~2~


~Chapter Two~


Sitting around the house,
watching the sun trace shadows on the floor.
Searching for signs of life, but there's nobody home

~Better Than Ezra, Good~


I don't say anything at first.

My mind is reeling, trying to make sense of it all. My first thought is that the postcard means absolutely nothing—the fact that it features the house I woke up inside is just a coincidence. Many places like to showcase the landmarks, scenery, and buildings, as it helps attract tourists.

But Mystic Falls isn't exactly well-populated, so I know my gut instinct is probably right—whoever left this here wanted someone to find it and while I tell myself that anybody could have waltzed into the house, I am pretty sure that we are the ones who are meant to see it.

I turn the card over, and my suspicions are proven to be true. In, bright-red pen, probably printed using a quill and ink-well, I read the message written in the provided space:

Dear Bonnie and Damon:
Can't wait to officially meet you!
xoxo

The writer pressed the pen so hard against the page that the ink is bleeding, still wet, and dripping down the card. In some places, I see smudges, and on the corners, I notice some that resemble fingerprints.

"Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"

Wordlessly, I pass the note to Damon. At first, I stare straight ahead—at the now-empty spot we found it—and when my companion clears his throat, I rip my gaze away to see his reactions.

His eyes are scanning every inch of the postcard now, reading so fast that he can't possibly comprehend the message, and then he lets out a low whistle, "… that's really creepy."

"Duh," I snip, disappointed that he has nothing better to add.

"Not everyone can be as eloquent as you," he fires back, blue irises flashing in anger.

I don't like how intense everything feels—from the expression on his face to my own emotional reaction. I sound far more invested than I want to convey when I reply, "well, that's obvious."

"God, you're so judgy," the exasperation in his voice is thick.

We both pause, an uncomfortable silence falling over us. Why do I feel like I've heard those words before? I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think. There has to be at least one memory that could give us a little clarity, but I can't recall a single thing.

"Forget about that for now," I instruct, shaking my head as if it needs to be cleared. "Do you know this place?" I tap the photograph with my pointer finger.

"Actually, I think I do."

Okay, now we're getting somewhere… "When I… woke up, that's the house I was in."

"And that matters because…?"

"I don't know!" I snap, throwing my hands up. "I don't remember anything! I just know I was there—I don't know why or how… I couldn't even tell you the address!"

"Twenty-two Broken Arrow Road," Damon says, pointing to the caption typed on the bottom of the postcard.

"Okay—but why? Why did I wake up there? And if I was on Broken Arrow Road, where were you?"

Damon searches the room for more pictures. He looks under the table, pulls the tablecloth up, and grumbles to himself, all the while firelight illuminates his handsome features. Sighing in frustration, he blows the flame out and slams the candle down.

The wax crumbles into pieces upon impact, dripping over the linen and adhering to it. The fabric now sports a few holes from the lingering heat, the stench of mothballs and burnt wood mixing in the air, creating a foul odor that makes me gag.

Damon, however, isn't bothered by it. "I woke up in Salvatore boarding house, according to the huge picture hanging in the dining room."

Okay, that doesn't ring a bell. Quite frankly, neither does Broken Arrow Road, really. The name means nothing to me, other than the fact that I was there earlier, but that doesn't mean the man with questionable morals standing before me won't have more context.

"My family must have owned it," he goes on. "Salvatore is my last name. I'm kind of bummed about it—those bastards didn't do any upkeep. Stupid, lazy assholes."

"I'm sure they'd be delighted to hear you speak about them like that," I roll my eyes, and then I freeze. How did he figure out he's related to the owners of the boarding house? Does he know something I don't? Is this a trap?

I back away, creating a considerable amount of distance between us. And yet, despite evidence to the contrary, I don't think he'll hurt me. Call it the world's dumbest (and most mixed-up) gut instinct, but whatever evil lurks around the corner, it has nothing to do with this stranger.

Still, it's better safe than sorry.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" he demands, irritation blatant.

"Like what?" I take a step forward, trying to erase the sense of unease I created.

He returns the eye-roll I gave him with a massive amount of dramatic flair. "Like you think I'm going to eat you—calm down, Little Red Riding Hood, I don't bite—hard."

