Chapter 14
A/N: Alright, I just have to say that I am super excited for this chapter. This one is sort of the first step toward that all out AU I keep teasing, and it can only get better from here. It is probably my favorite so far, despite the fact that it's actually very Stefan-centric and kind of kicked my butt. It was a tough one. Anyway, I really cannot wait to hear what you guys think. So please, please, please let me know.
Also, please R&R ;-)
(Reference: 1x18 "Under Control", 1x19 "Miss Mystic Falls", and 2x7 "Masquerade")
Stefan
The comfortable burn of muscle and the blaring ricochet of the stereo thrum through me, igniting every reachable nerve-ending with the thrill of physical labor—my body at its peak of focus and heightened awareness. Still, it is not enough.
The gnawing hunger—the need—slices through everything like a steak knife through melting butter and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The best I can do is ignore it. Ignore it until it fades to the background of my ever-present lust, drowned out by the cacophony of everyday life, of normal, of humanity.
"Can you turn it up a little bit? It's not annoying yet," Damon shouts from the doorway. Over my shoulder, I watch him cross to the stereo and punch the power.
My fingertips grip securely around the shallow eave and the muscles in my arms flex and tense as I lift my chin to meet them. "Sorry," I gasp out around the slight ease of pressure at the bottom end.
Damon silences the stereo with a single irritated jab, and I drop to the floor. My palms hit the wood, back ramrod straight, as I fall into my next set.
In the corner of my eye, I see his boots stride toward me, but all I can smell is the blood in his glass. "When you going back to school?" he asks, the smirk implicit in his voice. He knows.
Eyes rooted to the floor between my hands, I say, "Soon."
"Oh, come on. Just drink already," he groans. He crouches beside me, the tantalizing liquid sloshing in the glass between his knees—beckoning. "Come on. This self-detox is unnatural."
I fight the growing hunger, the yearning, the desire to lunge fangs first into the breach, but with the smell of it so near to me the call of the blood is nearly irresistible.
"Could you get that away from me please?" I snap. I am pleased at the lack of desperation in the tone, no matter what I feel on the inside. Rather than wait pointlessly for him to subtract the temptation, I remove myself from the equation.
"How long did it take you to wean yourself off of it after you last indulged?" he prompts.
Propping my feet on the chair, I change angles for a deeper burn. I don't answer that. How can I? But I'm not willing to slip that far this time. It can't take that long this time.
"…That's not good."
"I'll be fine," I snap, pausing in my repetition to glare at him reproachfully. "It just takes a little bit of time." I'm not sure which of us I'm trying to convince.
"I don't get it. You know, you don't have to kill to survive. That's what blood banks are for. I haven't hunted a human in—gahh—way too long."
"Oh, I'm impressed," I taunt. Damon Salvatore, murder free since…last month.
"It was completely self-serving," he replies, following me again to stand behind my chair. "Trying to get the town off the trail of vampires, which is not very easy, considering there's been half a tomb of them running around."
Surrendering to the inevitable, I hop to my feet and turn to face him. "What are we planning to do about that?" I ask. From what they tell me, the tomb vampires are taken care of, but I've heard that one before. Besides, there's still Pearl and Anna to worry about.
"You're not gonna be doing much of anything if you don't have your strength," Damon says seriously. "There's nothing wrong with partaking in a healthy diet of human blood from a blood blank. You're not actually killing anyone."
I can tell he's growing frustrated with my obstinacy on this issue, but that's only because he doesn't understand and I can't really expect him to. I envy him that.
"I have my reasons," I answer simply.
"Well, what are those holier-than-thou reasons?" he prompts, flopping back in the chair he chased me from a moment ago. He sets his glass on the table as a mocking smile crosses his face. "You know, we've never actually discussed that. You know, I—I'd love to hear this story."
I look at him sitting there with his smug smile and his relaxed posture, completely nonchalant as he pokes relentlessly at my thinning resolve. He could at least act like he wasn't so entertained by all this. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you, just watching me struggle?"
"Very much so," he smirks.
Not willing to give him any more ammunition than he already has, I say, "I hate to break it to you, Damon, but I actually have it under complete control."
"You do?" he taunts.
"Mm hmm," I repeat. It's a lie, but hopefully it won't remain that way.
"Oh. Well, then you should just carry on making the rest of us vampires look bad," he teases, climbing to his feet. "Have a great day, Stefan." The glass stays behind when he leaves.
Despite my resolve, I can't help but stare. The blood is such a rich, deep red, the smell so mouthwateringly vivacious, I feel the veins beneath my eyes squirm in anticipation. My entire body from teeth to toes freezes cold and rigid—tightly restrained against the mounting scream of my need.
"Oh, hey!" Damon's reappearance breaks my concentration. "I almost forgot something. Oops."
The sly look in his eye makes my blood boil, but the hunger does not fade. In my very veins, the monster salivates—tearing at his chains with superhuman strength, nearly ripping them free with every ravenous lunge. It's only the iron will I have painstakingly built one crumbling stone at a time for over a century that keeps me still.
My eyes follow as he takes it away.
Nadezhda
The bar is repulsive. It's sort of the epitome of hole in the wall, with the dark wooden interior, the clearly loyal (though scant) patrons, the obvious lack of concern for hygiene… The rusted stool creaks as I shift in my seat, crunching broken peanut shells with its feet.
My hand leaves the bar-top as I release the bartender's glazed eyes from my hold, and it comes away sticky. Ugh.
Still, it beats hanging around Mystic Falls and the never changing scenery at the Grill. Don't even get me started on the boarding house.
If I had to suffer through another hundred repetitions of "chin up, push up, flog thyself" to that horrible blaring caterwauling while Stefan internally reenacts "A Clockwork Orange: Vampire Edition", I think I would have introduced him to the business end of a coat rack.
I know the memories he suffers through—that he tortures himself through. The images are all too real.
Unfortunately, though putting a permanent end to them might make me feel better, I can't imagine Damon would be too thrilled if I murdered his brother. Oh, well.
Snaking the bottle from beneath the blank stare of the bartender, I hop down from the stool in search of this morning's meal. Just because Stefan's busy denying his nature and his implicit thirst for violence and blood, doesn't mean I have to be.
I sigh inwardly. This would have been a lot more fun with Damon, but what with his whole "No, we can't eat in" and "Don't kill the townspeople, its suspicious"—Ugh. Like I'm just going to drink from blood bags now? Talk about boring.
Oh but, wait. I'm not in town, Damon. So take that!
I giggle at my own joke. So…I might be a little drunk. 6 hours paying devoted tribute to the gods of vodka will do that to a girl.
I settle at a booth at the back with a good view of the bar and its pitiful assortment of flavors.
Down the side wall, there's an older man with a scraggly grey beard and a red-bandana with his arm pressed against the plastic window as he leans into the juke-box. Despite dressing like a "Sons of Anarchy" reject, he reveals a geriatric indecisiveness as he flips through page after page of out-dated old hits.
Honestly, I expect some over-zealous hair band selection from the wanna-be bad grandpa, so his choice of song is initially unnoticed by me as my eyes scan my remaining options. Though, even in the distracted background of my mind, the soothing piano accompaniment to the jazzy number is a welcome surprise.
I spot a few younger red-necks crowded about the pool table. Beers sit idle and dripping on the wood as they hassle their companions, cues forgotten in their play.
There's a middle-aged cougar that reminds me of Mama Donovan across the way, nursing her sorrows in a gin and tonic that probably tastes like flat soda and rubbing alcohol considering the location. She doesn't exactly look any more appetizing than Biker Joe or the greasy bartender ignoring bar stains on the other side of the room, but…eh.
The low, hypnotizing tenor of Dean Martin's voice thrums through me and pulls me gently from my reverie. Floating on the musical air, my ear catches on the words—familiar and new all at once—and the bubble bursts.
The clouds are swept away in the chilling breeze of a memory. A cruel laugh and sad, dying eyes overtake my mind and for a moment I lose myself.
"Turn it off," I demand. The disembodied voice sounds cold with fury and command. Not a hint of the desperate throbbing in my veins or the ache in my heart are present.
"Excuse me?" the biker sneers. No respect. He has no idea who he's dealing with.
I catch his eyes easily with mine, pulling them into my darkness through 12 feet of dim lighting and dusty air. "I said, 'Turn. It. Off."
This time, he obeys. Good boy.
Fortunately for me, the regulars all seem to take this little exchange as a matter of course and thus fail to react at all. I doubt they'd even bat an eye if I took a swing at him right now. Hmm. Guess seedy back-alley establishments are good for something after all.
