by L. J. Smith
“Hey,” one of the starers said. “It’s not a—” And he used a term which made Elena want to put pressure just behind his jaw and keep it there until he screamed. “It’s a girl!”
“Salvatore,” another of the starers said mock-reproachfully, “having a girl in your room at this hour will get you suspended—unless you share.” He leered.
“That’s right,” the final starer said. “You have to share her with us. In my room—right here, right now. You got that?”
“No,” Stefan replied coolly. “I have a better idea. You three are going to forget that you ever saw me tonight—and certainly forget that you saw her.”
The three freshmen started to laugh at that in the rudest possible manner, when suddenly their expressions turned into blankness. They froze, staring now at the wall. Then, all three of them shut their eyes.
Elena watched, furious with herself. Because she’d wanted a thrill, Stefan had been forced to work like this. She knew how much effort it cost him. He wasn’t a predator like Damon, drinking the blood of young women each day. He stuck to animal blood, which gave far less Power. That meant that he was using up precious energy right now Influencing these three jerks instead of keeping it for simple living.
Well, there was one way to make that up to him, and Elena smiled a little while still berating herself. Stefan did drink the blood of one particular human girl: herself. Usually he only took a ceremonious mouthful so that their souls could merge together and they could talk without words.
But Meredith had taught her how to access a dozen vampire pressure points. One of those might be just the thing to help Elena make up his loss of energy.
Elena’s smile deepened as Stefan opened the door to his room. She slipped inside, while the three stooges in the corridor stared with open mouths into the distance. The last she saw, they were starting to drool vacuously.
* * *
Stefan followed Elena into his room. He was breathing quickly, not because he was excited to see her—although he was—but in order to oxygenate his blood and raise his level of Power.
He and Elena shared a brief, fierce smile and then she walked over to the bed in the stark little room. It was a single bed, but it had been luxuriously fitted out with a heavy velvety spread custom-made for it. Elena stopped, blinking as she looked at it. Stefan saw that she recognized the painting it was based on, which had been done by George Frederick Watts back in the 1800s.
In a black oval on the dark green background, a girl in a brown dress with long fair hair flowing down her back was pictured. She was surrounded by climbing wild red roses, most of them fully opened, some just in bud. The girl was holding one of the living wild roses to her face, as if breathing in its fragrance. At the bottom a small scroll read Memoriam, Latin for Memory.
Elena swung around. “Stefan! That’s my favorite picture. It’s the one from Alkemia’s shop on Etsy online—they make that perfume you like so much, that has Heirloom roses and balm of Gilead in it.”
“And just the faintest touch of smoke, the tiniest scattering of ashes,” Stefan said quietly, remembering. “It’s the scent of love . . . and loss. Of tears, maybe. Balm of Gilead is supposed to soothe away tears.”
Elena was watching him closely. “Are you . . . sad, Stefan? I mean—I guess I mean, are you sorry we came to Dalcrest?”
“How can I be sorry about anything when I’m with you?” Stefan asked. He meant every word. Elena was dressed in a way that only she would dress for a rendezvous, for their first liaison in over two weeks. He couldn’t help smiling as he watched her pull off her wool cap and let the brilliance of her hair spill out.
She was meant to be a boy, he was guessing. She was wearing clothing that a boy might wear, and he didn’t doubt that she thought it was loose enough to cover up her betraying femininity.
The only problem was that somehow the deep blue hoodie and the oversized Levis were working against her. She gave the vague impression of a small, rebellious tomboy who’d been ordered to put on a frilly pink dress she disdained for a photo, and had turned up in her older brother’s clothes instead. She was . . . quaint.
And she was starting to frown. Elena didn’t miss much and her vibrant golden aura was turning icy blue with suspicion.
“Sorry to ogle you,” Stefan said, hiding any shade of a smile.
