Damon had picked the lock of this room and Elena had originally started forward eagerly. She searched the room, which contained, frustratingly, a silver-framed picture of a harp, but with nothing as bulky as the half of the fox key inside it, even when she had carefully used Damon’s lock pick to unscrew the backing.
It was while she was placing this picture back on the wall that they both heard the thump. Elena winced, praying that none of the black-suited “security servants” who roamed the palace had heard the noise.
Damon quickly put a hand over her mouth and dialed the gaslight knob into darkness.
But they both could hear it now…footsteps approaching from outside in the hallway. Someone had heard the thump. The footsteps stopped outside the door and there was the distinct sound of an upper servant’s discreet cough.
Elena whirled, feeling in that moment as if Wings of Redemption were within her reach. It would only require the slightest rise in adrenaline and she would have the security worker on his or her knees, sobbing in the penitence of a lifetime’s work at evil. Elena and Damon would be gone before—
But Damon had another idea, and Elena was startled into going along with it.
When the door opened silently a moment later, the steward found a couple locked in such a tight embrace that they seemed not even to notice the intrusion. Elena could practically feel his indignation. The desire of a couple of guests to discreetly embrace in the privacy of Lady Fazina’s many public rooms was understandable, but this was part of the private household. As he turned the lights up, Elena peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. Her psychic senses were open enough to catch his thoughts. He was going over the valuables in the room with an experienced but bored gaze. The exquisite miniature vase with the trailing roses picked out in rubies and emerald-encrusted vines; the magically preserved 5,000-year-old wooden Sumerian lyre; the twin pair of solid gold candlesticks in the shape of rearing dragons; the Egyptian funerary mask with its dark, elongated eyeholes seeming to watch out of its brilliantly painted features…all were here. It wasn’t even as if her ladyship kept anything of great value here, but still, “This room is not part of the public display,” he told Damon, who merely clasped Elena closer.
Yes, Damon seemed very determined to put on a good show for the steward…or something like that. But hadn’t they already…done so? Elena’s thoughts were losing coherency. The last thing…the very last thing that they could afford…was to…lose the chance of…finding the fox key. Elena started to pull away, and then realized that she mustn’t.
Mustn’t. Not couldn’t. She was property, expensive property to be sure, decked out the way she was tonight, but Damon’s to dispose of as he chose. While someone else was looking on, she must not seem to disobey her master’s wishes.
Still, Damon was taking this too far…farther than he had ever taken liberties with her, although, she thought wryly, he didn’t know that. He was caressing the skin left unprotected by the ivory goddess dress, her arms, her back, even her hair. He knew how she liked that, how she could somehow feel it when her hair was held and the ends caressed softly or gently crushed in a fist.
Damon! She was down to the last resort now: pleading. Damon, if they detain us, or do anything to us that keeps us from finding the key tonight — when will we have another chance?…She let him feel her desperation, her guilt, even the treacherous desire she had to forget everything and let each minute carry her further on this wave of ardor that he had created. Damon, I’ll…say it if you want. I’m…begging you. Elena could feel her eyes prickling as tears flooded them.
No tears. Elena heard Damon’s telepathic voice gratefully. There was something strange about it, though. It couldn’t be starvation — he’d had her blood not much more than two hours ago. And it wasn’t passion, for she could hear — and sense — that, all too clearly. Yet Damon’s telepathic voice was so taut with control that it almost frightened her. More, she knew he could feel that it frightened her and that he chose to do nothing about it. No explanation. No exploration, either, she realized as she found that behind the control, his mind was entirely shut to her.
The only thing she could liken the feeling that she got from his steely control was pain. Pain that was just on the edge of the endurable.
But from what? Elena wondered helplessly.
What could cause him pain like that?
Elena couldn’t waste their time on wondering what was wrong with Damon. She turned up the Power of her own hearing and began to listen at the doors before they entered.
It was while she was listening that suddenly a new idea solidified in Elena’s mind, and she stopped Damon in a pitch-dark hallway and tried to explain to him what kind of room she was looking for. What, in modern days, would be called a “home office.”
Damon, familiar with the architecture of great mansions, took her, after only a few false starts, into what was clearly a lady’s writing room. Elena’s eyes were by now as keen as his in the dimness as they searched by the light of a single candle.
While Elena was being frustrated after searching a remarkable desk with pigeonholes for secret drawers, and not finding any, Damon was checking the hallway.
“I hear someone outside,” he said. “I think it’s time to leave now.”
But Elena was still looking. And — as her eyes raced across the room — she saw a small writing desk with an old-fashioned chair and an assortment of various pens, from ancient to modern, flaunting themselves from elaborate holders.
“Let’s go while it’s still clear,” Damon murmured impatiently.
“Yes,” Elena said distractedly. “All right…”
And then she saw.
Without an instant’s hesitation she strode across the room to the desk and picked up a pen with a brilliant silver plume. It wasn’t a genuine quill pen, of course; it was a fountain pen made to look elegant and old-fashioned — with a plume. The pen itself was curved to fit her hand, and the wood felt warm.
