by L. J. Smith
She moved slowly, dazedly to the bed and sat. Then she looked up at him, her shadowed eyes meeting his. “Tell me,” was all she said.
He laughed shortly, without humor, and saw her flinch. It made him hate himself more. “What do you need to know?” he said. He put a foot on the lid of an overturned trunk and faced her almost defiantly, indicating the room with a gesture. “Who did this? I did.”
“You’re strong,” she said, her eyes on a capsized trunk. Her gaze lifted upward, as if she were remembering what had happened on the roof. “And quick.”
“Stronger than a human,” he said, with deliberate emphasis on the last word. Why didn’t she cringe from him now, why didn’t she look at him with the loathing he had seen before? He didn’t care what she thought any longer. “My reflexes are faster, and I’m more resilient. I have to be.
I’m a hunter,” he said harshly.
Something in her look made him remember how she had interrupted him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then went quickly to pick up a glass of water that stood unharmed on the nightstand. He could feel her eyes on him as he drank it and wiped his mouth again. Oh, he still cared what she thought, all right.
“You can eat and drink … other things,” she said.
“I don’t need to,” he said quietly, feeling weary and subdued. “I don’t need anything else.” He whipped around suddenly and felt passionate intensity rise in him again. “You said I was quick—but that’s just what I’m not. Have you ever heard the saying ‘the quick and the dead,’ Elena? Quick means living; it means those who have life. I’m the other half.”
He could see that she was trembling. But her voice was calm, and her eyes never left his. “Tell me,” she said again. “Stefan, I have a right to know.”
He recognized those words. And they were as true as when she had first said them. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said, and his voice was tired and hard. He stared at the broken window for a few heartbeats and then looked back at her and spoke flatly. “I was born in the late fifteenth century. Do you believe that?”
She looked at the objects that lay where he’d scattered them from the bureau with one furious sweep of his arm. The florins, the agate cup, his dagger. “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I believe it.”
“And you want to know more? How I came to be what I am?” When she nodded, he turned to the window again. How could he tell her? He, who had avoided questions for so long, who had become such an expert at hiding and deceiving.
There was only one way, and that was to tell the absolute truth, concealing nothing. To lay it all before her, what he had never offered to any other soul.
And he wanted to do it. Even though he knew it would make her turn away from him in the end, he needed to show Elena what he was.
And so, staring into the darkness outside the window, where flashes of blue brilliance occasionally lit the sky, he began.
He spoke dispassionately, without emotion, carefully choosing his words. He told her of his father, that solid Renaissance man, and of his world in Florence and at their country estate. He told her of his studies and his ambitions. Of his brother, who was so different than he, and of the ill feeling between them.
“I don’t know when Damon started hating me,” he said. “It was always that way, as long as I can remember. Maybe it was because my mother never really recovered from my birth. She died a few years later. Damon loved her very much, and I always had the feeling that he blamed me.” He paused and swallowed. “And then, later, there was a girl.”
“The one I remind you of?” Elena said softly. He nodded. “The one,” she said, more hesitantly, “who gave you the ring?”
He glanced down at the silver ring on his finger, then met her eyes. Then, slowly, he drew out the ring he wore on the chain beneath his shirt and looked at it.
“Yes. This was her ring,” he said. “Without such a talisman, we die in sunlight as if in a fire.”
“Then she was … like you?”
“She made me what I am.” Haltingly, he told her about Katherine. About Katherine’s beauty and sweetness, and about his love for her. And about Damon’s.
“She was too gentle, filled with too much affection,” he said at last, painfully. “She gave it to everyone, including my brother. But finally, we told her she had to choose between us. And then … she came to me.”
The memory of that night, of that sweet, terrible night came sweeping back. She had come to him. And he had been so happy, so full of awe and joy. He tried to tell Elena about that, to find the words. All that night he had been so happy, and even the next morning, when he had awakened and she was gone, he had been throned on highest bliss….
It might almost have been a dream, but the two little wounds on his neck were real. He was surprised to find that they did not hurt and that they seemed to be partially healed already. They were hidden by the high neck of his shirt.
Her blood burned in his veins now, he thought, and the very words made his heart race. She had given her strength to him; she had chosen him.
He even had a smile for Damon when they met at the designated place that evening. Damon had been absent from the house all day, but he showed up in the meticulously landscaped garden precisely on time, and stood lounging against a tree, adjusting his cuff. Katherine was late.
“Perhaps she is tired,” Stefan suggested, watching the melon-colored sky fade into deep midnight blue. He tried to keep the shy smugness from his voice. “Perhaps she needs more rest than usual.”
Damon glanced at him sharply, his dark eyes piercing under the shock of black hair. “Perhaps,” he said on a rising note, as if he would have said more.
But then they heard a light step on the path, and Katherine appeared between the box hedges. She was wearing her white gown, and she was as beautiful as an angel.
She had a smile for both of them. Stefan returned the smile politely, speaking their secret only with his eyes. Then he waited.
“You asked me to make my choice,” she said, looking first at him and then at his brother. “And now you have come at the hour I appointed, and I will tell you what I have chosen.”
