Dark Side.
Chapter 45: The Dinner Party. Part II.
What do you get when you try to please the guest of honor while still catering to the palate of four Americans? A mockery of French cuisine that, whilst delicious, definitely has Cassandra's mother rolling in her grave. Though Cassandra supposes it could be worse; she could have served them beans on toast just to revel in the looks of horror.
That would have been funny.
But, no, she made them poulet au poivre because Andy doesn't eat beef, so the rumsteak was out of the question, with carrot purée and tender green beans to accompany it.
At one end of the table, John serves himself a generous amount of beans and eats in silence, as taciturn as always. Andy sings her praises from the very first bite, which is nice to hear, considering Cassandra had to tweak the recipe to suit her tastes.
"Mmm, she's right." Alaric nods midchew. "This is amazing, guys."
Murmured agreement scatters through the table around sips of Pinot Noir and lowlights glinting off silver cutlery. Andy lifts her wineglass, dips her chin in Damon's direction. Elijah merely inclines his head, but Jenna offers a smile that, though reluctant, remains one of the few genuine smiles Cassandra has seen her direct Damon's way.
"Oh, don't look at me." Damon swallows, brushing off the praise with his fork. "Cassie cooked most of it."
At the head of the table, he has a perfect vantage point of every last one of his guests. A waste, since his eyes can't seem to stray from her for longer than a minute or two. Nothing new, except he's never let himself do so with such unapologetic intensity, nor so often. Cassandra finds herself torn between staring back—a terrible idea with Elijah right there—and looking away, so enraptured and giddy is she. It makes playing the innocent teenager so much easier, considering how hard she's trying not to flush all the way to her forehead.
"That's amazing! Elena can't boil water." Jenna laughs, impressed. "Yet again, I can't do much better."
"He's selling himself short." Cassandra shakes her head, faux-abashed. She leans her cheek on the back of her hand, and playfully says to Damon: "you chopped and sliced splendidly."
"The prep is just as important as the actual cooking." Andy agrees.
She reaches over to serve herself a second serving of green beans, eyes twinkling at Elijah beside her. Elijah brushes the flirtation off, focuses on slicing a bite off the chicken. Andy deflates.
"The green beans are a little overcooked." John comments with a drawl.
Cassandra's stomach tightens, her every muscle squirms with irritation. She takes a sip of the O-Neg masquerading as the single glass of Pinot Noir the adults would allow her at the dinner table. The blood soothes her, settles the nerves thrumming under her skin. Betrayal always leaves her squeamish and preparing Elijah a perfect last meal did very little to ease her guilty conscience. John's less-than-tolerable personality is not helping her frayed nerves any.
"As they should be," Elijah says, defending her with such calmness it sounds like a universal truth, not a parry. "No potatoes?"
Cassandra shrugs at the question, unbothered. "Someone thought they wouldn't be refined enough for French food."
She purses her lips at Damon, making a show of letting them know it's his fault there aren't any roasted potatoes or French fries. Her disappointment is put on. Her words only half truth. While it is custom to serve French fries—traditional French fries, with herbs and thinly cut, not bagged and frozen—with steak au poivre, her having to change last minute to chicken would have suited roasted potatoes better. Except there were no potatoes at the Boarding House, and Cassandra hadn't exactly brought many supplies, more accustomed to her perpetually stocked kitchen. So, carrot purée had been her only option.
All but Elijah and John laugh, delighted at the teasing. Jenna begins pouring more wine on glasses, letting them fill double what is considered appropriate for reds. She sets the bottle back down, empty now.
"You do know Cassandra herself is French, right, Damon?"
Perhaps it's the way Elijah says it, a tad too light, without looking up from his plate, posture perfectly straight. Perhaps it's the extra beat of silence from Damon that does it, or Cassandra's glare that toes the line between exasperated and a warning. Whatever it is, the comment cuts the laughter to nothing. Alaric clears his throat, shifting in his seat.
"You are?" Damon's easy tone is quiet underneath; his eyebrows twitch in a micro expression he cannot control.
"Half." She confirms. Realizing the word came out with way more tension than she'd meant, she clarifies, "my mother."
Cassandra brushes the back of her finger down the length of Damon's knuckles. Sat directly to his right, they're near enough to each other that the gesture requires very minimal movement. It's a stolen intimacy, hidden from most eyes.
"What the hell are you doing in Mystic Falls?" Andy exclaims, agape. "I'd take Paris over this any day!"
Jenna hoots out a laugh, agreeing with fervor. John counters something about how he prefers the beauty of American soil over any European landscape. It goes unacknowledged.
"I like the scenery," Cassandra offers. "The falls are beautiful."
She sets her cutlery on her plate, knife over fork, abandoning what's left of the chicken in favor of the O-Neg. The green beans and carrot purée more than enough people food for tonight.
"Oh, speaking of Mystic Falls," Jenna starts. She hastens to drink the last of her third glass of wine, nearly dribbling in the process. Her fingers brush away any errant drops. "According to Elijah, Damon, your family is so not the founder of this town."
Damon hums. His interest is so fake Cassandra's stomach begins to knot. Whenever his family's founder legitimacy gets mentioned, he appears more annoyed by it than the time before.
"Please, do tell." He encourages.
Jenna doesn't notice the tightness in his voice, she only focuses on the fourth bottle of Pinot Noir he's reaching for. Instead of retelling whatever story Elijah spun her and Andy this morning, Jenna offers Elijah the floor by leaning her chin on her hand and focusing on him. Elijah complies.
"Well, many a century ago, there was a small Viking settlement around the land your people came to aptly name Mystic Falls—" it takes Cassandra a considerable amount of effort to keep her eyebrows from rising in surprise. Niklaus and Rebekah always spoke of that time with such care, she didn't expect Elijah to share that with a group of strangers so willingly. "Of course, the village only prospered for a few decades before it was tragically wiped out by blight and, so, there is very little information available on the topic."
