Blood Will Tell

by L. J. Smith

  Stefan—as expected—made an incoherent noise of protest. That was one advantage she had. She was a gabbler. She could talk the hind leg off an elephant given the chance, and Stefan was a polite listener who didn’t like to interrupt.

  “It’s okay, silly, I’ve got another top on underneath it,” she said and finished shrugging the sweater off.

  This was technically true. She had a camisole on underneath it; a very pretty cream colored one, with knots of ribbon and lace decorating the bodice. She usually wore it with a sweater when the weather could change suddenly and she could whip on a lighter top over it.

  She just hoped that Stefan didn’t know enough about modern women’s underwear to recognize it as notexactlyoutdoorwear.

  Especially when the only thing under the camisole was Bonnie.

  It seemed that Elena had neglected this area of his education. Bonnie mentally wiped sweat off her forehead.

  “It’s a pretty top,” Stefan said. “But the evenings are chilly up here—”

  “It shouldn’t take long. And we’ll keep each other warm,” Bonnie said. Oh, Lord, had she just said that? From Stefan’s expression she had.

  “Bonnie—it isn’t—”

  He didn’t even stand a chance against lips that had kissed the Blarney Stone.

  “I know it isn’t,” she said. “But before we—before you take my blood”—it was good to get that in here at the beginning, to remind him of the debt he owed her—“I was wondering if we could—just sit together for a minute or two. So I could get used to you.

  That’s the problem with Damon. He just looms and then grabs, and there’s no question about what he wants and when he wants it.”

  That’s it! she cheered herself mentally. You’ve got him on the ropes; keep socking him!

  The last thing Stefan wanted to be was to be like Damon.

  “Of course,” he said, switching off the toobright lamp, and sitting down beside her.

  The memory of Damon’s Don Juan maneuvers at the pensione, bringing in a new girl every night, sitting close to her on a soft, deeplyupholstered couch, and looking deeply into her eyes, while talking in a catvelvety voice about this and that, all slid right out of his mind. He was with Bonnie, little Bonnie, and he was making her comfortable before she did him the greatest favor a human could do a vampire.

  Bonnie was looking up at him with eyes—while not Elena’s blueviolet—were a marvelous color all of their own. Pure, innocent eyes. She edged a little closer to him, still looking up. She seemed to find something fascinating about his face.

  “Stefan?” she said softly. “While we’re—while you’re—you know—then we’ll be able to talk with our minds, won’t we?”

  “We should. But I understand perfectly if you don’t want me to read your mind at all.”

  “But I do—for a special reason.”

  She was wearing some scent—or maybe it was just the scent of her skin. And that skin! Even more transparent than Elena’s; even less tanned. Stefan could spend all night tracing the blue, pale and darker of the veins that wandered beneath her skin. He was especially mesmerized by the veins in her throat; but he also found somehow that it struck him to the heart to see the blue lines at her temples, throbbing in rhythm with her heart. He knew he would never forget this moment, watching the utter vulnerability and utter trust he was being shown.

  “Having been a telepath for—well, probably all my eighteen years,” Bonnie was saying (and chalking up another point to herself for having gotten her age in so neatly and unforgettably), “I’ve learned one or two things. And one is that I’m very good at visualizing. I was thinking that while we were joined by sharing blood, I might think of some pictures of Elena, some things we did, things that happened before you came along.” He hadn’t responded. Bonnie felt an awful plunge from her heart literally to the soles of her feet. Her pulse was suddenly hammering. What if he already had all he needed of Elena? What if old memories would only bring him pain?

  But then she looked at his face. He was gazing down at her as if he were about to kneel on the ground before her. He lifted fingers to his lips, and she realized, tears rushing to her eyes, that it was to keep his upper lip from trembling.

  He probably doesn’t want me to look at his face just now, Bonnie thought. She looked at her own lap instead, and at the four or five dark splotches teardrops had made on her jeans. She sniffled.

  And then she felt pain, a crushing pain in each arm, as Stefan took hold of her arms.

