"It's because of me that Klaus is here."
—Stefan, VD4
Chapter Three
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The smell of blood was overwhelming, so thick that Stefan could taste it in the air. The familiar scent worked slowly to draw him out of the darkness—a steady, irresistible pull. He could feel his teeth lengthening, as his stomach clenched and his eyes opened.
The harsh light came as a shock. He sat up, blinking hard against it, his mind spinning. What had—where—he could barely think. Gritting his teeth he stared at the floor, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Once his head had cleared he was able to look around. Long white hallway on either side of him, empty except for the wheelchairs parked against the walls.
No bodies. No splashes of red. But the smell of death was everywhere, an oppressive cloying reek that sickened him. Stefan cursed softly, leaning his head against the wall as he closed his eyes.
Klaus.
He had lost. He had lost. And now more people were dead. Most likely everyone in the building, since he doubted Klaus would leave anyone alive.
Grimacing, Stefan nearly welcomed the sharp pang of guilt that hit him. Old bitter pain, the only thing that could penetrate the numbness—the dull resignation of defeat. He suddenly felt so tired, so incredibly weary.
Elena, he thought. I failed you.
Her face, effused with sadness, flashed before him. He could see the grief in her eyes, tears shimmering in their clear blue depths. It made his heart ache. Everything she'd done for him—loving him, forgiving him, healing him—and he had only let her down.
And not just her, he had failed everyone. The town, his friends, his brother. They could all be dead, despite Klaus's promise to leave them alone. Stefan had no way of knowing if the deal he'd made had been worth it.
The deal. Now Stefan groaned, images of that night swirling around in his mind, triggered by the memory. Klaus gripping his face, pulling him closer, as a wrist pressed hard against his mouth. . . Stefan shivered, remembering the electric tang of the Original's blood—the feeling of all that raw Power flowing through him. Pure blood from an ancient, primal source, the only thing that could heal wounds like the ones he'd suffered. Even when he hadn't wanted it to, when he'd wanted to die. . .
Pain. Too much, and all at once. Every nerve on fire, his chest an inferno that sent white hot spikes shooting through him. He could feel his back arching, his face twisting as sweat streamed down the sides.
He lay there, helpless, as Klaus grabbed Bonnie and choked her. A few minutes of frantic struggle and then she was out cold, small body dangling loosely in his grip. Klaus looked at her with an expression of distaste before letting her drop, as if she were a particularly disgusting bug he'd just squashed. Then he turned, mouth curling into a grin when he saw Stefan.
Another bright flare of pain, and Stefan had to fight to hold back a shudder. He could feel each wound, each splinter poking into the tissue of his shredded flesh. It was agony. But he wouldn't let Klaus see him cry out. He glared at the other vampire as he approached, determined to remain defiant to the end.
Klaus just laughed. The blond man was smiling victoriously as he knelt beside Stefan, blue eyes alight with malice—nearly glowing in the dark. He could feel them raking up and down his body, lingering on the bloody hole in the center.
"Sal-va-tore." Klaus rolled the name around on his tongue, tasting it. "Any other trick you want to try, before I eat you?"
Stefan didn't bother to respond. He had no strength or Power left, nothing that would stop the Old One. All he could do was lay there and wait for the inevitable.
After five hundred years, his death had finally come.
In an odd way, it was a relief—anything to end this horrific, crippling pain. But it was more than that, Stefan realized. The last few weeks—no, the last year itself—had left him mentally and physically exhausted. He felt so tired now, of fighting, and trying to go on despite the loneliness and despair. Tired of living without the only person that made it worthwhile.
Elena. For the briefest moment, when Bonnie had screamed her name, a small part of him had hoped. . .
But no, she was dead. And soon he would be too. Then the others would follow, because he had failed to protect them.
"Seems a waste," Klaus commented suddenly, startling him. Stefan looked up. Klaus was frowning, one hand hovering over his bloody middle.
"Just do it," he gritted out. He could barely speak; it hurt too much. He found himself just wanting it to end, and quickly.
But Klaus was shaking his head. "And spoil my fun?" he asked. "So soon, after all these years?" Abruptly the hand withdrew, and now his eyes were appraising. "No, I think I have a better idea."
This time, as another white streak of agony tore through him, Stefan smiled faintly, struck with a grim sense of triumph. "You're. . . too late," he rasped, the words punctuated by a ragged breath. He could feel his heart beginning to slow. "In a. . . few minutes. . . I'll be dead."
