As far as torture sessions went, Damon had had worse. Most torturers tended to go for the easy way out – crank up the pain to the max and wait for the victim to crack – but Greta'd opted for a different gameplan. Something more psychological than physical. Personally, he was more of a 'rip your beating heart out' kinda guy. If you want to kill somebody, there was no real upside to dragging it out. She could have set him on fire and dustbustered his ashes hours ago. She could have run a big ol' stake through his heart eons ago… Instead she'd settled for little things like perforating his eardrums, putting out his eyes… Repeatedly smashing his ribs in with a crowbar… Shattering his kneecaps.
He settled into the chair - the nails in the seat needed a little getting used to – and started on the meal she'd prepared for him. Liver. His favourite.
Mmm… The woman could cook.
Of all the woman he'd loved, lost and killed in his years, he'd been yet to run across one that could cook. Really cook. He'd never really set much stock into it – his dealings never went to that 'dinner' stage – but now… he was starting to warm to it. He could taste the milk on his tongue and the sweet sugary goodness of butter and flour… The seasoning, too, was superb. Cayenne pepper, onion powder, garlic, chilli powder, a leaf or two of thyme, sweet basil and bay leaf… Mmm. Not to mention the actual onions.
Mmm. Liver and onions could never taste better.
He stabbed at the medium rare meat with his fork and sliced away with his knife. It was a plastic fork, and a plastic knife too, so the slicing took a little effort. He cut a piece and chewed. Delicious. Most fucking delicious thing I ever ate.
The only thing lacking was ambience. The cleavers, the ice pick, the foot press, a queer looking foot-long needle, the branding irons… The scent of rust and old blood was too strong. The room was too much like a Middle Ages torture shop for his liking, but a little music could have done wonders to remedy that. Some Sting, maybe… UB40, perhaps? Something with a little jive and old school feeling. Nothing too pop-tacular. No Gaga. Something mellow, like a sad Keane song. Soothing... like Celine Dion… Elton John… Muse.
"They will not force us," he hummed unintelligently as he chewed. "They will stop degrading us. The will not control us. We will be victorious. So come on." Come on, fuckers. Bring it.
"Mmm," he cut a larger piece and put it in his mouth. Yummy.
The glare on the glass was obscuring the photo in the frame but he had the faces memorised, more or less. One middle-aged glasses-wearing tool and his tool son, grinning like assholes against the beautiful green backdrop of some fucking botanical garden or the other.
Funny thing about life, how you could be happy-go-lucky blowing bubbles one day, and dead the next. Funny, funny thing, life.
Even funnier – death. You never ever saw it coming. Like the ending of an M. Night Shyamalan movie. He sure as hell hadn't been expecting his dear old dad to fire a round into the chest of him the firstborn son. That had been a plot twist beyond anything Shyamalan could dream of.
Beyond you too, Hitchcock.
Witches, he'd thought though, would be the exclusion to the rule. Witches, he'd always figured, would be like the critics who got invited to the early screening session. Clairvoyance should work like that.
Don't drink the eggnog. It's spiked and you'll get so wasted, by 11.50 you'll piss yourself.
Don't take a cab. There'll be traffic.
Don't mess with Damon today. He'll kill you.
Something along those lines. And if a man who can see the future, still proceeds to act in such a way as to bring about his own demise, then you could hardly blame the poor murderer at all. Mr Martin and his shady son had got what was coming to them.
Still, he supposed, it would behove him to come up with something contrite to say about poor dead Mr Martin and his poor dead sad son. It would appease Greta in some way if he rustled up some paltry utterance about condolences and acceptable sympathies…
Or a joke. He could go that way, too. A sexually oriented joke. Incestuously oriented…
Something nice and besmirching of their memory. Something to bring some tears to that face. Something to snap her out of her Silence of the Lambs routine. Something to make the witchy little lamb get sloppy and slack off the heavy ass compulsion she had him under. He'd never been compelled before and he didn't like it one fucking bit.
He swallowed and took another mouthful, clearing his plate bit by bit. Pity vampires don't eat more often. Crying shame, he thought. Sure, he might chug down a beer or two, or take down some fries with Alaric, but when last had he had a decent meal? A professional sampling of the culinary arts? A damn crying shame, feasting on dirty bar nuts and salty fish sticks.
Can Bonnie cook?
A century and a half of unflagging devotion and he didn't know whether or not Katherine could cook.
Elena could cook basic things… probably. He'd never seen her really go at it in the kitchen, except for salad tossing.
Bonnie… A girl like her, homeless, parentless, guardianless… What would be the odds of Bonnie being able to cook? By rights she ought to, elsewise she'd have starved. But on the other hand, zero parental supervision meant no policies against junk food. Most like, she was fuelled on potato ships, pizza and 7-up. She'd have to work out a lot with a diet like that, though. Unless witches had super high metabolic rates… I wonder if she's still alive…
If she's dead, what do I do?
It had been his play, more or less, having her teleport them directly to Klaus' headquarters. He couldn't even remember the logic behind it, except that it had something to do with the element of surprise.
If she's dead, what do I do?
