Summary: Elena remembers why she came back and her world comes crashing down. Now she must face the terrifying Originals, risking life and sanity in a desperate bid for Stefan and for her humanity!
Disclaimers: Elena Gilbert, Stefan Salvatore and any other names you recognize from the books, along with the Vampire Diaries I - IV belong to L.J. Smith. Everything else is mine. No harm intended or money made from this fic.
Notes:
~ Chapter ~
::Thoughts or telepathy::
_emphasis or italics_
* Author's Note(s)
Date posted: 9 July 2003
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
~ Forty Eight ~
There was something about watching a group of peaceable people making ready to embark on a grim battle...
Turned were, for the most part, people who had been changed against their will, victims of cruel jokes, unwilling vampires. At least, Elena tried to make sure this was the case; any who wished to remain vampires would not be Turned against their will, if she had any say in it.
Which she did.
So to watch these peaceful individuals learn to fight and defend themselves, to help them prepare for their 'mission'...
It made her heart weigh heavily in her.
The room wasn't as crowded as it might have been; some of the Turned had already left earlier in the week to begin their search. This evening was when the remaining teams would leave, the largest, final deployment of the searchers.
Stefan was chatting amiably with a couple of their students as they packed provisions for the trip. The new Turned were paired up with their more experienced brethren, to minimize the risk to the individual and give the young ones a chance to learn.
One of the older Turned was handing out assignments, a map spread out in front of him detailing where each pair would search. There was an air of tension in the room, but not the grim, resigned desperation that had once reigned.
Their numbers were not so small now, and this, coupled with the experience of the first questers, reduced their risks significantly.
May-Ling was on more than one mind this evening, Elena guessed. The face of the timid girl, who had not returned from her search, was certainly in Elena's own thoughts at this moment.
Elena barely noticed when Eiran quietly entered the room; he was as unobtrusive as ever. In twos and threes, the ex-vampires settled into waiting silence as they completed their preparations. Elena rose to bid each a safe and successful journey. She had come to know them in the lessoning and in sharing small, simple moments during meals and television. Much to her relief, they didn't treat her like some minor deity, although there was no doubting their respect and esteem.
Looking up from one pair, Elena's gaze caught on Eiran's odd expression. It was a look of... disbelief and... displeasure? Elena wondered at the cause of that and followed the direction of his gaze. Stefan was sending another team on their way. What was so odd about that? It took her a moment to notice how the groups seemed to gravitate in Stefan's direction, even those on the other side of the room. It wasn't obvious at first, but a closer look showed the teams stepping up to have a word with Stefan, then moving to her, and then heading out the door.
Oh.
Elena smiled as a team of three – all girls – came up to her. "Yes," she answered them automatically. "You watch out for each other, huh? And Grae, take care of them," she added to the older Turned. They all grinned at her and passed through the door and Elena looked back around the room again.
Yes, it seemed to be turning into a stream of searchers, flowing from the Italian vampire to the human girl who had changed them. Leaving out the one who had been the de facto Turned leader from the beginning.
Oh, it wasn't a conscious spurning, which almost made it worse. It just showed how much Eiran's influence with the Turned had waned. Somehow, the ex-vampires had started looking to Stefan for leadership. Perhaps it was his relationship with her. Or the fact that they knew he would soon be one of them. Or simply that Eiran had not been spending as much time around his fellows, preoccupied as he had been of late with Jerrick's work.
Stefan was unaware of the tension and Elena's attention was torn between watching Eiran worriedly and sending each team off properly, knowing that there was a chance – and even the slightest possibility sobered her – that she would not see some of them again.
It was after one such heartfelt send-off that she looked up to find Eiran, the very first Turned, her good and faithful friend, gone.
* * *
Jerrick sat quietly beneath moon and leaves.
It was a peaceful night, balmy late summer breezes mixing with cooler hints of autumn. Neither heat nor chill seemed to faze the frail-looking man. He tipped back his head, breathing deeply. As self-effacing as he was, he seemed to lose all identity in the dark-shrouded wood.
Jerrick released his breath slowly, sinking his awareness into the solitude of the night, even as he pulled the ambient energy into himself, renewing himself, replenishing exhausted wellsprings of Power.
His gift – and his curse – this tie to the forces of nature.
A face floated before his mind's eye, a woman with pearly skin and dark hair, and eyes of vivid green. A name: Channa.
It had all started with her, the stormy, stubborn female he had singled out one evening, never knowing who she was. Funny how a random choice could change one's existence. Jerrick rather thought it was more than mere coincidence. Not with the way things had worked out.
A comedy of mishaps. Thinking back on them now gave Jerrick the most uncharacteristic urge to laugh and sob at once. He should have checked; if he had only looked, he would have seen what she was and steered clear. But he had not and she had retaliated to his attack by binding them together in soul – or the equivalent for all intents and purposes.
What had begun with hate and ferocious conflict had ended with love and lost. And the end had been long in coming; his gifts had prolonged her life, even as hers had brought him to new awareness of his nemesis.
Perhaps, when the end finally came, their bond had snapped her Powers into him in the moment her spirit fled her ravaged body.
Perhaps the inrush of Power had driven him a little mad.
The thought tickled him. What did he care if he was insane? His chin tipped back down and his eyes opened. How long has it been? A decade. Ten years since she'd died and pain had become his constant companion. It felt like so much longer. A small eternity of agony before he had found a way to end it. And now, with four of the seven beings the humans called Old Ones unmade, he was close. Soon, the pain would end.
It felt good.
* * *
Leon stood outside the door and hesitated.
His hand rose, wrist drawing back to knock, then paused. After a moment, he let it drop to his side silently and turned away for the fifth time. He was about to retreat into his own room again, when, behind him, the knob turned, checking his movement.
Samar did not say anything, but just stood there and gazed at him. She looked... Leon's heart squeezed painfully; it hurt to see her like that, so forlorn and broken. It was not the careless ponytail or the shapeless – comfortable and comforting, he was sure – cable-knit sweater and denims she wore, or her bare feet. It was the lack of expression in her face, the loss of fire in her eyes, the slackness of her limbs.
He moved forward, without thinking, hands reaching to pull her into his arms and comfort her all over again.
