A/N:
CW: Detailed descriptions of violence, bodily harm, and death. Implied tortured, it's only inferred, but there is a detailed description of injury.
Dark Side.
Chapter 32: Manes Silva.
"I liked Hell.
I liked to go there alone.
Relieved to lie in the wreckage.
Ruined.
Physically undone."
—Magdalene: The Addict. Marie Howe.
It's a serene, clear night in Mystic Falls. The temperature that nice degree where it's not too warm, nor too cold. The forecast, clear skies, which is why Aaron decided tonight is the night. Getting Clara to agree, however, was a completely different topic. It took the entirety of his lunch break, plus the fifteen-minute walk from the small CVS where Clara works—next to the thrift store across The Grill—to her house, for Clara to give in and say 'yes'.
Now, they stand, close together, with the shrubbery catching at their clothes and the grass squishing below their shoes. It rained all of last night and the soil is still wet, something Clara was quick to point out against his plan. Our stuff will get ruined if we leave it in the mud. He, of course, had a rebuttal for that one, too. We'll just leave our things in the car. After that, she had no more excuses, and she'd spent the entire forty-five-minute trek up the mountain curled up against him.
"C'mon, let's get closer to the edge." He beckons.
With one quick step, Aaron walks out of the forest edge and into the small clearing leading up to where the terrain turns from mountain to precipitous cliff. It's a large plane of grass and dirt, three paths leading up to it from each side. They're not official paths, but enough people have come up here over the years that the paths have formed naturally. This area of Mystic Falls may be all wild woods, no local preserve, but it's a well-known spot amongst local hikers, photographers, and mischievous teens. Each group having its own reason to come here.
Thankfully, whatever teens have come up here since Aaron and Clara graduated are polite enough that the clearing isn't littered with cigarette butts or plastic cups. Aaron places his camping lantern on the ground, right in the centre, where it can cast its white light around them better, and turns back to the forest edge.
"It's pretty nice out here, Clara." He wiggles his eyebrows.
Clara blinks at him, brown eyes so wide they might not return to their original size, and tightens her arms around her torso. Aaron sends her a soft smile, stretches one arm out for her to take. He may have spent the entire climb teasing her, but he understands this isn't easy for her. She stares at his hand like it might bite, before releasing a long, slow breath, and stepping forward.
"Yes! That's my girl!" He cheers, laughing.
Wrapping his fingers around hers, he pulls her closer until she falls into his chest, startled laugh tumbling out of her mouth. It ends as he presses his lips to hers, silencing her. Clara leans against him, one hand above his heart, the other entwining her fingers with his. He takes the opportunity to take a step back, and another, getting them closer to the cliff.
Clara is distracted enough not to notice which direction they're going. At least, until they break apart and her eyes immediately fall on the stretch of grass between them and the cliff. What used to be ten feet has now receded to seven. She lets out a quiet whimper, quiet enough that Aaron barely catches it.
"I can't believe we're doing this."
He sighs, standing right behind her, arms loosely around her waist. This was originally his idea, but Clara agreed to it. He didn't force her. When the Carolina Hurricanes won the game last week, something Aaron didn't think would happen, he had almost rescinded the bet. Except Clara turned to him, all anxious energy, and said: 'Well, I guess I'm getting over my biggest fear.' She was scared, but he caught the almost excited gleam to her eye, and knew she was saying that not because she had to, but because she felt ready. The decisiveness seems to have worn off.
"Clara..." Aaron starts, tightening his hold on her.
If she really, really, doesn't want to do this, then screw the bet. He's not having her overthink herself into an anxiety attack.
"It's late—and dark. And we're in Mystic Falls!" Clara exclaims. Oh, that's not where he thought she was going. "People go missing or die in the woods, all the time!"
Aaron begrudgingly admits she has a point. Mystic Falls has more strange deaths per capita than any other nearby town. Sparing her a glance, Aaron catches the worry plain on her face, the way her front teeth dig into her bottom lip. Clara isn't the type to crave adventure—their summer trip to the Grand Canyon where her mind kept popping up with the worst-case scenario for every little thing is proof enough of that—but she's never been one to doubt Aaron's willingness to keep her safe. He'd never make her do something if he thought it was dangerous. Really dangerous, not the dangerous her anxiety turns everything into. He's about to remind her of that, when she starts speaking again.