Blight meaning newly turned vampires. The Originals are the reason there's almost nothing on the small village, having burned it almost to the ground when they left.
Elijah tilts his head in thanks when Damon pours him more wine. Jenna does, too, accompanied by a high-pitched giggle. Apparently, Jenna becomes very amicable when plied with alcohol. It's quite entertaining.
"Speaking of, Cassandra—" Cassandra's contained amusement vanishes immediately. Elijah's looking at her with curious eyebrows and innocent eyes she doesn't trust. It seems tonight he's only ever addressing her to throw her under the bus. "Do you recall that 1905 study about the intricate inner workings of the Viking household?"
There it is. She'd forgotten what he was like when in a petty mood. My, it's like last week all over again. Except this time Cassandra has no interest in airing their dirty laundry.
"And how they compare to Edwardian values, yes." She rolls her eyes, the perfect picture of a bratty teenager. "It was riveting."
Alaric chuckles.
Elijah ignores her sarcasm. "An exemplary piece of comparative anthropology."
Of course it was. They wrote it together. It was the first academic paper she'd had published under a female pseudonym rather than a male one. As co-author, but it had still been a huge achievement. Nik had been so proud. Cassandra meets Elijah's gaze, does not grant him a reaction. Whatever he's looking to unearth, she won't give him the satisfaction.
Damon's features morph into a question Cassandra cannot bring herself to answer, not right now, not unless she wants to ruin the whole plan. She drinks some more blood.
"But Vikings weren't the only people to settle here before the founders," Jenna teases, eyes glimmering as she faces Elijah. She presses her wine glass to the side of her face. "Were they?"
"You paid attention." Elijah praises. A smile that's almost bashful flashes across his face for a moment. Then, it's gone, replaced by the sober look of a lecturer. "A faction of settlers migrated from Salem after the witch trials in the 1690s. Over the next hundred years they developed this community where they could feel safe from persecution."
For the first time all evening, Alaric grows interested in what Elijah has to say. Truly interested, like any historian would in the face of such information. So does Cassandra, having had no idea that Salem witches had at some point settled in the area.
She understands why no one remembers the village the Mikaelsons once called home, but the 18th century wasn't that long ago. The Founders ought to have known, or at least heard, of this settlement.
"Because they were witches." Jenna clarifies with a wiggle of her eyebrows and a whispered oooh.
"Yeah, but there's no tangible proof there were witches in Salem." Andy argues.
Like Jenna, her tone makes it very clear what she thinks of such a story. How it's a little too Southern Gothic for her to believe. Cassandra wonders how deep Damon's compulsion runs. Is she oblivious in this moment? Does her knowledge of the supernatural remain only when it's necessary or is Andy simply a good actress?
"Andy's a journalist." Damon provides. "Big on facts."
Cassandra studies him, noting how, despite his dislike toward the Original he's struggling to hide, he's still more or less relaxed.
"Nor was there undisputable proof that there were witches in Europe, and yet witch-hunting spread like wildfire during the late medieval period." Elijah drones. "Isn't that so, Cassandra?"
The question snaps Cassandra out of her reverie, out of the dread and suspicion starting to coat the inner lining of her stomach.
"Yes."
It leaves her strained. Like Wallachia, witch hunts are not something Cassandra enjoys discussing. Or reliving. Is this payback for refusing to help him kill Niklaus? Elijah had said, after all, that he could use a powerful witch on his side. Cassandra had flat out refused.
"I'm sorry, but—" Andy leans around Elijah to address her. "How would you know?"
Silence stretches for a moment during which Cassandra sips at the O-Neg and is subjected to the unblinking stare of five people. Alaric and Damon share a look brimming with anxiety as the clock ticks by and she doesn't answer. John leans back on his seat, stretches an arm in smug satisfaction. As if watching her falter is as enjoyable as a live theatre performance. Cassandra catches all this through her peripheral vision, keeping her eyes straight on Elijah.
Cassandra is not faltering. She already has a lie at the ready. She merely wants to know how long it'll take for Elijah to squirm under the weight of her gaze. Thirteen seconds, less than it did last week and no doubt due to guilt. Good.
"We lived in a sleepy village in England when I was little—" Cassandra explains to Andy. "It was spooky, I thought it would be apt if I grew up to become a witch."
Next to Andy, Elijah laughs under his breath like he's recalling a memory. A made-up image of Cassandra in pigtails claiming the stick she found in the garden was a wand.
"It was a whole phase," he tells Andy. "She learned everything there was to learn about the history of witches, even wore a pointy hat."
That earns him another bout of laughter from the table. Jenna awws, pouting at Cassandra like she's still that pointy-hat-wearing seven-year-old, or however old she was in this made-believe past she and Elijah have concocted.
Cassandra shakes her head, tucking her hair behind her ears in feigned embarrassment. She even fiddles with her stud earring for added effect and grumbles, "Elijah will never let me forget it."
Damon doesn't hesitate to jump in with, "I would love to see some pictures."
Even though he's holding onto the cutlery so hard Cassandra's surprised the fork hasn't bent, his features are set into a mischievous expression, playful and bright. Alaric wholeheartedly agrees, and soon everyone is begging Elijah for at least one picture, if not a couple.
"Absolutely not!" Cassandra protests with a laugh.
Jenna and Andy giggle, joining in on the banter. Well, one thing's for certain, they all know how to lie. At least the conversation has veered from witch hunts now. If that's what Elijah wants to talk about, let it be when Damon suggests they drink in the library.
"Wanting to become a witch, well, that certainly explains a lot."
