Damon slumps onto the worn barstool, the weight of the day settling into his bones. The dimly lit room smells of aged wood, cigarette smoke, and secrets. The bartender, a grizzled man with a perpetual scowl, slides a glass of amber liquid across the counter.
"Your usual, Salvatore?" he grunts.
Damon nods, his eyes scanning the room. The clientele is a mix of lost souls and desperate dreamers, all seeking solace at the bottom of their glasses. The jukebox in the corner plays a mournful tune, drowning out the low murmur of conversation.
He takes a sip of the bourbon, the burn trailing down his throat like a memory. The case has been a nightmare. He's followed leads through rain-soaked alleys, but the truth remains elusive, slipping through his fingers like smoke.
Damon's eyes glaze over, and he drifts into the labyrinth of his thoughts.
He steps over the threshold, his breath catching at the sight before him. The air is thick with the stench of death. The gas lamps flicker, casting eerie shadows on the blood-smeared walls.
"Dear God…" Damon murmurs.
The room is small and suffocating. The bed, a twisted altar of horror, holds the lifeless form of Elizabeth Stride. Her throat has been slashed, the wound jagged and brutal.
"Elizabeth… what hell brought you here?" Damon asks in a low voice.
He scans the room. The floorboards creak under his weight. The walls bear crimson graffiti—symbols of madness.
"Jack the Ripper. The Devil himself," Damon whispers under his breath.
He approaches the bed, careful not to disturb the crime scene. Elizabeth's eyes stare into oblivion, her lips parted in a silent scream. Her once-red hair is matted with blood. Damon examines the wounds. Precision. Swift. The Ripper knew exactly where to strike. No hesitation. He glances at the window, the glass cracked. The moon peers through, indifferent to the tragedy below.
"What drove you out here, Elizabeth? Desperation? A secret rendezvous gone awry?" Damon whispers as he stares at her mutilated body.
He notices something—a glimmer of silver. A brooch pinned to her torn dress. It's delicate, out of place in this chamber of horrors.
Damon carefully removes it. A keepsake? A lover's gift. Or a cruel memento left by the killer? He pockets it, then examines the walls. The graffiti spells out cryptic messages, a language only the Ripper understands.
"The streets run red. The city bleeds," Damon reads aloud. His manifesto is etched in blood.
Damon steps back, his gaze drawn to the mirror. Elizabeth's reflection stares back, her eyes accusing.
"You deserved better." Damon's voice trembles slightly. "But justice will find your killer. I swear it." He reaches for his notebook, scribbling down details—the smell, the symbols, the brooch.
The East End trembles. Fear grips every soul. And I, Detective Salvatore, am left to decipher the madness. Damon glances once more at Elizabeth's lifeless form and then exits the room.
The gas lamps flicker, casting shadows that dance like specters.
Then, like a needle scratching across a vinyl record, reality intrudes. A sharp elbow collides with Damon's side, jolting him upright. His glass teeters on the edge of the bar and he catches it just in time.
Damon turns to face the source of the interruption—a woman with a cascade of brunette hair. Her eyes widen in apology, and she stammers, "I'm so sorry. I tripped."
Damon recognizes her—Charlotte, the singer from the jazz joint down the street.
"No harm done," he replies and he takes another swallow.
"Detective," she purrs, sliding onto the stool beside him. "Long day?"
"You have no idea," Damon replies, studying her. Charlotte is trouble. But tonight, he welcomes the distraction.
"What's your poison?" she asks, gesturing to the bottles behind the bar.
"Bourbon," he says. "Neat."
Charlotte orders the same, and they clink glasses.
She leans closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "Maybe you'd like to get out of here?"
"Why are you here?" he asks, curious.
Charlotte's smile is enigmatic. "I thought maybe we could..."
Damon shakes his head. "Another drink," he says, signaling the bartender.
Charlotte's laughter echoes through the room. "Maybe next time."
When the glass is empty, Charlotte stands, her silhouette framed by the neon glow. "I'll see you around, Detective," she says.
And then she vanishes, leaving Damon alone with the ghosts of the past and the taste of bourbon on his tongue.
Damon sits across sat across from Elena in the corner booth in the cozy diner. The air smells of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon. Sunlight streams through the window, casting a warm glow on the checkered tablecloth.
Elena leans in, her reporter's notebook open in front of her. "So, Damon," she says, her pen poised. "Anything new on the case?"
Damon takes a sip of black coffee, the bitterness matching the knot in his stomach. The murder investigation has been relentless—a trail of cryptic clues leading nowhere. But he can't let it consume their lunch date. Not today.
"Well," Damon begins, "You were there, you saw the man in the trench coat."
Elena's eyes never leave Damon's face. "Any idea who he is?"
Damon shrugs. "You know we don't. This guy is dark."
Elena's eyes sparkle with curiosity. "And what's your gut telling you?"
He leans in, lowering his voice. "I think the victims are targets of opportunity and we've pretty much ruled the "stoner" victim out as being connected to the other women."
Elena's pen dances across the paper. "Love it. Keep going."
Damon glances around the diner, ensuring no one is eavesdropping. "The debris on the necks is decayed skin."
Elena stares at him for a moment speechless. "I had a hunch. As you know I've been doing some digging of my own. How long has your family been in Seattle, Damon?"
He leans back, studying Elena. "Why do you ask?"
"I went to the library to see what I could find there. In the 1898 murders, there was a Detective Salvatore who was enamored with the victim Sage Lincoln."