"If my parents find out we came up here, they'll kill me." She adds, nails digging into Aaron's inner wrist.
Ah, that explains it.
"You're nineteen, Clara." Aaron reminds her with a roll of his eyes. "Stop worrying what your folks think."
"Easy for you to say, you moved out." She looks over at him, craning her neck into the crook of his shoulder in order to shoot him a little glare.
"Listen," he drops a short kiss to her hairline, sighing, "if you don't want to do this, we don't have to."
Clara remains quiet for a moment. Her mouth stays in a pensive pout, her eyes focus on the stretch of grass before them with the same intensity she used to get when trying to understand AP Chemistry their senior year. Aaron watches her, quiet, secretly still as mesmerized by her as he was Homecoming Junior Year, when he finally decided to ask the quiet, pretty girl who had sat next to him in almost every class for three years whether she'd like to go with him to the dance or not.
They'd technically known each other their whole lives, were part of the same circle of friends, except Clara had always been slightly on the outside. She seemed to hang out with them only because Lila, her best friend, did, too. She spent more time working and studying than going out, but everyone in their circle liked her, even if she barely spoke.
Clara still doesn't know it, but Aaron harbored a crush on her for years, since they were 13, eagerly waited to hear her thoughts, glanced at her first each time he told a joke to see if she enjoyed it. Even if he didn't really know her. It wasn't until they reached high school, and Clara just happened to sit next to him fairly frequently in class, that he realized he needed to do something about it or he'd explode. That night, Homecoming, was the first time he ever kissed her. And he hasn't looked back.
Between his arms, Clara breathes in deep and steps out of his embrace. The two strides she takes shorten the space between her and the cliff by about three feet. She turns to look at him, mouth stretching into a smile at the shocked look that's probably plain on his face.
"A bet's a bet." She shrugs, nonchalant.
"'A bet's a bet.'" A voice repeats.
He turns to the left, where a stranger has suddenly appeared, somehow managing to not make a single noise despite the soil being moist enough to squish each time they step. He hears Clara's startled gasp and steps closer to her.
"Huh, I like that." The girl comments in passing, taking a step closer to them.
That's all this stranger is: a girl who can't be older than seventeen, with long, copper hair, and eyes that look eerily green against the whitish light of his lamp light. It's the empty look in the girl's eyes that has Aaron reaching out for Clara's arm and pulling her close.
"What the—who are you?" He asks, unable to understand the fast beating of his heart.
She's just a girl, he thinks, a harmless girl. She's short, and her clothing reveals a slim body. The girl does not pose a threat. Still, when she takes another step forward, gaze unwavering, Aaron's stomach inexplicably churns.
"I'm Cass." The girl introduces herself, monotonous. "So, what's the bet, exactly?"
"How did you get here?" He asks instead.
"What's the bet?" She repeats.
Her face doesn't change, but the slight edge to her voice turns her sinister. His body reacts, dripping adrenaline into his veins, kick-starting his fight-or-flight response. He's suddenly aware of the green smell to the air, rain mixing with dirt, of the way the crickets seem to have quietened. Clara's hand tightens around his. The situation angers him. His body wants to run away just because some kid is thinking herself clever, taking some sort of creepy cosplay a step too far. A silly game Clara is believing.
"Listen, 'Cass'," he scoffs, "this is kind of a private thing. So—" Aaron waves a hand towards one of the paths, shooing her.
Cass's eyes narrow. She tilts her head to the side. She takes her time studying Aaron, closely, to the point where he can't help but shift uncomfortably, before her eyes wander to his hand. The one gripping Clara's. When her eyes fall on Clara with the same unwavering scrutiny, Clara lets out a little squeak.
"W-we don't want to be rude," Clara rushes to clarify.
Above them, the sky rumbles. The clearing is illuminated by unexpected lighting. Clara jumps. Her hand grips his elbow. Aaron squeezes her hand, more reassurance to himself that she's close to him than comfort for her.
"What's happening?!" Aaron finds himself exclaiming as, inexplicably, fog begins to twirl from the forest into the clearing in slow, aimless waves.
