by L. J. Smith
“Oops,” Tyler mumbled. “Sorry ’bout that.”
Elena twisted her head, and her mouth met Tyler’s hand, clumsily caressing her cheek. She bit it, sinking her teeth into the fleshy palm. She bit hard, tasting blood, hearing Tyler’s agonized yowl. The hand jerked away.
“Hey! I said I was sorry!” Tyler looked aggrievedly at his maimed hand. Then his face darkened, as, still staring at it, he clenched the hand into a fist.
This is it, Elena thought with nightmare calmness. He’s either going to knock me out or kill me. She braced herself for the blow.
Stefan had resisted coming into the cemetery; everything within him had cried out against it. The last time he’d been here had been the night of the old man.
Horror shifted through his gut again at the memory. He would have sworn that he had not drained the man under the bridge, that he had not taken enough blood to do harm. But everything that night after the surge of Power was muddled, confused. If there had been a surge of Power at all. Perhaps that had been his own imagination, or even his own doing. Strange things could happen when the need got out of control.
He shut his eyes. When he’d heard that the old man was hospitalized, near death, his shock had been beyond words. How could he have let himself get so far out of hand? To kill, almost, when he had not killed since …
He wouldn’t let himself think about that.
Now, standing in front of the cemetery gate in the midnight darkness, he wanted nothing so much as to turn around and go away. Go back to the dance where he’d left Caroline, that supple, sun-bronzed creature who was absolutely safe because she meant absolutely nothing to him.
But he couldn’t go back, because Elena was in the cemetery. He could sense her, and sense her rising distress. Elena was in the cemetery and in trouble, and he had to find her.
He was halfway up the hill when the dizziness hit. It sent him reeling, struggling on toward the church because it was the only thing he could keep in focus. Gray waves of fog swept through his brain, and he fought to keep moving. Weak, he felt so weak. And helpless against the sheer power of this vertigo.
He needed … to go to Elena. But he was weak. He couldn’t be … weak … if he were to help Elena. He needed … to …
The church door yawned before him.
Elena saw the moon over Tyler’s left shoulder. It was strangely fitting that it would be the last thing she ever saw, she thought. The scream had caught in her throat, choked off by fear.
And then something picked Tyler up and threw him against his grandfather’s headstone.
That was what it looked like to Elena. She rolled to the side, gasping, one hand clutching her torn dress, the other groping for a weapon.
She didn’t need one. Something moved in the darkness, and she saw the person who had plucked Tyler off her. Stefan Salvatore. But it was a Stefan she had never seen before: that fine-featured face was white and cold with fury, and there was a killing light in those green eyes. Without even moving, Stefan emanated such anger and menace that Elena found herself more frightened of him than she had been of Tyler.
“When I first met you, I knew you’d never learned any manners,” said Stefan. His voice was soft and cold and light, and somehow it made Elena dizzy. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved toward Tyler, who was shaking his head dazedly and starting to get up. Stefan moved like a dancer, every movement easy and precisely controlled. “But I had no idea that your character was quite so underdeveloped.”
He hit Tyler. The larger boy had been reaching out one beefy hand, and Stefan hit him almost negligently on the side of the face, before the hand made contact.
Tyler flew against another headstone. He scrambled up and stood panting, his eyes showing white. Elena saw a trickle of blood from his nose. Then he charged.
“A gentleman doesn’t force his company on anyone,” said Stefan, and knocked him aside. Tyler went sprawling again, facedown in the weeds and briars. This time he was slower in getting up, and blood flowed from both nostrils and from his mouth. He was blowing like a frightened horse as he threw himself at Stefan.
Stefan grabbed the front of Tyler’s jacket, whirling them both around and absorbing the impact of the murderous rush. He shook Tyler twice, hard, while those big beefy fists wind-milled around him, unable to connect. Then he let Tyler drop.
“He doesn’t insult a woman,” he said. Tyler’s face was contorted, his eyes rolling, but he grabbed for Stefan’s leg. Stefan jerked him to his feet and shook him again, and Tyler went limp as a rag doll, his eyes rolling up. Stefan went on speaking, holding the heavy body upright and punctuating every word with a bone-wrenching shake. “And, above all, he does not hurt her….”
“Stefan!” Elena cried. Tyler’s head was snapping back and forth with every shake. She was frightened of what she was seeing; frightened of what Stefan might do. And frightened above all else of Stefan’s voice, that cold voice that was like a rapier dancing, beautiful and deadly and utterly merciless. “Stefan, stop.”
His head jerked toward her, startled, as if he had forgotten her presence. For a moment he looked at her without recognition, his eyes black in the moonlight, and she thought of some predator, some great bird or sleek carnivore incapable of human emotion. Then understanding came to his face and some of the darkness faded from his gaze.
He looked down at Tyler’s lolling head, then set him gently against the red marble tombstone. Tyler’s knees buckled and he slid down the face of it, but to Elena’s relief his eyes opened—or at least the left one did. The right was swelling to a slit.
“He’ll be all right,” said Stefan emptily.
As her fear ebbed, Elena felt empty herself. Shock, she thought. I’m in shock. I’ll probably start screaming hysterically any minute now.