"I do," I retort menacingly.

"And I might like that," he leans in close, lips dangerously close to me, just barely grazing the skin on my neck. And then, in the space of a second, he's back to where he was originally standing.

Laughing at me.

The fury I experienced earlier returns. "You're a creep!"

He has a smartass remark on the tip of his tongue, and I brace myself for it, but he drops on the dusty floor instead. Damon clutches his head, writhing in pure agony, and I feel a stab of worry—what the hell is going on? And then I have this sudden, unexplainable fear that he may die. I can't let that happen—I don't have a good reason to feel this way about someone I don't know, who seems to take pleasure in watching me squirm, but I can't.

As soon as I crouch beside him, he relaxes, and the pain he felt moments ago looks like it's gone.

"Fuck!" Damon snaps, regarding me with vitriol. "I was kidding!"

"Okay, maybe that's why I'm trying to help," I tell him, confused.

I mean, I didn't even touch him—why is he acting like I rammed his head into the floor?

"By…" he begins, furrowing his eyebrows. "I don't know why I did that… said that… I mean…"

"… why you acted like a serial killer?" I supply for him.

"No, I- I- pretend this never happened, okay?"

"Depends, are you going to kill me in my sleep?"

"As tempting as that sounds… I'm going to pass on that one. Maybe another time."

I believe him, I don't know if I should, but as of right now, all we have is each other. And it is supposed to be like that—that understanding is why I offer him my hand. He looks at it and then at my face, scrutinizing me as if I'm the one with the odd capabilities.

So far, the only one who's done anything extraordinary is Damon—who had been so fucking smug when he practically ripped the locked door off the hinges.

"I don't bite," I say. "Hard."

"You're so funny. Where'd you get that joke?" my hand tingles when he touches me and I know I'm going to just have to adapt to it, but it seems impossible. Even though it's happened every single time we've made contact, I keep thinking that maybe it will stop.

"Some jerk told it to me."

"He sounds clever."

We make our way back to the front of the house, stepping over the mess we created. Damon doesn't give it a second thought, but what if the owners return? What will they do?

Damon sighs, and his next remark causes me to wonder if he's a mind reader, too. "I don't think anyone's coming back."

"I didn't say anything about that!"

"You don't have to say anything—it's written all over your face. Have you never had any fun before… taken a walk on the wild side?"

"Destroying private property is not fun," I say, and I almost wish I could take it back—my tone definitely had a holier than thou air to it.

"Says the mayor of Boringville."

I realize we aren't going our separate ways. He had come from the opposite direction, so why is he following me to Broken Arrow Road?

I halt abruptly, thinking I'd catch him off guard, but he easily maneuvered around my body, turning around so we are once again face-to-face.

"Isn't your house on the other side of the neighborhood?"

"Yes," says Damon, as if he doesn't understand why I'm asking.

"Then, why are you following me?"

"I can't get back in the hellhole—I thought I told you that."

"Um, no. No, you didn't." I plant my hands on my hips and glower at him.

He smiles back at me innocently, like his slip of the mind had been a mere oversight. "Oh, well, I am now. I can't get back into that stupid house, so, I'm going to stay with you—roomie."

"Why can't you just break the door down. You know, like you did before?"

"I've reached my 'defacing buildings' quota for the day." He replies, as though it should be obvious.

"Can't you just look for an unlocked door?"

"You know, I hadn't considered that…" he taps his chin thoughtfully.

"See?" I say, holding my hands up in excitement. "Problem solved."

"… I'm not going to do that."

"Excuse me?"

Damon leans in closer. "I'm not wasting my time. Not when I know you have access to a house already."

"We don't know each other!" But you do, a voice whispers in the back of my head.

"Don't we, though?" he breaths, and I'm worried at how easily the heady scent of leather and cedarwood overwhelms my senses, muddling my thoughts… tugging at something I can't quite figure out.

I shake my head, snapping back to the here and now. "Not until… "I look at the sun's low position in the dark blue sky. "About three hours ago."

"That's an eternity."

Instead of humoring the jackass, I stomp away, continuing the trek to my starting point as if he isn't still walking beside me.

