I narrow my eyes at him. "Vampires?" I ask wearily, "What do you mean vampires?"
The words just don't taste right between my lips, so just like with everything foul tasting, I spit them out.
"Oh, you know," he shrugs, completely calm, as if this doesn't interest or affect him one bit. "Evil, murderous, bloodsucking creatures of the night," he grins, relaxing deeper into the pillow behind his back.
He's fed now, so he acts exactly like a child who's been handed a stack of candy after being grounded for a week would. He's on a sugar high at the moment, and careful, suspicious Damon from before has disappeared without a trace, at least until hunger starts tugging at him, and he becomes irritable again.
"Stop fooling around," I cross my arms over my chest, using my strict voice on him. "If you haven't noticed, this is serious. We're currently among people who want to either torture you, or sell you to those who want to torture you, and they think I'm on the same page as them. At least I hope they do, because if I haven't managed to convince them I hate vampires as much as they do, they might go Salem on my ass!"
This place is making my jumpy. I haven't liked it from afar, and I like it even less now that we're in the middle of it. Especially now, when he's throwing new information at me that he doesn't know how to explain.
His expressions loses its cool, and the lines on his face become hard and serious again. He grimaces, resenting me for crushing his easygoing state of mind, taking all the fun out of it. All work, no play is a policy that doesn't suit him one bit, the one I'm forcing him to apply to his life at the moment.
"Can't you let it go for at least few minutes?" he frowns, "We're in, we're safe, we're one step closer to going home!"
His optimism throws my off track. Damon is so rarely positive, not when the idea of complete and utter negativity exists. I'm the hopeful one, he's the pessimistic one. But I'm also careful, whereas Damon knows nothing about balance or middle ground. He's either overly positive or extremely negative, there's no in between. It's like that with every emotion he goes through, traveling from one extreme to another.
I have to ground him, because he doesn't know how to do it himself. Like a balloon, you have to hold him in your hand so he doesn't fly away in either direction, up or down.
"We're never safe," I point out, trying to calm myself down while staying serious, "Not at home, and especially not here."
He's not sitting comfortably anymore. His body is rigid with all the negative emotions I've reminded him of.
"Why do you expect me to have all the answers?"
I furrow my brows, confused by his question. I can feel the wrinkles on my forehead coming together. "Because you're the one who said they're vampires! How do you know that?" I raise my voice, agitated by him. I don't think there's a person in this world who can work me up as much as Damon can.
"Because I can sense it on them," he states, "A neat little trick us vampires have."
"But that makes no sense!" I raise my voice. I'm so irritated, and sleepy. I haven't slept for more than three hours in a piece for days. I'm hungry, and I doubt these people have anything to eat that I could actually digest. Good thing I still have a bag of food Arden has packed for me. I wonder will it be enough until we find our way back home. "Why would vampires serve and protect in a place that makes business of torturing vampires?" I try to figure it out. I'm just thinking out loud.
He simply shrugs, though. "I don't know," he starts relaxing again.
Maybe he's right to do that. We need answers, but we won't get them by yelling at each other.
I can feel the towel loosening around my body, threatening to fall, so I tighten it again.
I can feel his eyes on me as I do so.
"Aren't you cold?" he inquires, and actually manages to sound thoughtful and concerned.
"A little," I admit, trying to find a way to make this towel stick to my body.
"You can always take it off," I can hear the smug in his voice, so I raise my head to look at him. He's grinning, watching me carefully, trying to predict my next move. I think he knows it, by the horror on my face. I'm going to stand still at his provocations, just like I always do. He taps the bed with his palm. "Snuggle under the blankets, make yourself warm," his grin widens, while his shoulder bobs up, then down, "Or you could, you know, put some clothes on."
It falls hard on me, the realization that Damon's jokes don't affect me in the same way they used to. They don't irritate me anymore, they don't make me want to put him on fire or give him a migraine. Now, they're on the verge of flattering me, maybe even putting a smile on my face.
"I can't," I try to make it seem as if his words haven't ignited an internal struggle inside of me, "I've washed them."
"You have washed them?" he asks, surprised, as if this is something only me would do. Wash my clothes in the middle of a war.
"Yes!" I try do defend myself, "They were dirty and smelly!" I almost blush at how simple and childish my sentences sound when directed to him.
His face softens some more when he notices how worked up I am about this. "Can't you make new clothes with your powers?"
That's actually not a bad idea, and I wish.
"I'm a witch, Damon," I roll my eyes, pretending that I find his idea completely absurd, "Not a fairy godmother."
He gets to his feet - no, he hurries to them, using his vampire speed - making me take a step back. He's strong and agile and quick when he's fed. He takes his jacket off quickly, I don't see it until it's laying on the floor, and before I have enough time to blink, his shirt is off as well.
Before I have time for a proper reaction, I can see his shirt flying at me, so I catch it with the ends of my fingers, just in time before it hits the ground. His shirt is torn and dirty, but still less dirty than mine was - he didn't spend so much time lying on the ground.
