by L. J. Smith
Two syllables, she thought. Starts with W. Or maybe not. She couldn’t think of any word except “wherefore” that started with the right sound and made sense when applied to an eighteen-year-old female. And what did wherefore and a hawk have in common?
* * *
Bonnie’s head hurt. She’d knocked into something very hard during the time she couldn’t remember. And she’d said something so awful that even Meredith didn’t want to repeat it to her. Elena’s face had still been pale when she’d said goodnight.
Bonnie tried to control the fear that roiled inside her. She took slow deep breaths, pretending she didn’t see Meredith watching her covertly.
In, two, three, four; hold, two, three, four; out, two, three, four; hold, two three—gasp!
Bonnie felt Meredith go still at the gasp, but she didn’t explain that she was trying to be calm. She knew Meredith knew that. But neither of them knew what to do.
I am probably going insane right this minute, Bonnie thought, and felt her guts cramp with chill. Schizophrenic? Psychotic? Me? But what else could you call it when you terrified all your friends by saying things that you didn’t even remember?
Meredith was treating her as if she might spontaneously combust at any second. Bonnie could almost imagine that she could hear what Meredith was thinking. It was all about how to soothe her . . . with chamomile tea and a heating blanket and an icepack on the bump on her head. It was so like Meredith, to think that if she just did enough, Bonnie would somehow be fine . . .
And now you’re imagining that you can really hear her! a voice in Bonnie’s mind said sarcastically. You’re already completely nuts, aren’t you?
Bonnie shivered as they reached their room and Meredith opened the door for her. Her head was throbbing and she was very cold inside.
She certainly didn’t want any pizza. Or any tea, for that matter.
* * *
Mrs. Flowers examined the bottom of her teacup earnestly. As her eyes moved, her forehead puckered with concern.
There was one very large clump of tea leaves. That indicated trouble. Had it been near the handle it would have been trouble of her own making; however, the clump was opposite the handle. The trouble might not be her fault, but it was still coming.
Other bits of leaf had joined to form a pattern that looked something like spectacles—no, a mask!
Deception, she thought in dismay. Lies, secrets, and base trickery.
There had been dishonesty already, but this mask was to the right of the handle which she held facing her. It meant more lies in the future. And it was close, meaning that it was coming soon.
Mrs. Flowers sighed and put the cup down as she stared sightlessly into the middle of her kitchen. She wished that dear Mama would be more helpful and that dear Grandmama would do more than snort when she asked for advice. Clearly they felt she had to decipher the first prophecies she had been given before they would vouchsafe more.
She glanced upward, toward the stairs of the boardinghouse that now had not a single boarder. She wondered what Stefan was doing at night, and wished, helplessly, that he might come back here, to a place that had been home to him for a short while.
He would be needed, she thought grimly. Everyone would need to stand together in the days ahead. Of course, that was going to be a bit difficult if no one could even recall who they actually were.
Mrs. Flowers realized that she was getting a headache.
* * *
Damon walked back to Elena’s room with the coverlet rolled like a rug under his arm. He was whistling the waltz from Gounod’s opera Faust—and he was not thinking about his brother.
Elena. Dancing witch-fire in her gold-flecked dark blue eyes. She was waiting for him in Soto Hall. Like Faust’s sweetheart, Marguerite, she was a white soul, a dove, an inspiration.
Or, better still, she was like Helen of Troy in Marlowe’s play Doctor Faustus, Damon thought, remembering the prophecy given by Mrs. Flowers’ dear Mama to Stefan. To Elena, one could quite honestly say:
“O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars . . .”
He knocked at Elena’s door as he reached her room, only to have it instantly opened by Matt. Damon stepped inside, frowning.
Matt was supposed to be watching Elena, so what was he doing standing . . .
Damon’s mind broke off in mid-thought. The room was empty.
“What happened?” he demanded of Matt. “Where is everybody? Where’s Elena?”