Thankfully, he didn't get the chance. She turned around and went back into the room, misunderstanding his advance, assuming that he was going to come in – finally. It seemed she had been aware of his previous aborted attempts to intrude upon her solitude.
It's just as well she walked away, Leon thought, feeling a moment of panic as he realized what he had been about to do.
Leave her alone, a voice hissed insistently. Another objected; look at her; she needs you now. Another offered a different point; if you're going to tell her about your feelings, you'd better start preparing her for it. And you can start by spending more time with her.
Yeah, well, these all-wise voices didn't have quaking fingers and knees, or an accelerated heartbeat, to deal with.
Still, Leon stepped through the threshold, closed the door quietly behind him and looked around for a seat. Unfortunately, the only chair in the room was no longer functional. When – and how – had she done that? Leon wondered, amazement and an odd kind of appreciation replaced quickly by sorrow as he remembered the hurt that had fueled such destruction. The dresser was too cluttered to be used as a perch, a fact that rather surprised him. He had imagined dramatic, enraged sweeps of hands to break the various jars and bottles on the table.
That left the bed, where currently sprawled a girl whose laughter made his heart leap in delight, whose fiery, indomitable spirit had long since won his respect, whose biting, irreverent humor amused even as it exasperated him, whose rages brought out answering calm in him, whose pain hurt him twice over.
Yes, this was love.
But he had been considering seating options. There was the bed... and the floor.
Leon settled carefully on the carpet beside her bed, leaning his back against it and wincing as he sat on something. Pulling out the offending object, he eyed one of the lethal heels she had been wearing that fateful night. After a moment of contemplation, he shoved it further under the bed, where its twin no doubt cowered for fear of its existence.
The room was still for a long time before Samar stirred.
"What do you want?"
The question was muffled and it didn't sound particularly interested. Leon leaned his head back, so that it was flat on the bed, and didn't answer her right away. He was still looking for words when the bed jounced with movement and Samar's face floated above his, upside down and with loose tendrils of black, maroon-streaked hair falling around them both.
"Leon?"
The vampire had the most unsettling urge to... kiss her. Worse, flashes of her in his arms – on that bed – began invading his mind. If he had been the suspicious type, he would have searched for signs of Makoe's manipulations.
Shadowed hazel eyes continued to regard him flatly. "_I'm_ the one who's supposed to maintain despondent silences here," she prompted when he didn't respond, impatience and bitterness in her tone.
"I'm s–"
"Don't you dare," she warned tonelessly, even that hint of edged humor disappearing. She moved, flopping back onto the bed, head not far from his. He knew because he could feel the ends of her ponytail fanning out on the bedspread, draping over his head.
"Tell me you didn't come here to express your pity," she mumbled after another intermittent silence.
"Not pity. Sympathy."
"Hah," she snorted caustically and Leon suppressed a flash of hurt.
"Concern?" he tried. She didn't reply for a long time. Finally, Leon felt a tremor on the bed and twisted around in surprise. Her face was turned away from him but he could see her shoulders shake.
::Samar?:: A hand reached out to smooth her dark locks soothingly, which only seemed to aggravate her tears.
Feebly, blindly, she slipped off the bed and onto the floor beside him and, like a hurt child, crawled into his arms. Her tears slid down silently now, wetting his shirt again but he wouldn't have released her for all the shirts in the world.
::You're so good to me, Leon. It kills me that he isn't, it just drives a stake through my undead heart.:: Her telepathy was odd, a combination of weakness and flashing sharpness. ::But at least someone cares. I'm not so unlovely and pathetic that no one can bear to be near me, huh? At least I have you.::
Leon swallowed, but continued to hold her comfortingly. ::Yes, Samar. You'll always have me,:: he agreed softly. ::And I'll not have you degrading yourself like that. It's not you, it's him; you're wonderful. If he can't appreciate that, it's his loss,:: he told her, uncharacteristically fierce. _And someone else's fortune?_
She didn't seem to hear his other words. Or she dismissed them. She raised her head to look at him. That she didn't hide her splotched face and red-rimmed eyes was a mark of trust. Or that she didn't care how he saw her?
::Will I always have you?:: she asked searchingly and his heart gave an alarming skip of a beat.
Leon stared at her. An inane voice repeated over and over in the back of his head that there was still time; he had until when the next Old One was unmade to tell her.
Notnownotnownotnow...
This was going too fast, things happening faster than he had planned or imagined or dreamed, rushing out of his control towards something that scared him like nothing else in his two hundred years of existence.
::Samar...::
::Will I?:: she pushed intently.
Had he slipped, given himself away? Leon wondered wildly. She knew... she _knew_. How could she know?
She was sitting up, hands pressing on his chest to raise herself, almost face to face with him, his slouched position undoing his height advantage. Her chin tipped down, and she looked piercingly at him through her lashes. His hands were blissful, lovingly cradling her slight form and Leon had to squelch another almost overpowering urge to kiss her.
::Samar...::
::Damn it, Leon, I know my own name. Just answer the question; will I or will I not?::
::Have me?::
Now. Now. Nownownownow...
::I...I guess that would be up to you to decide.::
She continued to stare at him for a long, endless minute, then pushed away from him, sitting back and not touching him. He didn't stop her.
"What is this?" she breathed.
Leon shook his head and looked away. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about this now," he muttered. The sinking feeling in his stomach told him this was going to end badly.
"No, let's," she snapped the retort whip crack fast, and angry tears stood out in her eyes. ::_He_ tried to put me off too, when I asked him questions... that night.::
Helplessly, Leon reached a hand to her, and then let it fall. He shook his head again. "Samar, this isn't the right time. You're not ready for this."
"For what? What are you trying so hard not to say, Leon?" she demanded.
Leon sighed. ::If you still need to ask...:: He felt her go still and rose to his feet abruptly. "I've said too much already."
"Oh no, you don't!" Galvanized back into motion, she grabbed his hand as he passed her and pulled him back onto the ground. When he refused to budge, she clamped her other hand around his wrist and yanked harder. "Damn it, Leon, don't you dare leave me like this!" Another wrench that threatened to pop his wrist out of its socket. "Talk to me."
A look of surprise flashed on her face when he complied. By force of will, he smoothed his tone to its customary mildness and his manner was almost brisk.
"All right. Let's talk. About Turning."
