The Vampire Diaries: The Return: Shadow Souls

by Smith, L. J.

  But we went inside, with our torches seeming like smaller versions of that giant crimson sun that always sits on the horizon, staining everything outside the color of blood, and we shut the doors and lit a fire in a giant fireplace in what Lady Ulma calls the Great Hall. (I think it’s where you eat or have parties—it has an enormous table on a dais at one side, and a room for minstrels above what must be the dance floor. Lady Ulma said that this is where the servants all sleep at night, too (the Great Hall, not the minstrel gallery).

  Then we went upstairs, where we saw—I swear—several dozen bedrooms with very large four-poster beds that are going to need new mattresses and sheets and coverlets and hangings, but we didn’t stay to look around. There were bats hanging from the ceiling.

  We headed for Lady Ulma’s mother’s workroom. It was a very large room where at least forty people could sit and sew the clothes that Lady Ulma’s mother designed. But here’s the exciting part!

  Lady Ulma went to one of the wardrobes in the room and moved away all the tattered, moth-eaten clothes that were in it. And she pressed some different places at the back of the cupboard and the whole back of the cupboard slid out! Inside it was a very narrow stairway going straight down!

  I kept thinking about Honoria Fell’s crypt and wondering if some homeless vampire might have taken up residence in the room downstairs, but I knew that was silly because there were spiderwebs just inside the door. Damon still insisted that he go down first because he has the best eyesight in the dark, but I think the truth is that he was just curious to see what was down there.

  We each followed him one at a time, trying to be careful with the torches, and…well, I can’t find the right words for what we discovered. For just a few minutes I was disappointed because everything on the big table down there was dusty rather than sparkly, but then Lady Ulma began to gently brush jewels off with a special cloth and Bonnie found sacks and packages and she poured them out—and it was like pouring out a rainbow! Damon found a cabinet where there were drawers and drawers of necklaces, bracelets, rings, armlets, anklets, earrings, nose rings, and hairpins and ornaments, too!

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I poured out a pouch and found that I had a huge handful of glorious white diamonds dripping through my fingers, some of them as big as my thumbnail. I saw white pearls and black pearls, both smaller and perfectly matched, and huge and in marvelous shapes: almost as big as apricots with pink or golden or gray sheens to them. I saw sapphires the size of quarters, with stars you could see almost from across the room. I held handfuls of emeralds and peridots and opals and rubies and tourmalines and amethysts—and a lot of lapis lazuli, for the discriminating vampire, of course.

  And the jewelry that was already made up was so beautiful it made my throat ache. I know Lady Ulma had a quiet little cry, but I think it was partly from happiness as we all kept complimenting her on her jewels. In days she has gone from being a slave who owned nothing to an incredibly rich woman who owns a house and all the means she would ever need to keep it up in style. We decided that even though she is going to marry her lover, it was best at first for Damon to buy him quietly and free him quietly, but to play “Head of the Household” for as long as we are here. During that time we will treat Lady Ulma as family, and will put the jeweler Lucen back to work until we leave, when he and Lady Ulma can quietly take Damon’s place. The feudal lords around here are not demons anymore, but vampires, and they have less objection to humans owning property.

  Have I told you about Lucen? He’s a wonderful artist with jewels! He has a burning need to create—in his early days as a slave he would create with mud and weeds, imagining that he was making jewelry. Then he got lucky and was apprenticed to a jeweler. He’s felt sorry for Lady Ulma for so long, and loved her for so long, that it’s like a little miracle that they are truly able to get together—and most importantly, as free citizens.

  We were afraid that Lucen might not like the idea of us buying him as a slave and not freeing him until we leave, but he never thought he’d be free—because of his talent. He’s a slow, gentle, kind man, with a neat little beard and gray eyes that remind me of Meredith’s. And he’s so amazed at being treated decently and not worked around the clock that he would have accepted anything, just to be allowed to be near Lady Ulma. I guess he was an apprentice when her father was a jeweler, and he fell in love with her all those years ago, but he thought he would never, never ever be able to be with her, because she was a young lady of quality and he was a slave. They’re so happy together!

