Chapter 10: Born of Death and Tragedy
A/N: One last thing about the last chapter; I started this fic thinking that the tomb vampires would not get out and that all the events of seasons 2 and 3 would be accelerated and adjusted accordingly, but somewhere along the way it became clear to me that that would derail far too much of the foundation for so many of the pivotal character relationships that make TVD what it is.
I mean, it would make so many impossible: Team Badass (Dalaric), the first indication of Stefan's blood addiction, the Miss Mystic Falls dance, Uncle Daddy John and his genocidal tendencies, the vampire device and Isobel's return, all that stuff. SO, I improvised. We'll just have to see how it all plays out.
(Reference: 1x15 "A Few Good Men", 2x9 "Katarina", and a hint of 4x6 "We all go a Little Mad Sometimes")
A/N 2: This is the longest chapter to date and I'm not entirely pleased with how it turned out. I would have split it in two, but there's enough cannon plot here that there just wasn't a logical way to do it. Still, it feels too much like an info dump with a smattering of cannon recreation. Hopefully, it isn't as disappointing to everyone else.
Elena
All three of them are in the living room when I get there. It doesn't strike me how odd it is to see them all sitting companionably together until I see it before me, but it looks like the rules have changed.
Damon sits in his favorite wingback nursing a glass of bourbon, not surprising; Stefan sits on the couch with a furrowed brow displaying his worry and fear, also unsurprising; but it is the nervous twitching in Lia's usually confident stance that seems surreal. She paces the rug where the coffee table used to stand, and fairly squirms with discomfort.
I'm suddenly very uneasy about this conversation.
When Stefan texted me this morning with an instruction to meet him at the boarding house, the urgency in his tone struck me immediately, but I was not prepared for…whatever this is.
Still, I get the impression from Lia's attitude that we are about to hear the answers to some long unasked questions. In that, at least, I am relieved.
I take a seat beside Stefan, and he wraps his arm around me in a familiar comforting pose, but his posture is stiff. I almost feel that he is more in need of the physical reassurance than I am.
"Ok, so…I promised Damon before the whole rescue mission thing that I would tell him the truth, and he said since it has to do with Elena that I should tell all of you, and I guess he's right. It's true that I've been keeping secrets, but it's only because I swore to and, really, Damon actually knows more than he—
"Z!" Damon interrupts, "you're babbling."
"Yeah, sorry…" she looks away embarrassed. Ok, now I'm really freaked.
She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, bringing her steepled fingers to her mouth. She breathes deeply then meets my eyes, looking suddenly intense.
"I told you not so long ago, that I knew about you before I came here. Eh, eh!" She holds a hand out warningly to forestall Damon's protests. "I'm getting there!" she glares him down and he falls silent—begrudgingly.
Turning back to me, "That wasn't strictly true. Well…not in the way you probably think. See, it wasn't you specifically, but the doppelganger that I knew about. See, the last one died exactly 500 years before your birth, and I knew that the next would reappear that same year.
"Not that I knew where, or who, but there have been rumors and legends surrounding this town all the way back to the very first vampires in existence. So," she shrugs. "I took a chance and sure enough, there you were."
Damon stews silently, but Stefan looks ready to pelt her with his own questions. I halt him in his tracks with my own. "Wait, 'doppelganger'? What does that mean?"
"Well…" she starts, glancing at Damon, "the reincarnation of Katherine Pierce, the last doppelganger."
While I attempt to digest this information, she continues. "I think it's really best to start at the beginning. Or, her beginning anyway. Bulgaria, 1490, when her family disowned her and Katarina Petrova first went on the run.
She was 16 years old, and her family kicked her out after her father ripped her baby from her arms. She was unmarried, and they couldn't bear the shame of attaching such a scandal to their family name so they took the child, and sent her away.
Somehow or other by 1492 she ended up in England, where she was unfortunate enough to catch the attention of those loyal to the Originals—the first vampires. Specifically, Niklaus Mikaelson and his brother Elijah.
For those of you studying vampire history, the story goes that centuries ago an Aztec shaman put a curse on both vampires and werewolves alike. The curse of the sun and the moon they call it. I think you're all smart enough to work out the why. The thing that no one knows, and that you three cannot tell anyone, is that the whole thing is a hoax. The real curse is something much worse.
In another very long and irrelevant story, Klaus had been cursed by a witch to limit his power. He is the only known hybrid in existence—born to a werewolf bloodline and transformed into a vampire. The curse suppresses the werewolf gene, preventing him from gathering his full power.
It's a good thing too, because Klaus is certifiably insane. His single prevailing goal for all of his long life has been to find the doppelganger and break this curse. You see, the curse was bound by Petrova blood a thousand years ago.
Her name was Tatia, and she looked just like you, Elena. Katarina was her doppelganger.
You see where I'm going with this?"
Somewhere in the stillness, I hear Stefan ask, "What does breaking the curse entail exactly?"
She smirks, but there is no humor in it. "Well, isn't it obvious?" she asks. "Her death."
"What?!" I hear, but from whose lips I'm not sure. Could be both, I suppose.
"Wait, can we go back to the part where werewolves are real?" this question was definitely Damon. "If that's true, then why is it that in 160 some odd years on this planet, I've never seen one?"
Lia rolls her eyes. "Damon, you're like a baby compared to me. Werewolves used to be more popular than vampires. You know…until we killed them all."
"Why would—"
"So not the point right now."
Ignoring all this, I finally find my voice. "So, you're saying the oldest vampire in the history of time wants to kill me?" I ask.
It all seems so unreal. I only just learned that there was even such a thing as vampires, and witches, and god knows what else, only to then learn that I was a carbon copy of my boyfriend's vampire ex-girlfriend, and now there's some other obscenely powerful vampire coming to kill me?
This can't be my life.
Staring down at the floor, I notice the decorative flap of today's boots match the same three buttoned pattern of her corset top. She looks so put together as she wrecks my life.
"Relax," Lia says, hands held out placatingly. "I'm not going to let that happen."
"Yeah?" Damon finally finds his voice. It sounds pissed. But whether at her or just the whole situation is unclear. "And how do you propose we do that?"
She purses her lips, considering. "Well, the easy way is what I did for Katarina."
Whoa, what?!
"You…you turned her? Didn't you?" Stefan asks.
She nods curtly, but there's a hard frown and a sad look in her eye that I don't like. "What happened?" I wonder.
She bites her lip, looking me in the eye. "He slaughtered her entire family in vengeance."
Ok, yeah…I was right. I can't deal with this right now. I'm getting out of here.
In my distress, I don't even see her move. Her eyes are a foot from mine, looking up at me pleadingly, when she says, "Elena, he doesn't know about you. He has no idea. And he won't unless someone tells him…I intend to do my dead-level best to make sure that never happens."
"In other words, boys and girls," Damon says with his usual glib humor as he climbs to his feet. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em."
Without a word, he turns and storms off toward the door. And with a sad shake of her head and a wry smile at us, Lia follows him.
Damon
"Bourbon. Neat," I order the bartender the moment my ass hits the seat of my favorite bar stool. They're good to me here, and the drink is in my hand almost before the words are out. I take a grateful gulp of liquid gold and sigh.
I just had to get out of there. It seems like every new piece of information I learn from her just opens up a million more questions than it gives answers. At this point, I'm beginning to wonder if I really know her at all.
Unfortunately, the reverse could not be further from the truth. This is why I am entirely unsurprised when I see that head full of blue-streaked hair land beside me moments after my own arrival.
The blue/teal and grey plaid of her shirt make her eyes blaze the exact shade of my own. We have never looked more alike than we do in this moment. How ironic that it's now I begin to question our connection.
"So, you turned her, huh?" I say tonelessly, as though one way or another makes little difference to me.
"Just call me Grandma Salvatore," she replies in the same tone.
Yeah, that would almost be funny if I didn't literally just find out that my supposed best friend of over a century is responsible for the creation of the vampire who until very recently I considered to be the love of my life—well, unlife. A vampire, might I add, whose identity she claimed not to know the entire time that I have known her.
It makes me question a lot of things.
Whether she was lying when she swore up and down that she was completely surprised to learn that Katherine and Katarina were the same person. Whether she only came to town for Elena and used me and Stefan to get to her. Whether our entire friendship was a lie.