Weather doesn't change this drastically in Mystic Falls, and it was supposed to be a clear night. They look up at the sky as another bout of thunder has the very ground beneath their feet shaking. Somewhere nearby, an owl hoots, wings flapping loud enough for them to hear as it flies away. He catches its receding outline before it disappears behind the trees.
"Maybe we should go." Clara suggests. Her voice trembles. Aaron agrees. He turns, mouth opening to ask this Cass person to move out of their way, only to notice she's nowhere to be found. "Aaron, I want to go home!"
"Right, okay!" Aaron agrees, flinging one arm over Clara's shoulder. He doesn't understand why exactly, but this whole thing has fear clinging to his skin. "Let's go."
He practically hoists Clara up and pulls her with him. They aren't four feet away from the same path they followed here when Cass appears in front of them, too quick for it to be humanly possible. Clara screams. Even Aaron allows a startled gasp. What the hell is this?!
"No one is going anywhere." Cass informs them with an even tone.
She no longer looks like a girl, which is a strange thing to think, considering nothing about her appearance has changed. Still, there's a strange air about her that has Aaron suddenly wondering whether she's seventeen or twenty-six. Like the atmosphere around her snapped and turned her innocence to ancient wisdom, though she didn't give the impression of innocence before, either.
"What do you want from us?" Clara cries out.
Her nails are digging into his skin deep enough that it causes pain. Still, Aaron barely notices it. The redhead's eyes trail down to his arm with enough intensity that Aaron can't help but follow, and that's when he discovers the thin trail of blood trickling down his arm from the skin underneath Clara's nails.
"I told you. I want to know what the bet is," she answers, eyes never moving from the wound in his arm. Then, like it's no longer interesting, her eyes snap back to his. "That's all."
Well, if it gets them rid of her...
"Clara is afraid of heights. If she lost the bet, she had to come up here and stop being afraid."
"I'm afraid of falling." Clara swallows noticeably. "We figured it was time I faced my fears."
That catches the redhead's attention. She straightens, yet her eyes remain that same empty green.
"Facing your fears..." she muses with a quiet hum.
Before Aaron can register what's happening, there's a whoosh of air beside him, a spur of color, a retreating bloodcurdling scream, and the distinct faraway splash of something heavy hitting still water. No one is in front of him. Or beside him. Aaron turns, heart beating so fast he can't feel or hear his own pulse anymore.
Cass is now standing right by the edge of the cliff. Clara isn't there.
"Now, that is something I can get behind." She finishes her thought, turning back to face Aaron.
He's not sure whether it's the cavalier way in which she says it, or the fact his brain has finally realized Clara isn't here because she was pushed off the cliff, but Aaron is no longer interested in playing tough. Which is why, when his brain sends the urge to run to every single muscle in his body, he no longer ignores it. Whatever this woman is, human is certainly not it. Aaron doesn't know what that means, but he's not staying to find out.
Within a beat, he turns and runs into the forest. He runs and runs, slipping and tumbling down the slope when his tennis shoes' laces get caught on a thorny shrub. He manages to regain balance, barely stopping as he barrels down the mountain, ducking under a low branch, wishing he had listened to Clara in the first place. This wouldn't have happened if he had.
Clara!
Clara fell off the cliff! There's a lake right underneath, but what if she didn't survive the fall? Changing his mind, he turns left, no longer running for the base of the mountain where his car is, but the area that eventually slopes into the lake. Right as he does this, he comes face to face with the redhead again.
"Get away from me!" Aaron screeches.
He halts with such haste he tumbles backwards. Shooting pain travels up his arm when he falls on his wrist. It's enough to make him bring it closer to his chest, effectively falling side-first to the ground. The wet grass feels rough against his cheek, that and whatever twigs and pebbles line the forest soil. How—how can she be here already? She's at least a foot shorter than him, there's no way she can run faster! He certainly didn't hear anything behind him, either. No rustling, nothing. Aaron scrambles to his feet, hands slipping in the muddy ground.
"Why are you running?" She pouts.
"You just killed my girlfriend!" He protests.
He takes a step back. Cass takes a step forward. Oh, god. Is this when he dies, too? He shouldn't have changed directions. He should have kept running to his car, called the sheriff when he got reception. He should have left rescuing Clara to the authorities!
