Summary: Nadezhda Ivanovna, or "Z" as her best friend calls her, is a card-carrying member of the badass vampire league and a steadfast proponent of all things Team Damon. When she shows up in Mystic Falls with a wealth of information about the events of the coming months, she will shake things up in spectacular fashion and give Stelena a kick in the pants. Multi POV's and fairly cannonical events through most of S1, but goes very AU from there. Slow burn Delena with some Damon/OC and a mystery pairing with a certain original.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own anything or anyone associated with the show or the book series. The Vampire Diaries is solely the property of the CW and L J Smith.

Rating: M for language, violence, and potential sexiness (oh let's be honest—the smuttiness)

"There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth: not going all the way, and not starting."

—Buddha

Chapter 1: Firesong

(Reference: 1x06 "Lost Girls")

Nadezhda

Drawn by the flickering light of a campfire, I tread on silent feet through the eerie shadows of the trees about the cemetery. The night is silent as the grave—pun intended—but for the wet slurp, slurp, slurping from across the way. It's a scene straight from a Rowling novel, but the children are not the heroes, and the Dark Lord has more than unicorns on his mind.

Delicately, I balance my weight on the platform balls of my spike-heel boots, as hyper-aware of every crunch of dry grass beneath my cautious step as the predator before me. The menacing stillness of the air around me tells me all I need to know about the lethal nature of the monster across the clearing, and I have no desire to alert him to my presence just yet. His savagery needs little introduction, but the scene at my feet is a grandiloquent one.

Pale, limp bodies are strewn about the forest floor in a gruesome tableau. This seems the aftermath of a moment of vicious brutality that would set a human heart to racing in mortal terror, or the squeamish to expelling bodily fluid from every orifice. Still, it's neither the sight of mutilated corpses nor the distinct smell of burning flesh that so captures my attention, but rather the leather clad shoulders of the single 'live' body among them.

Awakened to my approach by the snap of a careless twig upon a single deliberate step, the killer turns with lethal quickness to glare at my sudden intrusion over a hunched shoulder. The black veins writhing beneath the pallid skin of his face and the blood red lips which part to reveal two perfect gleaming fangs dripping with the blood of his recent victims remind me that this man is first and foremost a hunter. And, creeping silently and unannounced, I am a threat.

So quickly that his body blurs about the edges, he strikes. I am forcibly flung through the air with inhuman strength, my back crashing into the tree behind me with such velocity that I even hear the crack of my ribs under the onslaught. Rather than meet the earth beneath, however, I feel the vice-like grip of a clenched fist around my bare throat and the twin daggers of ice-cold eyes pin me in place.

I stare impassively back as I watch his anger fade to confusion and, finally, a sort of startled recognition across his handsome face.

"Z?"

I smile.

Sliding gracefully to the ground from his slackening grip, I feel a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth as I cast an amused glance at the gory evidence of his recent activity. Clapping a hand on his upper arm, I respond, "You've really out done yourself this time, haven't you, D?"

From the slack look of shock still describing his face, this seems not to be the reaction he expected, though why he should think anything else is beyond me. Has he met me? Then again, I suppose he may still be reeling from the surprise of my sudden appearance. I decide to take this as a compliment. He's clearly so blown away by the delight of my presence that he simply hasn't remembered to be properly excited.

Closing his mouth with the click of clenched teeth, he finally finds his voice again. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

I bristle in mock offense, "What? I can't just decide to visit an old friend if not for some nefarious purpose?" He simply stares at me in frank and unabashed disbelief. That's offensive. I'm offended. Really. "I was bored," I say and offer him a flirtatious smile. "I missed you."

"Uh huh," he agrees sarcastically. "And I might actually believe that if at any point in the last hundred years, you had done a single damn thing without an ulterior motive."

I just bat my eyelashes in that comic way he claims to abhor—though I've seen him use it a time or two himself—and smile wistfully up at him. "Yes. We share that," I concede.

He chuckles sardonically, but I can recognize an admission of defeat when I hear it. "You gonna tell me about this diabolical plan of yours, or am I going to have to torture it out of you? 'Cause, you know, I've kinda got some plans of my own here, and I can't have you screwing it up for me."

I smirk, smug. "Quid pro quo, Clarice."

He sighs and rolls his eyes, but the expression is far more fond than irritated and I know I've won this round. He slings an arm around my thin shoulders and says, "Come on, Hannibal. If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right."