Matt just gaped, and Damon realized that he was holding onto the human’s arm with a fair proportion of his true strength. He forced himself to let go.
“I’m over here,” a slightly muffled voice came from inside the room. “Bonnie woke up and everyone else left. And none of it is Matt’s fault, so leave him alone.”
Damon stared, seeing for the first time that there was no turquoise and lavender spread on the bed, and that two of the four square pizza boxes had disappeared.
“I see,” he said slowly. Then, rapidly picking up speed: “Good night, Matt. Thank you—really sorry about your arm. Ice it. Take some ice.”
“Take a pizza, Matt,” Elena’s muffled voice echoed. “Goodbye.”
When Matt was gone, Damon walked around the bed and looked down at the floor, where Elena was lying wrapped in the bedspread, her head on a lavender throw pillow.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“I think I’m getting some sleep—or trying to. I know it’s early, but I’m tired.”
“You know what I mean. What are you doing lying on the floor?”
“You informed me that you were moving onto the bed,” Elena said, pulling a fold of the spread over her face as she rolled onto her side. “But I promised—I gave my word—that I wouldn’t share my bed with a guy. So unless you go away, this is where I’ll be.”
Damon felt like hitting something unnecessarily violently. Instead, he said, “Look, I brought this coverlet for you—and another surprise.”
Elena barely glanced at the coverlet. “Good. Now we each have one. Goodnight, Damon.”
“I said, and another surprise.”
“Show me in the morning. Goodnight.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock yet—”
“It seems much, much later to me.”
Damon couldn’t think of a sensible answer to that, so he simply said, as calmly as he could, “Princess, get up.”
“No.”
“Come on, angel. For my sake, just—just get up off the damn floor, will you?”
“No. I’ve got the floor; you’ve got the bed. And that’s that.”
“Elena, get up!”
This time she didn’t answer him at all. Dropping the rolled coverlet on the lavender sheets of the bed, Damon began to crouch, intending to pick her up bodily.
Elena turned to look at him, stopping him undead in his tracks. Her lapis lazuli blue eyes were not dancing with witch-fire; they were blazing with the light of a thousand stars.
“Don’t . . . even . . . think . . . about it,” she said in a glacial voice.
Damon retreated with what dignity he could gather.
“Fine,” he said. “Fine! I’m going to spend the night in the lounge chair. I’m sure you don’t want me sharing your floor.”
No answer. Damon dropped into the lounge chair in the opposite corner of the room. But it was difficult to stay seated. He was full of adrenaline and his pride was wounded. Even worse, this setup was no good. He needed to be within arm’s reach of Elena—in fact, he needed to be touching her. There was no other way to guarantee her safety. As it was, he might as well have gone to the woods like Stefan.
A minute passed. Five more slow minutes.
“Elena?”
“Go ’way.”
“I need your attention for a moment.”
“Attend this.” A pale hand appeared above the level of the bed that separated them. It was making a gesture that
, in Italy, was quite rude.
Damon succeeded in turning a chortle into a coughing spasm. He concluded that the wooden floor was uncomfortable.
Another five minutes passed, even more slowly than the last.
“Elena? Princess?”
No answer. But now that he wasn’t panicking Damon could see Elena’s aura in minute detail on the opposite side of the bed. She was wide awake.
“I know you’re not asleep.”
“How,” Elena asked, sighing heavily, “could I possibly sleep when you keep enthralling me with such fascinating tidbits of conversation?”
“Fascinating or not, you should listen to me. You must be thinking about what’s happening with Bonnie. I’m thinking about it, too. And I’m thinking about the news story on television.”
Elena sighed again, but she seemed to thaw slightly. “Bonnie—I’m starting to believe that she needs a doctor. Not like Dr. Alpert. A psychiatrist.”
“Maybe,” Damon temporized, having no idea what a psychiatrist would make of Bonnie’s trances. “But, you know, I have an idea about that girl at Beckley Memorial in Heron. Why don’t we go and see if we can visit her tomorrow? She may have some answers that bear on what happened to you.”