"Oh, relax! There's a perfectly safe body of water at the bottom." Cass complains with a roll of her eyes. Even that sounds hollow, though, like every single shred of emotion is fake. It sends chills down his back. "She'll be fine."
"Clara can't swim!" He protests.
He may want to escape with every fiber of his being, but Clara, sweet, loving Clara, doesn't deserve to be left behind. Clara, scared, clever Clara, doesn't deserve to die afraid. To his surprise, Cass blinks, eyebrows knitting together in a frown that looks almost genuine.
"Oh. Go on, then." She takes a step to the left, clearing a path for him.
When all Aaron does is stare at her in hesitant trepidation, she takes another step and gestures with one hand like she's presenting him with the yellow-brick road itself. The motion is strangely delicate, like the movement of a prima ballerina.
"Go on. Off you pop."
He takes off running before she can change her mind. He runs until his heart threatens to hop off his chest, and his lungs are burning, and his legs are aching. And then he runs some more, not daring to look back until the outline of the lake is in the horizon. He chances a glance back. The girl is nowhere to be seen. He doesn't know how long he's been running but there's no way the girl will catch up now if she hasn't already.
He won!
He won!
He actually—
There, right in front of him, is the redhead again. Aaron stumbles, unable to stop in time, and runs straight into her. She pushes him off her without a problem, doesn't even lean back from the inertia of him slamming into her.
"You told me to run!" he exclaims, vaguely aware of the fact he is close to tears.
His vision is blurred; every breath he takes burns a path through his nose all the way to the back of his throat. He is this close to emptying his stomach. Out of fear or exertion, he's not sure.
The redhead in front of him isn't even winded. She's a dimmed figure in the dark forest, only recognizable by the way her eyes seem to gleam, even in darkness, that same eerie green. Still, he can't even hear her breathe, though every creature in the woods has decided to grow silent all at once.
"Yes, but I'm bored." She shrugs.
In that moment, the sky above them clears more than it has before, and moonshine showers over them.
"So... Aaron," she says his name sweetly, caringly, and it is more terrifying than anything that has happened tonight, "tell me, what are you afraid of?"
The smile she gives him chills Aaron to the bone. There, at the bottom of the highest mountain in Mystic Falls, right by the old quarry lake, Aaron Hill finally screams.
Monday mornings usually go the same way for Damon, unless there's some drama or plot to take care of. Even then, Mystic Falls tends to make it a rule not to fall apart at the beginning of the week. The town seems to have a mutual agreement that Monday is bad enough on its own. Not that the beginning of the week poses much of a problem for Damon, who hasn't held a serious job in decades.
Still, he enjoys a little routine on Mondays: wake up, feed, have a nice long shower, make breakfast, make his way down to The Grill around noon. Usually, he'd hang around the bar until school lets out so he can join Ric at whatever table the teacher has decided to turn into a desk. Until about half-four because that's when Cassie would get there. Then, he'd distract her enough that she'd give up on her work altogether. It was usually more an admittance that she didn't need to do homework, so screw pretenses, than anything else, but knowing she'd rather spend time with him than keep up pretenses always made him feel worth something.
Considering the events of the last week he doesn't see that happening today. It doesn't matter. Mondays have a routine. He's following the routine until he figures out a way to get the moonstone spelled. He doesn't need Cassandra. Well, he does but that's a lie he's been telling himself for over a hundred years, he's not going to stop right now when she probably never wants to see him again. He'll think about how he majorly screwed up later.
Except Rose won't stop bringing it up.
"Rose, I like you, but that's gonna change very quickly if you don't shut up." He casually calls over his shoulder, making his way down the hallway.
It's eight-forty-five, which means he already fed—a full bag of AB Neg, he's feeling indulgent today—and he's looking forward to some eggs and toast for breakfast. Rose didn't get the memo.
"You're acting like it didn't happen!" Rose argues for what feels like the tenth time this morning.
He is acting like it didn't happen. Because admitting to himself in broad daylight that words completely escaped him when Cassandra stepped into the hearth room not because he had nothing to say but because of the sheer panic that struck him is not helping anyone. Admitting aloud that he only slept with Rose, after drinking half of his entire stash of bourbon, to distract himself from the earth-shattering realization that he's been in love with Cassandra for longer than he'd be proud to admit, and why he needed distracting from said realization, would probably not make sense to anyone, either.