I just found out that the woman I've loved for almost a century and a half let me believe she was trapped in a tomb for all that time rather than be with me, and now this?
"Was any of it even real, Z?"
For a moment she seems stricken by the question, but the expression just as quickly leaves her face as she stares past me at the man now sitting on my left. I grit my teeth in irritation, and turn to see for myself what has her so distracted. It's Alaric Saltzman. Perfect.
I'd almost forgotten about him in all the chaos of the last few days: finding out about Katherine, Elena getting kidnapped, the tomb, this morning. It's been a little hectic.
I remember what Z told me before about his wife and that ring he wears. I still don't know exactly who it is that I'm supposed to have killed. There's been so many. But if he's spoiling for a fight, I intend to give him one.
"Behold, the teacher," I taunt. "Don't you have some papers to grade?"
"It's uh more fun with a buzz."
"Well, most things in life are," I agree. "Sober's…depressing."
Z remains absurdly quiet beside me. I wonder which one of us has shocked her to silence. Maybe both.
"You don't strike me as someone who gets depressed," he challenges.
"You say that like you know me."
"Nope. Just a hunch," he shoots me a stare so intense I think a mere human would freeze under it.
"You have a good afternoon," he says, standing. He nods past me, "Natalia."
"Not likely," I mutter.
I hear Z take a breath in preparation of whatever defense she has conjured up to my last question. "Damon—
Liz Forbes' sudden appearance cuts her off. Well, somebody's popular today. Can't a man get drunk alone in a bar without a parade of people trying to talk to him?
"Day drinking?" she asks, sounding a tad judgmental if I do say so myself.
"It's all the rage," I reply.
"Listen, I need a favor."
Of course you do. Everybody needs something from me lately. It's all I'm good for right? Someone else's use?
Katherine used me for sex and to spread the word around of her death, apparently. Stefan uses me to make himself feel like the better man and to protect Elena when it comes to that. Z uses me to keep her secrets and evidently to give her an excuse to get close to my brother's girlfriend and some millennia long revenge scheme.
So, what else is new?
"You ever felt betrayed?" I ask, and even to me it isn't clear which time I'm referring to.
Liz looks at me blankly in confusion. I feel Z tense beside me. Good.
"Like, there was someone who you just trusted—implicitly—that just threw you away like garbage?"
"You forget I was married," Liz reminds, halfway between skeptical and pained.
"Oh, right," I say, suddenly remembering my audience. "Gay husband."
She looks away, looking a little offended.
I wink at the bartender, hooking a thumb in her direction."She'll have what I'm having."
"Sit down," I invite her.
She does, before telling me why she's really here. "There's a fundraiser here tonight that the founder's council is throwing. The town's most eligible bachelors get raffled for dates, and…well, we're short a bachelor…"
I chuckle, "Is this what you do when there's no um…vampires? Organize bachelor raffles?"
"Oh, trust me," she jokes. "At this point I miss the vampires."
Yeah, me too. I smirk to myself.
"Look, you're a hero to this town, Damon. I know most people don't know it, but you are, and you're single, and a catch," she explains.
When I look less than enthusiastic, she resorts to pleading. "Oh, come on. Help me out. Carol Lockwood will never let me live it down if I come up empty handed."
Well, when you put it that way…fine.
"You know?" I say. "A room full of women clamoring to win a date with me? ….Sounds tasty."
And it does. There is a surprised huff of amusement to my left, but it is quashed quickly.
She laughs, relieved. "Thank you."
Although, if we're doing the favor thing, there is something I'd like to know about our resident Buffy, the wanna-be slayer.
"One thing. Can you get information on someone for me?" She looks intrigued so I press, "Alaric Saltzman, the history teacher. There's just something a little….off about him, and I just want to make sure the high school did their homework on this guy."
Actually, I'm fairly certain they didn't.
She nods in easy agreement. "You got it." She slides her still full highball to me as she leaves.
It is good to have friends in the right places.
Speaking of friends…
"Damon, you already know about Ric so…"
"Not that I'm in the mood to explain things to you, but if someone's going to try to kill me for killing someone, I'd like to know who I supposedly murdered."
Refusing to meet those swirling pools of dusky blue, I return my attention to my glass as I say, "Now, if we're all done with the awkward small talk for the day, I'd appreciate it if you left me alone."
"Fine," she sighs sadly, resigned. I hear her boots hit the floor as she slides from her stool. "But you should know, the answer to your earlier question? Yes, it was real. Every minute."
Her voice breaks on the last word, but before I can turn to look, she's gone.
Stefan
"Alaric's wife might have been…your mother?" I ask, still shocked by the revelation.
She's fidgeting with the clothes in her top drawer like she can't bear to stop moving. Not that I can blame her. After the information bombshell she had dropped on her this morning—and now this— I'm actually surprised she's not more upset.
"It can't be true, right?" she reasons. "I mean, the coincidence alone is just crazy."
It's a testament to her strength of will that she's not a hysterical wreck right now. I can't bear to drop the Damon bomb on her too. She doesn't need to know that he could be responsible for her mother's death. Not till I know for sure.
She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket.
"I have the address for her friend, Trudy," she tells me.
"You want to talk to her?" I ask in what I mean to be a discouraging tone. I don't want her to get too far into this before I figure it all out.
"I don't know. I…" she sighs.
I nod, more than a little relieved.
"I—I don't know," she repeats, but she sounds more interested now. "If it's true and they are the same person, then that means that my birthmother…is dead, and I don't know if I could handle that."
And that is why I don't want her going there. If it turns out that Damon really did kill her birthmother, I don't want her to find out that way. Really, I just don't want it to be true at all, but Damon's not exactly known for his impulse control. I guess the question now is how much does she already know?
"Elena, did Jenna tell you anything about Alaric's wife? How she died?" I ask.
"Just that she was killed and the case was never solved," she says, looking at me questioningly. "You knew that already?" she guesses from what I'm sure is the lack of surprise on my face at the news.
"The morning at the school, when he attacked me, he told me some things," I admit, "about her…death."
"Well—" she starts.
"No, no, no," I chant, taking her hands in mine. "It's not possible. The coincidence is too much."
I will her to believe me and I think she does. I need to get answers for her, before she gets too into this. It's the only way I can protect her from the truth.
Nadezhda
God, I've never seen him so angry. Not at me anyway. It's killing me to know I've hurt him so deeply. I know that a lot of it is Katherine and Elena and just everything piling up at once, but the knowledge that I am a part of all that just hurts.
I always knew that the day my secrets came out I might lose him. Trust is just such a rare commodity in his world—mine too—that the thought that someone he's given it to could betray him…He doesn't let that go easily. Just look at Stefan.
What makes it really hard though, is the fact that in my long and storied career of secret making and secret keeping, he's the only one I've ever confided in. Well…other than those involved in said activities.
He has no idea how very much I've opened up to him. I've shared my best and worst memories with that man, and because I held back a few secrets that were not mine to tell, he thinks he can't trust me.
He actually has the gall to ask me if our friendship was real. Like I could ever fake something like that.
I just wish I knew how to tell him how wrong he is.
Flashback
(Chicago: 1923)
I am a shivering wreck on the bed when he gets there, my knees pulled into my chest while my body shakes with the strain of silent, heaving, wracking sobs as I fight to hold them in. He takes one look at me, and is beside me in an instant.
"No," I say into the echoing quiet. I give him a pleading look as I meet those deep, concerned eyes where he crouches there on the floor. "Please, don't touch me. If you touch me right now I'm afraid I'll just shatter and I can't if I'm going to get through this."
"Get through what?" he whispers, heartbroken for me.
Rather than explain, I merely launch into my tale.
"Do you remember what I told you? How I was turned?"
He nods, repeating softly, "You made a deal with a vampire in exchange of a favor. Promised to save her brother from a haunting if she'd turn you."
"Right," I agree. "Well, there's more."
Taking a deep breath for courage, I begin,
"When I was human, in Russia in the mid 12th century, my mother died. See, we were poor and hungry like everyone else, and we had been for most of my life up to that point.
By the time I was old enough to comprehend it, I had lost most of my family—my brothers and sisters to illness, my father and uncles to battle, and my mother to grief. I think it was that last death that finally broke her—a still born child a few months after my father passed.
