Damon steps over the threshold. His gaze sweeps across the room—the wine glass, the flickering candle on the mantel. "You're having a moment," he observes.
Elena nods, gesturing toward the couch. Why is she drawn to him? A creature of darkness, a predator. His eyes pierce her soul. His touch ignites a fire within her, conflicting emotions warring in her heart.
"We need to talk," he tells her as he sinks into the worn cushions, and she pours him a glass of wine. The silence settles between them, broken only by the crackling fire.
"I owe you an apology for stalking off like that yesterday. It was a rough day between Ric and Chief Jordan and then you told me you were a vampire, I thought you were mocking me..."
Damon raises his glass, the wine catching the firelight. He starts to talk but she interrupts him.
"I should despise you. Fear you," Elena starts, "But when you kiss me, it's like tasting forbidden fruit—the sweetest sin..."
She is unlike any other human Damon's encountered. Her laughter echoes, reaching places within him that have long been sealed off. Her eyes hold both innocence and wisdom, a paradox that intrigues and torments him.
"I always believed that vampires were folklore. Creatures of myth and legend. I've scoffed at the idea. But lately, strange things have been happening. This case feels different- charged with secrets." Elena's eyes flicker to the window, where the moon casts elongated shadows. "The night conceals wonders beyond comprehension. Creatures that defy logic. Creatures like you."
"Elena, we're not all the bloodthirsty monsters of folklore. Vampires are more… complicated."
She leans in. "What are vampires like? Do you drink blood?"
"We do. But most crave something deeper—the essence of life itself. We yearn for connection, for the warmth of a beating heart."
"And what about love? Can you feel it?"
Damon sighs wistfully. "Oh, Elena, vampires love across centuries. Lost lovers, forbidden affairs, silent yearnings. Love is both a salvation and a curse."
Elena releases a weighted sigh as she stares at him. Love is never rational. It defies logic and laughs at caution.
Damon wants to pull away, to protect Elena from the darkness that clings to him. But her touch is like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Isn't love always a risk, Damon?" she whispers. "We're all cursed in some way. Maybe what we have is simply more poetic."
He kisses her then, his lips hungry and desperate. She tastes of warmth and hope, and for a moment, he forgets the years that weigh on his shoulders. "I won't hurt you," he vows. "And I'm not the one killing these women, I promise. Vampires exist, hidden in plain sight. Feeding on life, dancing on the edge of oblivion."
"You're not a killer?" she asks, her voice trembling slightly.
"I need to be honest with you. When I was first turned, it took time to control my bloodlust so yes, I have killed before, but it's been a very long time. Now, I take the blood I need to survive and let the host walk away."
"But, how do you keep it secret?" she asks, raising her glass to her mouth.
"Vampires can compel people. I tell them they will remember nothing."
"So, do you think another vampire is killing these women?" Elena asks, emptying her wine glass with a potent swig.
"No!" Damon shakes his head adamantly. "Whatever supernatural thing this is, it's not a vampire. He's using a syringe to take blood from the base of the skull. Yes, I am strong enough to crush a neck but strangulation isn't a vampire tactic."
"How old are you? Who made you a vampire?"
"I was born in Virginia in 1868. We moved to London when I was a teenager for my father's business. I became a police officer there. And this might interest you, I was working on the White Chapel murders at the time..."
"Jack the Ripper!?" Elena leans forward, intrigued. "Tell me."
Damon nods. "I was on my way home from one of the crime scenes when I was kidnapped and turned by a woman named Katherine. She made me a vampire and then abandoned me a few months later to fend for myself."
In the dimly lit corner of Mitre Square, Damon stands, his breath visible in the chilly early morning air. The cobblestones beneath his boots are slick with dew, and the oppressive silence hangs heavily around him. The scene before him is one of horror—a grotesque tableau etched in his memory forever.
Catherine Eddowes, her body disfigured, lies sprawled on the ground. Damon's lantern casts eerie shadows on her mutilated form. Her face, once vibrant and full of life, now bears the marks of unspeakable violence. The killer has shown no mercy, leaving her disemboweled, her left kidney, and most of her uterus removed.
Damon's seasoned eyes take in the gruesome details—the intestines strewn over her shoulder, the feculent matter staining her torn clothing. He knows this is no ordinary murder. Eddowes is the fourth victim in a series of brutal killings haunting the Whitechapel district. Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, and Elizabeth Stride—all women who have met their gruesome end similarly.