The comment comes from the end of the table, where John hasn't muttered a peep until now. It's also scathing enough to kill the mood. For a second, Cassandra forgets she's meant to be playing a part. The sweet, innocent teenager mask falls away to reveal her as she truly is.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Darkness slithers under the words, swirls behind her eyes. She can feel it as easily as she heard it in her voice. The quiet grows heavy. Though John squirms in his seat, a tiny shift to the left, he does not blink. His chin tips, his eyes narrow in challenge. Damon calls her name under his breath, nothing to human ears. She disregards it.
The insult is laughable coming from him, the vampire hunter legacy willingly working with vampires. John opens his mouth to retort with some more bullshit, no doubt, and is promptly interrupted by Jenna, who goes as far as turning fully on her chair and leaning forward to obstruct Cassandra's view of John.
"Ignore him, please." Jenna sighs, nose turned up in disgust. "He'll say anything if it means he gets to hear himself talk."
Cassandra complies, sitting back. She focuses on her wine glass, swishing the blood around in lazy circles. Because that's what a wounded teenager would likely do—she's gone too far to ruin the evening now by forgetting what part she's playing—and because it's a nice distraction from the angry words brewing in her mind. Andy clears her throat in discomfort.
"You were saying, Elijah?" Andy prompts.
Elijah blinks away from his plate, more than happy to return to their conversation.
"Right. Well, the lore says that this same wave of anti-witch hysteria spread to America—specifically, here." Elijah explains, picking up where he left off like they had never gone off topic. Cassandra's discomfort is no longer put on. "It broke out in the neighboring settlement, so these witches were rounded up. They were tied to stakes in a field together and, uh, burned."
Even when he stumbles over the word, Elijah appears unbothered by the story, by the weight it carries. Like a true historian. Cassandra's stomach turns. The back of her neck is slick with sweat.
"Some say you could hear the screams from miles around us. They were consumed by the fire." Elijah finishes.
Andy and Alaric stare at him, equal parts appalled and intrigued.
Cassandra glances at Damon. Sat back on his chair, he looks a little too impassive, unaffected by the dark turn the conversation has taken. Did he already know? That innocent witches had been burned in his homeland. Had his ancestors taken part of it? Were his forefathers the ones who'd rounded them up, burned them, and then resettled in the stolen land? Renamed it Mystic Falls, like its beauty isn't marred by bloodshed.
"I wouldn't repeat this to the Historical Society." Jenna giggles after a beat of heavy silence, the sound this nervous, uncomfortable string of air.
Cassandra's going to be sick.
She downs the rest of the O-Neg in her glass. It does not help. Her skin burns and her lungs seize and she can imagine it, just like it was back then, the screams and the begging for mercy, ash floating in the wind and coating the ground with death. How the sky would turn grey for days and the smell of burning flesh would linger, permeating fabrics and polluting the air.
"It's starting to sound a little like a ghost story to me," John says with such a high amount of self-importance Cassandra really is going to be sick.
The smell of the cooked chicken skin, the melted grease, is beginning to be a little too much. She swallows.
"No one likes a skeptic, John." Cassandra tuts. She manages to set her now empty glass back on the table without showing any discomfort. A feat all in itself, considering her fingertips have begun to shake. "Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment."
Despite fooling everyone else, something must show on Cassandra's face as she rises to her feet. Damon's hand snags on her wrist before she can walk away, his face pinched with concern and a question in his gaze she doesn't want to answer. Because, no, she is not okay. Gently, Cassandra removes his fingers from around her wrist before she walks down the hallway.
The bathroom door closes behind her just as her nose starts to tingle with angry tears.
The Kingdom of Navarre, Iberia, 1498.
Niklaus took her to the main courtyard. A large outdoor space with oval mosaic steppingstones interspaced across the manicured lawn, blue velvet canopies offering respite from the sun, and long refreshment tables manned by servants by the gates leading inside. The Mikaelsons liked to entertain, and the weather proved mild on this day, so it was no surprise that the courtyard was full of spectators: women chatted under the canopies and nibbled at sliced peaches and green grapes, men gathered in groups and wagered on the most trivial of things, from who could laugh most boisterously to which woman was likely to feign dropping her handkerchief first.
Cassandra took it all in stride. She was accustomed to court, from the more reserved to the most scandalous, very little fazed her. Niklaus paid no mind to it, either, nodding and smiling like a true lord at those who acknowledged his presence by curtsying or greeting him. He waved through the small crowds, ensuring that she followed, until they arrived at the very centre of the courtyard. Where an archery range had been built.
The breath caught in Cassandra's throat at the sight of it. Eight targets laid at different intervals and heights across the lawn, some close and standing on wooden legs, others farther away and dangling from cranes, swaying in the wind. Some were close to the grass, others high above ground. The closest one was twenty yards from the archer; the farthest, a hundred and ten, by Cassandra's estimate. A little farther than what she was used to seeing at home, but Cassandra supposed that was to make up for the large number of vampires in the crowd. More today than usual; Cassandra sensed ten humans at most amongst a sea of twenty or so vampires.
Niklaus stopped by Elijah's side, right on the sidelines.
The lady Rebekah stood a few feet away, conversing with Lady Foix—who was visiting for the season—and the lady Balask with goblets of wine in hand. The Lord Kol was opposite them with a group of four vampires, all gentlemen of poor renown more bothered with drinking and paying women for sexual favours than propriety. Cassandra herself was not averse to drink and wagers, it was the manner in which they did it, like they were above those who preferred to keep those behaviours behind closed doors and their inner circle. It made Kol's desire to stand out from the rest, and to be admired for it, painfully obvious.
Lord Kol met her gaze right away. He elbowed the vampire on his right, nodding her way before crouching and pretending to squint in her direction. His companions laughed more than the joke required, holding a hand by their hips to signify her height. Some called her an imp, others joked that at least her mouth was at an appropriate height for easy access. Kol found the idea hilarious and disgusting in equal measure.
