I thought you would like a little story to reveal something about Damon and Stefan… so here we go, please let me know what you think.
This first part deals with Damon. The second, with Stefan. And the last part… well, wait and see!
I hope you enjoy it. And once again, I should say please forgive any dodginess on the part of my American references, as I am a Brit! And also, I can't remember if the vampires can get drunk, so apologies if I have got this wrong – but I am sure you will agree it's a minor point.
Oh, and I should add that in this particular story I don't share the opinions of my characters, because some of their opinions suck.
Enjoy… it's quite long!
Dowager
Chapter 1: A Storm Brewing
He looked out of the window at the moody sky and considered his options. If he ran now, he would never be able to come back and everything he had worked for would be for nothing. If he stayed, there was a real risk that the son would kill him. Death or destitution. He didn't much like those options.
At that moment, the sky lit-up brightly with a sheet of white lighting, followed by a grumble of insistent thunder. Seconds later, the rain began.
Well that solved it for him: he just hated to get his hair wet.
He took a deep breath, popped his cuffs and jogged lightly down the attic stairs towards the dining room, where the ugly sounds of the family fighting rose once again to his ears.
He didn't even pause before opening the door.
"Miss me?" Damon said, throwing them a wink for good measure.
The fist of Donald Critchlow came towards him at speed.
Three months earlier
"Well, if I can't reach it, then I am quite sure no-one else can young man." The shopper straightened to her full height and looked down the length of her nose to the batwing glasses perched on the very tip. "And what's more, I don't appreciate your tone!"
The negro boy scratched his face. He was badly pock-marked from his acne scarred youth; he knew he was always going to be a shelf stacking/backroom kinda guy and never make it onto the cash registers, but wasn't the upside of that supposed to be that he never had to talk to the customers? And she was shaping up to be a real pain in the posterior, if you'd kindly mind his language.
He pushed the gum he had been chewing into the gap between the hollow of his cheek and his back molar.
"Ma'am," he started, "I is just saying, that its done like that because my boss done-told me so. And all I is saying, is that's the ways its always been, 's'all."
Damon had overheard the last part of the conversation from the neighboring aisle and thought he would investigate. He was on the hunt here anyway, having found himself fallen on hard times. He liked department stores such as this, they were all called 'Such an such, and Sons', and the higher class they were, the better the hunting. His trick was to find a servant (in a place like this one, they all were), pick the best dressed of them, then follow them home to make mischief. He'd play it by ear dependent on what his needs were at the time, but basically he would take what he needed - whether that consisted of blood from old grandma lying upstairs in her musty bedroom; or seduction of the mother and daughters (maybe both at the same time, like that time in Ohio. Now that was fun).
A family with real money would send their people out in nothing less than their Sunday best, shoes 'n' all. Clothes told you nothing; any show-pony could have a smart bonnet - but look down and you'd see the real shape of things. Some of them had holes in the size of dimes. Shoes were the secret: they told you all you needed to know.
The sound of the voice in the aisle next to him had caught his attention. Here was a woman so unused to shopping for herself, she didn't understand the concept of shelf-stacking. Rather than reach an arm above shoulder height, she complained to the nearest person that looked beneath her status. He could be wrong, but from the tone of her voice he knew there was money there. Even if she had had to fire her staff (which explained why she was here at all), women like her always had money. Most often it was buried deep, their husbands hiding whatever they could get away with from their spouses. But they didn't count on him; he had a nose for those hidden trust accounts, because he thought like them. Downright devious. Hell, oftentimes the women were so grateful, they'd fall right into his arms.
Besides, right now he was kind of between residences, so he had to try something. And she was a widow, he could always tell. They were the best kind.
"Ma'am," he interrupted her request that she speak immediately to the boy's manager, "I couldn't help but overhear your predicament," Damon said, "please, allow me." He reached for the item off the top shelf and handed it to her with just the slightest inclination of his head. She had bristled at first, but now this nice young man was treating her in the way in which she was accustomed and she began to thaw.