As Damon surveys the scene, his mind races. Who is this elusive killer? What drives him to such savagery? The neighborhood whispers of a shadowy figure, a phantom lurking in the fog-shrouded streets. Jack the Ripper, they call him—an embodiment of terror.
Damon's gloved hands clench into fists. He vows to bring justice to Catherine Eddowes and the other victims. His determination burns brighter than the gas lamps flickering nearby. He will hunt down this monster, and follow the twisted path of blood and fear until justice prevails.
The macabre scene will haunt his dreams, but it also fuels his determination. For Catherine Eddowes and the others, Damon will unravel the secrets hidden within the fog-choked alleys of Whitechapel.
As Elena listens enthralled, her living room seems to morph into 1888 London as if she's there with Damon.
When he finishes, she blurts out, "I know who it is, Damon."
"What?"
"The killer, I know who it is."
"Who?" he urges, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
"His name is Dr. George Lockwood, Confederate General and founder of the old Silverlake Hospital. I'm certain he's hiding out in the underground but I can't get Chief Jordan to listen to me." Elena explains all she learned today with Joshua Parker's help.
Damon empties his glass as he takes in the gravity of what she's revealed.
"I tried to tell Ric and I had another run-in with Chief Jordan. I told him he needs to put some policewomen on the streets in Pioneer Square to lure him out but he threw me out of his office."
"You're sure?"
Elena turns and looks at him. "I'm as sure as I can be...What if you and I go down there? You can follow me and you can keep me safe."
"No!" Damon shakes his head back and forth. "Are you insane? I'm not going to risk your life."
"Damon, it might be the only way we can stop him. He only has a few days to get his last victim. Then he'll be gone again for another 21 years."
"Elena, it's taken me 130 years to find someone like you. I can't lose you."
She reaches out and cups his hand between hers. "You won't."
The dimly lit antique store is a sanctuary of forgotten treasures. The air smells of old leather, polished wood, and the faint hint of lavender from the sachets tucked between the shelves.
Evelyn, the owner, has just finished counting the day's earnings. The cash register clicks shut, and she sighs, glancing at the clock. It's past closing time, and the streets outside are deserted. As she moves toward the front door, her footsteps echo on the creaky wooden floor. The wind howls outside, rattling the windowpanes. Evelyn pulls her coat tighter around her, the chill seeping through the old walls. She reaches for the deadbolt, ready to lock up and retreat to her cozy apartment upstairs.
But then she hears it—a sharp crack, like glass shattering. Her heart skips a beat. Evelyn spins around, her eyes widening as she sees the broken window near the entrance. A jagged hole gapes in the glass, and a chilly breeze sweeps into the store.
Fear surges through her veins. She has never encountered a break-in before. Her mind races, adrenaline pushing her forward. Evelyn grabs the baseball bat she keeps hidden beneath the counter. The wood feels reassuringly solid in her hands.
The intruder is already inside, clambering through the window. Evelyn's breath catches as she glimpses a silhouette—a tall figure, hooded and moving with purpose.
"Stay back!" Evelyn's voice trembles, but she holds the bat aloft, ready to defend her store. The intruder hesitates, assessing her. The dim light reveals a mask covering his face, eyes narrow and calculating. "Why are you doing this?" Evelyn's words are desperate.
The intruder lunges at her, his fingers closing around her neck. As sirens wail in the distance, Evelyn sinks to her knees as the world around her goes black.
The antique store is no longer silent; it is filled with the echoes of violence, mixing with the blood.
Police officers burst through the antique store's entrance; guns drawn.
Officer Westphall, a seasoned cop, steps forward, trembling. "Surrender, you're surrounded!"
The man in the trench coat lunges, a blur of motion. His fists collide with officers, sending them flying like rag dolls. Bones snap. Guns clatter to the floor. Panic erupts.
Officer Kenner charges. The man sidesteps, grabs Kenner by the collar, and hurls him into the wall. The impact cracks the plaster.
Another officer unloads his entire clip. Bullets ricochet off his skin. The trench coat-wearing man, backhands him, sending him sprawling.
Outside, more sirens approach. Backup.
Officer Westphal staggers to his feet, bloodied but determined. "You won't escape, freak!"
The man grabs him by the throat, lifts him off the ground, and hurls Officer Westphal through the broken window.
The trenchcoated man follows him out the window, climbs up a fire escape, and soars across several rooftops.
