Damon tosses his key to the valet. He stops at one of Treasure Island's pubs for a drink. The bartender sizes him up at his request for 'Double Eagle,' a very expensive bourbon.
"Fill it," Damon looks into his eyes. "And leave the bottle."
The man nods slowly and does his bidding. Emptying the pour in one gulp, Damon lays some bills on the bar, picks up his bourbon, and retreats to his suite on the 30th floor.
He strips down to shower. The water comes as a soothing cascade, one that usually helps him to relax. Resting his palms against the wall, he lets the steamy downpour wash over him, but his mind won't slow down. Damon's certain that a rogue vampire is killing these women...It's not that he cares really, but his curiosity's gotten the best of him. Or maybe Elena Gilbert has gotten the best of him? It's six of one, half dozen of the other.
After cinching a towel around his waist, he spreads out on the bed and pours himself another glass. Savoring the burn as it goes down, he settles against his pillow, shifting til he's finally comfortable. That bulldog of a podcaster is beautiful, fearless and unrelenting. She's gotten under his skin, and it's really messing with his mind...
"Knocking is still a thing, you know…"
"We need to talk," Damon announces, strolling into Stefan's room. Glancing around, he quickly surmises that his brother still can't throw anything away. Momentoes, souvenirs, clutter and debris are everywhere. Bookcases lining two walls are chock full of books, journals and trinkets. His desk is always littered with notepads, pens and other junk. The top of his cherry-wood dresser is scattered with an array of photographs, both old and contemporary.
"No, actually we don't," Stefan replies, marks his journal page with his pen, and leans back in his chair, eyes glaring at Damon.
"Yes, we do," Damon replies, crossing his arms over his chest.
"So, you're staying for a while?" Stefan asks, disgruntled.
"Long enough to get you back on the straight and narrow," Damon answers.
Cocking an eyebrow, Stefan eyes him suspiciously. "Don't you have something more interesting to do?"
"Nope," Damon replies, popping the P.
"What if I don't want you here?"
"It's my house, too," Damon reminds him.
"It's only your house when you want to make my life miserable," Stefan accuses, glowering at Damon.
"I prefer to think of it more as two brothers spending time together," Damon smirks.
"You're delusional," his brother mocks before a crumpled-up bunch of paper comes whizzing past Damon's ear.
"You always did have a lousy aim," Damon quips, bending over to pick it up before tossing it in the wastebasket. Flopping down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, Damon's trying hard not to lose his temper. "You have to be more careful. There've been too many animal attacks."
"Enough! I am being careful," Stefan snarls.
The sudden shift in his brother's demeanor, and the hostility that flares in his eyes, reminds Damon all too much of Stefan's Alter Ego- the ripper.
"Those drained, and mutilated bodies tell me otherwise," Damon points out, rebuking him.
"Aw, better be careful, brother. Your humanity is showing," Stefan sneers sardonically, dragging out the words.
Damon's leaps out of his chair, grasping Stefan's collar and bringing them nose to nose. Anger eclipses concern as he stares his brother down. When the doorbell cuts shrilly through the boarding house, he loosens his grip and backs off.
Stefan's fingers curl around the edge of his desk in a white-knuckle grip. "That's my afternoon snack," he grits out between clenched teeth.
"I happen to like the edge, Stefan! Your problem is your inability to resist falling over it...do you really think inviting your lunch for lunch is a good idea?" Damon shoots over his shoulder as he's leaving the room. Just steps shy of the doorway, he turns around when Stefan calls after him.
"Make yourself scare, she's mine!" he growls menacingly, his green eyes turning dark with venom.
Holding up his arms, Damon silently backs out, knowing all too well that a storm is fast approaching.
Damon jolts awake, feeling every thunderous pound of his undead heart. He glances around, now noticing that he's laying naked on the king-sized mattress, having kicked off the sheets. Shaking himself out of it, he takes a generous pull of bourbon before rolling over and closing his eyes, this time hoping for a dreamless sleep.
Settling into her office, Elena searches for murders, specifically murders with a conspicuous loss of blood. She's actually surprised when a headline from 1967 pops up from the Las Vegas Review Journal.
"Five Corpses Drained of Blood!"
With her curiosity piqued, Elena scrolls through the article. It mentions that five women were murdered, all mysteriously drained of blood. Jumping to her feet, she pockets her key fob and turns to leave.
"Where you going?" Ric steps in front of her as she heads for the door.
"I'm going over to the Review Journal to have a look at their archives."
"What for?"
"It seems there was a series of murders like this back in 1967. I'm going to check them out."
"That's 54 years ago; it can't possibly be the same killer."