Elena’s lip quirked. “Oh, you’re ogling me in this, are you? I suppose I really should have bound up my bosom—although, A: to be honest, I’m not exactly sure how you do that; and Two: I don’t know any way to bind up my hips without wearing Spanx or something and that I absolutely refuse. I mean, the name itself is degrading.”
“True,” Stefan said judiciously. He couldn’t help but add, “A and Two?”
“Oh, yes. They’re just part of different arguments. I got all the way from A to Z and then started using those little Roman numerals in my full discussion about merchandise degrading to women. It was my first assignment in Nonfiction and Memoir Writing, and it took forever to finish.”
“I did wonder why you wanted that class,” Stefan said. He had been the one to Influence the chief technician who handled Dalcrest College’s computers. He’d made sure that all of the students from Fell’s Church got the courses they wanted. For that matter, he’d had to Influence the same woman twice. The first time had been to get Elena and Meredith and Matt and himself into the college in the first place, since they had only decided on joining Bonnie and Caroline at the end of summer.
“I mean,” Stefan added, “given all the writing you do in your diary.”
“Yes, well, that’s the only place I can tell the whole truth,” Elena said, sounding not so much bitter as resigned. “In regards to what actually happened this last year. Our Memoirs assignment for next week is to write something about what we did over the summer. And I can’t help thinking what the teacher’s face would look like if I brought up, say, how we managed to get Damon . . . back again. I mean, it’s that or me and the adventures of my vampire boyfriend.”
Stefan stilled. He had moved over to the plain mahogany dresser that had come with the room, along with his single bed and nightstand.
“Elena? Are you . . .” he began slowly.
“Don’t,” Elena interrupted. “Don’t even, Stefan. Don’t you dare ask if I’m sorry, or sad, or having second thoughts. Not when I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
Stefan’s heart quickened. Elena always said exactly what she meant—except when what she meant actually meant something private. He wished she had put a “with you” in the sentence about being so happy. He could remember too vividly how grieved she had been while Damon had been absent.
“I am happy,” Elena said carefully and precisely, “because you love me and I love you more than anything in all the worlds. And, yes, I helped to get Damon back, and, yes, I care for him. But it’s always been us, Stefan. You and I. It always will be us.”
She held out her arms to him, with a look of such sweet yearning on her face that it was all Stefan could do not to enfold her immediately. But his hand was touching a box on the dresser and he knew that in a few minutes there would be no more talking. If he was going to say anything about objects in the world, it would have to be now.
“I wish I had gotten the black rose with the spell of humanity on it,” he whispered. “But you are a sort of rose to me. The bedspread is for you—I’ll bring it to your room whenever you like. And . . . I had this made, too.”
He put the black velvet jewel box in her hand. It had arrived just a little while ago—not by mail, but by an obsequious and ceremoniously formal gentleman, a vice-president of the jewelers who had custom-crafted the item inside for him.
Elena’s eyes widened at the sight of the box, which was too big to contain a ring. She didn’t pretend she wasn’t curious about it. She opened it immediately, and then drew in her breath.
“It’s not quite what Lucen could have made of it,” Stefan said, remembering the soft-spoken master jewel
er of the Dark Dimension. “But it means that you’re my rose in darkness. You’re my memory—the one memory I want to keep.”
Slowly, Elena drew the necklace out of the box. The pendant’s front was covered with literally hundreds of black diamonds and rubies, which formed the image of a red rose, full blown, against a background of midnight. Different colors in the rubies, which ranged from deep burgundy to crimson to damask, gave the rose an almost three-dimensional quality.
“Stefan . . .”—very low.
“It’s a locket,” Stefan said, feeling ridiculously shy. Elena’s lips parted as she opened the tiny catch. Inside was a picture of Elena that Meredith had provided him. Her lapis lazuli eyes looked frankly into the camera, and her lips were laughing.
On the other side was a picture that Stefan had had taken in a little shop back in Fell's Church. He had felt just as shy having it taken as he did now, knowing Elena was gazing at it.
