by L. J. Smith
And then Elena went into the circle of Caroline’s hastily raised arms and just as Caroline began to say “I’ve—” she kissed her full on the mouth. It wasn’t just a peck, either. Elena wrapped her arms around Caroline’s neck and hung on. For long moments Caroline stood deathly still as if in shock. Then she reared back and struggled, at first feebly, and then so violently that Elena was catapulted backward in the air, her eyes wide.
Stefan caught her like an infielder going for a pop fly.
“What the hell—?” Caroline was scrubbing at her mouth.
“Caroline!” Stefan’s voice was filled with fierce protectiveness. “It doesn’t mean anything like what you’re thinking. It’s got nothing to do with sex at all. She’s just identifying you, learning who you are. She can do that now that she’s come back to us.”
“Prairie dogs,” Meredith said in the cool, slightly distant voice she often used to bring down the temperature of a room. “Prairie dogs kiss when they meet. It does exactly what you said, Stefan, helps them identify specific individuals….”
Caroline was far beyond Meredith’s abilities to cool down, however. Scrubbing her mouth had been a bad idea; she had smeared scarlet lipstick all around it, so that she looked like something out of a Bride of Dracula movie. “Are you crazy? What do you think I am? Because some hamsters do it, that makes it okay?” She had flushed a mottled red, from her throat to the roots of her hair.
“Prairie dogs. Not hamsters.”
“Oh, who gives a—” Caroline broke off, frantically fumbling in her purse until Stefan offered her a box of tissues. He had already dabbed the scarlet smears off Elena’s mouth. Caroline rushed into the small bathroom attached to Stefan’s attic bedroom and slammed the door hard.
Bonnie and Meredith caught each other’s eye and let out their breaths simultaneously, convulsing with laughter. Bonnie did a lightning-quick imitation of Caroline’s expression and frantic scrubbing, miming someone using handful after handful of tissues. Meredith gave a reproving shake of her head, but she and Stefan and Matt all had a case of the mustn’t-laugh snickers. A lot of it was simply the release of tension—they had seen Elena alive again, after six long months without her—but they couldn’t stop laughing.
Or at least they couldn’t until a tissue box sailed out of the bathroom, nearly hitting Bonnie in the head—and they all realized that the slammed door had rebounded—and that there was a mirror in the bathroom. Bonnie caught Caroline’s expression in the mirror and then met her full-on glare.
Yep, she’d seen them laughing at her.
The door closed again—this time, as if it had been kicked. Bonnie ducked her head and clutched at her short strawberry curls, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.
“I’ll apologize,” she said after a gulp, trying to be adult about the situation. Then she looked up and realized that everyone else was more concerned about Elena, who was clearly upset by this rejection.
It’s a good thing we made Caroline sign that oath in blood, Bonnie thought. And it’s a good thing that you-know-who signed it, too. If there was one thing Damon would know about, it was consequences.
Even as she was thinking this, she joined the huddle around Elena. Stefan was trying to hold Elena; Elena was trying to go after Caroline; and Matt and Meredith were helping Stefan and telling Elena that it was okay.
When Bonnie joined them, Elena gave up trying to get to the bathroom. Her face was distressed, her blue eyes swimming with tears. Elena’s serenity had been broken by hurt and regret—and underneath that, a surprisingly deep apprehension. Bonnie’s intuition gave a twinge.
But she patted Elena’s elbow, the only part of her that she could reach, and added her voice to the chorus: “You didn’t know she’d get so upset. You didn’t hurt her.”
Crystal tears spilled down Elena’s cheeks, and Stefan caught them with a tissue as if each one was priceless.
“She thinks that Caroline is hurt,” Stefan said, “and she’s worried about her—for some reason I don’t get.”
Bonnie realized that Elena could communicate after all—by mind-link. “I felt that, too,” she said. “The hurt. But tell her—I mean—Elena, I promise I’ll apologize. I’ll grovel.”
“It may take some groveling from all of us,” Meredith said. “But meanwhile I want to make sure that this ‘angel unaware’ recognizes me.”
