Chapter 8

(Reference: 1x13 "Children of the Damned", 1x14 "Fool Me Once", and 1x15 "A Few Good Men")

Stefan

The first thing I notice when I get home, having left Elena tucked soundly asleep in her bed, is the deathly silence. At first, I think it means I am alone in the house, but something about the weight of it tells me otherwise.

Crossing the foyer into the parlor I note in the distance the state of the living room.

There are shards of glass before the fire and shattered beside the couch that suggest one of Damon's fits of rage. A picture on the wall facing away from me lies broken on the ground, shards of glass bloody and scattered, but this is not what concerns me most. The coffee table is a ruin.

I wonder if we were attacked in my absence.

The silence is deafening.

"Stefan?" Lia's voice sounds softly from the balcony. I look up to catch her face, but she speeds to me rather than wait the walk. It is then I notice the state of her.

She wears nothing but one of Damon's ridiculously expensive shirts, though it is ripped and stained with blood. As is she.

Her make-up is smeared and carelessly wiped at. Her carefully formed curls are a tangled mess, as though someone drew greedy, thoughtless fingers through them. I bet I know who.

I know I must be staring, but she hardly seems to notice.

"Come on, Stefan," she says, nodding toward the kitchen. "We need to talk."


Elena

"So Katherine was never even in there?" I ask, aghast. Poor Damon. How could anyone be so thoughtlessly, selfishly cruel to someone that loved them so deeply? And he did, I realize now.

He's been ruthless and terrible, sadistic, psychotic, but everything he's done—everything he's done—he's done for love. For a lover that betrayed him.

Betrayed him like I did. Like I almost did. Like we almost did. Suddenly, the guilt that had only twitched in my heart before claims all of me. He may not know—God willing, he never will—but he was almost betrayed twice in a single night.

Good thing we found out first.

I mentally berate myself for the thought. As though the fact we never got the chance to betray him, cancels out intent. I'm disgusted with myself.

"How is he doing with all that?" I worry.

"He's…dealing" Stefan says hesitantly, "in his own way."

"What does that mean?" Images of blood, booze, and bimbos swim through my mind.

"Um…" he sort of mumbles. Well, that sounds comforting.

"Should we do something? Help him somehow?"

"Lia's with him. I think she'll have more luck with that than either of us will."

He's probably right, but that doesn't make me feel any better.

"What all did she tell you exactly?"

"Just that there's another vampire in town trying to open the tomb, and she has the Gilbert journal. Not that that will help her much. Apparently, the only clue Jonathon left about the location of the spell-book was a cryptic hint about my father that only Damon or I could hope to decipher."

I sigh, relieved at this news at least. If this other vampire can't find the book, then she can't open the tomb. At least now we can relax. There won't be a mob of vampires running through the town-square. Yippee.

Time for a subject change.

"So, Jenna finally told me about my birth-mother," I say. "It wasn't much, but I know her name now. Isobel, if that means anything."

"Of course it does," he assures me. "It's perfectly understandable you'd want to know anything you could about her."

"Yeah, I guess," I sigh. "It just—it feels surreal, you know? Like there's this big gaping hole in my past that I have no way to fill. I guess it just feels…changed or something."

"Elena, your parents are still your parents. You are still you. I love you. None of that changes. No matter who gave birth to you."

I try to take comfort in his words. I do. But somehow, I can't help but feel the only way I can feel myself again is to really know her. To know where I came from. I just wish I knew where to start.


Damon

I am waist deep in sorority girls and three bottles of bourbon by noon, bass-heavy rock blasting from the stereo. Z is reclined on the couch, feet kicked up, a mostly empty bottle of Grey Goose at her side, the chill sweat long since run off.

Her own snack writhes sensually in her lap as she bites into the femoral artery, moaning in benumbed pleasure. It's good to be me. Or so I keep telling myself.

The moaning and slurping noises coming from the couch cease for a moment when she comments, "I should warn you, Alaric Saltzman's out to get you. Turns out, he's yet another Van Helsing impersonator with a tragic back story after all."

This revelation doesn't really surprise me, but it's nice to put the question to rest. The girl I'm hugging to my chest giggles delightedly as I lick the blood from her neck, catching the slow trail as it trickles down her throat.

"What did I do?"

