by L. J. Smith
“I think it has to be,” Jasmine whispered. Tears were running down her cheeks, and she let go of his hand again to swipe at them, sniffing.
Part of Matt wasn’t surprised. All this time, he’d known that it would come down to this—his friends, or Jasmine. He couldn’t have both. Love didn’t work out for him. He ducked his head down, stared at his grimy sneakers. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said softly, “but I can’t change who I am.”
There was a choked-off sob from Jasmine, and then her lips brushed lightly over his cheek. He didn’t look up, just kept his eyes fixed on the tattered shoelaces on his right shoe, the rip in the side. Then she was gone, the door of her building slamming behind her.
Matt touched the spot where Jasmine had kissed him, holding onto this, the last kiss she would give him. The sun had risen over the horizon now, and everything seemed hard and cold and bright.
He turned and walked back to the car alone, the wind whipping against his cheeks where he could still feel Jasmine’s kiss.
The motel room Trinity had been sharing with Darlene didn’t seem to hold any immediate clues. It was small and sort of grimy: There was barely enough room for all of them to fit inside. Jack and Darlene were rifling through Trinity’s possessions while Stefan and Elena searched the furniture for anything hidden. Zander and Shay were mostly hanging around the kitchenette, doubtlessly searching for scent clues, and Meredith herself was examining Trinity’s weapon collection.
The others were mostly out patrolling the town and the woods, the Pack’s sharp noses trying to root out any scent that might lead them to Trinity. Matt hadn’t shown up yet. He was probably on his way from Jasmine’s now.
This is what it’s like to be a traveling hunter, Meredith thought, looking around. She and Stefan had traveled in search of Old Ones, of course, but only for a few days at a time. This room was different. Everything in it, from the hard-wearing, neutral-colored clothes to the neatly kept weapons, could be packed quickly and easily into one duffle bag. These were the possessions of a girl constantly on the road.
Meredith reached into the weapons bag and ran her thumb over the handle of Trinity’s spare machete. The grip was worn with use.
“I don’t think she’s been back,” Darlene said, rifling carefully through a bureau drawer. Her face was creased with concern. “All of her clothes are here.”
“These papers just have to do with the hunt,” Jack said from the desk. “Nothing I don’t have. Would she have gone back to her family, do you think? Maybe if she was confused from the blood loss?”
Darlene shook her head, her eyes fixed on Trinity’s meager possessions. “Her parents were killed in a vampire attack a couple of years back. There’s no one else.”
Stefan’s hands paused for a moment in their careful examination of the space below Trinity’s mattress, where he was feeling for anything hidden. It was the tiniest flinch, but Meredith saw it. She knew how much human deaths at the hands of other vampires bothered him, even now that he’d killed so many monsters, saved all of their lives so many times. Stefan, she thought, had never forgiven himself for what he was.
Elena laid a comforting hand on Stefan’s shoulder and said idly to Jack, “I thought you’d all known one another all your lives.”
“Not Jack,” Darlene told her. “He recruited us for this hunt out of Atlanta about a year ago. We’ve been after Solomon ever since.”
“We’re all from hunter families, though,” Jack said, “and that’s a bond that crosses state lines.” He grinned at Meredith, and something warm expanded in her chest at the acceptance in his eyes: She and Jack and Darlene, they were all hunters.
She stood and zipped Trinity’s weapons bag back up. It didn’t hold any clues. “If only Bonnie were here. She does a great tracing spell. I’ll have Alaric call her, and she can talk him through it.”
Stefan nodded. “That’s probably our best option.”
Darlene closed the bureau drawer. “Guess we should go,” she said, but she hesitated, looking around the room one more time. Her face was tight with anxiety. “I just don’t know where she could have gone,” she said softly.
Zander cleared his throat. He and Shay were hovering in the kitchenette, and something in the way they were standing made the hairs suddenly stand up on the backs of Meredith’s arms.
“Are we sure Solomon’s dead?” Zander asked, sounding reluctant, rocking back on his heels.
Stefan and Meredith glanced at each other.
