by L. J. Smith
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 colors, 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 here was different. Northern trees were round, quaint, elliptical maples where our lush oaks spread out, soaking up the sun to the farthest 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.
“Please excuse me—I—I believe I see someone I know.” I made my trivial excuse as I dashed off, promising to return in a moment, though I had no intention of doing so. I could feel Lydia and Mrs. Sutherland’s eyes follow me curiously as I disappeared behind a thicket of bushes.
There sat my prey, as innocent as Bridget had likely looked to her attacker last night. It eyed me as I approached, but did not make a move. In a flash I was upon it, and it was over even more quickly. As I felt the blood seep into me—a paltry feeding, but a feeding nonetheless—I leaned against the tree trunk, awash in exhausted relief. It had not been apparent until just now how edgy I had been, every moment afraid of my own hunger. Afraid of the stirrings inside of me, and how they might control me at any instant.
My relief was so great that I didn’t even hear Lydia approach, ruining my chance of escape.
“Stefan?” she said, looking around, no doubt curious to meet the person I had run off to greet.
“It turns out that I was mistaken after all,” I mumbled, reluctantly rejoining Lydia and her mother on the path. They fell back into polite conversation, while I kicked along silently next to them, berating myself for my slowed reflexes. What was wrong with me? I was a vampire. Removing myself from the Sutherlands’ presence should have 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 on to 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 apologized.
“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 graying 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 behavior—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 son-in-laws. “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 about the war with Winfield.
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 pointer 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 nighttime-hero-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 S
istine 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-colored 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 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 color from bloodred 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 bleeding from a pin left in her dress by a careless maid.
“You’re supposed to fetch your lady a dance card,” Lydia murmured into my ear as I stood there, stunned by the opulent and overwhelming scene before me.
“Is that . . . is that Adelina Patti?” I stuttered, pointing at a demure-looking woman standing in the corner and surrounded by admirers. “The opera singer?”
I had seen photographs of her. My father had wanted his sons to have working knowledge of their Italian culture and heritage.
“Yes,” Bridget said, rolling her eyes and stamping a pretty, satin-covered foot. “And over there is Mayor Gunther, and over there is John D. Rockefeller, and . . . can you take me to my seat now? I want to see who asks me to dance.”
Lydia let out a polite cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“In the South,” I whispered to her out of the corner of my mouth, “it’s considered impolite to dance with your escort overmuch.”
Lydia put a gloved hand to her own mouth, covering her smile. “I’ve heard that they still actually dance the quadrille in the South and have no parlor games at their functions. Good luck, Mr. Salvatore.”
And she glided off into the crowd. Margaret gave me a tiny smirk. She was on the arm of her husband, Wally, a short fellow with a pince-nez and a serious bent. But when she whispered to him, a smile broke out and he was radiant. I felt an odd jab of jealousy. I would never know what that was like, the simple rituals of a close-knit couple.
The orchestra struck up a waltz.
Bridget stuck out her lower lip. “And me without a dance card yet.”
“My lady,” I said, inwardly sighing. I gave her a slight bow and offered her my hand.
Bridget was a fine dancer and it was almost pleasurable twirling her across the floor. I could forget where and who I was for the few minutes of the waltz: just a man in a tailcoat, feet flying, in a room full of beautiful people. She turned her leaf-green eyes up to me, and for one beautiful moment I could pretend she was Callie, alive and well and getting the happy ending she so desperately deserved.
The illusion came to an end the moment the music stopped.
“Lead me by the edge of the dancers,” Bridget begged. “I want everyone to see us!”
She dragged me past the refreshment room, where all manner of exotic food was laid out. Delicate ices made from foreign fruit, real Vienna coffee, blancmange, tiny chocolate cakes, and glass upon crystal glass of champagne to wash it down. For the hungrier set there seemed to be every kind of fowl, from quail to goose, neatly carved into small pieces so a dancer could eat quickly and return to the floor.
Once again I wished I was hungry for normal human food. But instead I indulged in a glass of champagne.