"Well, thank you so much, young man. It is nice to see that someone round here has manners." She gazed pointedly at the assistant.
"Oh, now don't you go minding that boy," Stefan said, "he's just some poor unfortunate the manager agreed to help out after his mom died." Damon invented floridly. The boy took this as his opportunity to exit. He didn't know what the heck the stranger was talking about, and nor did he much care. The sooner he could return to the storeroom with crates that didn't answer back, the happier he would be.
"Syphilis…" Damon stage-whispered conspiratorially. Eleanor raised her hand to her chest in shock.
"My goodness! That poor unfortunate!.. Oh!" she exclaimed, as she thought suddenly of the boy's face. She whispered back to Damon "The pock-marks…?" He nodded grimly at her.
She looked shocked, then gave the food in her wicker basket a wary eye. "My oh-my." She said almost to herself. "That poor unfortunate…" She repeated, the supposed horror of his young life leading her to think that she would tip him next time (if she ever came back).
Damon leant forward and took her basket from her, which naturally she let him.
"Ma'am," he said "don't you worry about a thing." He took the neatly written shopping list from her hand. "You just let me help you out; I know how these places can be."
"Why, you are such a dear," she said, "but you must tell me your name so I know who to thank."
"Damon Salvatore," he said, "at your service." And gave her a deep bow.
At her car, she allowed him to pop the trunk and load her bags. He appraised it with a swift glance: a 1952 Pontiac Silver Streak with, if he wasn't mistaken, its original bi-color tires. It was a ruby-red gem of a car, probably never having done more than 8000 kilometers its whole life. With that paintwork, it had to have been kept in a garage the size of a bus. It must have been a labor of love for some chauffeur or another just to keep it on the road, let alone in this condition. It was a prize and worth a pretty penny too he didn't doubt.
Oh, he had fallen on his feet here. He briefly wondered what had happened to the chauffeur, but pushed the thought to the back of his mind. After all, her driving around unaccompanied like this, made things an awful lot easier for him.
"Eleanor," he purred, "don't you tell me you drive this big old car yourself?"
"Why I sure do, Damon." She said proudly, testing out his name and liking the way it sounded. "Ever since my husband died," (bingo!) "I have been forced to - you know just use it to get to the shops, or the club, or some-such. I must confess though, I find it quite hard to handle."
She was just so darn precious.
"Well, you must allow me to drive you home!" he exclaimed, opening the passenger door.
"Oh, no, I couldn't put you out like that!"
"I insist." He frowned. She was about to protest again, when he laid his finger on her lips, looking deep into her eyes. He hadn't needed to compel her yet, but he would if had to. He had to confess he kind of liked doing this old-style, au naturale, as it were.
"Well, I just don't know what I did today" she said, "to deserve you." He gave her his warmest smile and she fluttered back at him and got into the automobile. He fused over her hemline before closing the door.
She had invited him into her home for a cool glass of lemonade, which he knew was a big deal for a widow in her fifties in a gossip-rife town such as this. His sharp eyes had noticed at least half a dozen curtains flicking in the mansions down the street. When she had invited him in, he told her he wouldn't dream of preying upon her kindness any more and that he was honored just to have driven her home. She was quite taken aback and had given him a smile, which damn near broke her face she so seldom used it.
For her part, she was surprised how it made her feel, this handsome man no more in age than her youngest son, standing on her stoop. When he had loaded the last of her bags into her hallway, he had taken his leave with another one of those little bows he seemed so fond of. She was sad that he didn't accept her offer for a beverage and it struck her suddenly that the emotion she was battling with, was loneliness. She hesitated before shutting the door after him and noticed Imelda Mayhew across the street fidgeting behind her curtains, her little yapping lapdog in her arms. Eleanor suddenly felt a sense of childish petulance and stuck her tongue out at her neighbor. Shocked with herself, she quickly slammed the door and rested on it a while. Where on earth had that come from? My word, that young man had made her act in a way which was quite extraordinary.
She dusted down her skirt and resumed her posture.