The subject also took her aback, apparently. Her fingers fell away from his hand and she stared at him warily.
"What about it?"
He met her eyes, hoping his expression was as calm as his voice. "Nothing much. Just that, you're not the only one considering it. So don't hesitate in taking your chance, if it is what you really want for yourself."
The obvious question flashed in her eyes and he nodded. "I'm also seriously thinking it over. If you choose to become human again... you needn't worry about being left alone."
Samar wasn't dumb. She put two and two together and came up with the most logical answer. Leon couldn't bear to see sorrow in her eyes – and he was sure it would be there when she realized how he felt – and looked away. And so he missed the uncertainty in her expression. She wanted to know why... she needed confirmation.
But Leon didn't see. "That's all," he said and left.
Alone in her room once more, Samar sat in the middle of the floor for a long time, lost in thought. Finally, she straightened and spoke into the silence.
"Yeah right."
* * *
From the fifty-eighth floor of the glittering glass-fronted building, the man known as Emson McModrey stood gazing out at the sprawling metropolis below him. There came a curt rap on the door, followed almost immediately by the appearance of strikingly good-looking blonde vampire.
"We lost the contract," he said vehemently without preamble after the door had thudded shut.
McModrey turned away from his contemplation of the city and settled back in his luxurious leather chair. He raised an eyebrow. "How did that happen?" he asked curtly.
"Terrence's wife flirted with the chairman, and his daughter seduced the nephew," Colin, the blonde, speculated glibly, although they both knew that neither charge was likely to be true. Colin threw himself into the chair opposite Emson. "We undercut Terry at every turn and offered a better deal, all in all. Heck, we were barely making any money on that contract and still we lost to the bastard. I haven't a clue how that happened." His hands rose and fell in a gesture of exasperation before he dragged his fingers through the glossy waves of his hair. Eyes the color of the ocean stared at his boss for a long moment. "Now what do we do?"
"Terrence Cromwell is legitimate," Emson corrected urbanely, "Although the sentiment is seconded." Colin snorted. "As for what our next course of action is," Emson continued, ignoring the scoffing noise. "We'll just have to play our trump card."
"What trump card?" Colin growled, looking dejectedly up at Emson from beneath a charming forelock. Even disgruntled and sprawled casually in a chair, Colin St. James looked like a model for the quintessential successful young corporate executive.
The red-haired man did not reply directly but pulled out a thin folder and nudged it across the desk. The blonde picked it up and thumbed it open. The contents – photographs and detailed reports of activities – made his eyebrows hike higher and higher, almost disappearing into his hairline. Eyes wide with wonder rose to fasten on Emson's blandly satisfied face.
"I don't think Lord Cromwell will want his indiscretions made known to the public. It would be so damaging to his political standing, not to mention what a scandal would do to his family name." A smile curved Emson's lips, one Colin had seen on many occasions and might recognized well; that of a hunter toying with his prey. "The contract for the Waterford telecommunications center really isn't very much to ask in exchange for our silence, now, is it?"
Shortly after the blonde left to carry out his instructions, the telephone rang, a discreet buzzing.
"Yes."
"Miss Gallagher on line one, Mr. McModrey," his secretary's voice sounded tinny.
"Put her through."
The next voice to sound was smooth, a purring contralto. "Emson."
"Janet. This is a pleasant surprise." His tone matched hers; smooth, slightly amused with seduction underlying it. "What can I do for you, my dear?"
"Oh, I just called to see if we were still having dinner tonight."
"Of course. Gladys has already made reservations. I'll pick you up at half past seven," he said, barely glancing at his schedule.
"Perfect, darling. See you then," the svelte voice said and then she hung up without waiting for a reply. The man she called Emson chuckled at that treatment. Being young, powerful, rich and good-looking – and single – tended to draw a lot of female attention to him. But Janet Gallagher, darkly exotic and mysterious, intelligent and very, very successful, was a match for him in all those respects. Her marked lack of pandering was also refreshing to one who had long since lost patience with mindless adoration. The two of them were so alike in personality that it was uncanny.
There's a born vampire inside that human skin, he thought, toying with a heavy fountain pen. Maybe I'll change her and keep her for a century and see if she improves with time, he mused. And if she doesn't accept – well, the Old One would see if she tasted as exotic as she looked.
Turning that mildly intriguing thought in his mind, Emson left his office, nodding absent acknowledgement to his secretary's bidding him a good evening. The elevator descended at dizzying speeds but the man felt no discomfort, thanks to the superb design that gave little sense of displacement, and before he knew it, the doors were swishing open with a rush of air as the shaft depressurized.
He was not so immersed in his thoughts, however, that he didn't sense the pair of vampire hunters lurking near his car the instant he stepped out of the elevator. It wasn't the first time this had happened – although his minions paid heavily after each, rare occurrence – and the man never knew how they got past the state-of-the-art security system installed in the private parking lot beneath the skyscraper – not to mention the minions – but he supposed that the old adage about there being a way where there was a will was true when it came to hunters.
Not that it mattered. He could have set them both on fire with a thought but where was the amusement in that? He feigned ignorance, moving towards his car with casual, confident strides. His polished shoes beat a measured tempo on the asphalt, like the deliberate strikes of a tribal drum. Let's see what you're made of, humans.
They approached him from opposite sides, thinking to sandwich him and cut off any escape he might attempt. Two steps from his metallic-grey Volvo, he stopped and fastened his unnerving golden eyes on each of them in turn. They were almost exactly on either side of him – a powerfully-built, handsome woman and a Pan-like man – and his look made them halt in their tracks and tense to attack
The woman stood closer. Both held guns aimed at him. Wood-tipped bullets no doubt. And silencers. I'm impressed, he thought sarcastically.
With an almost negligent gesture, he sent the man hurling backwards, feeding raw Power into the very air to heat it. The force of the sudden energization was enough to fling the hunter away. The man hit the concrete pillar behind him with an audible grunt and a solid-sounding thud.
Emson turned to the female, a charming smile forming on his lips. "Good evening," he said with incongruous courtesy.
She shot him.
The bullet was indeed wood-tipped and went through his stomach. A most unpleasant way to die. If he could die.
Removing the blasted thing might prove annoying and it was quite possible that Emson would be late picking Janet up at this rate, but no real harm had been done. However, it was time to extract a like price for the hunter's efforts.
