Previously: Casey is not a seer anymore. A witch-minion kidnaps her the night the Gilberts go over Wickery Bridge and she therefore finds intervening with the status quo appealing.
chapter two: ne'er cast a clout 'til may is out
"When you mentioned Sheila Bennett, I thought you knew–" he pauses to rethink his word choice, Sheila's house disappearing in the rear-view "were acquainted with her."
She gives a Gallic shrug. Being circumventive hadn't been her highest priority, as evidenced by not saying sayonara once she climbed up the slats of Wickery Bridge. She called her Sheila Bennett, not Sheila, and hadn't meant to imply any relationship with her beyond reputation. But, there's always something to give it away, isn't there? She can't help sounding familiar.
"But you do know her," he puzzles out, hand sliding down the steering wheel for a looser grip, his ring tapping silently. "And you know me."
Ah, how well do you know me?
"It's a bit strange," she empathizes. His eyebrows briefly lift in agreement.
"It's more than just seeing someone's future," he guesses. "You know part of their past."
"Yes..." she agrees, keeping her hands still and cupped in her lap, waiting.
His eyes run over her face for a moment, eyes light with curiosity, the strangeness and the newness of it. "How can you have visions about people without meeting them first?"
"You mean without reading their palm or staring into their eyes?" She laughs as his lips quirk, acknowledging that his schema for seers is psychics and fortune tellers. She affects a serious, searching look as if performing a reading before shrugging easily. "Six degrees of separation."
"It's associative?" He tilts his head back to the windshield as he mulls it over.
"The supernatural world gets pretty tangled," she says it like it's a joke, like knowing him, or Sheila, or this town holds no more significance than anything else.
"It sounds overwhelming," he says after a moment, pensively. He hesitates on his next question, voicing it carefully to give none of his personal feelings away. "What did you see?"
"About you?" How to condense that? She knows she's seen more than he'd feel comfortable with. The metaphorical skeletons in the closet, the actual names grooved into the walls.
He frowns. "Me, or anyone. Their life story? Their fate?" A line forms between his brows, reflecting the somber mood that took hold when she talked about 1864 and the comet.
"Their decisions," she decides, realizing his questions are alluding to a crisis of philosophy, of fate vs. self-determination.
He licks his bottom lip. "So, our choices do matter?"
She waits before answering, thinking about the importance of this question. He believes his actions and his values are what defines him, and it's been a guiding principle and, when he can't reconcile his violent actions against that philosophy, it's been a heavy source of pain. If I do monstrous things, I'm a monster. If I try to be better, maybe I can be better.
But it's not as simple as saying fate, whatever construct of it exists, isn't real. That everything truly comes down to personal choice.
There's a thread of destiny to Mystic Falls, to the doppelgänger. Stefan's thread is linked to it, and his actions decide how tangled he becomes.
"Sometimes," she blows out a breath, digging her shoulders back against the seat "Most of the time, actually. But...sometimes the cards are already dealt, and you choose how you want to play your hand."
He works with the metaphor. "And if you want to leave the table?"
"You could..." she squints ambivalently, wondering if he'd really be willing to leave Mystic Falls. No. He might stay to persuade Damon to leave, to figure out Damon's game, to try to convince Damon to give up on Katherine – fat chance without the tomb opening – but he wouldn't leave before that, she doesn't think. Unless he looks at it as leaving Damon to his own mess... But, even then, knowing he'd be better for it, she's not sure he could stay removed, aloof to Damon's actions or needs.
"Do you feel what they feel, or watch it happen?" his question pierces through her thoughts.
It's not accusing. It's not criticizing. He sounds genuinely interested in knowing how it works, but she can't help from bristling. It mirrors too close to past criminations.
"I didn't just watch it happen. I wasn't a... a spectator. I didn't choose - " she swallows it back, digs her fingers into her closed eyes, feels moisture clinging to her eyelashes. Get it together. Don't cry. Don't alienate the only person willing to help you right now by being defensive.
"Casey," he gets her attention, hand reaching out before he changes his mind and deliberately places it slowly on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply it was...easy for you."