"Wanda!" she cried out, her voice dropping its silky edge. "Come here immediately and deal with these bags." Feeling aggrieved with her maid without a real reason, she complained to her as soon as she entered the room, "You're getting so old and slow these days!". The maid barely raised her voice as she responded.
"Yes ma'am, I guess I am." She said, as she heaved the heavy paper bags into her arms.
It was long after midnight when the doorbell tolled. Someone kept ringing it and no matter how often she put her head under the pillow, it would not stop. She was a light sleeper anyway and prone to insomnia, so had only just drifted off (after taking one of her pills). The intrusion was intolerable.
She heard light switches being turned on and footsteps in her hallway, as Wanda finally roused herself and went to answer the door. What was taking that woman so long? Eleanor thought with irritation. She would have to speak to Donald about allowing her to take on someone younger, she was well past her useful life as her maid. If she was only allowed one servant now, by golly, she was going to have a decent one. She was already annoyed at the severe reduction in her staff. My goodness, without Geoffrey alone to look after her car, take care of her lawns and deal with this kind of thing, she felt quite at a loss. It wasn't right not to have a man in the house, not right at all. Geoffrey would have answered the door with a shotgun in his hand. He was reliable like that.
For the merest of moments, she felt a chink of anger mar the otherwise doting affection which she had for her eldest son. These were the cutbacks that he had forced her to make. Her dear departed Raymond would have been ashamed to see her alone in the house this night, with someone, (anyone!), at the door. My goodness, what if they were here to assault or rob her? She knew the coloreds let their pickaninnies roam at night and she wouldn't put this kind of thing past them, no siree.
Before her imagination could run completely riot, she heard Wanda's familiar voice calling out to the stranger behind the door, "I'm coming, I'm coming. Hold your horses." She heard bolts slide back and the safety chain strain as the door was pulled open a crack.
"What d'you want? Raising all kinds of hell when my mistress is asleep in her bed. It ain't no good." Wanda berated.
Eleanor slipped out of bed, reached for her glasses and pulled on her pale-pink quilted robe. She went to her bedroom door and opened it just a crack so she could hear more clearly.
"Mm-hmm… well, I dare say it was your own fault." Wanda replied to a question which Eleanor cursed that she could not hear. Who exactly was it at her door?
"The police department is right down the street." Wanda said firmly. "Now you just get yourself down there and don't you be disturbing decent folk in the middle of the night." She was trying to shut the door on whoever it was, but then suddenly Eleanor could hear the security chain being slipped off and the door being opened.
"Well of course, I guess you won't be long. I can't see as no harm in you making one call." She said. And the stranger's footfall was heard entering the door.
Eleanor couldn't understand what had happened. Wanda had previously sounded adamant, using that tone she saved for hawkers at the door ("I already told you last week I don't need none of your stolen goods, now off with you before I loose the dog!"). And now someone was in her house! Her curiosity by far outweighed her fear and she moved to the top of the staircase.
In her hallway, Wanda was closing the door behind Damon Salvatore, who was holding a handkerchief to his bleeding head.
"Oh my goodness, Damon! What on earth happened?" she said. She rushed down the stairs to him, whilst simultaneously barking orders to Wanda to fetch cloths, warm water and iodine.
The vampire had taken pains to hide a chunk of the rat he had killed in his handkerchief, and he pressed it now to his forehead to make blood flow again. When the iodine arrived, he refused to allow her to tend him and handled it himself, telling her that he didn't want her to have to deal with anything so gruesome. When she rushed from the room to make him some sweet tea, he gave Wanda a smile. She looked back at him with narrowed eyes and as much silent disapproval as she could muster. He hoped she wasn't going to be a problem.
In the kitchen, Wanda took over from Eleanor, who was fretting herself trying to boil a kettle on a hob she didn't know how to light. Wanda tried not to notice that her mistresses was looking at her reflection and fixing her hair by whipping out the bobby pins that kept her curls in place whilst she slept. Eleanor caught her looking and gave her one of her stares that meant 'watch yourself' and so the elderly maid returned to making the tea and minding her own.