“Elena, I don’t feel very…”
“Damon, shhh,” Elena said, ignoring him, too absorbed in what she was doing to really hear. First: try to write. No go. Something was blocking the cartridge. Second: unscrew the fountain-pen carefully, as if to refill its cartridge, while all the time her heart was clamoring in her ears and her hands were shaking. Keep moving slowly…don’t miss anything…for God’s sake don’t let anything fall away and bounce in this dimness. The two parts of the pen parted in her hand…
…and onto the dark green desk pad fell a small, heavy, curved piece of metal. It had just fit inside the widest part of the pen. She had it in her hand and was reassembling the pen before she could get a good look at it. But then…she had to open her hand and see.
The small crescent-shaped object dazzled her eyes in the light, but it was just like the description Bonnie had given Elena and Meredith. A tiny representation of a fox with a nominal body and a jewel-encrusted head that sported two flat ears. The eyes were two sparkling green stones. Emeralds?
“Alexandrite,” Damon said in a bedroom whisper. “Folklore has it that they change color in candlelight or firelight. They reflect the flame.”
Elena, who had been leaning back against him, recalled with a chill the way Damon’s eyes had reflected flame when he had been possessed: the bloodred flame of the malach — of Shinichi’s cruelty.
“So,” Damon demanded, “how did you do it?”
“This is really one of the two pieces of the fox key?”
“Well, it’s hardly something that belongs in a fountain pen. Maybe it’s a Crackerjack prize. But you went right to it the moment we entered the room. Even vampires need time to think, my precious princess.”
Elena shrugged. “It’s too easy, actually. When it was clear that all those harp keys were no goes, I asked myself what else was an instrument that you’d find in someone’s house. A pen is a writing instrument. Then I just had to find out whether Lady Fazina had a study or writing room.”
Damon let out
a breath. “Hell’s demons, you little innocent. You know what I’ve been looking for? Trap doors. Secret entries to dungeons. The only other instrument I could think of was an ‘instrument of torture’ and you’d be surprised at how many of them you’ll find in this fair city.”
“But not in her house—!” Elena’s voice rose dangerously, and they were both silent a moment to make up for it, listening, on tenterhooks, for any sound from the hallway.
There was none.
Elena let out her breath. “Quick! Where, where will it be safe?” She was realizing that the one fault of the goddess dress was that there was absolutely no place to hide anything. She’d have to speak to Lady Ulma about that for next time.
“Down, down in the pocket of my jeans,” Damon said, seeming to be as urgent and shaking as badly as she was. When he had jammed it deep into the recesses of his black Armani jeans he caught her by both hands. “Elena! Do you realize? We’ve done it. We’ve actually done it!”
“I know!” Tears were leaking out of Elena’s eyes and all of Lady Fazina’s music seemed to be swelling in one great, perfect chord. “We did it together!”
And then somehow — like all the other “somehows” that were getting to be a habit with them, Elena was in Damon’s arms, sliding her own arms under his jacket to feel his warmth, his solidity. She wasn’t surprised, either, to feel a double piercing at her throat when she dropped her head back: her lovely panther was really only a little tamed, and needed to learn a few basics of dating etiquette; such as you kiss before you bite.
He had said he was hungry earlier, she remembered, and she had ignored him, too enthralled by the silver pen to put the words together. But she put them together now, and understood — except why he seemed to be so exceptionally hungry tonight.
Maybe even…excessively hungry.
Damon, she thought gently, you’re taking a lot.
She could feel no response but the raw hunger of the panther.
Damon, this could be dangerous…for me. This time Elena put as much Power as she could into the words she sent.
Still no response from Damon, but she was floating now, down into darkness. And that gave her the vague thread of an idea.
Where are you? Are you here? she called, picturing the little boy.
And then she saw him, chained to his boulder, curled up in a ball, with his fists covering his eyes.
What’s wrong? Elena asked immediately, floating near to him, concerned.
He’s hurting! He’s hurting!
Are you hurt? Show me, Elena said instantly.
No! He’s hurting you. He could kill you!
Husshh. Husshhh. She tried to cradle him.
We have to make him hear us!
All right, Elena said. She really was feeling odd and weak. But she turned, along with the child, and cried voicelessly: Damon! Please! Elena says stop!
And a miracle happened.
Both she and the child could feel it. The little sting of fangs being withdrawn. The stop of energy flow from Elena to Damon.
And then, ironically, the miracle began to take her away from the child, with whom she really wanted to speak.
No! Wait! she tried to tell Damon, clinging to the child’s hands as hard as she could, but she was being catapulted back to consciousness as if by a hurricane. The darkness faded. In its place was a room, too bright, its one candle blazing like a police searchlight aimed directly at her. She shut her eyes and felt the warmth and heaviness of the corporeal Damon in her arms.
“I’m sorry! Elena, can you speak? I didn’t realize how much—” There was something wrong with Damon’s voice. Then she understood. Damon’s fangs were unretracted.
Wha—? Everything was wrong. They’d been so happy, but — but now her right arm felt wet.
Elena pulled away from Damon entirely, staring at her arms, which were red and with something that wasn’t paint.
She was still too worked up to ask questions properly. She slipped behind Damon and pulled his black leather jacket off him. In the brilliant light she could see his black silk shirt marred by line after line of dried, partially dried, or just plain wet blood.