The gun suddenly became searing metal in her hands and she dropped it with a hiss. Then the huntress actually began to stalk up to him, pulling out a pair of knives – probably dipped in wood resin, if his experience and nose were accurate. A spunky one.
Behind him, the Old One caught the sound of her partner stirring. Well, you know what they say; three's a crowd.
Emson let the woman come within ten paces of him, then without warning, a ring of flame leapt up, eight feet in height, enclosing them both. The woman stared but recovered with laudable speed and fixed her attention on him grimly.
The man in the tailored business suit nodded. He was unarmed – but then, he didn't need any physical weapons.
She circled, moving in a closing spiral, coming ever closer. Emson didn't turn with her, merely waited for her to strike as the flames licked at the ceiling.
Naturally, she struck from behind, thinking to come upon him unprepared. Emson used the same trick on her that he had her partner, but the woman was surprisingly quick for her built and dodged the exploding air. The movement put her to his right and she didn't hesitate but continued the interrupted strike on him, hoping that he was overextended and vulnerable.
Simultaneously, over the whuffling roar of the flames, the red-haired man caught a foreign, sound, a whistling not in key with the other sounds around him. He turned and a crossbow bolt embedded itself below his left collarbone. The force rocked him back a half-step, sending him blundering into the huntress coming at him – and into her knives.
They slashed and pain blazed down his back, deep into his spine and across the backs of his knees.
Even as he fell, Emson whirled and grasped her shoulder. His fingers squeezed, crushing bone, and one of her knives clattered on the asphalt dully. She screamed, but not from the broken bone; the cry was wrenched from her as she found herself engulfed in flame. From within.
Her screams rang out, echoing and reechoing in the poor acoustics of the parking lot. Her flaming form pranced around in mindless circles within the ring of flame that enclosed them. He crouched on the ground, still as a statue, waiting for the pain to subside, waiting for the wounds to close and heal. The blooded crossbow bolt now lay clenched in the fist pressed against the grainy ground while the other hand covered the wound.
With a bit of satisfaction, he watched as her movements slowed, then stilled, her cries dimmed to silence and she was reduced to a smoldering heap on the ground. You got in a good lick, but you paid for it, he told her silently.
Without warning the wall of flame collapsed, more suddenly and completely than if it had been doused with water.
_What?_
Emson's head jerked up. There was another whisper of sound as a second bolt flew through the air but the Old One was prepared this time and impatient. The projectile burned to dust in midair, never to reach its target.
But what had damped his flame-field?
The air was smoky, but not as smoky as it might have been had the fire been fueled by organic matter rather than raw Power. Still, the figures that suddenly appeared now were shadowy, indistinct.
_Shields._
The presence of these others had been shielded; he had not sensed them. And...they threw up a force-shield around him now. Emson could feel the efforts of a handful of them, merging to form the barrier he fought. Had _they_ killed his ring of fire?
In pain, flung off balance, he did not resist the attack as effortlessly as he usually would. He reached out, tested the new group of attackers. Witches. His golden eyes narrowed. When had witches ever been any match for him? He would smash their upstart wills and minds to slivers!
He rallied, drawing in his Power, shrouding himself as he would a cloak.
The third crossbow bolt caught him in the chest. Perfectly-shaped lips drew back in an unpleasant snarl, feeling his indrawn Power escape like air from a balloon whose neck was released. The hand pressed to his abdomen rose to grasp the bolt; the wound would not close unless the weapon was removed.
It was then that Power snaked out and coiled around him, smothering his divided attention, just like it had his flames.
* * *
The red-haired man in the suit slumped to the ground and all was still for a moment, tension hanging in the air with the smoke and as slow to dissipate. Then, Jason broke into movement, dashing forward. "_Elsa!_"
There wasn't even a body for him to cradle, just an irregular line of ashes on the ground. The archer stared at it in, stunned, for a long time before lifting his gaze to the man who limped forward.
Jerrick did not seem to notice either him or the heartbreaking patch of ash as he touched the inert form of the Old One on the ground. He sighed. "I've bound his consciousness in a loop. He will remain this way for a few hours," he said quietly, addressing the witches who drew closer at his words. "You'll have to take turns monitoring him. As soon as he begins to rouse, call for me," he instructed and the pale blue eyes were unfocused, abstract. "The periods of oblivion will shorten. We have no time to waste," he warned, straightening. He turned away, leaving more capable bodies the task of picking up and carrying away the insensible Old One.
Jason jumped to his feet in shock and outrage. "That's it?" he demanded.
Jerrick paused and half-looked back. "You may gather up Elsa's ashes, if you wish. There is nothing much else we can do for her, is there?" he asked calmly.
Jason did not answer, merely stood there with fists clenched at his sides and glared. Jerrick faced him fully, patently waiting to hear him out. Around them, the witches and few Turned who had come with them quietly did whatever was necessary and left. One gathered the ashes of the female fighter as best he could and slid it into a plastic cup, murmuring that he would find a more suitable container later.
In the end, the archer stood alone with the lame witch. Jason trembled with pent up emotion. "She gave her life for this mission and you don't even acknowledge her sacrifice?" the austere, normally curt man snarled. So what if he and Elsa had always argued? She had been colleague and fellow hunter.
"She knew the risks of this trip; they are the same as any other hunting trip you make, except multiplied in proportion to the prize," Jerrick reminded. His chin lifted slightly. "What did you think, Jason? That it would be easy catching an Old One? If it had been, where would be the thrill and the challenge in this hunt I offered you?" he flung back.
Jason's expression did not clear, still twisted from the disgust and contempt he felt for the man before him.
"Your weapon of choice is the bow. You stand and hit your opponents from afar," Jerrick continued. "Elsa fights hand to hand. She gets right up close to her enemy and that opens her to injury. She's always known that. That is her choice." The tousled red head canted to one side. "Is it really me you're angry at? Or do I sense a bit of guilt here, Jason Carollin? Are you ashamed that she died and you got off so easily?"
The words hit home. Not close; they hit dead center. The hunter stiffened defensively. With nothing else to say, he snapped. "She was better than either of us."
Jerrick shrugged, turning away. "That may well be.