"I am so sorry for upsetting your household and preying upon your hospitality so late at night," he began when she returned to the room, but she brushed his apologies away with a generous sweep of her hand, "but truly, I could think of nowhere else to go."
He noticed she had pinched her cheeks so they would take on the appearance of being rouged and her hair bounced now it was free from bobby pins.
"Well, I am just so glad you came to me, Damon." She replied wholeheartedly, realizing how true that was. "But my, I must look a frightful mess!" she said with mock modesty.
"Quite the contrary." Damon flattered, allowing his eyes to linger on her décolletage a moment longer that was entirely appropriate. He thought he timed it rather well when she blushed like a virgin on prom night.
He smiled a slightly pained smile, as if to say 'I'm truly sorry for the inconvenience' and then began his invented story, the lies tripping from his tongue as easily as the sweet tea she poured for him.
And after half an hour had passed, she offered to have Wanda make up the spare room for him because she would not 'send him back out into the wilderness' at this time of night.
She was quick to catch on, this one. That would make it easy.
She had been easy to flatter: she was lonely, as all women were without someone to berate. Her husband had died just six months before and she told him that her eldest son, Donald, was good enough to take over her affairs, as she had no head for numbers. He gathered quickly that Donald was an opportunistic, capricious little bastard, who could see a way to make money from his mother's misfortune. He had immediately and cleverly reduced her expenditure by getting rid of what he saw as extraneous house staff and simultaneously reduced her allowance to a bare minimum. He paid for her club and the upkeep of her house - just enough to keep up appearances - but he was neatly pocketing the rest. Donald was clearly smart, but an asshole nonetheless.
Damon had been invited to stay for as long as it took to get his 'wrecked automobile' back on the road, so he could return to his home in Wichita (or whichever mid-western hole he had told her he had come from). He was even given a key, so he could come and go as he pleased. As it was a 'vintage car', he lied smoothly, it was going to take a while, so he would obviously find something to do all day so as to not get under her feet. 'Not at all', she had said, why didn't he join her at her club?
So by day, he was the toast of the over-fifty set, playing mixed doubles, cribbage, and squash, and sharing a slightly risqué joke or two. He was a card and everybody thought so – but that didn't stop Wanda looking at him like something that cat dragged in. When he bought her flowers (with the money Eleanor had given him because he 'never traveled with much cash, as had expected to be home the next day'), she left them near the range, so they died immediately. He had tried to speak to her about her children, but she just brushed him off with a 'Mr Damon, I am sure you have something better to do all day, than to stand here talking to me'. He had bought her a big ribboned box of candied peel (oh so such a shame, she was a diabetic). Eventually he gave up, and they prowled around each other like alley cats, not exactly fighting, but not exactly loving each other either.
Of course there was some talk, but Damon was just so gosh-darn charming, that even Imelda Mayhew had found some excuse to visit. She brought with her that yappy little rat-on-a-leash that she doted on. She was quite sorry that the dog behaved as it did, as he didn't normally bark so much with strangers (he did), and she was quite ashamed that she hadn't returned the cake tin before now (she wasn't even sure whose tin it was). And wasn't he a nice young man to think of her, when he offered her some candied peel, and how did he know that was candied peel was her absolute favorite, just like her daddy used to buy her…
At night it was a different story. He spent his evenings seducing Eleanor, but when she coyly retired to bed (he hadn't seen her naked yet, but give him time), he would take his house key and hit the town to feed. He would target people on the fringes of life; no-hopers and people he just found excruciatingly dull. Covering up their deaths was a bore, but part of his life.
By the third week, Damon began getting fed-up with the daytime pretence. Eleanor was not a bad looking woman for her age he supposed, especially since her renewed interest in herself after he showed obvious sexual interest in her. She had at least spiced up her wardrobe with some clothes that belonged to this decade. She had even ditched those hideous glasses, only secretly putting them on when she thought he wasn't looking. In fact, she had been on quite the spending spree, buying herself numerous clothes and cutesy little hats. She had also bought him plenty too; in fact such a steady stream of watches, ties, shirts and cuff links, that he wondered where the money was coming from.
