~9~

~Chapter Nine~

"Intuition is seeing with the soul."
~Dean Koontz~

Date: June 17th, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time
Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road
Mystic Falls, Virginia

"Can you be any more boring?"

I don't lift my eyes from the page when I answer Damon. "Is that a challenge, Salvatore?"

"God, no," he whines, falling onto the couch with a dramatic flourish. "If we weren't already dead, I'd have croaked from boredom by now."

"Well, if you helped me with the research, maybe you wouldn't feel that way." I don't have to look at him to know that he is grimacing.

"I don't speak witch. How am I supposed to read those things?"

"Sound out the really big words."

My gaze flickers over to my best friend, who is reaching for the Grimoire sitting atop the coffee table. He examines the cover in exasperation before kicking his feet up and flipping to a random page.

A peaceful quiet falls over us, interrupted every so often by Damon, who sighs pointedly in fifteen-minute intervals. He doesn't want me to believe that he finds this any more entertaining than his previous activity (i.e. his childish attempts at distracting me).

I have to admit that I like being home, though.

Without Damon, this task would be even more monotonous than it currently is. Not to mention difficult and frustrating.

Probably more productive, though.

Upon my return, Damon and I immediately went back to our normal routine. It wasn't a big adjustment, but rather an automatic transition. No thought or discussion was required. Though, we did exchange a few barbs about what happened at the store—both pre-and post-Kai—but it was never done in malice. He cooked dinner, complaining about my meal requests; and I did laundry, lamenting over how he shouldn't just throw his clothes on the floor.

Damon and I even began alternating who picked that night's TV show or movie, but we started to notice that most channels replayed the same episodes over again, rotating throughout the week. Each show had about seven of them and we were both pretty sick of Baywatch at this point.

So, we very quickly realized that we were going to have to find another means of entertainment. Yet another complicated downside to living in a practical ghost town with very little prior knowledge.

On evenings when Damon scours the hospital for blood, I visit the Blockbuster video store on the outskirts of town for a new batch of VHS tapes. It worked out better that way—Damon got what he needed to survive, and I didn't have to deal with the creepiness of skulking through an abandoned hospital in the middle of the night.

I've also discovered that this arrangement is more efficient.

By a landslide.

If we were to run both errands together, we might never accomplish what we set out to do. I hate waiting in the hall—alone and in the dark—while Damon debates over which blood type he is in the mood for. On the other side of things, Damon can't stand perusing the romantic comedy section while I am going back and forth about which movie to choose.

That cuts down our bickering just enough to make us feel like we are being mature. Compromise isn't our strong suit but being flexible sometimes isn't as hard as I thought it would be (a fact I will not tell that stubborn vampire. I can't imagine what he will try to get away with if I tell him that I'm open to other ideas in more than just this scenario).

Besides, more often than not, my plans are the more successful ones.

The only issue that plagues me still is the vivid dreams. The reoccurring nightmare is still a persistent happening. I've lost count of how many times it's happened this week. Hell, I couldn't keep track of it when I was by myself. It seems like every time I close my eyes; I'm setting myself up for another round of torture.

Only, each time, something new pops up.

And when I wake up, those details slowly become fuzzy until I can't quite remember what they were—at least not with any confidence. The amount of restful sleep I'm getting is abysmal. According to Damon, the amount of tossing, turning, and sleep-yelling I do has impacted him as well. It got so bad last night, that he offered to put on The Bodyguard in his room until we both fell asleep. I smile fondly as I recall how I made him admit that he was conceding and therefore lost the bet.

"Anything that'll let me sleep through the night. If I wake up to the sound of an exorcism again, I might lose it."

I accepted his response, but only because I didn't want to read too much into why I jumped on the opportunity to be so close to Damon so quickly.

Suffice to say, while I have yet to experience a good dream, falling asleep next to Damon is a surefire way for me to discern the difference between real and imaginary when I jolt awake. I'm not nearly as disoriented or scared by the terrors my brain cooked up.

If Damon is getting tired of our new sleeping arrangement, he hasn't said anything about it.

And I'm certainly not going to ask him if he is. The thought of going back to sprawling out in my own bed makes me feel isolated and vulnerable.

"So, what exactly am I supposed to be looking for again?"

"I told you already," I huff. "At least five times now."

"But that was yesterday. You know I tune out after more than five minutes of nagging."

I roll my eyes, making a mental note of the page number before setting my book aside to join him on the sofa. "I don't know. Anything about past lives or resurrection—anything that sounds like it might be useful."