"What am I supposed to do, huh?"
He finds himself raising his arms in the air in an almost challenge, and he sounds so much like his little brother he's a little shocked. He drops his arms back and turns to the stairs, frowning. He knows what he should have done: driven to Cassandra's and told her he figured it out, and she is definitely not just a friend. It's too late for that, so why dwell on it?
"It's Monday."
"I know what day it is, Rose." Damon replies, sarcastic, without bothering to turn to her as he descends the stairs in a half-jog.
If this was Stefan, he would have given up already. Stefan is what Damon is used to, regardless of how many times throughout the years they have declared to never speak to each other again, so this amount of insistence is unprecedented and unwelcome.
"Elijah could arrive at any minute," Rose says with a tone that sounds almost smug, like she knows exactly how this whole thing will pan out. "With Klaus."
"I know that." He sing-songs, the bitterness of his tone makes the words taste acrid.
Rose moves until she stands right in front of him, too quick for him to evade her, so he is forced to halt mid-step right by the front door. She looks at him, head leaning slightly to one side, eyebrow raised. Briefly, he regrets lowering his guard in front of her. Otherwise the woman wouldn't be so confident to speak her mind and bother him.
"Do you?" she asks, too defiant for such an early hour.
Damon sighs, fed up. Before he can open his mouth and tell her exactly where to shove her opinion, the Boarding House's outdated door knocker thuds against the heavy wood of their front door, too quiet for human ears to catch, realistically, within the large house, which is probably why the bell rings a few seconds later. He turns to the door, trying to remember the last time someone knocked.
"Maybe that's her." Rose suggests after a beat.
"Cassandra doesn't knock." Damon informs her, before opening the front door to reveal no other than Liz Forbes. "Sheriff."
Her presence is unexpected—Liz usually doesn't make it a habit of turning up unannounced unless it's important. Dressed in her uniform, five manila folders grasped firmly in her hands, Liz isn't here for a social call. Damon's stomach dips into itself before Liz has even spoken.
"Morning, Damon." She greets with a smile that's a touch too tense. "I'm sorry to bother you but, can I come in? I could use your help."
"Of course, Liz."
For the first time in a while, the concern in his voice over whatever Liz is about to tell him isn't fake. He opens the door further, and waits until she steps inside to ask:
"What's the matter?"
Liz clears her throat, brings the folders closer to her middle, before glancing surreptitiously at Rose.
"Maybe we should talk privately," suggests Liz, polite but with enough authority that they know there's no room for rebuttal.
So much for Mondays being easy.
"I'll go make some coffee." Rose nods, sending Damon a confused look but taking a step back, nonetheless.
With that, she turns towards the kitchen's general direction. Damon gestures towards the parlor, an open invitation for Liz to make herself at home. Though the sheriff does walk into the room, she does not make herself at home. Instead, she stands right in the middle, coffee table to her right, tenser now that it's only the two of them. Despite this, Liz doesn't speak until the faint sound of the coffee machine turning on echoes down the hallway.
"On Saturday morning, the body of Clara Reeves was found off the shore of the old quarry lake." Liz starts without preamble, taking a deep breath in-between. "According to the coroner, she'd been dead for nine hours."
"That's... terrible, Liz," he says, hoping the answer to his next question isn't 'bite marks on her neck'. Though luck hasn't been on his side lately. "But, how can I possibly be of help?"
Liz exhales. For a moment, she looks genuinely distressed before she schools her features back to mild alarm. She flips the first manila folder open, holding it between both hands at an angle that impedes Damon from seeing anything, and flips two pages over the rim.
"This is what she looked like." Liz turns the folder over and hands it to Damon. He's barely glanced at it when Liz is talking again. "Her injuries don't match the fall; they are far, far, more extensive."
He looks down at the folder in his hands; his heart skips four consecutive beats, enough that he can't breathe. In his hand is a single A4-sized picture. It's a crime scene photo, so the extensive injuries Liz refers to aren't as prominent. Still, the damage is pretty severe. Clara Reeves was a young—twenty at most—dirty blonde, or she could have been blonde, it's hard to tell from all the blood. Because that's the most prominent thing about the picture: there's blood everywhere. Tangled up in her hair as it drips down the side of her face. Seeping through the rips in her clothes. Clotted and dark in the wrinkled, soggy skin of her outstretched hands. Turning her unseeing opened eyes an ugly dark red from the bloodshot.