She holds her breath until it hurts, keeps her eyes closed. "No, it's, it's fine," she exhales shakily, dropping her hands into her lap, lips pressed tight. "I'm just...exhausted."
She's never going to get away from the visions, is she?
It's quiet the rest of the drive.
The Boarding House reminds her of that clearing, though it takes a moment to work out why. She was too busy at Wickery Bridge, too focused on making the right decision, and wondering at the fallout, and wondering at the blood poisoning, to think I'm at Wickery Bridge, standing on the largest cache pile of white oak.
She's less overwhelmed now. The Boarding House feels like...something. Something she's stepping into, that she's not sure she should.
Stefan bends a knee to untie his boots, and she tentatively steps down from the foyer into the living room. There's not much to see, as it's dark. The outer curves of the unlit fireplace, the heavy curtains closed over the large windows. The Tudor batten design rising all the way up to the timbered framed ceiling shadowed high above.
Stefan flips a light switch to illuminate the foyer in soft yellow light. "Are you sure you only want a towel?" His hand lifts to rub the back of his neck. "Or...I can offer you a change of clothes?"
She glances down at herself, at her wrinkled, dirty, waterlogged dress. "If you don't mind..." She would like to change into something warm, and dry, and something big she can hide in, after feeling indecent.
"I don't," he reassures, tilting his head towards the hallway in a signal to follow.
He turns on another light switch, and scones light up the hallway. She walks slowly, head swiveling to each picture, and painting, and tapestry they pass, spaced out to give each their own prominence. There are impressions of little things she's seen. Rose standing there. Damon making out with Kelly Donovan. Small confrontations spoken in hushed undertones. She ignores the déjà vu, reaching out to touch the etched detail on the wooden banister, to trail her hand feather-light on the glossy handrail as they walk up, her toes sinking into the plush red rug laid on the steps.
She knows he's watching her take it in, her steps slow intermediately. There's so much history here, things collected with care. She moves closer to the old photographs, absently searching for Stefan or Damon to see if they're in any of them. They're not, not even up here.
There's a smaller staircase down the hall. Hidden away, she thinks, wondering if it's intentional. It leads up to an open, familiar loft with dark green walls and timber cross beams.
"Do you want to change first?" he asks her.
"No, I'll wait," she shakes her head as he digs through his drawers. In her peripheral, she can see they're organized with almost military efficiency, as she takes in the rest of the room.
There are stacked boxes, as yet unpacked, in the corner where he keeps a brown leather couch, his desk, and where the French doors look down at the separate garage. His desk is clean, no personal affects, no computer. No gaming devices, no tv, no stereo. Because he gets rid of them when they're outdated? Because he hasn't unpacked them yet? There's at least a record player, closed in its glass case, above a shelf of tightly packed records, some of the edges frayed, others pristine.
Stefan hands her a towel before he heads to the bathroom, and she takes it with an automatic, thank you. She pulls it around her shoulders, creating a barrier between her skin and wet hair as she circles the room without touching anything. No personal pictures. Mostly abstract artwork, which is funny because didn't he pick fun of Klaus's abstract paintings?
The journals are there, their shelf low to the ground.
So, something of his identity is in plain sight.
Stefan comes out with drier, spikier hair, a white undershirt, sweatpants, and bare feet.
"I left some clothes on the counter," he tilts his chin. "You seemed lost in thought when I pulled them out," he shrugs one shoulder, a light, closed smile gracing his face.
"Sorry," her fingers tighten on the towel to keep it closed in front of her. "Just...weird," she explains.
"Right," he agrees, looking like he agrees as he fiddles with a pair of rolled socks in hand.
"What happened to your shoes?" he gestures to her bare feet, moving to sit on the edge of his bed.
She curls her toes reflexively. "Kicked them off."
"Do you want me to find you a pair?"
She looks down at her toes in contemplation. "I don't know, what size –"
His attention catches behind her, a changed focus coming over him and making her instinctively follow his gaze.
Zach climbs up the last few steps, in a white undershirt and flannel sleep pants. He scratches at his curly, sleep ruffled hair. "Can we talk?" He asks Stefan, sparing her a short, discomforted glance.
