by L. J. Smith
Something bubbled up explosively again inside Elena. It was a tight hard ball of compressed elation. “Not kill him?” she managed to get out.
“What?”
“Stefan’s alive? He’s alive? He…he’s really alive?”
“Steady,” Damon replied coldly. “Steady on, Elena. We can’t have you fainting.” He held her by the shoulders. “You thought I meant to kill him?”
Elena was trembling almost too hard to answer. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I apologize for the omission.”
“He’s alive—for sure, Damon? You’re absolutely sure?”
“Positive.”
Without a thought of herself, without a thought of any kind, Elena did what she did best—gave in to impulse. She threw her arms around Damon’s neck and kissed him.
For a moment Damon just stood rigid with shock. He had contracted with killers to hijack her lover and decimate her town. But Elena’s mind would never see it that way.
“If he were dead—” He stopped and had to try again. “Shinichi’s whole bargain depends on keeping him alive—alive and away from you. I couldn’t risk you killing yourself or really hating me”—again the note of distant coldness. “With Stefan dead, what hold would I have over you, princess?”
Elena ignored all this. “If he’s alive, I can find him.”
“If he remembers you. But what if every memory he had of you were taken away?”
“What?” Elena wanted to explode. “If every memory of Stefan were taken away from me,” she said icily, “I would still fall in love with him the very moment I saw him. And if every memory of me were taken away from Stefan, he would wander all over the world looking for something without knowing what he was looking for.”
“Very poetic.”
“But, oh, Damon, thank you for not letting Shinichi kill him!”
He shook his head at her, looking bewildered at himself. “I couldn’t—seem to—do that. Something about giving my word. I figured that if he were free and happy and didn’t remember, that would satisfy enough…”
“Of your promise to me? You figured wrong. But it doesn’t matter now.”
“It does matter. You’ve suffered for it.”
“No, Damon. All that really matters is that he’s not dead—and he didn’t leave me. There’s still hope.”
“But Elena,” Damon’s voice had life now; it was both excited and inflexible: “Can’t you see? Past history aside, you have to admit that we’re the ones that belong together. You and I are simply better suited to each other by nature. Deep down you know that, because we understand each other. We’re on the same intellectual level—”
“So is Stefan!”
“Well, all I can say is that he does a remarkable job of hiding it, then. But can’t you feel it? Don’t you feel”—his grip was becoming uncomfortable now—“that you could be my princess of darkness—that something deep inside you wants to? I can see it, if you can’t.”
“I can’t be anything to you, Damon. Except a decent sister-in-law.”
He shook his head, laughing harshly. “No, you’re only suited for the main role. Well, all I can say is that if we live through the fight with the twins, you’ll see things in yourself that you’ve never seen before. And you’ll know that we’re more suited together.”
“And all I can say is that if we live through this fight with the Bobbsey twins from Hell, it sounds as if we’re going to need all the spiritual power that we can get afterward. And that means getting Stefan back.”
“We may not be able to get him back. Oh, I agree—even if we drive Shinichi and Misao away from Fell’s Church, the likelihood that we’re going to be able to do away with them completely is about zero. You’re no fighter. We’re probably not even going to be able to hurt them very much. But even I don’t know exactly where Stefan is.”
“Then the twins are the only ones who can help us.”
“If they still can help us—oh, all right, I’ll admit it. The Shi no Shi are probably complete frauds. They probably take a few memories from vampire chumps—memories are the coin of choice in the realm of the Other Side—and then send them away while the cash register is still jingling. They’re frauds. The whole place is a giant slum and freakshow—sort of like a rundown Vegas.”
“But they’re not afraid that the vampires they cheat will want revenge?”
Damon laughed, this time musically. “A vampire who doesn’t want to be a vampire is about the lowest object on the totem pole on the Other Side. Oh, except for humans. Along with lovers who’ve fulfilled suicide pacts, kids who jump off the roof because they think their Superman cape can make them fly—”
Elena tried to pull away from him, to reprove him, but he was surprisingly strong. “It doesn’t sound like a very nice place.”
“It isn’t.”
“And that’s where Stefan is?”
“If we’re lucky.”
“So basically,” she said, seeing things, as she always did, in terms of Plans A, B, C, and D, “first we have to find out where Stefan is from these twins. Second, we have to get the twins to heal the little girls they’ve possessed. Third, we have to get them to leave Fell’s Church alone—for good. But before any of that, we have to find Stefan. He’ll be able to help us; I know he will. And then we just hope we’re strong enough for the rest.”
“We could use Stefan’s help, all right. But you missed the real point—for now, what we have to do is keep the twins from killing us.”
“They still think you’re their friend, yes?” Elena’s mind was flickering through options. “Make them sure you are. Wait until a strategic moment comes, and then take the chance. Do we have any weapons against them?”
“Iron. They do badly against iron—they’re demons. And dear Shinichi is obsessed with you, although I can’t say his sister will approve when she realizes it.”
“Obsessed?”
“Yes. With you and with English folk songs, remember? Although I can’t fathom why. The songs, I mean.”