  Every day Lady Ulma looks more beautiful, and younger. She asked permission from Damon to dye her hair all black, and he told her she could dye it pink if she liked, and now she just looks incredibly beautiful. I can’t believe I ever thought of her as an old hag, but that’s what agony and fear and hopelessness do to you. Every one of those gray hairs was from being a slave, with no property, no say in her future, no safety, no ability even to keep her children, if she had them.

  I forgot to tell you the other upside of Meredith, Bonnie, and I being “personal assistants” for a while. It’s that we can employ a lot of poor women who make their living by sewing, and Lady Ulma actually wants to design and show them how to make our finest clothes. We told her that she could just relax, but she says all her life she’s fantasized about being a designer like her mother and now she’s dying to do it—with three completely different types of girl to dress. I’m dying to see what she’ll come up with: she’s already started sketching and tomorrow the man who sells fabric will come and she’ll pick the materials.

  Meanwhile Damon has hired about two hundred people (really!) to clean out Lady Ulma’s estate, put up new wall hangings and curtains, refurbish the plumbing system, polish up the furniture that has kept nicely, and to get new furniture where things have fallen apart. Oh, and to plant ready-grown flowers and trees in the gardens and put in fountains and all kinds of stuff. With that many people working, we ought to be able to move in in just a matter of days.

  All this has just one purpose, aside from making Lady Ulma happy. It’s so that Damon and his “personal assistants” will be accepted by high society as the season of parties begins this year. Because I’ve kept the best for last. Both Lady Ulma and Sage could immediately identify the people in the riddles that Misao gave to us!

  It just goes to prove what I thought before, that Misao never imagined that we’d actually make it here, or that we could get entrance to the places where they’ve hidden the two halves of the fox key.

  But there’s a very easy way to get invited into the houses we need to get into. If we’re the newest, splashiest nouveau riche (sp?) around, and if we circulate the story that Lady Ulma has been restored to her rightful place, and if everyone wants to know about her—we’ll get invited to parties! And that’s how we get into the two estates we need to visit to look for the halves of the key that we need to free Stefan! And we’re incredibly lucky, because this is the time of year when everyone begins to give parties, and both households we want to visit are having early celebrations: one is a gala, and one is a spring soiree to celebrate the first flowers.

  I know my writing is shaky now. I’m shaky myself at the thought that we are actually going to look for the two halves of the fox key that will let us break Stefan out of his prison.

  Oh, diary, it’s late—and I can’t—I can’t write about Stefan. To be here in the same city with him, to know the direction to his prison…and yet to not be able to get to see him. My eyes are so blurred I can’t see what I’m writing. I wanted to get some sleep to be ready for another day of running around, supervising, and watching Lady Ulma’s estate blossom like a rose—but now I’m afraid I’ll just have nightmares about Stefan’s hand slowly slipping out of mine.

  23

  That “night” they moved in, choosing the hour while the other estates they passed were darkened and quiet. Elena, Meredith, and Bonnie each picked a room on the upper floor as a bedroom, all close together. Nearb
y was a luxurious bathing room, with a pale blue and white marble floor and a unique pool shaped like a giant rose, fully large enough to swim in, heated by charcoal, with a cheerful-looking servant to tend it.

  Elena was delighted with what happened next. Damon bought a number of slaves quietly, in a private sale from a respectable dealer, and then promptly freed them all and offered them wages and time off. Almost all the former slaves were only too happy to agree to stay, and only a few chose to leave or ran away, mostly women in search of their families. The others would remain and become Lady Ulma’s staff once Damon, Elena, Bonnie, and Meredith left after freeing Stefan.