Stefan looks at her, and she curls the towel around her shoulders as she signals she'll be in the bathroom getting changed.
Right before she shuts the door, she hears Zach ask, "who is she?" with something uncomfortable in his voice.
She closes the door before she can hear Stefan's response.
The summer sun has leaked out of her face. She pinches her cheek, the skin staying frightfully pale. Her lips are nearly purple, her eyes blood shot and outlined in pink.
After a short, critical inspection: not dead, she keeps her eyes averted.
There's a comb on the counter, but she doesn't have the dexterity or patience to use it. Instead, she squeezes some of the water out of her tangled hair, one handed. Without anything to use as a hair tie, she doesn't bother trying to make it presentable.
She pats her bra with the towel, wipes down the rest of her body before pulling the drawstrings tight on the sweatpants, rolls the extra fabric at the ankles. She sits on the toilet and very sedately rolls the socks on, wondering if she's given Zach enough time to talk to Stefan privately.
She blows out a breath, decides it isn't rude to remind Stefan of her presence, given her circumstances.
Only, when she steps out of the bathroom, the bedroom is empty.
She stands there awkwardly, straining her ears to catch a hint of where they are. Maybe the bottom of the stairs, away from the bathroom door, in case she interrupted coming out?
Again, nothing.
The second-floor hallway is also a balcony to the library and the living room. She hears soft, indistinguishable voices, and peaks over the rail.
Grayson Gilbert, blue button-down damp and slick to his shoulders, and Zach Salvatore, still in his sleep-rumbled pajamas, are standing over Stefan's body.
Shit. Shit.
She peeks again, makes out grey socked feet, grey sweatpants. She can't see his face. Can't see his skin. She doesn't know if the rest of his body has turned grey to match.
She can't see from here.
Fuck.
The word loops in her head as she puts one foot in front of the other, finds herself edging down the staircase with a pounding heart.
Zach looks up at her first. His shoulders are bunched, hands fisted at his sides. Grayson looks guarded, dark narrowed eyes watching her approach as if he's expecting a fight.
"It would be pretty bad karma to kill the man who saved your life," her voice sounds thready.
"Did he?" Grayson asks, looking down to contemplate the body at his feet.
She forces herself closer, micro steps, just until she can make out Stefan's pale skin.
"Yes he did," she breathes, dizzy, her spine straightening as she looks at him head-on. "And your daughter's. More than I could have done, had he not been there."
She doesn't say 'more than you could do'. If she had jumped off Wickery Bridge without Stefan to rely on, she doubts she could have helped at all.
"Stefan saved you? And Elena?" Zach interrupts, eyes darting between her and Grayson's stand-off. He takes a halting step forward, knees slightly bent, like he might drop to Stefan's side, but he checks himself, and ultimately, stays rooted in place.
"He did," Grayson admits, clipped, reluctant. He looks to Casey. "I want to know why he was there in the first place and why you were there with him."
"You didn't ask him before you vervained him?" She tries not to sound sardonic.
Grayson continues to stare her down, dead-eyed.
Her jaw tightens. "Because he heard the crash and realized someone needed help. I took Elena from him so he could go back for any other survivors."
"And he just happened to be there? When my daughter's life was in danger?"
"Yes. And he helped a man who just happened to know he was a vampire and would be willing to use that information against him."
His jaw clenches, but he turns his eyes down before she can read them.
"Should I make an exception for him?" he asks almost absently "hope he doesn't threaten my children, my town if he can no longer control his bloodlust? Or, look away if a hiker goes missing?"
She runs her tongue along the back of her teeth, briefly looking to Zach to see his take on this. He doesn't offer a defense for Stefan, but there's something in his expression, like he's hoping she can make an argument he can't.
This isn't what this is about, but Zach doesn't know that. Grayson, likely, preyed on Zach's guilt on the Salvatore family secret. She doesn't know if he's generalizing or if he know something about Stefan's bloodlust specifically.
She can't make Grayson own up to his real worry – about Elena, about rumors of the doppelgänger getting out of Mystic Falls. Unless she's willing to broach that minefield, she's limited to this argument.
