by L. J. Smith
“I fulfill all the requirements, I’m sure. Low selfesteem. Can’t sleep, can’t eat. I think about Elena night and day. I can’t picture myself—ever—wanting another girl—” Meredith laughed and laughed and the tension that had been holding her rigid broke.
“All right, all right. You’re an Elena’sex. Join the very large club. But what can I do for you?”
“Meredith, my friend, my sane, levelheaded friend . . . for a few minutes, will you pretend with me? Just for a few minutes will you pretend that everything we’re doing here is not for a desperate cause?”
Meredith’s eyes were dark and unreadable. “What are you saying, Stefan? What is it you want?”
Always so forthright. Stefan felt a wave of relief. Meredith was very close to full womanhood—although she had probably been that way since she was twelve or thirteen.
She was not a tightly closed blossom, but a fragrant, soft rose in full bloom. He could treat her as an adult.
“Would you—would you let me kiss you? I—”
He stopped, surprised, because Meredith was laughing again, her dark eyes flashing and sparkling in a rainbow of colors. And then he realized that Meredith was actually closer to crying than merriment. The rainbow glittering was tears.
“Would I let you?” Meredith repeated. “Oh, my dear dimwitted friend. You’re serious, aren’t you? You don’t know your own power, do you?”
Stefan felt himself flush a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stefan, let me tell you something. I may be fond of Alaric Saltzman—and someday, someday I may marry him, true—but you can kiss me anytime you like. Yes, I’ll pretend with you, Stefan. If I’m going to die tonight or tomorrow, I would be glad to go having a memory of comfort instead of fear.”
She understood that it could be either. That was the important point. And when she rested back into the crook of Stefan’s arm, her body was relaxed. Stefan didn’t wait for new doubts or fears to overtake her. He put a gentle hand to her cheek and shut his eyes.
Then he bent to his first real kiss—not dream, not reverie—since Elena had died. He noted that Meredith’s lips were soft and surprisingly warm—and then there was a sort of silken explosion in his mind. Meredith was opening to him, giving of herself, showing him that Elena was not the only one who could turn a kiss into a glimpse of the kingdom of heaven. Or into the garden of Eden; the garden of green valleys which Stefan could glimpse, but never again enter. Heartstricken, he clung to her, and the kiss stretched on far longer than he had ever meant it to. It resonated like a chord so pure and beautiful that it builds and builds until everything is vibrating to its tone, until Stefan felt it in his bones and in his aching body . . . and his aching fangs.
Hazily, he sensed the thoughts of logical, practical Meredith—and found them too hazy themselves, with too great a generosity in her, too much willingness to give of herself.
They mustn’t go straight from this into the bloodfeast. Even in the daze of Stefan’s desire for it he knew that much. They had to tune this down.
Stefan broke from the kiss.
Meredith made a faint, longing noise and tried to cup his head back down, only to meet in her fingers the steel of a stubborn vampire’s neck. She sighed, her breath slowing.
Then she opened her eyes and he saw the rainbow sheen of tears in their darkness and the dampness on her face.
“You cannot do that to Bonnie,” she said, with a tremor in her voice. “You can’t.”
“Bonnie’s a little girl.”
“You think? You’ll find out. Bonnie was born a woman—in certain areas. Yes, she dots her i’s with little hearts. But, maybe because she’s psychic, or a witch, or whatever, she’s grown up in that one matter.”
Stefan laughed, glad to see that they were both calming down. As for Bonnie, it wasn’t even worth arguing over: giddy Bonnie of the flashflood emotions; Bonnie who was a sweet bubbly child, nothing more. “All right,” he said amiably. “I won’t. But before I forget”—he held Meredith’s eyes and waited a beat and then said—“thank you.”
“Thank you,” Meredith returned and for one moment her eyes misted over. But she had regained her composure, although her olive skin was still flushed and her breathing still slightly unsteady. “Now I know that Elena wasn’t just bragging on you.”