"Please, Bon Bon?"

"I thought I told you to stop calling me that," I snip, refusing to look at him.

"I didn't—but if you want me to, I guess I can consider it… for a price."

I huff indignantly. "This isn't a negotiation."

"Whatever—you'll see it my way eventually."

"Oh, and what makes you think that?" I ask, snorting.

"Just call it a hunch."

Damon's explanation leaves me unsettled. I've had enough hunches for the day, all I want to do is crawl back into that giant bed and close my eyes, hoping I'll wake up and magically remember all that I've forgotten.

By myself.

But I don't think I have a chance in hell of getting rid of Damon Salvatore.


When I open the door to the house, I expect to have to race to shut it before Damon slinks inside. So, I'm surprised when he hangs back, lingering in the entryway, not making a move to cross the threshold.

"Don't tell me you've suddenly developed a sense of etiquette," I say coolly and for some incomprehensible reason, I don't slam the door before he can answer.

He flashes me that charming smile, propping himself up against the doorframe. "I like to keep people guessing."

"Good night, Damon." I begin to close the door.

"You'd really leave me out here all alone?" he asks, sulking. Though, I don't find it to be sincere.

"Yes." I push the door forward slightly, gauging his response.

"I could freeze to death," he points out, and I tell myself it's only a coincidence when the wind picks up. I don't believe that either, as he certainly didn't have any problems back at the abandoned house.

"Yeah, okay."

"That means my death will be on your hands…"

Well, I can't really argue with that. And I don't like it—I feel like I've been backed into a corner. Uncomfortable, torn.

Damon uses my hesitation to his advantage, shivering dramatically when the wind blows even harder.

"Fine," I relent before I really know what I'm agreeing to. "But you sleep on the couch."

"I'm sure there's a spare bedroom."

I can't actually dispute that claim, as my explorations were pretty much all on the lower level. "If you can find one—don't ask me for help looking, though. I think you'd be more comfortable on the floor.'

"You're such an accommodating host."

"Whatever," I grumble, turning to walk away.

"Wait…" Damon calls after me. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

I spin around. "You can drop the polite act now. I already said yes."

"To what exactly?"

"Are you an idiot?"

"Maybe."

"I said that you can stay here… come on in."

"Thank you; I think I will." He breezes inside, shutting the door with the toe of his boot, moving past me and into the living room.

He sits on the sofa, kicking his feet onto the coffee table—as if he owns the place. As if I own the place, which isn't the case. Then, his gaze flits from picture to picture, from the black-and-white snapshots of random objects to the photo of the older woman with curly hair and wise facial expression.

He gets this startled look on his face, like something about this room… that older woman… seems familiar, but he also seems like he can't quite put his finger on the finer details.

I know… I'm positive that I wear the same expression for the same reasons.

"Remember something?" I ask casually as if it doesn't matter to me at all.

"Do you know anything about Mystic Falls?"

I shake my head slowly. Nothing except for what I've been able to glean thus far.

Damon nods—he anticipated this response. "You have no idea about anything, do you?"

I'm mildly offended by that. "If you think I'm stupid—"

"No," he scoffs. "You're a lot of things, most of them annoying, but I know you're not dumb."

"You got that from spending less than half a day with me?"

"I can't really explain why, but yeah."

"Well, then, Sherlock—what do you know?"

"Let's see…" he acts like he's solving a complicated math problem in his head, writing numbers in the air, scrunching his face just so. "I know I woke up on the floor of my family's boarding house, I know who I am and that this is the town I grew up in, I remember that I have a younger brother… and that's about it. I've got no clue about why this shithole town is deserted' if that's what you think."

He's telling the truth—at least part of the truth. His voice remained steady as he spoke, and I couldn't spot any other signs a liar might exhibit. However, I know he's holding something back, but I have no idea what. I'm also wondering why he remembers all that and I've got nothing—except for what the back of a 4x6 photograph told me.

Also, I don't understand why he would volunteer all of that information and be so secretive about whatever he's hiding. "That's… a lot."

"What about you, Bonnie? What is it you really know?"