For a moment he thought that Elena was going to say something about missing more classes. Instead she finally murmured, “It’s a good idea—if they’ll let us speak to her. If she’s even conscious. After all, whatever is going on with Bonnie is my fault in the first place.”
“You what?”
“It’s true. The—the psychogenic trances started when she first came to visit me in the hospital. Something she saw there made her . . . freak out, and she’s been freaking out ever since.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Damon snapped.
“Thank you,” Elena blazed back. She sat up, which allowed Damon to see the top of her head. “Now you give me your theory about why she’s suddenly doing this and we can see which one is more ridiculous!”
Damon shut his mouth with a click of teeth. This was beyond the call of duty. To sit here knowing that Bonnie was a witch who was being used by a malign entity—and not to be able to say a word about it—was not a nurturing experience.
Little brother, he thought for the hundredth time, you’ve put me in an impossible position. And the wave of anger that he felt for Stefan’s lunacy merged with the waves of anger he was feeling for Elena’s stubbornness.
“We’ll go tomorrow,” he said in a clipped voice. “I’m betting she will be awake. And meanwhile, we’ll go to sleep—but not like this.”
Finally, Elena was goaded into standing up. Damon immediately stood as well. At least they could face each other now.
“It’s my room—or have you forgotten?” Elena said. “You have a perfectly good one of your own.”
If only you knew, Damon thought.
“I haven’t forgotten. And like I said, I don’t mean any disrespect to your aunt. But after what Bonnie just said, after what we saw on the news—I’m worried about you. I need to be close to you if I’m going to—” He suddenly realized where this sentence was going.
“To take care of me,” Elena finished. “Thank you very much, but I plan on taking care of myself.”
Damon ground his teeth. Against a copycat vampire? he thought. Against someone who wants your blood and death, because it’s fun?
All he said was: “You can’t. Not while you’re asleep.”
“And neither can you—while you’re asleep!” Elena retorted.
“I sleep very lightly,” Damon said, thinking: For pity’s sake, moron, just Influence her! Do it! Do it now!
“I can’t break my promise,” Elena said. “I would never ask you to go back when you’d given your word.”
“What if I call your Aunt Judith and explain that I only want to be close to you so that whoever attacked you before can’t—”
“Don’t you dare! She’ll end up pulling me off campus, making me come home, if I’m in that much danger. I can’t understand why she hadn’t already suggested something like that.”
Because Stefan Influenced her not to, while he was still full of your sweet blood, Damon thought grimly. The thought was grim because he was realizing just how hungry he was, and just how long the night was going to be, given that he couldn’t leave Elena.
I’d better Influence her now, while I still can, he thought. And because he was taking time deciding exactly how to Influence her, he made the worst mistake possible.
“I said I brought you something besides the coverlet. Here you go.” He held up the locket, which sparkled in the light.
Elena took one look and went ballistic. “So now you’re trying to bribe me to—to—?”
“What? Of course not,” Damon said hastily, wrapping her in a coil of Influence. “I just want you to calm down and then lie down. On the bed. I want you to forget about this silly argument and let us both get some sleep.”
What happened next was completely unexpected. “Are you crazy? What are you saying? And what are you doing—trying to hypnotize me or something?” Elena advanced two steps on him, breaking through the tendril of Influence. “Stop it right now!”
Damon stopped it. He was shocked. He hadn’t comprehended how weak he actually was. He’d skipped lunch, and of course he hadn’t left Elena alone since they’d departed from the hospital.
He couldn’t Influence her. And he was ravenous.
What in hell’s name was he going to do?
“I think,” Elena mused, stepping still closer, “that this is the bit where I kick you out of my room entirely. It’s almost curfew anyway.”
Damon found himself holding completely still, with every muscle tensed, like a panther before a sudden spring. “You are not going to throw me out,” he said very quietly, and added, after a pause, “princess.”