"That's… disappointingly vague."

I peer over his shoulder, hoping to get the gist of whatever spell he is looking at. The section is about the delicate balance between fate and free will. I bristle at the heading. I don't know what to think about this kind of magic. If one's free will is determined by one predetermined destiny, then what did we do to land ourselves in this clusterfuck?

My head is starting to hurt. "I know. Maybe this is pointless. I don't know what half of these incantations are supposed to do!"

"Bon Bon…" Damon says, mouth twisting into a concerned frown. "That doesn't mean you won't figure it out."

"When did you become a motivational speaker?"

He pretends to glance at an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Oh, about… 2.5 seconds ago.'

"How precise."

"You don't sound uplifted. Let me try something else… you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take… be the change you wish to see in the world… yada yada yada."

"You suck at this. Maybe you should try a new career path."

He purses his lips indignantly. "Well, I'm certainly doing better than you."

He's not wrong. For once, he is the upbeat one. This is fairly odd since he knows even less about this stuff than I do. I angle my body toward him, glancing at the Grimoire. Damon has already resumed his reading (or he wants it to look like he has) and I go back to the armchair I'd been lounging in before he interrupted.

I tuck my legs underneath me and prop the book up on the armrest. My eyes scan page after page, searching for anything familiar. When that fails—again—I turn to the index, hoping that it can narrow down the number of chapters I'd have to leaf through.

Mind-Altering Rituals, Incantations, and Potions
(and their countermeasures)

For whatever reason, I'm particularly drawn to this listing. Though, in retrospect, it is an obvious springboard. Maybe if I get the whole story, I won't need to waste precious time looking for a solution within the world's largest instruction manual.

I'm feeling pretty good about my discovery when Damon's snarky voice breaks the silence once more.

"Hey, Bonster…"

"Yes, Damon?"

"… if all else fails… you could always burn this place to the ground. Nothing says, 'fuck you' more than absolute destruction."

I shoot daggers in his direction. "I'm not going to keep that in mind."

He smiles at me, expression smug, and shrugs his shoulders for what seems like the millionth time in the last thirty minutes. "Suit yourself—I think it's a great idea."

"My point exactly."

I can't sleep.

Not because my body won't let me, but rather I refuse to close my eyes for longer than a few seconds.

I stare at the ceiling, examining every visible inch of it for flaws. Bumps, bits of paint, drips, chipping, marks. Any sign of imperfection really, though I've yet to find one. My head is beginning to hurt because I've been looking at it for so long.

I just don't have the heart to move.

I'm acutely aware of Damon's sleeping form five inches to my left. The way his body rises and falls in time to his breathing (which I'm not entirely sure if he does it because he needs to or if it's a pesky human reflex he hasn't been able to kick). And how he has the comforter pulled halfway over his head, blocking the moonlight streaming in through the window.

He needs rest, too. And having observed the darkened circles under his eyes when he was getting ready for bed, I feel guilty. Vampires subsist on blood—it gives them energy in spades, enhances their already extraordinary powers, soothes their hunger—but they can go longer between feedings if they rest as a normal person would. We plan on going out tomorrow night for blood and movies, but that doesn't solve the issue right now.

I told him we could move our weekly excursion up a day, but he said he'd rather go to bed and keep things as they were.

Why I don't know, but I'm not exactly in a position to complain about consistency in one's routine, as I'm the main one who pushes for it, so I didn't argue with him.

I wanted to, of course, but I exercised restraint I did not know I had.

So, I vowed that I wouldn't make things any more tiring than they already were.

Which I do fabulously… until my eyes grow heavy and begin to sting.

I'm frustrated with myself. So far, I haven't accomplished any of the things I said I would. We are still stranded here, with someone who tried to skewer one of us, and we have no idea how to escape. Or what put us in Mystic Falls in the first place.

I'm a failure.

As a witch, a friend, and I don't know how to not be.

Tears slide down my cheeks. It's not an ideal reaction—the amount of vulnerability it displays is way out of my comfort zone—but I don't know what else to do. I'm running low on hope, even with the pep talk Damon gave me before dinner.

My brain is so fucked up that I can't even sleep normally. I'm so bad at not being a mess that even a vampire can function better as a human than I can!

I roll onto my side, facing away from Damon. When he does eventually wake up, I don't want him to see that I had been crying the majority of the night.

"… mmm," Damon mumbles sleepily and I freeze.

So much for that, I tell myself, flinching as a string of semi-intelligible words flow out of Damon's mouth.