"The problem with shooting first is you never get your questions answered. Not by the person you want them from." Unless of course, immediate answers aren't his worry, and he plans to take Stefan to an Augustine basement. "And had you met him earlier, preemptively took him out...you wouldn't have survived tonight, and neither would your daughter."
Honestly, she's not sure how strong the protection is on the doppelgänger; how strong the call is for aid. Elena could have died... (but would she have stayed dead?)
From his perspective she gets being leery, but when Stefan knocked on his glass, had he not been grateful?
"And the reason you caught him out wasn't because anyone in your town had been hurt, but because he did something kind."
Grayson bows his head, staring down at his cradled hands, his right clenched around his left. She can't tell if he's compulsively touching his wedding ring or the Gilbert ring. Which one is stronger on his mind?
"I meant to weaken him, leave him conscious," he confesses, and she dares to hope he's conceding. "I didn't believe he truly abstained from human blood."
She shakes out her right hand at her side, the ache spreading. "How long will he be out?"
He looks at her considering as she lifts her chin. Will you let him go?
"It depends on his vervain tolerance, how much blood he's taken in, how much weaker animal blood makes him."
"Approximate," she asks. She's not even sure what variables are most relevant. Does age matter? Linage? Diet? Weight even? Is it all about the vervain, how it's cultivated? How it's processed? How it's injected? The volume?
He rubs between his eyes a moment, frowning deeply. "Too long for me to stay. I don't want to be away from Elena too long."
"And you shouldn't," Zach agrees, breathing slowly. "Grayson," he choreographs his movement before placing his hand on Grayson's shoulder. "You're grieving. Your family is grieving. They need you." He doesn't direct Grayson, but leaves the appeal open.
Grayson looks down at Stefan's body. She bites her tongue.
"I want him to stay away from my daughter," Grayson decides, something dark underlining his voice, of consequences from disobeying this stipulation.
Zach nods, willing to pass on the message.
She doesn't think declaring it forbidden is going to stop interest from either party.
"You have an open invitation," she declares, with intentional irony. "Apparently."
"I'll drive you back to the hospital," Zach pulls his hand off his shoulder, eyes skating away from the body on the floor.
"Wait," she blurts out, realizing they really are leaving. She speaks to Zach for the first time, hurriedly while he hasn't turned away from Stefan yet. "Can you carry him to the – to my car?"
He frowns at her, light green eyes surprised.
She moves closer, before he can get his bearings "look, I know you don't know me," she murmurs, even knowing Grayson can still hear her "but I think when he wakes up, he'll want to stay somewhere else for tonight, to recuperate."
Who knows if that's true, but Zach nods tightly.
"And do you have a directory specific to Mystic Falls? A yellow pages? To see the hotels in the area," she holds her breath.
"Right," he agrees, with guilty understanding.
She keeps her hands on the steering wheel, the doors locked as Zach drives off with Grayson. Grayson's car – what he had borrowed – was parked behind hers (behind Marie's). Did Zach keep an eye out and notify him? Did Grayson lie in wait somewhere where neither Stefan nor she saw him? Was it coordinated between them?
She flips through the B's in the yellow pages, places her finger on the right number.
It rings and rings and rings –
"Hi," she cringes when Sheila picks up with an annoyed sigh.
"Does this seem like a more reasonable time to you?" She sounds both drowsy and affected.
Well, you did foretell her death. Drinking is the usual reaction.
"Any chance you have mugwort or hibiscus?"
Sheila is quiet on the other line.
"I can't see how those ingredients have anything to do with your predicament," she finally drawls.
"Uh, new predicament actually," she looks over at Stefan collapsed in the passenger seat.
Sheila exhales over the line. "Hibiscus isn't in bloom yet; I don't know where you'll find it. I do have some mugwort," she admits reluctantly.
She hoped that wouldn't be the case. By her own confession Sheila didn't keep much of a garden or pantry.
She's starting to think Sheila either keeps her magic to teaching occult history at Whitmore, or doesn't practice much at all.
No coven. No Abby. And with Bonnie, not teaching her, nor sharing any of their history unless she's three sheets to the wind.
