The Vampire Diaries: The Return: Midnight

by L. J. Smith

Dead silence fell over the group in the parlor. Even Mrs. Flowers’s Mama didn’t put in a word.

  “Had or has?” Matt said finally, breaking the silence.

  “How can we know?” Stefan said. “He may have been killed. Imagine Meredith having to watch that. Or he could have been kidnapped. To be killed at a later time—or to become a vampire.”

  “And you really think her parents wouldn’t tell her?” Matt demanded. “Or would try to make her forget? When she was—what, three already?”

  Mrs. Flowers, who had been quiet a long time, now spoke sadly. “Dear Meredith may have decided to block out the truth herself. With a child of three it’s hard to say. If they never got her professional help…” She looked a question at Meredith.

  Meredith shook her head. “Against the code,” she said. “I mean, strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be telling any of you this, and especially not Stefan. But I couldn’t stand it anymore…having such good friends, and constantly deceiving them.”

  Elena went over and hugged Meredith hard. “We understand,” she said. “I don’t know what will happen in the future if you decide to be an active hunter—”

  “I can promise you my friends won’t be on my list of victims,” Meredith said. “By the way,” she added, “Shinichi knows. I’m the one who’s kept a secret from my friends all my life.”

  “Not any longer,” Elena said, and hugged her again.

  “At least there are no more secrets now,” Mrs. Flowers said gently, and Elena looked at her sharply. Nothing was ever that simple. And Shinichi had made a whole handful of predictions.

  Then she saw the look in the mild blue eyes of the old woman, and she knew that what was important right then was not truth or lies, or even reckonings, but simply comforting Meredith. She looked up at Stefan while still hugging Meredith and saw the same look in his eyes.

  And that—made her feel better somehow. Because if it was truly “no secrets” then she would have to figure out her feelings about Damon. And she was more afraid of that than of facing Shinichi, which was saying quite a lot, really.

  “At least we’ve got a potter’s wheel—somewhere,” Mrs. Flowers was saying. “And a kiln in the back, although it’s all grown over with Devil’s Shoestring. I used to make flowerpots for outside the boardinghouse, but children came and smashed them. I think I could make an urn like the ones you saw if you can draw one for me. But perhaps we’d better wait for Mr. Saltzman’s pictures.”

  Matt was mouthing something to Stefan. Elena couldn’t make it out until she heard Stefan’s voice in her mind. He says Damon told him once that this house is like a swap meet, and you can find anything here if you look hard enough.

  Damon didn’t make that up! I think Mrs. Flowers said it first, and then it sort of got around, Elena returned heatedly.

  “When we get the pictures,” Mrs. Flowers was saying brightly, “we can get the Saitou women to translate the writing.”

  Meredith finally moved back from Elena. “And until then we can pray that Bonnie doesn’t get into any trouble,” she said, and her voice and face were composed again. “I’m starting now.”

  Bonnie was sure she could stay out of trouble.

  She’d had that strange dream—the one about shedding her body, and going with Elena to the Island of Doom. Fortunately, it had seemed to be a real out-of-body experience, and not something she had to ponder over and try to find hidden meanings in. It didn’t mean she was doomed or anything like that.

  Plus, she’d managed to live through another night in this brown room, and Damon had to come and get her out soon. But not before she had a sugarplum. Or two.

  Yes, she had gotten a taste of one in the story last night, but Marit was such a good girl that she had waited for dinner to have any more. Dinner was obtained in the next story about the Dustbins, which she’d plunged into this morning. But that contained the horror of little Marit tasting her first hand-caught piece of raw liver, fresh from the hunt. Bonnie had hastily pulled the little star ball off her temple, and had determined not to do anything that could possibly get her on a human hunting range.

  But then, compulsively, she had counted up her money. She had money. She knew where a shop was. And that meant…shopping!

  When her bathroom break came around, she managed to get into a conversation with the boy who usually led her to the outdoor privy. This time she made him blush so hard and tug at his earlobe so often that when she begged him to give her the key and let her go by herself—it wasn’t as if she didn’t know the way—he had relented and let her go, asking only that she hurry.