Her pale face peeks up again from between the blonde's legs to shrug casually at me. "Killed his wife. Some chick named Isobel."

Isobel, huh? Doesn't really ring a bell, but that's not surprising. Still, good to know and all for when he comes to collect. Not that I couldn't take him. Obviously.

"Oh!" she exclaims, shoving the squirming girl to the floor. "And don't forget he has a magic ring that will bring him back to life if you kill him. Just…don't kill him for realsies, K?"

I shrug. "Not making any promises."

She glares playfully, but doesn't say anything. This time, when I look up, the blonde has been replaced by a redhead and Z's fangs are in her breast. She's really going for it today. Guess I really wore her out last night. It's been a long time since we took the game that far, but I won't deny it felt good.

The lights turn on.

"Oh, Buzz-kill Bob," I groan. Stefan alert! Mayday! Mayday!

He kills the radio. Ugh.

"Greetings," I slur. Z waves from the couch, looking over the redhead's chest.

I'm not sure who Stefan looks more disapproving toward, me or the girl whose face is buried in cleavage. He's putting a good face on though, so I suppose there's that to be thankful for.

"Can we talk?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Without the Tri-Delts," he clarifies.

"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of them," I tell him. "They're really good at keeping secrets."

He doesn't even bother to respond. Well, fine then.

"You girls stay here," I whisper playfully, slurring a bit. "I gotta go talk to my baby bro for a second."

I follow him over to the other side of the room, Z trailing behind me. There's blood covering her mouth and dribbling down her chin. I kind of want to lick it off. Or bite it off.

At her affectionate chuckle, I realize I just did. Oops. Oh, well.

Stefan looks mildly disturbed by the PDA, but it's not like he and Elena don't take the cake for grossest high school romance ever so he can just shove it.

He glares at Z with displeasure, and I realize it was her he was giving the dad-face to earlier. Weird.

"I thought you said you'd 'take care of him'." Air quotes and everything. Nice.

"No," she argues, irritated. "I said I'd be there for him if he needed me. I never agreed to boss him around. He's a big boy, Stefan."

"And he can hear you," I frown.

Stefan looks a little shame-faced at that, so I press on. "You're worried about me. That's nice," the alcohol makes my words soft on the ends. "Don't be. There's no need. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be? I spent the last 145 years with one goal—get in that tomb—and I almost succeeded. But, Katherine isn't in there to be rescued, so why dwell?"

Stefan just gives me a sarcastic nod, not falling for my bull-shit. Z watches calmly.

"You know, it is so liberating not having a master plan, because I can do whatever the hell I want."

"That's kind of what I'm afraid of," Stefan says.

"Relax—I haven't killed anybody in…" I glance at Z; she raises her eyebrows at me. When was the last time we went hunting? "…too long."

Stefan looks around a little worriedly, but not as much as I'd expect if he really thought I'd do anything. "Those girls?" he checks.

"Will wake up in their dorm with headaches. Think they blacked out," I assure him, not overly excited by the prospect. "Business as usual."

Seeing the relief on his face at my reassurance, but the still present reticence in his eyes, I say, "Predictable you didn't pull me over here for a pep talk." My tongue cuts the 'k' crisply. I push the half-empty bottle to his chest, "Drink up. Spill it brother."

"This isn't over yet," he presses. "You know that. Anna won't stop trying to open the tomb."

"You really want to have this conversation right now, Stefan? Seriously?" I mock.

Z takes pity on him, oddly enough. "Why does that bother you, Stefan? She's only after Pearl and you were willing to help Damon open it yesterday."

That's a good point actually. Something like suspicion tickles at my drink-hazed mind.

"Yeah, Stefan. Why the sudden change of heart?" My brother looks cornered, two equally mistrustful vampires caging him in. Though for Stefan, cornered comes out looking like forced nonchalance and a hint of condescension.

Whatever, I'm really not in the mood or frame of mind to deal with his weirdness right now.

I need a drink.

Z purses her lips, "Not that it matters much, but I don't think you have much to worry about with Anna. She won't know what the journal means, and even if she does find the spell-book, the Bennet's will never agree to help her. Win, win."

He seems to realize he's not getting anywhere with this line of reasoning by about the time Z launches over the railing to head back to our little compulsion-grown blood-orgy.