She went mad with the grief, wasting away mentally and physically before my eyes, leaving me to care for my sickly little brother all on my own. She couldn't handle the pain of the loved ones she'd lost, so she neglected the ones she had left.
You see, she didn't have the time for us because she spent every ounce of strength trying to reach them. She wanted to reach their spirits.
She was what we called a chernyy ved'ma—a black witch. She was one to whom the conjuring of spirits and the darker turns of the craft came naturally. You would call her a necromancer. This gift she passed to me.
I think she succeeded too, once or twice, but it never seemed enough. She didn't just want to brush hands with their spirits, she wanted to hold them, see them. She wanted them back.
Needless to say, it didn't work out so well. She threw herself so obsessively, recklessly, conspicuously into her craft that eventually it killed her.
She died screaming.
I was 12.
After that it was just me and Alexander, my little brother—my little Sasha. I practically raised him. By the time I was 16 and he was 8, he was more mine than any child of my womb could ever be. I loved him, so much. More than anything else in the entire world.
The day he took sick, I thought I'd die. I cried over his bedside every horrible, heart-wrenching moment. I wiped the cold sweat from his pale, shaking brow as the sobs wracking—heaving—through my dry, throbbing chest turned to bile and I wretched my grief, my agony.
I stayed there days longer than he did.
There was a part of me that had always hated my mother for what I saw as her abandonment—for giving herself so completely to the dead that she seemed dead herself—but after that, I knew we were far more alike than I'd ever known.
I scoured her work room, tore through her journals, her altar, anything I could get my hands on. I was determined to bring him back. My Sasha. My little brother. My baby boy. And, like my mother before me, communion with the spirits was not enough. I wanted him. I wanted him back.
At last, I thought I'd found it—a spell to reanimate the dead. I thought it would work. And work it did. But, see, what I didn't know was that it's not sufficient to bring a body back to life without the soul. And even I can't reach a soul at peace.
Even with the power of a beating heart in my grasp, I couldn't bring my Sasha back home to me. I only made a walking corpse.
Desperate, I sought the guidance of whatever spirits would listen—spirits of power found in my mother's books. These were ancient, powerful, evil but I didn't care. I'd sacrifice a thousand peasant girls to see my brother again.
Eventually, they told me a story that had been crossing the continent in a frenzy of rumor and paranoia. A story of creatures who walked in the night—immortal corpses fueled by the blood of the living.
They were the perfect embodiment of my craft. They had the ability to absorb energy and power from the life force of another, and to hold it.
They could take the vitality and power from the living and turn it to the exercise of astonishing abilities. Things like speed, and strength, and even mind control. I was intrigued to say the least.
So when they finally whispered to me where I could find some of these creatures, I couldn't run fast enough.
I found her in England in 1132. She was fair-skinned, young, beautiful with bright blue eyes and golden hair. I was immediately captivated.
I quickly learned that she was ruthless, practical, bloodthirsty, and above all fiercely, savagely, irrationally loyal. Yet still, there was an innocence about her, a yearning for something, someone to love and be loved by.
I understood all this all too well. And when she told me of her brother's plight, I instantly wished to help.
I told her about my own story and how much I wished for her power to increase my own. I managed to convince her that I could not hope to save her brother without this aid. She agreed.
It wasn't much of a lie either. The five spirits haunting her brother were strong, savage, and cruel and they were single-mindedly devoted to their torture of this man who I later learned was their killer.
They would not willingly have obeyed my command, but they were unable to refuse my now impossibly irresistible powers of persuasion. I thought, having banished them, that we were finished. I was wrong.
They came again and again like clockwork every morning no matter how many times I sent them away. I must have taken hundreds of lives just to stave them off. All to no avail.
I discovered, in the course of this, that they had been bound by a witch to a sacred duty of her own design and a curse that could not be broken till such time as their deaths had been avenged or their fallen sword taken up by the next champion.
Still, I fought them.
Every morning, I made the sacrifices. Every evening, I commanded the spirits away. Every morning, they returned.
During the course of this, the girl and I grew…close. I came to believe I had truly found my life's completion in her arms. I fell in love.
I fell in love, but I knew that there was little hope in it. The sentiment could be returned a thousand-fold, and she would still choose her brother in the end. I did not blame her for this. I would have done the same.
Thus I was, to say the least, surprised the night she asked me to stop fighting. She said it was hopeless and painful and it broke her heart for both of us. I was touched, but I was unwilling to surrender my vow. Instead, I promised to stop this futile exercise if we could find another solution.
I knew from the spirits the gist of the spell that created them and I knew that eventually a new champion must arise, but we were unwilling to await that ambiguous end. We took matters into our own hands.
Now when I took my victims, I fed them my blood first. With the helpful guidance of those other ancient spirits, we sent them out like sheep to slaughter, and waited.
One after one, the spirits left. This time, they didn't return.
It was like waking from a dream, when it ended.
It may have been nightmarish at times, but I don't believe I'd ever felt so complete in my life. Still haven't since. We had spent decades rescuing her brother from his personal Hell, and now that he was free…
He wasn't unchanged, her brother.
I never knew him before the ordeal, but I can't imagine someone being born to that…insanity. He hated me for loving his sister, hated her for loving me. He was jealous and possessive and tyrannical. He believed that the world was against him, that he was so tortured only because the world failed to recognize his greatness. That he was a king in a land of beggars, and he deserved his power. He was determined they would yield.
And in all the centuries I've known him since, that hasn't changed.
The only difference is that now, I'm the one being tortured."
End of Flashback
I take a long swallow of colorless, burning liquid as I take a moment to regret all my poor decisions and all it has cost me to make them. Removing my new phone from my pocket, I type out a quick reply I probably should have sent days ago:
To "Slater", From "You": Can't. Meet soon. Tell no one.
I stare for a moment at the screen. My thumb hovers over the send button. I press delete. It rings.
Elena
She answers on the second ring. "Elena? Is something wrong?"
It's a mark of the growing insanity that is my life that this is a common greeting.
Truthfully though, I'm not sure why I called. A part of me wants to steer clear of her and all her absurd stories and secrets about my life and who I am, but maybe that's why I needed to call her. I'm looking for answers and she seems to be the only one that has them.
It seems to be a recurring theme with us.
"Not exactly," I say. "Um, do you think you'd be up to taking a trip to Grove Hill?"
There's a beat of silence where I think she'll laugh or refuse or something, but she only says, "I'll be there in 5."
She's at my front door by the time I hit the stairs. How does she know where I live? Oh, right. Vicki. I take a deep breath for courage, and open the door.
She's standing there in the cold in her usual style—tight fitting top, short black skirt over fishnets, high-heeled motorcycle boots—but something about her looks different. Her eyes are dead.
"Um, just a second," I say, gesturing a thumb behind me. "I just have to grab my stuff real quick."
"Sure," she mumbles, stepping just inside the doorway. Oh, that's right. I vaguely remember inviting her in the last time. Odd that I'd almost forgotten.
I grab my jacket and purse from the kitchen table, keys in hand, and lead the way to my car. I wonder if she brought her own vehicle, though I realize now I've never seen her drive a car. I suppose she must have run here.
Pulling out of the driveway, I flip the radio on to the preset Top 40 station I had it last. I half expect her to rail and scream about my horrible taste in music—I think maybe I want her to—but she says nothing. She just looks out the window. She doesn't even ask why I called.
"Um, so," I clear my throat, nervous at the silence. "My Aunt Jenna found some stuff on my birth-mom this morning. Or…she told me about it this morning at least."
Lia turns to look at me, expression aloof but not discouraging.
"She couldn't find anything on Isobel Flemming—that's her name—but she did find the address for her best friend, Trudy Peterson. When she told my dad her name, that was the last name she used. I figure, if anyone knows anything about her, it'll be Trudy."
She still says nothing, but she looks vaguely interested now at least. This is really getting disturbing.
"So," I say, resisting the urge to clear my throat again, "that's where we're going."
She cocks her head at me in that almost bird-like way she and Damon share. "You know Alaric Saltzman's wife was named Isobel?"