Maintaining the connection, I refuse to release him from my gaze as I approach him. The green/brown flecks in his eyes take on all new meaning in this moment.
My fangs are aching for a taste, my skin for the rich, hot feel of his blood as it pours down my chin. I want to drown in it, feel it flowing through my veins, and know that this kill was mine. Know that I have consumed him—his life, his mind, his blood—in every sense of the word. Know that I have taken from him that which is now forever lost to me.
Laying a deceptively light hand on his shoulder, I stand on tip-toe to whisper my instruction in a weathered ear. Though the beast within me gnashes anxious teeth for a taste of him, I know he's not the one I want. Not really.
Still, he'll do in a pinch.
Several minutes pass before I have him in my grasp again, this time in the grime-encrusted alley behind the bar, but my awareness fades as I sink my fangs into his flesh—sucking hungrily at the bleeding wound. As I draw from it, his life flows into mine. The feverish pounding of his terror-stricken heart sends his blood to the surface in thick, gushing bursts as I take it in.
All the sorrow, regret, pain, hurt, anger,…love, of his life—his mark on the world and others on him—fill me with every greedy swallow of the hot, pumping liquid as warm blood coats my tongue, my throat, my veins.
In his blood I see a laughing girl with a sunny smile and her father's eyes—now wrapped in the arms of a vicious man—now screaming anger and betrayal, tears streaming—now lying pale and still on a steel table.
Necessary though it may be, it's really a shame to let this one go. There is so much guilt and anger in him, that I can feel it feeding my own as flashes of my worst living nightmare play behind my eyes. So long neglected—futilely avoided—but never forgotten.
It's the closest I can get to humanity.
Bonnie
I curl into the soft confines of my aunt's guest bed—the plastic of my cell pressed hot and ever so slightly damp against my ear—with what I can only imagine is a bemused expression. It's sort of a wonder she doesn't pass out from lack of air with the way she carries on. Sometimes, I think she must have the lung capacity of a hot air balloon.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
"I don't know, Bonnie. Am I being too pushy? Should I back off? It's just…I want to do something nice for them, and everyone always says you should cook for people when they're grieving, you know? And I just want to help…"
I shake my head at her, though I know she can't see it. This is one area in which I feel well equipped to offer advice.
"Yeah, I get that Care, but…7 lasagnas? That might be a little much," God, even the thought of all that cheese makes me sick to my stomach. "Take it from me, no one should have to eat that much casserole."
"Oh my god! I'm so sorry, Bonnie. I totally spaced!" she shouts, immediately contrite. "I shouldn't even be complaining about this. How are you anyway? Sorry—stupid question. Um, when are you coming back?"
I smile softly at her words. Caroline may be flighty and prone to chatter, but she really is a great friend when it counts.
"Actually, that's sort of why I called…" I start, not sure how to ask what I need to. "I'm getting home today—"
"Oh my God that's great! I've missed you!" she exclaims excitedly. I find the feeling's mutual. I've really never felt closer to her than I have in the last few weeks. She's really been my one constant friend through all this.
"Yeah, you too," I say, meaning every word. "But, see, I just have to ask you a favor. It may seem a little weird, but…"
"Of course. Anything you need," she answers easily. It doesn't really do much to quiet my nerves. I'm not at all sure how she's going to take this one.
"Just…don't tell Elena I'm back yet, ok? I'm just not ready to talk to her yet."
I never told Caroline what happened, obviously. I couldn't even really explain to her why Grams' death made me distance myself from Elena, but…I think after the way we've spoken lately she gets it. On some level at least.
It always surprises me, when Caroline finds the tact to silence her perpetual curiosity. She's not the best at keeping secrets.
"Oh, well…ok. Yeah, I mean I probably won't even see her for a few days anyway. She's going to that Founder's Party tonight, so…"
Hidden by miles and the one-way medium of cellular communication, my mouth twists in a grimace of vague disgust and a simmering anger so intense and abiding that it has only grown more violent in the preceding weeks. It is very nearly brought to a boil at the thought of them.
"With the Salvatores?" I ask through clenched teeth.
"Yeah, I guess," she sighs disappointedly. "Everyone's having more fun than I am."
My brow furrows in confusion at that. "Wait, why aren't you going?" I ask. The Caroline I know would be gushing over the hours she spent hunting for the perfect dress and telling me all about her hair and accessories. All while managing to make me excited about it. She's a wonder really.
"Ugh, visiting my dad and Steve," she whines. "I missed his daughter's birthday this weekend and now I'm stuck making up for it."
"Hmm," I hum distractedly, lost in thought. This…could be interesting.
"Oh! Speaking of, I gotta go. My ride's here. But, I'll talk to you later Bonnie." There's the slightest rush of air as she pulls the phone from her ear, only to change her mind mid-retreat. "Call me the second you get home!" she orders cheerfully and my lips twist in a wry smile.
At least one of us is still having fun.
"Will do. Bye."
Click.
Damon
"Right this way," Mayor Lockwood's surrogate bouncer ushers me inside. I think he's a Deputy or something…Carl? Bob? Eh, who cares?
Though inside, I'm cackling maniacally at the continued charade, I nod respectfully as I cross the threshold behind him. My Dudley Do Right mask is securely in place.
Liz is at the podium as I make my way inside, passing the clueless lot of them as I find a spot in the back—a wolf among the helpless flock of sheep. Ironically, they'd be a hopeless mess without me. I can count on one finger the number of times they've succeeded in finding a vampire 'on their own', and I'm the one that set the play.
It would be cute if it weren't vaguely terrifying. Sometimes, I still can't believe that I care.
"The coroner's office has officially ruled Vicki Donovan's death a drug overdose. Her family has been notified." I note the sadness in Liz's eyes. Despite her professed dislike of Kelly Donovan, she clearly feels for them. Or maybe she's simply thinking how broken she'd have been if it were her daughter.
"The truth will stay in this room, and we can put this behind us," she says, sympathy and an echo of almost-grief in her eyes. If only she knew how close her nightmare almost was to coming true.
Right on cue, Dick Lockwood steps up to the podium, waving her away with a dismissive nod.
"Thank you, Sheriff," he says, his features schooled in a lazily crafted affectation of sympathy. As the only actual non-human in the room, the sight of it is rather pitiful really. I'm the one that killed her (the first time anyway), and I am so much better at this acting-human thing than he is.
"And, on to a more pressing issue, John Gilbert has asked to say a few words," with an imperial sweep of his arm and a wide smile, he gestures to a man in the front row that I have never seen before. "Welcome back, John. It's good to see you."
Right away, the sight of him makes my skin crawl. Some intangible coldness about him demands the predator in me sit up and take notice; hackles rise as my eyes note his sharp focus and I feel my brow furrow with suspicion.
"Thank you, Mayor. Hello, everyone. It's wonderful to see you. I wish it were under better circumstances." His eyes sweep the room impartially, but the moment they meet mine I know.
The connection is brief and disinterested, but acute all the same—the look of a predator. Seems there's another wolf hunting the sheep. I don't like it one bit.
"As a founding family member, I find it's my duty to report some very distressing news."
"He's a Gilbert?" I ask Liz, who's come to stand companionably beside me. I'm careful not to betray my thoughts in the question.
"Elena's uncle," she confirms. Interesting. "His name's John, but I call him Jackass."
My eyelids flicker briefly, but otherwise I make no response. I'm far more concerned about exactly what Uncle John Gilbert is telling my blessedly ineffective vampire hunters.
"A hospital blood bank in the neighboring county of Amherst has reported several break-ins in the past 2 weeks. 7 hunters, 4 campers, and 2 state employees have been reported missing as well. All of this within a 75 mile radius of Mystic Falls."
Dick interrupts with an unconvincing chuckle. "O—ok. No need to get alarmed right at this moment."
"Meaning, he doesn't want to cancel the Founder's Day kick-off party," Liz scoffs.
John ignores the attempt to laugh off his warning. His eyes are shrewd and almost patronizing in their superiority. "You think all of your problems are over," he says, "but I'm here to tell you nothing's been solved."
Oh, how right you are.
Alaric
When the last of her classmates have filed from the classroom, I gesture to Elena to close the door while I grab the essay from my desk drawer. After this weekend's fiasco, it seems high time we got everything out in the open. That starts with getting the Gilberts on the same page.
Sitting precariously against the side of my desk, I turn an evaluating look on the teenager in front of me. The teenage girl in love with a vampire and pretending she can keep it to herself.