On one of Wanda's supposed days off, he feigned a headache which got him out of having to attend Eleanor's ghastly club. He decided he would search the house and see if he could find the source of her cash, as it certainly wasn't what Donald gave her. He came across a locked attic and set about finding the key with a dogged persistence. Eventually he located it, locked in her diary. Although had already read that days ago, (it was full of 'he is so dreamy, I am quite beside myself' and so on and so on), the key was a new find. He jumped up the rickety attic stairs two at a time, to see what treasures the room would expose.
The door slipped open and revealed a space filled with abandoned child's things. There was a beautiful cobweb covered rocking horse and a hat stand covered in dressing up clothes, (pirates, sailors, cowboys, etc). There were train sets, abandoned board games, and a number of packing trunks and vanity cases. Stacked in a corner were some photo albums.
He picked one up and flicked through a couple of pages. Stiff black and white photos featuring even stiffer children stared up at him, their faces ghostly with dust. Underneath each someone had written in a small and neat hand, 'Donald, aged 6' or 'Harold, aged 2'. From the back of the album, a single photo fell out onto his lap. It depicted a smiling and youthful Eleanor, flanked by her husband and young boys. In her arms she held another baby, dressed in a richly-laced christening gown. Under the picture was simply written, 'Hattie'.
Eleanor had never mentioned a daughter before, he thought. When he continued to search the room he found out why; inside an old and cracked leather valise, there lay a neatly folded christening gown and on it a silver filigree bracelet. Beneath the bracelet was a death certificate. He looked at the date; she had been 4 months old.
He slammed the valise shut and looked around for things that were worth his time. Babies died, he thought, it was a fact of life.
He found a slightly damaged emerald brooch which looked like the real thing and a string of pearls, tangled together with a doctor's stethoscope. Then he found what he was really looking for, the jackpot - the winning ticket. It was a checking account and check book in her name. The check book look newly tampered with and almost entirely used up.
"Well, well," he said, as he opened the account book, "so that's your little hidey hole, is it. I wonder if dear old Donald knows about that?"
"What are you doing in here?"
Wanda's voice made him jump. He must have been really pre-occupied not to hear her entering the house, yet alone coming into the attic.
"You ain't supposed to be in here." She cautioned him, her eyebrows knotted with suspicion.
She saw the pearls in his hands and took a step backwards. He was robbing them.
"They belong to Ms Critchlow, you put those back. Who said you could touch them?"
He gave her a steely-eyed glare as he stood up slowly, the area underneath his eyes beginning to pulse with veiny threads. The light was dim in here and she couldn't make out the changes to his face.
"Don't you take another step!" she warned, but her voice was cracking. Something about Damon's presence was shaking her to her core. He took another step towards her and she matched it going backwards. She looked behind her and there was no more space. She was at the top of the stairs, but to go down them she would have to turn her back on him, and she didn't like that option at all.
She would tough it out and tell him exactly what she thought of him instead. She opened her mouth to say he was a lying, stealing, conniving, philandering…
Damon was upon her and ripping her throat out before she had finished formulating the thought. He brutalized her body and sucked down her blood like it was Thanksgiving.
That afternoon he took the car which Eleanor had left him (just in case he needed it), and drove down Main Street. When he reached the end, he took a right into what people called Little Trinidad, an area where most of his new friends, would never go. As the streets narrowed and the houses got smaller, he knew he was in the right place. On the corners, coloreds were gathered drinking gin and ginger out of paper bags, or just hanging out and shooting the breeze. The old men laughed their warm hooting laughter, a liquid-honey kind of sound. The Pontiac slid past them and gained their appreciative nods. It was not often a white man would come this way, yet alone a white man in a car like that. He slipped his sunglasses on and enjoyed the ride. In the back of the Pontiac, was Wanda's body wrapped in blankets. He would have to wait until dark to deal with it, but he could think of a good place out by her church near the railroad crossing to leave her. It wouldn't be hard to believe that in that location animals had attacked her.
