James Lowder and Voronica Whitney-Houston authors of Spectre of the Black Rose: Thanks for the inspiration for the background on this part!
by Jessica French (Midnite363@aol.com)
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Scotland - 1744
Several days later found Shannon in the weaving room of the Drake estate. She sat with her back to the door, working on, what soon would be, a quilt. A basket full of clothes to be mended sat at her feet. She didn't mind sewing, it was almost relaxing. The only annoyance was the constant chatter of Gretchen and Heidi, a more distant cousin that Gretchen who was visiting for the month. They talked on and on about everything under the sun, it seemed. Shannon was lost in her own thoughts. Thoughts about none other than Damon Salvatore. Typical.
She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice the small scratch of boot behind her back. It was only the sharp clatter of Gretchen's knitting sticks as they hit the stone floor and the sudden tug of the quilt to Gretchen's side of the table that made Shannon look up. "Goodness, Gretchen be careful!" she scolded the younger girl.
"Yes, Gretchen, you would not want to ruin the quilt Lady Shannon seems so intent upon," the sarcasm in the voice was thick, and no smiles were bestowed to Shannon as she turned, heart thumping wildly in her chest, to the man behind her. Her face remained neutral as she regarded him. A week away had not changed him one bit.
"Damon, it is so nice to see you back. We were worried when you left so suddenly and without any notice." She stood and brushed past him, the sharp toe of her boot coming up to kick him in the shin sharply. Her only satisfaction was the barely noticeable grunt of pain that escaped his lips. She continued walking down the corridor, not sure where she was going, but knowing that she was not ready to face Damon Salvatore.
Before she reached the stairs to her chambers a hand grabbed her harshly around the upper and arm and turned her around. She faced Damon, her back pressed against the stone wall, the coldness seeping through the heavy material of her dress. He looked very upset.... upset about the kick? "Damon... I...." she was cut off by his angry lips against hers. The kiss was nothing gentle. His tongue plunged into her mouth, caressing as it assaulted. His hand on her arm tightened so she almost cried out in pain. She raised a hand to his neck, slender fingers finding the hollow of his throat and stabbing at it, pushing her finger against it till he choked and drew back.
The breath she drew to her lungs was refreshing and much needed. She gasped in air and looked him over carefully. His coal black hair was tossled from the assault, his complexion pale and his lips as swollen as hers. He looked annoyed and bothered, impatient and hassled. He looked amazing. But she would not let him get away so easy, she was not one to forgive so easily. "You left without a word to me, or anyone else for that matter, and you expect to walk back through our doors and be greeted pleasantly? I think not. If you think, for one moment, that I am going to welcome you with open arms. Ha!" She laughed, and it soon bubbled down to light chuckles. He was just standing there. Just standing there like he had not a care in the world. He lounged against the opposite wall, waiting for her bravado to pass. It passed soon after. She sighed.
"Now then, " he began, "I was in England, I left soon after you left me by the creek. I flew. Crow form. Tell me you don't believe that." He waited.
After a moment of pure confusion, Shannon uttered gamely, "I do not believe such tales."
He stepped away from the wall, she thought he would leave again, but he only took two steps up, so that he was framed by the open window at the top of the stairs. He smirks and cooed down to her, "Just watch, Shannon."
She couldn't describe what happened. It appeared that his form wavered, blurred and faded. HIs entire form just blurred into one black mass and then there was the loud, horrible sound of wings flapping wildly. Huge wings beat their way against the narrow corridor and when Shannon moved the protective arm away from her face to peek out, she say a huge black crow sitting on the ledge of the window at the top of the stairs. The feathers caught any light coming from the outside and reflected it back in a maze of rainbow colors. The head was cocked to the right, marking it with an odd sort of intelligence. It waited, she approached slowly, not touching but whispering ever so softly, "Damon....?" She felt ridiculous, but the crow belted a sharp "caw!" and twitched it's wing. A confirmation. Shannon's head swam, she raised a pale hand to her even paler forehead and took a step back, her foot teetering on the edge of the top stair.
The crow lept up, flapping it's wings for bouyance. The form blurred, as Damon's had earlier, it was almost a black mist now, and before Shannon could have another thought, Damon was standing in front of her again, a long, black feather twirling between his thumb and forefinger. "Still need conviction?"
His final transformation was too much. Shannon threw a hand back to brace a hand against the wall, already feeling her feet coming out from under her. She couldn't think, she didn't comprehend, and she was going to fall.
Just when she lost her balance completely, Damon's hand snapped out and closed over her wrist, jerking her back to safety against his chest. The rainbow feather forgotten at his feet, he held her too him as her labored breathing slowed and became regular. How long they stood together, Shannon did not know, but eventually she felt his hand in her hair.
Damon pushed her hair, as dark as his own, from her neck. He could feel the blood running through her veins, he could smell it underneath the surface of her skin, and he could see the flutter of it against the pale flesh of her neck. This moment was what he had worked towards and planned as he flew back from England. Here, on these steps he would make the last of his convictions. He would do it now.
He started with a light kiss to her forehead. When he was satisfied with her light sigh, he moved down lazily to her temple and cheeks. When she relaxed more in his grip he lowered his lips to her neck. He tipped her chin back slightly with his free hand, holding it softly yet firmly so that she would not jerk away with the first agonizing pierce of flesh. He was about to bite, about to give in and show her that his stories were true, that he was, in fact, a vampire. And that he was not pleased that she had rejected his story so easily and called him, Damon Salvatore, a liar. Scum that he may be, he was no liar. His lips met the flutter under the skin, and they parted, the seductive, arousing feeling of his teeth raced through him.
"Do it," a soft, barely audible voice said in his ear. He faultered, perhaps for the first time in his life, but the arms that slide around his shoulders and the firm hand that pressed into neck were not to be reckoned with. He pierced her skin and was instantly rewarded with a rush of warm blood flowing into his mouth and down his throat. She tasted rich, thick and sweet. All blood was the same, but mixed with....feeling.... it was always better.
Before the bite, Shannon's heart was pumping. She had been scared. The first feel of teeth piercing her throat was terrible and she pushed herself against him for support which he instantly, unconsciously gave. After the initial fear and pain, though, was bliss. Elation, happiness.... arousal... whatever it was that they called it, it was a wonderful feeling.
She didn't take notice when Damon stopped his taking of her life's blood, and carried her to her bed. He lay her on top the covers and pulled a heavy quilt over her. She was awake, but not really. She had only vague impressions of what he was doing when he lowered a slick wrist to her lips. She drank his blood tiredly, noticing nothing of the taste or texture, she only drank until he pulled it away, wiped her lips and smoothed back her hair. She was in a half sleep, but her limbs were to heavy to move. She remained this way for a day and a half. And in that time, she had the oddest dreams....