"It would seem that way," Klaus agreed. But the speculative look didn't waver. Stefan watched him uneasily, unsure of what he had in mind.
And then Klaus ran a hand along the side of his mouth, where the blood had trickled out from the spear. It was still wet and clung to his forefinger easily, glinting black in the moonlight. He observed it for a long moment, before pressing the finger into Stefan's chest.
The instant feeling of Power made Stefan start in surprise. It was like the briefest touch of static shock, and for a second the hurt faded. But then it was gone, on a backlash of pain that left him sprawled on the ground, staring up at Klaus in growing horror.
No.
"I'll kill myself if you try," Stefan choked out, and he meant every word.
Klaus seemed to consider this. Cocked his head to one side, trying to decide if Stefan would follow through on the threat. Something in his face must have told him he would, because he frowned suddenly.
"Fool boy," he sneered. "She always said you were stubborn."
Stefan said nothing in reply—merely closed his eyes, to wait quietly for the cool embrace of death. It would all be over soon. Against the inferno in his chest he could feel Klaus's hatred, the anger at being denied like heat against his skin.
And then the wave of fury disappeared and he heard Klaus laugh. With a painful motion he managed to turn his head. Klaus was looking at something off to the side, smiling to himself. Slowly, uneasily, Stefan followed his gaze—to where Bonnie lay on the ground, unconscious.
Understanding dawned, and with it came cold fear. Stefan went still as Klaus leaned in close, and began to whisper in his ear.
"Look at her, Salvatore," he said, breath hot and rank against his skin. "Such a pretty thing, isn't she? I wonder how she'll taste with her little witch blood."
"Stay away from her," Stefan snapped, struggling to sit up and failing. His hands itched to attack.
"Maybe I'll keep her, too," Klaus continued. "Another Katherine in the making."
"No." Images surfaced of Katherine—so heartbreakingly lovely, with her golden hair and sweet secret smiles. Twirling happily in a pirouette, white lace dress flaring around her. Her cruel laughter in the crypt, all the more awful for its innocence. Soft hands curving into claws, tearing and shredding as she raked her nails along his skin.
He couldn't let Bonnie be turned into that.
Klaus chuckled, long body straightening to scan the area. "Or what about the Sulez girl? Her grandfather entertained me for years. Perhaps I'll take both her and the human boy."
Stefan could feel the anger building almost against his will. The urge to lash out was so strong the pain seemed to lessen in response.
"Or even. . ." and this time Klaus paused. "Your brother."
At the mention of Damon, Stefan froze. Involuntarily his eyes flickered to where his brother was, sprawled facedown a few yards away. The fire beyond him was spreading, and wisps of smoke continued to rise into the night.
Damon. Damn it. He wasn't supposed to be here. None of them should have come. What did Matt and Bonnie and Meredith think they were going to do? This was his fight—his fault. His responsibility.
And if it meant their lives, there was only one response he could give.
"If I. . . agree to this," Stefan said slowly, forcing the words out, "You have to leave everyone—my friends, my brother, this town—alone."
"I won't touch a hair on their heads," Klaus shrugged, sounding bored. Then, slyly, "But only as long as I have something else to—occupy my attention."
Stefan understood. For the others to remain safe he would have to be Klaus's prisoner until the Old One tired of him. It was enough to make him sick, the thought of placing himself under his power. He'd be trapped for the rest of his friends' lives, unable to leave, or even die. Seventy, eighty years of this, at least. He didn't know how he would be able to endure it.
Still, it was a small price to pay for Matt and Bonnie and Meredith to be able to live the lives they should have had before he'd come to Fell's Church.
As for Damon, well, hopefully by the time the others had passed away, he'd be out of Klaus's reach. Stefan knew his brother could disappear at a moment's notice, untraceable unless he wanted to be found. He'd done it to him often enough. And maybe, in seventy years, he'd have found a way to kill Klaus.
Maybe.
Either way, all of this was Stefan's fault. And he wouldn't let others pay for his mistakes.
"Deal," he said quietly, hating himself.
"Deal," Klaus echoed, grinning—and then he plunged a hand into Stefan's chest.
The pain was immediate, a sudden crescendo of agony that tore a scream from Stefan's throat. He twisted, hands snaring into the dirt as Klaus dug casually around his open wound. For a moment he thought the bastard had been playing with him all along, had had every intention of killing him, and no, the others, they'd be. . .