"But in the end, does it matter?"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Please take a moment to share your thoughts with me. I do treasure hearing from you!
Disclaimers: Elena Gilbert, Stefan Salvatore and any other names you recognize from the books, along with the Vampire Diaries I - IV belong to L.J. Smith. Everything else is mine. No harm intended or money made from this fic.
Notes:
~ Chapter ~
::Thoughts or telepathy::
_emphasis or italics_
* Author's Note(s)
Date posted: 9 July 2003
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
~ Forty Eight ~
There was something about watching a group of peaceable people making ready to embark on a grim battle...
Turned were, for the most part, people who had been changed against their will, victims of cruel jokes, unwilling vampires. At least, Elena tried to make sure this was the case; any who wished to remain vampires would not be Turned against their will, if she had any say in it.
Which she did.
So to watch these peaceful individuals learn to fight and defend themselves, to help them prepare for their 'mission'...
It made her heart weigh heavily in her.
The room wasn't as crowded as it might have been; some of the Turned had already left earlier in the week to begin their search. This evening was when the remaining teams would leave, the largest, final deployment of the searchers.
Stefan was chatting amiably with a couple of their students as they packed provisions for the trip. The new Turned were paired up with their more experienced brethren, to minimize the risk to the individual and give the young ones a chance to learn.
One of the older Turned was handing out assignments, a map spread out in front of him detailing where each pair would search. There was an air of tension in the room, but not the grim, resigned desperation that had once reigned.
Their numbers were not so small now, and this, coupled with the experience of the first questers, reduced their risks significantly.
May-Ling was on more than one mind this evening, Elena guessed. The face of the timid girl, who had not returned from her search, was certainly in Elena's own thoughts at this moment.
Elena barely noticed when Eiran quietly entered the room; he was as unobtrusive as ever. In twos and threes, the ex-vampires settled into waiting silence as they completed their preparations. Elena rose to bid each a safe and successful journey. She had come to know them in the lessoning and in sharing small, simple moments during meals and television. Much to her relief, they didn't treat her like some minor deity, although there was no doubting their respect and esteem.
Looking up from one pair, Elena's gaze caught on Eiran's odd expression. It was a look of... disbelief and... displeasure? Elena wondered at the cause of that and followed the direction of his gaze. Stefan was sending another team on their way. What was so odd about that? It took her a moment to notice how the groups seemed to gravitate in Stefan's direction, even those on the other side of the room. It wasn't obvious at first, but a closer look showed the teams stepping up to have a word with Stefan, then moving to her, and then heading out the door.
Oh.
Elena smiled as a team of three – all girls – came up to her. "Yes," she answered them automatically. "You watch out for each other, huh? And Grae, take care of them," she added to the older Turned. They all grinned at her and passed through the door and Elena looked back around the room again.
Yes, it seemed to be turning into a stream of searchers, flowing from the Italian vampire to the human girl who had changed them. Leaving out the one who had been the de facto Turned leader from the beginning.
Oh, it wasn't a conscious spurning, which almost made it worse. It just showed how much Eiran's influence with the Turned had waned. Somehow, the ex-vampires had started looking to Stefan for leadership. Perhaps it was his relationship with her. Or the fact that they knew he would soon be one of them. Or simply that Eiran had not been spending as much time around his fellows, preoccupied as he had been of late with Jerrick's work.
Stefan was unaware of the tension and Elena's attention was torn between watching Eiran worriedly and sending each team off properly, knowing that there was a chance – and even the slightest possibility sobered her – that she would not see some of them again.
It was after one such heartfelt send-off that she looked up to find Eiran, the very first Turned, her good and faithful friend, gone.
* * *
Jerrick sat quietly beneath moon and leaves.
It was a peaceful night, balmy late summer breezes mixing with cooler hints of autumn. Neither heat nor chill seemed to faze the frail-looking man. He tipped back his head, breathing deeply. As self-effacing as he was, he seemed to lose all identity in the dark-shrouded wood.
Jerrick released his breath slowly, sinking his awareness into the solitude of the night, even as he pulled the ambient energy into himself, renewing himself, replenishing exhausted wellsprings of Power.
His gift – and his curse – this tie to the forces of nature.
A face floated before his mind's eye, a woman with pearly skin and dark hair, and eyes of vivid green. A name: Channa.
It had all started with her, the stormy, stubborn female he had singled out one evening, never knowing who she was. Funny how a random choice could change one's existence. Jerrick rather thought it was more than mere coincidence. Not with the way things had worked out.
A comedy of mishaps. Thinking back on them now gave Jerrick the most uncharacteristic urge to laugh and sob at once. He should have checked; if he had only looked, he would have seen what she was and steered clear. But he had not and she had retaliated to his attack by binding them together in soul – or the equivalent for all intents and purposes.
What had begun with hate and ferocious conflict had ended with love and lost. And the end had been long in coming; his gifts had prolonged her life, even as hers had brought him to new awareness of his nemesis.
Perhaps, when the end finally came, their bond had snapped her Powers into him in the moment her spirit fled her ravaged body.
Perhaps the inrush of Power had driven him a little mad.
The thought tickled him. What did he care if he was insane? His chin tipped back down and his eyes opened. How long has it been? A decade. Ten years since she'd died and pain had become his constant companion. It felt like so much longer. A small eternity of agony before he had found a way to end it. And now, with four of the seven beings the humans called Old Ones unmade, he was close. Soon, the pain would end.
It felt good.
* * *
Leon stood outside the door and hesitated.
His hand rose, wrist drawing back to knock, then paused. After a moment, he let it drop to his side silently and turned away for the fifth time. He was about to retreat into his own room again, when, behind him, the knob turned, checking his movement.
Samar did not say anything, but just stood there and gazed at him. She looked... Leon's heart squeezed painfully; it hurt to see her like that, so forlorn and broken. It was not the careless ponytail or the shapeless – comfortable and comforting, he was sure – cable-knit sweater and denims she wore, or her bare feet. It was the lack of expression in her face, the loss of fire in her eyes, the slackness of her limbs.
He moved forward, without thinking, hands reaching to pull her into his arms and comfort her all over again.
Thankfully, he didn't get the chance. She turned around and went back into the room, misunderstanding his advance, assuming that he was going to come in – finally. It seemed she had been aware of his previous aborted attempts to intrude upon her solitude.
