The Vampire Diaries: Stefan’s Diaries #3: The Craving by L. J. Smith Page A
Authors: L. J. Smith
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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
L ife 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
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
L ife 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
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