"I know that, but maybe this is a copycat? I'll talk to you later," Elena chimes, skirts by him and leaves the office with a quick snap of the door.
While driving, Elena can't help but think about that kiss. Her fingertips ghost her lips, still remembering how insanely good it was. She's in her own little world until a car horn sounds behind her. Sticking her hand out the window, she guiltily waves at the person and steps on the gas pedal.
A short time later, she's seated in front of a computer, pulling up the information and camera footage from 1967.
"This is Franklin Fell reporting to you from the rear of the Sahara Casino, where a brutal animal attack has ended in tragedy.' The camera pans to the sheet-covered body as it's being loaded into the coroner's van. "See if you can get closer. Is that the boyfriend?" the reporter asks.
As the camera zooms in on the crowd, Elena can see...it can't possibly be Damon among them?
The shot hovers over him for several seconds before it lands on a distraught man. Her mouth drops. "Could it be his father or maybe grandfather?" she mumbles under her breath. Pushing that aside for a moment, she reads the articles and is surprised at the similarities between the murders then and now. Although there's no mention of hospitals missing blood.
Focusing in on his picture again, she prints it along with the story, stuffs it in her bag and after thanking the clerk, she leaves, more determined than ever to find out who Damon Salvatore really is.
"Hello, Elena," Elijah calls over his shoulder.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"You always snap the door the same way," he elucidates, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.
"I guess I'll have to slam it shut after this," she mocks and tosses the photo in front of him.
"What's this?"
"That's a Damon Salvatore doppelganger at the scene of a 1967 murder at the Sahara. There were 5 killings that year, all the victims suspiciously drained of their blood. No one was ever arrested," Elena explains, her pointer finger tapping on the Damon look-a-like's face.
"I told you Damon Salvatore has been cleared. Why do you keep bringing him up?" Elijah asks, flashing an annoyed look at her.
"And why have you been so quick to dismiss him? Don't you find it odd that this man looks exactly like Damon and on the scene of a similar murder no less?"
"I will not stand for you questioning my abilities. I don't want to hear his name again. Damon Salvatore had nothing to do with the killings."
"I don't know why you're being so pigheaded. If you won't investigate him, I will," she snaps, plucks the photo off his desk and leaves, slamming the door hard behind her.
The wind has been blowing constantly that fall. It's Halloween, 1996, and the gusts are strong enough to scatter carefully piled mounds of leaves and make lights flicker. It's shortly after midnight when the wind coaxes out the first tongues of fire and blows them into billows of effulgent orange.
Flames engulf the magnificent home, spreading their boiling rage through everything in their path. The creature of fire refuses to be tamed. The dizzying, radiant heat from the blaze pulls him deeper into the burning abyss as Damon struggles to fight it. The putrid scent of smoke reeks in his nostrils, scorching and sweltering hot. He crawls away from the violently whipping flames. Behind him, the place they call home powders under the golden and crimson flares.
Damon is barely able to escape the firestorm that engulfs the mansion. Knowing Stefan's still inside, he sprints around to the back door. With flames licking at the window, he's momentarily mesmerized by the way the glass panes seem to ripple. Before his brain can register the sound of breaking glass, a million knives explode over his exposed skin. Beads of blood creep out around the glass and wood shards.
Running on adrenaline, he doesn't process the pain. Instead, he grips the knob, and immediately the sickening smell of burnt flesh assaults all of his senses at once. Gritting his teeth, he twists it despite the pain. As soon as the door opens, he's blown backwards as if he's nothing more than a ragdoll.
Shaking off the stupor, he jumps to his feet and runs forward again. In shock, he stares at the fire and his heart convulses at what he sees. Silhouetted against the glow in the sky, the figure of his brother scampers ahead of flames that are already eating away at the beams of the garage. As Stefan moves north, the roof behind him begins to give way and cave in. Miraculously, he makes his way up over the peak of the garage roof and down the other side, where he's perched precariously on the edge of the disintegrating roof.
"Damon!" Stefan screams.
"Jump!" Damon yells, "It's your only option."
Stefan crouches to leap when the entire structure abruptly collapses into a thick cloud of black smoke and reddish-orange flames, taking him down with it.
In shock, Damon is transfixed by the fire. He stands, bracing against the wind, watching as everything he cares about is being consumed by the raging inferno.
For the second time, Damon wakes up with a gasp; this time his heart is pounding so hard in his chest that he struggles to suck in a mouthful of air. It takes him a few seconds to get his bearings. Throwing his sheets, he pads into the bathroom to throw some water on his face. Looking up, he stares at his disheveled form in the mirror. With a heavy sigh, he bends over to turn on the shower, hoping this time it'll actually work to rid his mind of the chaos.