She lives in a an elaborate bubble of delusion—wrapped with the false warmth of stubborn and deliberate naiveté—thinking if she only holds the world at arm's length that she can keep the two from bleeding over the line. But secrets have a way of getting out, and, in a struggle between 'normal' and the 'supernatural', the monsters always win.
This is only the beginning.
"I made a copy of a paper Jeremy wrote for me. I think you should take a look at it," I tell her, delivering it to her waiting palms.
She looks surprised and not a little confused as she glances down at the packet in her hands. The moment the title registers in her mind, her face goes slack with shock.
"Jeremy wrote this?" She asks with wide eyes and bated breath.
I can't quite conceal the incredulous quirk of my brow at the stunned disbelief on her face. Did she really think she could keep him out of this forever? At this point, she's practically devoted her life to these creatures. She didn't think that would have consequences?
Somewhat against my better judgment, I assure her, "He's very clear that he didn't think it was real." Though I have my doubts on the subject.
"I really hope you're right, because I have done so much to protect him from all of this," she says, doe eyes damp with unshed tears.
"So how do you deal with it?" I ask before I think better of it.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know, with all the lies and the secrets. You have to lie to everyone who's important to you."
I see some of that stubbornness and fire flare up again in the face of my challenge. Her back stiffens defensively as she shoots me a reproachful glare.
"It's not safe for them to know the truth…" she reasons. "So, yes, I keep it from them, but it's only because I love them."
I have to turn away at that, standing for a moment with my back to her. She says this with such conviction that I feel the need to physically restrain myself from voicing my frustration.
Does she not realize that by building and clinging to a life so intricately intertwined in the affairs of vampires, her family is already involved by default? She is a part of their lives, and hers comes equipped with a house full of murderous immortals and a host of horrific dramas and adventures like this last. At this point, ignorance is not protective. It's dangerous.
"I think Stefan's a good guy," I say, finally, instead, "but, uh…at the end of the day he's still a vampire."
My words fail to make even the slightest mark on her conviction. The glossy film of it between us stands thin, but determinedly intact.
"I know it's hard to understand, but Stefan's different" she says, eyes shining. "He would never do anything to hurt me."
Oh, Elena. If only that were true.
Elena
"Why would he write a report on vampires? Do you think he's starting to remember?" I ask, my eyes staring blindly at the fabric of my comforter, fingers picking at the threads.
Through the fan of my lashes, I see Stefan shake his head. "Damon took those memories away for good; you don't have to worry about that," he assures me.
It doesn't really make me feel any better, but I am glad that he's here. I had called him the moment I left Ric's class—my mind a dizzying mix of fear and confusion—and, despite his own troubles and days' long reclusion, he had come immediately.
It's good to see him, even under these circumstances.
"Tell you what?" Stefan says suddenly. "Why don't you just ask him?"
I finally tear my eyes from their distracted observation of my bed-spread and gape at him in disbelief. "I—I can't," I say.
"Why not?" he challenges, as though the very idea were not patently absurd. "I mean, if he doesn't know anything then it's just a—an innocent question."
I ignore the obvious flaws in this argument, and instead answer to my own disappointment, "I don't even know how to talk to him anymore."
I feel a sad smile tug at the corners of my mouth as I tell him, "I mean, we used to be a lot more open with each other. But now, with all these secrets just piling up…You know, I haven't event told him that I'm adopted yet."
"Maybe it's time you start opening up to him again," he urges with soft eyes and a supportive smile. "I'm not saying you should tell him everything, but at least try to find out what he does know and be prepared for it."
I watch his eyes as he speaks and the pain in them pierces my heart. In my own preoccupation, I had almost forgotten what he had been through this week. I can't hope to understand what it really means for him, but I want to be here for him however I can. I owe him that at least.
"What about you? How are you doing?" I ask, concern drawing a line between my eyebrows.
He looks decidedly nervous at the question, but does me the courtesy of telling me the truth.
"I'm much, much better. Yeah, I'm—I'm still, you know, a little uh—a little jittery, a little bit on edge, but, uh…I'm—I'm gonna be ok." He watches me with haunted, yet somehow grateful eyes. He seems to appreciate my support even as I know he hides the worst from me.
"I've been really worried about you," I admit with a concerned frown.
"I've missed you." His sweet smile brings one to my face as the hand brushing my cheek pulls my lips to meet his.
I go willingly, but what I had expected to be a soft brush of lips in this quiet moment quickly becomes heated. I pause only a moment before I respond, reacting to the fervor of his passionate kiss. I soon find myself stretched out beneath him—his hands in my hair, cupping my face, roving the length of my body—as he looms over me.
My hands grip at his shoulders, my legs pinned beneath his weight, as he moves to nuzzle into the warmth of my neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. I release a breathy sigh in pleasure which suddenly becomes a yelp of surprise as his teeth pinch just this side of painful.
He freezes above me, and I attempt to catch his eyes. "Stefan?" I breathe softly.
The uneasy silence hangs between us, and I feel my worry for him return. I pull back as deep into the pillows as the limited space will allow, trying to catch a glimpse of him—wanting to soothe him.
But when finally he rises on his elbows to stare down at the bruising flesh, I see his face and my heart runs wild.
Dark veins shift and squirm beneath eyes filled with blood, and his fangs burst eagerly from between parted lips. The last time I saw that face, he was stabbing someone to death with a sharp stick.
Looking into those eyes, I see my own terror reflected back seven-fold before he retreats—physically catapulting himself as far from me as he can get, slamming his back to the wall with such force that dust and flecks of plaster fall to the floor with the resounding crash of a bookshelf.
He stares a moment longer in horror before he disappears.
Damon
The door swings open and my first sight of her is the naked relief in her eyes. I swear I can hear my heart pick up speed—just for a second—as a broad grin stretches my lips. "Oh, good. You're here."
"You call, I come. I'm easy like that," I tease, stepping inside with a smirk.
She mock glares at me, placing a finger over her lips to hush my voice as she gestures toward Jeremy in the next room. Her head turns toward the stairs to invite me up quietly, but I've never been one to miss such a dazzling opportunity.
"No, Elena," I shout, lifting my voice loudly to reach her brother's ears, "I will not…go to your bedroom with you!" She rolls her eyes at me and I laugh as I follow her up. Good times.
"Ah…just like I remembered," I say as I catch sight of the familiar space. Not that she knows about that, obviously.
"Stop messing around," she scolds. Not possible, I think as I flop on her bed, scooping up a well-loved teddy bear as I fall. I sit him atop my stomach and meet her reluctantly amused/pseudo-annoyed glare.
Giving her an appraising look as I recall my earlier encounter with the eldest Gilbert, I say, "Did you know that your uncle's been kickin' it with the Founder's Council?"
"What?" she gasps, clearly shocked.
"Yep."
"Perfect," she groans sarcastically. "We'll just add it to the growing list of how everything's falling apart."
Across the room from my place on the bed, I notice a large and Stefan-shaped dent in the wall. The shelf there had collapsed from whatever attack it endured. I can only imagine what that might have been, but suddenly the purpose of this little rendezvous becomes clear.
Then again, it isn't like I hadn't already known that before I showed up.
"What happened right there?" I ask, though I know the answer.
She glances back nervously, following the direction of my gaze. "Uh, nothing…" she lies unconvincingly, but at my challenging stare she relents. "Look, Damon, I—I'm worried about Stefan. He says that everything's ok, but he's clearly struggling. How long is it gonna take before he's back to normal?"
"A few days, give or take," I try.
She looks unimpressed by this answer. "It's been a few days," she reminds me.
"Give, then. I don't know," I shrug, standing to break the tension. "What's the big deal?"
I wander over to the dresser on the far side of the room. I've never really had the chance to explore her space before. I'm finding it rather entertaining, actually. Pulling open the top drawer, I peak inside. I give myself a mental pat on the back at the discovery. Got it in one.
"He's not himself, Damon," she argues, voice breaking.
I snort internally. That's rich.
"Well, maybe his problem is he's spent too long not being himself," I tell her, finding a cute little rainbow striped bra that brings a delighted smile to my face. "Ooh!" I exclaim a moment before she rips it from my hands and slams the drawer.
"Ugh," she groans, glaring for real this time. "Please don't make me sorry for asking you."
Tucked into the vanity mirror behind her, I catch a glimpse of a younger, happier, teenager than the one standing here now. "It is what it is, Elena," I say, pulling the picture out of its spot for a closer look.
"Hey!" she exclaims, chasing after it.
I allow myself a simple smirk of amusement before I turn back to her with serious eyes.