"Brother, that is quite enough." Niklaus muttered at a low tone that ensured every vampire heard, but the humans remained oblivious. His voice dripped with venom. "You need not like her, but you must all respect her."
Unfortunately, they were close enough and had said it loud enough that Cassandra's human ears had had no issue hearing. With so few humans in attendance, it meant everyone else had, too. She wished Niklaus reprimand his brother aloud for all to hear. She wished he treated this slight against her as harshly as he treated the small disrespect granted to him on that throne room. She wished, more than anything, that she could be the one to enact justice.
"It is good the lord Kol does not find me desirable," she said with a delicate shrug. "I would never stoop so low as to lay with him, anyway. His lack of intellect may be contagious."
Her pride would be her doom. She had said that—to an Original vampire. An Original vampire that had already attempted to poison her. By Odin.
Lord Kol's glare was so fierce Cassandra marvelled at her not bursting aflame at that very moment. His friends, however, found the retort most entertaining. Elijah coughed once, a poor cover for the snort he could not contain.
Niklaus turned slowly towards her. Cassandra swallowed. She tore her eyes from the archer about to finish, reluctant as she looked up at him. She expected rage. Though he had been quick to dismiss Kol's dislike for her when they met, though he found Rebekah's jealousy humorous, Cassandra knew they loved each other fiercely. Disrespecting his brother so would surely not end well for her.
Instead of rage, however, she found glimmering eyes and quirked lips concealing a smile. He was amused.
"There it is again," he pondered. "That sharp wit of yours."
Cassandra knew not how to respond. She merely looked at him, all too aware of the mad beating of her heart.
Around them, people clapped as the archer finished his demonstration. She gazed at the bows laid up for the next contestant to pick. Though she preferred a sword on most occasions, there was something about archery that filled Cassandra with excitement and pleasure. The precision needed, the speed and strength… she was enamoured, enraptured.
"May I have a go, my lord?"
Niklaus was not surprised by her request in the slightest. If anything, he appeared quite pleased with himself.
"What my lady desires, my lady shall receive." He gestured with one elegant hand, encouraging her to move ahead.
Conversation quietened as Cassandra stepped forward; it hushed and began again in whispers as she ran her fingers through the bows in search of one she liked. When she picked it up, the muttering stopped. The whole courtyard fell quiet and gathered to watch, be it for her hunter status or her titles, Cassandra knew, and cared, not.
She tested the bow, how much movement she had with this particular gown. Not as flexible as her hunting bodices, but it would do. She readied her stance and picked an arrow from the quiver a servant had been so kind as to prop at her feet.
"Let us see if all the rumours are true, at last."
The comment came from Kol's group of friends. They snickered like children at the jest.
"I insist it is all talk!" another protested.
"What is this, brother?" Elijah asked, leaning close to Niklaus. "A test?"
"Merely an experiment," Niklaus replied. "Are you not curious yourself?"
Cassandra ignored them. She kicked the quiver so it was positioned between her legs, cushioned by the heavy skirt of her gown, and drew back the bowstring. The arrow released and flew right into the bullseye of the first target.
Scattered clapping accompanied the surprised murmuring that spread through the crowd.
"That is naught but child's play!" Lord Kol taunted.
She was loath to admit he was not wrong. Hitting the bullseye at 20 yards was nothing. She hit the second target with the same results; the arrow buried deep into the center dot of the wooden plank, which was thirty yards away and so low in the ground grass blades obscured parts of it.
This time, more enthused clapping echoed in the courtyard as she nocked another arrow. Silence fell around her like the hush of oncoming rain. The third target was a slightly more difficult one: dangling from a wooden crane, swaying in the breeze and over forty yards away. Hitting that one would no longer mean this was simply a beginner's luck. Hitting that one dead centre would prove considerable skill.
"This ruby and gold ring," a vampire by the name of Clay held said ring aloft to lord Kol. "She does not hit the outer ring."
"A good wager, my good friend, but too easy." Kol brushed off. "Seven pieces of gold say the arrow falls to the ground before it can reach the target."
Wanker, Cassandra thought with distaste, stealing a glance their way as she aimed. They weren't even paying attention. Lord Kol and his friends were snickering amongst themselves, clapping shoulders at funny jests and hastening to procure more jewellery to wager against her.
It took a split second for her decision to be made. If Niklaus would not do something about the disrespect, the audacity of saying such things within earshot, then she would.
Taking full advantage of Kol's distraction, of his averted eyes, Cassandra made a show of shooting at the target until the last possible second, when she abruptly changed directions and sent the arrow flying. Surprise was her ally. The arrow flew with no one to notice or stop it—or perhaps Elijah and Niklaus were just as fed up with Kol as she was—and went straight through Kol's throat.
The Original choked mid-laugh, one confused hand brushing the fledging at his throat. He let out one gargled word lost to the blood pouring from his mouth before dropping to the floor, either dead or unconscious, Cassandra cared not.
His friends gaped at her. Cassandra did not dare look behind her at her betrothed. Nobody moved or spoke. The lady Rebekah screamed.
Mystic Falls. Present Day.
Water sloshes over the basin onto the cabinet top, water as cold as it can be. Given the Boarding House's age, it comes out quite frigid, whistling as it travels through the pipes deep in the walls. Cassandra shoves her wrists under the jet, breathes in and in and in. Then stops.
1…
The water stops whistling and starts wailing, the sound higher-pitched in its intensity, like a teakettle going off.
2…
Her wrists turn red under the cold water. Vampirism heals them back to creamy white. Her veins are a spiderweb made of blue and purple silk. She trails them through a blurry sight. It starts over again.
3…
Banging echoes through the pipes behind the wall; groaning follows. The wailing stops.
4…
The water warms, returns to cold. Ice cold.