When he heard music drifting from an open doorway, he knew he had found what he was looking for and he pulled up right outside. Some little kids ran to his car and he flipped some quarters their way.
"You come get me if you see someone look at that car the wrong way." He instructed. They nodded solemnly, but when he found some candy in his pocket he knew that sealed the deal.
He then turned his attention to the watering hole now thirsted for and contentedly entered its dark oblivion.
By the time she had gotten home, he was three sheets to the wind. He had her record player on and was playing something suitably sleazy. She dropped her tennis racket in the hall and called out to him, the sweat still glistening on her thighs. He looked at her somewhat greedily and she gasped as he grabbed her around the waist and began to dance.
"Damon, you smell of liquor!" she admonished, but he ignored her protests and emboldened by the gin in his belly, crushed his lips against hers.
Far from protesting, she relented more easily than he expected and he lifted her off her feet and carried her up to bed.
He treated her quite roughly that night, taking her from behind so he didn't have to look at her face looking adoringly up at him. When he had finished, he strode into her bathroom, leaving her shell-shocked and gathering up the remainder of her clothes.
After a hot and soapy shower, he pulled her late husbands' shaving things from her cabinet and used his badger-hair brush to whip up a good foam on his throat. He didn't need to do this anymore, but he had to confess he missed the routine. The blade of the ivory inlaid cut-throat razor was still good and he scrapped away at the non-existent stubble.
She knocked lightly on the door and when he didn't respond, she came in. Her eyes sparkled when she saw him there, stripped to the waist, her husband's razor in his hand. He supposed he should speak, but couldn't think of a damn thing to say.
"What do you see in an old woman like me?" she asked, genuine fear on her face. He pulled her towards him until she was close enough to feel his breath on her face, his groin pressed against hers, the razor hovering above her in his other hand. Her eyes flicked between the razor and his face.
"Your money." He said.
She gulped and breathing heavily now said, "You can have it, Damon. All of it, if that's what you want." He kissed her roughly, covering her in shaving foam, slipping his tongue in her mouth so greedily that she actually recoiled.
"I'm just kidding doll." He said, a big dopey smile returning to his face. "Hey come on now, what do you take me for?" And he returned to his shave. She looked at him a moment longer, before turning back to the door.
"I meant what I said Damon; you can take it. I won't stop you." As she slipped from the bathroom, he turned to face the closing door and for the first time since he arrived, fear ran through him.
When they found Wanda's body, they said wolves had attacked her, as there had been a surprisingly high number of wolf attacks recently. Apparently one had come right into the town where it appeared to have attacked her neighbor's little dog. All they had found was just a bloodied leash. And sure, it did bark a lot – but that was no way for a little thing like that to go. Oh yeah, nor for the servant woman too. Still, what was she doing out by her church at night? That was some crazy way to behave when you knew that wolves were attacking innocent people; she kind of deserved what she got.
Damon convinced Eleanor that he alone could take care of her needs now. In fact, the love-struck fool went down on one knee and proposed to her the day of Wanda's funeral. She accepted immediately of course. Why she had no choice. For her, it was love.
A week or two passed and now here they were, standing in front of her children and their wives, telling them how deliriously in love they were. Of course the children were upset, how could they not be?
She had bought the ring on her finger herself, (as he had a bit of a cash-flow problem right now), and he had watched her write the check and marveled at the beauty of such a thing. Eight hundred and fifty six dollars and thirty five cents; it was more money than he had seen in months. The garish two carat rock on her hand had brought envious stares from the members of her set for which it had been intended and therefore he supposed she was happy.
Donald was quivering with rage and Harold fluttered with indecision, and Damon knew he walked a fine line. He would have to play his part expertly now, or risk losing everything. He excused himself to give them 'some alone time' and as soon as he stepped out the room the really bitter words flew; he was a 'gold-digger' and she was an 'naïve old fool', and so on and so on.