"The Stefan you know is 'Good Behavior' Stefan, 'Rein it in' Stefan, 'Fight Against his Nature to an Annoyingly Obsessive Level' Stefan, but if you think there's not another part to this then you have not been paying attention," I shake my finger at her with a mocking pout, "Tsk tsk."
"He is not you," she says, finally ripping the photo from my grasp. She returns my finger wag as she sets it back on the dresser. "Not even close."
"Well, he doesn't want to be me," I agree with a slight smile, but my tone is deadly serious. This is something she needs to learn now, before she gets herself hurt. "But, that doesn't mean that deep down that he's not."
I watch her eyes as I tell her this and, while her fear and worry for my brother are apparent, I can tell my warning has struck a deeper chord in her than her spoken confidence would suggest. She knows on some level that it's true. Stefan's not the man she thinks he is.
At least…not all of him.
Stefan
The hunger is a black hole—a pit in my stomach, though the vortex reaches every cell in my body—drawing everything that I am into its gravitational pull. Love, lust, hate, hurt, everything in constant flux—within, around, beside—filling and yet expanding the irresistible vacuum.
Endlessly, endlessly into oblivion I turn and fall, dissolve and swell, until he claws his way free—the walls of his prison cell slick with blood and the bars worn away by the perpetual war in between.
I know his victory is inevitable (he always wins eventually), but I can never surrender the fight. The shame of his existence is enough. It burns me from the inside out, the flames licking at the feet of the man I want to be. I'm afraid that if I ever gave in…the fire would consume me.
The heavy door creaks in the foyer as someone else enters the house. Glass of whiskey in hand, I turn to find Lia standing behind with a predatory stillness and cold eyes.
"Stefan…hey," she greets, but the words seem to belong to another entity entirely. They sound nervous, concerned, warm even, but those eyes…they're like ice.
In a single absentminded inhale, I catch the intoxicating smell wafting on the air between us. That's when I notice the blood on her clothes.
"You have…" I breathe, staring hungrily at the single droplet of red against the creamy fabric of her shirt.
"Hmm?" she asks, eyes following mine. She picks casually at the stain when she finds it, smiling softly.
"Oh. Right. Messy eater," she shrugs.
"You didn't…"
"Do you think I have no self-control?" she scoffs, as though the question were utterly ridiculous on my part. I'm not fooled; I know how she is. "No, he's probably home sipping orange juice out of cardboard box by now."
Honestly, I'm more than a little jealous. I have wished more than once in my long life that I could enjoy myself as Damon does, as she does, without the fear of losing myself to the Ripper. Every day that seems an impossible feat, and I can't help but wonder at the ease with which others survive it. How can such a thing be possible?
Yet, this ancient soul in front of me who is so often the very epitome of what it is to be a vampire—who seems to give in to the predatory instincts, the hunger, and to revel in the thrill of it all—finds the very implication laughable.
"You alright there, bud?" she asks, head cocked. She watches me with shrewd eyes and a latent cruelty I can't begin to understand. "You're looking a little…strung out."
"Mm hmm. Fine," I answer, attempting to nod confidently.
There's a ghost of a smile on her lips as she stares at me, but she shrugs easily anyway. "If you say so."
The moment she disappears, I turn my back on the room. With a single scorching gulp, I down the glass. This is going to be a long night.
Bonnie
Luck must be on my side, because when I reach the Lockwood manor, Mrs. Lockwood is nowhere to be found. I manage to slip easily between the distracted folds of the guests decked in their clueless finery, chattering happily as homicidal monsters lurk in the shadows. I envy them that.
I've only just rounded the corner into the dining room when I see them crossing the threshold with a brazen confidence that sets my teeth on edge, decked from head to toe in the easy affluent elegance of their old-world arrogance.
Nadia stands small and slim between them, flanked by the brothers in their dark suits, but she shines brighter than either. In her blood-red dress, she looks every inch the demon I know her to be and I feel the hatred flare to a searing heat as it boils over and spills from my eyes.
She can't see me from here; I hold the perfect position of attack, yet I know that I am weak as a newborn kitten before her inimitable power. Some day, I vow, that will change.
The soft slide of chiffon brushes over the skin of my arm where it hangs behind me, and a rush of soothing calm washes over me, breaking me from my trance. I spin to find the culprit, wildly curious who could cause such a feeling, but there is no one there.
All I see is a diaphanous wing of chiffon as it flirts with the wind in its flight from the room.
Nadezhda
The night drapes dark and ominous as we approach the mansion, pale bodies bathed in moonlight through the black sky. The boys' handsome faces stand illuminated and ethereally beautiful above the solid black of their dress clothes on either side of me where I stand clothed in the cocktail dress I chose specifically for the occasion.
The crimson fabric with its sheer overlay of black lace is eerily reminiscent of another I wore some 80 years past. Even the cut of it, fitting tight at the waist before falling loose and straight above the knee, suggests the era. And, despite his silence, it's not just Damon who notices.
"Oh, God. I shouldn't be here," Stefan groans, trying and failing to keep his worry beneath the drunken camouflage of liquor in his veins.
"Come on, don't be a downer," Damon teases, as cheerful as his brother is glum. "It's a party for the founding families. That would be us! It would be rude to skip it."
"You know, I really liked you a whole lot better when you hated everybody," Stefan complains.
"Oh, I still do. I just love that they love me," Damon says with a smirk, and I find myself smiling at his effervescence.
Only a hint of his real concern shows in his eyes when he turns them on Stefan over my head. "How you feelin'?" he asks.
"I'm good. I'm fine."
I snort. Yeah, Stefan, pull the other one. Doesn't matter how many times you say it, it won't make it true.
Something catches at my senses, some dark tendril of a foreign presence creeping in the periphery, and my attention drifts from their conversation as I scan the walls for its source. It smells faintly of rotten fruit, like the sickly sweet odor of decaying flesh.
Actually…it smells like my magic. That alone is terrifying.
"No cravings? No urges? Has that whiskey you've been drinking all day doin' its job?" Damon taunts.
Their words momentarily pierce the haze of my mind and I shake my head to clear it. With an essence that strong, that distinctive, I'm sure to find it again one way or another.
My lips twitch at their banter, but Stefan's stubborn denial remains unmovable.
"We are who we are, Stefan," Damon tells him. "Pretending doesn't change that."
"Oh, nothing would make you happier than to just see me give in, huh, Damon?"
"Whatever. It's inevitable," he shrugs, affecting nonchalance.
"Hmm," Stefan hums noncommittally, his attention already straying from us in retreat. "I'm gonna go find Elena."
"Don't embarrass me, young man!" Damon calls after him, chuckling. The amusement fades a little as he watches him go.
"You do know this isn't going to end well, don't you?" I challenge with an arched brow.
"Oh, I'm counting on it."
My lips purse at that. I know he means it, but Damon's motives are still a lot purer than mine.
He wants to expose the hunger, make it scream inside his brother's head until he can't take it anymore. Until, the only choice he has is to turn to Damon for help and finally confront the truth he should have accepted a century ago: Abstinence is not control.
Because, Damon knows what I do; this fall is inevitable.
The only hope for Stefan is a reconciliation between the best and worst parts of himself—to embrace the part of him that he has so long disowned. The part that he has spent a century feeding with all the pieces of himself that he cannot accept, until that self emerged whole and autonomous from his broken psyche. That part of himself that has been forming, growing, gathering strength as he bides his time in isolation, waiting for the slightest weakening in Stefan's iron will that will set him free.
For, as he always is with Stefan, the Ripper is just beneath the surface.
All he needs is the slightest of nudges to break free, and it's my pleasure to provide it.
Elena
I spot Stefan over by the drinks table next to Kelly Donovan, and confusion pinches at the corners of my eyes as I make my way to him.
"Hey!" he shouts when he sees me. There's something about his posture, even the sound of the words that seems sort of…off.
"Hey! How are you?" I ask, not at all sure what I'm seeing, though it seems reasonable to assume it has something to do with earlier. He pulls me close, pressing a sweet kiss to my cheek, and I finally catch a whiff of the alcohol on his breath.
"Are you drunk?" I ask in surprise.
"Um…Ok, I know it's a little weird, but it's really helping me. The alcohol, it, uh…takes the edge off."
His mood is infectious, and I want so much to join him in it, but this afternoon marked the second time in less than a week that I was confronted with that demonic visage that so scares me. The second time that the vampire I was afraid of was Stefan.
Even knowing that the thought of that face terrifies him far more than it does me, it's not so easy to forget.