"You can wear this," he says, his voice indicating that he's making me a favor, and that it's troubling him. As if I asked him to take his shirt off and give it to me.
His words make me shift all of my attention from his shirt, to him. He's standing in front of me, half naked, his skin white, pale, translucent. I try to remember have I ever seen Damon without a shirt before. No, not as far as I can remember, and I would definitely remember.
He's not buff like Jeremy, but then again, he's not a hunter either. His muscles are not his primary strength, and he obviously doesn't find the relief in working out as much as Stefan does. I remember Elena telling me Stefan works out regularly because it helps him keep himself at bay.
I guess Damon never wanted that, or he has other means that clearly don't work.
But years spent as a vampire, fighting and defending himself, carrying and lifting objects as an ability given to him by his supernatural power, are visible on his torso. His arms are strong and abs visible enough to differentiate him from other guys in whose age group he would fit if he were still human. He falls into the perfect middle between being flat and fear of crushing me if he ever envelops his arms around me.
I don't want to refuse his generosity, because that's how Damon does what he does - harms others and himself. People refusing the simple idea of him doing something nice out of goodness of his heart makes him do it. If I can't, or won't, accept the simple act of kindness, like him giving me his shirt for protection from coldness, how can he possibly believe that I think he can show positive qualities when it comes to more important things?
Plus, this cold towel is making me shiver and I could really use something that's not drenched in water.
"Won't you be cold?" I ask, realizing how dumb my question is as soon as it comes out of my mouth.
"No," he throws himself on the bed, "I can't feel anything."
I want to point out to him how wrong he is, but I think better of it, so I just murmur a low thank you and disappear back into the bathroom. I quickly get rid of the towel and put Damon's shirt on. It doesn't cover my body any more than the towel did, but at least it's not wet. I reach for Arden's bag of goodies, and take out the key we've found in the land of the truth. I've moved it from my pocket before washing my clothes.
When I enter the room, I go straight for the bed. My feet are killing me, my whole body is killing me. My muscles are burning, as if something's pressing onto them. I don't even care that Damon's on it, as I sit next to him, like this scenario is perfectly normal for us.
"What are you doing with that?" he points towards the key in my hands with his look.
"Trying to figure out how it works," I start tilting the key between my fingers.
"It's a key, I'm pretty sure you know how it works already."
That sentence hangs a light smile on my lips. "Do you really think there are going to be doors for us to use these keys on? With three keyholes? Or maybe there's going to be one keyhole that fits all three keys."
"It's never that simple," he huffs, "And you're way over thinking it. Aren't you tired?"
Before I get a chance to say anything, to confirm his sentence, he says, "I'll move."
I look around the room - there's nothing but a bed here, and a tiny wooden chair. The floor is dirty, squeaky, some floorboards are even out of their place.
"Why?" my question stops him, freezes him in place. The bed is not big, but I don't find the idea of being close to him so repulsive anymore. "I don't mind you here. There's no reason for you to move."
He looks at me, surprised, stunned by my words. I've stunned him to silence. Like he can't believe I've actually said these words out loud. Like he's trying to figure out have I actually said them, or has he maybe hallucinated them.
After a long while of uncomfortable silence, he finally says quietly, in such a low whisper, as if he's afraid that his answer won't make any sense in case my words haven't been said at all - "Okay."
DAMON'S POV
I've never been sexually attracted to Bonnie Bennett. I've never thought about her in that way, to be precise. She's always been like a little, annoying sister of the girl you like, who's constantly around and tells her parents that you've been over with her sister, unsupervised.
I guess I've never actually seen Bonnie. Even while I stared at her, I didn't see her. Or maybe I just never thought that I might find a presence similar to hers so attractive.
She's shy. You would never tell, but she is - her cheeks are red as often as fire itself is. She is quiet, and doesn't share her opinion unless when she's asked directly about it. She would rather observe than participate.
There's also a different side to her, though. She can be incredibly fierce, her words carry weight, and her power is intimidating in the fact she has an incredible amount of control when it comes to it. She's strong and prideful and passionate.
So I'm curious about which of those personas would she be under the sheets, or if maybe there's one more side of her to discover?
I watch her carefully, as she stands in front of me, the scent of fresh water on her skin attacking my senses, tiny towel around her body barely covering her thighs. I want to put my hands on each of them, dig my fingers deep into her flesh and pull them apart. I want to cover every inch of her skin with my lips, I want to make her scream and beg until my name sounds like mercy.
But when she gets into the bed with me, when she says I can stay, that she doesn't mind my presence, when she rolls around and buries her face into my side, when I feel her breath on my skin, all I want to do is pull her closer. Tuck her in. Warm her up.
I guess there really are two sides to Bonnie, and I love each of them accordingly.
I can't get Damon off of me.
His scent lingers on my skin long after I've traded his clothes for mine. A subtle scent of blood, grass and bourbon. It's been weeks since he had any, but it has stuck on him as if it evaporates from every pore in his body.
