warning(s): period-typical racism (discussion of lynching) ; explicit violence
word count: 7,585
summary: Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his cowardice causes the demise of his first love, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]
TRIGGER WARNING: explicit violence is detailed in this chapter!
IV.
1902
Damon wouldn't say the werewolves like him, exactly, but they've grown used to his presence and no longer look at him like he's an enemy to be sneered at or avoided. The children more than the parents are welcoming of him, something he assumes has to do with his helping Ailish, the young girl who'd nearly been ensnared by the hunter's bear trap. She searches him out each time he visits now, walking at his side, eyeing him curiously. Her hair is a tangled web of brown curls and she looks like she spends most of her time rolling in the dirt, but there's a certain charm about her and the toothy smile she offers whenever she sees him. Today, she's following him as he walks with Remy. She's hiding out of sight. He can hear her heartbeat though, just a little quick as she trails close by.
"Your pack seems restless today," he notices, casting a curious eye around.
During the time he's become acquainted with the wolf pack, he's found their tempers are quick to spark and easy to violence, but never toward each other. His studying with Birdie Mae tells him that's normal; wolves won't hurt each other, not even those who haven't been triggered yet, intrinsically aware of their brethren. But they seem more snarly today than they usually do.
"Some of the little ones are sick," Remy tells him, frowning. "We don't see it often in our kind. Even without the trigger, we're more… advanced than the average human. But the young ones are more susceptible."
Damon frowns, thinking of the flus that the Bennett children have suffered through. His heart pangs at the memory of Joe and Bellamy and he soon finds himself saying, "I can speak to Birdie. She may have something that can help."
Remy hesitates only a moment before nodding. "If she's willing, we won't turn her down."
"I can't guarantee anything," he warns. "There are some things that can't be helped."
He feels Remy's heavy stare on him, but refuses to turn and meet it. "I never asked how you turned..."
"Are you asking now?" Damon wonders, a brow arched.
Remy's grin is crooked and amused. "Would you answer if I did?"
"I was shot," he says it simply.
His brow furrows, seeming surprised. "So it wasn't on purpose then?"
"Not being shot, no." He purses his lips, thinking of the noose hanging in the woods. "I'd planned a different death."
There's an unnatural stillness to Remy for just a moment, but he's quick to shake it off and return to his usual lazy lean, unperturbed by the world at large. "So you did plan it?"
"To a degree."
His eyes wander the woods in front of him as they walk. He can hear the children playing in a creek nearby, shrieking and laughing as they chase and splash each other. There was a lake by the estate, he remembers. He and Stefan used to go swimming in the summers, leap off the dock into the chilly depths. Stefan was a poor swimmer; he used to hold onto Damon's neck and make him tow him back to land when he panicked. It never stopped him from trying though, of leaping into the water and hoping perhaps this time he would be better, this time he wouldn't sink.
"I made a deal with a witch, one I won't see my end of for another century. In the meantime, I make sure her family is well taken care of."
Remy hums. "Only a few things I can think of that'd be worth dying for…"
"Suppose there are."
"Family is one… children, especially. The protection of others too, if you're the heroic type."
"I wouldn't go so far as that," he muses. "Heroics have never been my forte."
"Think the Bennetts might argue that." Remy looks past Damon then, to the curious green eyes watching them from a bush. "Ailish too."
Giving a squeak at being caught, Ailish jumps before she runs off to hide once more.
Damon shakes his head a little and continues on through the woods.
"If I had to guess though, I'd say a woman. You seem the kind of man."
"What kind of man is that?" he wonders.
Remy grins. "A romantic fool."
He laughs, his head ducking. "I've been called worse."
"Doesn't surprise me." He runs a hand through his hair, streaked with silver now. "Suppose it was worth it then?"
Damon thinks back to Bonnie, her green eyes bright and warm, a smirk tugging at her mouth as she shakes her head at him, the sharp tone she'd take when he'd done something particularly reckless… "Yes," he says. "Absolutely."
Remy nods, hopping over a fallen tree. "Then what's another hundred years?"
He laughs, but there's a hollow feeling in his chest. What Emily's done for him is a miracle, he knows that, but that doesn't make the time pass any quicker.
He spots Ailish at the end of the path then, chewing on her lip as she stares up at him curiously, and he smiles. At least he has some interesting company to pass the time with. He holds a hand out to her, and she hurries over to take it, kicking up dirt with her bare feet.
"How have you been since last I saw you, Ailish?"
She takes a deep breath, reminding him of the Bennett girls, and he grins as he listens to her fill the silence with her chatter.