“Well, I don’t know what we can make of that—”
“But I’ll bet that his obsession with you will make Misao angry. It’s just a hunch, but she’s had him to herself for thousands of years.”
“Then we set them against each other, pretend that he’s going to get me. Damon—what?” Elena added in tones of alarm as he tightened his grip on her as if concerned.
“He’s not going to get you,” Damon said.
“I know that.”
“I don’t quite like the idea of anyone else getting you. You were meant to be mine, you know.”
“Damon, don’t. I’ve told you. Please—”
“Meaning ‘please don’t make me hurt you’? The truth is that you can’t hurt me unless I let you. You can only hurt yourself against me.”
Elena could at least pull their upper bodies farther apart. “Damon, we just made an agreement, made plans. Now, what are we doing, throwing them all away?”
“No, but I thought of another way to get you a grade-A superhero, right now. You’ve been saying I should take more of your blood for ages.”
“Oh…yes.” It was true, even if that had been before he had admitted to her the terrible things he’d done. And…
“Damon, what happened with Matt in the clearing? We went looking all over for him, but we didn’t find him. And you were glad.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. “In the real world I was angry at him, Elena. He seemed to be just another rival. Part of the reason we’re here is so I can remember exactly what happened.”
“Did you hurt Matt, Damon? Because now you’re hurting me.”
“Yes.” Damon’s voice was light and indifferent suddenly, as if he found it amusing. “I suppose I did hurt him. I used psychic pain on him, and that’s stopped a lot of hearts from beating. But your Mutt’s tough. I like that. I made him suffer more and more, and yet he still went on living because he was afraid to leave you alone.”
“Damon!” Elena wrenched herself back, only to find that it did no good. He was far, far stronger than she was. “How could you do that to him?”
“I told you; he was a rival.” Damon laughed suddenly. “You really don’t remember, do you? I made him abase himself for you. I made him eat dirt, literally, for you.”
“Damon—are you crazy?”
“No. I’m just now finding my sanity. I don’t need to convince you that you belong to me. I can take you.”
“No, Damon. I won’t be your princess of darkness or—or anything else of yours without asking. At the most you’ll have a dead body to play with.”
“Maybe I’d like that. But you forget; I can enter your mind. And you still have friends—at home, getting ready for supper or bed, you hope. Don’t you? Friends with all their limbs; who’ve never known real pain.”
It took Elena a long time to speak. Then she said quietly, “I take back every decent thing I ever said about you. You’re a monster, do you hear that? You’re an abomin—” Her voice wound slowly down. “They’re making you do this, aren’t they?” she said finally, flatly. “Shinichi and Misao. A nice little show for them. Just like they made you hurt Matt and me before.”
“No, I do only what I want to.” Was that a flash of red Elena saw in his eyes? The briefest flaring of a flame…“Do you know how beautiful you are when you’re crying? You’re more beautiful than ever. The gold in your eyes seems to rise to the surface and spill down in tears of diamond. I would love to have a sculptor carve a bust of you weeping.”
“Damon, I know you’re not really saying this. I know that the thing they put inside you is the one saying it.”
“Elena, I assure you, it’s all me. I quite enjoyed it when I made him hurt you. I liked to hear the way you cried out. I made him tear your clothes—I had to hurt him a lot to get him to do it. But didn’t you notice that your camisole had been torn, and that you were barefooted? That was all Mutt.”
Elena forced her mind back to the moment she had come to herself leaping out of the Ferrari. Yes, then, and in the time afterward she had been barefooted and bare-armed, wearing only a camisole. Quite a bit of the fabric of her jeans had been left on the roadside after that, and in the surrounding vegetation. But it had never occurred to her to wonder what had happened to her boots and socks, or how her camisole had been torn in strips at the bottom. She’d simply been so grateful for help…to the one who had hurt her in her first place.
Oh, Damon must have thought that ironic. She suddenly realized she herself was thinking of Damon and not of the possessor. Not of Shinichi and Misao. But they weren’t the same, she told herself. I’ve got to remember that!
“Yes, I enjoyed making him hurt you, and I enjoyed hurting you. I made him bring me a willow rod, just the right thickness, and then whipped you with it. You enjoyed that, too, I promise you. Don’t bother to look for marks because they’ve all gone like the others. But all three of us enjoyed hearing your cries. You…and me…and Mutt, too. In fact, of all of us, he may have enjoyed it most.”
“Damon, shut up! I won’t listen to you talk about Matt that way!”
“I wouldn’t let him see you without your clothes on, though,” Damon confided, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “That was when I had him—dismissed. Put into another snow globe. I wanted to hunt you as you tried to get away from me, in an empty globe that you could never get out of. I wanted to see that special look in your eyes that you get when you fight with everything you have—and I wanted to see it defeated. You’re no fighter, Elena.” Damon laughed suddenly, an ugly sound, and to Elena’s shock his arm shot out and he punched through the wall of the widow’s walk.
“Damon…” She was sobbing by now.
“And then I wanted to do this.” With no warning, Damon’s fist forced her chin up, jerking her head back. His other hand tangled in her hair, bringing her neck back to the exact position he wanted her to be in. And then Elena felt him strike, quick as a cobra, and felt the two tearing wounds in the side of her neck, and her own blood spurting out of them.