Police helicopters converge, searchlights piercing the darkness. The suspect is faster and stronger. He weaves through the beams of light and then he disappears, leaving chaos in his wake.
Damon cups Elena's face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. Her eyes widen, her pupils swallowing the moonlight. He leans in, his lips brushing hers, a whisper of promise. His lips brush against hers, a delicate exploration that ignites a wildfire within. His hands cradle her face, thumbs tracing the curve of her jaw. She tastes like summer storms and forbidden desires.
But just as their kiss deepens, the room erupts with sound—the shrill ring of a cell phone. Damon pulls away, his eyes wide with frustration.
Elena blinks, disoriented, her lips still tingling from his touch.
"Sorry," Damon mutters, fishing the phone from his pocket. The screen illuminates with the name: Work. He curses under his breath, torn between duty and desire.
Elena watches as he answers, his voice clipped and professional. She leans against the window, the moonlight casting shadows on her face.
"Damon," she whispers, but he holds up a finger, silencing her. The conversation is brief and urgent. He hangs up, his jaw clenched.
"I have to go," he says, his gaze lingering on her lips. "Another murder."
"What? Where?"
"That antique store in Pioneer Square." Damon kisses her once more—a desperate, fleeting press of lips—before striding toward the door.
"I'm coming with you."
Damon knows it's futile to try to convince her otherwise so he waits for her to grab her things before they head out of the door.
Damon and Elena step out of her unmarked sedan, the night air heavy as the crime scene tape flutters in the breeze.
The scene looms—a once-proud antique store is now marred by tragedy. Damon adjusts his holster, the weight of his service weapon a familiar comfort.
The first officer on the scene, Officer Westphal is being taken away by ambulance. Damon walks over to him.
"Did you see anything?" Damon asks as he observes his bloodied face.
"He threw us around like we were rag dolls and disappeared like he's Superman or something!" Kaleb explains, groaning when the cart rolls over a dip in the road.
"We need to get him to the hospital, sir," one of the EMTs tells Damon. He nods and steps back, watching as they lift him into the ambulance and close the doors.
Elena stands just outside the crime tape barrier, watching and listening.
Damon steps over the threshold, his boots clicking on the hardwood floor. He follows the trail of crimson droplets, each one a breadcrumb leading deeper into the heart of darkness.
The room is a tableau of horror. Broken furniture, glass, overturned lamps, and a shattered mirror reflect his grim expression. And there, sprawled on the floor, lays the victim—a woman.
Damon crouches beside the body of Eva Sinclair, his gloved fingers brushing the cold skin. He's seen countless bodies.
He glances at the window—the moonlight casting elongated shadows. The killer has been swift and efficient.
"Detective Salvatore," a voice calls from the doorway. He straightens and rises.
Elijah stands there, his face etched with weariness. They've all seen too much of this lately.
"I'll leave you to it, Elijah," Damon steps out of the way. He talks to the CSI team who are already collecting evidence before stepping out of the building.
"Come on, I'll take you home," Damon tells Elena as he discards his gloves.
Elena squares her shoulders. "I can help. I know George Lockwood's pattern."
Damon studies her—the fire in her eyes, the desperation. She is no stranger to danger, having chased headlines at many crime scenes. But this is different. This is personal.
"Elena, this isn't a game. "We're dealing with a serial killer."
She leans in, her breath warm against his cheek. "Because if we don't catch him before the 21st, he's going to disappear for the next 21 years."
"Why risk your life?"
"I want justice for these women. And I want to be the one who lures him out."
Damon clenches his fists. He became a detective to protect, not to sacrifice.
"You're not bait," he says. "This isn't a movie."
"Think about it, Damon. We catch him we save who knows how many lives of people not yet born. That won't be in the headlines."
Damon shakes his head. "You're reckless."
"No," Elena shoots back. "I'm desperate enough to do whatever it takes."
He studies her—the vulnerability beneath the bravado. Maybe they are two sides of the same coin—justice seekers, and haunted souls.
"If I agree, you're going to have to follow my lead. No heroics."
Elena grins, her eyes alight. "Deal."
Thank you, everyone.
Chapter title: The Nature of the Beast by Ice Nine Kills.
I love history and have written DE into historical events many times. Today is the 118th anniversary of the Great San Francisco earthquake. My short story about that is called "San Francisco".
Have a wonderful day.