Casey rubs her eyes. "No, I need them both. Thank you anyway."
Sheila sounds reluctant, but she asks anyway. "Why do you need them?"
"They counteract vervain," she answers blasé, closing the yellow pages and moving them to the backseat.
Drunk she may be, but she's quick to understand the implication.
"Not even a full hour," she hears Sheila grumble before she hangs up on her.
That's...fair.
Stefan twitches, blearily opening his eyes as she reaches to turn the quiet music down further, to a whisper she can barely hear.
"You know, in the time of our acquaintance, we've both been poisoned, and both fallen unconscious," she greets him.
He lifts up on his elbows slowly, looks out at the highway passing through the windshield to orient where they are, before laying back down with a slight groan. She laid the seat as far as it would go when Zach and she carried him to the car. "I didn't know he had vervain," he chokes out.
She keeps her eyes on the road. "Pretty sure I told you to be on your guard around him."
"I was," he declares wryly, hunching forward as he reaches down to pull the seat up. "I didn't think Zach..."
He doesn't finish, his jaw tight as he rubs his hands against his thighs.
She blows out a breath. "I think he was put in an uncomfortable position." He feared vampires, she knew. He supplied the council with vervain. Did he know what Grayson would do – what he does in the Augustine? She doesn't know what led to Zach letting Grayson in, to standing over his body, but he didn't look at ease with it, and he looked...tentatively, relieved when Grayson backed off? It could be fear in Damon's retaliation or out of some existing loyalty to Stefan. "I don't know if he knew what Grayson would do."
"Did Zach tell him?" She can tell it hurts him to ask.
About him being a vampire.
"No. I don't know," she admits, as he looks at her pained and searchingly. "But I don't think so. I think Grayson found out because of Johnathan Gilbert's journals. 'I recognized the vampire that killed me,'" she loosely quotes.
She thinks that's how Grayson knew.
"So, every time I came home to Mystic Falls..." he murmurs.
He had been at risk.
She considers if that was true. Jeremy wouldn't believe the journals until he met Anna. Most of the founding families didn't believe the stories until a suspicious animal attack made them reconsider, and this generation of the council hadn't even shared the spooky family stories with their children. She's not sure why that is.
"I don't think they were willing to risk letting the founding families know about their magical rings." It's true that the Gilberts had kept his secret, knowingly or unknowingly.
He nods, but it's distracted, his brows furrowed. "What did you tell him?"
"Grayson?" She wonders. "Basically, I said he was an asshole to attack the person who saved his life."
He raises his brows at her. She smiles briefly, closed mouth. "He wants you to stay away from Elena. And when the first person dies mysteriously in Mystic Falls, I'm pretty sure he's going to try to pull a round up the usual suspects."
He frowns. "You didn't mention anything suspicious about the accident?" He wonders curiously.
She makes a face. "It might be hard to believe, but I don't usually tell people about the vision thing. And the accident wasn't suspicious, it actually was an accident."
"Really?" And the tone of disbelief is more blatant than it's ever been.
"Bad timing. Road was slick. Old bridge. No visibility. Usual route closed because of a downed powerline from the storm. Driving too fast and not entirely sober after partaking in a few glasses of wine at family game night, slower reaction time," she lists.
He shakes his head, like he's not sure what to think. "How did you get me in the car?" he asks, starting to sit up more.
"Oh, Zach. I implied you might want to be somewhere else tonight after...that." Because she didn't trust Grayson. Because it felt wrong to leave him alone and vervained. Because he'd wake eventually, and worse case scenario she'd be unconscious next to him. Her eyes dart to the note on the console with Stefan's name on it. She wrote it before driving, and it lists the directions to the apothecary and what to ask for, just in case.
"How's your hand?"
Her shoulders tighten. She's been biting the inside of her cheek so long it hurts when she lets it go. Her right hand is immobile in her lap, a burn crawling under her skin. "I think Sheila was optimistic," she admits, trying to sound even. "It hurts worse than before."
"Pull over," he directs, as if he hasn't just regained consciousness from the caustic burn of vervain.