Wow, déjà vu. Freaky. "Um, yeah. Yeah, I found out this morning. Stefan didn't think it could be true though. That they're the same person, I mean. It's too much of a coincidence."
Finally, I get the ghost of a smirk from her. "Do you always listen to what Stefan says?"
No, no I don't. Obviously, or I wouldn't be here. Judging from the knowing twinkle in her eye, I think she knows that.
We travel in silence from then on. I'm not sure what it was I expected when I invited her along, but…it wasn't this. Whatever this is.
I wonder what's got her acting so weird. Damon, maybe? He seemed really upset this morning when he found out she was the one to turn Katherine. I consider asking her about it, but…I don't know.
"I can hear you thinking over there," she teases. "Wanna share with the class?"
Before I can think better of it I ask, "Is there something going on? With you and Damon, I mean."
Surprisingly, she doesn't look angered by the question. She doesn't look inclined to answer either.
"Damon and I have nothing to do with you, Elena," she says, sounding like she means to reassure me somehow. I can't imagine why. Though maybe that's the lie and I'm being deliberately obtuse. "You don't need to worry about it."
"Ok," I mutter, because, really, what else can I say?
Oh, and we're here. Thank God. That had to be the most awkward car ride ever.
It occurs to me belatedly, that Lia can't enter the house without an invitation. I wonder if this will present a problem in the very near future, but she doesn't seem concerned about it so…
I almost turn back at least half a dozen times as we walk up the sidewalk, but at the last I manage to knock.
The woman that answers the door greets us with a cheerleader bright smile and standard issue blonde hair, complete with track-suit. She looks almost like she did in that year book picture Jenna showed me earlier. Or, at least, like she's trying to.
"Trudy? Tr—Trudy Peterson?" I say.
"Yes," she smiles, a little surprised.
"My name is Elena Gilbert, this is my friend Natalia," I glance backwards to include her. Lia just offers a small smile in greeting. "I wanted to talk to you about Isobel Flemming."
Trudy still smiles, seeming pleased. "Well, I haven't heard that name in years." A slightly confused look crosses her face then. "How do you know her?"
Oh, this is the hard part. The part where every cliché adopted child story comes to mind and I feel like I'm reciting a script. 'Hi, I think I'm her daughter'. It feels so much more surreal than I imagined to do this in person.
"I think that…um, well…Do you know if she had a baby that she gave up for adoption?"
Utter shock and a little fear. That's the only way to describe the look that crosses Trudy's face at this news. I'm not quite sure what to make of it, but it does nothing to settle my nerves.
"Oh my God," she gasps. "You're her daughter."
A wave of surprise, relief, curiosity, disbelief, I don't know just washes over me as I see the bright, sunny smile that takes over her face in this moment. I don't even know how to respond.
"I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?"
I glance back at Lia for confirmation. How is she going to get in? That wasn't an express invitation. She only cocks her head again, looking thoughtful. "Uh, sure," I nod.
"The kitchen's this way," Trudy gestures toward the kitchen which I can just make out at the end of the hall.
I step through the door, turning back to see Lia staring at Trudy.
"You know, Trudy," she whispers, velvet soft. "Whoever it is you're so afraid of? I can help you."
What is she doing? Who?
"You c—can?" Trudy asks, fear and hope in her voice.
"I can," Lia assures her. "They don't want you to talk to her, right? They don't want her to find Isobel. You're scared they'll find out. That they'll come for you. I can make sure they don't. They don't ever have to know, Trudy."
"Really?"
"Yes," she says, still in that eerily silky voice. "But you have to invite me in, Trudy. I can't help you if you don't invite me in."
Dazedly Trudy stutters, "Come—Come in."
"Thank you, Trudy," she says, as she passes easily over the threshold.
What the hell? What just happened? Lia must see my shock and fear all over my face, but she only smirks smugly and shrugs.
When the three of us are through the hall, Trudy rounds on Lia. Her eyes are wild. "How did you know? I wasn't supposed to tell anyone! I never told anybody!" she's practically sobbing now, tears streaming down her terrified face.
Lia brings a soothing hand to her arm, she murmurs, "What did they ask you to do, Trudy?"
"I was—I was just supposed to call him when she came. He told me not to say anything. Oh, God, I was so scared."
What?!
"It's ok, Trudy. We won't tell. No one ever has to know. Elena was never here. You don't have to do anything," Lia croons. I'm starting to be really disturbed by that voice.
"But I have to call," she whimpers. "I have to."
"Have you been compelled?!" I finally find my voice. I direct my question to Trudy, but I'm looking at Lia. She just shakes her head.
"Do you know the man who told you to do this? You have his number, right? What if I call for you?" Lia offers.
Trudy is shaking her head repeatedly, reflexively. "No, no, no," she murmurs. "He'll kill me."
"No, no he won't," Lia assures her. "He won't because I'm going to be here, right? I'm going to help you."
"You will?" she whispers, hope filling her wet eyes again.
"Yeah, I promised didn't I?"
"Ok." We watch as Trudy shuffles to the kitchen, pressing a button on a cordless house-phone while we wait in silence.
I don't hear the voice on the other end, but Lia does. Trudy drops the phone in a sudden paroxysm of panic, falling in a trembling heap on the floor, while Lia intercepts the man now breaking down the door.
"You weren't supposed to tell anyone, Trudy," he growls. The man is huge. Over six feet tall and built like a brick wall. Lia looks tiny by comparison, but she doesn't even blink an eye. She grabs his arm at the shoulder and elbow, wrenching it back at an unnatural angle. I wince and look away at the sound of snapping bone when he hits the wall.
He howls and makes an attempt to lunge again, but Lia is on him in a moment. I allow myself to consider how odd this scene looks for a moment. There's a huge terror of a man cowering on the floor while a tiny girl, no more than 5'4'' at the most, looms over him. It would be funny if it weren't so terrifying.
"What do you know about Isobel," she demands, pressing down on his damaged arm. I squeeze my eyes at the sound he makes.
"She doesn't want you to look for her. She says to stop looking!"
This seems an odd thing to say in the situation, and instinctively I glance over in my confusion. But he's not looking at Lia. He's looking at me.
"Isobel? Does that mean she's—"
"Do you understand?" he asks. Well, more like demands.
When I fail to answer immediately, he repeats, "Do you understand?"
"Y-Yes," I say hesitantly. He seems relieved by my response, going limp on the floor. Lia steps back, letting him up.
He pulls a knife from beneath his windbreaker, and stabs himself in the neck. Lia twists her mouth in distaste, while Trudy cries, and I try to catch my breath.
That man just killed himself. Someone compelled him to kill himself.
"Well, that was unnecessary. What a mess," Lia mutters, completely unaffected.
You know, you would think after everything that's happened in the last few months that I would be used to this, but I hope I never look at a dead body like it's nothing more than a mild inconvenience. How can human life matter so little?
"Elena," Lia calls, a wary expression in her eye. She approaches me slowly, hands held out like I'm some feral animal. "Elena, calm down. You're going to have a panic attack very soon if you don't calm down."
What? It's only then I notice the rapid acceleration of my heart, my shaking hands, my heaving lungs. I feel like I can't get a breath. I put my head between my knees, breathing in through my nose, trying to regulate my breathing. That's what they tell you to do, right?
When I finally calm enough to hear her again, she says, "Elena, why don't you go wait in the car? I'll finish up here."
I don't even have it in me to argue.
When I get to the car, I settle in the passenger seat. I don't think someone having panic attacks should be driving. I have no idea how long it takes for Lia to meet me, but it feels like minutes, and hours at once.
"Well," she says, smiling at me from the driver's seat. She looks more alive now than I've seen her all day. If only I'd known that all it took was a little torture and some compelled suicide to bring her Suzy Sunshine act back. "That was interesting. Thanks for bringing me along, Elena."
Nadezhda
We arrive just in time to hear Carol Lockwood announce Plumber Joe, Bachelor Number 3 at the Mystic Falls Bachelor's Auction.
You know, it's amazing to me the number of social events they put on in this town. I mean, doesn't anyone have anything better to do than dress up and sip cheap booze while prattling on about the founding of their great little town and how wonderful the 1860s were? It's really rather tiresome.
We squeeze in at a table with Jenna. Elena finds a seat, but I opt to stand. I get a small smile from the aunt in greeting for my trouble.