  And she did hurry—across the street and into the little store, which smelled so much of melting fudge, toffee being pulled by hand, and other mouth-watering smells that she would have known where she was blindfolded.

  She also knew what she wanted. She could picture it from the story and the one taste Marit had had.

  A sugarplum was round like a real plum, and she’d tasted dates, almonds, spices, and honey—and there may have been some raisins, too. It should cost five soli, according to the story, but Bonnie had taken fifteen of the small coppery-looking coins with her, in case of a confectionary emergency.

  Once inside, Bonnie glanced warily around her. There were a lot of customers in the shop, maybe six or seven. One brown-haired girl was wearing sacking just like Bonnie and looked exhausted. Surreptitiously, Bonnie inched toward her, and pressed five of her copper soli into the girl’s chapped hand, thinking, there—now she can get a sugarplum just like me; that ought to cheer her up. It did: the girl gave her the sort of smile that Mother Dustbin often gave to Marit when she had done something adorable.

  I wonder if I should talk to her?

  “It looks pretty busy,” she whispered, ducking her head.

  The girl whispered back, “It has been. All yesterday I kept hoping, but at least one noble came in as the last one left.”

  “You mean you have to wait until the shop’s empty to—?”

  The brown-haired girl looked at her curiously. “Of course—unless you’re buying for your mistress or master.”

  “What’s your name?” Bonnie whispered.

  “Kelta.”

  “I’m Bonnie.”

  At this Kelta burst into silent but convulsive giggles.

  Bonnie felt offended; she’d just given Kelta a sugarplum—or the price of one, and now the girl was laughing at her.

  “I’m sorry,” Kelta said when her mirth had died down. “But don’t you think it’s funny that in the last year there are so many girls changing their names to Alianas and Mardeths, and Bonnas—some slaves are even being allowed to do it.”

  “But why?” Bonnie whispered with such obvious genuine bewilderment that Kelta said, “Why, to fit into the story, of course. To be named after the ones who killed old Bloddeuwedd while she was rampaging through the city.”

  “That was such a big deal?”

  “You really don’t know? After she was killed all her money went to the fifth sector where she lived and there was enough left over to have a holiday. That’s where I’m from. And I used to be so frightened when I was sent out with a message or anything after dark because she could be right above you and you’d never know, until—” Kelta had put all her money into one pocket and now she mimed claws descending on an innocent hand.

  “But you really are a Bonna,” Kelta said, with a flash of white teeth in rather dingy skin. “Or so you said.”

  “Yeah,” Bonnie said feeling vaguely sad. “I’m a Bonna, all right!” The next moment she cheered up. “The shop’s empty!”

  “It is! Oh, you’re a good-luck Bonna! I’ve been waiting two days.”

  She approached the counter with a lack of fear that was very encouraging to Bonnie. Then she asked for something called a blood jelly that looked to Bonnie like a small mold of strawberry Jell-O, with something darker deep inside. Kelta smiled at Bonnie from under the curtain of her long, unbrushed hair and was gone.

  The man who ran th
e sweetshop kept looking hopefully at the door, clearly hoping a free person—a noble—would come in. No one did, however, and at last he turned to Bonnie.

  “And what is it you want?” he demanded.

  “Just a sugarplum, please?” Bonnie tried hard to make sure her voice didn’t quaver.

  The man was bored. “Show me your pass,” he said irritably.

  It was at that point that Bonnie suddenly knew that everything was going to go horribly wrong.

  “Come on, come on, snap it up!” Still looking at his accounting books, the man snapped his fingers.

  Meanwhile Bonnie was running a hand over her sack-cloth smock, in which she knew perfectly well there was no pocket, and certainly no pass.

  “But I thought I didn’t need a pass, except to cross sectors,” she babbled finally.

  The man now leaned over the counter. “Then show me your freedom pass,” he said, and Bonnie did the only thing she could think of. She turned and ran, but before she could reach the door she felt a sudden stinging pain in her back and then everything went blurry and she never knew when she hit the ground.