"Are you sure you're alright to...?" Because if she lets go of the only task available to her, she won't have the energy to start driving again.
"Casey," he sighs, quirking his lips reassuringly when she peeks over at him. "I'm sure."
The kid is her age, probably, and yet her first impression is great, a kid when they walk into the apothecary. Stefan looks better, or at least, is trying to look better, pinched and shoulders curved, but he's conscious and no longer sweating, so doing better than her anyway.
He was skeptical when they pulled up. The sidewalk is a tripping hazard, cracked like an earthquake rolled beneath it. The building was a relic, before superstores and malls drove business off the street thirty-forty years ago.
The sign 'Exotic Teas' is old and peeling, the window-front taped up with cardboard and butcher paper making it impossible to see inside.
The little bell above the door chimes with their entrance, the store bursting with floor to ceiling drawers, and glass jars stuffed with scores of plants and ingredients. The outside looks like a squatter's paradise, but the inside is vibrant and warm.
The kid behind the counter looks up from his book and greets them with "neither of you are wearing shoes."
She had forgotten to grab Stefan's boots. At least they're wearing socks, and the bottom of their feet aren't tracking anything in.
"Is Charlotte here?"
He rolls his eyes. "You know it's like 3 a.m. right?"
"Yeah? And how are you with breaking a blood poisoning curse?"
His eyes light up, cataloguing the stressors on her appearance with interest. "I can do it," he pushes the book away, clearing the space in front of him and looking up at her with wide, light brown eyes.
She approaches carefully, hoping he's not overestimating himself.
"I need a flushing solution. For you to break the curse on this dagger," she drops it onto the counter "and the use of one of your hotboxes."
"Hotbox?" He asks, tearing his eyes away from the dagger. "Isn't that for the detoxers?"
She smiles achingly. "You sure you can't get Charlotte?"
He unsheathes the dagger with another eyeroll as he pulls out a sliver of witch-glass to study the curse on the blade.
"Not that complicated," the guy nods, setting the glass down. "So, where'd they stab you?"
She glances down at her hand but doesn't try to lift it. He leans over the counter to peek at the veins crawling up her arm, thick and bulging, and he grimaces. "Gross."
"And painful," Stefan raises his brows at the guy.
"Right, well, you sure you want a flushing solution and the hotbox? You could always go for Epanfero pearls or Theriac. Be easier."
"Keep the dagger and you can study it," she offers, drooping a little as she shrugs. "The curse has to be completely flushed out or it will recuperate. This way is faster." And cheaper. Even with funds, her instinct is to be economical.
He looks at the dagger again, but without the witch-glass. "Sounds pretty insidious," he replies with a bit of disquiet.
She smiles weakly.
"Alright," he plucks up the dagger, and leads them through the backroom. She looks back at Stefan, nonverbally asking if he's going with her or going to stay upstairs, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets and nods, eyebrows briefly raising as if to say, 'why not?'
"You know you'll have to remove your rings to avoid interference, right?" The clerk comments as he nimbly takes the stairs to the basement.
"Got it," she breathes shakily, carefully following with Stefan at her back. She thought she caught a brief look at her through the witchglass, and she's glad he's proven to be crafter than first appearance.
There are four hotboxes lined up in the room, each with their own little window.
"Ever used one before?" The clerk asks.
She hums an affirmative.
There's a stretcher laid out near the door, balanced on crates of electrolyte powder, water bottles, snack packs, and mismatched towels.
She drops onto it with weak knees, figuring any horizontal surface that isn't the floor is perfect.
The clerk places the dagger down on one of the crates and turns to Stefan. "I'm going to get the flushing solution. Her bandage and rings need to come off. And uh, some people strip down, so..." he flails his arm slightly, a very, do what you will before pivoting towards the door.
"I'm going to leave the clothes on," she tells Stefan, her eyes closed.
He makes a noise of understanding. "I'll help with the bandage, if that's okay."
"If it doesn't bother you," she agrees, not wanting to look at it, to pretend it isn't throbbing with fever. The bandage is already stained with black blood.
