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

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:
    “. . . so quick. Only met a month ago. Did you hear the story? He was so chivalrous. . . .”
    “. . . lucky girl. I hope my Lucretia marries as well. . . .”
    “Apparently, the youngest Beaumont threw herself at DeSangue, but he only had eyes for Lydia. . . .”
    “. . . such a handsome man! And a count! . . .”
    “. . . yes, but who’s that other one again? Marrying Bridget?”
    I closed my eyes, wishing I could close my ears. How I longed to be back in my grotto in the park.
    “Seems like old times, doesn’t it, brother?” Damon sighed, adjusting one of his cuffs. “In another life, you and Rosalyn would be married already.”
    “Shut up,” I said. He was right, though. If Katherine hadn’t killed my childhood playmate, I would have married her. Back then, I thought a forced marriage with someone I didn’t love was the worst fate imaginable. How innocent I was. . . .
    I continued smiling, although it must have looked forced by that point. My eyes darted over the crowd, seeking out anyone in a badly matched scarf. That morning I had managed to grab and drain a pair of white doves, initially intended to be released as a romantic gesture after the wedding ceremony. But when was the last time Damon had fed? Or did he have a big, bloody feast planned?
    “Look at us, together,” Damon whispered, nodding at someone in the crowd and smiling. “We make quite a handsome pair.”
    “I’m doing this,” I whispered, “to save lives. Now be quiet.”
    Damon rolled his eyes. “You’re no fun, brother. I hope you develop a sense of humor soon, or it’s going to be a loooooong eternity.”
    The wedding march began, saving me from having to respond.
    Margaret’s husband and Bram, ushers, came down the aisle first. The remaining ushers were callow youths who flirted outrageously with the bridesmaids they escorted. The girls wore pretty matching peach gowns and absolutely giant hats . . . but I noticed