Lizabelle is an affectionate child. As soon as she sees Damon, she demands a hug and then proceeds to drag him around by his hand for his entire visit. Even now, at eight years old, she wants to sit perched on his shoulders as he walks through the woods, collecting a few ingredients for something Gemma's working on while Ernestine naps.
"Mama says you was there when I was born," she chirps, reaching for an overhanging green leaf as they pass beneath it. Plucking it off, she twirls it between her fingers and then tucks it behind his ear to be worn proudly as they continue their woodland adventure.
"I was the first to hold you when you were birthed," he tells her, with no little amount of pride. "You looked like a raisin."
Lizabelle giggles. "A pretty raisin?"
"The prettiest," he agrees.
"And smart too!"
He laughs. "The smartest."
She reaches a hand down to pat his cheek before she wiggles around and scoops a hand out to snag a few berries from a high standing bush. She holds them forward for him to see, waiting for him to look them over and nod before she eats them.
He keeps one hand on her knee for balance, especially when he's hopping over logs or speeding at random. Lizabelle is a good sport though; she simply laughs as she's jarred or the pace picks up. She reminds him of Stefan that way. When he was a little boy, Damon would carry him on his shoulders in much the same fashion. Perhaps it was the implicit trust he had in Damon, but he was never afraid that he might fall.
"Did you write your letters?" he wonders, a brow raised as he ducks low so she won't bump her head on a branch.
"Mm-hmm," she says, and then holds out a mushed berry for him.
He wrinkles his nose but plucks it off her stained fingers and eats it anyway. "How many?"
"I wrote one for Matthew and Sandy and Paula to share. And I wrote one for Aunt Birdie and a real long one for Grandpa, and a small one for Carlisle, 'cause he doesn't talk so much."
Damon's lips kicked up with amusement. "I'm sure he'd be happy to read your letter, no matter the length."
"Ernestine's letters are real short. She's not as good a writer as me."
"No?"
"No, I'm gonna write books when I'm old. Ernestine isn't though. She doesn't like it. She likes animals. She'd sleep in the barn if mama would let her."
"Nothing wrong with animals or books."
Humming, she wiggles around. "What about you?"
"What did I want to be when I grew up?" he clarifies.
"Yeah!"
"Well…" His brow furrows. "I suppose I mostly expected to take up my father's business in his stead for some time. And later, when I decided I wanted a different life, I hadn't given much thought to what I would do… I enjoy books too, but I wouldn't call myself a writer, that was more my brother's trade. I enjoyed art when I was a boy. My mother and I used to paint together. She was much more talented than I ever was though."
"What were you good at?" Lizabelle wonders guilelessly.
He half-smiles. "Not much, unfortunately."
He remembers enjoying things more than he remembers being good at them. His interests varied as a boy, growing bored quickly and taking up some new hobby as soon as the last one grew stale. He stopped painting when his mother died; couldn't look at a canvas for years. The one thing he kept up was piano, but not for others, not where he might be heard or judged. Just for himself, testing the ivory keys beneath his fingers, searching for a new song, a new tune, one all his own. Bonnie would sit with him sometimes, her head against his arm, eyes closed as she listened. She'd hum along with him, as if she knew just which key he'd play next.
Lizabelle shakes her head and reaches down to smoosh his cheeks. "Mama says everybody's good at somethin'. They just gotta try everything 'til they find what it is."
He pats her hands and his smile becomes a little more genuine. "Well, I suppose I have some time to find it then, don't I?"
Her laugh is loud and robust and she leans back a little too far, nearly slipping from his shoulders. But Damon anticipates it. Like Stefan, she knows he'll catch her, and so he does.
Damon delivers the letters with a few gifts he picked up on his travels. He leaves Arnett for last, and joins him on the porch with a bottle of bourbon and three new letters from Gemma, Lizabelle and Ernestine. Arnett smiles when he sees them, the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced.
"They're doing good?"
"They're happy." Damon unscrews the bottle and pours them each a glass. "And safe."
"Gemma plan on visiting soon?" he wonders.
"Hopes to."
Arnett frowns, shaking his head, and takes a sip from his bourbon. "Been too long. Don't like them livin' so far out. Husband of hers ain't even around half the time."
"Gemma's always been independent. She likes having the house to herself, just her and the girls."
"Still. Should move closer. Don't have so many years left in me. Like to see the little ones grow up with my own two eyes." He rocks back in his seat and drags a hand over his mouth, scratching at the bristles of his grey beard.
Much as Damon doesn't like to admit it, Arnett is right, time is catching up to him. "You could always join me the next time I make a trip down," he suggests.
"With these old bones?" He scoffs. "Liable to die on the road like an old work horse."
Damon snorts. "You're getting dramatic in your old age."
Arnett laughs. "Maybe I am. But I've earned it."