5…
Cassandra breathes out in a steady string of air, slow and deliberate. By the time her lungs are empty, the desire to rip John's throat out has somewhat diminished. Though she is still upset, she can think again. Can hear conversation around the dinner table pick up again, as Elijah dismisses his desire to find the witches' burning grounds as nothing but a historian's morbid curiosity, as Damon assures Jenna Cassandra's fine and probably just texting Caroline, no need to check up on her.
She turns off the faucet, reaching for the hand towel hanging from a hook next to the sink. As she does, she catches her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes a murky green rimmed with red. Her nose shines bright crimson.
There are many types of anger. Anger that calls for action. Anger that calls for absence. Hot anger and cold anger. Anger that is dry and leeching. Rash anger. Determined anger. But the one Cassandra Woodhouse dislikes most is helpless anger, wet and demanding. Weakening in appearance yet fierce in resolve. And she very much dislikes that it is the second time she's surrendered to it in as many weeks.
At least this time the tears never fell, Cassandra supposes as she lowers herself onto the toilet. The wooden lid above the seat groans under her weight. The porcelain tank, a shiny obsidian black that matches the sink, digs into her shoulders. She should be going back out—Damon may have dissuaded her, but it won't be long before Jenna wants to check up on her again and the last thing Cassandra wants is the Gilbert guardian sniffing around Cassandra's personal business—but Elijah's story still has her blood boiling.
Under any other circumstances, sequestering herself in the restroom would make her seem weak. But here she is a teenager surrounded by adults several years her senior, attending only at Elijah's behest, which grants her quite the leeway. She's exploiting that as much as she can.
So Cassandra stays put, picking at the towel in her hands, ripping tiny fabric flurries with her nails, focusing on the faraway sound of Damon's voice but not his words, until her heart no longer races and her eyes no longer sting and breath comes easy.
That's when she realizes she is no longer alone.
Cassandra was two when she saw her first ghost, followed it with tiny stompy steps out the front door and through the garden. She was six when she realised half of her friends weren't really there. Eight, when she discovered not all ghosts were friendly, but all followed her because her magic turned her into a beacon. A moth to a flame. A bee to nectar.
At ten, she began learning how to block them. By the age of thirteen, not only could she block ghosts but keep them contained if they followed her home, make contact only when necessary. She ensured it was never necessary. Cassandra had plenty of metaphorical hauntings, she had no need for a real one.
Still, no matter where she goes, ghosts follow and find her. Most times she merely senses them as she would a real person, like an aura but without a physical form. Sometimes, they can interact like down in her basement, let out whispers and knock on things to try and get her attention. Get her to lower her guard and her blocks with it.
Cassandra looks up and, as she has many a time before, comes face to face with her aunt Penelope. There's a second presence, insistent and turbulent and already poised to speak. Despite that presence being the sole reason Cassandra had searched so desperately for her locket, she blocks it away before a single word can pass its lips, focusing instead on her aunt.
She is not quite solid in form, a shadow meeting a dream. And because it's been so long, and because Cassandra wants to see her whole rather than the memory her brain keeps forcing behind her eyes, Cassandra lowers her psychic block another inch. Another. One more, until her aunt is no longer an impression but as solid and tangible as Cassandra herself, even in death.
"My sweet Cassie," Aunt Penelope coos, lowering herself to a crouch in front of her. "It has been so long."
Behind her, resentment flares up like a radiator on full blast, so strong Cassandra can taste it on her tongue. She ignores it, choosing to bask in this strange moment for as long as she can. She never grants her aunt enough of a foothold to speak, prefers to steal glances and draw comfort from her invisible presence. This year, however, has been one full of strange occurrences and reckless choices. One more should do no harm.
"I miss you," she mouths, unable to speak the words aloud.
Whatever Aunt Penelope says may be between them and the void, but if Cassandra speaks it will be picked up by those in the land of the living. She doesn't want Elijah or John using her aunt's memory against her.
Aunt Penelope smiles, as kind and gentle as she remembers it growing up, so wide it shows a dimple on her left cheek. She reaches out, brushing the baby hairs away from Cassandra's forehead. It's a shadow of a touch, there and not, so familiar Cassandra's vision blurs with unshed tears.
Though brunette, Aunt Penelope was the only member of Cassandra's family to have freckles adorn her face, to have pure green eyes with no trace of blue or yellow. Cassandra used to wish that made Aunt Penelope her real mother. There had to have been a reason her own lady mother preferred James and Sia, why she'd been shipped off to Cambridge at the very tender age of two.
Cassandra had found out the reason later, of course, but that had not diminished the fact that Aunt Penelope had loved her as she did all her other children, had nurtured her and raised her and supported her in all her endeavors, no matter how insane. In the end, it had costed her.
"I am so—"
"Nonsense." Her aunt's eyebrows are raised, lips pursed in a very familiar expression. Cassandra lets her tiny whisper fade away. "That business was between your father and me. I will not have you continuing to blame yourself for my fate five centuries later." Cassandra's bottom lip wobbles without her permission. The harshness to her aunt's face smoothens over, her chastising tone disappears as she squeezes Cassandra's hands. "You have done nothing wrong."
At those words, the drawers beside the sink swing open until they snag on the stopper built into the rail, one by one, top to bottom. An indignant cry parading as a real haunting. Aunt Penelope turns towards the cabinet, eyeing the space that brims with dissatisfaction at being ignored. Her side profile twists in a silent that's quite enough, an expression only a woman of her standing has had years to master.
"You were always the best behaved one," Aunt Penelope says to her, connivance and praise all in one.
Cassandra stifles a laugh, sniffing. Her aunt smiles again, pressing a hand to the side of Cassandra's face. Above them, the mirror cracks, fracturing like ice over a lake. Aunt Penelope sighs, lowering her eyes to where Cassandra's locket rests between her breasts, obscured by her clothes.