"You're running late. I thought you weren't gonna make it," Jenna whispers to her niece beside her. Elena shrugs and attempts to look apologetic. Funny.
So, we missed the first half of the event due to some unforeseen complications. Whatever, a little murder, some torture, at least we got here in time for the main event.
"Number 4, Alaric Saltzman," Carol introduces. "Wow, that's quite a mouthful. What do you do, Alaric?"
"I'm a teacher at Mystic Falls High," he answers.
"Oh, beauty and brains, ladies. This one's a keeper. What do you teach Alaric?"
Damon's got that look in his eye. You know the one. I wonder what he's planning.
"History."
"History?" Carol repeats with a smile. "Oh, well give us a fun fact about Mystic Falls, something crazy."
Oh, what, like the fact that it was founded on the ruins of a witch colony and was overrun by vampires in the 1800s. Something like that?
"Oh, um…" Alaric seems stumped in his attempt to avoid the obvious. Damon looks on with a grin, making a mocking gesture with his hand behind his ear as we await Ric's response.
I almost laugh, but I don't see this ending well. Whatever Damon's doing it's guaranteed to be cruel and self-destructive. Yippee.
"He's probably saving the best stories for his date," Carol attempts to save, but really I think she just wants to talk to Damon. He really does have this entire town eating out of the palm of his hand, doesn't he?
"And last, but not least, Damon Salvatore. We don't have much on you."
"Well, I'm tough to fit on a card," he says with a smirk. Yeah, I'll say.
I notice Elena waving and turn to see Stefan in the crowd now. I gathered in the car that she hadn't told him about visiting Trudy. Wonder what he thinks she's been up to all day. Should be one hell of a conversation for which I will most assuredly not be present.
"Do you have any hobbies, like to travel?" Carol asks up on stage.
"Oh, yeah. L.A, New York. Couple years ago I was in North Carolina. Near the Duke campus, actually. I think—I think Alaric went to school there. Didn't you, Ric?"
Oh, fuck. He doesn't know. I see the realization begin to dawn on Elena's face as the rage floods Ric's. Damn it, Damon. You had to choose now of all times to be funny?
"Yeah. 'Cause I know your wife did," Damon says, that cruel smile twisting his lips. "I had a drink with her once. She was—she was a great girl. I ever tell you that? 'Cause she was—delicious"
Stefan comes running through the crowd as Elena pushes herself away from the table, tears in her eyes.
Noticing the look on her face, Jenna asks, "Are you ok?"
"I just—I just need some air," she gasps as she runs from the building.
I sigh. Damon.
"Excuse me, Jenna," I say to the strawberry blonde beside me. "I've got an asshole of a best friend to deal with."
"Your brother?" she asks with a knowing smile.
I give her a tight-lipped one of my own. "Pretty much."
He's flirting it up with some bar skank when I reach him. Gross. I grab him firmly by the elbow—he'll be feeling that later—and say through gritted teeth, "Can I talk to you?" It's not a question.
I drag him to a secluded corner over by the bathrooms. "Whoa!" he backs away, hands up. "What's with the jealous girlfriend routine?"
"Oh, shut up, Damon." It's meant to be a snarl, but by the time it comes out it's more resigned amusement than anything.
He pouts at me, batting his eyelashes. Jesus. I fight back a smile. "Damon, you should know, Isobel? Alaric's wife? She's Elena's birthmother."
The smile quickly slips from his face. "What?" he hisses. "When did you figure this out?"
"Just today. We were at her friend's house this afternoon."
"Well why didn't you tell me before…"
"Before you went all 'Damon' on us?" I taunt. He glares at me. I'm getting rather sick of being on this end of those.
"Well, I tried. I called you three times, and I sent a text which you obviously never read while you were busy throwing your little temper tantrum at the bottom of a high ball glass. Look." I say, pulling up my outbox.
To "Twinsky", From "You": With Elena. Found out mom is Alaric's Isobel. Seeing old friend.
"How you like them apples, asshole?"
He blinks down at my phone, frowns at me, stares at the door—
"I didn't kill her," he admits finally. "I just….you know."
"Yeah, I know. So does Elena."
"Huh?" he asks dumbly.
"Well, the conversation didn't go exactly how you'd expect…"
(one hour ago)
"You know what this means. Don't you, Elena?" I ask when the silence in the passenger seat gets too much for me.
"Hmm?" she looks at me, shaking away whatever thoughts were stewing in there. "Oh, I guess…you said he was compelled to keep me from looking for Isobel so…"
I smile; pleased she worked it out so fast. "Yep. Your birth-mom's playing for my team."
"I wonder who turned her…" she muses.
I sigh. Here comes the fun part. "Yeah, so I think I may have an answer for that."
Her head spins so fast, I'm afraid she'll get whiplash from the stress. "Was it you?" she asks, sounding disgusted.
I'm not exactly hurt by the accusation. I did just admit to turning her doppelganger this morning. "No, I didn't. I didn't even know she was a vampire until today. But I am reasonably sure I know who did."
She looks at me, confused.
"It was Damon, Elena," I admit.
"Damon?" she gasps, shocked and horrified by the information. I don't really get it. I don't see why it's suddenly worse now than it was 2 seconds ago.
"Yeah…Ric told me Damon killed his wife, we just found out his dead wife is actually a vampire. 1+1 equals…"
She doesn't seem to be taking this as well as I hoped. In fact, she looks like she's about to have another panic attack. I pull over quickly, but she seems to have finally gotten a grip on herself.
"So, Damon turned my mother into a vampire. Great. That's great. That's just what I needed in my life right now. Stellar," she rants.
"Elena, look I get that this is all coming at you really fast and it's gotta be hard to wrap your head around, but this isn't the absolute worst thing is it? I mean, she could be dead dead instead of just…dead" I reason.
"Worse? How could this possibly worse? My mother got turned into an undead supernatural creature by my boyfriend's brother. How is that not the worst thing?"
I find myself a little offended by this, but I guess I can try to understand…no. I don't get it.
"Elena…" I start. I shake my head incredulously. I try again, "Elena, you do realize you're dating a vampire, right?"
She looks at me with those judgmental, morally indignant eyes of hers. There's that glare again: 'The Elena Special'. Man, I think it may actually be worse than Stefan's. Speaking of…
"Yes, but Stefan doesn't hurt people."
Oh? Is that what he told you now? Whew, boy! I could bust the top off that can of worms and blow their whole relationship to smithereens if I responded to that statement the way I really want to. But then, I do try not to piss Damon off when he's already mad at me so, I just let it go. Much as it kills me.
"Yeah, ok. But you do see how it's possible to be a person and a vampire, right? Like, choosing this life doesn't necessarily make you evil?"
She stares at me blankly, eyes blinking away in blatant disbelief. "Who would choose to become a…vampire?"
"A lot more than you think, apparently," I tell her. "For starters: Damon (more or less), me, Anna, Katherine, your mom. And those are just the one's you know."
"Ok…but why?"
I shrug, my lips twisting wryly. "Lots of reasons, most of them probably not up to your overly idealistic standards. But…love is a common one. Like Damon. Like Anna. Survival another. That'd be Katherine's."
She purses her lips in distaste, her voice snidely condescending when she asks, "What was yours?"
"Power," I say shortly, fighting to keep my face smooth and blank when I answer, knowing her likely reaction.
She stares at me a moment before saying, "How could you choose to become something that preys on innocent people? How could you not care about that? Does human life really mean that little to you?"
I snort. "Elena, I was a killer way before I started drinking blood to survive."
I hear her pulse spike at this, though she says nothing.
I shoot her a cruelly amused smirk. "I love that your more afraid of me now then you were 5 seconds ago."
In the corner of my eye, I can see her struggling to gain control over her reaction. She seems to be fighting an internal battle between fear and self-righteous indignation at my apparent lack of human compassion. Looks like the latter won out. It always does.
I roll my eyes at her obvious revulsion. "Your problem is that you see this as an all or nothing, black and white, moral dilemma. But, Elena, being a vampire doesn't make you evil any more than being human makes you good. If that were true, you wouldn't devote entire institutions of law enforcement to protecting people from each other."
She still looks skeptical, not to mention judgmental. "So you don't think the bloodlust changed you? At all?"