“Damon!” Her first reaction was horror without a touch of guilt or understanding. “What happened? Did you get in a fight? Damon, tell me!”
And then something in her mind presented her with a number. Since she had been a child, she had been able to count. In fact. she’d learned to count to ten before her first birthday. Therefore, she’d had seventeen full years of learning to count the number of irregular, deep, still-bleeding cuts in Damon’s back.
Ten.
Elena looked down at her own bloody arms and at the goddess dress, which was now the horror dress because its pure milky whiteness was marred with brilliant red.
Red that should have been her blood. Red that must have felt like sword slashes into Damon’s back as he channeled the pain and the marks of the Night of her Discipline from her to him.
And he carried me all the way home. The thought came swimming in from nowhere. Without a word about it. I would never have known….
And he still hasn’t healed. Will he ever heal?
That was when she started screaming on all frequencies.
29
Someone was trying to make her drink out of a glass. Elena’s sense of smell was so acute that she could taste what was in the glass already — Black Magic wine. And she didn’t want that! No! She spat it out. They couldn’t make her drink.
“Mon enfant, it is for your own good. Now, drink it.” Elena turned her head away. She felt the darkness and the hurricane rushing up to take her. Yes. That was better. Why wouldn’t they leave her alone?
In the very deepest trenches of communication, a little boy was with her in the dark. She remembered him, but not his name. She held out her arms and he came into them and it seemed that his chains were lighter than they had been…when? Before. That was all she could remember.
Are you all right? she whispered to the child. Down here, deep in the heart of communion, a whisper was a shout.
Don’t cry. No tears, he begged her, but the words reminded her of something she couldn’t bear to think of, and she put her fingers to his lips, gently silencing him.
Too loud, a voice from Outside came rumbling in. “So, mon enfant, you have decided to become un vampire encore une fois.”
Is that what is happening? she whispered to the child. Am I dying again? To become a vampire?
I don’t know! the child cried. I don’t know anything. He’s angry. I’m afraid.
Sage won’t hurt you, she promised. He’s already a vampire, and your friend.
Not Sage…
Then who are you afraid of?
If you die again, I’ll be wrapped in chains all over. The child showed her a pitiable picture of himself covered by coil after coil of heavy chains. In his mouth, gagging him. Pinning his arms to his sides and his legs to the ball. Moreover, the chains were spiked so that everywhere they dug into the child’s soft flesh, blood flowed.
Who would do such a thing? Elena cried. I’ll make him wish he’d never been born. Tell me who’s going to do this!
The child’s face was sad and perplexed. I will, he said sadly. He will. He/I. Damon. Because we’ll have killed you.
But if it’s not his fault…
We have to. We have to. But maybe I’ll die, the doctor says… There was a definite lilt of hope in the last sentence.
It decided Elena. If Damon was not thinking clearly, then maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly, she reasoned out slowly. Maybe…maybe she should do what Sage wanted.
And Dr. Meggar. She could discern his voice as if through a thick fog. “—sake, you’ve been working all night. Give someone else a chance.”
Yes…all night. Elena had not wanted to wake up again, and she had a powerful will.
“Maybe switch sides?” someone — a girl — a young girl — was suggesting. Little in voice, but strong-willed, too. Bonnie.
; “Elena…It’s Meredith. Can you feel me holding your hand?” A pause, then very much louder, excitedly, “Hey, she squeezed my hand! Did you see? Sage, tell Damon to get in here quick.”
Drifting…
“…drink a little more, Elena? I know, I know, you’re sick of it. But drink un peu for my sake, will you?”
Drifting…
“Très bon, mon enfant! Maintenant, what about a little milk? Damon believes you can stay human if you drink some milk.”
Elena had two thoughts about this. One was that if she drank any more of anything, she might explode. Another was that she wasn’t going to make any foolish promises.
She tried to speak but it came out in a thread of a whisper. “Tell Damon — I won’t come up unless he lets the little boy free.”
“Who? What little boy?”
“Elena, sweetie, all the little boys on this estate are free.”
Meredith: “Why not let her tell him?”
Dr. Meggar: “Elena, Damon is right here on the couch. You’ve both been very sick, but you’re going to be fine. Here, Elena, we can move the examination table so you can talk to him. There, it’s done.”
Elena tried to open her eyes, but everything was ferociously bright. She took a breath and tried again. Still much too bright. And she didn’t know how to dim her vision anymore. She spoke with her eyes shut to the presence she felt in front of her: I can’t leave him alone again. Especially if you’re going to load him with chains and gag him.
Elena, Damon said shakily, I haven’t led a good life. But I haven’t kept slaves before, I swear. Ask anyone. And I wouldn’t do that to a child.
You have, and I know his name. And I know that all he’s made of is gentleness, and kindness, and good nature…and fear.
The low rumble of Sage’s voice, “…agitating her…” the slightly louder murmur of Damon’s: “I know she’s off her head, but I’d still like to know the name of this little boy I’m supposed to have done this to. How does that agitate her?”
The Return: Shadow Souls tvd-6 Page 27
