Present.
Damon switched his weight from one foot and to the other as he stood in the shadow of Most Precious Blood Catholic Church in Mystic Falls. It was a tall foreboding building of carved granite. A bell tower stood on the north side of the church with its steeple standing stalwart towards the heavens. Damon didn't do churches. Of course there was the obvious obstacle—crosses. But beyond that, he had issues w/ theology even before he died. And after he was turned, he was convinced that there wasn't a God at all. No God would allow for the creation of vampires. And yet here he was, standing in front of the church. His mind wandered to his childhood—saying vespers as he knelt beside mother. Or to be more correct—he remembered fidgeting with a clay marble in his pocket while mother said vespers.
O God, come to my air. O Lord, make haste to help me…
Damon was roused from his thoughts as the large copper bell rung solemnly, methodically. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and pulled one out. He held it limply in between his lips for a moment before lighting it. He watched as the parishioners poured out of the church, dressed in their Sunday's best. Families gathered with other families to laugh and talk and discuss where to have lunch. They packed into their minivans and sedans and drove away. He thought of his own mother again, inviting friends over for tea after church. Now days, everyone headed to Ihop.
He walked up the steps of the church, flicking his half smoked cigarette onto the ground. He crushed it under his foot before walking into the church. As soon as he walked in, he could feel the ever so subtle smolder radiating off his skin from the holy crosses around the cathedral. He began to down the aisle, his fingers sliding over the edge of the pews.
"This is a house of God," a voice proclaimed shakily.
Damon turned to find a nun, rosary beads in a vice grip, standing near the vestibule. He could smell her fear.
"Whatever you say, Sister," he said nonchalantly. "And where might I find the padre?"
"I am Father McLaughlin," said a steady voice.
Damon turned away from the nun and towards the altar. A priest not much older than 40, walked from the sacristy to the front of the aisle and acknowledged Damon. He wore a dark cassock to his feet. His brown hair was beginning to grey at the temples and curled at the base of his neck. Damon studied him for a moment, saying nothing.
"You are not welcome here, vampire," Father McLaughlin said quietly.
Damon walked towards him, smirking.
"Who knew a man of the cloth would be so judge-y?"
His face contorted—mainly for theatrics.
"How did you know I was a vampire?"
"The Vatican has privately acknowledged your kind for centuries."
Damon scoffed to himself. His face relaxed and his teeth retracted.
"What a fun fact," he said dryly. "Look, Father, I need you to come with me."
"We do not consort with demons."
"This isn't a negotiation."
Damon felt the sudden pressure of a stake at his back.
"G-God also does not negotiate."
Damon looked bored. He peered over his shoulder at the frightened but determined nun. He turned back towards Father McLaughlin.
"You do know that I can break her neck before she has a chance to blink."
The priest raised his hand to the nun.
"It's quite alright, Mary Alice. He will not harm me here. Not when it is so obvious that he wants something. You can excuse yourself. It'll be fine."
The nun lowered her stake and backed away carefully. Once she reached the vestibule, she ran out of the church.
Damon's entire body felt warm. It wasn't unpleasant, but he wasn't pleasant either. His eyes briefly flickered over the cross at the altar.
"What do you know about exorcisms," he asked suddenly.
The priest rubbed his chin for a moment, staring at Damon with a look of confusion and leeriness. He sat down in the first row of pews, one arm resting on each leg.
"I know that they are not the be taken lightly. They are for the most disturbed, most possessed individuals…for those who still have a modicum of salvation hidden within their breast."
"Right, right."
Damon hopped over the pew and sat beside Father McLaughlin, staring ahead.
"What about an exorcism on, say, a vampire?"
"Impossible."
Damon turned his face to him swiftly.
"Why?"
"You're dealing with prayers…holy water…crosses. And you're forgetting that your kind, vampire, are demons. If you even found someone willing to do an exorcism, it might just kill the vampire entirely. How can we discern one demon from the other?"
Damon stood quickly, his mind racing.
He was running out of options.
The marble was cool beneath her feet as she stood, naked, in the Salvatore living room.
"I'm hungry," it was nearly a growl.
"Well, I'm not," Elena flounced towards the couch, sinking into the leather.
"Bullshit," she spat. "I'm not imagining a fucking hunger pang."
Elena's body jerked into standing position.