I shake my head, frustrated. "All that vampirism does is highlight whatever aspects of your personality best complement the predator. It doesn't make you a different person."
She remains unconvinced.
"My first kill?" I tell her, figuring I'll just regret it later. "I held some innocent girl down on my kitchen table, and carved her heart out with a knife. No, I don't think the bloodlust affected me overmuch."
Rather than wait for her to respond—Man, I really shouldn't have told her that—I say, "My point is, Elena, that we all make our own choices. Vampirism doesn't make you a bad person. If you are truly "evil" as a vampire, you started out that way." I resist the urge to use air quotes. Barely.
I huff a small laugh to myself, another thought occurring to me. "Granted, our moral code does tend to be a little more…relaxed."
"I however," I say, giving her a sharp look, "tend to think that's more a product of emotional maturity and objective practicality than lack of conscience or empathy."
She juts her lip out petulantly. Or maybe it's supposed to look thoughtful. I don't know. She just looks like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum to me. Come to think of it, that sounds like someone else I know…
"What makes you think Isobel wanted it?" she asks suddenly, returning to a safer topic. Probably wise.
I lift an incredulous eyebrow at her as I pull back onto the road. "Because Damon turned her, obviously. He's not that much of a blood-slut that he goes around turning people at random," I explain.
I taught him better than that, I add silently.
"He turned Vicki," she challenges.
"Yeah, but that was just to get back at Stefan. Most of the "terrible stuff" he does is to get back at Stefan." Quotey fingers and all. This time I couldn't help myself.
"For Katherine," she scoffs. Jesus, Stefan. What have you been telling this girl? Ugh, if anything at all.
"You'll have to ask him about that. I'm sure there's loads you don't know. Like, for instance, the fact that he knew about Alaric's connection to Isobel and didn't tell you." There, take that, Stefan.
"How do you know that?" she asks warily.
"Because I knew 2 seconds after the word 'Isobel' came out of your mouth. How long has Stefan been sitting on that information?"
From the look on her face, I'd say awhile. Oh, I am good.
End of flashback
"So, you see Damon?" I say happily, slapping a hand to his shoulder. "She's probably too scared of me and too annoyed with Stefan to even work up the energy to be mad at you."
The tiny relieved smile he wears at that is far sweeter than any other thanks I'm likely to receive. Slinging an arm around my shoulder, he leads me out the door. Guess this means I'm forgiven.
For now, anyway.
Alaric
When I followed him back to his house, I didn't expect the sprawling mansion that the Salvatore's call a home. It's a little Dracula-esque actually. The evil, immortal monster in a beautiful historic home. Yeah, sounds like a horror novel.
I guess I'm more than a little out of my element in this situation. Still, the fear, the adrenaline, the rage running through me in this moment makes me feel more than capable. This is what I've been training for since that day over a year ago that I found his picture in a box of her things.
"Damon Salvatore," it read. Her murderer.
I don't care that he's old, and strong, and far more powerful than I'll ever be. That vampire in there killed my wife. He killed my wife and then he joked about it. He taunted me with it like it meant absolutely nothing to him that he had stolen a woman—stolen her life—from someone that loved her, that she loved.
He doesn't get to survive that. I won't let him.
I find him sitting comfortably on the couch before a—rather Gothic if I do say so myself, again very Dracula of him—raging fire, Lia snuggled into his side.
Well, maybe snuggling is not really the right—oh, gross. Aren't they siblings?
"Are you really this stupid?" Damon asks, not even turning his head.
My hand-carved stake is in my hand as I close in on him. He stands and turns, just looks at me, utterly unfazed. That somehow makes it about a million times worse. White-hot rage sears through me, but it leaks out in tears.
He takes a glance at the stake in my hand, taking a sip of his drink. His expression hardens.
"Guess so."
With a single falcon-punch to my sternum, he sends me flying over the couch. I land before the fire place.
Lia watches me from her position on the couch, face emotionless—devoid of all feeling. Her feet are comfortably tucked beneath her. She doesn't move a muscle.
I lurch to my feet as quickly as I can, setting them in an offensive crouch.
"You gonna put down the stake?" Damon sneers. There is no fear in his voice, but there is an anger there that should freeze me cold. The smart thing to do would be to turn tail and run, but I owe Izzy more than that.
When he sees that I have made no move except to set my feet in preparation for the next attack, he shrugs. He still carries his drink in one hand.
"Wow, that's courage," he taunts.
"Where's Isobel?" I ask. The one question none of my discoveries accounted for. Where is her body?
"What have you done to my wife?"
He smirks at me, but it is hard and icy cold. I hear the low thunk of glass on wood as he sets it down. He strolls around the couch toward me, brushing Lia's shoulders with one hand as he goes. A tension I didn't notice was there before relaxes at the contact.
"Do you want me to tell you I killed her? Will that make you happy?" he taunts.
"I saw you feeding on her," I breathe.
"Yeah, and I wasn't lying," he says. "She was…delicious." He says the last with relish, reducing my wife to an evening meal. Though I guess for him it was.
I charge him again. This time, it's a blow to my solar plexus that sends me reeling, gasping for breath.
"Oh, come on. What do you think happened? Never considered the possibility?" he taunts, advancing on me. "I turned her."
Oh, God. So she's—she's really. God, that's so much worse.
"Why?" I gasp around my convulsing diaphragm.
"She came to me, all pathetic, looking for vampires," he tells me, a wistful expression on his face as he remembers. "There was something about her. Something I liked. Something…special"
"You turned her because you liked her?" I ask, appalled.
"No, I slept with her because I liked her." His words slice through me, sharper than any knife. "I turned her because she begged me to."
I finally manage to get my breathing back under control, but there is nothing I can say. No defense I have against this. Not even in my own mind.
"Yeah. But you knew that too, didn't you?" he taunts. "Guess she wasn't happy at home. Wasn't happy with life in general. Wasn't happy with you."
This time, when I attack, I throw everything I have behind it. All my grief, my pain, my anger, my doubt, all of it thrown at the feet of the monster responsible. For everything since the day she left.
Because, I realize, she did. She left. She left because of him, but she left because he offered her something she wanted. Something she didn't have with me.
I throw everything I have at him, and this time when he stops me I hope it sticks.
I feel the ripping of muscle, the scrape of bone, and the agonizing searing pain as the stake is turned in my hand and thrust into my own chest. Damon hardly seems to move. It takes so little effort to end my life.
"Ah, this is a shame," he says over my dying gasps. There's no air left in my lungs to scream. "We're kindred spirits you and I. Abandoned by the women we love. Unrequited love sucks."
Somehow, I think it hurts worse when it is removed than when it went it. I hear the sickening squelch of my life's blood as the stake is torn from my chest.
"Sounds like I got a lung," he says, casually, "which means I get to sit here and watch you die."
I watch him toss the stake on the couch at Lia's feet, grab his glass from the table, and sit back beside her. My last sight on this earth is my murderer curled on a couch with a girl and a smile.
Damon
I wrap my arm back around Z's shoulders. She hasn't moved since the teacher stormed in here with a stake and the intent to kill.
I didn't forget what she told me about the ring, and maybe if I were still angry with her—well, as angry as I was this morning anyway—I would have taken it first before I killed him, but color me curious. I've never seen someone come back to life with a magic ring before.
"Thank you," she says, smiling softly at me as she strokes my cheek. "Thank you for not killing him."
I cock an eyebrow at her, giving a pointed look to the bleeding man on the floor.
She rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."
"He's going to be super pissed when he wakes up," I comment, smirking a little.
"Well, then let's hope it takes a while for him to wake up," she teases. With the hand she still holds to my face, she turns my lips to meet hers. I smile into the kiss.
What is it with this girl and murder that gets her so turned on?
"Maybe I'll just have to kill him again," I tease between kisses.
She chuckles, but her mouth is busy doing other things. My fingers tangle themselves in that thick mane of hair of their own accord, tugging her lips more securely against mine. I nibble at her bottom lip, coaxing her mouth to open for me. She does, with a sigh.
I feel the scratch of her nails against my scalp, her other hand gripping the lapels of my suit jacket, as my tongue tangles with hers. She sucks the wet muscle into her mouth, pulls hard and deep like she's trying to swallow me whole.