  “You’d do that for me? You’d let me read your mind—maybe even go a little deeper and watch the pictures like movies? I swear I wouldn’t be reading your mind. I’d be looking through your eyes and your ears at Elena. She’s the only thing I—” Stefan broke off and said something in Italian.

  “Sorry?”

  “I said . . . I was a clod. Only I can’t repeat a more exact translation. Bonnie, please tell me you know what I mean. Tell me it’s all right.”

  “It’s all right—I suppose,” Bonnie said slowly.

  Stefan stared at her, obviously wanting desperately to fix things, not knowing how to begin to go about it.’

  “I’d like,” Bonnie said, feeding him his lines, “to think that you cared something about me. And not just as Elena’s friend, either. As Bonnie—as myself.” No one could have mistaken Stefan’s fervor. “I do, I do care about you.” His voice was muffled against the top of her head. “You are one of the few, the dearest friends that I have, and I love you.”

  “Not really.”

  “Yes, really.”

  “You’re hurting my arms.”

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” She was taking a chance here: he might try to rub the pain away, or he might even have run off to find some homemade cure for aches’n’pains’n’therheumatiz. But instead he took her into his arms, exactly on cue, and Bonnie did the rest by shifting her weight so that she was sitting on his lap instead of beside him.

  Stefan

  What a cuddly bunny she was, this little lass that he could pick up with one hand. And how kind.

  And what a witch.

  He knew that Meredith could not have told Bonnie what it was he wanted. Damon couldn’t—even if Damon could somehow find out, the last thing he would want was for Stefan to get ahead of him that way, to have even more intimate memories of Elena than he did.

  That left Elena, and Bonnie would have told him if it had been Elena’s idea. Scratch that, if Bonnie had known it was Elena’s idea. There was a core of bright warmth at Bonnie’s center that burned away any kind of black falsehood.

  Maybe that was what kept her so warm. Here she was, dressed in less than he was, really, but radiating heat like a contented, purring cat. That last thought gave Stefan pause.

  It didn’t seem right, for him to be dressed in his Tshirt while she was wearing only a camisole.

  He had been startled when she’d taken off her sweater. But the next moment he had seen the gesture for what it was, a sign to convey familiarity and trust. The girls wore them all the time outside in the summer, it surely couldn’t be improper here.

  He could never be sure whether his next move was the kind of noble gesture like that of the Victorian host throwing down knife and fork as a savage guest began eating with greasy fingers, or whether it was from far more human needs. He pulled back slightly and stripped off his own Tshirt.

  Bonnie looked at him with wet, wondering eyes. He smiled a little and said, “It seemed I was overdressed with you just in the camisole. I can get an undershirt if you like—

  but I promise you, in the name of all I hold dear—that nothing else is going to come off.” She nodded and shut her eyes, putting her head against his shoulder. Then she reached up and lightly ruffled his hair. “I always wanted to do that, from the first day I saw you,” she said. “And—this, too.” She stretched herself tall in his lap and lightly, softly kissed him on the mouth.

  It took him a little by surprise. She was flushed, the blood glowing i
n her skin, radiating warmth, soaking from her into him.

  When she shut her eyes and tilted her head back he didn’t need anyone to prompt him. He found that this cuddly kitten was also a very kissable young woman.

  Moments flowed and floated. And then Bonnie said, rather short of breath, “Do it now. Don’t ask if I’m sure. Right here, now.”

  And then there was a long time of pure rapture. Bonnie’s blood was sweet as honey and strawberries, and she wasn’t afraid or controlling herself, or holding anything back. She was giving the blood he needed for life itself without any confusion or doubt or anger. She even remembered—how could she remember anything?—to think about Elena, horseback riding, at a birthday party, gliding gracefully up to become Queen of some or other school function. More, she gave him the key; the mental combination, to her master memories about Elena. Now, whenever the two of them agreed, she could enter trance and he could rummage through her memories of Elena as he liked.

  It was almost too much. It was too much. It enticed him to linger and linger, to let the strawberryhoney liqueur he was lapping, tippling, keep running down his throat.

  “Sstefan?”