Topping off their glasses, Damon raises his in cheers. "Yes, you have… The offer stands though."
"We'll see," he allows, but looks a little appeased all the same.
"You're late." Sandrea raises a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. "You promised you'd be back yesterday."
"I am, and I apologize." Damon takes a seat beside her on their bench. He holds out a small box, which she takes with a curious frown, untying the ribbon from the top and opening it to peer inside. "It's not a tart, and it probably doesn't taste nearly as good as the baker's would have yesterday. But it's sweet and the fruit is fresh."
She reaches inside to pull out the cupcake, with blueberries and slices of strawberry atop the icing. "It's real… fancy."
He smiles slowly. "I seem to remember you once telling me that a strawberry tart was too pretty to eat."
Sandrea rolls her eyes, but bites her lip to hide her smile. "It was plenty tasty."
"Then let's hope this is too." He nods at her. "An apology for my poor time management."
Sitting back on the bench, she tells him, "Can't always buy forgiveness with dessert, you know."
"It hasn't failed me yet."
Laughing, she swipes a finger through the icing for a taste and hums appreciatively. "Not as good as a tart, but… it'll do." She sinks her teeth into it then, and catches a blueberry before it falls.
Damon grins at her, feeling rather vindicated, at least until she throws the blueberry at him and it bounces off his nose.
1903
The forest was alive with the skittering of animal feet and the thumping of their hearts as Damon and Gemma made their way through. He carries a basket, filled with the jars she was using to collect various flora. As it was, their outing had been overshadowed with the news that a coven had contacted her in hopes that she might help with a grave issue they were dealing with.
"This seems an… unwise decision," Damon tells her.
"You heard what these rippers have been doing. Trails of bodies in their wake. If they ain't taken care of, not even you are gonna be able to keep us safe."
She holds a hand out for a new jar as she kneels beside a tree and examines a curious purple moss. He hands her a jar from the basket, keeping the lid in his palm while she fills it.
"I got children to think of. I don't agree so much with the ways of the Gemini Coven. You ask me, they playing with fire with that twin magic. But these siphoners, they're trouble. It's not right, not what nature wants, having the power of a witch and the appetite of a vampire. Abomination is what that is."
She stands, handing him back the jar, and dusts her dress off at the knees.
"And you think you can help? You think you can… send them away, somewhere they won't be able to harm others?" His lips purse thoughtfully.
"I made the spell, it'll work. They use their own power to get it done."
"And your blood." He frowns. "You trust them not to use it for something more… nefarious?"
"I'll be there to make sure it's done right. Has to be a Bennett though, that way we know the Heretics ain't getting out. None of my family is gonna give 'em the blood needed to let 'em free."
His brow furrows. "You realize that blood doesn't always need to be offered. Some are willing to take it."
Gemma smiles at him, showing all her teeth, and he's reminded that the Bennetts are not often trifled with, and for good reason. "They can go ahead and try. We'll see who comes out in the end."
Damon lets out a faint laugh, and shakes his head. "You make my life rather difficult, Gemma."
She scoffs. "And you worry too much. We're doing the right thing here. These people, they ain't like you, ain't got your control. They're monsters, Damon. Real, live ones. They'll destroy everything in their path. We can't let them do that."
He thinks on it a moment, and then takes a deep breath. "Okay. I will join you, provide safety."
She snorts at him. "Liable to get yourself tossed over there with 'em if you try."
"I'll not take 'no' for an answer on this one," he tells her seriously. "You aren't required for the spell, are you? They just need your blood."
She nods slowly. "I hear you. We leave before they make their move then. Give 'em what they ask and go on home before the fight starts."
"That way too, if things go wrong, the siphoners won't have a chance to make you their next meal." He grimaces at that. "We'll leave in the morning. Best to act quickly."
"All right. I'll be ready."
He leaves her in front of her porch before he takes his leave. It's all very simple as he sees it; they will go and return, having no interaction with the heretics at all. The siphoners will be dealt with and the Bennetts will remain safe. Duty served, world saved. If only his mother could see him now, the man he's become, the things he does, the knowledge he's accumulated, the company he keeps. He wonders if she would be proud. He likes to think so.
"We should have brought Birdie Mae," Damon tells her, his eyes wandering the room suspiciously. It's filled to the brim with Gemini Coven members and it's making his skin crawl. "Bennetts are stronger when they're together. We're severely outnumbered."
"Ain't us they're trying to fight." Gemma shakes her head. "They asked for my help, that's all I'm offering."
"If they needed your help, then why are they making you wait?" He shifts his feet impatiently. He doesn't like this. The heretics are due to arrive in the morning, en route aboard a ship from England, and Damon wants Gemma as far away from them and their blood thirst as possible.