"Bun Bun… c'mere."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you; just go back to sleep. Everything is fine."

He flings his arm around me, pulling me into his chest. "Then why is your heart beating like a jackhammer?"

Crippling self-loathing and doubt. "Biology."

"We're safe," he states with a little more emotion and less half-conscious confusion. "Kai doesn't care about us anymore. You can sleep—I won't let anything happen to you."

Warm floods from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes. I do feel protected. Even more relaxed with Damon's obvious show of chivalry; like I could fall asleep now and not have to worry about shadows or screams or pain.

I pull the comforter up to my neck, smiling to myself when Damon rests his chin in the crook between my shoulder and the side of my face. Once we are settled, he falls asleep immediately, as if nothing we said to each other gave him pause.

Me, on the other hand?

I can feel my body slowly giving in to the exhaustion. My eyelids flutter open and closed, while I try to take stock of our surroundings. The windows are shut and locked, curtains pushed aside so the room isn't pitch-black. Shadows are cast upon the dresser and nightstand and a sliver of lamplight seeps in from underneath the doors. All because the man capable of extreme speed couldn't be bothered to flip the light switch in the hall.

When I'm convinced that nothing resembles any facet of my nightmare, I allow myself to drift off, hoping that something pleasant will play behind my eyes.

A scrap of paper with the letters G, E, and M printed on it, my hand reaching for it, desperate to grab ahold of it, a strong need to figure out why it is so important. A gust of wind so forceful that I'm knocked on my ass, unable to fight against it as the parchment floats away…

That scene from my dream is superimposed in my head as I shower, dress, and meet Damon in the kitchen for breakfast—which is blueberry muffins that he "whipped up" while I was still trying to pretend it wasn't eleven in the morning. Hiding from the sunlight, cloaked entirely in the puffy blankets that Damon abandoned long before I was conscious.

"Cat got your tongue, Bennett?" he asks, taking an unnecessarily large bite.

"No."

He breaches all levels of etiquette when he continues to talk, mouth half-full. "You're being surprisingly not-judgy this morning. Are you sick?"

"Only of you," I chirp brightly.

"There's my Bon Bon," he says, and he sounds so relieved that I don't know how to respond. I didn't realize that he cared enough to pay attention to my moods—unless I am on my period, that is.

"I'm just… thinking."

"Is that why it smells like burning hair?"

"Shut up—I'm serious. Does the word gem mean anything to you?"

"Gem," he repeats experimentally. "No. Not really. What do gems have to do with this?" He waves his hand in the air, arm sweeping over the entire room.

I glare at him pointedly. "I don't know! That's why I'm asking!"

"But why are you asking?"

I sigh, pulling at the wrapper, causing hunks of blueberry to scatter across my plate. "I had a dream about it. And I can't get it out of my head. So… it must mean something."

"Maybe it's the key to getting out of here," Damon speculates. "We might have to look for some special rock formation."

"You might be on to something. We need more resources, though. I'm thinking we skip the movie theater and go to the library."

"I don't do libraries," Damon says flatly.

"With all the grammar mistakes you make, you probably should." I lean over the table, resting my head atop my hands.

"But I'm not going to," he is too stubborn to even consider the benefits. "I'll just fly solo."

"To the movies? You hate when I'm not there. What about all the wasted snark? How will you survive not having anyone to complain to?"

"Kai might be there," Damon says. "I'd love to piss him off… fucker deserves it."

"And if he tries to murder you again?"

Damon's facial expression oozes arrogance. "That isn't going to happen again. He got lucky. This time, I'll tap one of his veins and I won't have to drink from a blood bag for a month."

"If you're sure…" I trail off uneasily.

"Oh, I am."

I roll my eyes. Time to switch to another tactic. "It won't be the same without me, you know. I bet Kai is one of those uptight assholes who hates side commentary."

"You mean like you?" he counters. "Don't worry Bon Bon—I'll be fine. I'm not scared of Bargain Basement Freddy Kruger."

"Damon—I want to see Speed, too!"

"I'll just give you the play-by-play tonight." He shrugs, undeterred.

"But it's my night to pick the show!" I protest, voice rising in both volume and pitch. "We agreed on it—you get to be in charge of the movie; I get to choose our evening TV program! You made me spit shake on it!"

"Oh… believe me, I know. But it's your choice: a day of fun or research and development at the crappiest place in Mystic Falls. …That's life, kiddo. Oh, the trials and tribulations you face on your quest for knowledge. So painful!" he clutches his chest as if someone shoved a knife into his heart.