With an expression of tranquil sophistication, she took Elena out of Stefan’s arms and into her own, and then she kissed her.
Unfortunately, this coincided with Caroline stalking out of the bathroom. The bottom of her face was paler than the top, having been denuded of all makeup: lipstick, bronzer, blush, the works. She stopped dead and stared.
“I don’t believe it,” she said in scathing tones. “You’re still doing it! It’s dis—”
“Caroline.” Stefan’s voice was a warning.
“I came here to see Elena.” Caroline—beautiful, lithe, bronze-limbed Caroline—was twisting her hands together as if in terrible conflict. “The old Elena. And what do I see? She’s like a baby—she can’t talk. She’s like some smirking guru floating in the air. And now she’s like some kind of perverted—”
“Don’t finish that,” Stefan said quietly but firmly. “I told you, she ought to be over the first symptoms in just a few days, to judge by her progress so far,” he added.
And he was different, somehow, Bonnie thought. Not just happier to have gotten Elena back. He was…stronger somehow at the core of himself. Stefan had always been quiet inside; her powers sensed him as a pool of clear water. Now she saw that same clear water built up like a tsunami.
What could have changed Stefan so much?
The answer came to her immediately, although in the form of a wondering question. Elena was still part spirit—Bonnie’s intuition told her that. What did it do if you drank the blood of someone who was in that state?
“Caroline, let’s just drop it,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry for—you know. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you’re sorry. Oh, that makes everything all right then, doesn’t it?” Caroline’s voice was pure acid, and she turned her back on Bonnie with finality. Bonnie was surprised to feel the sting of tears behind her eyes.
Elena and Meredith still had their arms around each other, their cheeks wet with the other’s tears. They were looking at each other and Elena was beaming.
“Now she’ll know you anywhere,” Stefan told Meredith. “Not just your face, but—well, the inside of you, too, or the shape of it, at least. I should have mentioned that before this started, but I’m the only one she’s ‘met,’ and I didn’t realize—”
“You should have realized!” Caroline was pacing like a tiger.
“So you kissed a girl, so what?” Bonnie exploded. “What do you think, you’re going to grow a beard now?”
As if powered by the conflict around her, Elena suddenly took off. All at once she was zipping around the room as if she’d been shot from a cannon; her hair crackled with electricity when she made sudden stops or turns. She soared around the room twice, and as she was silhouetted against the dusty old window, Bonnie thought, Oh, my God! We’ve got to get her some clothes! She looked at Meredith and saw that Meredith had shared her realization. Yes, they had to get Elena clothes—and most especially underclothes.
As Bonnie moved toward Elena, as shyly as if she’d never been kissed before, Caroline exploded.
“You just keep doing it and doing it and doing it!” She was practically screeching by now, Bonnie thought. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any morals at all?”
This, unfortunately, caused another case of the don’t-laugh-don’t-laugh choked giggles in Bonnie and Meredith. Even Stefan turned away sharply, his gallantry toward a guest clearly fighting a losing battle.
Not just a guest, Bonnie thought, but a girl he’d gone pret-ty darn far with, as Caroline hadn’t been shy about letting people know when she’d gotten her
hands on him. About as far as vampires could go, Bonnie remembered, which was not the whole way. Something about the blood-sharing substituting for—well, for Doing It. But he wasn’t the only one Caroline had bragged about. Caroline was infamous.
Bonnie glanced at Elena, saw that Elena was watching Caroline with a strange expression. Not as if Elena were afraid of her, but rather as if Elena were deeply worried about her.
“Are you all right?” Bonnie whispered. To her surprise, Elena nodded, then looked at Caroline and shook her head. She carefully looked Caroline up and down and her expression was that of a puzzled doctor examining a very sick patient.
Then she floated toward Caroline, one hand extended.
Caroline shied away, as if she were disgusted to have Elena touch her. No, not disgusted, Bonnie thought, but frightened.
