Mrs. Flowers fil ed his cup and sat back, satisfied. Picking up her knitting - something pink and fluffy - she smiled. "It's so nice to have al you young people gathered together here," she commented. "Such a lovely group of children."
Glancing at the others, Stefan had to wonder whether Mrs. Flowers was being gently sarcastic.
Alaric and Meredith had returned from the hospital, where her injury had been diagnosed as a mild sprain and taped up by the emergency room nurse. Meredith's usual y serene face was tight, probably at least partial y because of the pain and her irritation at knowing she'd have to stay off her foot for a couple of days.
And partial y, Stefan suspected, because of where she was sitting. For some reason, when Alaric had helped her hobble into the living room and over to the couch, he had parked her directly next to Celia.
Stefan didn't consider himself an expert on romance -
after al , he'd lived for hundreds of years and fal en in love only twice, and his romance with Katherine had been a disaster - but even he couldn't miss the tension between Meredith and Celia. He wasn't sure whether Alaric was as oblivious to it as he seemed or whether he was pretending obliviousness in the hope that the situation would blow over. Celia had changed into an elegant white sundress and sat flipping through a journal titled Forensic Anthropology, looking cool and composed. Meredith was, in contrast, unusual y grimy and smudged, her beautiful features and smooth olive skin marred by tiredness and pain. Alaric had taken a chair next to the couch.
Celia, ignoring Meredith, leaned across her toward Alaric.
"I think you might find this interesting," she said to him.
"It's an article on the dental patterns in mummified bodies found on an island quite near Unmei no Shima."
Meredith shot Celia a nasty look. "Oh, yes," she said quietly. "Teeth, how fascinating." Celia's mouth flattened into a line, but she didn't reply.
Alaric took the magazine with a polite murmur of interest, and Meredith frowned.
Stefan frowned, too. Al the tension humming between Meredith, Celia, and Alaric - and now that he was watching, he could tel that Alaric knew exactly what was going on between the two young women and was flattered, irritated, and anxious in equal parts - was interfering with Stefan's Powers.
While he'd sat and sipped his first cup of tea, reluctantly fol owing Elena's command to "stay," Stefan had been sending out tendrils of Power, trying to sense whether Elena had made it home, whether anything had stopped her on her way. Whether Caleb had stopped her. But he hadn't been able to find her, even with his senses extended to their utmost. Once or twice, he'd caught what felt like a fleeting impression of what might be the very specific sound, scent, and aura that unmistakably meant Elena, but then it slipped away from him.
He'd blamed the fact that he couldn't locate her on his weakening Powers, but now it was clear to him what was keeping him from finding her. Al the emotion in this room: the pounding hearts, the flushes of anger, the acrid scent of jealousy.
Stefan pul ed himself back, tried to quel the rage rising within him. These people - his friends, he reminded himself
- were not purposely interfering. They couldn't help their emotions. He took a swig of his rapidly cooling tea, trying to relax before he lost control, and winced at the taste. Tea wasn't what he was craving, he realized. He needed to get out to the forest soon and hunt. He needed blood. No, he needed to find out exactly what Caleb Smal wood was up to. He stood up so abruptly, so violently, the chair rocked unsteadily beneath him.
"Stefan?" Matt asked in an alarmed voice.
"What is it?" Bonnie's eyes were enormous.
Stefan glanced around the circle of distracted faces, now al watching him. "I have to go." Then he turned on his heels and ran.
Chapter 16
He walked for a long, long time, though it seemed his surroundings never changed. The same dim light filtered through a constant cloud of ash. He plodded on through grime, through mud, through ankle-deep pools of dark water.
Occasional y, he unclenched his fist and gazed again at the locks of hair. Each time, the magic liquid cleaned them a little more, changing a scrap of fibrous blackness to two locks of shining hair, red and gold.
He walked on.
Everything hurt, but he couldn't stop. If he stopped he would sink back below the ash and mud, back to the grave back to death.
Something whispered around the edges of his mind. He didn't know quite what had happened to him, but words and phrases spun in his head.
Words like abandoned, words like alone.
He was very cold. He kept walking. After a while, he realized he was mumbling. "Left me al alone. They'd never have left him here." He couldn't remember who this him was, but he felt a sick sort of satisfaction from the glow of resentment. He held on to it as he continued his march. After what felt like an unchanging eternity, something happened. Ahead of him he could see the gatehouse he had imagined: spired like a fairy-tale castle, black as night. He walked faster, his footsteps shuffling through the ash. And then the earth opened suddenly beneath his feet. In the space of a heartbeat, he was fal ing into nothingness. Something inside him howled, Not now, not now. He grabbed and clawed at the earth, his arms holding him afloat, his feet swinging into the emptiness below him.
"No," he moaned. "No, they can't... Don't leave me here. Don't leave me again." His fingers slipped, mud and ash sliding beneath his hands.
"Damon?" an incredulous voice roared. A great muscular figure stood above him, silhouetted against the moons and planets in the sky, his chest bared, long, spiraling tangles of hair spil ing over his shoulders. This statue of a man reached down and grasped him by the arms, lifting him up. He yelped in pain. Something beneath the earth had latched onto his legs and was pul ing him back down.