"That's nothing compared to what you'll experience if you spoil the ending," I retort, turning away from him. I keep my gaze on the reflection of our bodies in the patio door.

We exude an air of comfortability despite our mutual agitation. It makes me think about how that may change when (if) we get back to the land of the living. I chew on my bottom lip, anxious and praying that our circumstances won't be altered too much—at least in that respect.

"Damon?" I still don't turn toward him.

"Bon Bon," he says, matching my intonation perfectly.

"Can you promise me something?"

"Anything," he replies automatically. Without thought, not caring if whatever I ask of him will be too much.

"Promise me that we'll always have each other's backs."

"Well, I thought that went without saying, but okay. I promise that I'll have your back. Cross my heart." And then, rather childishly, he says, "duh."

Some of the tension in my body, specifically the stiffness in-between my shoulder blades, fades away. That response, however sarcastic, is what I'd hoped to hear. After the research, we'd done and that creepy nightmare, I'm not sure that whatever information I find will be pleasant. In fact, I have a sinking suspicion it will be anything but.

The only library in the entire town is four blocks away from home.

It's a brick building with a sloping, thatched roof. Ivy climbs up its left side, coating the bricks in bright green, and a small garden nearby from which the foliage originated.

I'm beginning to think that it's a requirement for every separate piece of property to have some kind of plant-life. Is that what people look for in a neighborhood—pretty flowers and the appearance of perfection?

I go through two sets of doors that lead me straight into the lobby. There are several hallways branching off on both sides of the room, each one taking you to a specific section: children's books, non-fiction, fiction, graphic novels…

I head straight to the non-fiction alcove.

The shelves are tall, ranging from ceiling to floor. A thin ladder leans up against one and I find myself hoping that I won't need to climb it in order to find what I'm searching for. The ambiance is a bit morose; the lighting dark, furniture dark-stained wood, upholstery maroon in color. It's definitely drab, but it's supposed to be that way, it contributes to the calm, serious vibes one is expected to have when studying.

Weaving in and out of narrow aisles, I keep my eyes peeled for the placard with the word HISTORY engraved on it in thin, gold font.

It's located in the very back of the room—the last set of shelves, most of which line the back wall. A small stand is situated in the corner, displaying various newspaper articles.

I thumb through rows and rows of books. Some thick, some not. I breathe in the scent of old paper as I go, comforted by it because the smell reminds me of the spell books I left at home. The ones that are both frustrating and too impractical to lug all the way here.

In the end, I think I've got a decent amount of source material. I opt to read several town history books and old periodicals dating all the way back to the mid-to-late eighteen hundreds. I spread out my selections on a large desk, swiping a yellow notepad and pencil from the librarian's counter. I notice, somewhat sadly, that there is a layer of dust on the nameplate, and I try not to think about whether or not a person ever sat in the rickety swivel chair behind the desk.

Because what is this place really?

Something draws me to an editorial written in the year 1890, about the effect the witch trials had on Mystic Falls even hundreds of years later. It named several families who's ancestors were killed due to the suspicion that they practiced magic. I see that my surname is the very first one mentioned. Then, the article goes on to quote a (then) currently living member of the Bennett bloodline: Beatrice, who's maternal relatives were burned at the stake. It pulls at my heartstrings so severely; my eyes burn with tears. They had moved to Virginia to escape the Salem Witch trials and they lost their lives anyway. Their attempt at survival did nothing for them in the end.

I gulp, very aware of the lump forming in my throat. My family faced so much over the years. I wonder if maybe I am cursed—if, despite all my efforts, I'm doomed. What if I don't have a chance of getting out of here? Was my plight written in stone before I entered the world?

The familiar feeling of discomfort takes over me—just as it had when I contemplated the idea of destiny a few days ago. Did I finally get my answer?

No!

I'm startled by the ferocity of my own thoughts. My intuition is screaming at me, telling me that I'm not correct in my assumption. However, I know—without understanding how or why—that I'm on the right path. There's a little fire in my chest, small but strong, urging me to keep my head up. Whatever I'm meant to do, I have a gut instinct that it isn't going to be achieved while I'm trapped in this mind-fuck of suburbia.

I sift through stacks of books, loose papers, and hastily-scribbled notes until my fingers curl around the bent corner of a newspaper clipping. My whole hand feels as though I shoved it into a pot of boiling water, but I ignore the scorching pain and read the front-page news story:

THE PARKER FAMILY MASSACRE.