  Lady Ulma, was given a “senior” room downstairs, although Damon almost had to use brute force to install her in it. He himself chose a room that was an office by day, since he wasn’t likely to spend much of the night in the house anyway.

  There was a slight embarrassment over that. Most of the staff knew of the ways of vampire masters, and the young girls and women who came to sew or who lived on the estate and cooked and cleaned seemed to expect some sort of rota to be worked out, with each of them taking turns at being donors.

  Damon explained this to Elena, who quashed the idea before it could be implemented. She could tell that Damon was hoping for a steady stream of girls, ranging from flowerlike to red-cheeked and buxom, who would be glad to be “tapped” like beer kegs for the pretty bangles and baubles that were traditionally given.

  Elena similarly disposed of the idea of hunting for hire. Sage had mentioned that there were even rumors of a possible Outside connection: a very advanced training course for Navy SEALs.

  “And they can come out the world’s only vampire seals,” Elena had said sardonically, in front of a group of male slaves this time. “They can go out and bite sharks. Certainly you guys can go out and hunt some humans like a pair of owls hunting mice—just don’t bother to come home afterward, because the doors will be locked…permanently.” She held Sage’s gaze until her expression became a steely glare and he’d hastened off to do something else around the estate.

  Elena didn’t mind Sage’s informal moving in with them. And after hearing how Sage had saved Damon from the mob that ambushed him on the way to the Meeting Place, she had determined in her own mind that if Sage ever wanted her blood, she would give it to him unhesitatingly. After a few days, when he had stayed around the house near Dr. Meggar’s and then moved with them into Lady Ulma’s compound, she had wondered if her diminished aura and Damon’s reticence weren’t depriving him of something he should know about. So she’d thrown broader and broader hints at him, until once when he had doubled over, and then, with tears of laughter (but had it only been laughter?) in his eyes, had come over to her and said that the Americans had a saying, no? You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink. In his case, he said, you could lead a snarling black panther—her normal mental iconic image of Damon—to water, if you had electric cattle prods and elephant ankusha, but that afterward you’d be a fool to turn your back on it. Elena had laughed until she, too, cried, but had still pledged that if he wanted her blood, a reasonable share was his.

  Now she simply felt glad to have him around. Her heart was too full already, with Stefan, Damon—and even Matt, despite his apparent desertion—for her to be in danger of falling for another vampire, no matter how terminally fit they were. She appreciated Sage as a friend and protector.

  Elena was surprised at how much she came to rely on Lakshmi as each day passed. Lakshmi had begun as a sort of gopher, doing the running around that no one else wanted to, but more and more, she had become Lady Ulma’s maid-in-waiting and Elena’s source of information about this world. Lady Ulma was still officially bedridden, and having Lakshmi ready at any time of the day or night, to send messages, was wonderfully convenient. Too, she was someone that Elena could ask questions of that otherwise would get her eyed as if she were crazy. Did they need to buy plates or was food served on a large hunk of dried bread, which acted as a napkin for greasy fingers as well? (Plates had been recently introduced, along with forks, which were all the rage now.) How much were the men and woman of the household entitled to in wages (which had to be calculated from scratch, since no other household paid its slaves a geld, merely clothing them from a community uniform cache, and allowing them one or two “feast days” a year)? Young as she was, Lakshmi was both honest and bold and Elena was grooming her to become Lady Ulma’s right hand, after Lady Ulma had become well enough to be the lady of the house.

  24

  Dear Diary,

  It’s the night before the night of our first party—or rather gala. But I don’t feel very gala. I miss Stefan too much.

  I’ve been brooding about Matt, too. How he walked away, so angry at me, not even looking back. He didn’t understand how I could…care for…Damon, and yet still love Stefan so much that it felt as if my heart was breaking.

  Elena put down the pen and stared at her diary dully. The heartbreak manifested itself in actual physical pains in her chest that would have frightened her if she hadn’t been sure of what it really was. She missed Stefan so desperately that she could hardly eat, could barely sleep. He was like a part of her mind that was constantly on fire, like a phantom limb that would never go away.