“Is there someone to take you home?” said Stefan, still in that chillingly deadened voice.
Elena thought of Dick and Vickie, doing God knew what beside Thomas Fell’s statue. “No,” she said. Her mind was beginning to work again, to take notice of things around her. The violet dress was ripped all the way down the front; it was ruined. Mechanically, she pulled it together over her slip.
“I’ll drive you,” said Stefan.
Even through the numbness, Elena felt a quick thrill of fear. She looked at him, a strangely elegant figure among the tombstones, his face pale in the moonlight. He had never looked so … so beautiful to her before, but that beauty was almost alien. Not just foreign, but inhuman, because no human could project that aura of power, or of distance.
“Thank you. That would be very kind,” she said slowly. There was nothing else to do.
They left Tyler painfully getting to his feet by his ancestor’s headstone. Elena felt another chill as they reached the path and Stefan turned toward Wickery Bridge.
“I left my car at the boarding house,” he said. “This is the fastest way for us to get back.”
“Is this the way you came?”
“No. I didn’t cross the bridge. But it’ll be safe.”
Elena believed him. Pale and silent, he walked beside her without touching, except when he took off his blazer to put it around her bare shoulders. She felt oddly sure he would kill anything that tried to get at her.
Wickery Bridge was white in the moonlight, and under it the icy waters swirled over ancient rocks. The whole world was still and beautiful and cold as they walked through the oak trees to the narrow country road.
They passed fenced pastures and dark fields until they reached a long winding drive. The boarding house was a vast building of rust-red brick made from the native clay, and it was flanked with age-old cedars and maples. All but one of the windows were dark.
Stefan unlocked one of the double doors and they stepped into a small hallway, with a flight of stairs directly in front of them. The banister, like the doors, was natural light oak so polished that it seemed to glow.
They went up the stairs to a second-story landing that was poorly lit. To Elena’s
surprise, Stefan led her into one of the bedrooms and opened what looked like a closet door. Through it she could see a very steep, very narrow stairway.
What a strange place, she thought. This hidden stairway buried deep in the heart of the house, where no sound from outside could penetrate. She reached the top of the stairs and stepped out into a large room that made up the whole third story of the house.
It was almost as dimly lit as the stairway, but Elena could see the stained wood floor and the exposed beams in the slanting ceiling. There were tall windows on all sides, and many trunks scattered among a few pieces of massive furniture.
She realized he was watching her. “Is there a bathroom where I—?”
He nodded toward a door. She took off the blazer, held it toward him without looking at him, and went inside.
8
Elena had gone into the bathroom dazed and numbly grateful. She came out angry.
She wasn’t quite sure how the transformation had taken place. But sometime while she was washing the scratches on her face and arms, annoyed at the lack of a mirror and at the fact she’d left her purse in Tyler’s convertible, she started feeling again. And what she felt was anger.
Damn Stefan Salvatore. So cold and controlled even while saving her life. Damn him for his politeness, and for his gallantry, and for the walls around him that seemed thicker and higher than ever.
She pulled the remaining bobby pins out of her hair and used them to fasten the front of her dress together. Then she ran through her loosened hair quickly with an engraved bone comb she found by the sink. She came out of the bathroom with her chin held high and her eyes narrowed.
He hadn’t put his coat back on. He was standing by the window in his white sweater with bowed head, tense, waiting. Without lifting his head, he gestured to a length of dark velvet laid over the back of a chair.
“You might want to put that on over your dress.”
It was a full-length cloak, very rich and soft, with a hood. Elena pulled the heavy material around her shoulders. But she was not mollified by the gift; she noticed that Stefan hadn’t come any closer to her, or even looked at her while speaking.
Deliberately, she invaded his territorial space, pulling the cloak more tightly about her and feeling, even at that moment, a sensual appreciation of the way the folds fell about her, trailing behind her on the floor. She walked up to him and made an examination of the heavy mahogany dresser by the window.
On it lay a wicked-looking dagger with an ivory hilt and a beautiful agate cup mounted in silver. There was also a golden sphere with some sort of dial set into it and several loose gold coins.
She picked up one of the coins, partly because it was interesting and partly because she knew it would upset him to see her handling his things. “What’s this?”
It was a moment before he answered. Then he said:
“A gold florin. A Florentine coin.”
“And what’s this?”
“A German pendant watch. Late fifteenth century,” he said distractedly. He added, “Elena—”
She reached for a small iron coffer with a hinged lid. “What about this? Does it open?”
“No.” He had the reflexes of a cat; his hand slapped over the coffer, holding the lid down. “That’s private,” he said, the strain obvious in his voice.
She noticed that his hand made contact only with the curving iron lid and not with her flesh. She lifted her fingers, and he drew back at once.
Suddenly, her anger was too great to hold in any longer. “Careful,” she said savagely. “Don’t touch me, or you might get a disease.”
He turned away toward the window.
And yet even as she moved away herself, walking back to the center of the room, she could sense his watching her reflection. And she knew, suddenly, what she must look like to him, pale hair spilling over the blackness of the cape, one white hand holding the velvet closed at her throat. A ravaged princess pacing in her tower.