"Fine," she hissed.
"That's better. Quit trying to punish me. It's counterproductive, mon amour."
Elena moved to grab her silk robe but her hand involuntarily froze in mid-air.
"I don't want a robe. I want to be naked."
Elena snatched the robe and put it on quickly.
"You also want to eat. Let me put it on or I'll make sure we starve."
She sighed loudly and walked towards the door of the basement.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Elena froze in her tracks.
She began to move towards the door with the stealth of a cat. She pressed her body to the door just as a knock was hammered against it. She shut her eyes.
"Who is it?"
"Mystic Flowers! You have a delivery," a woman called out.
Elena's hands slid up the door. She wanted to open it. She wanted to run.
"I didn't order any flowers…" She said.
"Um...well someone is sending flowers to an Elena Gilbert," the voice sounded confused. "Maybe this is the wrong house…"
Elena swung open the door suddenly. The woman held a large bouquet of white roses, jasmine and lilies.
Elena smiled, her hands clasped, but nervous.
"Oh how pretty! Come in, come in!"
She plucked the envelope from the bouquet and directed the woman to put the vase on the hall entry table.
Elena opened the envelope pulled out the card, reading it.
For us. Love, Katherine.
Her eyes drifted upward to the woman setting down the flowers.
"No," she managed to whisper.
Just then her entire body felt as if it were wrapped in dark coldness. Her arms rose involuntarily and she felt her fangs extend. She was like a prisoner in her body when she saw herself descend upon the florist employee before immersing into the blackness of her mind.
When Damon came upon the Salvatore boarding house, the first thing he noticed was the Mystic Florist Van. Then it was the overpowering scent of blood.
She was standing at the door, her white silk robe covered in blood, her tongue sliding across her fangs.
Damon's gaze was hard, contemplating…
"Elena…"
"…is gone," Katherine said viciously.
Damon's eyes scanned the floor. It was as if someone splattered paint across the floor, across the tapestries. Except it was blood. A hand, still in a fist, was thrown against the wall. A head was lying at Katherine's feet.
"What in the fuck have you done," Damon snarled, slamming the door behind him.
He rushed Katherine, grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her.
She tried to break free of his grip but he held her fast.
"You're not in your 400 plus year old body anymore, honey. I'm stronger than you."
"And what are you going to do," she asked excitedly, "Kill me? If you kill me you kill her. And don't you forget it, lover."
Damon's face contorted with rage.
"Elena," he called out, imploring her to overpower Katherine.
Katherine rolled her eyes.
"She's in her room," she tapped her head and grabbed Damon's belt. "She can't play. But I can. Do you want to play with me?"
Damon pushed her away, disgusted.
She laughed and slid her hand under the loose knot in her robe, pulling it loose. The robe parted—her naked body visible.
"For Christ's sake, put something on," Damon looked away.
Katherine slid her hand across her breast, catching a bead of blood. She brought it to her lips, smearing it like gloss.
"Why would I when you're enjoying the show?"
Damon caught sight of the note that came with the flowers. It was soft, soaked in blood. But Katherine's signature stared back at him.
"You planned this," he said.
"A girls gotta eat," she shrugged. "She wanted me to drink cold donor's blood. Disgusting. The neck is the only fucking decanter I drink from. Not a plastic bag."
"You're being sloppy. Are you trying to get us caught?"
Katherine shrugged and pranced into the living room.
Damon walked after her, grabbing her wrist.
"What are you up to?"
"God, I love it when you're aggressive," she said between gritted teeth. "I'm up to no good, lover. And when I'm done, you'll be at my mercy."
"Elena…!"
"Stop shouting," Katherine winced. "And like I said—she isn't here now."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," Katherine smiled triumphantly.
Damon nodded as he reached into his jacket pocket. Before Katherine had time to react, he unscrewed a bottle and thrust its contents into her face. Holy water. She fell to her knees, screaming in agony.
Her shriek was in pain, in rage. Her face was on fire, clumps of skin melting into her hands. She could hear it sizzling. She laid onto her back. Her vision blurred. A shadow loomed over her and she knew it was Damon.
"Good," she heard his voice call.
It was far away. Distant. As if she were on the edge of sleep and he spoke….
"Don't worry, you'll heal."
And then she felt nothing.