ‘If I was your mother, I should be very proud of you. Of course, I have no sons, and only one son-in-law…’ She sniffed.

‘But, Mother, Margaret and I are each very accomplished, in our own way,’ Lydia said, ignoring the pointed remark about sons-in-law. ‘She does the books for Wally. And I am helping to form that charity for mothers who lack a stable income.’

Mrs Sutherland cast a private smile at me, and in that moment I dared to hope. Perhaps it was possible to stay here, to become part of this family. It would be a dangerous game, but perhaps I could master it. I could keep my hunger under control and take daily walks with Lydia and Mrs Sutherland, accompanying them home for a cup of tea or a lively debate with Winfield about the war.

Lydia continued on, making her case for her own independence, her mother sighing despite her apparent pride. The sun grew warmer as we made our way west, choosing paths at random until we came upon a familiar foot trail in the middle of the park that led straight to Seneca Village. My home.

Perhaps it was my sudden distraction that caused Mrs Sutherland to look at me so closely. ‘Mr Salvatore,’ she said, half-concerned, half-afraid. ‘You have a…spot…upon your collar.’

Despite the laws of decorum, Lydia reached for it then, brushing a finger gently near my neck. I shuddered in excitement and fear at her closeness. When she withdrew her index finger, it wore a speck of blood.

I grew ashen. For this was the fact of my life. Despite the pains I took to control myself, the exhaustive efforts at constant secrecy, one speck of blood was all it took to upset the balance. They would see me for who I was: a liar, a murderer, a monster.

The tinkling of Lydia’s laughter broke the silence. ‘Just a bit of jam,’ she said lightly, wiping her finger on the low-hanging branch of a passing tree. ‘Mr Salvatore,’ she teased, ‘I know we have made you feel very much at home, but while you are our guest, perhaps you should be more careful with your table manners.’

Mrs Sutherland began to chide her daughter, but seeing the happy relief upon my own face, she smiled as well. Soon we were all laughing gaily at Stefan Salvatore, the night-timehero-turned-careless-houseguest, as we made our way back into the sunlight.

CHAPTER 6

After returning from the walk, I found myself being sewn into a brand-new suit while Mrs Sutherland instructed the tailor on where to pin and prod me. I knew I had to leave, but I also couldn’t tear myself away from Mrs Sutherland quite yet. We spent the entire afternoon chatting about my mother and her French relatives, along with my wish to one day travel to Italy to see the Sistine Chapel.

Before I knew it, the tailor had made his final stitch, and night had arrived. Even I had to admit that my suit was fantastic. I looked like an urbane prince of industry in my pleated white shirtfront, silk top hat and cravat. Winfield loaned me one of his pocket watches on a fob covered with a tasteful number of gold charms and gems, and I wore matching gold studs. I looked the very picture of humanity and was ashamed to be enjoying the part so thoroughly.

Bridget simpered when I offered her a hand getting up into the carriage. Her skirts were full and cumbersome, an apricot version of the white gown she wore just the night before. Cream-coloured silk netting floated over everything, giving her a look somewhere between a dancer in a European painting and a giant pastry. She giggled and tripped and pretended to fall, throwing an arm around my neck.

‘Save me again, kind sir,’ she laughed, and I reminded myself that I had only to entertain her for another couple of hours. Then, no matter the affection I felt for Mrs Sutherland, I vowed I would make good on my promise to leave the family to their lives, disappearing into the crowd of the dance and returning to my home in the park.

After a short ride, we approached another mansion of considerable size. It was solid stone, like a castle, but filled with windows. I helped Bridget from the coach and we took our places in the receiving line.

In my human life I had been to many dances, yet I was not prepared for a New York City ball.

There was someone to take my coat and hat – and because this wasn’t Mystic Falls, where everyone of renown knew one another, I was given a ticket with a number on it to retrieve my things at the end of the evening. We approached the ballroom through a seemingly endless hallway of silver mirrors lit with candles and chandeliers, sparkling as I imagined it must have been like in Versailles. A thousand silvered reflections of Bridget and myself filled the space behind the glass.

A full orchestra of violins, cellos, horns and flutes played in the corner, the musicians dressed in black suits. The room was filled, wall-to-wall, with dancers in the most amazing array of dress I had ever seen. The young women lifted delicate gloved hands with sparkling diamond bracelets, then twirled in gowns that ranged in colour from blood-red to dusty gold. Gauzy skirts swished in time with the high-paced mazurka the orchestra played, netting, tulle, lace and the finest silk petticoats floating like petals strewn across a lake.

If my eyes were dazzled by the sight of the dancers, the scents of the room almost overpowered the rest of my senses: expensive perfumes, huge vases of exotic flowers, sweat and punch, and somewhere someone was