"Mystic Falls, here we come."

"Where are you Stefan? I'm trapped at the house. I'm getting really bored and really impatient, and I don't do bored and impatient. Now bring me my ring!" Damon growls before snapping the phone shut. Apparently, I have missed quite the show since the Salvatores' return. These boys take sibling rivalry to a whole new level.

After liberally dousing the bodies with alcohol—either found on scene or from his own stash, I hadn't bothered to ask—and dragging them into the already roaring fire, Damon had set about haranguing Stefan for his latest failure and making violent threats of murder and mayhem into a stolen cell phone. And that was before we found Damon's fun new toy.

Apparently, one of the teenagers he'd attacked was a prior victim of his and the apparent tenacity with which she clung to life sparked his ever-present curiosity just enough to take her home. I am vaguely annoyed at the addition of an unwelcome third party on our little reunion scene, but to love Damon is to love his impulsivity—even if it is more trouble than it's worth most of the time. It's usually better to just go along for the ride.

Damon and I have been friends for the better part of the last century, but, as vampires are wont to do, we can hardly have been considered constant companions. We are both rather private and lonely by design, but we trust each other more than most.

The whole thing is very Anne Rice actually, minus the whole moping-about-hating-my-eternal-existence-thing. No, we'll leave that one to Damon's brother. From what D tells me, Stefan's even more annoying now that he's a bunny snacking Puritan with semi-regularity than he was when he was the Ripper of Monterey. And, believe me, that is saying something.

I've never really known Stefan outside of the—as Damon would say—"cocky Ripper douche" that I met in the twenties, but, apparently, he's picked up some kind of personality disorder in the last several decades and is now back to being the sanctimonious little prick his brother has complained about for as long as I've known him.

Admittedly, I was a bit surprised at first that Damon hadn't killed him yet with all the yammering on he did about him, but then I realized the one simple truth at the heart of all that is Damon Salvatore: he loves his little brother. Honestly, loyalty and devotion are two of the most essential traits that make up this vampire I consider to be my best friend. His list of special people may be about 3 names long, but I have no doubt he would kill, torture, or die for every one of them. I like to believe I make that list.

"So, let me get this straight. Stefan's playing High School sweethearts with some boring ex-cheerleader, blaming you for every new and varied drama of his "I'm the good brother" routine, stealing your ring, and locking you in a basement cell to rot, all because you won't get on board with the I-hate-myself-cause-I'm-an-evil-monster-from-hell-see-look-at-the-brooding-forehead-pity party?"

"Pretty much."

"Ugh. What an asshole!" I exclaim, quietly seething at the younger vampire's treasonous prioritizing of human life over that of his own kind—over his brother no less. Bitch better hope he never meets me alone. "Who does he think he is? Angel?"

He chuckles, no doubt reading the protective rage in my eyes, and hands me a glass of amber liquid.

"So, you gonna tell me what you're doing here in the vortex of all evil or are you going to make me guess?" I ask him pointedly, taking an appreciative sip of Damon's best bourbon. "Because you and I both know screwing with Stefan's never been your endgame."

We are sitting in the leather arm chair to the right of the wet bar, Damon on the seat and me perched on the arm, waiting for the bleeding body on the sofa to do something interesting. Or just stain his precious couch with all that blood still running into the towel around her neck. Not sure which at this point.

"Just wait till you meet the new and improved killjoy that is my baby bro. Then you can tell me torturing Saint Stefan's not worth the trouble," he says with that trademark smirk of his as he gets up to refill his drink.

"Riiiiight…And it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that this is your and Stefan's birthplace—human and vampire—and that there just so happened to be a celestial event here about a month ago that this town hasn't seen since Katherine died?" I ask facetiously.

He raises an eyebrow quizzically at that. "...exactly how long have you been in town?"

I merely smirk in response, taunting him with my silence. Wouldn't you like to know? The vaguely amused/annoyed look he tosses me suggests that yes, he really really would.

No, but seriously. "Come on, Damon," I whine. "Who am I gonna tell?"

He purses his lips and taps his chin in mock thoughtfulness, "Let me think about it…No."

I sigh. "Fine. Be that way. You'll tell me eventually anyway." And I say this with every confidence.

"Sure," he says patronizingly. I feel my canine snag on the corner of my mouth as my smile turns wry, eyes falling flat as I gaze past his smugly perfect face when his eyes flick away. It's not that I don't understand his need for secrecy—his implicit lack of trust. And I don't mind. Not really. I'd be a hypocrite if I did. It's not as though I haven't come here with my own agenda after all. But still, I have to wonder, does he know?