"You got somewhere you need to be?" she asks, grinning up at him. "Suppose you're eager to see what New York has to offer."
"I've been here before, more than once. If you want to go sight-seeing, I'm happy to oblige. The sooner we leave here, the sooner I can be your tour guide."
"Miss Gemma," a voice calls, before a man saunters up to her, hand out for her to take. The man is ordinary in every way; medium height and build with carefully combed brown hair and dull brown eyes.
"Callum," she greets, bobbing her head and ignoring his hand.
"We can't thank you enough for coming to our aid."
"Just glad you contacted me," she say. "Sounds like you got a serious problem on your hands."
"Seven serious problems, at last count."
"And they're all from your coven?"
"All but one; their maker. She isn't like them, she has no magical abilities, but from what we've been able to gather on her, she's a Ripper. And a very adept one."
"Are the heretics Rippers too, or does the siphoning encourage their hunger?" Damon wonders.
Callum looks to him, pauses, and then returns his gaze to Gemma. "You've brought an… acquaintance."
Damon can hear his heartbeat pick up just a little, and doesn't bother to curb the uptick of his mouth. "I insisted on joining her."
"I had no idea that you kept such company, Miss Gemma," Callum mutters, his nostrils flaring with distaste.
Gemma's friendly nature flees abruptly, her eyes turning hard as she arches a brow. "Damon is family. You asked for my help; keep your judgements to yourself."
Flushing, Callum clears his throat and tilts his chin. "My apologies. I was just surprised, that's all."
"Disapproving, more like. I didn't come here to have you look down on me or mine. You want my help or don't you?"
"We do, yes, of course." Callum's hands raise beseechingly. "I truly am sorry."
"Ain't me you need to be apologizing to."
He blinks at her a moment and then, very slowly, he turns to Damon. "I apologize for my… unkind behaviour toward you, Mister Damon."
"Miss Gemma has a schedule to keep, so if we could focus on the issue at hand…" Damon suggests, looking between them.
"Right, yes." Callum wipes his damp palms on his vest quickly. "We will need your help with the spell, just to be sure we have the inflection right."
"I can teach it to you." Gemma nods. "But we'll be on our way soon as you know it."
"Of course, we've already inconvenienced you enough."
"I'm trusting you to do right by this, Callum. There's only enough blood here for you to deal with these folks as you said. You get one chance."
"We'll make the most of it, I promise you. Your efforts have not been wasted."
"Good. Then we got a spell to learn..." As Callum turns to call the others together, Gemma grins at Damon. "I have some shoppin' to get to."
Amused, he merely shakes his head. So long as they're outside of New York by morning, he'll buy her whatever she desires.
"You don't think it's too big?" Gemma wonders, fussing with her new hat as they walk down the sidewalk.
It's absolutely too large, and rather gaudy, in his opinion, but Gemma loves it. It's the fanciest thing she's ever owned and he keeps seeing her smile at her reflection whenever they pass by a window. "I think it's perfectly sized."
"You're just sayin' that. You hate it," she accuses, but grins all the same.
Damon scoffs. "When have I ever said something I didn't mean?"
"Plenty. You spin the truth to fit your needs whenever it suits you."
She hooks her arm through his as they walk down the road, her chin held high despite the curious looks being offered their way. The hat matches her new dress, and Damon can honestly say that Gemma has never looked quite so fashionable. It's a strange sight, if only because he's used to her more lived-in dresses back home. She's beautiful either way; she always has been. But here, she seems to find a new sense of balance. Gemma's always been curious about the world, about what adventure and knowledge is out there, waiting to be found. He's happy he gets to spend this time away with her; that she gets to experience a little more of the world. It suits her.
"Let's do something fun," she suggests, smiling up at him. "Something I can't do back home."
He nods. "Anything you want. Take your pick."
A ship with seven devils is due to dock in the morning, but for today, New York is at their mercy, and Damon plans to make the best of it.
By the time Gemma is home and Damon has returned to Salem, he is happy to put the city behind him. She convinced him to wait, to be sure that the siphoners had been sent away to their prison world, and so they made a visit to Callum before they left. The vampire maker and her six heretics were gone, and the bloodbath they left behind would be just one of many, hopefully never to be repeated. Damon knows history is never so kind though, and imagines he'll see carnage like that more than once in the coming century. But he's relieved, at least, that Gemma was not caught in the crossfire of it all. She helped, as was her nature, but she's safe and well and probably wearing her hat as she goes about her regular day. For Damon, it's just one of many adventures he's joined the Bennetts on, and he looks forward to the many more to come.
"You look tired," Arnett says, as Damon takes a seat on the steps of the porch, overlooking the field of corn ahead of him.
