"Hello," he said to the elderly shop owner, "I'm looking for Bonnie Bennett."

The dusty voodoo shop bell rang throughout the tiny store-front as the glass door closed behind him.

"And who you?" She asked; her weathered brow arching as she beckoned for him to come closer to the counter.

Damon flashed a smile, "Her best friend."

Coughing back a chuckle, she waved her hand about, "Then wait right here, best friend. Bonnie went to go pick us up some gumbo for lunch. Just you sit right there, while my grandson and I finish this game of Uno."

"Skip." Damon heard a small voice say to the older woman as he took a seat at the square table positioned in between two long racks of books ranging from metaphysics to ancient aliens.

He handled the cardboard sign propped on the table that read, Tarot/Palm Reading $20', and stared down at his own palm, tracing lines that traversed the span of his hand and smiled wide as he heard the tell-tale rang of the doorbell.

The coffee grinder whirs and the microwave beeps.

Stefan is in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, possibly searching for a clean mug to mix up the curious concoction of human blood and espresso.

There is a fracture in the ceiling and Damon points a finger in the air, following the jagged line that reminds him of a thunderbolt.

How long has the crack been there?

"Six years" he answered when she gushed on and on about how long had it been since they had seen one another.

She placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed, "I can't believe you are here," She smiled, "This is the place to come when you need to set your soul right," She said and her green eyes darkened to the color of moss, and they were tender and wise, but, they had always been wise, but maybe not so tender, at least not when they were aimed at him.

They were sitting in a sleepy bar at the edge of the Quarter, clinking glasses of bourbon, reminiscing over the war years and playing old rock tunes from a refurbished juke box.

"It was strange at first, you know," She said, twirling the ice around in her empty glass, "I could go out and be normal here, I wasn't expected to save the town, I could just be a regular girl here."

"But you're not a regular girl."

"You're right, and I'm also no longer a girl," She said, smirking and asking the barkeep for a refill.

He imagined all the scars and wounds she might have accumulated over the years just because she happened to be born a Bennett, the luck of the draw, and he was happy she was now living somewhere she didn't have to save anyone.

Catching up on the wooden barstools he learned she earned a degree in Comparative Religion and Occult Studies from Tulane, and had digitized her familial grimoire which allowed her to pull up a spell on her iPad, and every first Friday of the month, she held a feast at her home for a small group of spiritual practitioners such as herself.

He stared at her, proud of the woman she had become.

After a few sips in silence, she finally asked what had been hanging over their heads,

"So I take you didn't find that loophole you were looking for."

It was rare for Damon to feel shame, but he felt the mass of it in this throat and he swallowed back a full glass of bourbon and said, "No, I never found a loop hole because I never looked for one."

Even with all her practice at remaining cool and collected in the face of danger, he noticed the slight twitch of thick lashes and the miniscule enlargement of green pupils.

"So what have you been doing all this time?

He smiled, "That's a good question."

Stefan is opening curtains, and Damon is pushing himself up on his elbows, babbling about how the roof could come crashing down on them at any moment and how the boarding house is a relic that is falling apart and maybe they should just demolish it and cut their ties with this god-forsaken town.

He reaches for one of the bottles of whiskey that still has more than a swallow, and tells Stefan that that is exactly what he was going to do.

There would be a wrecking ball come Monday.

"But why olives? I thought you would have a vineyard of all things, you know; try to find a way to justify your drinking?" She smiled.

No, no I don't detect any judgement in that statement at all "He snirked, "It takes more money and marketing and sucking up to nobodies to get wine noticed. Olives, my dear. Olives is where it's at. Plus, I don't need the money but it will give me something to do. My life isn't fighting crime anymore Judgy, I just wanna live a peaceful existence, in my luxurious villa in Tuscany, dating a hot model or two, and hanging out with my dog.

"You have a dog?

"I'll get one.

"All you need is a pick up and you are gonna sound like a country song."

"Does Ferrari make pick-ups trucks?"

They both laughed and it was one of those moments where he felt like he was having a beginning, a fresh start and it was peculiar because he knew Bonnie, he knew her very well.

"Who is gonna help you pick all those olives?

"I don't know. I haven't thought that far," He said, side-eyeing Bonnie for raining on his parade, "I can do most of it, maybe hire some local people.

She slapped her hand on the bar, "Tell you what, at harvest time, I'll come help. How much are you paying?"

"I'm gonna pay you in olives."

Stefan is running the shower, the water beating against the porcelain.

Soiled sheets are being tossed from the bed, bottles are being placed on dressers and nightstands, and even a fire is now crackling in the bedroom hearth.

She had to leave, her lunch hour was over and she needed to get back to the shop.

"My flight leaves in the morning, only here for one night, "He said wagging his brows.

"Does that work on anyone?"

"You'd be amazed," He said, pulling her into him for a hug.

Had he ever held her like this, he thought.

"It was good to see you, Damon."

He told her not to be a stranger and scribbled his number and new Italian address on a cocktail napkin and they hugged again, and he watched her leave out that sleepy bar, and watched her cross the street through the dirty bar window until she finally disappeared around the corner.

"Damon?"

The whiskey bottle at Damon's lips is quickly replaced with a piping hot mug of blood laced coffee.

And Damon stops staring at the ceiling long enough to finally notice his brother, who is a breath away from his face, giving him that look, that look of how fucking sorry he was.

"Why are you here?" Damon asks.

"It's Christmas Eve. You need to be with your family, brother."

Author's Note

Thank you so much for your favorites and reviews, it really warms my heart. This chapter was totally inspired by Tracy Chapman's "Be Careful of My Heart". I am all about the angst in this story and going back and forth between the present and the past, so be prepared for more.