A groan from the sofa breaks the moment. Looks like things are about to get interesting after all. This seems to call Damon's attention to the girl in question, and the unsatisfactory absorption rate of the towel. Someone should complain to HR: Fails to staunch profusely bleeding wounds.

"Oh, don't get blood on the couch!" he whines. "Please?" I don't know what he's complaining about. Personally, I think it looks better this way. Then again, I generally think most fabrics could do with a little bit of recreational blood spatter. Adds character.

He lifts the cloth off her throat and takes a look at the nasty looking bite wound. "I gotcha good, didn't I?"

I snort.

Damon looks up at me at the sound. He seems a little disappointed. Guess he was hoping for more of a diversion than a nearly dead girl can provide. "Well, you're not gonna be any fun today," he says mimicking my thoughts as he glances back down at her.

It's then I see that telltale glint in his eye. The one that always signals that he's about to do something either extraordinarily entertaining or extraordinarily stupid. Sometimes both at once. Ah, the joys of reckless spontaneity.

With a roll of the eyes that seems to scream 'what the hell', he sighs. "I'm so gonna regret this." And before I can so much as blink, he has bitten into his wrist and brought it to the girl's mouth.

Huh, well that's one way to liven things up.

His eyes fall closed as he tips his head back to rest against the arch of the stairwell, and I watch with interest as the protective mask of sardonic cynicism slides from his face, expression relaxed and open for my perusal. Something about the ease of it fills my chest with uncharacteristic warmth and affection. It's an honor to be one of the rare few—perhaps the only, in fact—to inspire such confidence in the cold-as-ice, tough-as-nails Damon Salvatore. Sometimes I think I'm the only one to have ever seen the soul-consuming chasm of pain he hides beneath that skin-deep shield, all the grief and heartache in his eyes. It's a gift of trust so telling that it sends a sharp spike of guilt right through my duplicitous little heart. But this is one secret I just can't share. For his own safety.

Or so I tell myself.

Damon and I are sat across from each other at the foot of the main stairway with our backs to the wall, waiting for our new playmate to come down and entertain us. D is really letting this whole 'trapped inside with nothing to do' thing get to him. Things are bound to get interesting.

"Oh, Man!" Vicki calls, clopping down the stairs in nothing but a tank and a pair of pink cotton underwear, long brown hair swinging in the air behind her—perfectly dry. "That shower was so great!"

Catching sight of herself in the mirror to the left, she seems to finally realize the weird in this situation as she strokes her now unmarred neck. Humans. Sigh.

"Hey, what did you give me?" she directs at Damon in slightly fearful confusion.

His eyes snap open, gaze instantly meeting mine with a bemused smile when he catches me staring. His head cocks to the side at a questioning angle, but his attention turns to the confused little human almost instantly as he internally rolls his eyes. Bored and not in the mood to placate her poor human sensibilities, he says, "Some blood. You loved it."

Brow furrowing in surprise, but barely a hint of suspicion, she wonders aloud, "I did?"

Oh, geez. Really, kid? Nothing about this scene seems sinister to you? Why aren't you screaming?

He nods easily, smirk back in full force as the mask reaffixes itself to cover the vulnerability of his eyes.

"Wait, I'm confused. How did I get here?" she asks, looking between the two of us.

Damon hops up, all black leather and bad attitude, as he traps her against the wall to my left, bracketing her with his arms. He bores straight into her brain with those blue orbs of his. I can almost see the icy wind tearing through her soft human will. "We met in the woods," he compels irreverently. "You were drunk, I attacked you. Then I killed all of your friends and brought you here. Gave you some blood and you loved it. And now we're gonna party till the sun goes down."

Oh, great. Just what I always wanted! A human pet for a day! How does he always know?

"Ok!" she chirps. "But first, can I have another…hit? That blood was so good."

Great. A druggie. This should be interesting. Damon seems to think so too if the look on his face is any indication.

"Only if I can," his eyebrows say.

She promptly thrusts her wrist forward, followed by the wet crunch of fangs in flesh, and the scent of blood—human and vampire—sings in the air. Great, now I'm hungry. In a flash I'm behind her, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. She doesn't even flinch as I sink my fangs into the soft skin of her so recently healed neck, letting the richly hot liquid slide down my suddenly parched throat. Let the games begin.