"I'm happy to be back," he sighs with a shrug. "Did you see the gifts Gemma sent to you?"
"Saw a hat in there, bigger n' any head could ever need."
He laughs under his breath. "You'll be the talk of the town."
"Couldn't show my face in town if I ever put it on."
Damon merely smiles. "I like the feather. It's very fetching."
With a guffaw, Arnett rocks his chair a little quicker, grumbling under his breath.
But much later that night, when he thinks no one is there to bear witness to it, Damon sees him don the hat and strut around his home, looking quite proud of himself and his new fashion accessory. And despite the fact that Damon would prefer to never have any of the Bennetts around that kind of danger again, he can admit that the trip was well worth the image of Arnett wearing a velvet top hat adorned with colorful peacock feathers.
1904
It's Remy that warns him first; tracks Damon down as he's leaving Carlisle's for Birdie Mae's. His expression is pinched and there's something feral in his eyes that Damon hasn't seen in some time. "There's a vampire in town. Best take care of him before he draws too much attention."
Damon nods. "I'll take care of it."
"If he keeps up like he is, someone's bound to get suspicious."
The town is relatively quiet. The people work and keep to themselves. Since rebuilding from the Civil War it's stayed on the small side, which is how Damon likes it. He had little enough interaction with the townspeople in the beginning that the majority of them believe him to be the son of the first Salvatore to arrive in town. Eventually, he knows he'll have to move on, or get better at avoiding the town, but for now, he's safe enough.
Damon's careful about his own feeding. He never kills anyone, just takes what he needs, compels them to forget, and goes about his business. But over the course of a night, bodies have been collecting, and whoever's doing it, hasn't been shy. He leaves them out in the open, willing them to be found, and Damon's starting to think it's a message.
He tracks the newcomer down to the pub, where he sits on a stool with a bottle of rum in one hand and a pale, confused looking woman in the other. Blood dribbles down her neck and stains the collar of her dress. Damon doesn't know her by name, but he vaguely recognizes her. She's the widow of the dry goods store owner. He always gave Birdie Mae's kids a free piece of licorice to share between them. He'd passed a few years earlier —heart complications, Damon thinks— and his wife has been in mourning ever since.
Her heart is slow and Damon doesn't think she'll live much longer. He can smell the death and decay on the air and knows that a couple other patrons and probably the bar tender himself have already been killed. Just more to add to the growing body count.
Damon takes a seat on the stool next to the man, a leery feeling crawling up his back. The vampire is clean-shaven, seeming unperturbed by the interruption, simply passing a look in Damon's direction before dismissing him as a non-threat.
"Hope you haven't come for a drink. Afraid the barkeep is a little indisposed at the moment." He has a distinct Irish accent, the stranger, and there's an underlying amusement to his words.
"I'll manage," Damon replies, his eyes narrowed. "You've certainly made yourself at home."
"Have I stepped on some toes then?" His brows hike. "Is there not enough to go around for the both of us?"
"I'm afraid I'm not fond of sharing." Damon's mouth raises in a half-smirk. "In an effort to be polite, I'll let you finish your drink." He looks to the bottle meaningfully before he stands.
"Oh, well, isn't that kind of ya." He releases the widow, who slumps from her seat to collapse on the floor. Much as Damon regrets her death, if he were to give her his blood now, she would turn.
Hand outstretched, the man looks to Damon expectantly, despite the blood that cakes it.
Damon's lip curls, but he reaches out to shake his hand.
"Quinn," he introduces himself. "And who might you be then?"
"Damon."
"Aye, nice to meet ya, Damon. Fancy a drink?" He waves the bottle to him.
"No. Thank you, but I'll pass." Damon retracts his hand and tucks it in his pocket in an effort not to wipe it on his pants. "I'd appreciate it, however, if you cleaned up before you left."
"Yeah, yeah, of course. I have manners." There's a glint in his eye, a sparkle that Damon finds himself wary of.
Trying to shake it off, Damon turns to face the door.
"Before I go though, how's about a little game, hm?"
Damon raises an eyebrow and looks back at him. "A game?"
"Aye." Quinn grins widely. "You ever play hide n' seek as a young lad? Was a favorite of mine. Me and my brothers would play it every day. Could never find 'em. Used to drive me crazy, that did. 'Course, I found 'em just fine when I really needed to…" He looks away for a moment, as if he's lost in a memory, and then he returns his attention to Damon. "Reckon we can try it out then, hey? You be the seeker, I'll be the hider." The bottle drops the bar with a clatter then and Quinn stands. "How's sunset sound? You find me by then, I leave quietly, you don't. Well…"
He's gone in a flash, and Damon grinds his teeth before he turns and gives pursuit.