“And now I’m embarrassed.”
“You’re not. You must have heard it, in all sorts of ways, from all sorts of girls. Over all sorts of centuries.”
Stefan, with those dark eyes on him, felt his own skin flush. He met Meredith’s gaze squarely. “I won’t lie to you. It’s a—tool—in the repertoire of vampire tricks. Usually. But that was . . . the meeting of two kindred souls in lovingkindness, I think. And I thank you.” Meredith gave a longer sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if anyone can catch a vampire unawares without a snappy answer.”
“I’ve been playing this particular game for”—he smiled—“all sorts of centuries.”
“And that’s usually how it’s started, is it? Getting the blood you need. Under the guise of romance?”
“Or straightout mind control.” He wasn’t happy talking about this, but Meredith had the right to ask whatever she liked of him, as long as they got on with it soon.
“And sometimes you feel things strongly, like just now, just like a human—”
“Almost just like a human.” Stefan could hear the undercurrent of savagery in his own voice.
Meredith ignored it. “And when you’re drinking blood and you’re—tempted to go too far—you’re able to keep your head? The way you did a few minutes ago when I wanted to go on kissing and you wouldn’t let me?”
Stefan stared at her.
It was one of the most courageous things he’d ever heard done in cold blood, Meredith asking that question.
He knew Meredith would rather not think about the bloodfeast at all, and certainly would rather not talk about it. And he knew she didn’t want to think about the consequences of this particular feeding.
He shook his head slightly. He’d underestimated her again.
And now he had to face the question, too, and it didn’t matter that the situation had been forced on him, against his most violent objections. Meredith was right: he had been tempted a few minutes ago.
He was tempted now. The memory of Meredith’s blood, pulsing in the thin, soft skin of her lips; the warmth of it pulsing against his mouth—even now pulsing in the graceful olive column of her throat . . . Dear God, did she even know how she tempted him?
Her dark eyes said she did and that she was sorry . . . and frightened.
Almost against his will, Stefan put up a hand to touch her cheek again. It was wet, and that was his fault. He shut his eyes in pain, then spoke between set teeth.
“Meredith, I’ve been doing this for a long time. And as you said, I was able to control myself before. I think I can promise you safety, or we wouldn’t even be here having this discussion. I—I never took enough to truly endanger Elena under normal conditions, and—” He winced and stopped.
“And I’m not Elena, however tempting.”
“No—”
“I understand, Stefan. I wasn’t being catty. You’ve comforted me. And I think we’d better start now, while I’m comforted.”
“Meredith . . .”
“I remember what you wanted. To think of Elena, just in daytoday situations from the years you never saw her. And there’s something I want, if I’m allowed to ask.”
“Of course.”
“Let me hold you, Stefan. Let me think about—lovingkindness—and banish any thoughts about Grandfather from my head. I know, I can see what you’re going to say—”
“It would be so easy if you would let me nudge your mind first. I could lock out any thoughts like that.”
Meredith shook her head slowly but decisively. “No fiddling with my mind. You can read whatever I’m thinking about Elena—“
“Then you’ll have to call to me. It
should be easy enough once I’ve taken a little of your blood. Our minds will be separate, but close, and if you call ‘Stefan!” I should hear you. Other than that, I swear, I won’t even sense your thoughts. I’ll put all my energy into it.”
“Thank you. Truly. I’ll trust to your . . . talents and to our love for Elena. This mind’s the only one I’ve got and I don’t want to mess with it.” Stefan groaned inwardly, made himself smile wanly for Meredith’s sake. And then he took her into his arms.
He held her tightly. Elena had liked this, sometimes, feeling the ghost of his true strength, knowing that it could be increased a hundredfold to crush her, and that it never would.
Meredith had said she would trust to his talents. Well, given the earlier conversation, that couldn’t have been plainer.
Elena, help me, Stefan prayed. This young woman was your closest living confidante.