So, as usual, I was right. Vicki, the drug-addict that she is, has gotten high as fuck off Damon's blood and is presently running around on the floor, dancing like a spaz while telling two spectacularly indifferent vampires all about her pathetic love-life with jock-douche #2 while we sit on the couch making a truly heroic effort to achieve the white whale that is vampiric inebriation.

"I am so over Tyler!" she claims for the umpteenth time. She's told us all about the Greek tragedy that is her love life at least three times since she woke up. If I have to hear one more story about how Reggie Van Dough, Jr. is 'Oh so ashamed' to be with her, I swear I'm ripping out her tongue. "So over him! I mean, I knew from the beginning that I was just a piece of ass to him, but I thought that maybe if he got to know me he might see something more…but no!"

I exchange a look with Damon. Is he getting anything out of this? Can we just kill her already and put her out of our misery? Oh, wait. Vampire blood. Yeah, no thank you.

"Now, Jeremy…That's all he's ever seen in me is more."

And now she's rolling on the floor. Ok, then.

"And I like that…"

Something flickers in Damon's eyes. What was that about?

"Jeremy, huh? Elena's brother?" He asks, affecting a false tone of innocent curiosity.

Ah, I see. More brother torture.

He strolls toward her with a sudden pep in his step. The confident sway in those delicious abs speaks of all sorts of diabolical ideas.

"Yeah!" she answers happily. Glad for the attention, I suppose. "So, Elena used to date my brother and they were always together, so Jeremy would always be hanging around and crushing on me and—Hey!" she stops mid-sentence as her spastic mind spits forth a new thought. "Why don't you have a girlfriend? You're like totally cool and so hot."

Yeah, he really needed that ego boost, I snort to myself.

"I know," he says, glancing at me with that knowing look in his eye. The eyebrows, the smirk, he's such a cocky son of a bitch. No wonder I love him.

Distracted by this new train of thought, Vicki looks between the two of us as though something truly troubling has just occurred to her. "Wait, are you two…?"

I laugh. It's all I can do.

I should probably explain the absurdity of this question. See, while I am certainly not immune to Damon's considerable talents in the art of seduction, this question hardly ever arises between us. Honestly, we're more like brother and sister—with the occasional incestuous twist—than we've ever been like lovers. We even look the part. Beyond the obvious signs of disparate genders, the only real difference is that my light blue eyes are a stormier hue than his with just a hint enough of grey that in certain lighting they seem almost lavender. Special friends? Sure. Romance? Never.

This seems to satisfy her for the moment. At least about me, anyway. "Don't you wanna be in love?" she asks him.

He takes her hand and swings her out into the parlor. "I've been in love. It's pointless, and painful, and overrated," he answers. I feel the pang of hurt in his voice as deeply as my own. Just one more thing we share. No measure of distance nor centuries' stretch of time can soothe the burn of heart-break from a vampire's chest. It's a pain we learn to carry as a badge of pride as spit-shined perfect as our inhuman hunger.

"Except, when it isn't," she argues breathlessly, but he's done with this line of questioning.

"Enough talking! Let's dance!" he croons and I turn the music up. He's right. What's the point of eternity if you can't enjoy it? Talking about it is overrated.

To the surprisingly enjoyable tune of Anberlin's "Enjoy the Silence"—I'm not usually a fan of covers, but I can admit when they're done well—the three of us set about wasting the day in drunken (and in Vicki's case 'drug'-induced) revelry. Although, with Damon dancing around in those low-slung jeans, shirt open and a half empty bottle of bourbon in hand, this day may end far differently than planned.

We dip and grind our way up the stairs to the second floor. Damon seems to have something in mind as he leads us to what appears to me to be a very lived in bedroom. And from my experience of his tastes, it's definitely not Damon's.

"Jesus! Damon, you never told me your brother was such a packrat!" I shout when the mess that is Stefan's room is finally revealed. "Seriously, it's like an episode of 'Hoarders' in here!" I am rewarded with a genuine laugh from my companions.

He gives me a sly smirk as a no doubt wonderfully awful idea comes to mind. "What do you say we help him out a bit, then? Get rid of some excess garbage?"

"Oh like these?" I say, shoving books and papers off the cluttered desk top.

"Or this?" Vicki throws clothes on the floor.

"All of these?" I laugh as Damon throws an entire shelf of books on the floor.