The carnage that follows is beyond expectation. As soon as he steps out the door, it seems the breadcrumbs that Quinn is keen to leave behind for Damon to follow is that of bodies. Not all dead, but certainly on their way there. Men and women, all clutching at gaping wounds in their necks and shoulders, spilling blood down their chests, wandering in confusion and hysteria. Damon pushes past them, following the shocked cries of new victims, chasing and running, weaving in and out of homes and shops. And then the trail stops, with a young boy, barely twelve, drenched in blood, his lips parted on a choked gasp as he sputters through his last breaths.
Damon can't tell which direction Quinn went in, but he knows that there are only so many people he is desperate to keep safe.
Carlisle is in town; Damon finds him staunching the blood on a young girl, a few others sitting nearby, eyes glazed and hands holding blood-soaked cloths to their necks.
"Get to Birdie Mae's, check on the others," Carlisle tells him, his face grim. "I'll help as many as I can."
With a quick nod, Damon takes off, adrenaline and worry burning through his veins. The town and trees fly past his vision, a blur of vague activity. Minutes later, he comes to a stumbling stop by the garden. Paula and Birdie Mae are unaware of the trouble inching closer, rather they're bent over together, admiring a patch of bright red strawberries.
"You need to get inside!" he shouts, rushing toward them and taking them each by a hand. "There's a vampire in town, he's killing anything he see—"
He's cut off when he hears a scream, close enough that even Birdie Mae flinches.
Damon feels it in the very pit of his stomach, the devastating certainty that this won't end well. "Get inside, now."
He doesn't wait to make sure they follow his direction. Instead, he races around the house and across the field, until he's standing center on the dirt path, worn by wagon wheels and the trampling hooves of horses. He sees Quinn, the whole front of his person damp with blood, grinning gleefully as he holds Sandrea by the throat.
"Ah, ah, ah," he warns, ticking a blood-wet finger from side to side. "Any closer and this pretty little lass—"
Damon bares his teeth in a snarl. "Let her go."
"Oh, do ya hear that? Ya sound a little attached to this one then. Have I struck a chord, Mister Damon?"
Damon's feet eat up much of the space between them quickly, but stops as Quinn's fingers dig in hard enough that his nails tear Sandrea's throat a little, tiny rivulets of blood sliding down her neck in warning.
He seeks her eyes out, only to find tears spilling down her cheeks. "Damon," she whimpers.
Grinding his teeth, he balls his hands into fists, and tells her, very calmly, "Page seventy-eight."
Her brows draw together for only a second before realization passes over her face. She folds her mouth in a grimace and then turns her eyes toward Quinn. He can see the focus, the sheer determination in her eyes, but what should cause intense pain doesn't seem to affect the vampire at all. Having suffered the pain infliction spell more than once, Damon is surprised, and very confused. Until he spots the necklace Quinn wears, a noticeable lapis lazuli stone hanging from it, and he wonders if perhaps he isn't the only vampire that has befriended a witch. But if he's guarded, if he's safe from Sandrea's powers, then…
Swallowing tightly, Damon tries a different tactic. "Give her to me. If you want the rest of the town, then have it. I won't interfere. But she—"
"She's a pretty one." Quinn's fingers rub at her chin. "Don't ya think?"
His lip curls. "Stop. Touching. Her."
"Anybody ever tell ya you're a bit possessive, Damon? Where's the hospitality, hm? I'm new to town, I'm looking for a little fun, and so far all ya've done is get in my way." Quinn's eyes bled black. "I don't take kindly to it."
"I gave you the others. Have your fun. But not her."
"Ya fancy her then? Is that what this is?" He laughs, amused. "Is she your sweetheart?"
"She's my family." He holds a hand out, and Sandrea responds in kind, letting out a whimper as her fingers stretch toward him. "We'll leave quietly. You have my word. Just—"
"You're boring me, Damon. I don't like to be bored." Quinn raises a brow at him, searches his face a moment. "I had a family too, ya know. My brothers, Eóin and Máirtín. Eóin was always mum's favorite, but Máirtín, he was a trouble maker. Used to blame it all on me though, got away with it every time."
He cocks his head. "I told you, didn't I? We used to play hide n' seek together. Was Máirtín that started it. Used to tell me to go and hide and he'd leave me, for hours he would, and when I'd finally come home, mum would be waiting, mad as hell she was. Used to take the belt to me until there was blood, said it was the only way I'd learn."
He grins, his teeth stained red. "Was right. Lesson doesn't sink in 'til the blood broke free. Eóin and Máirtín know. We played one last game. Only this time, I was the seeker, and I found 'em both. Easier when you can hear their heartbeats, yeah? Found Eóin first. Poor lad couldn't stop crying, begging me to let him go, but that wasn't in the rules!"