"She didn't drown." Damon notices.
He's no expert by far, but he's been around death enough to know such violence couldn't have come from a simple drowning. Liz nods at him, glancing down at the picture in his hand with a furrowed mouth.
"No. According to Dr. Addams, she died on impact. He doesn't know how she ended up with injuries equivalent to a three-thousand-foot fall, but is chalking it up to a freaky accident." She lets him know.
"Okay."
Another cursory glance shows the girl's neck is puncture free. So, if this was an accident, and there's no sign of vampire intervention, why is Liz coming to him about it? Better yet, if this was an accident, and there's no sign of vampire intervention, why is there still a pit in his stomach?
"I'd think so, too. Except she was clearly dragged out of the water and to shore." How they reached this judgment and didn't assume the current itself pushed her body out Damon doesn't know. "Also, her boyfriend was found yesterday, in the woods near the cemetery."
He looks up from the picture, leaning towards confused more than anything. Two sudden deaths aren't strange for Mystic Falls, Damon himself has enjoyed hunting more than one couple looking for a private moment. What is a little strange is the bodies being found so far away from each other. Maybe this was an animal attack or an actual serial killer and he's just being paranoid. His guilt is making him jump to crazy conclusions. Liz's next words shoot that thought right in the face.
"Someone burned him alive." Liz opens the second file in her arms. This time, she doesn't have to flip the forensic report to reach the crime scene photo. "And, yet, there's no traces of the fire, anywhere. Not in his clothes, his skin, his lungs."
When she hands Damon the file, he understands why Liz looks so frazzled without having to look at the picture for long. The burns in the body look like fire burns, not acid. The skin is so badly injured it appears charred in places. Some items of clothing, like what Damon assumes was a jacket, are so burned they have become a strange mixture of ash and melted goo. For the first time in a long time, Damon is aghast, disgusted. His mind forces him not to notice any more details without him wanting it to. When his eyes fall on the man's face, mandible hanging open in an eternal scream, he can't help but agree with his brain.
Damon looks away and closes the manila file for good measure. He doesn't need to see anymore. He has crossed, and worked with, enough witches in his time to know these deaths are the product of magic. And he only knows one person angry enough, and hurt enough, and scared enough, to wreak such havoc in town.
"How do you know he was alive?" He asks Liz, mostly to distract himself, and partly because he's been quiet for too long.
Liz exhales. The breath comes out of her in a flimsy, broken-up sound that might as well have been a question. She's out of her depth and it terrifies her, Damon can see it in the dark blue of her eyes.
"His body showed signs of heat shock?" She shrugs, looking around as if expecting the correct answer to fall from the sky. "Apart from some internal injuries, there isn't much wrong with him. Dr. Addams ruled the skull fracture a result of the heat, though."
His eyes dart down to the folder again then up to the three others she holds in her hands. He can't decide whether he wants to see what's in those or not, but he knows this is a conversation that should have taken place in Liz's office. Or anywhere else without two nosy vampires.
"Yeah, I—I can't explain it, either. And I've received five different calls about supposed animal attacks." Liz lets out a faint chuckle as she flips through the folders in her hands, taking out another picture, and another. "Three of the victims are still alive. They're in the hospital, with no recollection of what happen, but it's clear they were vampire attacks."
She hands Damon the pictures, eyes wide enough that he can see her utter panic in them without difficulty. These photos are more like what he expected when he opened the door to find the sheriff waiting; they're still oddly jarring.
The bodies of two men stare up at him from each photo, a close up from their clavicles up. The pictures reveal a clear, clean bite mark on the left side of each of their necks. The wounds are perfectly symmetrical on each man, no messy edges, no hesitance or fumbling to the bite. No wastage, he thinks before that thought is replaced by one much darker, no remorse. He's suddenly aware of how bright the wounds look against their pale skin. Such a stark contrast of red against white.
"This was a vampire," he says, like he's dumb, because, of course, this was a vampire.
