“Maybe we should just drop her at the hospital,” Elena had said, her eyes gleaming wetly with worry. This was an expression that came easily and often to her in the company of the Salvatores.
Bonnie had shaken her head. “They won’t be able to help her.” She pressed two fingers against the side of her neck. “Her heart’s slowing.”
Something Damon had heard all too clearly. “Well, duh. I could have told you that. Isn’t there some witchy brew you can give her? Can you swirl a finger and tighten her like a watch?”
“You don’t wind up watches anymore. What century were you born in?” Her gaze had met his, her expression deadpan.
Frustrated, he bared his teeth with a growl. “Do something.”
“Damon, I can’t. She expended her life force. You interrupted her before she could reenergize. She’s going to die.”
“Maybe. I could give her a bite.”
Bonnie’s eyes widened. “She’s unconscious.”
He shrugged. “Well, that’s a good thing, right? She won’t feel a thing.”
Stefan placed a hand on his shoulder. “She can’t exercise free will.”
Elena touched his arm. “Damon, you can’t do this without her permission. Think of what she’s already been through. She might never forgive you.”
“If I don’t, she’ll be dead. Why wouldn’t she be jumping for joy?” But inside he knew. She’d said they were alike. And he’d regretted losing his humanity every day of his undead life.
As he stared down at her, he realized the miracle afoot. She’d been given back what had been stolen. It was possible. The revelation echoed through him, reverberating so loudly he had a fleeting thought that someone might hear the hope ringing inside him.
To be human again … He flexed his shoulders and planted his hands on the cool tiles of the shower stall while the spigot above him drenched his head. He wanted to ask her how it felt. Wanted to know if she regretted that her life was finite once again.
Sometimes, he forgot how it had felt to be human, to have his thoughts free of the constant hunger cramping his insides and making his temper foul. It took effort to assume a calm demeanor, to leash the impulse to strike. Even though he’d learned to rein in his desires, bloodlust was always simmering just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest tempting provocation.
His immortality was a curse. A heavy dark robe he wore that weighted down his shoulders.
He had to know. Had to speak to her. Hear her tell him that she wanted him to turn her, give her a chance at life after her human death. For if she chose a bite over certain death, he might stop moaning inside over the loss of his humanity. He’d love to know he’d wasted years hating Stefan. He’d feel free to embrace his vampiredom in all its glorious darkness, removing the guilt he carried for the lives he’d taken. Guilt he tried to keep hidden, mostly successfully—Elena being the only one lately to guess.
He dressed in dark slacks and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled one turn, and made his way back into his bedroom.
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
Bonnie still sat beside the bed, holding Margaret’s pale motionless hand. She didn’t turn her head to acknowledge him, but the stiffening of her shoulders told him she was aware of his return. When he halted beside her, she slowly lifted her gaze.
“Why don’t you go rest,” Damon said, assuming an expression of concern.
Oh wait, she never trusted his sincerity. He scrunched his nose and firmed his lips, waiting for her set-down.
A dark brow arched. “You aren’t going to turn her. I think I’ll stay.”
Damon pressed his lips together in annoyance. “I won’t turn her, but I need you to leave.”
“Why?”
“Afraid I have a taste for catatonic women?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Yuck.”
Damon leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “Exactly my thoughts. I much prefer my women squirming and screaming.”
Her head jerked away. “Back off.”
Her gaze narrowed, staring with deadly intent, and he felt a twinge of a horrendous migraine pounding behind his eyes. He staggered back, clutching his head. “Dammit, Bonnie, stop! I won’t hurt her.” Instantly, the pain receded. He braced his hands on his knees and gave her a glare. “Was that really necessary?” he gritted out.
She grunted, then eased off the side of the bed, strolling slowly out of the room, her point made stunningly clear. She could hurt him, and would, if he harmed Margaret.
Damon took another deep breath and straightened, his gaze going back to the still figure on the bed. Margaret hadn’t moved, hadn’t betrayed so much as an escalating heartbeat at his shout. The same dull, slowing thud sounded in her chest, perhaps not as even as before, stuttering, as though her heart was forgetting its own beat.