He shakes Sandrea, who lets out a little shriek of fear, and Damon flinches at the sound.
"I didn't kill him though, not yet. Had to find Máirtín first. And I did. Just followed the scent of piss 'til I found him in a tree. He didn't beg, not at first. But later…" His eyes flicker with excitement, "when he had Eóin's intestines 'round his throat… He begged then. They always do."
Damon knows. He knows there is no bargaining with Quinn. Nothing he can say that will entreat him to act with mercy. So he lunges. He tries to get there in that split second between thought and action. But he's too late.
He's too late.
Sandrea's throat is torn open and she's toppling to the ground, her mouth wide in shocked horror. Damon catches her, his knees giving out beneath him. They fall to the ground with her cradled in his lap as she stares up at him from tearful brown eyes, her brow knit tightly.
There is a moment, as clear as day, when he doesn't see the young woman she's become, nineteen with so much potential inside her, but the little girl she once was. The girl who rarely spoke, taking comfort in the quiet. The girl who reached for his hand because he was someone she could always trust. The girl who sat on the bench with him, her legs dangling off the ground, as she picked at her pretty tart. The girl who spoke of everything and everyone having a soul and a purpose.
There was no fear in her then. Her life was stable and comfortable and full of love and family. He wants that little girl back. He wants yesterday, when she sat at the table with her head bent over her notebook, blowing her hair out of her eyes each time it slipped in her way, trying to memorize the exact wording of a spell. He wants an hour ago, when she was unaware that a man like Quinn even existed in the world, innocent and untouched by evil. He wants to hear her laugh and to feel her small fingers curl against his palm. He wants his friend to be okay.
What he gets instead is the distinct sound of air and blood rattling in her lungs, wet and thick. Her hands grappling at his chest, fingers scratching and reaching for something, anything, desperation lining her young, terrified face. Her her lips form his name, a plea, a cry, but no sound escapes her. Please, she mouths. Please.
Quinn doesn't run; he stays to watch, to enjoy the fallout. And Damon can't think. He can't do anything. He covers Sandrea's neck, her blood squelching under his fingers, and he meets her scared eyes. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, his vision blurring with tears. Her fingers cover his, squeezing, as she stares back at him. And it's all wrong, it's all so terribly wrong.
"No. No!" Birdie Mae is coming toward them, stumbling across the field, screaming from the hollows of her heart. She falls to her knees and pulls Sandrea from his arms, gathering her up against her chest. And Damon watches, useless, as she loses her daughter, as Sandrea's eyes grow empty and distant, her body slumping, lifeless. His heart breaks as Birdie screams, her grief so absolute that he can see her whole body crumbling with it.
Bile crawls up Damon's throat as grief and misery stir his sour stomach.
In the distance, enjoying it all, Quinn begins to clap. "What a show, what a show," he crows. "Really. If I'd known things would be this interesting, I'd've visited sooner."
Damon drags his eyes from Sandrea and Birdie Mae and focuses them on Quinn. The pain is still sharp and clear, like a vervain soaked needle is stabbing at his heart. But there's something more, something darker, rage interwoven with bloodlust. He feels his eyes change, feels the veins throb across his face, and his fangs lengthen.
Quinn's eyes flash with anticipation, but it's short-lived.
Damon is on him, tumbling them both to the ground. The grapple for a time, with Quinn laughing like it's all just part of his game. Maybe in his crazed mind, Damon is like his brothers, and this is all just fun for him. It's not for Damon. He soon pins Quinn to the ground and tears into him like an animal on attack. Skin and blood burrows under his nails, giving way under the vicious clawing of his fingers. His hand sinks inside Quinn and grab hold of his ribs, breaking them, one after the other, until they're sticking out of him like gnarled white fingers.
Quinn wheezes out a pained laugh, choking on blood, his muscles seizing and jumping, but there's no fear, just gleeful insanity.
Damon's hand finds his heart and squeezes, but he doesn't pull it out just yet. He wants Quinn to suffer. He wants him to feel every second of his death, and removing his heart will make it too quick. He thinks about it for a moment, of removing every one of Quinn's organs, of peeling the skin from his body, of setting him on fire only to douse it with vervain water, keep him on the very edge of death for as long as possible. He wants to do it. Wants to break him down and destroy him like he's destroyed Sandrea and her mother.
"Damon?"
It's Paula. Her voice thick with tears. She's watching him, tears on her cheeks, as she holds her dead sister's limp hand. She's afraid, of him or the situation or Quinn, maybe all of it, he can't be sure. But her fear breaks through the haze of his vengeance. It doesn't dilute it, but it brings a moment of clarity, reminds him that he is not only the monster that lives inside him.