She tilted her head far back to look at the trapdoor in the ceiling, and heard a soft, distinct intake of breath. When she turned, his gaze was fixed on her exposed throat; the look in his eyes confused her. But the next moment his face hardened, closing her out.
“I think,” he said, “that I had better get you home.”
In that instant, she wanted to hurt him, to make him feel as bad as he’d made her feel. But she also wanted the truth. She was tired of this game, tired of scheming and plotting and trying to read Stefan Salvatore’s mind. It was terrifying and yet a wonderful relief to hear her own voice saying the words she’d been thinking so long.
“Why do you hate me?”
He stared at her. For a moment he couldn’t seem to find words. Then he said, “I don’t hate you.”
“You do,” said Elena. “I know it’s not … not good manners to say it, but I don’t care. I know I should be grateful to you for saving me tonight, but I don’t care about that, either. I didn’t ask you to save me. I don’t know why you were even in the graveyard in the first place. And I certainly don’t understand why you did it, considering the way you feel about me.”
He was shaking his head, but his voice was soft. “I don’t hate you.”
“From the very beginning, you’ve avoided me as if I were … were some kind of leper. I tried to be friendly to you, and you threw it back in my face. Is that what a gentleman does when someone tries to welcome him?”
He was trying to say something now, but she swept on, heedless. “You’ve snubbed me in public time after time; you’ve humiliated me at school. You wouldn’t be speaking to me now if it hadn’t been a matter of life or death. Is that what it takes to get a word out of you? Does someone have to nearly be murdered?
“And even now,” she continued bitterly, “you don’t want me to get anywhere near you. What’s the matter with you, Stefan Salvatore, that you have to live this way? That you have to build walls against other people to keep them out? That you can’t trust anyone? What’s wrong with you?”
He was silent now, his face averted. She took a deep breath and then straightened her shoulders, holding her head up even though her eyes were sore and burning. “And what’s wrong with me,” she added, more quietly, “that you can’t even look at me, but you can let Caroline Forbes fall all over you? I have a right to know that, at least. I won’t ever bother you again, I won’t even talk to you at school, but I want to know the truth before I go. Why do you hate me so much, Stefan?”
Slowly, he turned and raised his head. His eyes were bleak, sightless, and something twisted in Elena at the pain she saw on his face.
His voice was still controlled—but barely. She could hear the effort it cost him to keep it steady.
“Yes,” he said, “I think you do have a right to know. Elena.” He looked at her then, meeting her eyes directly, and she thought, That bad? What could be as bad as that? “I don’t hate you,” he continued, pronouncing each word carefully, distinctly. “I’ve never hated you. But you … remind me of someone.”
Elena was taken aback. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this. “I remind you of someone else you know?”
“Of someone I knew,” he said quietly. “But,” he added slowly, as if puzzling something out for himself, “you’re not like her, really. She looked like you, but she was fragile, delicate. Vulnerable. Inside as well as out.”
“And I’m not.”
He made a sound that would have been a laugh if there had been any humor in it. “No. You’re a fighter. You are … yourself.”
Elena was silent for a moment. She could not keep hold of her anger, seeing the pain on his face. “You were very close to her?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
There was a long pause, so long that Elena thought he wasn’t going to answer her. But at last he said, “She died.”
Elena let out a tremulous breath. The last of her anger folded up and disappeared from under her. “That must have hurt terribly,” she said soft
ly, thinking of the white Gilbert headstone among the rye grass. “I’m so sorry.”
He said nothing. His face had closed again, and he seemed to be looking far away at something, something terrible and heartbreaking that only he could see. But there was not just grief in his expression. Through the walls, through all his trembling control, she could see the tortured look of unbearable guilt and loneliness. A look so lost and haunted that she had moved to his side before she knew what she was doing.
“Stefan,” she whispered. He didn’t seem to hear her; he seemed to be adrift in his own world of misery.
She could not stop herself from laying a hand on his arm. “Stefan, I know how it can hurt—”
“You can’t know,” he exploded, all his quietness erupting into white rage. He looked down at her hand as if just realizing it was there, as if infuriated at her effrontery in touching him. His green eyes were dilated and dark as he shook her hand off, flinging a hand up to bar her from touching him again—
—and somehow, instead, he was holding her hand, his fingers tightly interlocked with hers, hanging on for dear life. He looked down at their locked hands in bewilderment. Then, slowly, his gaze moved from their clasping fingers to her face.
“Elena …” he whispered.
And then she saw it, the anguish shattering his gaze, as if he simply couldn’t fight any longer. The defeat as the walls finally crumbled and she saw what was underneath.
And then, helplessly, he bent his head down to her lips.
“Wait—stop here,” said Bonnie. “I thought I saw something.”
Matt’s battered Ford slowed, edging toward the side of the road, where brambles and bushes grew thickly. Something white glimmered there, coming toward them.
“Oh, my God,” said Meredith. “It’s Vickie Bennett.”
The girl stumbled into the path of the headlights and stood there, wavering, as Matt hit the brakes. Her light-brown hair was tangled and in disarray, and her eyes stared glassily out of a face that was smudged and grimy with dirt. She was wearing only a thin white slip.