  Dearheart. Bonniedearheart, he qualified, as if to show that he knew her.

  Stefandearheart . . .

  How can I ever thank you enough? Bonnie, I’ll go to my death happily tonight. I can never make it up to you, but I can certify that you’re already an angel.

  I made you happy, then.

  Can you have any doubt? This is what it can be when two . . . well, I won’t say lovers because we aren’t, not in the conventional sense. But this is what it can be when there’s no fear, only love.

  And—you don’t think I’m just a little girl?

  If I’d thought that you’d never have gotten your sweater off. You’re a woman, even if you’re still a girl. Some girls are. And some women of fifty are still girls.

  She sighed and lapsed back. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “And you be sure that Damon knows it, too.”

  What does Damon have to do—he began and then sensed something more urgent. He felt wonderful, yes, but when he calculated how much of her blood he had taken he nearly panicked.

  “Bonnie?”

  Let’s not talk just now, Stefan.

  Bonnie, my titianhaired angel, we have to. I’ve done something awful. I took far too much of your blood. It can make you seriously ill, and there’s only one thing I can do to help you—if you consider it help.

  There was a sluggish response.

  He shook her. Bonnie, Bonnie dearest, don’t go to sleep!

  Stefan kissed her on the mouth, hard, hoping that indignation or some other emotion would wake her. But Bonnie’s lips were soft and warm—and parted—under his.

  Oh, no—not now. He had to wake her up—

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe it would be easier while she was still halfasleep. Stefan used the fastest means of opening one of his own veins; a stillrazor sharp canine drawn up his forearm.

  Blood trickled from the wrist and he held it to Bonnie’s lips while her eyes were closed.

  Bonnie swallowed, and then her hands came up like a baby’s and she held his arm herself, drinking the only remedy Stefan knew for what he’d done, other than a fullscale human hospital’s transfusion.

  Bonnie swallowed again, greedily. Stefan, in trying to calculate how much she needed, realized he had perhaps panicked unnecessarily. He hadn’t taken enough to really put her in danger. And Bonnie didn’t need all that much.

  Her blue eyes opened, then opened wide. There was surprise in them, but not—

  thanks to any gods that were—revulsion. After another moment he began the gentle struggle to get his wrist back. Elena had described to him once what vampire blood did to humans after their first prejudice had been overcome, and he was able to understand why it was a struggle to get his arm back from Bonnie. But she was no match for his strength. He stopped the bleeding with a thought and turned back to her.

  Bonnie? I’m so sorry that was necessary. I took too much—I think. I’m pretty sure. I’m a little confused right now—

  Don’t worry about it, Bonnie answered simply, and he was astounded to hear triumph in her voice. If you did, well, then I win.

  You win? Win what?

  A bet I made with myself. Sanctioned by Elena—I think. I bet myself that I could make you forget—just for tonight. Since it may be the last night. Damon told me I was a baby—

  “So I became a bet between Damon and you?”

  No! Stefandearheart, no, no, no, never! I told you it was a bet I made with myself . I bet that I was a woman, and that you would treat me like one. Please don’t be angry.

  I don’t know whether to be angry, or . . . oh, Bonnie what you gave me! Those memories . . .

  And you gave me the knowledge that I’m not a baby. Plus all the fireworks that Elena promised. She said that no one would be afraid if they’d never shared blood with a vampire before. She told the truth. So if I you did take too much, I win, and if you didn’t . . . well, I still win. Bonnie hugged herself for pure ecstasy.

  “But how did you know? What a vampire does when he miscalculates?” Shocked? Girls talk. Maybe more than guys do; I don’t know.

  I don’t either. Are you shocked?

  It’s quite an experience, waking up to find you’re drinking blood. But I was half prepared for it. And now I feel like wrestling elephants.

  He couldn’t help but smile. She was amazing, but telling her that, here, now, was not a good idea.

  Matt

  Matt had to find his own way up to Stefan’s crow’s nest room.

  The room was dim, and it was hard to see more of Stefan than a silhouette in profile. He seemed to be looking at the dusty window.