She feels his hand touch hers, first to lightly squeeze her wrist before peeling the medical tape away and lifting the bandage off her skin. It sticks slightly, but she doesn't feel it.
She starts to open her eyes, her neck still stretched back when he advises her not to.
"That bad?" She laughs unconvincingly.
"It's not great," he declares, reaching for her other hand. She holds her breath when he slides the opal down her pointer finger, and then the silver Celtic knot down her ring finger.
The glamour drops. The still healing discoloration, lightening webbed with scars at her wrists. The long puckered white line at the crook of her elbow to the middle of her arm. The brand of an eye burned into her forearm near the top of her right hand. She keeps her chin high, her breathing forcibly even as she peeks at his reaction. There are three slashes, waxy with new skin, from her left eyebrow to her cheek.
The shop clerk comes back. Where Stefan observed solemnly, he hisses through his teeth. "Holy shit –" he goggles at Stefan, as if searching for mutual horror, but when Stefan gives him a look, it seems to snap him out of it.
"Right, this for later," he hands the vial to Stefan, and flutters his hands to tell her to lay down.
"Can you also make a tonic of hibiscus and mugwort?" she asks politely, causing his eyes to dart away from her scars.
He squints at her. "Why?"
"For him," she inclines her chin towards Stefan at his shoulder. Both of their expressions are puzzled. "To counteract vervain."
"I didn't know anything could counteract vervain," the clerk murmurs, sounding intrigued, and taking in Stefan's vampire status without batting an eye.
Stefan's eyebrows are up as their eyes catch, just as surprised that something can counter vervain, before he shakes his head ruefully.
"You know this is going to suck, right?" the shopkeeper advises her.
"It started sucking about six hours ago."
He shrugs, and starts in on her cursed wound.
By the time she stumbles out of the hotbox, her brain feels like it's melted out of her ears, and her entire body is covered in sweat and flushed red.
She discarded Stefan's clothes in a delirium, and at least has the presence of mind to wrap herself in a towel Gene – the clerk – left in the box with her. It's steam damp, but she isn't bothered.
Stefan is sitting against the wall across from the box, forearms rested on his bent, spread knees.
She's not sure where to go for a moment, only wants to desperately cool down before deciding to join him, plopping down at his shoulder against the wall, still panting.
She's latently aware that her tattoos at her clavicle is exposed, but discards it.
"How was it?" he asks, handing over a water bottle with an electrolyte pouch. She tears the package with her teeth.
"I know you've detoxed before. So that, but blistering," she chugs the water until it's half full before dropping the powder into it. "Sorry I smell," she apologizes, breathlessly. The towel is large enough to nearly touch her knees, and she's so thankful she can stretch her bare legs with only a moderate, absent embarrassment. She's more bothered by the visible scars, but it's distant as her brain unfogs.
He shakes his head, ducking his chin to his chest. "You smell like heat."
She bets he's being kind, but she's happy to not smell of rot or blood.
She turns her hand over, sees the wound is pink and not too deep. She marvels at the healthy skin, and the ability to flex her fingers one by one. Her mood drops slightly, at the brand, waxy and cutting on her arm.
"How long was I in there?" She asks for distraction, tucking her arm behind her.
"About four hours," he digs through his pockets and hands over her two rings. She takes them delicately.
Stefan looks up from her clavicle as the tattoo disappears behind the glamour.
"How'd the tea work for you?" She asks, fixated on the twinkling opal for a moment.
"Good," he answers with some surprise. "Gene recorded it in his journal."
She finishes her water bottle with a listening nod. Most witches, and warlocks, are very not okay with spells and recipes leaving their person, leaving their family, or their coven. She had an outsider's perspective, and more of an academic view on magic.
More shared more gained and all that.
Stefan obviously has some experience with covetous witches because he watches her expression to see how she feels about it. He doesn't seem surprised when she shrugs, unbothered.
"Thank you for sharing it," he looks down at his hands, loose between his knees.
"Of course." And she breaks the moment by yawning. "Do you mind if I drive you home later? I just need a few hours to sleep."
"Here?" He gives the barren room a sarcastic look.