Still, I can see how much he needs for this to work. Considering his latest torment is for something I did, the least that I can do is show him my support.
Summoning a smile, I joke, "You're totally that drunk high school guy at the party sneaking booze."
"I totally am. Yeah," he readily agrees and this time my laugh is genuine.
But I can't banish my thoughts so easily. My eyebrows crease with renewed concern as I ask, "How worried do I need to be?"
"Oh, no. You don't need to be worried," he hastens to assure me. "It's just until, um, the cravings go away. Listen, I think we should enjoy it while it lasts. Would you like to dance with me?"
I balk at that. "You hate dancing. I usually have to beg you," I remind him, taken aback.
"No, no, no. You have to beg the sober me. The drunk me, there's no begging necessary."
I gaze out onto the entirely empty dance floor, soporific as the stilted piano playing through neglected speakers across the way. The crowd is practically pressed to the walls in their diligent avoidance of the center.
"There's really no one dancing," I comment.
Stefan seems unperturbed by this. If anything, he looks positively cheerful.
"That's because they need something better to dance to. Be right back," he says before crossing the barren wasteland to the DJ's booth.
"Yeah, that's not gonna work," Kelly announces on my other side. "I already tried to bribe the DJ with 20 bucks and a date. He said Carol Lockwood has complete control over the music choices."
Watching Stefan as he meets the dazed stare of the DJ, I say, "You'd be surprised what Stefan can accomplish when he puts his mind to it."
A moment later, the buoyant notes of Pheonix's "1901" plays out across the hall and the crowd stirs.
"Thank God!" Kelly shouts, immediately dragging my returning boyfriend onto the floor.
I shake my head watching them, vaguely mystified by this turn of events.
"Have I entered an alternate universe where Stefan is fun?" Damon's mocking voice asks as he appears beside me.
"Is he gonna be ok?" I ask him rather than respond to his taunt.
"Eventually," he says mysteriously. "One way or another."
Damon
Muttering something about an overripe pineapple, Z wandered off and left me with no other recourse than to seek out alternate company. Elena was a nice detour, but hanging with her means keeping too close to my baby bro than either of us is comfortable with.
Luckily, I spot Liz looking a little lost and lonely in her black evening dress across the room. She's clearly uncomfortable in the unfamiliar garb, and I'm in surprisingly good spirits tonight. A smile springs effortlessly to my lips as I reach her.
"Ah, you know I love a woman in uniform, but I have to side with this look. You look—you look smashing," I call in greeting.
Liz chuckles. "Thank you, Damon. Cheers. I needed that."
The smile I flash her then is that of loyal, vampire-slaying Damon, the rakish, but essentially kind-hearted son of a founding family. It's almost eerie how well I am beginning to wear the façade.
"You know, I had my doubts about you at first. But, like everyone else on the Council, you've won me over," she tells me.
"Thanks, Liz," I say, easily shrugging the act back onto my shoulders. "It's—it's really nice how welcoming the Council's been. I like my life here in Mystic Falls. It's starting to feel like…home again."
Oddly enough, it's not even a lie.
"Well, then you're not gonna like what I have to tell you," she says, and my smile instantly fades. What now?
"Jonathon Gilbert's claims check out. The blood banks, the missing people, all of it's true. We might have a problem."
Yeah, I'll say.
"Excuse me, Sheriff?" Elena's kid brother interrupts, sparing me a moment for thought. "Um, I was curious if there's been any more information on what happened to Vicki Donovan."
Jesus, it just keeps getting better and better. I'm starting to agree with Elena. We do need a list.
"It was an overdose, Jeremy," Liz assures him, throwing a worried glance in my direction.
"Yeah, but her body was buried. Somebody must have done that," he argues.
Curse these Gilberts and their stubborn nosiness.
"We're aware of that. The investigation is ongoing, but there's nothing more I can tell you at this time. I'm sorry." She looks it too, but she knows as well as I do that no good can come of him knowing the truth. It's just our reasons that are different.
"Uh, that's ok," Jeremy mutters, before beating a hasty retreat.
Damn, I've got to find Elena.
Stefan
Somewhere lost in the crowd, Elena waits for me, but my feet carry me ever onward into the swaying mass. The music drives us on; at every turn a new hand waits for me, and we whirl about the hall. The swimming haze of my intoxicated mind fills my body with their energy, pulling me this way and that in time with the beat.
Every now and again, my eyes find that familiar face in the shifting sea of them and my breath catches in my throat.
I watch her bob and weave her way through the crowd, exchanging one partner for another as she flits across the dance floor, a dazzling smile shining bright across her pale face. None of it ever seems to pierce the icy calm of her eyes.
The upbeat tempo of the music inspires a hopping number that reminds me viscerally of that decadent time so long ago when the world was thrilling, the people wild, and the fashion elegant. In that dress, it's easy to imagine her there.
I see the dazed expressions on her partners' faces, the open awe in their eyes, as they take her in their arms. However briefly they hold her, they are none of them unaffected.
It's moments like these I can't help but wonder at their ignorance. How can they not see the monsters among them? How can they not know?
She is a drop of dark blood on the pristine landscape of their all too human innocence, a viper in the nest of unsuspecting victims—a hunter, a vampire. Lethally beautiful.
She strides through my crumbling mental walls like a living, breathing memory of my own worst self. From the elegant sweep of her hair to the intricate beadwork detailing her crimson gown, she is a walking, waltzing nightmare.
It's 1923 and the Ripper is alive again.
Bonnie
With an eye to the dance floor and its vampiric revelers, I follow that strange sensation through the lower story of the sprawling mansion. A time or two I think I spot that same sheer fabric and a long dark fall of hair, but every time I turn to look, it's only Nadia I see.
Nadia, who looks as confused and curious as I am. Her eyes scan the room—study each and every face—with a predatory focus from her position on the wall. That sharp gaze pauses only briefly now and again to light on Stefan's glassy eyes where he stands apparently frozen in thought, and a secret smile tugs insistently on her blood red lips. He barely seems to breathe.
I watch her as she gazes about the room, her searching eyes hidden by the broad shoulders of the men that invariably approach her, drawn by her magnetism. If only they knew what she was—what she was capable of—they wouldn't be so quick to throw themselves on her non-existent mercy.
Keeping to the shadows far from the sharp eyes of the Salvatores, I hug the walls along the house in my search for her. I'm sure now it was a woman I saw, or felt rather. A witch, I think too. Someone with power and the knowledge to use it. Someone like me.
It's maddening this feeling, being aware of that presence—that peace—just beyond my reach. Just beyond my line of sight, and never staying long enough to let me catch it. My eyes wander for me, climbing over the walls, the crowd, the shadows…everywhere, looking for her. Looking for that peace.
There!
For a moment, she turns—a young woman not more than a handful of years older than me in a gauzy blue dress, dark skin and brown eyes just like mine. The smile she sends my way invites me to follow.
Just like that, I do.
Elena
Dancing with Matt is warm and familiar, nostalgic and simple in a way things haven't been in a very long time. He's become something of a symbol for me of times past, of child hood days spent building sand castles and slinging wet dirt in each other's faces—of an effortless happiness. Before my parents died and everything went to hell.
He finally pulls away to find another partner and I giggle as I spin about. I find an echoing smile on Stefan's face when he catches me.
"Please dance with your alcoholic vampire boyfriend," he requests, offering his hands to me in a gentlemanly manner that recalls his own remembered days.
I take them gladly, in a way relieved to finally have him in my grasp and away from Kelly's clawing hands and my own useless fretting.
Immediately, he pulls me into a spin that has me pressed back to front against his chest, his hot breath in my ear, before twirling me out again at arm's length. Unfortunately, in his less than typically suave state, he whirls me right into the firm backside of another dancer on the floor.
"Oh!" I gasp as I crash into him.
"Whoa! Watch it!" he shouts angrily.
"I'm sorry," I apologize, giggling a little at my drunken boyfriend's lack of coordination. "My fault. I'm clumsy."
To my surprise and offense, the man laughs scornfully, "Well then get off the dance floor."
"Excuse me?" I respond, unprepared for this reaction.
But the bigger shock is Stefan's answer. Stepping in front of me, he stands toe to toe with the man, threat implicit in his growling voice. "That's no way to talk to a lady."
"Whatever," the man scoffs.
"I think you need to apologize," he snarls, eyes boring holes in the other man's skull.
"I'm sorry," he says absently, conscious mind fleeing before the force of Stefan's compulsion.
