In the dimly lit alley, Damon stands with his back against the cold brick wall, his crimson eyes fixed on the woman before him.
"This could turn dangerous on a dime, so you have to listen to me, Elena. I need you to be safe."
Elena's gaze meets his, her own eyes a shade darker than his. She is a fierce warrior, her determination as deadly as her wit. "I know," she replies, but what's troubling you, Damon?"
He hesitates, torn between duty and desire. "Before we go," he says, "I need to feed."
Her brows furrow. "Feed? Now?"
"It's not a choice," Damon interrupts. "If I don't, I'll be weak, vulnerable. Useless to you."
Elena's expression softens. She steps closer, her hand resting on his chest. "You'll never be useless, Damon. But I don't want to risk losing you either."
He leans into her touch, craving the warmth of her skin. "It won't take long," he promises.
Elena's eyes darken as she watches the veins pulse beneath his skin. He can hear her heartbeat, steady and sure, like a distant drum.
He leans down, his lips brushing against her ear. "Come with me."
Damon raises his finger to his mouth to silence Elena as his senses tune into the rhythm of life around him. The city pulses with energy—the heartbeat of humanity. They slip into another alley, his fangs elongating as he catches the scent of a lone wanderer.
While Elena stays in the shadows, Damon steps forward, his leather boots soundless on the cobblestones. A woman looks up, her eyes wide with surprise. Damon's presence is both terrifying and alluring. She senses danger but can't tear her gaze away.
"Who are you?" she whispers, her voice trembling.
"I won't harm you."
She frowns. "Why are you here, then?"
"I need to feed," he tells her honestly.
Her pulse races. "Feed?"
Damon leans closer, brushing his lips against her throat. "Your blood," he murmurs.
Her heartbeat echoes in his ears. Damon presses his mouth to her skin, his fangs sinking into her neck. The taste of blood floods his mouth, warm and intoxicating. He drinks deeply, the hunger easing, the darkness receding.
The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the deserted alley. The cobblestones were slick with rain, and the air smelled of dampness and decay. The woman stumbled, her breath ragged, her pulse still racing from the encounter.
Damon looks into her eyes and suddenly, her mind blurs. Memories fade like mist, slipping through her fingers. She sways, disoriented.
"Go home," he commands. "Forget this night. Forget the hunger, the pain. Sleep, and when you wake, it will be as if nothing happened."
She nods, her eyes glassy. "Home," she murmurs. "Forget."
Damon watches her stumble away, her footsteps echoing against the walls.
Elena steps out of the shadows, having witnessed the feed. "So that's it?" she asks.
Damon nods as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I take what I need."
"From where I stood, it looked like she was enjoying it," Elena remarks, searching his eyes.
In the shadowed alley, where the moon's silver fingers barely touch the cobblestones, they stand. The air is thick with anticipation, and the world seems to hold its breath.
"It can be." Damon admits as he leans in, his breath warm against her skin, and she feels the rough texture of the brick wall at her back. The moon peeks through the gaps between the buildings, casting a soft glow on their faces. His eyes, dark and intense, hold hers captive.
Elena's heart races, and she tastes the salt of anticipation on her lips. Damon's hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing over her bottom lip.
Their lips meet—a collision of longing and desire. Elena melts into him, lost in the sensation—the taste of moonlight and the heat of his mouth against hers. Time stands still as they explore each other, lips moving in a dance of need. The moon, their silent accomplice, bathes them in its ethereal glow.
They hold each other for a few more seconds, committing every detail—the warmth of skin, the scent of salt—to memory. Then, with a final, lingering kiss, Damon steps back.
"It's time to go."
Elena and Damon stand beside the original foundation of the old Silverlake Hospital. His breath mists in the chilly night air as he surveys the scene. The building was a relic of the past, its windows boarded up, and its secrets buried deep within.
Elena's flashlight flickers as she observes. She whispers, her voice barely audible. "Do you think we'll find him?"
Damon grunts, his gloved hand gripping a rock. "Only one way to find out." He steps closer to the casement window, its wooden frame swollen with age. The glass is thick, and distorted by years of neglect. He glanced at Elena. "Ready?"
She nods, her eyes wide with anticipation. He swings the rock against the window. The glass shatters, tinkling like a thousand wind chimes. Damon reaches through the jagged opening, his fingers brushing against the cold sill. He pulls himself up, boots scraping against the brickwork.
Elena follows, her wiry frame slipping through the gap. She lands inside, her breath catching as she surveys the room. Moonlight filters through the dust, revealing a space frozen in time. Cobwebs cling to the corners, and old furniture lies draped in white sheets.
Damon joins her, his flashlight cutting through the darkness.