Damon took a step closer and reached down to push a tendril of dark hair from her cheek. There was only one way for him to know what Margaret’s wishes were. He straightened beside the bed, letting his thoughts slow, tamping down his natural attraction to a human body with a still beating heart. He would slip into her dreams, stealthy as a man sliding beneath the sheets with a sleeping lover.
Damon took off his shoes and lifted the coverlet, sliding in next to Margaret, and then took a few moments to arrange her body. With his back against the tall headboard, he held her against his chest, arms wrapped around her, and bent his head toward hers, clearing his mind, letting her dream seep softly into his mind and surround him.
He stood in a field not far from his father’s old house, so he had an idea where he was. From the scent of the wood smoke in the air and the lack of the sound of vehicles traveling down darkened roads in the distance, he suspected when.
“Margaret,” he called out softly. “It’s me, Damon.”
No footsteps warned him of her approach. The touch of a soft hand through the fabric of his shirt made him turn to glance down at his side.
Her smile was tentative, her eyes—gray, he thought, or maybe just silver because they reflected moonlight—gleamed brightly in her face. Regrettable, this time she was clothed, in a dress like the one she might have worn the day she died. Something a little drab and sprigged with flowers. He eyed the dress, her upswept hair, and felt a dreadful hollow in his stomach.
Not knowing whether she was aware this was a dream or of the fact she was dying, he gave her a small smile, studying her expression for a hint.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. The raspy, husky tenor was gone, replaced with a melodic tone. Pleasant. Ordinary.
“Where … are we?” he murmured, barely moving his head as he stared intently at the woman who twisted a curl around a finger.
“In my parents’ yard, the night before your brother arrives to spirit me away.”
So she knew this was a memory. “Why here and now?”
“This is all I remember, standing in the yard and looking at the moon, wishing for an adventure,” she said, her smile faltering as she glanced at the light gleaming through the house beyond the clearing. “I’ve looked inside already. There’s nothing, not painted or papered walls, no furniture or people. The blurred interior is because I don’t remember what was there. This isn’t real.”
“No, it’s not.”
Her gaze settled on his chest and her eyes filled. “Might this be heaven?”
Although he would have liked to tell her a lie to make this easier for them both, she deserved the truth. Damon shrugged. “Dreaming, perhaps. Or on your way to heaven …”
“You’re saying that to comfort me. That’s sweet. Why are you being sweet?”
“Because I like you.”
Her mouth twitched a small smile, then flattened again. “You want something.”
“Now why would you immediately assume I’m not here to offer help?”
Her gaze narrowed. “I might not have lived very long, and only had short windows of awareness as years passed, but I know you. You are me. You hold me up like a
mirror, hoping the reflection will reveal something.…” Her head canted. “What is it you hope to see?”
Damon shook his head, uneasy with her insights. He didn’t like it when people pried into his motives. Human Margaret was almost as annoyingly intrusive as Elena could be on occasion.
“You don’t have to die.” He swept out his hands and gave her a crimped smile. “That’s why I’m here. To tell you there’s a way for you to … not die.” He lifted his brows, waiting for her reaction, hoping she’d be distracted from her prior line of questioning.
Margaret tapped a finger on her mouth and circled him, eyeing him with suspicion. “What exactly are you offering me, Damon?”
“A better existence than the one you just left.”
“I’m human now. My existence has already improved.”
“And you’re dying …” he reminded her, in case she hadn’t absorbed that thought.
“Are you offering me a chance to continue my life, as I am, but awake?”
“That’s an awkward way to put it. But no, you can’t continue any sort of life as a human. You are dying.”
She stopped, her face averted, but then she slowly swung his way. “Are you offering to make me a vampire?”
Damon didn’t want to say the words. He arched a brow, keeping his features set in the off-chance her choice disappointed him.
The light reflected in her eyes dimmed. “My only choice is to become another kind of monster?”
“It doesn’t have to be dire. You don’t have to kill to survive. The bloodlust is strong, but you’d have my brother’s help to find ways to keep from hurting others to ease your appetite. Squirrel isn’t completely horrible … I hear.” And yet he couldn’t hide a shiver of disgust.