“It’s wonderful,” Elena said softly. “It’s a perfect present. I love it, and I love you.” She closed the locket, turning so that he could fasten the chain around her neck. “And now we’re kissing—our pictures, inside.”
When she turned back, the rose shimmering in darkness hanging around her neck, Stefan took her in his arms.
* * *
Mrs. Theophilia Flowers swirled her teacup three times widdershins—counterclockwise—while holding it in her left hand. Carefully she poured the small amount of tea left in the cup into its saucer.
With the handle of the cup pointing toward herself, the questioner, she examined the bits of tea leaves that remained on the white bottom.
Her white brows drew together and her lips pursed very slightly. Untidy. Untidiness in the leaves meant untoward matters in life.
Worse, there were bits of leaf on the very bottom of the cup, and that foreshadowed misfortunes. They were predominantly to right of the handle, meaning that the problems were coming in the future. Worse, there were distinct drops of tea left despite the emptying of the cup, which represented tears.
Many tears in the future. But not the far future; the leaves were so close to the handle that the trouble was coming very soon. Perhaps even tonight.
A short stalk was crossed by a longer one overlying it. It was a woman or girl in danger, from a man or boy. Yet the detritus at the bottom of the cup resembled nothing so much as an eight-pointed star, which indicated an accident—or possibly a reversal of fortune.
Mrs. Flowers studied the color of the short stems in the cup industriously. No question about it; most had been lightened to a rich gold. The trouble was coming to the only girl Mrs. Flowers knew with hair that shade: Elena. Yet there were other short stems, randomly scattered, that were dark brown or reddish. Meredith and Bonnie were both going to experience great hardship as well.
The long stem that crossed the golden one had somehow darkened until it was pure black. The boy causing the misfortune had hair that color.
But which one? Mrs. Flowers wondered. Was it Stefan or Damon who posed such a dire threat to Elena? She wished that the leaves would indicate hair contour as well as color, since Stefan’s hair was wavy while Damon’s was quite straight.
At first blush, it would seem that there was no question about which young man might do Elena harm. Mrs. Flowers missed Stefan deeply. He was the one who had brought her out of the unsociable bitterness that had brought her to the brink of abusing the craft and hating all of humankind. Now that he was gone, her house seemed far too quiet and empty, and she was left to remember the days when it had been full of young people and laughter and excitement.
And sorrow, too. Much as she loved Stefan, the old woman could not help but recognize that the very intensity of the love between him and Elena might lead to darkness and folly. It had already done so in the past.
Of course, so had the passion of the chemistry between Elena and Damon, she thought. Damon’s obsession with his younger brother’s beloved and Elena’s unthinking response had led directly to disaster. But that seemed far more deliberate on Damon’s part, and Mrs. Flowers was looking for an accident.
Young men, she thought, with an involuntary sigh. It was quite true, what dear Mama had always said: they seemed to have been born under a different sun from the bright Sol that nurtured female creatures. And as for young men who avoided the sun whenever possible and drank blood instead of eating good hearty meat . . . well! Not even dear Grandmama, who had been a witch of great renown, always knew how to deal with them.
However, it never hurt to ask her advice, as well as that of dearest Mama. Mrs. Flowers put her teacup down with an air of finality. She settled back in her chair and shut her eyes, willing herself to relax until the doors of the spiritual realm opened for her.
* * *
Damon and his new best friend sat in the dim booth until the wee hours, Kenzy drinking rum and Cokes and nibbling on peanuts, and Damon drinking Black Magic with the occasional nibble on Kenzy.
Then, just as Damon began to put a fang to Kenzy’s soft brown throat for the third time, just as his canines were at their sharpest and most sensitive, a psychic scream split his universe.
It was long, it was loud, and it was painful. In addition, it was addressed directly to him, which meant that absolutely no one else in the world was sharing his misery. When Damon was unhappy, he liked to spread the anguish around liberally.