"Very well," she pats Cassandra's hand and rises to her feet. "We've bugged you long enough. Some more than others. Fare thee well, Cassie."
While breaking a ghost connection is not as simple as some would suggest, to a natural necromancer it can be as easy as breathing. To a practicing witch over five centuries old, it doesn't take more than half a thought. The other half is spent strengthening her psychic blocks.
"Bye," Cassandra mouths to an empty restroom.
She stands, intending to repair the mirror her oh-so-beloved sister cracked.
After the events that lead Cassandra to return to her humanity, Sia's presence has been a fixture in her life Cassandra cannot shake. A cloud hovering over a shoulder. A shadow through the threshold. The insistent knocking that had sent Caroline into a panic. The unexplained smell of roses Damon had inquired about two days ago in her living room.
Whatever message Sia insists on delivering, Cassandra is not interested. They have enough problems of their own. She'll have to do something about it soon, though, especially now that Sia's resorted to tantrums.
She also has to do something about her emotional state, if she wants to rejoin the party without any further embarrassment.
She keeps eye contact with her reflection, hundreds of them—some tiny, some large and slanted—and begins the careful work of mending glass. I am not vulnerable, the glass warps, I am not small. I am clever, blue and green dance on the walls as the light bounces off the repairing fractures, flowing together like a fabric being sown. I am Duchess, I was a princess, from the edges in, the mirror starts to become hole, I will not let them shake me.
A beautiful and intricate spiderweb, the centre of the mirror is the only fracture remaining. Cassandra pauses, staring at a dozen tiny versions of herself. Elijah's comment about the witch hunts that plagued Cassandra's youth and early vampire years, the injustice those Salem witches were subjected to, were brought up on purpose to rattle her, and she stupidly let it work. She doesn't feel bad about the real purpose of this dinner anymore.
Oh, if only she could be the one to wield the dagger.
A knock sounds just as the last fine crack in the mirror fuses together.
"Cassandra?" Damon calls, rapping his knuckles against the door.
Cassandra reaches behind her, fingers hovering around the lock. She swallows, checking her reflection once more. She looks fine. Ish.
She twists the lock open. Damon slips into the restroom, closing the door behind him before her hand has even returned to her side. He gives her a once over, as if whatever had upset her could be read on her face. It's a good thing she made sure it couldn't. She turns around, resting her bottom on the cabinet under the sink, legs stretched in front of her and ankles crossed.
"I'm fine—just needed a break." She assures him. With a roll of her head, she adds, "John's annoying."
The gesture is a little too carefree. Damon doesn't see it, or maybe he decides to play along, Cassandra isn't certain. He mirrors her stance, leaning against the door with his hands behind him. He tips his head back until his crown rests on the door, watching her with half-lidded eyes.
Damon hums in agreement, swiping his head side to side on the door. "I hear you. Your cousin isn't much better."
Cassandra stifles a snort. She's momentarily distracted from how small the lavatory now appears. His presence has diminished its size by two.
"What a lousy lie." She complains. "Our accents aren't even the same."
Amusement sparks across Damon's face as he pushes off the door. With a staged whisper, tilting forward as if this were a secret to keep from unwanted ears, he confides, "Jenna is obsessed with the concept."
He steals a glance down her body, eyes trailing down the length of her legs. When his eyes get lost on her cleavage on the way up, the tip of his tongue darts out to pull his bottom lip into his mouth like he can't really help himself. It lasts for a fraction of a second before he's looking at her like it didn't even happen.
Cassandra can't stop replaying it. Bleeding hell.
"More like she's obsessed with the architect behind it," she says a beat too late, hastening to cover her fumble. She thought withholding sex would help her keep a clear mind; somehow it's just making it worse. "Do you think she'd leave Ric for Elijah?"
Damon tuts, stepping until he's standing with one foot on either side of her legs.
"Mean." He mock-scolds. He points at her with his index finger. "You should be rooting for our friend."
"I'm British and moneyed." She sasses, shrugging with one shoulder. "We survive off gossip just as much as we do off tea."
Damon allows a contemplative hum. He studies her for a moment, a hundred thoughts passing behind his eyes before Cassandra can grasp a single one. So she doesn't bother to try, lets him think.
He'd worn the charcoal shirt she'd suggested; the color contrasts beautifully against his pale skin. He's so handsome, even with his features half-shadowed under the golden lowlights. She's opening her mouth to let him know when Damon bends around her with his entire torso. His neck ends up so close Cassandra can taste his aftershave.
Behind her, both faucets squeak open. The pipes begin their wailed singing all over again as the water splashes against the black tile. Damon straightens but doesn't pull away. The tips of his fingers linger at her back, flickering through her hair before retreating.
"I don't want our guest of honor to hear I'm spilling his secrets to you," says Damon to her unspoken question. His eyebrows dip down, then apart, before he continues in a low tone, "is there a reason Elijah needs to find a bunch of witches' burial ground? He's very insistent but won't tell me why."
Cassandra cocks her heard to one side; her lips part. She's been listening this whole time, and she can't recall a moment when Elijah and Damon had a private conversation. Has she really been gone long enough for everyone to finish dinner and break up into little groups?
"When did he tell you this?"
Damon widens his eyes, tapping a frantic finger to his own ear. He motions with his hands, a silent demand to keep it down. An admirable effort, but running water as sense deprivation doesn't really work well on Cassandra anymore, not unless it's a roaring waterfall or ocean waves. Unless Elijah is somewhere in the house other than the dining room, chances are he can hear them just fine. If muffled.
Cassandra fights the urge to roll her eyes and repeats the question, this time at the same low volume Damon had used. His features morph into unhumorous dryness.