It isn't until the word is out of his mouth that he understands why this is all so disturbing. He's seen plenty of vampire kills in his time, has killed plenty of people himself in horrible, cold-blooded ways that surpass these two silly marks on two strangers. Katherine fed on and killed many people in front of him.
Cassandra never did.
Cassandra never drank more than she had to, never drain someone to the point of death. Not when he was with her. Not once in all the times he secretly went and watched her and Katherine hunt. For some reason, he never could imagine her killing anyone. Even now, with that constant threat gleaming in her eyes, with the freezing fury that overcomes her at times, he doesn't find her capable of murder. Her killing Henry had been unexpected. Those two deputies, shocking. Still, his mind argued that it had been provoked, and the image of Cassandra he has in his head, the one that has stayed the same for the past 146 years, didn't have to change.
Maybe it does now.
"I don't know if these cases are related or not—or what to do about them!" The Sheriff exclaims, voice almost pleading. "But the Council is starting to look my way, and—Damon, you've helped me so much before. I was hoping you had some idea of what might be going on."
"Of course, Liz." He agrees immediately. "Leave it to me."
Best he be the one to investigate than her. He may not be the best person to judge Cassandra and her actions, but a dead sheriff wouldn't benefit anyone right now.
"Thank you, Damon!" Liz finally releases a breath; her shoulders droop slightly.
"Let me know if anything arises." He nods with a smile that's the living image of chivalry.
Even if it's feigned.
The front door has barely shut behind a retreating sheriff, manila folders back in hand, when Rose is beside him again. Stefan, a few steps behind her.
"You think this was Cass?" Stefan asks with crossed arms and furrowed brows.
"Unless you know other vampire hybrids in town." He replies, making his way back to the parlor.
If he's having this conversation with Stefan so early in the morning—his nice Monday morning—then he'll need alcohol. They follow him. Stefan goes so far as to step right beside him as he pours himself a glass of bourbon and fights the urge to down it all at once.
"Do you think she has turned off her humanity?" Rose asks from somewhere behind him.
He doesn't miss the edge to her voice, the way her words seem to catch in her throat. Instead of answering, he only nods, taking a considerable gulp from his glass.
"Why would she do that?" Stefan asks him.
"The economy? World hunger? The people she ran away from coming back?" He comments, sarcastic. "I don't know, Stefan. Pick one!"
When he turns from the table, Rose sends him a pointed look. He rolls his eyes. This was not his fault; she can point that accusing look at someone else.
"What are you gonna do?" His brother asks him with a tone much too serene for the shadow in his eyes.
"Nothing."
"But you told the sheriff—"
"A clever lie so she doesn't get killed." He cuts Rose off, drinking the rest of the bourbon in one go.
"We need to talk to her." Stefan insists. "Force her to turn it back on."
"No; no! Bad idea!"
Stefan lets out an exasperated breath. Damon can't help but frown at the sound. Despite his pretending like this doesn't matter, he can't help the protective twinge in his chest, the way his entire skin seems to crawl at the idea of Cassandra being forced to do anything.
No one should go talking to Cassandra right now. If she wants to not feel anything, then that's her choice. If she wants to kill half of Mystic Falls... well, out of the seven people she attacked, only four died, so maybe her murderous rampage is finished. If it isn't, they'll cross that bridge when they get to it.
"Damon—" Stefan starts protesting.
"Damon's right. Cassandra with her humanity is dangerous, unpredictable. Without it, she's terrifyingly lethal." Rose interjects, taking a step closer to them, effectively turning them into a gossiping triangle, Damon notes with acrimony. "There will be no stopping her, not unless she wants to be stopped! Haven't you heard the stories?"
Rose always seemed too cautious around Cassandra, like one wrong puff of air could land her in hot water. He thought that was Rose's obvious fear of danger, any danger, and not something to consider. The woman did, after all, tip Elijah towards their home. Now, Damon can't help but wonder if maybe she's right.
They shouldn't go trying anything when they have no idea how Cassandra will react. How does one go about stopping a five-hundred-and-thirty-year-old vampire-witch hybrid with no humanity?
"No, I know Cassandra. I know she'll make the right decision if we talk to her." Stefan protests.
Ironic, that only a few weeks ago he thought her so twisted he talked about killing her. Damon scowls at him, fed up with his brother's self-righteousness.