"Here they are...Inside the hidden city beneath Seattle's underground. As they descend to the world of yesterday; the world of the 19th century, of bustle pads and high-crown hats and Queen Victoria. The air is thick with dust, and the flickering light from their flashlights casts eerie shadows on the crumbling walls.
The once-secret underground city lies before them, a forgotten relic of a bygone era.
The private world of Dr. George Lockwood.
"Incredible," Elena remarks as she looks around. "It's like stepping into a forgotten dream." Her footsteps echo as she walks along the narrow corridor. The walls, once adorned with intricate murals, now bear the scars of time.
Damon frowns. "We're trespassing, Elena. Breaking and entering without a search warrant."
Elena grins, her eyes alight with mischief. "Sometimes, Detective, the truth lies behind locked doors."
Together, they sift through the debris—the yellowed newspapers, the remnants of a forgotten era. Damon wonders if they are chasing a ghost. He can't shake the feeling that they are about to uncover something monumental.
Elena snapping pictures as she approaches a rusted metal door, half ajar. The hinges groan in protest as she pushes it open. Beyond lies a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness.
Damon's flashlight reveals faded signs—directions to forgotten districts, cryptic symbols etched into stone.
Elena steps over debris, her boots crunching on broken glass. The walls seem to absorb her words, as if eager to share their stories.
They reach a collapsed tunnel, its entrance blocked by rubble. She brushes away dirt, revealing a faded mural—a phoenix rising from ashes.
As they continue, Elena discovers remnants of life: a child's toy, a cracked teacup, a love letter yellowed with age.
Damon gazes up at the fractured ceiling, where roots from the world above snake through cracks. His flashlight flickers, casting elongated shadows.
Amidst the oppressive silence of the long-forgotten crypt, a macabre tableau unfolds. The air is thick with the scent of decay as they approach a grotesque site.
At the head of a table sits the Skeleton Host, its skull crowned with a tarnished silver tiara. The empty sockets serve as windows to a void beyond comprehension. Clad in tattered finery—a moth-eaten lace collar, a faded velvet cloak—it presides over this spectral feast.
Around the table, other skeletons are arranged. Their attire reflects the eras from which they were plucked: a Victorian lady in a faded ballgown, her bony fingers clutching a porcelain teacup; a Napoleonic soldier, his epaulets still intact, forever frozen in a salute; a medieval monk, his hood drawn low to hide the emptiness within.
The table is set with tarnished silverware—knives and forks that once belonged to the living. Cobwebs drape the plates, and dust motes dance in the feeble light.
"Creepy," Elena shudders.
Damon nods as they continue, he wanders away from her as she starts to take more pictures and her mouth drops when a man appears in her lens.
"Damon!" Elena's breath hitches, her eyes widening in shock as she lowers her camera.
A man is standing before her, a twisted smile playing on his lips.
"Who are you?" he asks, half covered in shadow. A few seconds pass before he steps out, one side of his face is marred by age in contrast to the other half which is smooth and unwrinkled.
"Are you..?" Elena stammers.
"Who are you?" he repeats menacingly.
"Elena Gilbert, The Tribune."
"How did you get here?"
"Through the, uh...the foundation of your old hospital," Damon answers as he moves between Elena and the man.
"Hospital? I have no hospital. Why do you say that?"
"But you are... you are Dr. George Lockwood," Elena blurts out.
"What are you doing here?" He asks with an angry tone.
"We thought we'd, I mean, Detective Salvatore and myself, should drop in and find out about you so I can tell my readers..."
"Your what?" He counters and takes a step closer and Damon urges Elena to take a step back.
"My readers," Elena repeats with a less shaky voice.
"Her readers. You hear that?" he poses the question to the skeletons at the macabre table. "Nobody is ever going to hear from either of you again!" He growls, the sound echoing all around them.
"I think we'll be on our way now," Damon remarks as he grips Elena's hand firmly.
"You've profaned my world. I will not permit you to live here, to stay here or to exist here."
"I just want a story and there are dead women."
"She wants a story, darling," George says to a female skeleton. "Why not? It seems fitting that these people ought to know the facts before they die."
"Elena let's go," Damon whispers under his breath, his eyes never leaving Dr. Lockwood's.
She shakes her head.
"Detective Salvatore, Miss Gilbert." He wags his arm, gesturing for them to follow.
Damon and Elena share a look as they follow him up two flights of an old staircase.
"I'll not bore you with the details of how I evolved my formula. Suffice it to say that the additive which ultimately made it work for me is the blood of women, removed from their brains within seconds of their deaths. I found that six are required to supply the quantity of blood that is needed for the 21-day period in which the elixir is prepared." He pauses as he opens a heavy wooden door and waves them inside.