"Great chat," I say, patting him on the shoulder as I pass. "I have to go exploit some women in the name of grief. 'TTFN!' said the Tri-Delt!"


Stefan

I remember belatedly that Lia told me she found the journal in the classroom of one Alaric Saltzman.

She said it so briskly—so casually—that the thought never registered which, thinking back, was probably her intent.

It makes me wonder though…What does a history teacher want with a journal full of vampire stories?

Granted, the first-hand account of historical events could be enough, but somehow it seems more than that. It wouldn't be half as suspicious if we weren't lately crawling with mysterious vampires clamoring for it.

The prudent thing to do would be to check this guy out; see what he's up to. This is the reason I am currently sneaking through the school halls on a weekend. This should give me the chance to investigate a bit without threat of discovery.


Alaric

Where is it? Where is that damn journal? I've been scouring my classroom for ages—I've already torn through my desk drawers—but I can't find it anywhere. Who the hell—

Lia.

She must have stolen it when she was here last night. I didn't see her take it, but she's the only one who knew I had it besides Jeremy and he obviously didn't take it. What could she possibly want with it anyway? I'm not sure whether or not I should be afraid of the answer.

She was certainly threatening enough yesterday. Though, she didn't seem overly upset about my desire to kill her homicidal brother so I suppose I could take comfort in that. Still, I'm not taking any chances.

There's a sudden whoosh of air past my door and a bone-chilling dryness scratches like nails on a chalkboard down my throat. It tastes like fear.

I walk out into the empty hall, seeing no one.

"Hello?" I call out, not really expecting an answer.

"Is someone there?" The silence tells me more than they think.

With long, determined strides I make it to locker 42 and my secret stash. I pull out my stake-launcher. One of my own designs. I load it quickly, cocking it in preparation, and stalk back to my classroom—eye out for danger all the way.

I round the corner, without a second's hesitation, I have the stake launcher at my shoulder and my finger on the trigger. The moment his face is in view, I have pulled it. The stake propels forward, perfectly aimed for his heart.

He stops it an inch from his chest. Crap.

I reload as efficiently as I can, turning to put some distance between us—he is there. Halting me with his own body. He wrenches the launcher from my hand, throwing me across the room.

I hear the unloaded stake skid across the floor as I fall with it, crashing through the first row of desks. The fear returns.

"You shouldn't have done that," he warns, eyes cold.

I hop to my feet quickly, using the desk behind me for support.

"Have a seat," he gestures.

I watch him warily as he inspects the weapon in his hands, a curious look on his face. "What is this, compressed air?" he asks as though this were a perfectly normal conversation.

"Did you make it yourself?" he toys with it a moment, before meeting my eyes and stalking toward me. "Who are you?" he asks.

He must see my fear because his next words are an attempt to reassure me, "I'm not going to hurt you," but I'm not buying it. Stefan's obviously a vampire just like his murderous brother, and I'm not taking anything for granted.

"…unless you try that again," he finishes, proving my internal point.

He hands me back the stake-launcher. I eye him warily as I take it. No use in refusing the only weapon in the room, even if I don't trust him.

"Now…" he perches himself on the desk much like his sister had yesterday, and I suddenly realize why that interaction felt so off. It's the stance of a predator, pinning his prey with his eyes. "Who are you?"

"I'm a teacher," I hear myself answer, proud of the dryness in my tone.

His eyes faintly flicker with amusement before he resets his frown, but I've seen enough to no longer be afraid.

"We gonna have to do this the hard way?" he attempts to sound threatening.

"I'm also a historian," I tell him. "And while researching Virginia, I—made a few discoveries about your town."

"So you show up like Van Helsing?" he jokes, and suddenly he's just a kid. An admittedly dangerous, possibly homicidal kid, but still…

"Come on," he prompts. "Tell me the truth."

I sigh, knowing it's useless at this point. The secret's out anyway. "My wife was a parapsychologist. She spent her life researching paranormal activity in this area. It was your work that led me here."

"Where's your wife?"

"Dead," I say shortly, a subtle sneer in my voice. "A vampire killed her."

He blinks at this, but takes it in stride. "How long have you been aware of me?" he asks instead.

"I learned just recently," I admit, thinking of Lia and her cheerful smile masking cold eyes. "What about your brother?" He's the one I really want, anyway.