She held up her small hand, the one with the ring on it, and Stefan looked at the stone, realizing it was the same deep blue as the evening sky. It was as if Katherine carried a piece of the night with her, always.
“You have both seen this ring,” she said quietly. “And you know that without it I would die. It is not easy to have such talismans made, but fortunately my woman Gudren is clever. And there are many silversmiths in Florence.”
Stefan was listening without comprehension, but when she turned to him he smiled again, encouragingly.
“And so,” she said, gazing into his eyes, “I have had a present made for you.” She took his hand and pressed something into it. When he looked he saw that it was a ring in the same fashion as her own, but larger and heavier, and wrought in silver instead of gold.
“You do not need it yet to face the sun,” she said softly, smiling. “But very soon you will.”
Pride and rapture made him mute. He reached for her hand to kiss it, wanting to take her into his arms right then, even, in front of Damon. But Katherine was turning away.
“And for you,” she said, and Stefan thought his ears must be betraying him, for surely the warmth, the fondness in Katherine’s voice could not be for his brother, “for you, also. You will need it very soon as well.”
Stefan’s eyes must be traitors, too. They were showing him what was impossible, what could not be. Into Damon’s hand Katherine was putting a ring just like his own.
The silence that followed was absolute, like the silence after the world’s ending.
“Katherine—” Stefan could barely force out the words. “How can you give that to him? After what we shared—”
“What you shared?” Damon’s voice was like the crack of a whip, and he turned on Stefan angrily. “Last night she came to me. The choice is already made.” And Damon je
rked down his high collar to show two tiny wounds in his throat. Stefan stared at them, fighting down the bright sickness. They were identical to his own wounds.
He shook his head in utter bewilderment. “But, Katherine … it was not a dream. You came to me.…”
“I came to both of you.” Katherine’s voice was tranquil, even pleased, and her eyes were serene. She smiled at Damon and then at Stefan in turn. “It has weakened me, but I am so glad I did. Don’t you see?” she continued as they stared at her, too stunned to speak. “This is my choice! I love you both, and I will not give either of you up. Now we all three will be together, and be happy.”
“Happy—” Stefan choked out.
“Yes, happy! The three of us will be companions, joyous companions, forever.” Her voice rose with elation, and the light of a radiant child shone in her eyes. “We will be together always, never feeling sickness, never growing old, until the end of time! That is my choice.”
“Happy … with him?” Damon’s voice was shaking with fury, and Stefan saw that his normally self-contained brother was white with rage. “With this boy standing between us, this prating, mouthing paragon of virtue? I can barely stand the sight of him now. I wish to God that I should never see him again, never hear his voice again!”
“And I wish the same of you, brother,” snarled Stefan, his heart tearing in his breast. This was Damon’s fault; Damon had poisoned Katherine’s mind so that she no longer knew what she was doing. “And I have half a mind to make sure of it,” he added savagely.
Damon did not mistake his meaning. “Then get your sword, if you can find it,” he hissed back, his eyes black with menace.
“Damon, Stefan, please! Please, no!” Katherine cried, putting herself between them, catching Stefan’s arm. She looked from one to the other, her blue eyes wide with shock and bright with unshed tears. “Think of what you are saying. You are brothers.”
“By no fault of mine,” Damon grated, making the words a curse.
“But can you not make peace? For me, Damon … Stefan? Please.”
Part of Stefan wanted to melt at Katherine’s desperate look, at her tears. But wounded pride and jealousy were too strong, and he knew his face was as hard, as unyielding, as Damon’s.
“No,” he said. “We cannot. It must be one or the other, Katherine. I will never share you with him.”
Katherine’s hand fell away from his arm, and the tears fell from her eyes, great droplets that splashed onto the white gown. She caught her breath in a wrenching sob. Then, still weeping, she picked up her skirts and ran.
“And then Damon took the ring she had given him and put it on,” Stefan said, his voice hoarse with use and emotion. “And he said to me, ‘I’ll have her yet, brother.’ And then he walked away.” He turned, blinking as if he’d come into a bright light from the dark, and looked at Elena.
She was sitting quite still on the bed, watching him with those eyes that were so much like Katherine’s. Especially now, when they were filled with sorrow and dread. But Elena did not run. She spoke to him.
“And … what happened then?”
Stefan’s hands clenched violently, reflexively, and he jerked away from the window. Not that memory. He could not endure that memory himself, much less try to speak it. How could he do that? How could he take Elena down into that darkness and show her the terrible things lurking there?
“No,” he said. “I can’t. I can’t.”
“You have to tell me,” she said softly. “Stefan, it’s the end of the story, isn’t it? That’s what’s behind all your walls, that’s what you’re afraid to let me see. But you must let me see it. Oh, Stefan, you can’t stop now.”
He could feel the horror reaching for him, the yawning pit he had seen so clearly, felt so clearly that day long ago. The day when it had all ended—when it had all begun.
He felt his hand taken, and when he looked he saw Elena’s fingers closed about it, giving him warmth, giving him strength. Her eyes were on his. “Tell me.”