“We all saw him die,” Meredith said, puzzled. “You saw, too. Stefan cut him in half.”
“Wait, do you smell him?” Elena asked, horrified. One of her hands pulled back in front of her chest, as if to stave off a blow. “You said all the scents in here were old,” she protested.
Shay shrugged. “In here, yeah.”
Zander shifted from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable and anxious. “The smells in here are old,” he said, “but back at your apartment, Trinity didn’t smell right. It’s kind of hard to explain. Like, her scent and Solomon’s scents were all wrapped up together. I didn’t worry about it then, because we were all just focused on how hurt she was, but now …”
He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, and Meredith suppressed a little flare of annoyance. Bonnie usually acted as a Zander translator for the rest of her friends. Meredith hadn’t really noticed until Bonnie went away that the guy wasn’t the best at communication.
“Of course Trinity smelled like Solomon,” Meredith said, trying to sound patient. “He was touching her at the Plantation Museum. And when Stefan killed him, his blood went all over her.”
“Not like that,” Zander said, frowning. “His scent wasn’t on top of hers; they were all mixed up together. That’s not how it works.” He looked at Shay and she gave him a little shrug, as if to say, this is your thing, not mine. Turning to Stefan, he said, “Is there any way he could have infected Trinity with something? Like, with some aspect of himself? Can Old Ones do that?”
Say no. Meredith looked at Stefan for reassurance, but he frowned, unsure. “The Old Ones have so many Powers that other vampires don’t,” he said slowly. “I never heard of anything like that, but it could be true.”
Jack shook his head decidedly. “I’ve been hunting Old Ones for a while—longer than you, Stefan, no offense. None of them could do that.”
A flicker of movement outside the window caught Meredith’s eye. “Matt’s here,” she said. She opened the door, and Matt came in, red-eyed and unshaven.
“Are you okay?” Meredith asked. They were all tired and worried, but Matt looked even worse than the rest of them, shockingly pale and grim under his stubble, his face almost paper white.
“Fine,” Matt said, but he sounded distracted. He looked at Stefan. “Listen, Jasmine said Trinity’s eyes were yellow when she was treating her. I don’t … what do you think that means?”
Goose bumps crawled up Meredith’s skin. “Possession?” she said, her voice sounding strangely high to her own ears. “With the eyes, and the scent? Even though Solomon’s dead?”
Stefan frowned. “He was doing something to Trinity before we managed to kill him. And the way he went around to all of us in the room, like he was testing us. It could have been a spell, some kind of blood ritual.”
Jack stood. The way he pulled his shoulders back, his weight evenly balanced between his feet, reminded Meredith of how he’d looked when they were sparring. But the enemy wasn’t here to fight. “What are you trying to suggest?” he asked.
Elena swallowed. “He’s saying that when Solomon was in danger, he might have … moved into Trinity’s body.”
“If that were true,” Stefan said, thinking aloud, “if he’s really possessing Trinity right now, then all we’ve done is make him angrier. Make him want revenge.” Stefan’s eyes were fixed on Elena, and Meredith knew whom he was most worried about.
Elena’s own mouth, however, had dropped open the moment Stefan said revenge. She looke
d around the circle of faces, her eyes wide with terror. “Where’s Andrés?”
On the porch of James’s old house, Elena dug in her purse for her keys.
“I didn’t know you guys kept this house,” Spencer said cheerfully. “Sweet.” Zander had sent the younger werewolf along with Elena, Stefan, and Meredith while the rest of the Pack searched the woods, but Spencer seemed pretty casual about it. He’d always been sort of a preppy frat-boy type, perpetually tan, collar popped. He wasn’t Elena’s favorite werewolf.
“James left it to Andrés in his will,” she explained tightly, finally unearthing the keys. “It comes in handy for Guardian business.” In this case, “Guardian business” mostly meant that Andrés had a place to stay when he visited Dalcrest, as did Aunt Judith and Elena’s little sister, Margaret.
Elena thought fondly for a moment of James. He’d been her professor at Dalcrest and had helped her ease into her life as a Guardian. She owed him so much.