The intense suction in that warm, wet cavern is doing some interesting things to other parts of my anatomy.
As she is wont to do, her fangs descend—just a hint—enough to quickly nick the tongue in her mouth, moaning at the taste as blood fills her mouth.
I grab the back of her neck as she moves to straddle me, pulling her closer so I can bite at her lips, returning the favor.
This is my absolute favorite thing to do with this girl. Blood-sharing is a deeply personal pursuit and not one I'd be likely to try with just anyone.
Yet, despite my recent doubts, she's still the one I trust the most and it makes this all the more intense.
The taste, the thrill of her blood is so rich, so powerful; it sets my entire body on fire. I think I could come from just this. And I know she could too. Hell, we have.
She pushes at the open collar of my suit jacket, and I shrug it off quickly knowing she will merely rip it to pieces if I don't comply. When it's off, I settle my hands back on her hips, rolling up into them to grind my hardened cock against the heat of her arousal.
She thrusts back hard in the search for friction, climbing further into my lap until there is literally no place to go that is closer than inside.
I slide a hand up her skirt, the fishnet tights pulled taut and ever so slightly rough as I caress her outer thigh.
I nip and suck my way down her neck, focusing on that spot behind her ear that drives her wild. I let my fangs come into play, but I don't bite down. I merely scrape them along the skin of her throat so lightly it's more of a tickle.
She whines in frustration. I smirk as she grabs me by the tie, forcing me back to her mouth.
Her hands are tearing at my buttons, while one of my hands reaches to tease her breast over her shirt. These tight things she always wears are great for looking, but they soon become frustrating in these moments.
I grab a handful of fabric in each hand—
"Guys, seriously?" Ladies and Gentleman, my brother the cock-block.
Z drops her head onto my shoulder, grumbling obscenities and some uniquely terrifying revenge fantasies starring my little brother. I consider voicing a few of them myself, but by this point Stefan has moved far enough into the room to note the dead guy on the floor. Oh, right.
"Damon, what did you do?" he cries out, running to land on his knees beside Alaric.
"Dude, what? He attacked me," I retort.
Stefan turns that patented disapproving glare on me. "Damon…"
Z must recognize the tone because she starts trying to roll off my lap with small show of force. Not enough to overpower me, but a less than subtle hint of her intentions. I hold her in place. I really need her to stay right there, for so many reasons.
"All I did was tell him the truth. His wife didn't want him anymore," I shrug. "It's not my fault he couldn't handle it."
It's oddly entertaining having this conversation when I know that any second from now the body is going to rise from the ground like the Night of the Living Dead.
"Like you've been handling Katherine?" he challenges.
"I've been handling it fine," I say with a sharp smile. And it's true, I have. Haven't gone on a killing spree yet have I?
No, I've been too busy saving his girlfriend and being sucker-punched in the nuts by the girl in my arms with every new wave of 'oh so secret' information.
Yeah, I'm not bitter at all.
"And you," Stefan accuses, glaring at the back of her head while the sparks burn behind her eyes. I watch her curiously as those sparks become a raging fire with his next words. "How could you let him do this?"
Oh, now he's asking for it. This time when she pushes away, she uses enough force to send me burrowing into the leather cushion behind me. If it weren't there, I'd be on my ass across the room.
She spins around to growl in his face. "Let? Let? Are you fucking kidding me? Zasranec!"#
Stefan looks taken aback which, yeah. You'd think he'd be used to these hostile outbursts by now. She's never made any secret of the way she feels about my little brother.
"Your brother is not a puppy I can house train with a treat and a spray bottle! And if you think for a minute that I have ever had any interest in trying then you don't know me at all," she sneers.
Stefan looks a little scared of her at the moment and I fight to hide my smile. She is seething in the corner of the couch, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes blazing.
I know she could take either of us blindfolded with both hands tied behind her back, but really she just sort of looks cute over there.
I slide over a bit to rest a hand on her knee, giving her a calming stare when her eyes rise up to meet mine, and watch as the steam goes out of her like magic. I bite back a smug grin.
Her anger evaporates just as quickly as it came, and soon enough she perks up, shooting me a sly smile. "So, how's Elena taking the whole 'my birth mom's a rawr hiss fangs' thing?" she asks, making ridiculous and dramatic hand gestures for every word. I'm feeling better already.
Stefan just frowns at us. I sigh inwardly. Stefan has no sense of humor.
"Um…she's dealing in her own way." Oh, classic Stefan evasion. Code for: 'she's pissed off at me, but I don't want to tell you why because then I won't look like the good guy' and also 'you just killed someone so back off'.
Z glances at me out of the corner of her eye, fluttering her long mascara-ed eyelashes at Stefan. "Why Stefan, whatever does that mean?"
Stefan looks suspicious at that. Granted, she's hardly being subtle with the taunting. I'll admit that I take a perverse pleasure in the fact that we have seemingly made Stefan forget about the dead body behind him. Poor Stefan. So easily distracted. "Why do you want to know so badly?"
"Well, I only spent the entire afternoon with her, Stef," she chimes. "Am I not allowed to worry about her? She's had a hard day."
She's got a point there. I only managed to get half of the story before—Cliffnotes version—and it certainly sounds it.
"Yeah," Stefan nods, sighing and resting back on his ankles a bit. "She told me you helped her out with all that. Thank you for that. Do you think that Trudy woman's going to be ok? Elena was worried about her."
Z tenses for a second, looking guiltily away. In a moment she'll start whistling.
Stefan freezes, about to confront her, but I answer for her, "Oh, you mean the woman that knew about Isobel and her connection to Elena? The woman that was so terrified of vampires attacking that she wouldn't invite a teenage girl in, was afraid of her own house phone, and was so chalk full of vervaine she ought to start sprouting soon? The woman that watched Z here rip a guys arm off and witnessed him completing his compulsion to kill himself? That Trudy?"
We watch as recognition spreads on his face, quickly overtaking the outrage, and eventually morphing into a sad kind of resignation. If there's one thing I can say about my brother, it's that when push comes to shove he sees reason.
"Had to be done, Stef" I say, patting his knee.
The formerly dead history teacher groans on the floor and Stefan falls back in shock. Z grins in anticipation, and I can feel one tugging at my own lips.
Suddenly, he gasps and attempts to sit up. "What happened? What's going on?"
Stefan's brow furrows in confusion. His eyes flick to me as he asks, "Did Damon turn you?"
"Nope!" I chirp happily. Alaric seems to register my presence now and reflexively flinches away. If only he'd had that instinct for self-preservation 30 minutes ago.
Looking between us now, Stefan argues, "Well, you must have vampire blood in your system if—
"No, it's something else." His ring finger twitches and he glances at Z beside me, a look of dawning comprehension coming over his features. He stares at the ring on his hand muttering, "Isobel."
"Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!" Z yells, excitedly. "Today's prize: the Magic Ring of Not Dying. Available in any color you like, as long as it's black^. Matches any shape and size and, for this month only, the Gilbert family crest!" She holds her arms out dramatically, wiggling her fingers on the ends. 'Ta da!' Jazz hands
"What?" Stefan asks, dumb-founded. I barely restrain an emasculating giggle at the sight. "You knew?"
"Well of course we knew, Stefan," she says, giving him a sharp look that recalls her earlier anger. "You didn't think I just went around letting Damon kill my friends, did you?"
Stefan looks a little shame-faced, but, really, he wasn't wrong exactly.
She hops up off the couch, and bends to pat Alaric on the shoulder.
"Welcome to the land of the re-living, Ric. Hell of a thing you have there," she says, gesturing to the ring, and leaves the room.
The teacher is still glaring at me reproachfully as I sit there, finishing my drink. I stay in the room just long enough to make the other two extremely uncomfortable, before setting my empty glass on the table and strolling away. I've got some actually necessary apologies to make.
Elena
"Damon?" I jump, surprised to see the darkly pale beauty of his leather clad body sitting so casually in my window seat. There is something about his posture, something in the ice blue of his eyes that tells me that this is a Damon I have never seen before. He looks…guilty?
I feel I should be scared, or at least angry or something, but he just looks so sad sitting there. There's a part of me that still simmers with moral indignation that he could have been so callous and impulsive as to turn my mother into a homicidal supernatural creature, and I doubt that's going away any time soon.