“How do I know what she’ll do next?” Caroline snapped, but Bonnie knew that wasn’t the real reason for her fear. What do we have going on here? she wondered. Elena afraid for Caroline, and Caroline afraid of Elena. What does that equal?
Bonnie’s psychic senses were giving her gooseflesh. There was something wrong with Caroline, she felt, something she’d never encountered before. And the air…it was thickening somehow, as if it were building up to a thunderstorm.
Caroline made a sharp turn to keep her face averted from Elena’s. She moved behind a chair.
“Just keep her freakin’ away from me, all right? I won’t let her touch me again—” she began, when Meredith changed the whole situation with two quiet words.
“What did you say to me?” Caroline said, staring.
5
Damon was driving aimlessly when he saw the girl.
She was alone, walking down the side of the street, her titian hair blowing in the wind, her arms weighted down by packages.
Damon immediately did the chivalrous thing. He let the car glide to a stop, waited for the girl to take a few striding paces to catch up with him—che gambe!—and then jumped out and hastened to open the passenger side door for her.
Her name, as it turned out, was Damaris.
In moments the Ferrari was back on the road, going so fast that Damaris’s titian hair was flowing behind her like a banner. She was a young woman who fully merited the kind of trance-inducing compliments he’d been handing out freely all day—which was a good thing, he thought laconically, because his imagination was very nearly drained dry.
But flattering this lovely creature, with her nimbus of red-gold hair and her pure, milky skin, wouldn’t take any imagination at all. He didn’t expect any trouble from her, and he planned to keep her overnight.
Veni, vidi, vici, Damon thought, and flashed a wicked smile into the middle distance. And then he amended—Well, perhaps I haven’t conquered yet, but I’d bet my Ferrari on it.
They stopped by a “scenic view roundabout” and when Damaris had dropped her purse and bent to pick it up, he’d seen the nape of her neck, where those fine titian hairs were startlingly delicate against the whiteness of her skin.
He’d kissed it immediately, impulsively, finding it as soft as a baby’s skin—and warm against his lips. He’d allowed her complete freedom of action, interested to see whether she would slap him, but instead she had just straightened up and taken a few shaky breaths before allowing him to take her in his arms to be kissed into a trembling, heated, uncertain creature, her dark blue eyes entreating and trying to resist at the same time.
“I—shouldn’t have let you do that. I won’t let you again. I want to go home now.”
Damon smiled. His Ferrari was safe.
Her ultimate yielding would be particularly pleasant, he thought as they continued their drive. If she shaped up as well as she seemed to be doing, he might even keep her a few days, might even Change her.
Now, though, he was bothered by an inexplicable disquiet inside. It was Elena, of course. Being so close to her at the boardinghouse and not daring to demand to go to her, because of what he might do. Oh, hell, what I should have done already, he thought with a sudden vehemence. Stefan was right—there was something wrong with him today.
He was frustrated to a degree that he wouldn’t have imagined possible. What he should have done was to have ground his little brother’s face in the dirt, wrung his neck like a fowl, and then gone up those narrow tacky stairs to take Elena, willing or no. He hadn’t done it before because of some syrupy nonsense, caring about her screaming and carrying on as he lifted that incomparable chin and buried his swollen, aching fangs in her lily-white throat.
There was a noise going on in the car. “—don’t you think?” Damaris was saying.
Annoyed and too busy with his fantasy to go over what his mind might have heard of her speech, he shut her off, and she was instantly quiet. Damaris was lovely but una stomata—a ditz. Now she sat with her titian hair whipping in the wind, but with blank eyes, the pupils contracted, absolutely still.
And all for nothing. Damon made a hissing sound of exasperation. He couldn’t get back into his daydream; even in silence, the imagined sounds of Elena’s sobbing prevented him.
But there would be no more sobbing once he’d made her into a vampire, a little voice in his mind suggested. Damon cocked his head and leaned back, three fingers on the steering wheel. He’d once sought to make her his princess of darkness—why not again? She would belong to him utterly, and if he had to give up her mortal blood…well, he wasn’t exactly getting any of that right now, was he? the insinuating voice said. Elena, pale and glowing with a vampire’s aura of Power, her hair almost white-blond, a black gown against her satiny skin. Now there was a picture to make any vampire’s heart beat faster.