"When we were enjoying an after dinner in the library." Damon rushes through his words. "You missed it; we're this close to friendship bracelets. Now, is there?"
About a dozen. None have anything to do with the sacrifice itself, though. She knows the steps and the ingredients, there's no need for blood-soaked soil. Maybe it's nothing to do with the sacrifice—maybe it's to do with the fact his two witches are not strong enough to take on Niklaus.
"Maybe," Cassandra says, realizing this is an excellent opportunity to broach what's bothered her since Elijah began his retelling. "Do you know where it is?"
Damon bends until their faces are at the same level. He nods at her once, before saying aloud:
"Maybe."
A convincing lie for unwanted ears.
"Were you—" told about it as a child? Was tragedy turned into a bedside story? The words catch on the back of her throat. She tries again. "Was your family involved?"
Damon's face clears like he was able to hear the words she did not speak. His eyebrows relax, and he reaches out to softly caress her cheek with his thumb.
"No." Cassandra inhales, accepting it. "As far as I know my family only became involved with the supernatural when the vampires moved into town." Damon carries on. "I heard about it after I turned."
"Thank you," she says.
She dips her face to press a kiss to his inner wrist. Damon's mouth quirks at the side, the smallest of smiles. He turns the water off, tap knobs squeaking in the process. The whistling pipes grow quiet.
"C'mon," Damon says, tugging at her hands until she stands at full height. "We're going to miss dessert. Andy and Jenna are serving apple pie."
"Serving?" Cassandra repeats. Well, so much for Andy commandeering the kitchen in order to 'save dinner'. "They got it from The Grill?"
"More like from the frozen aisle." Damon reveals.
Cassandra gapes at him, disbelieving. She spends two hours cooking the perfect dinner and they bring frozen goods for dessert?
"No." Surely, he's just kidding, right?
Damon laughs at the look on her face, leaving the bathroom without another word.
"No." She laments.
Oh, the crust is going to be so dry and powdery. The apple isn't even going to be real apple. At least the apple pie from the Grill is made in-house. Cassandra grumbles to herself, closing the door behind her.
"You know," Damon starts as she falls into step beside him. "I think I even heard something about… custard powder?"
Cassandra freezes to the spot, unable to help the way her face scrunches up in disgust.
"Absolutely not. Custard powder!" She fakes a gag. "They might as well serve dust!" Damon hums in agreement, pressing his mouth into a fine line as he nods along. Cassandra deflates, pouting. "Dessert is doomed."
Damon's sympathetic look fades into a smile so mischievous, Cassandra can't help the gasp that leaves her. The little…
"Ow!" He protests, rubbing at his arm where she's just slapped him. She does it again. "Cassie, stop it!"
Damon pulls away from her reach. He breaks into laughter, leaning back when she takes a would-be-threatening step toward him. His face is so radiant mid-laugh, Cassandra's scowl fades into a smile.
"That was mean," she tells him, crossing her arms.
Damon shrugs, laughter yet to dissolve fully from his face. He takes a tentative step towards her. When her immediate reaction isn't to elbow him in the stomach, he throws one arm around her shoulders.
"Now we're even," he comments, steering her towards the dining room.
She looks up at him, confused as to what he means before she remembers. Earlier, she'd interrogated him about possibly hiding porn in a locked box at the back of his closet. She didn't really mean it, couldn't care less if he did keep porn somewhere in his room, but the lightest shade of pink that had dusted his cheeks had made the teasing worth it.
Much to Damon's chagrin, Cassandra laughs at the memory.
Even when dessert entails taking an aluminium tray out of a box and into an oven, Jenna somehow still manages to mess it up the first time. The scent of burned butter and fake apple flavoring is thick in the air when Damon and Cassandra sit down at the table.
"Oh, it's fine," Andy assures with a wave of a hand. "We brought a second one just in case."
She lowers a tray full of empty coffee cups onto the table and begins to hand out cups to everyone. Her reporter smile doesn't change an inch. It's a little disconcerting, but preferable to Jenna's embarrassed fumbling as she sets a small sugar jar on the table with such jarring force it nearly topples over.
"It'll only be a few more minutes. I got the temperature wrong—somehow." Jenna jokes. She lifts the coffeepot in her hand. "I'll leave this here. Serve yourselves."
She doesn't even have hosting skills. Andy doesn't seem to catch onto Jenna's error. What a great end to a lovely evening.
"I made the coffee," Andy says once Jenna disappears into the kitchen. "So it should be just fine, or at least drinkable."
Only Elijah indulges in the joke. Even then, it's a flimsy chuckle, polite more than anything else. The atmosphere around the table is a stark contrast from earlier. John's surly mood is no news, but Cassandra does wonder what happened for Elijah's mood to so considerably decrease.
"I know this is a social thing," Andy apologizes. She turns to Elijah with a pleading quirk of her eyebrows. "But I would really love to ask you some more questions about the work that you're doing here."
She still makes no attempt to serve the coffee.
"I'd love to answer." Elijah agrees.
Cassandra stands, taking on the responsibility of pouring the coffee herself. Usually, she would serve Damon first, being as he's sat at the head of the table, but this whole evening has been about pleasing Elijah. Cassandra walks around Damon's seat, the brass coffee pot nestled between her hands.
"Great!" Andy gushes. "That's so great!"
Alaric enters the room, skipping over the step with a little trot. Something glints in his right hand—the dagger. Their eyes meet. Alaric nods. She moves to stand half behind Elijah's chair, half beside him, and pours the coffee into the matching cup in front of him. Elijah focuses on the stream of coffee pouring from the pot, paying no heed to Alaric's presence.
At Elijah's nod, Cassandra lifts the coffee pot. She nestles it once more between her hands.
"Would you like some milk?" Cassandra asks Elijah, making a show of stretching for the little jug.