Rationally, I know he hadn't even met me yet and she was really just some random woman to him at the time, but I'm having a hard time telling my heart that. Still, after what Lia told me in the car about Isobel and the fact that she must have chosen this life, the heat in my anger has mostly just fizzled out.
Well, for this brother anyway.
Stefan and his secret keeping in an attempt to 'protect me from the truth' or whatever stupidly noble thing he thinks he's doing at any given moment is another story entirely.
I can't even begin to process everything else she told me. Then I really would be scared.
"What are you doing here?" I ask when he remains silent. I wonder what's on his mind. I've never seen him look so fragile—so human.
"She asked me to, you know?" he mutters, finally.
This? This is what he's beating himself up about? Why would Damon feel bad about something like that? He didn't care when he turned Vicki and she died, so why would he suddenly care now? Unless...unless it's not what he did to Isobel that's bothering him, but what he said to upset me.
I'd say he's right in that if that is the case. I can't help the anger I feel that it is his fault my birthmother is a blood-sucking demon (despite what I feel for Stefan, this is still true) and probably a murderer to boot.
I feel like, whether or not she is still walking around, she's for all intents and purposes gone. Even if I were to meet this version of her, I'll never know that sixteen year old girl that gave birth to me.
I have him to thank for that.
Still, knowing she asked for it…I can't hate him. Not this time.
"I know," I assure him despite the trace of anger that I can't surrender. "Lia explained it to me. I understand."
He looks puzzled by this, as though he can't imagine me being so forgiving on such an issue. In truth, I doubt I would be if not for Lia's rather coarse tactics at getting me there. She's not much for sugarcoating the truth that one. Although, I suppose she and Damon have that in common.
"She said, and I quote, 'Damon's not that much of a blood-slut that he goes around turning people at random'." I offer him a wry smile, shrugging. "She seemed pretty sure of herself when she said it, so I'm inclined to take her word for it."
Damon laughs quietly, a happy sound I almost never hear from him. Not unless Lia's involved somehow. It makes me wonder sometimes, despite everything they've both said to the contrary, how deep that affection runs.
"Yeah, well that sounds like her," he admits. Abruptly though, he stands, his glacial eyes boring into me with an intensity I can feel in my toes. Somehow, it doesn't scare me anymore.
"But I'm not here to talk about Z," he whispers, his eyes are soft somehow though they pierce through me. He walks slowly, cautiously toward me, giving me every opportunity to back away. I don't.
He cups my cheeks softly in his palms, warm and close, with a certain…tenderness in his eyes that I don't think I've ever seen from him before. Not even when he spoke of Katherine. Not even when he speaks of Lia.
I tense briefly at the contact, but he's looking at me with such soft eyes that I can't bear to pull away. He's so close I can feel his breath on my face. The skin where he touches me tingles. I wonder if he means to kiss me now. I wonder if I should let him.
He tips my head forward, his back, and brushes his lips softly across my forehead. Something seems to break in my chest at the sweetness of it. I close my eyes to hold onto the feeling.
"I wanted to say, I'm sorry. For everything." The words are softly spoken, almost disappearing on the wind. I open my eyes to see him gone, his words gone with him. I tremble.
Nadezhda
"Damon…" I sigh out, as he does wicked things to my throat with his teeth and tongue, teasing every tiny breathy pant out of me that he can.
He's lying over me, chest bare, between my bent knees. My tights lay across the floor with my shirt, my skirt is hiked up to my waist, and he is running his hot, possessive hands all over me. I can hardly think, but I need to get this out.
"Damon…" I try again, only to gasp when he nips at me at the same moment his finger flicks my clit. God, it's too much and not nearly enough. It is torture, the things he does to me.
"Hmm…Have I told you how glad I am you wore a skirt today?" he murmurs, smug in his teasingly sadistic ways. He's rubbing tight, mesmerizing circles around that sensitive little nub, only to pull away at the last minute, right when I feel myself pulse under the heat of his touch. He's killing me.
"Only...half a dozen…times," I sigh.
It's been like this since he got home about an hour ago. I didn't ask him where he went, it's none of my business and not my place to ask, but I can guess.
There's really only one girl in this entire town he can't have—or thinks he can't have anyway—and it happens to be the one he most wants. Ergo: distraction time.
"Damon, I need to—I need to tell you—tell you something," I stutter, a fresh wave of pleasure overtaking me. His right hand is teasing my nipple, pinching and soothing in tandem with his left beneath my skirt.
In the same moment, he pinches, presses, and bites with human teeth. My eyes fly open and my breath leaves my lungs all at once.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that," he teases.
"Zaebis'*!" I exclaim as his fingers slide in, pinch, nip, whatever it is I can't even keep track. Lights explode behind my eyes.
"That's what I thought you said," he chuckles smugly.
I laugh, but it's breathless and practically non-existent. With boneless arms, I push at him, knowing that another second of that and I would completely abandon my goal here.
He watches me from the other side of the bed, propped up on his elbow with his head in his hands as he smirks at me.
"Fuck, Damon," I grumble.
"Thought we were getting there," Damon quips.
"Ugh," I flop back on the bed, throwing an arm over my eyes. "Yeah, but I have something sort of important to tell you, so I'm gonna need you to stop being…you for like half a second." I attempt a half-hearted glare at him, but it's a little hard to be mad at him right now.
He flops back, mimicking my pose, but with his arms crossed over his beautifully muscled chest.
"Yes, ma'am," he says.
I roll my eyes. "Damon, look you remember that text I got from Slater, right? Before all this happened the last few days?"
He sobers the moment the name 'Slater' comes out of my mouth. "Yeah."
"Well, I sort of need to reply to him. He's kind of high maintenance and I'm afraid if I don't give him an answer soon, he'll go shouting his discoveries to the roof-tops. Or worse, other vampires."
He looks at me curiously a moment. "Why haven't you then?"
"Because I didn't want to do that without talking to you first," I sigh. "I meant it, Damon. No more secrets."
"Really?" he asks, skeptical, "because I can think of one or two you're still keeping."
I lift my chin defiantly. "Ask me anything," I challenge.
"Ok," he says, rising to a seated position against the headboard. It gives him some semblance of control, towering over me this way. I don't mind, but I understand. "Why didn't you tell me about Klaus?"
"Damon, I—" I immediately object.
He holds up a palm to silence me. "I mean, before all this. Back when we first met. When I told you all my secrets…well, most of them, and you were keeping yours the whole time."
I breathe deeply, running my hands over my face. This is a tough one. How to start?
"Do you remember the story I told you back in the twenties? The one about the girl and her brother?"
He looks confused for a moment, brow furrowing as he tries to decide where this is going.
"Well, the brother I promised to save from a haunting? That was Niklaus Mikaelson," I tell him, and even though he still doesn't know half the story, it's a weight off my chest.
"And the sister?" he asks, knowing the importance of this confession. Finally.
"Rebekah," I whisper. I listen to the single word as it flutters through the air in the breeze from the open window.
Rather than press further on this issue, which I greatly appreciate in the moment, he clears his throat to ask a new question.
"So, what all does this Slater guy know?"
"Just that there might be a doppelganger in existence right now, and that Klaus is looking for her. I told him that she wasn't here after all and to keep looking elsewhere. He doesn't understand how dangerous all this is so I couldn't tell him the truth."
"Why not? If he knew the risk then—"
"Because Slater lacks even basic instincts for self-preservation. When it comes to knowledge and his insatiable curiosity, he doesn't know how to be careful. I couldn't risk telling him things no one who's not an Original should even know if he was likely to go blabbing about it."
"And no one else can be trusted because if they knew about her, they'd go straight to Klaus."
"To curie favor, exactly."
"So what do we do about Slater, then? If he knows about Katherine—Katarina—whichever, then he becomes a liability, doesn't he? How hard would it be to find her face with both of those names tied together, and find Elena because of it?"
"That's just it, D. It wouldn't be. It wouldn't be hard at all."
Without another word spoken between us, our decision is made. We're going to see Slater tomorrow.
# transliteration for Russian 'Asshole'
*a transliteration from Russian meaning 'Holy Fuck'