“Didn’t say throw. Said kick,” Elena replied, and it was true that the gold flecks in her lapis eyes grew brighter. Damon had no idea how she managed it, but the fact was that it happened.
“Throw, kick—”
“Meredith,” Elena said composedly, “taught me some killer kicks. Because of . . . because she’s . . .” Her voice trailed off and her pupils widened, but she never took her eyes off Damon. “I forget why now, but she did teach me some.”
Oh, damn. Damn, little brother! You screwed up royally. Motor memory again. Plus an association with Meredith that you didn’t catch. “Elena, I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m not going to let you hurt me, either. And there’s nothing on earth that could make me walk out of this room.”
“Yes, well, if I do it right, you won’t actually be walking. Hobbling, probably. Possibly crawling.”
Damon had thought he couldn’t get more tense. He’d been wrong. “And that’s what you want?” he demanded.
“No, it is not what I want!” Elena almost shouted. “But I’ve tried everything else but saying ‘pretty please with sugar and sprinkles’ and I seriously doubt that that’s going to work!”
“You’re right,” Damon breathed. “You’re right. Pleading equals big fail. But there’s a reason I’m not going to leave you, and the reason is that I love you. And you can’t get around that: you can’t kick it down, or throw it out, or climb over it, or scramble under it. You can’t win this fight.” You’re thinking about dealing with Stefan, he added silently, in his own mind. That’s the opponent you’re imagining, someone full of honor and terrified of harming you. But I’m the other guy.
“If you did love me,” Elena said, and there was genuine bitterness in her tone, “then you’d allow me to keep my word to my aunt. You’d leave like a gentleman.”
There, Damon thought. I knew it. She has no clue.
He went slightly, spontaneously insane, caught between exasperation and exhilaration. He hadn’t seen this particular Elena for over a month and he was realizing just now how much he’d missed her.
“You don’t know who I am,” he said softly. “Le
t me explain. To, ah, thoroughly misquote the erudite Brenna Yovanoff: I am electricity itself. I live with entire galaxies moving through my bloodstream. I have never yet been impressed, my princess, by earthly royalty or heavenly crown. I love you with a desperate fire that I carry like an arch-angel’s flaming sword. I love you the way the Greeks burned Troy for your namesake . . . Helena.”
There was a pause. The gold flecks swam in Elena’s eyes. Damon had the feeling that she might put down the weapon of her wit, as it were, and quit the field of battle on his say-so alone.
But Elena was Elena. Proud as Lucifer and twice as beautiful as he was reputed to be in the beginning. Her name meant light as his meant light-bearer. She was the pure element, and no one had ever wielded her yet.
She took the last step toward him. He could feel the heat of her body on his skin. She was wearing jeans so distressed they were almost white and a wine-colored camisole. Cabernet-colored. He had no idea where her sweater was, but he knew she needed it. He needed it. His canines were sharpening.
“I love you the way a thorn loves the rumor of a rose,” she said. “You think I’m so young, so pristine, so moonlit. But I love you the way a pyromaniac loves napalm. I could kill you in a heartbeat if love was truly war, and you’d laugh and kiss your hand to me as you died. I lost my heart to whatever you really are behind the nice guy act, but we’ve always been on opposite sides. I wouldn’t be surprised if my blood went missing because you drank it . . . Demon.”
Damon tried to keep his eyes off the camisole and the milk-pale skin directly above it. She thought he was two and a half years older than she was, when it was closer to twice two and a half centuries. She wanted to fight on his own territory, to play in the big league, and she had not the slightest idea of what he’d seen and done in his time. She needed to know what she was dealing with.
Before he lost his senses and perforated one of her arteries he remembered the hipflask of Black Magic. He’d refilled it from a bottle in the Ferrari. Now he drew it out of his pocket and drained half of the contents in one long swallow. Then he blinked a few times and sneezed as the sensation of starvation receded.