But Klaus was pulling out, his hand holding something for Stefan to see. A splinter, two inches long and covered in blood.
With a flourish, Klaus drew the white ash shard along his wrist, creating a deep gash. Then he pressed it to Stefan's mouth.
Drink. A single command in his head.
Stefan drank. His injuries had caused him to nearly bleed out, and the hunger that overcame him was immense. His fangs extended instinctively, enticed by the powerful scent. He'd ripped the cut open further before he knew what he was doing, to gulp down huge mouthfuls of blood.
The taste was unlike anything he had ever experienced—thick and heady and charged with an intense, searing Power. It was like being shocked back to life by a thousand electrical currents surging through his body.
He tried to pull away, overwhelmed, but Klaus shifted, long fingers shooting out to grab his chin and jerk him forward. Stefan could feel the hole in his chest closing, the torn muscles and skin knitting slowly back together.
Darkness began to tinge the edges of his vision. He was fading, the power proving too much to handle. Stefan feared the flood of energy would cause his veins to burst open. With a desperate final pull he managed to wrench his head away. Klaus let him go and he collapsed on the ground.
His last thought, before he passed out, was of Elena.
Come here.
The words reverberated in Stefan's mind, pulling him into the present. The accompanying tug had him on his feet before he knew what was happening. He took a few hesitant steps, until reason kicked in and he started to resist the pull.
Of course Klaus would be somewhere in the building. Probably still killing people, finishing off the last of his victims. Stefan curled his hands into fists, feeling as sick and helpless as when he'd watched Bonnie nearly suffocate to death. So much destruction, just because Klaus could.
Now, sport.
The pressure increased tenfold. But Stefan gripped the wall, nearly staggering from the effort of forcing himself not to move. He wouldn't give in to Klaus, no matter what he did to him. That much he could promise himself right now.
There was a window at the far end of the hallway, the darkness outside letting Stefan know it was night. How long had he been unconscious? Hours, days? Weeks? He didn't know.
He needed to find out if everyone was alive, make sure they were okay. Somehow knowing Matt and Damon and the girls had survived would make everything else more bearable. If Klaus had actually kept his word—and Stefan had no reason to believe he would—then he would keep his side of the bargain, and give up his freedom forever.
This time, when the command came, Stefan let himself be pulled forward. He had no choice but to go to Klaus and demand to know if the others were safe. He recognized where he was, now that he had the chance to observe his surroundings. The institution. Which meant he was a good four hours from Fell's Church.
This time, when the command came, Stefan let himself be pulled forward. He had no choice but to go to Klaus and demand to know if the others were safe. He recognized where he was, now that he had the chance to observe his surroundings. The institution. Which meant he was a good four hours from Fell's Church.
Warily, Stefan moved down the empty corridor, memories of the last visit fresh in his mind. He remembered the tired faces of the elderly patients, and the way they had barely reacted as he walked by. The feeling of all those deadened minds had been disconcerting at the time.
But now the patients were truly dead, and it was like walking through a showroom of horrors. Each room Stefan passed was covered in blood—the walls, the floor, the bed. Most of the patients looked like they had been murdered as they slept, while the nurses were in the corners where they had probably tried to hide. A few clutched disconnected telephones, the cords cut and dangling.
It was enough to make Stefan turn away in disgust. He had seen war before, and the terrible aftermath of battle. But this—this was nothing more than a senseless slaughter. The pointlessness of it all was appalling.
The thread of compulsion was leading Stefan around a corner now. He grimaced as he recognized the hallway. He knew where he was going now—should have guessed from the start.
Meredith's grandfather. The one who had given them the secret to hurting Klaus, had made Stefan feel hope for the first time in days. In a way, he'd been the catalyst for the events that had led to this point. And, like so many of Stefan's other mistakes, his decision to see the old man had resulted in the deaths of countless others.
By the time he reached the room Stefan was shaking with anger. He paused at the doorway, trying to tamp down his emotions. Even from this far away he could feel Klaus's power, bloated and emanating outwards in a wave of dark energy.
When he stepped inside Klaus was there, waiting for him. Relaxed and smiling, the taller man stood in the center of the room, tossing a knife back and forth in his hands. Next to him lay Mr. Sulez, slumped over in the bed. Blood trickled in a steady stream down his face to the puddle on the floor.
He wasn't dead. That was the first thing Stefan noticed, before disgust and a rage so deep it was dizzying hit. Nothing as mutilated as that should have still been alive, twitching and gurgling wet sounds through shredded, bloody lips.