It's just as well she walked away, Leon thought, feeling a moment of panic as he realized what he had been about to do.
Leave her alone, a voice hissed insistently. Another objected; look at her; she needs you now. Another offered a different point; if you're going to tell her about your feelings, you'd better start preparing her for it. And you can start by spending more time with her.
Yeah, well, these all-wise voices didn't have quaking fingers and knees, or an accelerated heartbeat, to deal with.
Still, Leon stepped through the threshold, closed the door quietly behind him and looked around for a seat. Unfortunately, the only chair in the room was no longer functional. When – and how – had she done that? Leon wondered, amazement and an odd kind of appreciation replaced quickly by sorrow as he remembered the hurt that had fueled such destruction. The dresser was too cluttered to be used as a perch, a fact that rather surprised him. He had imagined dramatic, enraged sweeps of hands to break the various jars and bottles on the table.
That left the bed, where currently sprawled a girl whose laughter made his heart leap in delight, whose fiery, indomitable spirit had long since won his respect, whose biting, irreverent humor amused even as it exasperated him, whose rages brought out answering calm in him, whose pain hurt him twice over.
Yes, this was love.
But he had been considering seating options. There was the bed... and the floor.
Leon settled carefully on the carpet beside her bed, leaning his back against it and wincing as he sat on something. Pulling out the offending object, he eyed one of the lethal heels she had been wearing that fateful night. After a moment of contemplation, he shoved it further under the bed, where its twin no doubt cowered for fear of its existence.
The room was still for a long time before Samar stirred.
"What do you want?"
The question was muffled and it didn't sound particularly interested. Leon leaned his head back, so that it was flat on the bed, and didn't answer her right away. He was still looking for words when the bed jounced with movement and Samar's face floated above his, upside down and with loose tendrils of black, maroon-streaked hair falling around them both.
"Leon?"
The vampire had the most unsettling urge to... kiss her. Worse, flashes of her in his arms – on that bed – began invading his mind. If he had been the suspicious type, he would have searched for signs of Makoe's manipulations.
Shadowed hazel eyes continued to regard him flatly. "_I'm_ the one who's supposed to maintain despondent silences here," she prompted when he didn't respond, impatience and bitterness in her tone.
"I'm s–"
"Don't you dare," she warned tonelessly, even that hint of edged humor disappearing. She moved, flopping back onto the bed, head not far from his. He knew because he could feel the ends of her ponytail fanning out on the bedspread, draping over his head.
"Tell me you didn't come here to express your pity," she mumbled after another intermittent silence.
"Not pity. Sympathy."
"Hah," she snorted caustically and Leon suppressed a flash of hurt.
"Concern?" he tried. She didn't reply for a long time. Finally, Leon felt a tremor on the bed and twisted around in surprise. Her face was turned away from him but he could see her shoulders shake.
::Samar?:: A hand reached out to smooth her dark locks soothingly, which only seemed to aggravate her tears.
Feebly, blindly, she slipped off the bed and onto the floor beside him and, like a hurt child, crawled into his arms. Her tears slid down silently now, wetting his shirt again but he wouldn't have released her for all the shirts in the world.
::You're so good to me, Leon. It kills me that he isn't, it just drives a stake through my undead heart.:: Her telepathy was odd, a combination of weakness and flashing sharpness. ::But at least someone cares. I'm not so unlovely and pathetic that no one can bear to be near me, huh? At least I have you.::
Leon swallowed, but continued to hold her comfortingly. ::Yes, Samar. You'll always have me,:: he agreed softly. ::And I'll not have you degrading yourself like that. It's not you, it's him; you're wonderful. If he can't appreciate that, it's his loss,:: he told her, uncharacteristically fierce. _And someone else's fortune?_
She didn't seem to hear his other words. Or she dismissed them. She raised her head to look at him. That she didn't hide her splotched face and red-rimmed eyes was a mark of trust. Or that she didn't care how he saw her?
::Will I always have you?:: she asked searchingly and his heart gave an alarming skip of a beat.
Leon stared at her. An inane voice repeated over and over in the back of his head that there was still time; he had until when the next Old One was unmade to tell her.
Notnownotnownotnow...
This was going too fast, things happening faster than he had planned or imagined or dreamed, rushing out of his control towards something that scared him like nothing else in his two hundred years of existence.
::Samar...::
::Will I?:: she pushed intently.
Had he slipped, given himself away? Leon wondered wildly. She knew... she _knew_. How could she know?
She was sitting up, hands pressing on his chest to raise herself, almost face to face with him, his slouched position undoing his height advantage. Her chin tipped down, and she looked piercingly at him through her lashes. His hands were blissful, lovingly cradling her slight form and Leon had to squelch another almost overpowering urge to kiss her.
::Samar...::
::Damn it, Leon, I know my own name. Just answer the question; will I or will I not?::
::Have me?::
Now. Now. Nownownownow...
::I...I guess that would be up to you to decide.::
She continued to stare at him for a long, endless minute, then pushed away from him, sitting back and not touching him. He didn't stop her.
"What is this?" she breathed.
Leon shook his head and looked away. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about this now," he muttered. The sinking feeling in his stomach told him this was going to end badly.
"No, let's," she snapped the retort whip crack fast, and angry tears stood out in her eyes. ::_He_ tried to put me off too, when I asked him questions... that night.::
Helplessly, Leon reached a hand to her, and then let it fall. He shook his head again. "Samar, this isn't the right time. You're not ready for this."
"For what? What are you trying so hard not to say, Leon?" she demanded.
Leon sighed. ::If you still need to ask...:: He felt her go still and rose to his feet abruptly. "I've said too much already."
"Oh no, you don't!" Galvanized back into motion, she grabbed his hand as he passed her and pulled him back onto the ground. When he refused to budge, she clamped her other hand around his wrist and yanked harder. "Damn it, Leon, don't you dare leave me like this!" Another wrench that threatened to pop his wrist out of its socket. "Talk to me."
A look of surprise flashed on her face when he complied. By force of will, he smoothed his tone to its customary mildness and his manner was almost brisk.
"All right. Let's talk. About Turning."
The subject also took her aback, apparently. Her fingers fell away from his hand and she stared at him warily.