Ages later, Elena woke up sluggishly. Damon was still enjoying himself, clearly lost in the experience of having Elena Gilbert. And there was no time to make different plans.
Her body simply took over by itself, startling her almost as much as it startled Damon. Even as he lifted his head, her hand plucked the magical house key off his finger. Then she gripped, twisted, lifted her knees as high as she could, and kicked outward, sending Damon smashing through the splintered, rotted wood that formed the outside railing of the widow’s walk.
34
Elena had once fallen off that balcony and Stefan had jumped and caught her before she could hit the ground. A human falling from that height would be dead on impact. A vampire in full possession of his or her reflexes would simply twist in the air like a cat and land lightly on their feet. But one in Damon’s particular circumstances tonight…
From the sound of it, he had tried to twist, but had only ended up landing on his side and breaking bones. Elena deduced the latter from his cursing. She didn’t wait to listen for more specifics. She was off like a rabbit, down to the level of Stefan’s room—where instantaneously and almost unconsciously, she sent out a wordless plea—and then down the stairs. The cabin had turned completely into a perfect duplicate of the boardinghouse. Elena didn’t know why, but instinctively she ran to the side of the house that Damon would know the least: the old servant’s quarters. She got that far before she dared whispering things to the house, asking for them rather than demanding them, and praying that the house would obey her as it had obeyed Damon.
“Aunt Judith’s house,” she whispered, thrusting the key into a door—it went in like a hot knife into butter and turned almost of its own volition, and then suddenly she was there again, in what had been her home for sixteen years, up until her first death.
She was in the hallway, with her little sister Margaret’s open door showing her lying on the floor of her bedroom, staring with wide-open eyes over a coloring book.
“It’s tag, sweetie!” she announced as if ghosts appeared every day in the Gilbert household and Margaret was supposed to know how to deal with it. “You go running to your friend Barbara’s and then she has to be It. Don’t stop running until you get there, and then go see Barbara’s mom. But first you give me three kisses.” And she lifted Margaret and hugged her tightly and then almost threw her at the door.
“But Elena—you’re back—”
“I know, darling, and I promise to see you again another day. But now—run, baby—”
“I told them you would come back. You did before.”
“Margaret! Run!”
Choking on tears, but maybe recognizing in her childlike way the seriousness of the situation, Margaret ran. And Elena followed, but zagging toward a different staircase when Margaret zigged.
And then she found herself confronted by a smirking Damon.
“You take too long to talk to people,” he said as Elena frantically counted her options. Go over the balcony into the entry way? No. Damon’s bones might still hurt a little but if Elena jumped even one story, she would probably break her neck. What else? Think!
And then she was opening the door into the china closet, at the same time shouting out, “Great-aunt Tilda’s house,” unsure if the magic would still work. And then she was slamming the door in Damon’s face.
And she was in her Aunt Tilda’s house, but the Aunt Tilda’s house of the past. No wonder they accused poor Auntie Tilda of seeing strange things, Elena thought, as she saw the woman turning while holding a large glass casserole dish full of something that smelled mushroomy, and screaming, and dropping the dish.
“Elena!” she cried. “What—it can’t be you—you’re all grown up!”
“What’s the trouble?” demanded Aunt Maggie, who was Aunt Tilda’s friend, coming in from the other room. She was taller and fiercer than Aunt Tilda.
“I’m being chased,” cried Elena. “I
need to find a door, and if you see a boy after me—”
And just then Damon stepped out of the coat closet, and at the same time Aunt Maggie tripped him neatly and said, “Bathroom door beside you,” and picked up a vase and hit the rising Damon over the head with it. Hard.
And Elena dashed through the bathroom door, crying, “Robert E. Lee High School last fall—just as the bell’s rung!”
And then she was swimming against the flow, with dozens of students trying to get to their classes on time—but then one of them recognized her, and then another, and while apparently she’d successfully traveled to a time when she wasn’t dead—no one was screaming “ghost”—neither had anyone at Robert E. Lee ever seen Elena Gilbert wearing a boy’s shirt over a camisole, with her hair falling wildly over her shoulders.
“It’s a costume for a play!” she shouted, and created one of the immortal legends about herself before she had even died by adding, “Caroline’s house!” and stepping into a janitor’s closet. An instant later, the most gorgeous boy that anyone had ever seen appeared behind her, and rocketed through the same doors saying words in a foreign language. And when the janitor’s closet opened, neither boy nor girl was there.
Elena landed running down a hallway and almost crashed into Mr. Forbes, who looked rather wobbly. He was drinking what seemed to be a large glass of tomato juice that smelled like alcohol.
“We don’t know where she’s gone, all right?” he shouted before Elena could say a word. “She’s gone right out of her mind, as far as I can tell. She was talking about the ceremony at the widow’s walk—and the way she was dressed! Parents don’t have any control over children anymore!” He slumped against the wall.
“I’m so sorry,” murmured Elena. The ceremony. Well, Black Magic ceremonies were usually held at moonrise or midnight. And it was just a few minutes before midnight. But in those minutes, Elena had just come up with scheme B.