But she couldn’t help remembering, too, that this house was also the place where James had died. As Elena turned the key she tried to convince herself that her feeling of dread was misguided. Andrés had probably just overslept after everything that had happened last night.
The door swung open with a bang, and a rush of icy air chilled them. Spencer’s and Stefan’s heads shot up, both of them instantly on alert. It was as if they heard—or, God, smelled—something none of the humans could.
“Stay here, Elena,” Stefan said, but she shook her head and moved forward with the others.
They found Andrés in the bedroom.
He was lying sprawled out across the flowered comforter, blood flooding the bed from the wide gashes in his torso. His face, however, was curiously untouched. His dark eyes stared into the distance, their long black lashes framing only blankness, and his mouth hung slack. One hand dangled off the bed, fingers pointing down. A trail of blood still ran sluggishly over his wrist and hand, dripping slowly onto the floor.
Elena buckled when she saw him, almost falling, but Meredith grabbed her and held her up. Oh God oh God. He’d been ripped apart, just like Sammy.
All around them sounded the steady drip of water as the ice on the windows and mirrors began to melt.
“Solomon was here,” Stefan said. “We were right; he’s not dead.” His voice sounded almost dry and matter-of-fact, but Elena could hear the devastation underneath. They had all thought they were safe.
Elena stepped forward slowly, a sob escaping her throat. Meredith tried to hold her back, but she shook off her friend’s grip. When she reached Andrés, she stood still and looked at him, trying to look past the gore to see her friend one last time.
Tentatively, she reached out to touch his hand, ignoring the sticky, lukewarm blood that coated it. Andrés’s hands had always been in motion, graceful and expressive, reaching out to embrace the world. She remembered the day they’d met, when he had taken her hand in his, warm and strong and reassuring. They sat under a tree together, and he told her the truth about being a Guardian, and she had been less afraid.
Behind her, the others were murmuring together. Spencer had pulled out his phone and was calling someone, probably Zander. They were all tense and eager to hunt, she knew, but Elena wasn’t ready to join them.
Andrés’s eyes were dull now. They’d always been so bright. He’d been in love, for the first time, and somehow that seemed worse than anything, that he’d died here, thousands of miles away from his love.
Elena brushed her hand lightly over her friend’s face, closing his eyes. “Good-bye, Andrés,” she said quietly. It seemed so important to be gentle with him now, even though he wasn’t really here anymore. “I’m so sorry.”
#TVD11SolomonLives
“Damon, there’s something wrong with you. I know it. I can feel it through our bond.” Damon listened as Elena took a ragged breath, sounding tearful. “Are you okay?”
“Damon, please call me. I’m worried about you.”
“Damon, I don’t even know if you’re getting these messages. If you are, call me. Please.”
Clicking “delete” on the last of the many messages from Elena that had filled up his voice mail, Damon leaned back to rest against one of the small peaked roofs of the Musée d’Orsay. A stiff night breeze lifted his hair, and he huddled into the collar of his jacket. Normally the cold wouldn’t bother him at all, but he hadn’t fed since Katherine died, and he was starting to feel it.
This was a good spot to rest. He hadn’t yet seen any of the vampires that were chasing him shape-shift or fly, so for whatever reason, they must not be able to. And from here Damon had a fine view over the rooftops of Paris, the river Seine at his back. There would be plenty of warning if anyone came after him. Finally, a moment to catch his breath and listen to his messages.
Elena liked Paris, he remembered; she had visited when she was a schoolgirl. Maybe she’d even been to the Musée. He remembered when this building had been a train station, modern in every detail at the beginning of the twentieth century: elevators, underground tracks, and above, a great sunlight-flooded space. It had seemed impossibly new to Damon at the time.
He shook his head, dismissing the memory. He’d been feeling melancholy and sentimental lately, ever since he’d said good-bye to poor Katherine’s empty body, leaving it buried in a churchyard—the least he could do for her. He was angry, and tired of running, and most of all, he was hungry.
But not lonely. He was never lonely, Damon reminded himself. Vampires weren’t meant to travel in packs. Still, it would be nice to hear Elena’s voice again.