  It was disconcerting, to say the least, to know that Stefan could see perfectly in this semidarkness.

  It was even more disconcerting when Stefan spoke.

  " Ave, Matt! Morituri te salutant," Stefan said cheerfully.

  "Huh?"

  "S'joke. A joke," Stefan said, enunciating more carefully. "Latin.

  Hail, Matt. We who are about to die salute you. Salude!"

  Matt stared.

  "Mer'dith thought it w’s funny."

  "Meredith knows Latin?"

  "Yeah. Mer’dith"—Stefan held up one finger. It was hard to know whether it meant

  "don't interrupt" or "let me tell you a few things, starting with . . . " and Matt didn't think he could stand still for a long speech. His heart was already pounding. Damn. Stefan could probably hear that. Probably? What would a vampire be more attuned to hearing than the muscle that pushed around the blood of its prey?

  Does he know my mouth is dry, too? And that I want to run? Probably, Matt thought, bitterly. They've got senses that make humans look like those worm things that can only tell light from dark. Does he know what that makes humans feel like doing to vampires?

  Vaguely shocked, he thought, how long have I wanted to punch him in the mouth?

  Just once. Just once to see a fist and a vampire falling flat on his ass. Because of a real human person. Not me. Any real human.

  But Matt could feel the tingling in his own fist clenched tightly.

  Stefan had been talking for a while and Matt's brain helped him catch up by providing echoes of what he'd missed.

  "Mer'dith knows a lotta things. Very smart. Bright. Ha. That's a joke, too. Ssee?

  Because she's dark. You know? You don't wanna know. She's dark 'but comely.'

  Humanss"—again that exaggerated hiss on the sibilant—"have so many prejudishes. Back in . . . not long ago, you know . . . your basic beautiful woman hadda be fair. Blond. All your lingwy—lingwa—language stuff showss how—"

  Matt's hand unclenched. His mind trolled blindly.

  "You're drunk!"

  "Of coursse not." The silhouette straightened and tipped its chin up aggressively.

  Stefan spoke with the exaggerated dignity and precisi
on of the truly smashed. "Vampiress don't get drunk. It's just a brief physi—fizzy—fizheo—" The silhouette began shaking with silent laughter.

  Amazement and anger gave Matt all the excuses he needed to do what he was already doing. He grabbed Stefan's dim arm and shook him, then bounced him off the dimmer wall.

  "What's wrong with you? Are you crazy? You're supposed to be fighting the fight of your life—"

  "Stop it."

  "How did you even—?"

  "Stop it."

  "What kind of—"

  "Matt. Stop it."

  There was something in the voice that spoke directly to the human brainstem, like a dark shadow overhead telling a baby chick to freeze.

  Vaguely, Matt looked down at his hands. He had Stefan by the shirt and upper arm and he'd been banging him against the wall. His right hand was gripping Stefan's bicep. It practically went all the way around it. Vampire muscles were flat and lean, their strength was of the slight and wiry sort. It gave the illusion almost of delicacy, sometimes, but now that Stefan had decided not to be bounced against a wall anymore, he was as still as a marble statue and Matt knew that a human would have about as much luck trying to move him.

  Hazily, he made his fists unclench and dropped his arms. His brain was trying to process too many things at once, but on the top level was shame that made his face burn.

  That was panic, he thought. I just attacked a vampire because I was scared. And while another part of his mind said, "A vampire? Your friend," a bigger part was asking, "Am I dead now?"

  "It's a—physiological reaction." Stefan was making an effort, but he still didn't sound quite right. "It hits right after feeding, and it goes away, but the energy stays."

  Matt stared at the floor. His eyes were adjusting a little.

  "It happens more often when different types of blood are mixed. Every human has a different kind of lifeenergy. Sometimes vampires do it deliberately just for the buzz."

  "Yeah? Oh. Humans do that with alcohol."

  "Yeah."

  He's trying to not embarrass me. Matt's teeth were clenched. He still couldn't look up from the floor.

  "But I probably should have warned you about it. I wasn't thinking. And it's been . . . a long time since . . . "