Vicki giggles and jumps on the bed as Damon and I set to clearing every surface available onto the floor until the room sufficiently resembles an Oklahoman trailer park. Surveying the post-twister wreckage, Damon nods once in childish approval—an impish glint in his eye that brings an affectionate warmth to my own. Fondness floods my chest, followed swiftly by the pangs of future regret. Damn Slater and his meddlesome research skills straight to Hell. Why couldn't that little twerp keep his discoveries to himself just this once?

As the song comes to a close, and the room fills with the soft timber of an alt-rock ballad, Damon's attention shifts to the abruptly sullen teenager on his brother's bed. With a kind smile much too perfect to be genuine, he takes Vicki by the hand, pulling her into a gentle slow dance at the center of the room. Probably noticed the waterworks coming. He may look all sweet and tender right now, but it's just a ploy for information. He may be a love-struck idiot 80% of the time, but you can't say my boy's not cunning.

Predictably, the embrace comforts her just enough to start spilling all about her deep-seated emotional trauma. Joy. "My mom spends most of her time in Virginia Beach with Pete. He drives trucks. I don't remember my dad, but from what I gather he's not worth remembering."

"Your life is so pathetic," he says with mock sympathy. He's so ridiculously blunt sometimes, it's sort of amazing. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm the screwed up one. Matt's got it so easy. He's the golden boy. He's gonna get a football scholarship and marry Elena and...have a lawnmower and some babies and…when I think about my future, I just come up blank."

"You are so damaged."

"Yep."

"I think I know what can help you."

"What?"

"Death." Snap! Thunk!

Goddamn it Damon! Damn, your impulsivity!

"What did you do that for?" I cry over Vicki's inert corpse.

He shrugs.

I groan. "You know I'm not taking care of her right? And you sure as hell can't let the great and terrible Doctor Jekyll near her. The last thing we need is another of those running around. You do have a plan here, right?" I ask though the look in his eye quells any hopes I may have had. You know, just once I wish he'd think this shit through before he acts. Just for a change of pace.

While I sit there in my misery, Damon saunters over to the desk and plucks what seems to be an old photo from the pile of papers. Well, old by human standards, at any rate. I tap my foot impatiently, hoping he'll show me but knowing he won't unless I ask. He's an ass like that. Lost to my curiosity, I flash over to his side to have a look. The picture is labeled "Katherine, 1864", but that's Katerina Petrova.

Fuck.

It's hysterically stupid, but my first thought upon discovery of the incriminating photo is to hide the wretched thing from prying eyes. As though I don't know exactly what this means. Volos, I am such an idiot. What did I think exactly? Katherine just happened to look exactly like the Katerina of my memories out of some trick of the mind? 8 centuries of dream walking prior to the trip through Damon's mind should have taught me better than that. Then again, maybe that particular self-deception was as deliberate as it should have been obvious. Can I really say I didn't suspect this?

What exactly are the odds I discover the newly minted doppelganger's birthplace is this fucking town, and it has nothing at all to do with the infamously devious Katerina Petrova who just so happens to have a habit of cropping up in my walks through my best friend's mind? Jesus fuck, I'm a liar and a coward. He's going to hate me when this is through.

ADHD sadomasochist that he is, Damon wanders over to the slightly parted curtain with its thin stream of sunlight, and decides to experiment with burning himself for a few minutes while he waits for stupid non-plan plan, part 2. Honestly, this guy.

And that groaning now emanating from the previously dead body on the floor signals the rising of our next little undead companion. Double fuck.

"What happened?" she asks, looking groggily up from the floor. "We were dancing and then—"

"I killed you," he says with a slight smile.

"What?" she asks dumbly, eyes glazed over with the confusion and fear of the recently deceased. (Been there. Though at least I had the benefit of a pre-death warning. Damon's such a dick.)

As though privy to this inner thought, he smirks. "I killed you," he tells her with characteristically glib humor. "You're dead."

"I'm dead?" she scoffs, finally shoving up from the floor and making her coltish, clumsy way towards the door.

"Mhmm" he answers unhelpfully.

"Damon!" I mean, not that I care if she wanders off and kills a bunch of people or—fingers crossed—burns up in the sunlight, but really dude?

"Yeah, well let's not make a big deal out of it," he shrugs, completely at ease. "You drank my blood, I killed you, now you have to feed in order to complete the process."

Ugh. What am I even supposed to do with this?

"Look, Vicki, it'll all make sense in a little while. You just gotta hang with us a little longer."