“Hilda, Hilda,” Bridget called out in a voice that carried well considering how crowded the space was. A beautiful girl in a rose-pink gown turned from her gentleman friend, face lighting up when she saw Bridget. Her eyes traveled up and down me with a quick flick of her eyelashes.
“This is Stefan Salvatore,” Bridget said. “He is the one who rescued me!”
“Mademoiselle,” I said with a slight bow, taking her fingertips and bringing them to my lips. Bridget gave me a look that was somewhere between jealousy and pleasure that I was so polite.
“Brooklyn Bridgey! Who’s your friend?” A dapper young man with a twinkle in his eye and giant grin sidled up to us. He had a sharp nose and curly black hair; rosy dots appeared on his cheeks that made him look vaguely tubercular.
“This is Stefan Salvatore,” Bridget told him, exactly as proudly and carefully as she had with Hilda. “He rescued me when I was overcome in the park!”
“Pleasure to meet you! Abraham Smith. You can call me Bram.” He grabbed my hand and shook it hard. “That was terribly naughty of you, leaving the party unescorted like that, Bridgey.” Bram shook a finger at her and she pouted.
“Brooklyn Bridgey?” I asked, my head spinning a little.
“Why, the Brooklyn Bridge is only going to be the biggest, most fantastic suspension bridge ever built!” Bram said, eyes lighting up. “No more ferries, no sir. We’ll drive ourselves back and forth across the mighty East River!”
“Oh look!” Bridget squealed, pointing in a very unladylike manner. “There’s Lydia and her beau! Let’s go talk to them!”
I gave Hilda and Bram a helpless salute good-bye as Bridget directed me toward her sister with an iron grip.
The Italian count was surrounded by admirers, including Lydia. I caught glimpses of him as we walked closer. His raven hair gleamed, and his black formal suit fit him perfectly. He moved with a careless grace waving his arms as he told his story. The glint of a ring shimmered on his hand.
The truth hit me only moments before he turned, as if he’d been expecting my arrival. I did my best to hide my shock when I looked into my brother’s ice-blue eyes.
Chapter 7
Every muscle in my body tensed. Time seemed to stop as we stared into each other’s eyes, both of us silently challenging the other to give himself away. My chest felt tight as anger coiled through my body.
The last time I’d seen Damon, he’d been standing over me with a stake, just after he’d killed Callie. His cheeks had been sunken, his body gaunt from his time in captivity. Now he looked like his human self, the young man who charmed everyone from barmaids to grandmothers. Clean-shaven, dressed smartly, and playing the p
art of an Italian count flawlessly. Acting human. He had everyone in the room fooled.
Damon raised one eyebrow at me and the twitch of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. To any onlooker, it would have seemed just like he was pleased to meet a new acquaintance.
I knew better. Damon was enjoying his charade and waiting to see how I reacted.
“Stefan Salvatore, may I introduce Count Damon DeSangue,” Lydia said.
Damon gave a perfect bow, just barely bending at the waist.
“DeSangue . . .” I repeated.
“Count DeSangue,” Damon corrected in good humor, affecting an Italian accent. He smiled, revealing a straight set of gleaming white teeth.
No, not here, I thought furiously. Not here in New York, not here among these innocent, well-meaning Sutherlands. Had Damon followed me here, or had he arrived first? He had been here long enough to attach himself to poor Lydia. And long enough to trick all of New York society. Is it possible that, in this teeming city, we both managed to become involved with the Sutherland family completely by coincidence?
Damon was regarding me now, although the icy twinkle of sardonic humor was never far from his eyes, as if he guessed at what I was thinking.
“Stefan, Damon—I just know you two are going to be like brothers,” Bridget gushed to me.
“Well then,” Damon said, a smirk pulling the corner of his mouth. “Hello, brother! And where are you from, Stefan?”
“Virginia,” I answered shortly.
“Oh really? Because I was recently in New Orleans and could have sworn I met a gentleman who looked just like you. Have you been there?”
Lydia leaned in closer, her eyes bright with pride. Bridget nodded eagerly at every word Damon said. Even Bram and Hilda looked entranced. I gripped my champagne glass so tightly I was surprised it didn’t shatter. “No. I can’t say I’ve ever been.”