"You've met Damon." It's not a question.

I have to smirk at that, eyes dead. "Who do you think killed my wife?" I challenge.

He looks unfazed by the revelation. "You certain it was Damon?"

"I witnessed it." I can still see her body lying limp in his arms—blood dripping from twin punctures in alabaster skin.

"If you're here for revenge, this is going to end very badly for you," Stefan warns.

"I just want to find out what happened to my wife."

"I thought you just said that Damon—"

"Yeah," I sigh, gathering strength from my anger to fight my tears. "I saw him…draining the life out of her. He must have heard me coming. He just…disappeared." I look up into his eyes, suddenly full of concern. I wonder if it's real. "So did her body. They never found her."

He looks at me with those soft green eyes. I think I see genuine sympathy there. Too little, too late.

"Damon can never know why you're here," he says firmly. Oh, really?

"He'll kill you without blinking."

"I can handle myself," I assure him.

"No, you can't," he scoffs. "I can help you…if you let me."

The idea is appealing, but… "Why would you help me?"

"We're not all like my brother. Some of us are actually capable of caring about the lives we take."

I snort, darkly amused. "Your sister didn't seem too keen on the idea."

His brows furrow in confusion. "You told Lia?"

I let out a soft huff, "I wouldn't say I exactly told her, but yeah. She knows."

"How?" His frown seems somehow deeper, eyes sunken behind puckered skin.

"We were sort of…friends, I guess, before this. I happened to mention Isobel once or twice and she just filled in the rest," I explain, growing a bit worried by the growing fear in his eyes.

"She didn't seem bothered by it…" I'm a bit puzzled myself by this need to reassure him, but for some reason I feel this needs to be said.

He turns that look sharply on me. "It's not that. It's just…if Lia knows," he starts hesitantly, worriedly, "…so does Damon."


Nadezhda

We are in the middle of a rousing bout of angry sex in the library—me on my hands and knees on the couch, Damon buried deep inside me with his fangs in the back of my neck—when we hear the front door open.

It is a testament to Damon's god-like tolerance, given his present blood-alcohol level, that he can even stand, let alone grab his pants, before Elena strides blithely into the room.

Clad only in the nearest garment I could reach—Damon's mostly unbuttoned shirt—I watch with some amusement as she strains to keep her eyes above the waistline of his low-slung jeans.

He notices, if his cocky smirk is any indication.

She covers her eyes in surprise after a moment of guppy-like staring. "Oh, my God! I'm sorry. I thought you were Stefan."

Damon and I share a look. Riiiiight….

"Nope. Better," he quips flirtatiously.

She glares half-heartedly, dropping her hand.

"Did you need something, Elena?" I prompt, throwing her a lifeline.

When her attention shifts to me, she stares in disgust and disapproval at the blood no doubt caking my throat. She tries to hide it, but she's a lousy liar. Nothing like Katherine.

I take a moment to consider why I so often find myself cataloguing their differences like this while I wait for her response.

She turns to Damon then, concern clear in her eyes.

"How are you?"

"Great. Fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You look…"

"Dashing? Gorgeous? Irresistible?" his tongue curls seductively around the last word and I shiver.

"Wrecked," Elena corrects. "You look wrecked."

She's not wrong. Just looking at the number of empty bottles and decanters in this room alone should tell you that, but that's not what she wants to say.

He looks unimpressed by her answer. "No reason why," he says sardonically.

She looks to me, clearly searching for help, but I don't know what it is she wants to hear.

Why is it that just because I am his friend she and Stefan seem to think I have some magic fix-it for his heartbreak? I can bring bodies back from the dead—within reason and a massive amount of energy—but there's no cure-all for grief.

She stares at him a moment, meeting that hard sarcastic shield with all the compassion she can muster in that warm brown gaze. His pain is reflected in the wet mirror of her eyes.

Wordlessly, she runs across the space between them to throw herself in his arms, hugging him tightly. He catches her reflexively, but his back is tense.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. I hear him gulp. His head drops to her shoulder, and he sighs.

Well, maybe that's a start.

I slip from the room.


Anna

Damon hasn't left his house in over a day—the only action the front door has seen is a seemingly endless stream of compelled Barbie dolls conjured up from God knows where—and I am going to kill Nadia.