She is disappointingly unconvinced.

"You're wasted," she mumbles and heads for the door.

"You don't wanna be out there all alone." He flashes forward to block her path.

And seeing as he can't go outside in the daylight without his ring, and I can't go—what with my utter lack of caring and all…

I sigh in surrender and cross my arms over my chest to watch the play by play from my vantage point atop Stefan's now thoroughly cleared desk.

"You're about to get really freaky." She seems momentarily confused by the vamp-speed, but like a good little druggie promptly disregards this as a product of her own intoxication and moves to walk around him.

"Look I had a really good time; I just really wanna go home."

Third time's the charm, "You're gonna start craving blood, and until you get it you're gonna feel very out of it. You have to be careful."

"Come on, move." She just pushes at his chest until he begrudgingly steps aside.

He smiles with a defeated shake of his head, but I can tell he's met his mental quota for Sire-responsibility by this point. He's not even trying anymore when he says, "See, you're already starting to fall apart."

"And I'm going home now."

"Ok, fine, I'm just warning you," he says with his hands held out in surrender.

Oh, there's that look again. I roll my eyes, but he's on his own on this one.

"Actually, you know what? You should go. In fact, if I were you, I'd stop by your boyfriend Jeremy's house," he suggests with that sly smirk of his.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Tell Elena I said hi. And if you see Stefan, tell him to call me!" he shouts as she descends the stairs. A few seconds later, the front door slams behind her.

Looking up from where I've been shaking my head in hopeless futility, all I can think to say to him is, "Damon, what the fuck?"

"You'll see," he sings in that mysterious way of his, and I'm ninety nine percent certain that I am going to regret every part of whatever the hell he plans to drag me into next. As certain as I am that I'll enjoy every damn minute of it.

In the silence that follows Vicki's absence, I have time to fret over this troubling new discovery I've made about Damon's long-lost love.

Of course, knowing him as I do, I know all about the Katherine-Salvatore debacle, but never once in over a century has Damon referred to her as anything other than Katherine Pierce and I—stupidly, I must admit, now I'm being honest with myself—never made the connection between the Katerina that had been missing and presumed dead for the better part of the last two centuries—though I had my own reasons for doubting that conspiracy—and the long-lost love of my woebegone companion. I don't even know that he knows her real name, and the world just got a whole lot smaller and a whole lot more dangerous.

A part of me—the part that really hates lying to Damon—wants to tell him all I know about the Petrova doppelganger and the Curse, the Originals, the werewolves, all of it, but if Katerina really did lose her long-fought battle for survival like we all thought, why bring it up? Nevermind that it was some 5 decades after that supposedly fatal fire that I felt the last of her. Dead is dead...right?

Then again, this is the same girl that was cunning enough to escape the clutches of the single most powerful creature ever to walk the earth, and elude him for centuries. Is it really so impossible she could have found the magic to fool even me? With this new piece of information, the puzzle that is Katerina Petrova has become that much more decipherable, and some of the idle musings I have entertained on the subject over the years seem disturbingly plausible.

"You've been awfully quiet." Damon's voice startles me from my reverie.

"Yeah, I was just thinking about how we were going to play this out."

"Play what out?" I just give him a look and wait. "Oh, you mean Stefan."

"Uh, yeah," I confirm. "I mean, the last time I saw him he was ripping through throats in Chicago. How am I even supposed to act around him?"

He shrugs. "You're with me," he says like it's obvious.

"Yeah, but I mean, what about your plan and all?"

"Plan?" Again, I just shoot him a look that says 'Really?'

He chuckles, but thankfully drops the act. "It doesn't have to be a big deal. You're my friend. You're here as my friend. That's it."

"And when you make your move…?"

"You back my play."

I smile. That's more like it. "Always."

The senseless urge to cough hits me full force as the strangling fist about my throat falls away, allowing my nearly crushed airway to heal and feeling to return to deadened flesh. I meet Damon's eye where it dances above me with a smug smirk of my own, watching the long bleeding lines of my own assault as they fade slowly back to ivory white and patterned stains. Unconsciously my fingertips reach for my lips, tongue flicking out for the delicious iron taste of my friend's lifeblood.

In a flash of vamp-speed, I reverse our positions, pinning him flat to the bed beneath my smirking gaze. Damon leers with smoldering heat while I clean each nail in turn, and chase the faint residue up the length of his torso. His fingers tangle once again in my blue/black hair to pull me back to his lips, licking himself from my tongue. I shove him away, laughing, as I turn my attention to refastening the open front of my corset top. Damon growls under his breath, flopping back flat on the mattress and glaring at the ceiling.