Their little lop-sided romance hadn't really blossomed into anything, except a lick, a kiss and some broken bones. And all that had been from Mags side of it, mostly. He'd had the chain in his hand when she'd licked him, so there was that but otherwise… the pickings had been slim. She'd taken his blood, Elijah's blood, and done God knew what with Stefan… Not exactly what he'd had in mind at the get-go.
If she's dead, with that amount of vampire blood in her, she's 99.9% sure to come back as a vampire.
And I get my seventeen year old Bonnie forever without being directly responsible.
Mmm… Someone on the other side of the door put on some music. Classical music.
Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin…
That's what he was talking about. Some fucking ambience. He bit into one of the tomato slices, letting the juice run down his chin while he savoured the taste. "Mmm…"
The door creased open slowly and Elijah stepped into the room with a finger on his lips, eyebrows raised and a notepad in hand.
Damon tore off another chunk of meat and chewed, waiting for it. The dropping of the other shoe.
The Original pushed aside the picture frame, set his notepad down in the space and scribbled – PLAN B
Plan B? Damon added a question mark.
BONNIE'S STILL OUT. KLAUS' BODY IS HERE IN THE COFFIN. HE'S POSSESSING LUCY THE COUSIN IN MYSTIC FALLS. THIS IS OUR BEST CHANCE.
I CAN'T MOVE FROM THIS CHAIR. SHE PUT A SPELL ON ME. OR COMPELLED ME. NOT SURE.
SHE DOES THAT, Elijah wrote back.
HOW THE FUCK IS SHE THAT STRONG? Damon scribbled. SHE'S A NEWBIE VAMPIRE AND SHE KICKED MY ASS!
KLAUS' BLOOD, Elijah replied, taking his turn with the pen. SHE HAS MORE OF IT IN HER SYSTEM THAN KLAUS HIMSELF.
WHY?
COMPLICATED. TWO-WAY STOCKHOLM SYNDROME, Elijah wrote and added a shrug.
I KILLED HER THE FIRST TIME. IT'S YOUR TURN.
CAN'T KILL HER. He shook his head in a definite 'no'.
HOW NOT, MR BADASS ORIGINAL?
I CAN'T.
STAKE HER, OR RIP HER HEART OUT. EASY.
NOT EASY, JACKASS. BITCH IS STILL A WITCH. ANEURYSM POWERS, REMEMBER?
SO WHAT THEN?
CHCL3 Elijah wrote.
Damon added a question mark.
TRICHLOROMETHANE.
Damon added a question mark.
CHLOROFORM.
THAT WON'T WORK, RETARD. He wrote 'retard' extra large. YOU CAN'T CHLOROFORM A WITCH.
HOW DO YOU THINK KLAUS GOT HER IN THE FIRST PLACE?
IT WON'T WORK NOW. VAMPIRES DON'T BREATHE. He underlined 'NOW' and 'VAMPIRES'.
APPARENTLY NEWBIE HYBRID VAMPIRES WHO USED TO BE HUMAN NOT TO LONG AGO DO. SHE HAS A HEARTBEAT. HOW DID YOU MISS THAT? Three more question marks followed to make a point.
Damon pushed back from his chair and raised his shirt to expose the ugly mottling bruise on his right side. I WAS DISTRACTED.
THAT'S NOT BAD. FOR A TORTURE SESSION, YOU'RE IN GOOD CONDITION.
Damon pointed at the plate. THIS IS MY LIVER. He circled the word 'MY'. BITCH RIPPED OUT MY LIVER AND COOKED IT. He drew asterisks around 'COOKED'.
WHY ARE YOU EATING IT?
BECAUSE IT TASTES GOOD. WHY THE FUCK YOU THINK? IT'S EITHER EAT THIS OR… He pointed to his crotch.
Elijah grinned. WHAT DID YOU DO TO PISS HER OFF?
Damon pointed to the photo of the Martins. KILLED HER FAMILY.
YEAH… THAT TENDS TO NEVER SIT WELL WITH PEOPLE.
AND I MIGHT HAVE TOLD HER SHE WAS 'FULL OF HERSELF'.
Elijah added a question mark.
HENCE SHE'S GIVING ME THE OPPORTUNITY TO GET– he wrote, then drew in an arrow back up to 'FULL', scratched out the 'HER' in HERSELF and jutted 'MY' over it.
CREATIVE.
NOT AS CREATIVE AS YOU CARRYING A BOTTLE OF CHLOROFORM ON YOU.
I LIKE BEING PREPARED.
YOU HAVE EXPERIENCE IN CHLOROFORMING GIRLS?
NUMBER ONE SOLUTION TO A WITCH PROBLEM.
DO YOU WANT A PIECE? Damon offered up a chunk of meat on the end of his plastic disposable fork.
NO.
IT'S GOOD.
I DON'T DOUBT, BUT FIRST THINGS FIRST. I'M GOING TO WAIT BEHIND THE DOOR, AND WHEN SHE COMES BACK IN I'M GOING TO JUMP HER AND KNOCK HER OUT.
HOWEVER YOU DEEM BEST. I GIVE WAY TO YOUR EXPERTISE. WHERE'S THE BITCH NOW?