"My name," I say, voice small and defeated. "That's it."

"That's a dangerous thing to admit to a stranger," he states, his tone light, teasing.

"If you were going to hurt me, you would've done it by now."

"Probably," he agrees.

"Absolutely," I counter. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for his witty quip.

"Absolutely," Damon repeats, leaving the comfort of the living room and heading into the kitchen.

He stands under the archway, staring straight ahead. "Well, whoever lives here keeps it well-stocked."

"What?" I exclaim, rushing over to him.

The empty kitchen from hours ago is gone, and I rub my eyes in shock. It definitely didn't look like this before I went outside. Now, I see a microwave on one of the counters, and a delicate-looking spice rack on another, accompanied by a row of cookbooks. Cookware hangs on the once-bare wall mounts and the pantry door is ajar, revealing shelves of snack foods, cereals, canned goods, and dried fruit. On the island, I see a slip of red paper.

Nervously, I approach the center of the room, that feeling we're being monitored hitting me full force. "This place didn't look like this before."

"Context," Damon says as he follows me.

"It didn't have any of this stuff…" I explain, holding up a yellow dishtowel that hung on one of the cabinets below the sink. "It had nothing."

I pull a drawer open to emphasize my point. It is filled with forks, spoons, and butter knives. Measuring spoons and whisks. Damon picks up a wooden spoon and examines it. "Interesting…"

"I'm not joking," I snap irritably.

"I didn't say you were, Nancy Drew, calm down. I believe you."

I don't say anything. Thankfully, I don't have to attempt to dignify my reaction—I pick up the note and look it over. It's not nearly as wordy as the previous one. In fact, it is far simpler and way more concise.

It only has two words; written in the same handwriting we saw on the postcard:

Happy housewarming!

And, like the last one, it isn't signed.

Damon, who had read the note over my shoulder, shudders. "I think someone's stalking you, Bon Bon."

"Us," I correct, voice grave because it isn't just me. This includes Damon as well, and it makes me feel cold inside. Helpless.

"I was kind of hoping you wouldn't say that."

"Me, too."

He places a firm, reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Well—I guess it's good I insisted on staying with you. Now you have someone to protect you."

"I don't need you to protect me." That fire burns in my fingertips, toes, and my stomach—the insane desire (no, need) to contradict this man who has an ego that is way too overblown.

"Eh, we'll see about that."

"No, we won't," I say, and I mean it.

"Are you hungry?" he asks a moment later.

"What?" I furrow my brows. That doesn't have anything to do with the ominous calling card. "No."

"Good—this crap is probably laced with arsenic."

Smart. I guess it's a good thing that amnesia and appetites don't seem to mix. "Right…"

"We'll go to the grocery store tomorrow," he decides, already walking away.

"We?"

"Duh—" he mocks. "Splitting up never works—haven't you seen Scooby-Doo? Don't answer that. It's safer if we stick together."

"And what are we going to do now?" I inquire, trailing behind my new roommate as he climbs the stairs.

"You can do whatever the hell you want—I'm going to sleep off this shitstorm of a day." Damon glances behind each door as he passes by, pausing in front of the bedroom I've decided to make my own.

"That's my room," I inform him.

"I figured as much."

We reach the set of double doors at the end of the hall. Damon cracks the left one open, taking a look inside. A second later, he pushes both doors wide open, putting the master bedroom on display. It's painted in that same orange hue as the living room, dark-stained, wooden furniture. A bed the same size as mine, a wardrobe, mirror, dresser, a bedspread covered in an orange floral pattern, yellow throw pillows, TV, white carpet, and a small hallway leading to the master bathroom.

"I'll stay in here," he announces smugly.

Surprisingly, I don't mind. Something about my sleeping quarters makes me feel safe. "Okay."

I turn on my heels, walking over to my bedroom. "Have a good night, Salvatore."

"You, too…" he trails off after realizing he doesn't know my last name.

"Bennett," I fill in, all too aware of the photo burning a hole in my back pocket.

"Bennett," he says experimentally. "I like it."

Something tells me that those words are a high honor coming from Damon—if only he weren't such a snarky jerk, I might actually grow to like him.