Help me not to hurt her, help me to give her what she deserves: a few minutes of safety and happiness in the middle of a nightmare.
Then he trusted to instinct. With sudden boldness, he kissed Meredith, but so lightly and so briefly that it left her with her neck stretched, her lips parted to make a sound of disappointment. . .
Which never came. Since that first kiss his canines had been aching fiercely in his jaw, and he’d been ashamed and afraid that they were distorting his speech. Now he simply let a tiny part of his instinctive desire slip the leash, and he struck once, teeth biting deeply into the arch of Meredith’s tanned throat. Meredith gasped once in pain—and then gasped once more.
Meredith
Meredith had feared, after that kiss, that the next part would be altogether too much for her. But it was a different kind of experience entirely, and Meredith understood that she had been wrong in trying to force a romantic aspect onto the bloodfeast. For these few moments—few hours or days, as far as she could tell—she was not Stefan’s sweetheart, she was not even Stefan’s friend joined in lovingkindness.
S he was prey.
Stefan was the predator and she was his victim.
Of course, Stefan was a thinking predator, and as gentle a soul as had ever had to develop a hard shell in selfdefense, but he was a predator just the same.
He had successfully fought his genes so that he was not simply a graceful, expert killing machine every time hunger drove him to appease it. But just the same—the romance that had made him and Elena a sort of legendary modernday Romeo and Juliet had come from another part of their selves entirely, Meredith thought. Elena had fallen in love with the beast despite the fact that he was, and would forever remain, a beast: a hunter, sniffing the wind, evaluating the odds, looking for the weak members of the herd. He was a different sort of being altogether than a human, and Meredith knew then that she could never do what Elena had done. She could never entirely trust; could never entirely relax with; and she could certainly never fall in love with a being like Stefan Salvatore.
And now it was Meredith’s job to submit to this creature: to an intelligent being, a person, but not a human.
To try and distract herself, she wondered what name the scientists might give this variation on humanity, on homo sapiens sapiens. Homo sapiens vampiris? Oh, come on, Meredith, what was the Latin for vampire? Homo sapiens lamius? Maybe they wouldn’t bother with tradition and would go for a word that simply denoted what the new beings were: homo sapiens raptor—or homo sapiens superioris. They would undoubtedly take over the world if they could find a way to reproduce fast enough, and to cooperate with each other. For that matter, Meredith wondered that they hadn’t already taken over.
There was no question that the creatures were more intelligent than humans, quicker, stronger, higher on the food chain—oh, that was funny if you thought about it.
Anything was funny if you had to think about it in this situation. What was being demanded was perhaps the ultimate submission, that she give her very blood to one of these creatures; that she remain still while skewered like a grub on the toosharp canines of an insectivore.
She could feel the flow of blood, yes, and she could feel a sort of pleasure in being rid of it, as if medieval theories about leaches and cupping were true and she was overbloated with it. The warm flow was almost pleasant, relaxing. But she was far too aware of her own entire powerlessness, as if she were bound hand and foot, unable to have any say in the control of her own body. And she was far too aware of the—inhuman human—who held her. He was drinking her blood, for God’s sake! She had been relegated to the ranks of FDA products. They could measure her blood donation in terms of nutritional value—how did you decide what made up a single serving . . . ?
I gave my word, she thought, using the last of her discipline to keep herself from screaming. I gave my word. To save Fell’s Church. To save other girls from just this kind of . . . rape of their veins. Tears rolled down the sides of her face and fell into her hair, unheeded. And still she lay in Stefan’s arms, unmoving.
There was no rending pain, at least, so she supposed she was not resisting enough to merit that. But the only thing remotely like pleasure was the desperate thought that soon . . . it must be soon . . . this would end.
And then . . . oh God, she would have enough to think about. Starting with how to look Stefan in the face.
Maybe you shouldn’t look at him. Maybe you should just pack up your things and run from this town . . .