She and I have been friends for a while—at least, I'd like to think we are—but there's still quite a lot I don't know about her.

I know she's one of the oldest vampires I've ever heard of, discounting Originals, and absurdly powerful for it.

I also know that she has more secrets than anyone I am ever likely to meet. So what I do know of her is limited to rumor and careful observation. I know that she is strong, ruthless, very well connected, and above all fiercely loyal.

So when she tossed me the journal last night after telling me she didn't care about the tomb, I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that she valued my friendship at least enough not to stand in my way, but I'm beginning to think her game is subtler than that.

I have been through the Gilbert journal cover to cover, exhaustively studying every insane, rambling passage of Jonathon's lunacy, and so far it is beyond useless.

Obviously, I need a new tactic.

I already have Ben set to reel the younger Bennet witch in. That will hopefully take care of the magic department when I finally get my hands on the grimoire.

Witches are notoriously protective of their own, and I am willing to bet anything her grandmother is no exception. But how do I get the spell-book?

The only thing remotely worth noting in this damn journal is that he apparently gave the book to Giuseppe Salvatore, and it just so happens I have two Salvatore's conveniently in town to help me find it.

The question is, now that Damon knows Katherine's not in the tomb, how do I ensure their help?

When there are three vampires, all with the same weak spot, what do you do for leverage?

Easy answer: Go for the heart


Elena

I lose track of how long we stand there in that room, the scent of blood and sex and booze fading far into the background, just clinging to each other.

It feels alarmingly intimate, and there is a part of me that feels guilty for this stolen moment with my boyfriend's brother, but then I feel the slightest tremor of tightly bound emotion shiver across his shoulders and I only hold him tighter.

His head is a heavy weight on my shoulder and I can feel the hot dampness of his breath on the bare skin at the base of my neck.

My heart clenches painfully in my chest, something stirs low in my stomach, but I do not pull away.

Finally, his shaking stills and I feel the soft press of lips to my neck. I tense, not wanting to ruin this tender moment though prepared all the same, but he only pulls away.

He touches his forehead to mine, palms cradling my face, and I have the sudden urge to kiss him. He watches me watching him, my eyes on his lips, and the heat fills between us. All the air seems to leave the room.

"Elena?" I leap back from him guiltily as Stefan enters the room, an odd look on his face.

Oh, no. Did he see that? Does he think I would? Would I have?

No. No, I love Stefan. I would never do something like that to him. I was just caught up in the moment. It was just a friendly hug. That's all it was. Comfort and a shoulder. That's it.

"Stefan!" I say, aiming for relief and probably failing miserably. Then again, maybe not. I see a flicker of something in Damon's eyes before it is quickly hidden again behind that wall of sarcasm and bravado. I wonder when it started to look so weak to me.

"Aw, twice in one day, Stef?" he flutters he eyelashes mockingly. "I feel…special."

Stefan nods, seemingly unbothered by the mess. "Nice of you to clean up after yourself this time."

This time? As opposed to what?

"Aw shucks," Damon slaps Stefan's shoulder on his way out, causing him to wince. "You're making me blush."


Damon

I find her on my bed and fully dressed—the solitary electric blue feather hanging from her right ear beneath the heavy fall of her dark hair the only break in her all black attire—when I return.

I'm only mildly disappointed. At the moment, I still have thoughts of long chocolate hair and warm brown eyes swimming through my head.

Add to that the fact that I just dry-sobbed like an overgrown child in her arms. Yeah, I am not touching that today.

"Going somewhere?" I ask Z instead.

"Mmm," she hums noncommittally, staring at the phone in her hands.

She looks relaxed and calm lounging there in her tight black skinny jeans, studded boots crossed at the ankles, but I can see a subtle twitch in her eye that says she's hiding something.

I know this game well. We're champions at it by now. I flop nonchalantly on the bed beside her, propping myself on an arm around her back and hooking my chin on the top of her left shoulder to gaze at the screen.

From "Slater": Have 411 on KP. Call me.

"KP?" I read, a dangerous note in my voice. "As in Katherine Pierce?"

"As in Katarina Petrova," she corrects tonelessly. "Slater's been helping me keep an eye on things. I didn't know he even knew about Katherine."

I struggle to control my breathing, placing a kiss on the bare skin above her wide neckline to keep from biting it. My right hand squeezes tightly at her hip.