"What about it?"
He met her eyes, hoping his expression was as calm as his voice. "Nothing much. Just that, you're not the only one considering it. So don't hesitate in taking your chance, if it is what you really want for yourself."
The obvious question flashed in her eyes and he nodded. "I'm also seriously thinking it over. If you choose to become human again... you needn't worry about being left alone."
Samar wasn't dumb. She put two and two together and came up with the most logical answer. Leon couldn't bear to see sorrow in her eyes – and he was sure it would be there when she realized how he felt – and looked away. And so he missed the uncertainty in her expression. She wanted to know why... she needed confirmation.
But Leon didn't see. "That's all," he said and left.
Alone in her room once more, Samar sat in the middle of the floor for a long time, lost in thought. Finally, she straightened and spoke into the silence.
"Yeah right."
* * *
From the fifty-eighth floor of the glittering glass-fronted building, the man known as Emson McModrey stood gazing out at the sprawling metropolis below him. There came a curt rap on the door, followed almost immediately by the appearance of strikingly good-looking blonde vampire.
"We lost the contract," he said vehemently without preamble after the door had thudded shut.
McModrey turned away from his contemplation of the city and settled back in his luxurious leather chair. He raised an eyebrow. "How did that happen?" he asked curtly.
"Terrence's wife flirted with the chairman, and his daughter seduced the nephew," Colin, the blonde, speculated glibly, although they both knew that neither charge was likely to be true. Colin threw himself into the chair opposite Emson. "We undercut Terry at every turn and offered a better deal, all in all. Heck, we were barely making any money on that contract and still we lost to the bastard. I haven't a clue how that happened." His hands rose and fell in a gesture of exasperation before he dragged his fingers through the glossy waves of his hair. Eyes the color of the ocean stared at his boss for a long moment. "Now what do we do?"
"Terrence Cromwell is legitimate," Emson corrected urbanely, "Although the sentiment is seconded." Colin snorted. "As for what our next course of action is," Emson continued, ignoring the scoffing noise. "We'll just have to play our trump card."
"What trump card?" Colin growled, looking dejectedly up at Emson from beneath a charming forelock. Even disgruntled and sprawled casually in a chair, Colin St. James looked like a model for the quintessential successful young corporate executive.
The red-haired man did not reply directly but pulled out a thin folder and nudged it across the desk. The blonde picked it up and thumbed it open. The contents – photographs and detailed reports of activities – made his eyebrows hike higher and higher, almost disappearing into his hairline. Eyes wide with wonder rose to fasten on Emson's blandly satisfied face.
"I don't think Lord Cromwell will want his indiscretions made known to the public. It would be so damaging to his political standing, not to mention what a scandal would do to his family name." A smile curved Emson's lips, one Colin had seen on many occasions and might recognized well; that of a hunter toying with his prey. "The contract for the Waterford telecommunications center really isn't very much to ask in exchange for our silence, now, is it?"
Shortly after the blonde left to carry out his instructions, the telephone rang, a discreet buzzing.
"Yes."
"Miss Gallagher on line one, Mr. McModrey," his secretary's voice sounded tinny.
"Put her through."
The next voice to sound was smooth, a purring contralto. "Emson."
"Janet. This is a pleasant surprise." His tone matched hers; smooth, slightly amused with seduction underlying it. "What can I do for you, my dear?"
"Oh, I just called to see if we were still having dinner tonight."
"Of course. Gladys has already made reservations. I'll pick you up at half past seven," he said, barely glancing at his schedule.
"Perfect, darling. See you then," the svelte voice said and then she hung up without waiting for a reply. The man she called Emson chuckled at that treatment. Being young, powerful, rich and good-looking – and single – tended to draw a lot of female attention to him. But Janet Gallagher, darkly exotic and mysterious, intelligent and very, very successful, was a match for him in all those respects. Her marked lack of pandering was also refreshing to one who had long since lost patience with mindless adoration. The two of them were so alike in personality that it was uncanny.
There's a born vampire inside that human skin, he thought, toying with a heavy fountain pen. Maybe I'll change her and keep her for a century and see if she improves with time, he mused. And if she doesn't accept – well, the Old One would see if she tasted as exotic as she looked.
Turning that mildly intriguing thought in his mind, Emson left his office, nodding absent acknowledgement to his secretary's bidding him a good evening. The elevator descended at dizzying speeds but the man felt no discomfort, thanks to the superb design that gave little sense of displacement, and before he knew it, the doors were swishing open with a rush of air as the shaft depressurized.
He was not so immersed in his thoughts, however, that he didn't sense the pair of vampire hunters lurking near his car the instant he stepped out of the elevator. It wasn't the first time this had happened – although his minions paid heavily after each, rare occurrence – and the man never knew how they got past the state-of-the-art security system installed in the private parking lot beneath the skyscraper – not to mention the minions – but he supposed that the old adage about there being a way where there was a will was true when it came to hunters.
Not that it mattered. He could have set them both on fire with a thought but where was the amusement in that? He feigned ignorance, moving towards his car with casual, confident strides. His polished shoes beat a measured tempo on the asphalt, like the deliberate strikes of a tribal drum. Let's see what you're made of, humans.
They approached him from opposite sides, thinking to sandwich him and cut off any escape he might attempt. Two steps from his metallic-grey Volvo, he stopped and fastened his unnerving golden eyes on each of them in turn. They were almost exactly on either side of him – a powerfully-built, handsome woman and a Pan-like man – and his look made them halt in their tracks and tense to attack
The woman stood closer. Both held guns aimed at him. Wood-tipped bullets no doubt. And silencers. I'm impressed, he thought sarcastically.
With an almost negligent gesture, he sent the man hurling backwards, feeding raw Power into the very air to heat it. The force of the sudden energization was enough to fling the hunter away. The man hit the concrete pillar behind him with an audible grunt and a solid-sounding thud.
Emson turned to the female, a charming smile forming on his lips. "Good evening," he said with incongruous courtesy.
She shot him.
The bullet was indeed wood-tipped and went through his stomach. A most unpleasant way to die. If he could die.
Removing the blasted thing might prove annoying and it was quite possible that Emson would be late picking Janet up at this rate, but no real harm had been done. However, it was time to extract a like price for the hunter's efforts.