After leaving Elijah's office, Elena goes to the cold case department; she's a regular visitor, seeking advice and opinions on some of the cases she digs up to present on her show. One such case eventually led to the apprehension of the murderer, twenty-five years after the crime. She's very proud of her part in his capture and subsequent prosecution.
"Elena, hi!" Frederick greets her with a grin and closes the case file he was reading.
"Hey," she returns the greeting with a smile as she takes a seat beside his desk. Frederick has worked in the cold case department for a few years now. She has consulted with him many times, showcasing some of the city's unsolved crimes on her podcast. He's also been a guest on her show to talk about some of these old murders. As with Mikaelson's, sometimes the whole lot of them get together for an evening out or a picnic at one of the nearby State parks.
"It's good to see you," Frederick remarks. He's always happy when his friend pays him a visit.
"You too. How's Bethanne?"
"She's due in six weeks and is counting the days," he tells her, and pulls out his phone to show her a picture of his very pregnant wife.
"I'd have already bought a gift but since you two decided to be surprised, I'll have to wait till the baby's born."
"Thanks, Elena, I'll tell her you said hello," he adds, taking a swallow of water. "You look like you're on a mission. How can I help you?" he asks, considering her.
"Look at this picture," she entreats as she slides it across the desktop.
"What am I looking at?" he asks, his eyes meeting hers.
"That picture was taken at the scene of one in a series of murders that took place in 1967. From my research, no one's ever been charged. My curiosity being what it is," she chuckles, rolling her eyes at herself, "I came to see if anyone is actively working on this cold case or if an arrest was ever made?"
"Let's see," Frederick answers and turns to his computer in an attempt to find a case number. Once he does, he crooks his finger for Elena to follow him to their evidence room. "It should be right about..." he shuffles a few boxes then pulls one down. Opening it up, he's surprised at the lack of contents.
"Not much here," he mumbles. "I can't unseal any of this; it would make it unusable in court on the off chance that someone's ever arrested."
"I know that. What's the chance of this case being reopened? I mean looking at the evidence with a fresh set of eyes?"
"As much as I hate to say it, this case is 54 years old, so in my opinion, I think the chances of that are slim to none. Nevada has no statute of limitations for murder. So, if, and that's a very big if at this point, the file were to be reopened, only then could we unseal the evidence. If there's biological material here, we could send it for DNA testing and submit the sample to CODIS. However, as I'm sure you're aware, the killer is probably dead by now. These types of predators don't just quit cold turkey."
"Have you ever considered a nationwide search for any similar murders? And what about the current case? From the information I've gleaned, the 1954 victims were also bloodless. It can't be the same killer, can it?"
"Highly unlikely," Frederick admits, replaces the lid and tucks the box back into its space.
Elena follows him back to his desk and points to the composite picture of Damon. "What if I were to tell you I know a man who could be this one's twin," she starts, tapping the face with her fingertip, "and that he has been lurking around present-day crime scenes that match the MO of the 1967 killings?" Elena studies Frederick's face for a reaction.
"Obviously it can't be the same one, Elena," Frederick emphasizes. "If the 1967 killer is alive, he's probably in his 80s by now."
"I know that, but don't you find it peculiar? These two men could be twins? And they appear 54 years apart at identical crime scenes!"
"It's a crazy coincidence. I don't know, Elena. Maybe this one," he ponders, as he studies the photo, "is a grandson or relative of the man you're talking about? I don't know what else to tell you except goodbye cause I need to get back to work."
"You're no help!" She snatches back her photo.
"Bye, Elena," he sing-songs while raising his hand in a wave.
"If you're not going to help me then I'm going to have to find him myself and demand some answers. Bye," she sputters on her way out, snapping the door with a hard enough slam to cause the window to rattle.
Needing an escape from his thoughts, Damon goes to the casino floor. With a killer smirk and a few charming words, he picks up a girl and leads her to the poker table.
"Are we going to win some money?" She giggles absently, totally enamored of him.
Damon chuckles and runs a hand down her side, making her squirm. "Let's watch for a moment..."
A middle-aged man with sweat beading on his forehead stares down at his hand in concentration. He's down to his last chip and his hand is weak, but the gambler in him is obsessed; he bets anyway. With dread, he throws his cards on the table, letting everyone witness his debacle as he waits to see if he'll lose his cash. It's a shock to no one when he does.
Dejected, the man gets up and with a scowl on his face and stomps off, allowing Damon to take his place. After pulling Krystal onto his lap, Damon lays his chips on the table and nods to be dealt in... After a few games, he's about to collect his winnings and take the girl upstairs for a snack when he catches a glimpse of Elena Gilbert marching towards him, a determined look on her face.
"I need to talk to you," she starts and rakes her eyes over the girl perched on his legs.