Her eyes tighten a little at the pain, but she says nothing.

"You ever gonna tell me what you know, or are you just planning to keep those juicy secrets to yourself?" I ask icily.

She's still staring at the phone screen like it has all the answers, clenching it tightly in her hand.

Ironic. That's exactly how I feel.

"Yeah," she sighs, though I'm not sure which question she's agreeing to.

Seeming to come to a decision, she throws the phone against the wall. It shatters in a million tiny digital pieces, but I barely notice.

She's turned herself in my grip to press a forceful kiss to my lips. I kiss back on instinct before I grab her by the elbows to hold her away at the end of my arms.

A determined set to her mouth she says, "I'll tell you, Damon. I'm ready to tell you everything."

Halle-fuckin'-lujah.


Jeremy

I finally caved and agreed to that Fright Night with Anna. She's cute and all and I really like her, but she's so pushy sometimes. And after Vicki, well…

It's weird. Besides the dance, I haven't seen Lia since the night Vicki left, and I don't remember ever seeing her before, but for some reason every time I think about it, her face comes to mind. I just feel like…like I can trust her, I guess.

Maybe I'll have to start going to English, after all.

"Ooh, did you see that?!" Anna asks excitedly, pointing at the TV screen where the bad-ass loner just took a bite out of the zombie trying to eat him.

We're watching this Norwegian zombie-movie that so far has managed to fairly successfully straddle the line between comedy and bloody, gory horror. The bad guys are literally the perfect cross between the single most cliché villians of all time: Nazis and Zombies.

It's actually surprisingly awesome.

"That dude totally just ripped a zombie's throat out," she exclaims. "With his teeth."

"Pretty appropriate to the vampire theme, huh?"

Distantly, I hear the front door close as someone enters the house. And since Jenna's in the kitchen…

"What the hell are you watching?" Elena asks, sounding vaguely repulsed by the blood and guts playing across the screen. She had to walk in when the blonde chick was having her intestine's unraveled. Typical.

"Ded Sno," I answer, not looking away.

I hear her fake a gag, before muttering something about gross teenage boys and heading upstairs.

About the time the remaining college students accidentally set fire to their cabin with a poorly aimed molotov cocktail, Anna mutters a "be right back" and hops up.

I shrug, intent on the final showdown. Probably just had to go to the bathroom, anyway.


Nadezhda

Despite my recent declaration, I fall silent. Damon watches me, expectant and impatiently waiting. I breathe deeply through my nose, letting the air fill my lungs to capacity, praying for strength.

It's not fear, exactly, that has kept me silent all this time. It's certainly not distrust either. I don't know exactly what he'll do with this information, but I don't fear his reaction.

No, if I'm being honest, it's love. Love for him and the fear that this knowledge will put him in the line of fire are a given, but the love I'm talking about is something else—for someone else. And the fear that, one way or another, this is an end.

"Ok, um…where do I start…?"

"The beginning would be good," he snaps. God, I hate this.

"No, the beginnings too much. I guess, the beginning you want starts with a 17 year old Bulgarian girl in 1492," I start. "She was—

"She's gone!"

Stefan comes crashing through the doorway, fear and panic blazing in his eyes.

"Who?" Damon asks, though the look on his face says he knows the answer.

"Elena," Stefan pants, frantic. "Elena's missing."

Damon's brow furrows in sympathy as well as his own apparent fear and opens his mouth to reply—

The broken ringing from the shattered wreckage of my phone sounds briefly, cuts out, and is replaced by that in Stefan's pocket.

He glances at the caller ID, forehead wrinkling in confusion, before answering.

He listens a moment, but I don't need to hear the voice on the other end to know who's there.

"Nadia?"

The familiar name on unfamiliar lips shocks us both. I feel Damon tense at the intrusion—both the implication of the name as well as the image before us.

Stefan stands in the open doorway, phone in his hand.

His expression is hard, cold, enraged, and terrified all at once, and he holds it out to me.

"It's for you."

I glance at Damon at that to see confusion warring with his own anger on his face. That's nice in a way. His anger is familiar.

I take the phone.

"Anna-Banana!" I greet with false cheer, my mouth twisting in an angry line. "Steal any doppelganger's lately?"