For a moment, I think this will be the end of it, but Stefan shocks me again with an angry grab at his elbow. He yanks him back to face us. "Now say it like you mean it," he orders.
The man's eyes turn to me then, and the vacancy in them chills my blood. "I'm really, really sorry," he repeats, and I want nothing more than to free him from the blank hole of his mind.
"Stefan, it's fine," I say, clutching at his arm just this side of begging. I can't stand that look in his eyes, and I hate that it's Stefan that put it there.
"Now walk away," Stefan commands as, immune to my distress, he shoves him away.
He turns to me then, concern in his eyes. "Are you alright?" he asks as his thumb strokes my cheek. I can only nod, shaken, as I stare at him with new eyes.
What the hell was that?
X
There's a clink of glass that reaches even my pitiful human ears when the bartender sets a drink on the marble top. "Bourbon," he says as he slides it toward his patron.
"Thank you," Damon answers as he takes the glass, bringing it to his lips as I reach him.
He turns to meet my worried eyes as I ask, "Have you noticed what your brother's been up to?"
"Nope," he responds with a rather disturbing indifference. "I've been too preoccupied with yours. Jeremy's been asking questions about Vicki Donovan's death."
That…seems odd. "He knows that her death was ruled an overdose," I tell him.
"Really?" Damon asks sarcastically. "'Oh, but, Sheriff, someone buried her. Who would do that?'"
His hand rises in a mocking imitation of a student in class. "I know. I know. Me!" he jokes, his frown just as suddenly returning. "I mean, I could compel him, but he's wearing vervain."
"No! I don't want you to compel him," I answer immediately. I can hardly bear the thought that it was my request that did that to him the first time. I can't let that happen again.
"If he keeps asking questions…?"
"Damon, no. I'm serious," I refuse, empty words and vacant eyes flashing through my mind. "I'm not gonna do that to him again. I'll handle it."
Damon plucks a single blood red rose from a nearby bouquet, twirling it once between his fingers as he stares at me.
"Ok, but don't say I didn't warn you," he says, handing it to me with a rare sobriety that frightens me in its intensity…and the answering flutter in my chest. Nothing good can come of any of this.
Damon
"Damon, right?" a voice calls from behind me, breaching the silence of the night air.
"John," I greet with false warmth.
He smiles with apparent friendliness as he approaches, but something in his eyes is pissing me off. "We didn't get a chance to meet at the Council meeting."
Sliding back into character without a moment's hesitation, I respond. "Yeah, it's—it's a pleasure. Are you enjoying the, uh, kick-off?"
The shoulder of his suit jacket almost brushes mine as he comes up beside me at the balcony. "Oh, yeah," he says. "Forgot how much fun these small town celebrations can be."
"Yeah. Yeah," I agree. I feel my eyes tighten with a concealed suspicion as I ask, "When's the last time you were here?"
"Hasn't been that long," I see a brief sadness flicker in his eyes, but the arrogant smirk never falters. "My brother's funeral. How long have you been in town?"
"Oh, not long at all," I answer, my own smirk fighting to show.
"So, what do you think, Damon?" he asks, still playing the part, but he's getting one step closer to a little permanent problem-solving with every twitch of those condescending lips. "You know this vampire problem is real, right? It's a potential blood bath."
"Well, I wouldn't overreact, John," I reply.
That knowing glint in his eye grows impossibly more pronounced as he says, "Oh, I think it's like 1864 all over again. Vampires running amok. Guess we're just gonna have to hunt them down, throw 'em in a church, and burn them to ash."
"That is the story, huh?" I comment. If this conversation goes where I think it's going, he's got about 5 minutes to live. Tops.
"Part of the story, yeah."
"Oh, there's, uh—there's more?" I say, my eyebrows rising with my incredulity.
"Oh, there's a lot more. You see, seems there was a tomb under the church where the vampires were hidden away, waiting for someone to come along and set them free," he tells me, and I look away a moment to hide my bemused smile.
"But then, you already knew that didn't you? Being that you're the one that did it."
Not exactly, but what's the use in denying it?
"And you're telling me this, why?" I ask, a predatory glint in my eye as I face him. It's almost a relief to drop the mask for once. Too bad he won't live long enough past this conversation to appreciate my moment of honesty.
"I just thought we'd get the introductions out of the way," he tells me, blithely unconcerned, and I almost laugh at the brazen gall—the balls—it takes to walk up to a vampire, tell him you know that he's a vampire, and start slinging threats around.
"Well, you know that I could rip your throat out before anyone would notice?" I taunt.
"Yeah," he returns immediately.
"Yeah, ok. But you probably ingest vervain, so…"
"Why don't you take a bite," he teases, "find out?"
Well, that settles it. The man is clearly either delusional or insane. I almost shake my head in disbelief at the absurdity of this exchange. "It's not worth my time," I say, walking away, and, for that moment at least, I mean it.
At the entrance to the balcony, however, I turn back and our eyes meet in a single deceptively long stare. Between one blink and the next, I have him by the jaw, wrenching it in a vicious twist. His neck snaps like a twig and I toss him over the railing.
Watching him fall, I notice my audience only a second before he hits the ground with a—
Nadezhda
Splat!
"Dude!"
He smirks, but only shrugs in reply. I roll my eyes at his antics, glancing down at the corpse at my feet. It's some vaguely amphibious creature I've never seen before, but even in death he looks like an ass.
From the awkward angle of his head, I can tell Damon went for the neck snap. His arms and legs extend haphazardly from his still form like a broken doll and the unnatural hollow between his shoulder and the arm caught beneath him suggests it was brutally dislocated by the fall. Good thing he was already dead.
Still…
"Who the fuck is this?" I ask, careful this time to keep my voice down. I mean, killing some random in the middle of a Founders' party of all places? Is he trying to incite a lynch mob?
"Uncle John Gilbert," Damon's answer reaches me, floating softly on the breeze.
"Oh!" I say as understanding dawns. "Well that's a different matter, then. As you were."
Without a backward glance I head off after the bitter scent of tainted witchcraft that called me out here in the first place, leaving the body for someone else to find.
There's a candle-lit sconce branching from the stone above my head, and the flicker of its light marks the passing of a shadowy figure in the darkness. The lingering scent of decay wafts on the air in its wake, and I follow close behind.
I keep to the wall as I round the mansion, peering around the corner, but it's not the witch I find there. Stefan stands at the gate on wobbling feet—hand clenched between wound twinkle lights in a white-knuckled grip on the rail. Even from this distance I can see his eyes are bloodshot and ravenous with that aching, irresistible need. Blood drips from his fingers.
I smile.
It was ridiculously easy getting into his head earlier. The small amount of human blood he's consumed this week is not nearly enough to supplement nearly sixty years of malnourishment. I've met baby vamps with more mental resistance than he has. It's pitiful, really.
That spot of blood was a stroke of genius, but a spontaneous whim nonetheless. This sort of subtle manipulation requires the technical finesse of a master and all my centuries of carefully honed skill in dream-walking besides.
The exertion of will to influence the waking mind—no matter how lightly, and it has been lightly—requires age, knowledge, and an exorbitant amount of power very few alive can hope to match. It's a different art entirely, really, but it's one to which I am perversely suited. The evidence stands before me. Stefan will meet the Ripper again, and this time I won't let him go so easily.
It's only a matter of time.
Alaric
I watch with furrowed brows as Richard (henceforth, "Dick") Lockwood climbs the steps toward the podium looking the very picture of relaxed authority.
Despite what I just saw outside, the mayor seems decidedly unconcerned with his son's welfare. He may not have said so, but I'd wager ten to one he cares more about the spectacle Tyler made beating the crap out of his friend outside, than anything it might have said about the kid's emotional state.
The anger I saw…Well, let's just say I think I'm more worried about his son than he is.
"Thank you all for joining us tonight," Dick announces with a confident smile. "In just a few moments, we will officially begin the countdown to our upcoming founder's day celebration, and it's a very special one this year: the one hundred and fiftieth birthday of our town."
Cue the cheering.
"And!" he calls over the applause of the crowd. "And I would like to welcome back one of our town's favorite sons to do the honors of ringing our official charter bell. John Gilbert, would you please join me up here?"
A shorter blond man meets him at the front of the room, glancing once at the bell before turning his attention on the assembled guests. There's a sort of knowing air about him, like he's privy to some truth none of us could begin to fathom. A wolf eyeing sheep.
I don't like him.
"150 years of community, prosperity, family. We take care of each other, look after each other, protect each other," he says with an odd sort of emphasis as his eyes focus somewhere in the crowd. "It's good to be home."