But the really, really bad thing was that he couldn’t just ignore the scream, picking up where he had left off his date with Kenzy’s vein. He couldn’t. Because now his entire body was thrumming with fury. He recognized the screamer as clearly as if she were sitting in the booth with him.
Damon was cynically curious about exactly what he was going to do to the person who had made her call to him.
She belongs to me, he sent out on a heavy wave of Power and on all frequencies, including the one the scream had come on. It might not be obvious, but she is mine. Touch her again and die.
Silence. But there was nothing at all to prevent Damon from tracking the call back to its origin.
That was exactly what he did.
* * *
Killing Elena . . . completely by accident . . .
If there was a single nightmare that had woken Stefan from his sleep more than any other, it was the one he’d had the first night after he’d seen her.
It went something like this:
He was holding Elena, Elena the high-school senior, the radiant girl of only seventeen summers. Somehow he had explained what he was to her, and somehow she had been able to accept it, to accept him, and even to glory in the way it could join their minds like two candle flames merging.
When he was awake he was far too ashamed to ever imagine breaking his vow of drinking only animal blood. However, his sleeping visions were daring, audacious.
In the beginning of this nightmare, he was drinking Elena’s blood and he was very deep inside her mind. He could feel a response to his love so profound it shook him to sinew and bone.
The feeling made him realize that the purpose of his entire life had been to find Elena, to love Elena, to be loved by her.
We’ll stay just like this, Elena told him without spoken words, and he could feel her shiver with terrible joy as she discovered telepathy.
Yes, we will, he sent back to her gently. Whatever you want, love—that’s what we’ll do.
That was when the dream changed.
It began with a dull realization that he and Elena had been reveling at the peak of rapture for a very long time. For . . . an exceedingly long time. He had lost himself and Elena had never uttered a whisper of complaint. But . . . but . . . for exactly how long had he been drinking? How much blood had he drawn out? Oh, please, God, not enough to harm her.
He was so unfamiliar with the ecstasy that came with taking any kind of human blood that he couldn’t judge at all.
He had to stop. Now!
In his dream, Stefan did manage to make himself stop, to sever the blood-bond and lift his he
ad from Elena’s slim white neck. The sudden feeling of separation was shocking, like stepping naked into a storm of icy sleet. But that didn’t matter.
What was important was that the last physical response he felt from Elena was the sensation of her arms around him, trying to renew the link between them.
“No,” he whispered. “No, love. We can’t; not now. In fact, I was getting frightened that we’d already—”
Elena’s arms slipped away from him and fell, limp, to either side.
After which Stefan found to his horror that he was holding a girl who lay like a white swan shot from the sky. Her lapis-blue eyes were open but unseeing; her lips parted but stirred by no breath. Her skin was pale as chalk. Her glorious hair swept down to trail on the floor. Worst of all, her vibrant aura had been snuffed out; extinguished.
“No!” he shouted in the nightmare. “Elena—no! Come back!”
With typical nightmare sluggishness, Stefan used a sharp wooden splinter to open an artery in his neck and tried to force some of the spurting blood into Elena’s mouth. But he knew the truth already. Elena was dead—too far gone to even become a vampire.
Usually, Stefan woke then, sitting bolt upright in bed with a scream trapped in his throat. Tonight, however, there was no such merciful awakening.
Because tonight what happened wasn’t a nightmare. It was real.
He was holding Elena in his dorm room at Dalcrest College and Elena’s skin was as white as the stark white sheets of his bed, except for the two little puncture wounds in her throat. They were ruby-colored. Literally. Human blood was the shade of a ruby held to the light.
Stefan had gotten lost in the fog of passion of biting this new Elena, the human girl of eighteen summers, who had been returned by the Celestial Court to live an ordinary life. And now . . .
. . . he had murdered her. In truth.
He could just make out the echoes in his mind of her last thought to him.
Stefan . . . this was my fault . . . not yours. Please . . . I’m not afraid . . .