  15

  Bonnie woke slowly, coming up from some dark place.

  Then she wished she hadn’t. She was in some out-of-doors place—only buildings blocked the horizon where the sun hung forever. Around her were a lot of other girls, all approximately her own age. That was puzzling, first of all. If you took a random sampling of females off the street there would be little girls crying for their mothers, and there would be mother-aged women taking care of them. There might be a few older women. This place looked more like—

  —oh, God, it looked like one of those slave warehouse places that they had had to pass the last time they had come to the Dark Dimension. The ones that Elena had ordered them not to look at or listen to. But now Bonnie felt sure she was inside one herself, and there was no way not to look at the still faces, at the terrified eyes, at the quivering mouths around her.

  She wanted to speak, to find the way—there would have to be a way, Elena would insist—to get out. But first she gathered all the Power at her command, wrapped it into a cry, and soundlessly screamed Damon! Damon! Help! I really need you!

  All she heard in return was silence.

  Damon! It’s Bonnie! I’m at a slave warehouse! Help!

  Suddenly she had a hunch, and lowered her psychic barriers. She was instantly crushed. Even here, at the edge of the city, the air was choked full of long messages and short: cries of impatience, or camaraderie, of greeting, of solicitation. Longer, less impatient conversations about things, instructions, teasings, stories. She couldn’t keep up with it. It turned into a menacing wave of psychic sound that was curled like a wave about to break over her head, to crush her into a million pieces.

  And then, all of a sudden, the telepathic melee vanished. Bonnie was able to focus her eyes on a blond girl, a little older than her and about four inches taller.

  “I said, are you okay?” the girl was repeating—obviously she’d been saying it for a while.

  “Yes,” Bonnie said automatically. No! Bonnie thought.

  “You might want to get ready to move. They’ve sounded the first dinnertime whistle, but you looked so out of it, I waited for the second one.”

  What am I supposed to say? Thank you seemed safest. “Thanks,” Bonnie said. Then her mouth said all on its own, “Where am I?”

  The blond girl looked surprised. “The depot for runaway slaves, of course.”

  Well, that was that. “But I didn’t run away,” she protested. “I was going right back after I got a sugarplum.”

  “I don’t know about that. I was trying to run away, but they finally caught me.” The girl slammed one fist into an open hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that litter carrier. Carried me right to the authorities and me blind and without a clue.”

  “You mean you had the litter curtains down—?” Bonnie was asking, when a shrill whistle interrupted her. The blond girl took hold of her arm and began dragging her away from the fence. “That’s the second service dinnertime whistle—we don’t want to miss that, because after that they shut us up for the night. I’m Eren. Who’re you?”

  “Bonnie.”

  Eren snorted and grinned. “All right by me.”

  Bonnie allowed herself to be led up a dirty stairway and into a dirty cafeteria. The blond girl, who seemed to regard herself as Bonnie’s keeper, handed her a tray, and pushed her along. Bonnie didn’t get any choice in what she was to have, not even to veto the noodles that were squirming slightly, but she did manage to snatch an extra bread roll in the end.

  Damon! Nobody was telling her not to send a message, so she kept on doing it. If she was going to be punished, she thought defiantly, she was going to be punished for trying to get out of here. Damon, I’m in a slave warehouse! Help me!

  Blond Eren grabbed a spork, so Bonnie did too. There were no knives. There were thin napkins, which relieved Bonnie, because that was where the Squirmy Noodles were going to end up.

  Without Eren, Bonnie would never have found a place at the tables, which were crammed with young girls eating. “Shove over, shove over,” Eren kept saying, until there was room for Bonnie and her.

  Dinner was a test of Bonnie’s courage—and also of how loud she could scream. “Why are you doing all this for me?” she shouted into Eren’s ear, when a lull in the deafening conversation gave her a chance.

  “Oh, well, you being a redhead and all—it put me in mind of Aliana’s message, you know. To the real Bonny.” She pronounced it oddly, sort of swallowing the y, but at least it wasn’t Bonna.