In the dimly lit laboratory, the air hangs heavy. There is an array of bubbling flasks and arcane equipment. Dr. Lockwood's wrinkled hands trembles as he adjusts the flame beneath the crucible. The room smells of ancient parchment, dried herbs, and blood.
"I first took the elixir in 1877, then believing that my immortality was assured, I decided to perfect and refine the formula... in the hopes of bestowing its benefits on mankind."
Elena shakes as she takes notes while Damon keeps a protective arm around her.
"And then my world collapsed." Dr. Lockwood looks wistful for a moment.
"Yes, your family died, and you began to age," Elena interrupts.
"Are you going to listen or are you going to interrupt?" he growls as Damon moves her backward a step and waits for an opportune moment.
"I discovered that the effects of the elixir were not permanent. I began to age, I had to kill again to restore myself."
"That's why you look the way you do now, isn't it?" Elena stares at his mostly intact face.
"Dose by dose, that's the way the elixir works. And then I shall have 21 more years to make its effects permanent."
"That's all you're ever going to have, isn't it?" Damon contends as he tightens his grip on Elena to protect her.
"That's not true, I'll find the answer eventually," Dr. Lockwood hisses at him.
"Eventually? How many more women are going to have to die?" Damon counters as he struggles to control his rising anger.
"What's a few lives compared to immortality, Detective Salvatore? This is the sixth and final dosage. I'll take it shortly and my revitalization will be complete. Twenty-one years- the exact span of my greatest achievement—beckons like a siren's song."
"What if you don't take it?" Elena interrupts.
"If I don't take this final dosage now, the process will reverse itself."
Around Damon, shelves sag under the weight of dusty tomes. Faded diagrams of cellular regeneration adorn the walls, their edges curling like old memories.
Dr. Lockwood's eyes dart to the portrait of his late wife, Eleanor, her youthful smile forever frozen in time. "The final ingredient is a rare orchid extract. Now, it pulses with latent energy, waiting to merge with the other components," he reveals as he pours the extract into a beaker, its liquid sizzling against the heated metal. The room fills with a sweet, intoxicating aroma.
"Vita aeternum, the elixir of eternal life," he whispers, stirring the concoction with a silver rod. The liquid swirls, colors shifting from amber to cerulean. His breath catches: he is on the precipice of youth.
The clock on the wall ticks mercilessly. Outside, a storm brews, rain tapping against the windows like impatient fingers.
The liquid glows, pulsating like a heartbeat in the beaker.
Dr. Lockwood raises the vial to his lips. His reflection wavers in its surface—an old man, eyes clouded by time. He closes his eyes and whispers Eleanor's name.
Damon wraps his fingers around a rock tightly, his knuckles white. He draws back his arm, muscles taut. The rock sails through the air, a comet of destruction. It collides with the beaker, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards. The room erupts in a chorus of tinkling glass.
For a breathless moment, nothing happens as Dr. Lockwood stares lethally at Damon. And then he launches at him. His skin seems to ripple with hidden strength, and his eyes glow an otherworldly green.
Damon barely has time to react, sidestepping and delivering a swift kick to the man's midsection.
But the blow has little effect on Dr. Lockwood. He staggers backward only slightly. He recovers quickly, his eyes homing in on Damon. Dr. Lockwood swings a massive fist at Damon, who ducks and rolls, narrowly avoiding the blow.
Dr. Lockwood charges and crashes with him into a wall. He's on top and his hands wrap around Damon's neck, and he squeezes as if they're made of steel.
Elena screams as she looks around frantically for something to use as a weapon. Her eyes fall on a metal rod, and she runs for it.
The metal rod hums with energy as Elena swings it and connects with Dr. Lockwood's back but it doesn't seem to faze him. He and Damon grapple a few more moments before he abruptly releases him.
Damon seizes the opportunity. He aims for the doctor's solar plexus, striking with all his might. Dr. Lockwood grunts, doubling over, and Damon follows up with a swift knee to the face. Bones crack, and the man crumples to the ground for a moment before staggering to his feet.
Elena rushes into Damon's arms and hugs him. They watch as Dr. Lockwood's skin tightens, wrinkles forming like delicate etchings. His hair grays, then thins. Veins stand out like ancient rivers on a map. His fingers, once nimble, now tremble with the weight of years. He glances at the mirror across the room and gasps. His reflection shows a man who appears to be in his hundreds. His eyes cloud as his body withers further, his spine curving and his breaths shallow.
He shares a final disbelieving look at Damon and Elena before using the last of his strength to hurl himself out of a glass window to the unforgiving concrete below.
Thank you, everyone.
Chapter title: Communion of the Cursed by Ice Nine Kills.
Have a fabulous weekend.