Stefan
Meredith’s blood was as complicated a flavor as the color of Meredith’s eyes. Blackberry wine was Stefan’s first thought. But it lingered and changed on the palate, becoming dryer, less sweet, more smoky with a hint of bramble. It ended with an aged, mature taste that was entirely individual, entirely indescribable because it was Meredithflavored—and it left him yearning for more.
And it packed quite a kick.
Meredith’s life force was strong. As strong, in its own way, as Elena’s had been, because Meredith herself was so strong in both body and mind. She also had something vampires loved in donors, a wisdom that had nothing to do with age. All that combined in the blood to make a heady wine indeed, and tempted Stefan to drink more than he should.
He tried not to give in to temptation, but instead to make this last, this bliss that could only be given by those strong in nature, but ready, for whatever reason, to lend their strength and sweetness for a few moments to the hunter.
Elena had been one of the elect. Fearless, adventurous, trusting: she had loved to love, and to “romp in Cupid’s sunny grove” as one of his own dreadful adolescent poems had put it. She had liked to tease him; to taunt his canines with featherlight touches until he was half out of his mind with need, before allowing him to breach her veins. Then she would give herself entirely to him, to the experience, glorying in giving all she could give to him, as if she could pour herself out entirely into his veins, so that they were completely intermingled together: one. She had been an artiste; but not out of experience. It was entirely out of love that she had gained her inspiration. She could have made Stefan grovel before her, worship her, abase himself. Instead she had joined her strength to his strength and suffused them both with joy.
Elena. . .
. . .was not Meredith.
And Meredith had not called for him.
Later, thinking about it, Stefan would count it as one of the few times in his life when he had showed good sense, when he had resisted although every nerve and muscle and sinew inside him was begging him to ignore the gadfly of a thought that told him that something was wrong. That he was failing Meredith.
Meredith was supremely disciplined and compassionate. Perhaps no one else could have remained in the inhuman clutches of a fairytale monster for so long and given so much, without panicking and attacking the monster. Elena had, of course. But Meredith was not madly in love with him, in love with the idea that she could give herself to him with every drop of her blood. And Elena—had thought of him as human. Cursed, but human.
She’d been wrong, of course. Damon’s des
ire to make her his consort, half of a mated pair of inhuman hunterassassins, had been much more logical. But when had Elena ever been logical?
And now he was torturing Elena’s best friend.
The thought came to him quite simply and, if not quite in words of one syllable, it was very simple to understand.
Meredith was too smart and too disciplined and too logical to struggle, and so he wasn’t causing her agony, but it certainly was nothing like the kiss. Meredith was experiencing, in all its raw ugliness, the truth behind the mindillusions that vampires usually used to seduce their victims.
He broke his promise about not reading her mind. He allowed himself to sense just a little of what she was experiencing.
She didn’t like it.
Panting, stunned, Stefan pulled his head up.
Oh, God. I’m so sorry. Meredith—oh, my friend, my dear, dear friend . . .
The tie of blood was strong enough to allow him to speak without words. But, of course, that was because he was a monster.
He stared down at her, and then, in one motion, he rolled away and was on his feet, frantically licking the evidence of what he’d been doing from his lips and teeth. His canines would not retract immediately, but he put all his energy into blunting those razorsharp tips and drawing some of their length back into his jaws.
He couldn’t remember feeling so ashamed, so caught, since Elena had innocently stumbled upon him feeding.
He was pacing without thinking, the way that a distraught panther paces its cage. He could feel the sting of tears inside his nose and behind his eyes, but what good would it do to cry? He paced, shuddering, until Meredith had finished buttoning up her blouse. And as he did, involuntarily, from the sweetdry aftertaste of Meredith’s blood dissolving into his body, he unwillingly saw more of her thoughts.
He really couldn’t help it. As the molecules from her donation fitted into place in his own oxygen receptors, random phrases bubbled up in his mind. Homo sapiens raptor. Top of the feeding chain. Why hadn’t they taken over the world already?