  “Which of them? Which message, I mean?” Bonnie screamed.

  Eren gave her an are you kidding look. “Help when you can, shelter when you have room, guide when you know where to go,” she said in a sort of impatient chant, then looked chagrined and added, “And be patient with the slow.” She attacked her food with an air of having said everything there was to say.

  Oh, boy, Bonnie thought. Somebody had really taken the ball and run with it. Elena had never said any of those things.

  Yeah, but—but maybe she’d lived them, Bonnie thought, a tingling breaking out all over her body. And maybe somebody had seen her and made up the words. For instance, that crazy-looking guy she’d given her ring or bracelet or something to. She’d given her earrings away to people with signs, too. Signs that said: POETRY FOR FOOD.

  The rest of dinner was a matter of picking up food with the spork and not looking at it, crunching it once, and then deciding whether to spit into her still-writhing napkin, or to try to swallow without tasting.

  Afterward the girls were marched into another building, this one filled with pallets, smaller and not so comfortable-looking as Bonnie’s at the inn. She was now horrified at herself for leaving that room. There she had had safety, she had had food that she could actually eat, she had had entertainment—even the Dustbins were clothed in a golden glow of remembrance now—and she had had the chance of Damon finding her. Here she had nothing.

  But Eren seemed to have some mesmeric influence on the girls around, or else they all were Aliana-ites too, because when she shouted “Where’s a pallet? I’ve got a new girl in my bedroom. Think she’s gonna sleep on the bare floor?” And eventually, a dusty pallet was passed hand over hand into Eren’s “bedroom”—a group of pallets all spread with the heads together in the middle. In exchange, Eren handed over the wriggling napkin Bonnie had given her. “Share and share alike,” she said firmly, and Bonnie wondered if she thought Aliana had said that, too.

  A whistle shrilled. “Ten minutes until lights-out,” a hoarse voice shouted. “Every girl not on her pallet in ten minutes will be punished. Tomorrow section C goes up.”

  “All right! We’re going to be bloody deaf before we’re sold,” Eren muttered.

  “Before we’re sold?” Bonnie repeated stupidly, even though she had known what would happen from the first moment she had recognized this as a warehouse f
or slaves.

  Eren turned and spat. “Yeah,” she said. “So you can have one more breakdown and then that’s it. Only two per customer, and by tomorrow you may wish you’d saved one up.”

  “I wasn’t going to have a breakdown,” Bonnie said, with all the courage at her command. “I was going to ask how we’re going to be sold. Is it at one of those horrible public places, where you have to stand in front of a crowd in just a shift?”

  “Yeah, that’s what most of us will be doing,” a young girl, who had been crying quietly through dinner and the pallet-arranging time, spoke up in a soft voice. “But the ones they pick out as special items will have to wait. They’ll give us a bath and special clothes, but it’s all just so we look more presentable for the clients. So the clients can inspect us more closely.” She shuddered.

  “You’re frightening the new girl, Mouse,” Eren scolded. “We call her Mouse, because she’s always so scared,” she told Bonnie.

  Bonnie silently screamed, Damon!

  Damon was decked out in his new captain of the guard suit. It was nice, being black on black, with lighter black piping (even Damon recognized the necessity of contrast). It had a cloak.

  And he was a full vampire again, as powerful and prestigious as even he could have imagined. For a moment he simply luxuriated in the feeling of a job well done. Then he flexed his vampire muscles more strongly, urging Jessalyn, who was upstairs, into deeper sleep, while he sent tendrils of Power all over the Dark Dimension, sampling what was going on in different districts.

  Jessalyn…now there was a dilemma. Damon had the feeling that he should leave her a note or something, but he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  What could he tell her? That he was gone? She would see that for herself. That he was sorry? Well, obviously he wasn’t so sorry that he’d chosen not to go. That he had duties elsewhere?

  Wait. That might actually work. He could tell her that he needed to check up on her territory and that if he were to stay here in the castle he doubted he’d ever get anything done. He could tell her he’d be back…soon. Soonish. Soonishly.