  Not even writing in her diary would help tonight. All she could write about were painfully tantalizing memories of the good times she and Stefan had shared together. How good it had been when she could just turn her head and know that she would see him—what a privilege that had been! And now it was gone, and in its place was racking confusion, guilt, and anxiety. What was happening to him, right now, when she no longer had the privilege of turning her head and seeing him? Were they…hurting him?

  Oh, God, if only…

  If only I had made him lock all the windows to his room at the boardinghouse…

  If only I had been more suspicious of Damon…

  If only I had guessed he had something on his mind that last night…

  If only…if only…

  It became a pounding refrain in time to her heart. She found herself breathing in sobs, her eyes tightly shut, clutching the rhythm to her and clenching her fists.

  If I keep feeling this way—if I let it crush me enough—I’ll become an infinitesimal point in space. I’ll be crushed into nothingness—and even that will be better than needing him so much.

  Elena lifted up her head…and stared down at her head, resting on her diary.

  She gasped.

  Once more her first reaction was to imagine death. And then, slowly, because she was stupefied by so many tears, she realized that she’d done it again.

  She was out of her body.

  This time she wasn’t even aware of a conscious decision about where to go. She was flying, so fast that she couldn’t tell which way she was going. It was as if she were being pulled, as if she were the tail of a comet that was rapidly shooting downward.

  At one point she realized with familiar horror that she was passing through things, and then she was veering as if she were the end of the whip in a game of Crack the Whip and then she was catapulted into Stefan’s cell.

  She was still sobbing as she landed in the cell, unsure of whether she had solid form or gravity, and uncaring for the moment. The only thing she had time to see was Stefan, very thin but smiling in his sleep and then she was dumped onto him, into him, and still crying as she bounced, as lightly as a feather, and Stefan woke.

  “Oh, can’t you let me sleep for a few minutes in peace?” Stefan snapped, and added a couple of Italian words that Elena had never had reason to hear before.

  Elena had an immediate fit of the Bonnies, sobbing so hard that she couldn’t listen to—couldn’t even hear—any comfort that was on offer. They were doing horrible things to him, and they were using her image, Elena’s, to do them. It was all too awful. They were conditioning Stefan to hate her. She hated herself. Everyone in the whole world hated her—

  “Elena! Elena, don’t c
ry, love!”

  Dully, Elena lifted herself up, getting a brief anatomical view of Stefan’s chest before she was sobbing again, trying to wipe her nose on Stefan’s prison uniform, which looked as if it could only be improved by anything she might do to it.

  She couldn’t, of course; just as she couldn’t feel the arm that was trying to encircle her gently. She hadn’t brought her body with her.

  But she had, somehow, brought her tears, and a cold, cable-wire-tough voice inside herself said, Don’t waste them, idiot! Use those tears. If you’re going to sob, sob over his face or his hands. And, by the way, everyone hates you.

  Even Matt hates you, and Matt likes everybody, the tiny cruel, productive voice went on and Elena gave way to a fresh gale of sobbing, absently noting the effect of each teardrop. Each drop turned the white skin under it pink and the color spread in ripples outward, as if Stefan were a pool, and she was resting on him, water on water.

  Except that her tears were falling so fast that it looked like a rainstorm on Wickery Pond. And that only made her think about the time that Matt had fallen into the pond, trying to rescue a little girl who had fallen through the ice, and how Matt hated her now.

  “Don’t, oh don’t; don’t, lovely love,” Stefan begged, so sincerely that anyone would have believed he meant it. But how could he? Elena knew what she must look like, face swollen and blotched by tears: no “lovely love” here! And he’d have to be mad to want her to stop crying: the teardrops were giving him new life wherever they touched his skin—and perhaps the storm inside him had done best, because his telepathic voice was strong and sure.