"I know the name Gilbert, you see," he said, "and the more I look at you, the more you remind me of someone - two someones - who were once very dear friends of mine.
Could you possibly be the daughter of Elizabeth Morrow and Thomas Gilbert?"
"Yes, I am," said Elena slowly. She ought to have expected that she might meet someone who knew her parents here at Dalcrest, but it felt weird to hear their names, al the same.
"Ah!" He laced his fingers across his stomach and gave her a satisfied smile. "You look so much like Elizabeth. It startled me when you came into the room. But there's a touch of Thomas in you, too, make no mistake about that.
Something about your expression, I think. Seeing you takes me right back to my own days as an undergraduate. She was a lovely girl, your mother, just lovely."
"You went to school here with my parents?" Elena asked.
"I certainly did." Professor Campbel 's smal black eyes widened. "They were two of my best friends here. Two of the best friends I ever had. We lost track of each other over the years, I'm afraid, but I heard about the accident." He unlaced his fingers and hesitantly touched her arm. "I'm so sorry."
"Thank you." Elena bit her lip. "They never talked much about their col ege years. Maybe as I got older, they would have..." Her voice trailed off, and she realized with dismay that her eyes had fil ed with tears.
"Oh, my dear, I didn't mean to upset you." Professor Campbel patted his jacket pockets. "And I've never got a tissue when I need one. Oh, please don't cry." His comical expression of distress made Elena give him a watery-eyed smile, and he relaxed and smiled in return. "There, that's better," he said. "You know, if you'd like to hear more about your parents and what they were like back then, I'd be happy to tel you about them. I've got al kinds of stories."
"Real y?" Elena said hopeful y. She felt a flicker of excitement. Aunt Judith talked with Elena about her mother sometimes, but the memories she shared were mostly from their childhood. And Elena real y didn't know much about her father's past at al : he'd been an only child and his parents were dead.
"Certainly, certainly," Professor Campbel said cheerful y. "Come to my office hours, and I'l tel you al about our hijinks back in the old days. I'm there every Monday and Friday from three to five, and I'l put out a welcome mat for you. Metaphorical y speaking, of course.
Serve you some of the horrible department coffee."
"Thank you, Professor Campbel ," Elena said. "I'd love that."
"Cal me James," he said. "It's nothing at al . Anything I can do to make you feel at home here at Dalcrest." He cocked his head to one side and looked at her quizzical y, his eyes as bright and curious as a smal animal's. "After al , as the daughter of Elizabeth and Thomas, you must be a very special girl."
The big black crow outside the open lecture-room window paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching its powerful talons around the branch on which it was perched.
Damon wanted to transform back into his vampire self, climb through the window, and have a quick but effective interrogation session with that professor.
But Elena wouldn't like that.
She was so naive, dammit.
Yes, yes, she was his lovely, bril iant, clever princess, but she was ridiculously naive, too; they al were. Damon irritably preened his ruffled feathers back into iridescent sleekness. They were just so young. At this point, Damon was able to look back and say that no one learned anything in life, not for her first hundred years or so. You had to be immortal, real y, to have the time to learn to look out for yourself properly.
Take Elena, gazing so trustful y at her professor. After al she'd been through, al she'd seen, she was so easy to lul into complacency - al the man had to do was dangle the promise of information about her parents in front of her, and she'd happily trot off to meet him in his office whenever he suggested. Sentimental ninny. What could the man possibly tel her that would be of any real importance? Nothing could bring her parents back.
The professor wasn't a danger, most likely. Damon had probed him with his Power, felt nothing but the flickering of a human mind, no dark surge of answering Power coming from the little man, no sWellof disturbing or violent emotion.
But he couldn't be sure, could he? Damon's Power couldn't detect every monster, couldn't predict every twist of the human heart.
But the real problem here was Elena. She'd forgotten, clearly, that she'd lost al her Power, that the Guardians had stripped her back to being just a vulnerable, fragile mortal girl again. She thought, wrongly, that she could protect herself.
They were al like that. Damon had been infuriated at first to slowly realize that he was starting to feel like al of them were his humans. Not just his lovely Elena and the little redbird, but all of them, the witch Mrs. Flowers and the hunter and that meathead of a boy as Well. Those last two didn't even like him, but he felt compel ed to keep an eye on them, to prevent them from damaging themselves through their innate stupidity.
Damon wasn't the one who wanted to be here. No, the "let's al join hands and dance off to further our educations together" idea wasn't his, and he'd treated it with the proper scorn. He wasn't Stefan. He wasn't going to waste his time pretending to be one of the mortal children.
But he had found, to his dismay, that he didn't want to lose them, either.
It was embarrassing. Vampires were not pack animals, not like humans. He wasn't supposed to care what happened to them. These children should be prey, and nothing more.
But being dead and coming back, fighting the jealousy phantom and letting go of the sick envy and misery that had held him captive ever since he was a human, had changed Damon. With that hard bal of hate gone from the middle of his chest, where it had lived for so long, he found himself feeling lighter. Almost as if he ... cared.