I feel the slightest brush of air at my shoulder signaling another presence a moment before Damon appears at my elbow. I feel a skeptical eyebrow lift at the move, but he ignores it. "Look at his right hand," he directs instead from the corner of his mouth.
"Whose?" I ask, decidedly confused by this turn of events. Does he think we're friends now?
"The town's favorite son," he answers through gritted teeth. "Look at his ring."
When my eyes drift to the object in question, they grow wide in surprise. "Wow," I say, clearing my throat from the shock of the sight, "it looks like mine."
"Yeah, and that would be a big coincidence if he didn't just come back from the dead five minutes ago," Damon bites out.
My eyebrows lift at that, but sadly not as much as they probably should have. It's official; I've been hanging with vampires way too much.
"Where the hell did you get that ring?" he growls in question.
"Isobel, my wife," I breathe. I'm abruptly reminded of a very similar discussion I had with another blue eyed vampire not 2 months past. Things are coming full circle now, and Izzy's not coming up as shining as I'd like to believe.
"Who gave birth to Elena under the medical care of the esteemed Dr. Grayson Gilbert, John's brother," Damon says, his mind working at the puzzle as quickly as Lia's—Nadia's—had.
"Oh, you think John knew Isobel?" I wonder aloud, but I'm not as surprised as I wish I was.
"I think John knows a lot of things."
Stefan
The coppery taste of that warm, delicious liquid ignites my tongue with its vibrancy—the power it brings so long lusted for and so long denied now filling my body with the heat of a million tiny suns as every blood cell sparks at the taste.
The Ripper laughs delightedly somewhere near my throat, and the sound of it sears my tongue with hate and joy in equal measure. I know that if I pause on this step a moment longer, I will not be able to deny him. His hunger grows stronger, more irresistible, by the minute.
Her blood still coats my tongue. I want—need—more.
I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here now, or I'm afraid he won't stop until he's torn the throats out of every person in this building and bathed naked in their blood. It's too much to refuse.
My feet slap hard against the pavement as I force myself away from the smell, the temptation of their blood…the hot, rich river running just beneath that thin surface, begging for release—to flow free…my fangs cry out for a taste.
All at once, the thumping in my ears grows louder still and I recognize the beat of a human heart in my path. I will my feet to walk away, but I soon find myself pressed chest to chest with that pumping heat. My eyes are drawn immediately toward it.
"Sorry about that, man," the man says. Dimly, I recognize him from the dance floor. The ass hole who was so rude to Elena. "No, really, I'm terribly sorry."
The jeering nature of his tone simmers in my gut with the remnants of anger at the memory, and I tighten the reins on that snarling beast inside as he thrashes within.
"You don't want to do this man," I bite out in warning.
I try to step around him, but again he blocks my path, this time knocking a shoulder hard against me at the move.
"Sorry about that too," he taunts, apparently every bit as anxious for a fight as the monster he's baiting. I can't hold him off forever. "God, all I can do is apologize. What's that about?"
"Get out of my way, please," I try again, just this side of begging. He doesn't understand. How could he? He doesn't know it's him I'm fighting for.
"No girl to show off for now? I see how this is," he pauses a moment, his eyes alight with a mocking glare, before his fist flies at my jaw.
It's only my hand it reaches.
This attempted assault is the final straw, and the wall I fought so hard to hold against the rising tide of violent, merciless, hunger buckles beneath the pressure of my unbridled rage. In my vice-like grip, the bones crack and break, crushed beneath the force of my inhuman strength. He cries out in agony, his knees giving way beneath him, but still I squeeze.
It's as though the hand belongs to someone else entirely—the Ripper subduing our victim, toying with him before the final killing bite. I only have the presence of mind in this moment, to throw him to the ground away from me, as the frantic, pounding of his terror echoes fierce and tantalizing in my ears.
The veins beneath my eyes slither beneath the thin skin as my vision flows red with borrowed blood. My fangs rip free at the sight of my helpless, frightened prey. We eye him hungrily.
I lunge.
Bonnie
As quickly as the strange woman appeared, she left again—nothing but the lingering scent of that eerily familiar aura to mark her passing—but not before she delivered this final parting shot: "You are not alone."
She told me of our connection, of our mutual goal, and she gave me the hope I think I've most needed since the night I lost the only person in my life to ever truly know me. She gave me back a family.
Somehow, it makes the threat of Grams' murderers all the more terrifying, and before I can think better of it, I find myself tracing the steps of the youngest Salvatore as he races across the long drive.
I make it just in time to see him nearly tear himself to pieces against some colossal burst of hunger, halting himself mid-lunge as a human man quivers on the cold ground.
I see his struggle with that inner demon, and while I cannot forgive him for what he is—for what he's brought into our lives—I can find it in myself to acknowledge the strength of will it must take every day to fight that down.
I don't know what any of that is like for him, and I really don't want to, but somehow still, despite my better judgment, I find that I…pity him.
I watch him compel away the memories, and flee into the night.
Lost in my own churning thoughts, I turn back toward the road and my drive home, and run smack into another body.
Nadia stands there cold and smirking, her head cocked in a bird-like curiosity, as she regards me silently. The air has left my lungs and all I can do is stare, wide-eyed, at the ancient vampire in my path.
She seems to sense something then, almost seeming to…breathe in the air between us, and something like shock fills her eyes.
"Well, well, well," she chants, a cruel smile twisting her mouth. "Bonnie Bennet. What have you been up to?"
Damon
Beneath the cover of enthusiastic guests, I watch Uncle John attempt to slip out the back, undoubtedly in an attempt to avoid exactly this encounter. The thought brings a smile to my face and I gesture Alaric to follow me as I move to intercept him
"Going somewhere? Hmm?" I call out from behind him, bringing him to a stop at the bottom the stairs.
"Never like to be the last one to leave a party. It's too desperate," he returns, pivoting on a heel to face me as we reach him, flanking him on either side.
"You here to kill me again or are you gonna let Mr. Saltzman do your dirty work?" he taunts with a sideways glance at my companion.
"Ok, you obviously know who I am," Ric responds dryly. I think I'm starting to like him.
"I do," John confirms. "Alaric Saltzman, the high school history teacher with a secret."
"You sure know a lot for someone who just got to town," I say, anger sparking at his continued arrogance. That and the fact he's still walking around. When I kill someone, they're supposed to stay dead. These stupid rings are taking all the fun out of it.
"More than you can imagine, Damon," he answers, condescending smirk firmly in place. "My knowledge of this town goes beyond anything that you, or you, or the Council knows. So, if you were planning some clever high-speed, snatch-ring, vamp kill move, know that if I die, everything I know goes to the Council including the fascinating little tale of the original Salvatore brothers and their present day return to Mystic Falls."
Damn it.
"How'd you get that ring?" Alaric asks suddenly. Of course that's what he'd be worried about. Not the fact that we've got a nosy uncle with way too much information for my comfort, and a booby trapped survival plan preventing my usual brand of creative problem solving without a particularly messy punch line. This just gets better and better.
"I inherited one," John snaps, glaring at Ric, "my brother Gray the other. This was his. I wouldn't have given mine to Isobel had I known she was gonna hand it off to some other guy."
Just what I thought. "So you did know her," I say.
John smiles. "Who do you think sent her your way when she wanted to become a vampire?"
"You sent her?" I challenge.
"Guilty!" he chimes mockingly. "Why, did you think someone else sent her? Maybe Katherine Pierce?"
Wait…"How do you know about Katherine?"
"How do I know anything, Damon?" he replies mysteriously.
"What do you want?" I demand, determined to get some answers out of this ass-hat beyond these vague oh-so-superior hints.
"So many questions…." he taunts to my continued frustration, before throwing a glance and a fake smile the teacher's way. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Rick. I've heard so much about you."
Without another word, he strides merrily off into the night.
God, I hate that guy.
Elena
"Not so excited that we have another month of these Founder's Day events," Jenna comments as we hike up the stairs, both mentally and physically exhausted after tonight's escapades.
"Tell me about it," I groan.
I notice Jeremy's door is open when I reach the landing, and I find myself worried at what I'm likely to find after our talk. I know better than to think he bought my lies and excuses about Vicki, but I can only hope he lets it go when he can't satisfy those questions. The last thing he needs is the truth.
I find him hunched over his sketch-pad, looking almost too accepting. "You ok?" I ask, needing a real answer this time.
"Fine," he deflects, but I know it's a lie.
"Are you sure?" I try again.
"I'm fine, Elena," he snaps, and I sigh internally. I can't really help him if he refuses to talk to me.