When he called, she picked up immediately. “Damon? Are you okay?” Her voice was thick with tears, and he stiffened automatically.
“What’s wrong, princess?” he asked, peering over the side of the museum. Was that a vampire far below, moving purposefully toward him? He sent his Power questing, found nothing. Sometimes they seemed to turn up out of nowhere, and he wasn’t good at sensing this new kind of vampire at all.
“Andrés is dead,” Elena told him, her voice cracking. “We think … the Old One we thought Stefan and Andrés killed, he’s not dead after all. And he murdered Andrés.” She gave a desolate little sob that went straight to Damon’s heart.
“Oh, Elena,” Damon said softly. “I’m sorry. I know you cared for him.” The Guardian had been a friend to Elena, and, for that, Damon found it in himself to feel sorry he was gone.
Wait a minute. The Old One had been strong enough to trick Stefan and murder a Guardian?
Damn Stefan, anyway. He had told Damon that everything was fine.
“Stefan couldn’t kill the Old One?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the walkway below. There were definitely more figures gathering there.
“It wasn’t Stefan’s fault,” Elena argued. Damon sighed. Elena would always defend Stefan.
“But that doesn’t mean it’s okay,” he said. “Stefan thought he was in control, and he wasn’t. He told me you’d be fine.”
Damon got to his feet, keeping a careful eye on the little knot of people—or vampires?—far below. Straightening his jacket, he realized his hands were shaking slightly. It was so typical of Stefan. He wasn’t as careful as he thought he was.
“Nothing’s ever Stefan’s fault, is it?” he went on, surprised at the bitterness in his own voice. “I asked him to come out here to help us, and he said no. And now Katherine’s dead. He said he would protect you, you and all your little human friends out there wallowing in small-town America, and now they’re dying.”
Elena sucked in a short, horrified breath. “Katherine’s dead?” she asked.
“Yes,” Damon said. He could hear Elena starting to cry again. Belatedly, he tried to soften his tone. Katherine and Elena, he had forgotten they had their own tie. “We just … weren’t enough to fight what’s after us, not this time. I asked Stefan to help, but he wouldn’t come. I’ll kill them, though, I promise you that.”
“I had no idea,” Elena said bleakly. “I
’m so sorry, Damon. I know how much she meant to you.”
For a moment, Damon was surprised that Elena knew how he’d felt about Katherine, when he’d only just figured it out himself. But of course Elena knew; she could feel everything he felt. He pressed his fist against his chest, letting the ache of sorrow pass between them.
“She and Stefan were the only ones left,” he said. “The only ones who knew who I used to be. Now there’s only Stefan.”
Elena sighed softly through the phone, thousands of miles away, and Damon felt her sympathy like a warm pulse in the bond between them.
The group down below was streaming into the museum. It was dark and silent inside; these were no tourists. Time to go. “Elena, I can’t talk,” he said, speaking quickly, slamming shut her link to his emotions. “I’ll call again soon.”
He clicked the phone off and tucked it into his pocket, ignoring her call of “Damon!” Closing his eyes, he searched for his Power and pulled it around him.
For a moment, he didn’t think he would be strong enough. He was so tired and hungry. He’d raced across most of Europe in the past few weeks, trying to get away from these nearly unkillable vampires, but they just kept coming. He could hear footsteps on the grand staircase of the museum, far below. Maybe Paris was as good a place as any to die one more time.
No. Fiercely, he dug deep in himself for more Power. He was Damon Salvatore. He was an aristocrat, a gentleman, a vampire. No one was going to bring him to his knees.
In his rage, he found what he needed. Long before his pursuers reached the roof of the museum, Damon had stretched his wings and flown into the darkness.
Elena couldn’t breathe. Andrés dead. Katherine dead. Trinity dead, or possessed—who knew how much of her was still in there?
Damon had asked Stefan to help him, and Stefan had said no. Why hadn’t he told her?
She was gripping her phone so tightly that its edges hurt her hand. Carefully, she hit the off button and put it down. Then she went to find Stefan.