Damon's head snaps to meet her unwavering gaze and he winks at her. "Elena Gilbert! How can I help you?"
"Can you lose your little friend here?" she counters, glaring at Krystal.
"He's with me, lady, now get lost," the woman spits, jumping to her feet and moving to stand toe-to-toe with Elena.
"Ooh, claws are out," Elena remarks, rolling her eyes at Damon.
"Krystal," Damon talks softly, and pulls her in front of him, blocking Elena's view and speaking quietly while staring intently into her eyes. "Go to your room and take a nap, and when you wake up, you'll think you're just getting up for the day. Do you understand?"
"I'm going to my room," she repeats robotically and walks off without looking back.
Damon sighs and takes Elena by the arm to pull her aside. "Do you have a reason for spoiling my fun?"
"What was that?"
"What was what?" Damon retorts, emptying his glass.
"Krystal, it's like she turned into a Stepford wife." Elena contends, crossing her arms over her chest.
"That's being a little melodramatic, don't you think?" he remarks pointedly.
"You're not funny!" she glowers at him.
"Wasn't trying to be." Damon lowers his face, pressing his lips next to her ear. "Now what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"We need to talk," Elena huffs.
"My suite is on the 31st floor," he offers, waggling his brows teasingly.
"Am I going to be safe with you?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Yes."
"Can I trust you?"
"Get in the elevator, Elena, come on."
Elena nervously sucks her lower lip between her teeth. She feels every beat of her heart when Damon presses his palm against the small of her back, guiding her to the elevator.
"Have a seat...do you want something to drink? There's a soda machine down the hall if you don't want bourbon."
"Yes, a cold soda would be nice, thank you," she replies over her shoulder. Wandering over to the window, she pulls back the blinds to look at the throngs of people below.
"Okay," Damon shoots back, returning shortly with a bucket of ice and a Pepsi Zero.
"Thank you." She twists off the top and takes a long swallow while Damon pours some bourbon in a glass. After taking a sip, he sits down at the table beside her.
"Now that pleasantries are done, why don't you tell me what's on that pretty little mind of yours?"
Elena stares at him for a moment before pulling out the photo. Sliding it to him, she taps her finger on his face. "This picture was taken at a crime scene behind the old Sahara hotel in 1967," she starts, pausing for effect. "Care to explain how you haven't aged at all?"
"Who's to say this is me?"
"I'm no fool, Damon. I don't know how it's possible, but it's either you or you're his doppelganger."
"You want the truth? Fine, I'll tell you, but it stays right here. Do you agree?"
"I'm the poster child for integrity, Damon," Elena retorts, scrutinizing him.
"Can I trust you?" Damon asks, locking eyes with hers.
His are blue like the ocean. Looking into them is like looking through a fragile piece of turquoise sea glass, glistening in the sunlight. Shaking herself out of it, she nods her head. "Yes, you can trust me."
"You're right; that is me in that picture, but I haven't lied to you, not once. I had nothing to do with any of those murders, then or now."
"How is it even possible?" Elena stands up, her eyes darting from the photo to Damon.
"I look the same because vampires don't age," he tells her matter-of-factly. He might as well have been saying, the sky is blue, the sun sets in the west or the Pope is Catholic.
"What did you say?" she asks, her jaw going slack.
"You heard me."
"A vampire? Really? This is supposed to be a serious discussion. I'm leaving," she huffs and reaches for the photo.
Damon moves to stop her. Red veins begin to bulge and bubble around his eyes, and he extends his fangs causing her to step back in disbelief.
Elena stares at him as if he's grown two heads.
Has she fallen through the Looking Glass?
She splays her fingers out in a fan against her breastbone, and a heavy feeling settles in her stomach. Raising her other hand, Elena shakily extends it toward his mouth and when the pad of her index finger scrapes one of his razor-sharp canines. She jerks it back and is transfixed by the tiny bead of blood. Abruptly, she takes on a pale look, like the silk of white rose petals.
Feeling the floor sway beneath her, Elena takes one precarious step backwards before crumpling like a puppet abruptly released from its strings.
Thank you all soooo much.
Chapter title: 'I See Fire' by Ed Sheeran from 'The Hobbit'.
Massive thanks to Morgan- jmfangs, and to Eva-siberia21. You two are outstanding friends.
'Stepford wife' - a term used to describe a servile, compliant, submissive, spineless wife who happily does her husband's bidding and serves his every whim dutifully.
M.O.: Abbreviation for "modus operandi," Latin for method of operation. The pattern of behavior which is typical of how a particular offender commits a specific type of crime.
CODIS- Combined DNA Index System.
Have a terrific day and/or evening and we'll see you next time.