I watch shrewdly as his eyes flutter closed and my smile fades away. This long awaited sexual reunion of ours may have been a marvelous distraction, but it's high time we get serious. Especially given what happened tonight.

Damon had left to track down Vicki as soon as the sun went down, but we both decided that it was best I stay out of sight until we came up with a cover story for the rest of the town. Apparently, this was a good move as Stefan almost got himself staked tonight by some Van Helsing wanna-be with a magic watch.

If Damon hadn't turned up when he did, the younger Salvatore would be grey and veiny toast right now. And, of course, since no one messes with Stefan on his big brother's watch, Damon promptly tore Buffy's throat out, and Vicki completed her transition in his cooling blood. Delightful.

We managed to avoid mine and Stefan's impending reunion, but that was more Damon's concern for my temper than anything else. My abject hatred of his brother is a well-established fact between us. I'm sure that Damon assumes it stems solely from some overzealous loyalty to our friendship, but this is only a partial truth. I have my own reasons for holding such a deeply personal grudge against the youngest Salvatore—not that I have any intention of correcting him. For the time being at least, I think that best for all involved.

Still, we decided it would be better to keep such moments to a minimum or, at the very least, ensure there are witnesses to keep us both in check. Besides, there are far more important concerns at the moment than scripting the meet-cute between me and Damon's two-faced baby brother. For instance, the magic watch.

According to Damon, this means the Mystic Falls Founder's Council is back on the alert and, with a newbie vampire and a human girlfriend to worry about, this could spell trouble for us. All the more reason for a decent cover story, and I have just the thing.

"Absolutely not."

"Damon, you know this is a good idea. This way, I can get you access to the school and the whole Team Stefan gang without you digging up your obviously overworked scary voice."

"I don't want you exposed like that," he argues. "These people are seriously paranoid. They'll be immediately suspicious of an outsider."

"That's what compulsion's for, dumbass."

"The Council is about to renegotiate their vervain supply."

"But I thought you killed your uncle to stop him from supplying vervain. If we just wait a few weeks till it's out of their systems…" A truly horrific thought suddenly occurs to me. "Wait, renegotiate? Why would you give them vervain?"

He waits for me to work it out. "Oh!" I gasp excitedly, slapping his chest. "You're going to infiltrate the Council aren't you?" He winces a bit, but smiles smugly. "Man, I'm glad I'm on your side," I say as I nudge his bare shoulder playfully.

"But that doesn't mean I'm not right about this. I can help you," I cajole.

The smile slides off his face and I can see the thinly veiled worry that hides behind his cold eyes. "You could get hurt."

"Damon, sweetie, I'm an 895-year-old necromancer turned badass vampire. I think it's safe to say I'm the scariest thing they are ever going to meet."

He snorts, but that's not a denial. "Yeah, but can you imagine how inconvenient it would be to explain away the deaths of every pillar of the town? I know it's been awhile since you attempted to coexist with humans, but they do tend to notice things like that," he argues sardonically. "And then we have to compel ourselves a whole new Council to replace the old one and that's all just way more effort than it's worth."

"Fine," I shrug. "Then, we just tell them I'm your long-lost twin sister or something. God knows, we look the part."

He hangs his head and lets out a frustrated sigh. Looking back at me, I see the genuine concern in his eyes when he pleads, "Just wait till we get the Council off our backs, and then we can talk about it. Ok?"

"Alright," I mutter begrudgingly. I'm such a sucker for those eyes. Then, with renewed vigor and a sinister smile, I swear, "But if anyone so much as touches you in the meantime, I'll have them kneeling in a pool of their own blood before anyone can lift a finger to stop me."

He knows it's not the humans and their pathetic Council I mean. Memories of blood-curdling screams and a raging fire flash before both our eyes with a single hatefully familiar gaze of forest green. This time, when he smiles, it's the savage malice of 145-year vengeance that greets me and I couldn't be more proud.

Giving him a sharp grin of my own, I grab his face with both hands and pull him into to a vicious, bruising kiss that is all tongues, and fangs, and bleeding lips that kick starts us into round 2 of the reunion tour and seals a vow I once swore never to make again.