It's too far for her to reach. Elijah lifts it from the table, letting a dash of milk trickle into his cup. Alaric advances at a leisure pace. Casual, without taking care to soften his footfalls. The dagger slips down his sleeve; Ric's fingers tighten around the hilt. Elijah remains oblivious to the threat at his back.
Without a reason to remain by Elijah's side, Cassandra moves away.
"Elijah," Damon begins. His eyes pull away from her gaze to focus on the Original. "Did John tell you he's Elena's uncle-slash-father?"
Elijah nods, swallowing some of the coffee. He places the cup back on the table with deliberate slowness. He appears tired of the pleasantries, which is not good news at all, especially if Alaric accidentally misses his heart, but Damon's petulant tone has managed to distract him for a moment longer.
"Oh, Ric," Andy calls. She hoists herself on her seat and sticks out a hand like a patron flagging down a waiter at a busy restaurant. "Would you grab the notebook out of my bag?"
Alaric falters in his step. Cassandra slows only just on her way to John, looking at Andy and then to Alaric in a mildly disinterested way, like it's a reflex to check and not because she really wants to. Alaric's eyes jump to Damon—he ignores him. Alaric looks at her next, reluctant. She widens her eyes, staring at Andy's bag in encouragement. It's the perfect cover for the dagger. Alaric walks over to the bag.
"Yes, I'm well aware of that." Elijah answers Damon. He brings the coffee cup back to his lips. "Excellent, excellent coffee, Miss Starr."
Andy preens at the compliment. Pink sweeps across her nose.
"Of course," Damon continues. "She hates him; so there's absolutely no need to keep him on the endangered species list."
He shoots John a tight-lipped smile, as fake as it is bitter. John doesn't react, merely lifts his cup for Cassandra to fill.
"You can't kill him, though," Cassandra says. "I'll be the one who gets to do the honors."
Though she complies with John's request, she allows the coffee to pour at too fast a rate. Tiny drops of scalding coffee splash out of the cup and onto his skin. John hisses through his teeth.
"Ooh, I'm sorry." She grimaces before smiling at him, saccharine sweet. "Did I get you?"
"No, Ric—" Andy calls over to Alaric. John swallows whatever insult he'd wanted to spew. "It's the other—inside the—" she huffs, pushing off the table with both hands. "Oh, excuse me a second."
Andy nervously chuckles to herself, doing a mix between a walk and a run towards Alaric. Cassandra turns back to John, swaying the coffee pot as if to say some more? John regards her, unflinching.
"Does it ever get tiring, Cassandra, having such an inflated sense of self?"
"I don't know, you tell me."
John's eyes narrow at her retort. She maintains eye contact, daring him to react. John's right eyebrow twitches, the corners of his mouth waver with tension and his teeth grind together. It's very clear he's trying quite hard not to bare his teeth at her and curl his lip.
Cassandra grants him a winning smile, moving away to Andy's abandoned seat. She's already making her way back from her bag, small notepad in hand and pen in the other. Alaric, not far behind. Cassandra fills Andy's cup only halfway, unsure as to how the reporter takes her coffee.
"Right!" Andy exhales, doing a little run to her chair. Once seated, she flips the notepad open, eyes trailing down the page. Cassandra spies a list of ten questions already jotted down. "So, my first question… Elijah, why did you—?"
Andy's question breaks into a horrified scream. Elijah convulses, his face contorts in pain as Alaric drives the dagger through the chair into his heart. John exclaims, shocked. Damon shoots to his feet, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in surprise. Cassandra can't keep her face from twisting into the same expression, subconsciously jumping and clutching the coffee pot closer to her chest.
Elijah's skin fades to grey, his veins bulging and turning black as his blood dries. With one last groan of pain, he slumps onto the chair, dead. Alaric rips the dagger out. He stabs Elijah again, this time from the front, with the same surprising amount of strength.
For a lengthy beat, nobody speaks. Nobody moves. Cassandra stares at Alaric, stunned. Hunter or not, she did not think he would be good enough to dagger Elijah. Let alone do it through the backrest of a chair. Hatred and jealousy are powerful motivators.
"Let's get rid off him before Jenna arrives from dessert," Alaric pants.
All Cassandra can manage is a stunned, "Okay."
A/N: Quite narration heavy, this one, huh? The bathroom scene may seem like a filler now, but wait and see, it all ties together.
It seems that with my new work schedule, I'll only be able to post once a month. Not on purpose, that just seems to be how long it takes now to write a full chapter. This one should have been longer, but I've got about 2-3k words more to write and I won't have time to sit down and write them until Monday. I didn't want you to wait another 2-3 weeks, so enjoy the part that's been edited already.
Reviews:
Crazy Devil Girl: Thank you so much! I'm the same. I love love Cass and Damon and I think they can grow beautifully, but I really really enjoy writing the flashbacks with Klaus. As for her first marriage, you won't ever really see a flashback (so far) but it will continue to get mentioned, and it will be relevant in season 4! I hope you like this chapter just as much. xx
Beth: Thank you so much! I knooowww I just wish they could all be friends. Things will get a bit rocky, but they will get better and happy! Unfortunately the Originals play antagonists for a really long time so they won't always be friendly, but I am working on tweaking some plot stuff. I hope you like this chapter as well xx
Nerdalertwarning: here you go! I try my best, I promise! Hospitality is just a vile vile industry that pays crap and demands lots of long hours. I hope you enjoy this chapter though! xxx
Anyways, thank you for continuing to be so patient with me! I know I used to post like every 3 weeks and now it's insane how long it takes to put out a chapter, so your support is very much appreciated. Let me know what you think about this one!
If you want, you can follow me/check my tumblr which is sawnsastark, sometimes I post about this fic there and I also have a character and fic tag with lots of visuals, quotes.
See you soon, hopefully before October is over!