“And why wouldn’t you be my mentor? If you make me in your image, don’t you have some responsibility for me afterward?”
“Do I look like God?” He rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t be the best example to emulate. I try to do no harm, but sometimes, I can’t seem to help being bad.”
“Tell me something,” she said, her voice so thin and quiet he had to lean closer to hear her words.
“What, Margaret? What do you want to know?”
“If your brother hadn’t brought me to you, would you have chosen this path?”
Damon swallowed the bile burning the back of his throat. Her face blurred as tears welled in his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away and turned his face to look up at the moon. Anything but meet her knowing glance, because she knew. “That morning, I was prepared to die.”
She smiled … faintly, her gaze veering away. “I remember. You were horrified at your brother’s appearance. At his gaiety after having killed and transformed.”
“Stefan was supposed to be the good brother. The one who always saw to duty. Favored by our father. I was a … screw-up. I left the Confederacy because I didn’t believe in what they were doing, and I couldn’t stand to be away from a girl, but I couldn’t tell my father what I did believe in. He thought I was a coward. In the end, the good brother killed him.”
“You hesitated. I couldn’t resist Stefan’s command to submit, but I saw your hesitation. You looked into my eyes, and a remnant of who you were looked back at me. There was regret and pain in your eyes.”
He grunted. “A moment before I ripped out your throat.”
Her hand went to her neck. “That I remember too. I was so angry at being helpless. That anger fueled me for many moons, made it possible for me to seek out my victims and not feel a hint of remorse. But eventually, I did.” She summoned another small smile. “My answer to your question, Damon … is no. I don’t want to feel that way again, anxious and disgusted, afraid of myself and for my victims. I don’t want to be helpless against a hunger I can never control.”
Damon reached for her hands and clasped them, bending toward her to look directly into her eyes. “We’d look after you. Help you. You wouldn’t have to be alone this time.”
“Stop.” She pulled one hand away and touched his chest, just above his heart. “Stop, please.”
Moisture glittered in her eyes, making them glisten like diamonds, so far from ordinary, so beautiful in their sincerity, she made his chest ache.
And with her refusal, he found no reprieve. Part of him was a little angry with her for not taking the easy route—and for causing pain to pinch his chest.
Another part, hidden deep inside, rejoiced. He hadn’t wasted years railing at his fate. He’d been right all along to hold onto his resentment.
He stared down at the hand resting over his heart, at her gray eyes, which were clear of tears, and the firm set of her chin. As he had with Rose when she’d been bitten by a werewolf, he could help Margaret pass. Peacefully. Without fear.
“We have the night to ourselves, Margaret,” he said, tilting his head and giving her a wink, although his smile slipped just a little. “How would you like to spend it?”
In the distance, far from the moonlit clearing where he and Margaret danced, he heard a door close and he smelled the mingled scents of Elena, Stefan, and Bonnie coming closer. The bed dipped, hands touched his shoulders, fingers swept a tear falling on his cheek—but he smiled for Margaret, twirled her under his arm, and bent her back for a final kiss.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
Until a few years ago, award-winning romance author Delilah Devlin lived in south Texas at the intersection of two dry creeks, surrounded by sexy cowboys in Wranglers. These days, she’s missing the wide-open skies and starry nights but loving her dark forest in central Arkansas, with its eccentric characters and isolation—the better to feed her hungry muse!
For Delilah, the greatest sin is driving between the lines because it’s comfortable and safe. Her personal journey has taken her through one war and many countries, cultures, jobs, and relationships to bring her to the place where she is now—writing sexy adventures that hold more than a kernel of autobiography and often share a common thread of self-discovery and transformation.
Delilah Devlin is a prolific and award-winning author of erotica and erotic romance, with a rapidly expanding reputation for writing deliciously edgy stories with complex characters. Whether creating dark, erotically charged paranormal worlds or richly descriptive historical stories that ring with authenticity, Delilah Devlin “pens in uncharted territory that will leave the readers breathless and hungering for more” (Paranormal Reviews). Ms. Devlin has published over 120 stories in multiple genres and lengths.
The Vampire Diaries: Making Amends: Damon’s First Bite (Kindle Worlds Short Story) Page 3