This moment, this beautiful demon, are mine to take and mine to keep and I promise myself here and now that no one and nothing will stand in my way.

A few hours later, I huff in frustration at my inability to sleep. After tossing and turning longer than my general impatience can tolerate, I decide to admit defeat and find an alternative solution to my insomnia. Leaving Damon dozing sated and smug in peaceful slumber, I sneak downstairs to the parlor wet bar as silently as I can, aware that in a house full of vampires the slightest disturbance can raise the alarm and I'm not really ready to be reunited with the less fun Salvatore right now.

It seems my luck is as bad as ever though when I approach the drinks' table to find said vampire reposing in a characteristic pique of moral indignation. He is leaning forward, his chin propped on his interlaced fingers atop elbows digging into his thighs. His overly styled hair peeks over the back of the leather chair facing opposite, and the fire casts his profile in sharp relief as he sits there perched like some self-righteous bird of prey. It seems he was less understanding about the Vicki situation than one might have hoped. Though, of course, that was the point.

I know the moment he senses my presence by the sudden tension I see in his already uptight shoulders, though it's clear by his stillness that he has yet to perceive me as a potential threat. I could take advantage of this oversight, but, truthfully, I am too tired to engage in such a petty squabble right now. It goes without saying that I'd kick his ass anyway. Instead, I simply sigh by way of greeting and continue my path toward the table and its medley of crystal decanters. If we're going to do this now, I think I deserve to be drunk first.

However, much to my surprise, when I round the corner and enter Stefan's line of sight as I stand before the wet-bar, it's not disdainful recognition that I see in his eyes. It's not recognition at all—at least, not of me.

As I raise my glass in a silent toast to my own confusion, I see nothing but irritation and a hint of self-contempt as if someone has simply confirmed his worst expectations and he is cursing his own stupidity for hoping otherwise. It's a look I've come to recognize over my centuries of life as that of the stone thrown through glass, and I know exactly where he learned it.

I realize suddenly that Stefan has no idea who I am and thusly the picture I must seem to him in my borrowed v-neck and Damon's little-used boxers, with the blood still cooling on my neck from an earlier love-bite. He thinks I'm one of his brother's compelled happy-meals and has decided to take this latest offense as further proof of Damon's continued depravity. I'm not sure whether to be offended at the apparent ease with which he has forgotten me, or enraged at his complete lack of faith in his brother.

There is no 'good brother' in this scenario. We're all killers here—Stefan no less than the rest of us—and the sooner he accepts that, the sooner he may open his eyes to the truth about his brother and maybe the truth about himself as well. There's nothing I hate so much as a hypocrite, and with a decided clank I drop the glass to the table.

He seems surprised by my outburst and finally looks up to meet my glare, apparently startled by the anger I have no doubt is seething behind my eyes. I close my eyes and take a deep soothing breath, consciously cooling my ire as I decide how to play this. If Stefan doesn't remember me, there may be a valid reason, and I can't risk showing my cards just yet. There was a lot going on in Chicago back then, and I can think of several scenarios in which those memories may have been lost—none of them pleasant.

I force a friendly smile to my face, but can feel the bite in it and know Stefan is not likely to be convinced by the false cheer in my voice when I say, "You must be Stefan."

As expected, he seems rather disturbed by my attitude as well as my knowledge of him, but to his credit he hides it well. "I'm sorry. Have we met?" he asks politely.

"No," I smile. "But your brother's told me all about you." This time the threatening bite of my smile is impossible to miss and again he is appalled.

It occurs to me that I have been presented with a golden opportunity here. I may not yet have a cover story for the town mob, but I can still take a leaf out of the Katherine Pierce 'Handbook to Preserving Your Secret Identity'. With a flick of my eyes toward the staircase, I say, "Call me Natalia. Lia, if you're feeling particularly adventurous." I pause as I reconsider this statement. "Though I wouldn't advise it."

It's not so far off the mark. With the exception of Damon, most of my friends call me Nadia or sometimes Dia anyway. It's certainly less of a mouthful than Nadezhda.

He clears his throat. "You're a friend of Damon's, then?"

In the moment between the exhale of this question and his next breath, I have collected my drink and reappeared reclining in a casual, feline grace along the couch adjacent to him. I take a generous swallow, allowing the slight burn of good bourbon to settle warm and familiar in my gut and give him another barbed grin that is all fang. The veins beneath my eyes stir just beneath the surface in a silent and unmistakable threat as I respond lightly, "A very good friend."