Stefan stared at the eyeless ruin, and at Klaus, who stared back, a challenging smirk on his face. Then he attacked.
He knew, even before Klaus threw him against the wall, that it was stupid, and hopeless. But all he could see was red, covering his entire vision. Tiny wrinkles outlined in it, dripping down the pale flesh onto the white sheets. Staining.
"Salvatore! So nice of you to join us!" Klaus threw his arms open, a mock greeting, before grabbing him by the tattered remains of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. Stefan staggered, then tried to kick his legs out from under him. It was like kicking a steel pillar. Klaus laughed, and slammed him into the wall again. The knife dug into his skin.
"Uh uh," he said, as if he was scolding a child. "Be a good boy and behave."
"Go to hell," Stefan spat, furious. "Torturing old men now? He can't even fight back, you bastard."
"Just a little payback, for that spear your brother threw into my back," Klaus said, still smiling. But his blue eyes were hard. "I didn't want to ruin our deal by doing the same to him, so I decided to go after the source." He gestured to the ruined thing on the bed. "Henry never knew when to keep his mouth shut."
Through the haze of anger the words penetrated, and despite the situation the slightest bit of hope flared. "The others, they're alive?" Stefan demanded, fighting the urge to rip the hands from his shirt.
"Probably," Klaus shrugged. "I left them as they were." He released Stefan and turned back to the old man, unconcerned that he would be attacked from behind.
Stefan straightened, keeping one hand on the wall to steady himself. His brother and friends were okay. And Klaus had just fed—was visibly thrumming with Power. Attacking him at this point was useless, and he couldn't risk him changing his mind. Not when they were still relatively close to the town. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Later. He would plan his strategy later.
Klaus was no longer looking at him. He stood crouched over Meredith's grandfather, the hand without the knife running up and down the thin white hair, smearing it red.
"Such a fine young man," he sighed, and amazingly, Klaus sounded fond. "So upstanding. The pride of the town." He snickered. "That is, until he tried to kill his wife."
"You made him do it," Stefan guessed tiredly. The anger was draining from him, replaced by a dull ache.
"Hmmm, perhaps," Klaus said. "Maybe he just got tired of the bitch." Something dark seemed to cross his face, before the grin returned. He laughed. "Ah, well, time to close the book." With a savage twist he yanked the head back, and leaned in close.
"Would love to stay and chat, old sport, and reminisce about the good times," Klaus said casually into the old man's ear. "But—" And with a quick movement, he slashed his throat, "I've got a new toy to play with now."
Stefan looked away, sickened. He was the one who had led Klaus to this place. If he hadn't shown up looking for help, Meredith's grandfather would still be alive.
Klaus stood up and watched the body tumble to the floor. He turned and strolled out of the room cheerfully, licking the sharp edge of his knife. Not even sparing Stefan a glance, just expecting him to follow.
And Stefan did. He had no choice. He'd agreed to the deal. The fact that his friends were alive made everything else easy. He just had to let his mind go blank.
He followed Klaus through the building, past the rooms where orderlies and nurses and patients littered the floors. Down to the lobby, and the lone woman at the desk. She looked like a zombie, with dark, glassy eyes that didn't blink and hands that jerked slightly as she organized and reorganized the neat stack of papers in front of her. She didn't acknowledge them as they approached.
Klaus stopped in front of her and began speaking in a low, lazy tone. Stefan could feel the surge of Power coming from him, settling over the woman like a black fog. She was staring at him now, even as her hands continued to move on auto-pilot. She repeated everything he said in a dazed murmur. What she whispered made Stefan's blood boil.
"You can't do this," he said. Klaus ignored him. "She'll be locked away for life, or given the death penalty."
"If she lives that long. Personally, I'd bet the guilt kills her straight up." Looking satisfied, Klaus sent a final burst of Power, knocking the woman unconscious. Then he headed towards the double set of doors that led outside. "Coming?"
No choice. Stefan moved forward numbly. He didn't want to imagine the memories Klaus had planted into the woman's mind. She was young, brown hair curling neatly around her neck, no more than twenty-five at the most. A student maybe. With friends, family, a life.
"I'll stop you," he said, as he reached the other man. "I'll find a way." He had never been so serious before, so fiercely determined.
"You'll try," Klaus agreed mildly. Then he smiled, all teeth. "I'm looking forward to it." He pushed open the door.
And, with no thought in his mind at all, Stefan followed.