“You want to know what happened next, what became of Katherine?” he whispered. She nodded, her eyes nearly blind but still steady. “I’ll tell you, then. She died the next day. My brother Damon and I, we killed her.”
14
Elena felt her flesh creep at the words.
“You don’t mean that,” she said shakily. She remembered what she had seen on the roof, the blood smeared on Stefan’s lips, and she forced herself not to recoil from him. “Stefan, I know you. You couldn’t have done that….”
He ignored her protestations, just went on staring with eyes that burned like the green ice at the bottom of a glacier. He was looking through her, into some incomprehensible distance. “As I lay in bed that night, I hoped against hope that she would come. Already I was noticing some of the changes in myself. I could see better in the dark; it seemed I could hear better. I felt stronger than ever before, full of some elemental energy. And I was hungry.
“It was a hunger I had never imagined. At dinner I found that ordinary food and drink did nothing to satisfy it. I couldn’t understand that. And then I saw the white neck of one of the serving girls, and I knew why.” He drew a long breath, his eyes dark and tortured. “That night, I resisted the need, though it took all my will. I was thinking of Katherine, and praying she would come to me. Praying!” He gave a short laugh. “If a creature like me can pray.”
Elena’s fingers were numb within his grasp, but she tried to tighten them, to send him reassurance. “Go on, Stefan.”
He had no trouble speaking now. He seemed almost to have forgotten her presence, as if he were telling this story to himself.
“The next morning the need was stronger. It was as if my own veins were dry and cracked, desperate for moisture. I knew that I couldn’t stand it for long.
“I went to Katherine’s chambers. I meant to ask her, to plead with her—” His voice cracked. He paused and then went on. “But Damon was there already, waiting outside her rooms. I could see that he hadn’t resisted the need. The glow of his skin, the spring in his step, told me that. He looked as smug as the cat who’s had the cream.
“But he hadn’t had Katherine. ‘Knock all you like,’ he said to me, ‘but the female dragon inside won’t let you past. I’ve tried already. Shall we overpower her, you and I?’
“I wouldn’t answer him. The look on his face, that sly, self-satisfied look, repelled me. I pounded on that door to wake …” He faltered, and then gave another humorless laugh. “I was going to say, ‘to wake the dead.’ But the dead aren’t so hard to wake after all, are they?” After a moment, he went on.
“The maid, Gudren, opened the door. She had a face like a flat white plate, and eyes like black glass. I asked her if I could see her mistress. I expected to be told that Katherine was asleep, but instead Gudren just looked at me, then at Damon over my shoulder.
“‘I would not tell him,’ she said at last, ‘but I will tell you. My lady Katerina is not within. She went out early this morning, to walk in the gardens. She said she had much need of thought.’
“I was surprised. ‘Early this morning?’ I said.
“‘Yes,’ she replied. She looked at both Damon and me without liking. ‘My mistress was very unhappy last night,’ she said meaningfully. ‘All night long, she wept.’
“When she said that, a strange feeling came over me. It wasn’t just shame and grief that Katherine should be so unhappy. It was fear. I forgot my hunger and weakness. I even forgot my enmity for Damon. I was filled with haste and a great driving urgency. I turned to Damon and told him that we had to find Katherine, and to my surprise he just nodded.
“We began to search the gardens, calling Katherine’s name. I remember just what everything looked like that day. The sun was shining on the high cypress trees and the pines in the garden. Damon and I hurried between them, moving more and more quickly, and calling. We kept calling her …”
Elena could feel the tremors in Stefan’s body, communicated to her through
his tightly gripping fingers. He was breathing rapidly but shallowly.
“We had almost reached the end of the gardens when I remembered a place that Katherine had loved. It was a little way out onto the grounds, a low wall beside a lemon tree. I started there, shouting for her. But as I got closer, I stopped shouting. I felt… a fear—a terrible premonition.
And I knew I mustn’t—mustn’t go—”
“Stefan!” said Elena. He was hurting her, his fingers biting into her own, crushing them. The tremors racing through his body were growing, becoming shudders. “Stefan, please!”
But he gave no sign that he heard her. “It was like—a nightmare—everything happening so slowly. I couldn’t move—and yet I had to. I had to keep walking. With each step, the fear grew stronger. I could smell it. A smell like burned fat. I mustn’t go there—I don’t want to see it—”
His voice had become high, and urgent, his breath coming in gasps. His eyes were wide and dilated, like a terrified child’s. Elena gripped his viselike fingers with her other hand, enfolding them completely. “Stefan, it’s all right. You’re not there. You’re here with me.”
“I don’t want to see it—but I can’t help it. There’s something white. Something white under the tree. Don’t make me look at it!”
“Stefan, Stefan, look at me!”
He was beyond hearing. His words came in heaving spasms, as if he could not control them, could not get them out fast enough. “I can’t go any closer—but I do. I see the tree, the wall. And that white. Behind the tree. White with gold underneath. And then I know, I know, and I’m moving toward it because it’s her dress. Katherine’s white dress. And I get around the tree and I see it on the ground and it’s true. It’s Katherine’s dress”—his voice rose and broke in unimaginable horror—“but Katherine isn’t in it.”
