Sliding the window open, I stepped out onto the narrow balcony. The night was eerily still. No wind rustled the trees, and even the pigeons that roosted on the neighbour’s roof were quiet. My balcony faced east, towards the muddy East River and the narrow spit of land they called Blackwell’s Island, where the city had recently rebuilt the lunatic asylum. A wry smile twisted my lips. If only I could check Damon in there.
But then I let out a groan and clutched the wrought-iron rail with my hands. I had to stop wishing and hoping and thinking of millions of if onlys. I could not wish Damon into oblivion and I could not rewrite the past. What was done was done. Even at my peak Power, I could not cause the world to spin backwards, could not turn back time and undo what Katherine did to me and my family. But I was not powerless over the future. I had free will, I had experience and I had the choice to fight.
Hoisting myself up on the rail, I leaped to the roof, landing on the tar with a soft thud. New York was a large city, and someone, somewhere, had to grow vervain or at least have dried sprigs. I’d run up and down the streets until I caught the telltale scent of the herb. Spiking Lydia’s drinks would be impossible – Damon was feeding from her – but if I could just sprinkle some in Winfield’s whisky…
I ran across the roof, preparing to jump to that of the neighbour, before scaling down their fire escape to the street below.
‘Where are you going, brother?’ The cheery words sliced through the night like gunshot, and I froze on the ledge.
Slowly, I turned around to face a smiling Damon. He looked ready for the second part of his evening jaunt, wearing a three-piece suit and twirling a gold cane in his hand. I recognised it immediately – it had belonged to Callie’s father, the man who had imprisoned Damon, torturing him and starving him before forcing him to do battle with a mountain lion. Damon must have stolen it after he killed Callie.
Unbidden, an image of Callie bloomed in my mind. Her kind green eyes smiling at me, the freckles that dusted every inch of her body, the way she had so bravely given herself to me on the shore of the lake, offering her blood even though she knew what I was and what I could do to her…
Her dead, twisted body lying in the grass behind Lexi’s house.
‘You bastard,’ I said in a low, fury-filled voice that I barely recognised as my own. Rage that had been building for weeks with no outlet tore through my veins, and I felt as though my muscles were on fire. With a growl, I threw myself at him. ‘Why won’t you just let me be?’
Our bodies collided, like stone on stone. Startled, Damon fell backwards, but instantly he pushed me off and flipped to his feet. He wrapped his arms around my neck with a viselike grip. ‘If you were so desperate to be free of me, you shouldn’t have forced me to become a vampire with you,’ he hissed, all traces of joviality gone from his demeanour. I struggled to free myself, but his knee pressed more forcefully into my spine, pinning me to the roof. ‘You were the one who urged me to become what I am – to see what Katherine gave us as a gift rather than a curse.’
‘Trust me,’ I gasped, trying to twist from his grip. ‘I would take it back if I could.’
‘Tsk-tsk,’ he 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.’
He 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 he 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 neighbour’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 onto 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.
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 colour 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.’ He 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 of the window and run away. Would my brother actually carry through on all of his threats? Would he really kill the Sutherlands – or worse?