When I open the bedroom door, I find a little empty vial in front of our doorstep, which is when I remember how we're supposed to pay for renting the room for one night. Let's just say Damon wasn't too happy about it, and had too many questions to which I couldn't provide a single answer. He finally complied and bit into his wrist to let his blood sink into the vial.
When we went downstairs to make our payment, I approached the man behind the bar wearily, carefully, looking for any signs of his vampirism. I couldn't find any, which made me wonder could Damon be wrong? Is it possible that he imagined the whole thing, saw some signs that aren't really there?
When I put the vial filled with blood on the top of the bar, the man crouches down and reaches for something under it. I can hear the clicking of chains, heavy iron shuffling between his fingers as he throws them on the counter.
"The guards have informed me that your slave lost his chains in the battle," he says with as little interest as possible, "And asked me to provide you with the new ones," he looks down at the chains resting on the counter. "Do you want us to lace them with vervain?"
My face hardens, and this time I don't have to try extra hard to seem angry. I'm disgusted by his proposal, and that's enough to anger me. "No, that won't be necessary," I say through my teeth.
"Very well," he nods, as if he just hasn't proposed torturing someone by mere touch and movement, "Do you want my men to put it on him, or can you do it yourself?"
He sounds as if he couldn't care less. Is it really possible that he's a vampire? Why doesn't he care about what happens to his own species? And why isn't he in chains like the rest of the vampires?
The easiness in his tone upsets me more than it should. I yank the chains with my mind, making them float in the air. That surprises him, and for the first time there's real emotion on his face. He even takes a step back, as if he's afraid of me. Good. He should be. Let him be afraid, let him think these chains are meant for him. He should know how it feels.
I push the vial on the top of the counter, with my mind, on the very edge of tumbling down on the floor. "Here's your payment," I tell him before turning around and walking over to Damon who's standing by the door.
He stands straight and proud, even though he knows what's coming next. I give him an apologetic look before tying him up with my mind. Somehow it's easier to put these chains on him by using magic, than by using my own two hands.
I wish I could speak to him, I wish I could make him hear my voice in his mind, so I could apologize in advance. But I also know that I can't do anything about it, unless I want these people to find me suspicious for apologizing to someone I should consider my own property.
So I chain him quickly, tearing my look away from his, and walking outside of the tavern, with one end of his chain tied to his arms and neck, and the other in my hands, leading him through the stranded streets. I fit into the crowd, as every other person in this town is doing the same. Walking around, chatting, laughing, hurrying off to their next destination with vampires following them in their chains, like pets.
What's next? What should we do, and where should we go? I can't ask Damon, unless I want others to see me asking my "slave" for advice. Now I realize that we should have made a plan before we left the room. He was right last night, we were safe back there.
Safest thing to do would be to leave the town, but we still don't know is our key hiding in here, and if it's not, we have no clue where else to look. If we leave now, all this trouble would be for nothing. Maybe I should find this vampire fair, maybe I'll find my answers there.
"Hello outlanders," a squeaky, high pitched voice disrupts my train of thought.
I turn around on my heel only to see a fairy floating in the air behind my back. And not just any fairy, but the same fairy I've seen coming into the town before us. The only thing she's missing is her vampire.
I furrow my brows at the sight of her. I've come to resent fairies, because seeing one of them reminds me of Miriam, who's probably dead by now. Who's been betrayed by her own species, but who sacrificed her own life to help us. "Hello," I say, my tone as hard as a rock.
"I see that your vampire is in chains now," she points her look at Damon, and I want to throw myself in front of him protectively. Fairies hate vampires, is the first thought that pops into my mind when she gives him a foul look. "Vise idea. You've been the talk of the town yesterday."
I dismiss her words instantly, trying to make it seem as if I'm not interested in the impact I leave on these people. And I'm not, as long as that impact makes them leave us the hell alone. "You called us outlanders, what did you mean by that?" I make an inquiry.
She rolls her eyes, as if she can see right through me. "It's so obvious that you're not from this dimension."
"How?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She looks at me, her eyes traveling from my head, to my toes, then back up. "Your clothes. None of the witches around here dress like that."
Her sentence leads right to my next question, like a well designed trap. I'm a starving bird, and she's throwing me bread crumbs.
"How do you know I'm a witch?"
"The way you look at these people. It's so..," she lets out a low laugh, "Judgmental. Witches around here aren't like that. Earth, I presume?" she cocks her eyebrow at me.
I guess my silence is an answer good enough because she exclaims victoriously. "Ha! I knew it! You could only develop such strong sense of morale if you lived among humans your whole life. So, you being from the whole other dimension and all, I presume you want to go back? Which means I know why you're here."
"You do?" I ask doubtfully.
She grins at me, sure in herself that she'll make me think I'm a fool for ever doubting her. "The keys," she hisses.
The keys? She knows about them? One of them is here? A rush of hope perks up in me.
"You know where the keys are?"
"I know where ONE of them is," she lifts one finger in the air.
"You wouldn't happen to be kind enough to tell us where it is, would you?" I ask almost mockingly, because I seriously doubt she's going to help us. Why would she?
So her response surprises me. "Not for free. Let's take a walk."