"I honestly don't know, Elena. He was perhaps a distant relative or just someone with the same last name but it is curious."
Their food arrives—Elena's Cobb salad and Damon's cheeseburger. The waitress winks at Damon, who manages a half-smile. He's been coming here for years, and she knows his secrets too—the late nights, the empty bourbon bottles.
Elena sets her notebook aside and picks up her fork. "I just thought it was quite a coincidence, too. You're both working on a set of identical murders."
Damon meets her gaze, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders. "When this case wraps up, maybe I'll find time to do some digging into my family history. My parents died a long time ago."
She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing his. "Well, I'm more than happy to help."
Damon squeezes her hand. "I appreciate that."
As they eat, Damon wonders if he'll ever find the truth—the missing puzzle piece that will crack the case wide open. But for now, he'll savor this stolen moment with Elena.
The rain falls in a gentle cadence, each droplet a whispered secret between the heavens and the earth. The world blurred around them, softened by the mist as if nature herself conspired to create an intimate cocoon.
Elena stands, her heart racing in sync with the rain. Her chestnut hair clings to her cheeks, and her dress clings to her curves as Damon walks her back to her car.
Damon with his unruly dark hair and eyes that hold galaxies. His shirt is soaked, and his lips curve into a half-smile.
He steps closer, their breaths mingling in the damp air. "Beautiful," he murmurs as his eyes lock on hers.
Damon cups her face in his hands, his touch both tender and urgent. And then his lips meet hers—a kiss that tastes of rain, of longing, of promises, whispered across centuries.
The world ceases to exist. There is only Damon, the taste of his lips, the warmth of his mouth, and the way he holds her.
Raindrops dance around them, a liquid symphony celebrating their union.
Elena's fingers tangle in his wet hair, pulling him closer. She loses herself in the kiss, forgetting everything but this moment. The rain soaks through her dress, but she doesn't care. All that matters is Damon—the way he kisses her as if he's been waiting for her all his life.
When they finally break apart, their foreheads touch. "That's nice," Elena says softly.
Damon brushes his thumb over her cheek. "I'm kind of crazy about you."
And so, in the heart of the rainstorm, they kiss again...
After leaving Damon and running by her apartment to change clothes, Elena heads to Pioneer Square to meet with Krystal Konner.
"I don't think it's a good idea for you to be out at night, Krystal. I've now seen this nut in action."
"You gonna pick up my tuition?" Krystal counters, looking up to meet Elena's gaze.
Elena shakes her head. "I just don't get it," She says as she sits down in the coffee shop with Krystal and lowers her voice. "Where does he go between killings? I didn't find anything in the underground tour. How can he run like a track star, have superhuman strength, and look like a corpse? And what does he do with all that blood? It's like some recurring nightmare."
Krystal looks at her incredulously.
"You don't believe me!" Elena counters. "I saw him leap off of a building and run away unscathed."
"Listen, I think I know somebody you should see. There's this lady who's a teacher at the university. She teaches Anthropology."
"Yes?" Elena asks, her curiosity piquing.
"She's a buff on every crazy subject there is."
"Yeah?" Elena asks as she clutches her coffee cup.
Krystal nods, "Ghosts, demons, vampires, And ghouls, you know, just name it. You probably won't be too crazy about her but she has to be the one you talk to."
"What's her name?"
"Professor Bastianna Natale."
"Thanks, Krystal. I'm going to head right over there." Elena throws down some cash for a tip. "Please be careful," she cautions and hurries out of the shop.
Professor Natale's office has rows of dusty books lining the shelves. Elena peeks inside and raps on her door.
The woman, gray-haired and matronly looking to be in her sixties, raises her eyes.
"Hi, Professor Natale. I'm Elena Gilbert, I called you."
"Yes, Miss Gilbert. Please sit down." She points to a chair.
Elena nods and explains what she's seen to the woman. "If these murders are related, how can a man over a hundred years old retain his vitality? Is it possible?"
"If it were possible, I'd be sitting here a sixty-plus-year-old sexpot. However, staying young was not their purpose. Alchemy was conceived as an exalted notion. The man at one with the universe," she huffs, adding, "And will you please sit down!"
Elena nods excitedly and pulls up a chair.
"These men led spartan lives, living in the humblest of quarters, eating the humblest of foods. The Count Saint-Germain, for instance, existed on a diet which consisted solely of oatmeal, groats, white meat of chicken, and a little wine."
"Who?" Elena asks, perplexed.
"The Count of St. Germain was a European adventurer who achieved prominence in European high society of the mid-18th century due to his interest and achievements in science, alchemy, philosophy, and the arts."
"I see... But it seems to me that a diet like that would make a man old before his time," Elena comments.
"On the contrary, he remained young for several years. In addition, he was said to have possessed almost superhuman strength."
"Tell me, what other, uh..." Elena's writing furiously. "What other ingredients are in this elixir of life?"
"Milk or meat, celandine or honey, red wine vinegar, hair, sweat, blood..."
Elena leans forward excitedly. "What kind of blood?
"What do you mean, what kind of blood?" Bastianna says in reproach.
"You know, what kind of blood?" Elena repeats.
"Human blood, of course."
Happy Easter to everyone who celebrates. Happy Birthday to my husband, Tom, not that he reads anything I write!
Massive thanks to all of you.
Wildflowers next.
I hope you all have a terrific day!