The gun suddenly became searing metal in her hands and she dropped it with a hiss. Then the huntress actually began to stalk up to him, pulling out a pair of knives – probably dipped in wood resin, if his experience and nose were accurate. A spunky one.
Behind him, the Old One caught the sound of her partner stirring. Well, you know what they say; three's a crowd.
Emson let the woman come within ten paces of him, then without warning, a ring of flame leapt up, eight feet in height, enclosing them both. The woman stared but recovered with laudable speed and fixed her attention on him grimly.
The man in the tailored business suit nodded. He was unarmed – but then, he didn't need any physical weapons.
She circled, moving in a closing spiral, coming ever closer. Emson didn't turn with her, merely waited for her to strike as the flames licked at the ceiling.
Naturally, she struck from behind, thinking to come upon him unprepared. Emson used the same trick on her that he had her partner, but the woman was surprisingly quick for her built and dodged the exploding air. The movement put her to his right and she didn't hesitate but continued the interrupted strike on him, hoping that he was overextended and vulnerable.
Simultaneously, over the whuffling roar of the flames, the red-haired man caught a foreign, sound, a whistling not in key with the other sounds around him. He turned and a crossbow bolt embedded itself below his left collarbone. The force rocked him back a half-step, sending him blundering into the huntress coming at him – and into her knives.
They slashed and pain blazed down his back, deep into his spine and across the backs of his knees.
Even as he fell, Emson whirled and grasped her shoulder. His fingers squeezed, crushing bone, and one of her knives clattered on the asphalt dully. She screamed, but not from the broken bone; the cry was wrenched from her as she found herself engulfed in flame. From within.
Her screams rang out, echoing and reechoing in the poor acoustics of the parking lot. Her flaming form pranced around in mindless circles within the ring of flame that enclosed them. He crouched on the ground, still as a statue, waiting for the pain to subside, waiting for the wounds to close and heal. The blooded crossbow bolt now lay clenched in the fist pressed against the grainy ground while the other hand covered the wound.
With a bit of satisfaction, he watched as her movements slowed, then stilled, her cries dimmed to silence and she was reduced to a smoldering heap on the ground. You got in a good lick, but you paid for it, he told her silently.
Without warning the wall of flame collapsed, more suddenly and completely than if it had been doused with water.
_What?_
Emson's head jerked up. There was another whisper of sound as a second bolt flew through the air but the Old One was prepared this time and impatient. The projectile burned to dust in midair, never to reach its target.
But what had damped his flame-field?
The air was smoky, but not as smoky as it might have been had the fire been fueled by organic matter rather than raw Power. Still, the figures that suddenly appeared now were shadowy, indistinct.
_Shields._
The presence of these others had been shielded; he had not sensed them. And...they threw up a force-shield around him now. Emson could feel the efforts of a handful of them, merging to form the barrier he fought. Had _they_ killed his ring of fire?
In pain, flung off balance, he did not resist the attack as effortlessly as he usually would. He reached out, tested the new group of attackers. Witches. His golden eyes narrowed. When had witches ever been any match for him? He would smash their upstart wills and minds to slivers!
He rallied, drawing in his Power, shrouding himself as he would a cloak.
The third crossbow bolt caught him in the chest. Perfectly-shaped lips drew back in an unpleasant snarl, feeling his indrawn Power escape like air from a balloon whose neck was released. The hand pressed to his abdomen rose to grasp the bolt; the wound would not close unless the weapon was removed.
It was then that Power snaked out and coiled around him, smothering his divided attention, just like it had his flames.
* * *
The red-haired man in the suit slumped to the ground and all was still for a moment, tension hanging in the air with the smoke and as slow to dissipate. Then, Jason broke into movement, dashing forward. "_Elsa!_"
There wasn't even a body for him to cradle, just an irregular line of ashes on the ground. The archer stared at it in, stunned, for a long time before lifting his gaze to the man who limped forward.
Jerrick did not seem to notice either him or the heartbreaking patch of ash as he touched the inert form of the Old One on the ground. He sighed. "I've bound his consciousness in a loop. He will remain this way for a few hours," he said quietly, addressing the witches who drew closer at his words. "You'll have to take turns monitoring him. As soon as he begins to rouse, call for me," he instructed and the pale blue eyes were unfocused, abstract. "The periods of oblivion will shorten. We have no time to waste," he warned, straightening. He turned away, leaving more capable bodies the task of picking up and carrying away the insensible Old One.
Jason jumped to his feet in shock and outrage. "That's it?" he demanded.
Jerrick paused and half-looked back. "You may gather up Elsa's ashes, if you wish. There is nothing much else we can do for her, is there?" he asked calmly.
Jason did not answer, merely stood there with fists clenched at his sides and glared. Jerrick faced him fully, patently waiting to hear him out. Around them, the witches and few Turned who had come with them quietly did whatever was necessary and left. One gathered the ashes of the female fighter as best he could and slid it into a plastic cup, murmuring that he would find a more suitable container later.
In the end, the archer stood alone with the lame witch. Jason trembled with pent up emotion. "She gave her life for this mission and you don't even acknowledge her sacrifice?" the austere, normally curt man snarled. So what if he and Elsa had always argued? She had been colleague and fellow hunter.
"She knew the risks of this trip; they are the same as any other hunting trip you make, except multiplied in proportion to the prize," Jerrick reminded. His chin lifted slightly. "What did you think, Jason? That it would be easy catching an Old One? If it had been, where would be the thrill and the challenge in this hunt I offered you?" he flung back.
Jason's expression did not clear, still twisted from the disgust and contempt he felt for the man before him.
"Your weapon of choice is the bow. You stand and hit your opponents from afar," Jerrick continued. "Elsa fights hand to hand. She gets right up close to her enemy and that opens her to injury. She's always known that. That is her choice." The tousled red head canted to one side. "Is it really me you're angry at? Or do I sense a bit of guilt here, Jason Carollin? Are you ashamed that she died and you got off so easily?"
The words hit home. Not close; they hit dead center. The hunter stiffened defensively. With nothing else to say, he snapped. "She was better than either of us."
Jerrick shrugged, turning away. "That may well be.
"But in the end, does it matter?"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Please take a moment to share your thoughts with me. I do treasure hearing from you!