He wanted her more than ever now that she had been a spirit. Even as a vampire she would retain most of her own nature, and he could just picture it: her light for his darkness, her soft whiteness in his hard, black-jacketed arms. He would stop that exquisite mouth with kisses, smother her with them—
What was he thinking about? Vampires didn’t kiss like that for enjoyment—especially not other vampires. The blood, the hunt was all. Kissing beyond whatever was necessary to conquer their victim was pointless; it could lead nowhere. Only sentimental idiots like his brother bothered with such foolishness. A mated vampire pair might share the blood of a mortal victim, both striking at once, both controlling the victim’s mind—and joined together in mind-link, too. That was how they found their pleasure.
Still, Damon found himself excited by the idea of kissing Elena, of forcing kisses on her, of feeling her desperation to get away from him suddenly pause—with the little hesitation that came just before response, before yielding herself completely to him.
Maybe I’m going crazy, Damon thought, intrigued. He had never gone crazy before that he could recall, and there was some appeal in the idea. It had been centuries since he’d felt this kind of excitement.
All the better for you, Damaris, he thought. He had reached the point where Sycamore Street cut briefly into the Old Wood, and the road there was winding and dangerous. Regardless, he found himself turning to Damaris to wake her again, noting with approval that her lips were naturally that soft cherry color, without lipstick. He kissed her lightly, then waited to gauge her response.
Pleasure. He could see her mind go soft and rosy with it.
He glanced at the road ahead and then tried it again, this time holding the kiss. He was elated with her response, with both of their responses. This was amazing. It must have to do with the amount of blood he’d had, more than ever before in one day, or the combination—
He suddenly had to wrench his attention from Damaris to driving. Some small russet animal had appeared as if by magic on the road in front of him. Damon normally didn’t go out of his way to run over rabbits, porcupines, and the like, but this one had annoyed him at a crucial moment. He grasped the steering wheel with both hands, his eyes black and cold as glacial ice in the depths of a cave, and headed straight for the russet thing.
Not all tha
t small—there would be a bit of a bump.
“Hang on,” he murmured to Damaris.
At the last instant, the reddish thing dodged. Damon wrenched the wheel round to follow it, and then found himself faced with a ditch. Only the superhuman reflexes of a vampire—and the finely tuned response of a very expensive vehicle—could have kept them out of the ditch. Fortunately Damon had both, swinging them in a tight circle, tires squealing and smoking in protest.
And no bump.
Damon leaped over the car door in one fluid motion and looked around. But whatever it was, had vanished completely, as mysteriously as it had appeared.
Sconosciuto. Weird.
He wished he wasn’t heading into the sun; the bright afternoon light cut down his visual acuity severely. But he’d had a glimpse of the thing as it got close, and it had looked deformed. Pointed at one end and fan-like at the other.
Oh, well.
He turned back to the car, where Damaris was having hysterics. He wasn’t in the mood to coddle anyone, so he simply put her back to sleep. She slumped back into the seat, tears left to dry on her cheeks unheeded.
Damon got back into the car feeling frustrated. But he knew now what he wanted to do today. He wanted to find a bar—either seedy and sleazy or immaculate and expensive—and he wanted to find another vampire. With Fell’s Church being such a hot spot on the ley-line map, that shouldn’t be difficult in the surrounding areas. Vampires and other creatures of darkness were drawn to hot spots like bumblebees to honeysuckle.
And then he wanted a fight. It would be completely unfair—Damon was the strongest vampire left that he knew of, plus he was tick-full of a cocktail of the blood of Fell’s Church’s finest maidens. He didn’t care. He felt like taking his frustrations out on something, and—he flashed that inimitable, incandescent smile at nothing—some werewolf or vampire or ghoul was about to meet its quietus. Maybe more than one, if he were only lucky enough to find them. After which—delicious Damaris for dessert.