She laughs. "No. Someplace else." She looks back to the hotbox, the sweat cooling on her skin and making her rally herself to put the shirt and sweatpants back on. She'll need to settle her bill too. "I could show you?" She offers.
They drop down the short ladder, the walls glowing with swirling murals in bio-luminescent paint. Epoxy has preserved the cobblestone, giving the illusion you're floating above them. It's the physical embodiment of an acid trip, and kind of hilarious when you realize the passageway leads to a way for people to get clean.
"There's a hostel on the other side, or you could call it the Brookland Boarding House," she presents, smiling over her shoulder.
"A boarding house for the supernatural?" He asks, bemused.
Ah, wait and see.
She stops at the other ladder at the end of the tunnel and points to the underside of the trapdoor, to the large symbol and Latin script.
"Have you seen that symbol before?"
He shakes his head slowly. "I'm not sure..." he considers it for a moment before moving on to the script. "A warning against breaking sanctuary?"
She's briefly surprised he can read Latin. But then, she's not sure what all he's studied in 160 years, nor the type of education he received in the 1850-1860's.
"The wards will feel unwelcoming at first, but when you sign the registry, you'll create a contract, vowing on your name and blood that you'll uphold the sanctuary."
His brow lifts in the low, glowing light. "So, you can't attack anyone who signs the registry, and they can't attack you?"
She waves her hand in a see-saw gesture. "You can't attack on the sanctuary grounds or else you'll be punished by blood. If you follow another patron off grounds while you're both signed into the book, and you're found out, your name is mud. You'll be denied sanctuary anywhere."
He considers that. He catches the implication that once both patrons sign out of the book, they're free to do what they like against each other.
"You want to go up?" She asks, just to be sure.
He tilts his head back to the seal, something new and wondering behind his eyes before he nods in agreement.
She's glad there's something good she can show him, introduce him to, when the supernatural world, for some strange reason, has been closed to him.
The trapdoor opens at the front desk, with Sofia, the proprietor knitting at the counter with sharp, pointed needles. She gives the illusion of not paying attention, though she's only at the counter because she felt the wards alert her to the trapdoor opening at the apothecary. Stefan climbs up, his shoulders bunched as the wards wash over him.
"You look a mess," Sofia greets her, her stare unwavering from Stefan, her needles still active.
"Late night."
"Early morning," Sofia counters, pointing one of her needles at a stream of morning light highlighting the floor.
Casey beckons Stefan to the registry, laid open under Sofia's nose.
"He's my guest," she explains.
Sofia hands over a fountain pen like one handling scissors, her needles loose and no less threatening in her other hand. Stefan Salvatore is written on the pointed line, and a deep tie forms between his signature and her own, declaring her responsible. His shoulders drop as the pressing weight of the wards turn languid.
"Will you be wanting blood sent up?" Sofia asks him, drifting back to her knitting.
"That's not necessary," Stefan casts Casey a look, full of questions, probably wondering how Sofia could tell he was a vampire.
She makes a face at him. Did he have to look at her while turning down blood? "Can you hand me the keys?" She asks him.
His digs into his front pocket, the fabric lowering on his trim hips.
Once she has them in hand, she places them on the counter. "Silver Mercedes parked in front of the apothecary. Don't care what happens to it, but I'd like the contents."
"And the owner?" Sofia asks, still knitting.
"Not a patron."
Sofia looks back at the registry, seems to take measure of her guests before shrugging.
That cleared, Casey leads Stefan up the corner stairs.
"What was that look?" He asks in an undertone.
She laughs softly. "Forget it," she isn't going to tell him that Sofia thinks he's going to be drinking from her.
"There's a couch in my room, if you want to sleep, or you can explore, look in the library for any books on dragon species," she smiles tiredly.
She almost falls into her room once the knob clicks as she lays her hand over it.
"Mi sala su sala," she gestures "the, uh, knob will work for you too if you want to leave and/or come back. Bathroom that way."
And then, without washing the sweat off, changing, pulling down the sheets, or even removing her two solitary duffel bags off the end of the bed, she faceplants against the mattress and passes out.
Notes: the hibiscus and mugwort is from The Originals.
Next: iii. as the case may be