Donald's wife goaded him on, envious that her ring was a mere chip compared to the monstrous beast adorning her mother-in-law's finger, all gaudy and showy like a Holiday bauble. He sat in the attic listening through the floorboards, his vampire hearing pushed to the limit. He drifted in and out, when suddenly something caught his attention; it was Donald's wife who hit a subject which made the conversation turn.
"You're fooling yourself Eleanor if you think he will stay around when the money runs out. Do you think he wants a wrinkly old hag like you, a woman nearly in her sixties? A man like that?" she rolled her eyes. "He's not worth the spit on my shoe."
"I know he doesn't." Eleanor said, a calmness to her voice belying the situation. "I may be old, but I am not an idiot. He can have my money, all of it. If that's all he wants me for, so what? I don't care because he makes me happy, Juliet. It's the first time I have ever been happy."
"What money?" Donald spat out nastily, "You don't have any." His mother stared at him with contempt, for now they were at the hub of the matter.
"Hattie's money, Donald. The money I put aside every week before she was born. And when she… when she died, I couldn't stop myself and I still put a little bit away every week."
The room grew quiet then, even Harold stopped twitching.
"First there was money for her first pair of shoes, then it was for her school books, then a little something to buy her prom corsage, then her wedding dress, her first house, gifts for her children - my grandchildren!…" her voice quivered with emotion now, even Donald dared not speak.
"It was for the life she never got to have. So if he wants it Donald, he can have it - all of it. Because she doesn't need it anyway, and I would rather use it to keep him here, or burn it all, rather than give a single cent to either of you!"
As she finished her speech, she broke down in tears. There was a sound which he assumed was her sliding down the wall to the floor. He could hear her body shaking as she cried.
"Where is he?" Donald suddenly raged, "I will tear him limb from limb!"
There was a high-pitched shriek then, whose he couldn't tell, but he knew he was in danger. Donald was a big man and a strong one; he had the kind of brut force that to really counteract required the finesse of his vampire strength. And if he used that, he would kill him immediately and that would ruin everything. If he didn't use it, Donald would throw him out, and that would ruin everything.
He looked out of the window at the moody sky and considered his options. If he ran now, he would never be able to come back and everything he had worked for would be for nothing. If he stayed, there was a real risk that the son would kill him.
Death or destitution. He didn't much like those options.
At that moment, the sky lit-up brightly with a sheet of white lighting, followed by a grumble of insistent thunder. Seconds later, the rain began.
Well that solved it for him: he just hated to get his hair wet.
He took a deep breath, popped his cuffs and jogged lightly down the attic stairs towards the dining room, where the ugly sounds of the family fighting rose once again to his ears.
He didn't even pause before opening the door.
"Miss me?" Damon said, throwing them a wink for good measure.
The fist of Donald Critchlow came towards him at speed.
He dodged it and ducked under his arm, coming up behind him, throwing his arms under his armpits and kicking the back of his knee, hard. Donald crumpled, hitting the floor hard. There was the sound of something snapping and Donald cried out. With his arms pinioned behind his back, he was not in a position to do anything. Damon looked over to Harold, but he was no fighter and was in fact shielding his own wife from this maniac his mother had clearly lost her mind over. All that, and he hadn't used his vampire moves once.
"Now, you both listen to me and listen to me good." Damon said. "Your mother and I are getting married. Now, not only will you be there, but you will go up to your mother and you will kiss her on the cheek and tell her how happy you are for her. You will bring a suitable gift, no less in value than what your mother deserves. And, so help me God, but you will both be happy for her!" Donald murmured some complaint at this latter, but Damon applied pressure to the injured knee and he soon shut up.
"Got it?" he said, yanking Donald's arms once more. His wife Juliet whimpered on his behalf.
"Got it?" he looked at Harold. Harold nodded, sending his little round specs bouncing on his nose.
Damon looked at his fiancé, crumpled on the floor and realized that he had gotten himself into an even bigger mess than he had thought possible.
Damn it, he thought, he was actually going to have to marry her.