So he stares at her a moment, at a rocking, weeping Birdie Mae, too deep in her loss to see or hear anything else. Damon blinks and takes a deep breath. "Go inside, Paula. Take your mother inside."
She stares at him uncertainly, his visage still coiled with evil, and then she nods. She pushes up on shaky legs and pulls at her mother's arm. "Come on, mama. We have to go."
"My baby, my Sandrea," Birdie Mae cries, shaking her head.
Paula closes her eyes a moment, a tear dribbling down her cheek. When she opens them, her hands are out, and she magically moves her mother and her sister across the field, trailing behind her as she walks to the house. She only looks back once, stares a demon in his eyes, and nods.
When she's out of sight, he returns his attention to Quinn. There are many things he considers doing. He could feed him to the very real wolves that live in the forest. He could wait, let Birdie Mae decide how she wants him to suffer. But to do so would add a burden to her soul he doesn't want her to bear. One he's not sure she could reconcile herself with, not completely.
Instead, what he does is tear Quinn's throat out with his teeth, flaying open the skin and ripping out his trachea to spit in the grass. Blood coating his mouth and dripping from his chin, he watches as Quinn chokes and sputters, struggling under him more out of instinct than anything. And then Damon plunges his hand into Quinn's chest and pulls his heart out, slowly, so he feels each aorta and artery as it tears apart. When it's over, and Quinn is little more than a grey, veined husk, he feels no relief. Instead, he falls to the side, drenched in blood, tears biting at his eyes, and he stares above at the sky.
The sun is setting, the day is over, but it will stay with them for years to come.
Birdie Mae doesn't tell him outright that she blames him, but he knows she does. Truth be told, he'll spend years wondering how different things could have been if he'd only torn Quinn's heart out in the same moment he met him. But he didn't, and now he has to suffer the consequences of his inaction.
Sandrea is buried the next morning. For the first time in a very long time, he sticks to the outskirts of the family, removes himself from their company. He's already compelled the townspeople, at least those who lived, not to remember Quinn as a vampire. The tragedy will hang over the town for some time, but at least they'll continue on unaware of the many supernaturals in their midst.
As soon as Sandrea's body is lowered into the ground, Damon knows he will leave. The regret and blame he feels over her loss is too strong, too absolute, for him to stay. Is it cowardice that drives him even now? he wonders. Possibly. Probably. All he knows for certain is that he cannot bear to be there come Wednesday.
He finds Arnett on Birdie Mae's porch. The others are inside, collecting together in quiet mourning. Birdie Mae has taken to her bed. She hasn't spoken much and she's not keen on seeing visitors. Damon gives her the space she wants and steers clear.
"You'll be on your way then?" Arnett asks him, rocking back and forth, pipe in hand.
"For a time," he answers, tucking his hands in the pockets of his pants.
"Expect you'll come back when you're ready…" He takes a drag from his pipe and lets out a cloud of smoke on a sigh. "Don't take too long, hm?"
Damon nods. He looks back to Arnett one last time. "Take care of them."
"Always do."
"Tell Birdie Mae…" He pauses, clenches his teeth. What can he say? An apology offers so little. But he is sorry. He's sorry he was too late, that he wasn't strong enough, that he didn't kill Quinn before he could get to Sandrea, that he hadn't saved Joe or Bellamy or even Emily. He's sorry in every way a person can be.
"She knows."
Damon swallows tightly, and then he takes a step forward, off the porch, and begins his trek toward the road. He's not sure where he's headed, stumbling through the dark is likely, but he hopes, eventually, the light might find him again. If he so deserves it.
author's note: poor sandrea. i really liked writing her. sadly, she was doomed from the start. some people have been wondering what triggers a darker damon, what pushes him toward that edge that we see in him in present time, and this has a great deal to do with it. we see damon walking a line of being good and kind and sort of feeding off the nature of the witches to be who he thinks he should be. but every once in a while, we see that vampire nature rear its ugly head and damon has to ask himself who he is and how much of him is more monster than man. there's a balance that needs to be found, but there's also pieces of damon that he slowly picks up along the way. things he does and sees that help him figure out who he wants to be and how far he's willing to go in order to protect those he loves. he doesn't want a repeat of quinn and sandrea. so he has to figure out a way to make sure it can never happy again.
thank you all so much for your reviews. i'm so happy to see you're enjoying this! i hope this chapter was satisfactory. i planned to get two up, but then expanded on this, so the next one needs some more revamping before it goes up, hopefully wednesday, maybe thursday. please try to leave a review! they're my lifeblood.
thank you,
- lee | fina
