The room went stil . It was the stil ness of expectation, as if some great creature were holding its breath. Bonnie felt like an entire audience stood around her, suspended in eagerness. The veil between the worlds was about to lift. She had no doubts.
"Damon Salvatore," she said clearly. "Come to me."
Nothing happened.
"Damon Salvatore," Bonnie said again, less confidently,
"come to me."
The tension, the feeling of magic in the room was beginning to dissipate, as if her invisible audience were quietly creeping away.
Yet Bonnie knew the spel had worked. She had a funny, blank, cutoff feeling, like when she was talking on the phone and her carrier suddenly dropped the cal . Her cal had gone through, she was sure of it, but there was no one on the other end. Only what did it mean? Was Damon's soul just... gone?
Suddenly Bonnie heard something. A light breathing, just a smidge out of time with her own.
There was someone right behind her.
The hairs rose on the back of her neck. She hadn't broken the circle of protection. Nothing should be able to cross into that circle, certainly no spirit, but whoever was behind her was inside the circle, so close to Bonnie that they were almost touching her.
Bonnie froze. Then slowly, careful y, she put down her hand and felt for the knife. "Damon?" she whispered uncertainly.
A tinkling laugh sounded behind her, fol owed by a low voice. "Damon doesn't want to talk to you." The voice was honey-sweet, but somehow also poisonous-sounding, insidious and oddly familiar.
"Why not?" Bonnie asked shakily.
"He doesn't love you," the voice said in a soft, persuasive tone. "He never even noticed you were there, unless there was something he wanted from you. Or perhaps if he wanted to make Elena jealous. You know that."
Bonnie swal owed, too afraid to turn around, too afraid to see who the voice belonged to.
"Damon saw only Elena. Damon loved only Elena. Even now that he's dead and lost to her, he won't hear you cal ing," the voice lilted. "Nobody loves you, Bonnie. Everyone loves Elena, and that's how she likes it. Elena keeps everyone for herself."
A burning sensation began behind Bonnie's eyes, and a single hot tear ran down her cheek.
"No one wil ever love you," the voice whispered. "Not when you're standing next to Elena. Why do you think no one ever saw you as anything but Elena's friend? Al the way through school, she was standing in the sunshine and you were hidden in her shadow. Elena made sure of that. She couldn't bear to share the spotlight."
The words rattled inside Bonnie's mind, and suddenly something inside her shifted. The icy terror she'd felt just moments ago had thawed, making way for roiling anger. The voice was right. Why had she never seen it before?
Elena was Bonnie's friend only because Bonnie was a foil for her own beauty, her own sparkle. She had been using her for years without caring how Bonnie felt at al .
"She cares only about herself," Bonnie said, half sobbing.
"Why can't anyone see that?" She shoved the book away from her and it knocked over the black candle to her north, breaking the circle. The wick smoked and guttered, and al four candles went out.
"Ahhhh," said the voice in satisfaction, and tendrils of dark fog began to creep from the corners of the room. Just as quickly as her fear had left her, it snapped back. Bonnie spun around, holding the knife, ready to face the voice, but there was no one there - just dark, amorphous fog. Hysteria wel ing within her, she got to her feet and stumbled toward the door. But the fog moved quickly, and soon Bonnie was enveloped in it. Something fel with a clatter. She couldn't see more than a few inches. Bonnie opened her mouth and tried to scream, but the fog flowed over her lips, and her scream turned into a muffled moan. She felt her grip on the knife loosen and it dropped to the floor with a dul clank. Her vision grew blurry. Bonnie tried to lift her foot but could barely move.
Then, blinded by the fog, she lost her balance and pitched forward into darkness.
Chapter 21
When she opened her eyes, Elena found herself in someone's attic. Its wide wooden floorboards and low rafters were thick with dust, and the long room was crowded with objects: a hammock, sleds, skis, boxes with words like Xmas or toddler toys or B's winter clothes scribbled on them in black marker. Oilcloths were draped over larger objects that might be furniture, chairs and tables, by their shapes.
At the far end of the room an old mattress lay on the floor, with an oilcloth crumpled at one end, as if someone sleeping there had been using it as a makeshift blanket and had shoved it off when they rose.
Faint traces of pale light showed around the edges of a smal shuttered window at the nearer end of the attic. There was a soft rustling, as if mice were going about their private business behind the shelter of the stored furniture. It was al weirdly familiar.
She looked back toward the far end of the attic and saw, without the faintest sense of surprise, that Damon was now sitting on the old mattress, his long black-clad legs drawn up, his elbows resting on his knees. He was managing to give the appearance of lounging graceful y despite his awkward position.
"The places where we meet are getting less and less elegant," she told him dryly.
Damon laughed and held up his hands in denial. "You pick the locations, princess," he said. "This is your show. I'm just along for the ride." He paused thoughtful y. "Okay, that's not entirely true," he confessed. "But you do pick the locations. Where are we, anyway?"
"You don't know?" Elena said with mock indignation.
"This is a very special place for us, Damon! Ful of memories! You brought me here right after I became a vampire, remember?"