My shoulders slump in defeat, but I nod anyway. Mentally resolving to try again later, I make my way to my own room.
When I've closed the door behind me, my thoughts drift to Stefan…and Damon, and what he told me about his brother. After what I saw tonight, I'm afraid to admit that I might be starting to believe it…just a little. That, maybe the Stefan I know is only one side of the story.
I sigh, snapping the clasp on my shrug and tossing it carelessly to the floor. It's not that I don't love Stefan, or even that I don't trust him, I just…sometimes I feel like there are these parts of himself that he hides from me. Like, he wants me to love him, but only the part he wants me to know. Like, he can't imagine someone loving the whole picture.
I turn toward my vanity mirror, and my hands reach instinctively for my hair. Part of me wants to hug him close and swear that nothing he could tell me would ever change how I feel about him, but lately—
"Oh, my God!" I shout, as I spot the face in the mirror. My hand flies to my chest as I turn to face him. It's only Stefan. "You scared me," I gasp around the frantic pounding of my heart as it slows.
"Sorry," he mumbles, and the misery on his face instantly calms my irritation.
"I'm sorry that I—I ran off earlier," he apologizes.
"What happened?" I ask, and the fear I had not allowed myself to entertain before leaks into my voice at the thought. His silence is not reassuring. "Is everything ok?"
"Uh…no." he answers brokenly, finally meeting my eyes. The pain in them fairly breaks my heart.
"Talk to me. Stefan, tell me," I urge.
His eyes fly from mine again, body shivering with tension before suddenly dropping to the bed.
"I tried…so hard to keep it together tonight," he admits. He looks so much like a lost and terrified boy sitting there that part of me longs to take him in my arms, but I'm still too aware of what he is and the fragility I see there to dare.
"And it was working. It was working, uh, but—but then Matt's mom, she, uh, got hurt, and she was bleeding, and I had her—her blood on my hands."
"And then what happened?" I prompt, fighting to keep my own fear from my voice and failing miserably.
"And then that—that guy in the parking lot, I wanted to feed on him and it took everything inside of me not to do it," he rants, and for a moment I can almost feel the struggle in him—the war he fights within himself, though I may never hope to know it the way he does. God willing, I'll never have to.
"But you didn't?" I breathe.
"No, but I wanted to," he tells me, and that burning need in him rages in his eyes as he explains with tears of shame in his eyes. "God…Elena, I—my—my head is pounding, I feel like my skin is on—is on fire, I have this hunger inside of me that I've never—I've never felt before in my entire life, and all I keep thinking about is how I promised that I would never keep anything from you, and so I am telling you this."
"That's ok. I need you to tell me these things," I insist, echoing my earlier thoughts.
"But I don't want you to see me like this. I don't want you to know that this side of me exists."
Oh, God, Stefan. I know you don't.
"Stefan, you're gonna get through this. I'm gonna help you pull through. It's gonna be ok. You're gonna be ok," I say, willing it to be true, even when I can hardly believe it myself. It has to be.
With this thought in mind, I move to embrace him, to let him feel my love for him, but he turns from me before I've taken another step. "No, no, no, no," he says, practically running from me. "I'm sorry. I—I can't. I—I'm afraid of what I could do to you."
I bite my lip against any lingering doubt, but the terror and the pain in his eyes reassures me. He could never want to hurt me. "I'm not. Stefan, Stefan, I'm not," I declare, my stubbornness fueling the words, as I cross the gap between us. I pray he can't see the fear in my eyes.
He seems to believe me for a moment, looking adoringly into my eyes, but it only takes a second for the look to fall before a sudden horror of realization.
"Yes, you are. You're afraid of me," he says, backing away with wide eyes full of shame and heartbreak. "And you should be…"
"Oh, God, I shouldn't have come here—I shouldn't have come," he mutters, shaking his head in horror. He ignores my pleas, my wordless denial, as he retreats further and further into himself. I can only imagine the sorrow and regret in my eyes.
"I'm sorry," he breathes, and before I can reach him—before I can even form a word against his assertion—he's gone.
Stefan
The fire glints off the glass tumbler, throwing flecks of golden light in patterns on the dim walls, as the contents beckon with glistening eyes through ruby red seas. So deep and dark and inviting is that ocean that I lose sight of dryer path—the better path. The part of me that cares is steadily losing ground beneath the weight of that lust. I feel the Ripper in my eyes.
Distantly, from the other side of that collapsing tunnel, I hear Damon's voice. The shrinking piece of me still in control manages to catch his words, though they fail to reach my lips.
"We have a problem, Stefan. And, when I say 'problem', I mean global crisis. Seems Uncle John has a…" he pauses, as his eyes finally turn to me. They are both knowing and somehow encouraging. I see an answering darkness in them to meet my own.
"You don't look so good," he says, his soft voice whispering with the pull of that crimson glass. "It's different this time, isn't it? The need is too strong. Of course it would be after all these years."
He stands then, moving to leave me with my still yearning thoughts. The glass sits abandoned and tantalizingly close on the table as he does. "Have a good night, brother," he whispers, and I am alone.
Hissing voices and invisible hands seem to draw me on, calling to me, urging me on. The hunger, the need, fuels that spinning vortex in my stomach—the burning desire in my very skin. It's all too much and not enough. Still too far, yet close enough to touch. I want it, need it, have to have it. It's too much to resist.
Almost before I've even registered the movement, the glass is in my hand, the blood staining my lips as it pours over my dry and thirsting tongue. Every nerve bursts into flame and the power—the life—floods to every barren crevice of my long starving body.
Somewhere in the empty confines of my thumping, frenzied chest, the Ripper sighs.
The warmth that fills me then flows through every liberated nerve ending, washing me away on the wave of crimson life, soul, exhilarating power. It thrills through me and I am carried on the crest of its irresistible tide.
Time passes in minutes, days, hours, uncountable as I ride with that current, only finding myself again long after my hands have been washed clean, the glass hidden away, staring wonderingly at the humming keys of our piano. My fingers walk them, somehow possessed with an understanding and a memory I can't unlock. The notes they play are achingly familiar and yet unknown to me.
I recognize the tune…somehow…but I cannot understand the rumble of laughter in my chest at the sound.
The soft brush of carpet beneath a footstep recalls my attention, and my eyes drift upward to meet hers. She stands there clothed in the same dress she's worn for hours now, but, watching the flickering firelight dance with the dark pools of hatred in her eyes, I see her anew.
I know her.
"You…"
John
I sit lounging comfortably on the couch in Henry's now vacant apartment, as I take a well-deserved gulp of my favorite scotch. It's been a long hard night at the end of a very difficult road, but I think it all went as well as could be expected.
The Council is back to a semi-functioning degree of incompetency, the Salvatores and their pet history teacher know better than to come after me, and, if everything goes according to plan, Elena will be free and clear of this monstrosity of a life these vampires have imposed on her sooner rather than later.
I smirk to myself. All in a day's work.
A knock at the door breaks through my thoughts and I turn toward the sound with some annoyance. Henry certainly wouldn't need to knock, and I'm certainly not expecting company any time soon. Who would even show up here this time of night?
I wrench the door open to reveal a tall woman with dark brown hair and matching eyes wearing a smug grin and a sheer blue dress.
"Can I help you?" I ask, eyes pinched in irritation.
"No," she smirks, "but I think there's something I can do for you."
I scoff audibly at that. "Whatever it is, I'm not interested," I say, moving to close the door.
She presses a surprisingly strong palm to the wood, halting its motion. "You will be," she tells me confidently. "Name's Lucy Bennet. Katherine Pierce sent me."
That, at least, is enough to get my attention. Though I can't help but wonder "…Why?"
"Heard you had a bit of a vampire problem on your hands," she says by way of answer. I suppose it is, though I can't imagine what this girl thinks she has to offer me.
Noting my skepticism, her eyes seem to sharpen with an intense focus on some point beyond my right shoulder. I turn to follow her line of sight and find the room in chaos behind me. Lights flicker, the walls shake, picture frames crash to the floor. It's as though an earth quake sent a single concentrated burst of destructive force on this one singular spot. I stare at her in shock. She's a witch.
The triumphant glee in her eyes does nothing to dim the sudden enthusiasm in my own.
"Why don't we go inside and talk about it?" she says, and, wordlessly, I wave her in.
Things are looking up.
*song from the bar was Dean Martin's 1964 cover of "Baby Won't You Please Come Home"
A/N: So, good? Bad? Awful? Leave me a review and let me know!