ON THE PHONE. WILL BE BACK ANY MINUTE.
JUST FOR THE RECORD, THE NEXT TIME YOU SWITCH BANDWAGONS OR PRETEND TO SWITCH BANDWAGONS, I WILL KILL YOU.
CAN YOUR THREATS BE ANY EMPTIER?
…
His bonds went loose as the witch lost consciousness, but he finished his meal regardless. It was better to know that he had eaten his own liver, than to think about it going down a waste disposal chute, or worse, winding up in a Tupperware bowl at the bottom of the refrigerator going bad one day at a time.
Elijah, as it turned out, shockingly, was a real professional at chloroforming young women. He'd done it too fast for Damon to see the technique, but however he'd done it, the witch was out. KO.
"So what do you do now," Damon asked, wiping his mouth in a napkin. "Raping time?"
"I'm not a rapist," the Original retorted flatly as he hefted the girl over his shoulder.
"Call it like I see it, E-man."
"She's unconscious. We needed her to be unconscious. She had you eating yourself – what's your problem?"
"No problem, except… I just realised why girls go to the bathroom in pairs. You're the reason they invented mace."
"You have two options, Damon. You can be grateful or you can go back to your torture tea-party."
"Yeah…" Damon raked his fingers through his hair, checking for any missing chunks or palpable dents in his skull, following Elijah as he moved through the living room and dropped the body of the witch in the lounge chair. She was pretty, in a kinda way. Small, and he noted that he was yet to see a big witch. Too much hair for his taste. Too bitchy-looking. Even with her eyes closed, she seemed dangerous, and bitchy. Bitchy to the bone. "Answer me this real quick. Greta. Didn't really get a chance to know her before I killed her, but was she always this… insane? Or is that a hybrid side effect, and if so, can I expect this level of crazy from Klaus now?"
"Greta…" Elijah started and sighed… "You can't really judge her for what she does. She's… She used to be… a child. Martin had his son and the two of them were close. The two of them bonded over their magic. The boy had a natural talent for it. Potential to be as strong as the father, so the two of them were very close and Greta was on the outside of that circle. As a witch, she was probably a four out of ten. No spells, no grimoire, nothing. Then up pops Klaus with his penchant for runts of the litter… He and she have a sort of father-daughter relationship–"
"A Medieval European father-daughter relationship, you mean to say. America passed laws against… this," he made a swooping gesture with both his arms, "years ago. My only concern is – can we use her as a hostage? Can we kidnap her, stash her somewhere and gain some kind of leverage?"
"I can't see it working. She's a pet. Pets don't make good hostages."
"Pet witch?"
"Have you never had one?"
"You've seen my witch. She's kinda wild. Bites… Not what I'd call domesticated."
"Five steps to taming a witch, my young friend. The first is isolation. Remove the witch from everything and everybody that she knows. Second step – make them kill somebody. Once they get blood on their hands, and realise just how easy and inevitable it is they become a lot less reserved. Third step – facilitate a need. They have to need you in some way, financially, socially, sexually, whatever angle you can find to exploit. Fourth step – they help you feed. Help you lure victims. Fifth step – they let you feed on them. Not only let you feed on them, but encourage it. When a witch wants you to feed on her, that's when you know you have her."
"And you've formulated this five step method off of personal experience?" There'd been a time when he used to respect Elijah…
"How else?"
"I still think we can get some mileage out of taking her hostage. She's a pet, but a pet he's gone to a lot of trouble to keep alive. I mean, I killed her, and he brought her back as a super hybrid. Obviously, he cares."
"You don't get it. Greta and Maddox are the only two hybrids he's been able to make. The first time, they came back as vampires, but they weren't dead. They came back to life. Living vampires. Pulse, heartbeat, fully functional body, except with a need to feed." The grandfatherly vampire pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture that screamed of mental fatigue. "Then he gave them his hybrid blood, and voila. There you have it. Hybrid witch. On one hand they're stronger than him, but there's that uncertainty that makes him uneasy. There are no truly immortal creatures with a heartbeat. What's dead is dead and can never die again, except… they're not dead. There's no protocol on how to deal with hybrid witches; there magic keeps them alive. And Klaus only has two. Using one as a hostage might be like robbing a bank and trying to use the money to stop the police from shooting you. Most like, they just shoot you harder and faster."
"What do we do with her, then?"
"I know what I'm going to do," Elijah answered drawing a pocketblade over the girl's wrist. "I'm draining her. Join in if you like, but you're not going to taste better than this for some time."
"Sure thing, bro." He lit the stove and put on a kettle of hot water for the vampire's tea. After a hefty meal, the Original liked a cup of mint. "Just let me check on Bonnie if you don't mind."
"Klaus knows we're here. So we don't have time to waste. Wake Bonnie up. At this point, she's our only weapon. No more fuck-ups. Get that?"
Something hummed near his ear, musical and light like a 512 tuning fork. His body tensed for a while as he waited… waited… and nothing. "As if you have to tell me," he said as he raised the flame, "I'm the one fresh out of torture."
7.22, the clock read.