"Those stories," Stefan continues, decisive, "are just rumors."
"Not when it comes to her." Rose shakes her head.
The tone of finality in Rose's tone makes the pit in his stomach return. Stefan turns to him, and Damon realizes he hasn't spoken in a while. Rose does the same, looking at him with raised eyebrows, probably expecting him to finally answer the question he evaded all weekend. Instead of doing just that, he pours himself another glass of bourbon.
"I don't care about rumors," says Stefan after a moment of nothing but silence and the three of them staring at each other. "All I know is I'm not letting my friend dig herself into a deeper hole."
"Knock yourself out, Stefan." He tilts the glass towards his brother, sarcastic smile well in place.
Stefan shakes his head and turns to leave. Not before levelling his eyes with Damon's with something that looks a lot like disappointment, like he expected him to do better. Damon glowers at him until his brother disappears down the hallway and Rose steps into his eye-line.
"You have to speak with her." Rose declares.
"No."
What can he do? It's not like he can storm into her house and demand she turns it back on. He won't delude himself into thinking he's the reason she turned it off, won't trick himself into thinking she feels that strongly about him, but he has to admit the timing matches. If he talks to her, he'd probably make everything worse.
"Why not?"
"Because," he starts, so done with this conversation he doesn't care about sounding harsh or apathetic. "I'm not taking responsibility for her bad choices."
With that, he drinks the rest of the bourbon, slamming the glass into the silver tray a little harder than he should. Rose tenses, glances from the glass to him. His lips stretch into a thin, bitter smile before he sidesteps around her and makes for the front door. He doesn't care anymore.
He's not thinking or talking about this anymore.
A/N: Here's the chapter! I hope you like it. This one and the next 2 are one of my favourites. I will warn you, however, that the Cass-without-humanity arc might not be what many of you seem to expect. BUT it is interesting, at least I think it is!
Another thing, I am finishing university on June 15th, that's my last assessment. Corona messed up our schedule and a lot of things got pushed. It's my final year, and I need to focus on that, so I can't promise I will update very soon. I'll try to update before then, but my schedule is very tight at the moment. I hope you can understand that, I know how disappointing it is when a fic you're really enjoying has slow updates, so I apologize. Good thing is, after that is done, I will be able to update more frequently!
Onto reviews:
Eennio: It's here! Hope that scene satisfies some of your nohumanity!cass needs.
AB0918: here it is, hope you like it! Elijah won't make an appearance yet because I messed up with the timeline, but there is a very interesting scene between Cass and Elijah coming up!
WickedlyMinx: I understand why you stopped reading, they weren't that great. I'm glad you're back, though! and I'm glad you're liking the re-write! I hope you don't stop reading, either, but I totally understand if somewhere down the line you're like nah it's become not great again! It happens sometimes. Thanks for reading again, though, and thanks for the support, it means a lot!
nerdalertwarning: I know you've been around and always commented, so I wanted you to know I really appreciate that! And, I think you're kind of right? lol I am sorry you're getting bored of Cassandra. The thing is, she used to be a much more volatile and violent character in the first draft, after all she does have every reason to be, like you pointed out, and everyone hated that. And I mean HATED that. I wasn't a huge fan of it, either. So when I rewrote the story I tried to dial that back a little bit and she somehow turned very docile? Much more than I mean for her to be? In my writer brain I know why she's not as volatile/cruel/badass as she used to be (as in how people often describe her) and while I kind of hinted at it, I haven't found a way to write it into the story yet. I understand what you mean completely, though, and I am working on it. Cassandra just won't cooperate, no matter how hard I try. It frustrates me and worries me, tbh. And I totally understand if at one point you get tired of it completely! I won't hold it against you. I hope you don't but I respect it xx
Gracen900: Things are getting wild! Bad news for the poor people of Mystic Falls.
RykerSnow: Yes she did! I hope you liked this chapter! And thanks for your kind words! I love that you love the story! your support means a lot.
StrangelyBeautiful3: here's the update! I hope you like this chapter!
guest: well, I'm glad you liked it. In the past people were NOT amused over the fact that she turned it off. And you're right, it is different! it's much more deadly. I hope you're staying safe too, and thanks for your support!
guest: thank you! and here's the chapter!
for the record,
UPDATE: 23/05/2020.