Phantom (11 page)

H
e 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.

Occasionally, 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 all 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 falling 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 spilling 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 pulling him back down.

“Hold on!” The other man grunted, muscles rippling. He strained and
heaved
against whatever was clinging onto Damon—
Damon
, the man had called him, and that felt right, somehow. The other man gave a great tug, and finally the force below released him, and he shot out of the earth, knocking his rescuer backward.

Damon lay panting on the ground, spent.

“You are supposed to be dead,” the other man told him, climbing to his feet and holding out a hand to steady Damon. He pushed a long lock of hair away from his face and gazed at Damon with serious, troubled eyes. “The fact that you are not . . . well, I am not as surprised as I should be.”

Damon blinked at his savior, who was watching him attentively. He wet his lips and tried to speak, but his voice wouldn’t come.

“Everything has been disturbed here since your friends left,” the man said. “Something essential has shifted in this universe. Things are not right.” He shook his head, his eyes troubled. “But tell me,
mon cher
, how does it come to be that you are here?”

Finally Damon found his voice. It came out rough and quavering. “I . . . don’t know.”

The man immediately was all courtesy. “I think the situation calls for some Black Magic,
oui
? And some blood, perhaps, and a chance to clean up. And then, Damon, we must talk.”

He gestured toward the dark castle ahead of them. Damon hesitated for a moment, glancing at the emptiness and ash around them, then trudged after him toward the open doors.

After Stefan swept out of the room so suddenly, everyone could only stare after him as the front door banged, signaling that he had left the house just as quickly. Bonnie hugged her arms around herself, shivering. A little voice in the back of her head told her that something was very, very wrong.

Celia finally broke the silence. “Interesting,” she said. “Is he always so . . . intense? Or is it a vampire thing?”

Alaric chuckled dryly. “Believe it or not, he’s always seemed very low-key and practical to me. I don’t remember him being so volatile.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair and added thoughtfully, “Maybe it was the contrast with his brother that made him seem so reasonable. Damon was pretty unpredictable.”

Meredith frowned thoughtfully. “No, you’re right. This isn’t the way Stefan usually acts. Maybe he’s emotional because Elena’s threatened? But that doesn’t make sense . . . she’s been in danger before. Even when she
died—
he was heartbroken, but, if anything, it made him more responsible, not wilder.”

“But when Elena was dead,” Alaric reminded her, “the worst thing he could imagine had already happened. It’s possible that what’s making him so jumpy is that he doesn’t know where the threat’s coming from this time.”

Bonnie took a sip of tea, zoning out as Meredith
hmmm
ed thoughtfully, and Celia raised one skeptical eyebrow. “I still don’t understand what you mean when you say Elena
died
. Are you suggesting she actually rose from the dead?”

“Yes,” said Meredith. “She was turned into a vampire, then she was exposed to sunlight and physically died. They buried her and everything. Later—months later—she returned. She’s human again, though.”

“I find all that very hard to believe,” said Celia flatly.

“Honestly, Celia,” said Alaric, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “With everything you’ve seen since we got here—your scarf nearly choking you, then spelling out a name, Bonnie having a vision, Stefan practically flying to save you—I don’t know why you’re drawing the line now and saying you don’t believe a girl could come back from the dead.” He paused and took a breath. “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but really.”

Meredith smirked. “Believe it or not, it’s true. Elena came back from the dead.”

Bonnie wrapped one long red curl around her finger. She watched as her finger turned white and red against the strand of hair. Elena. Of course they were talking about Elena. Everyone was always talking about Elena. Whether she was with them or not, everything they did or thought centered on Elena.

Alaric turned to address the whole group. “Stefan seems convinced that ‘he wants you’ means Caleb, but I’m not sure that it does. From what I’ve seen of Bonnie’s visions, and what you guys have told me, they’re hardly ever about what’s right in front of her. Caleb’s appearance—if it even
was
Caleb—could have been a coincidence. Don’t you think so, Meredith?”

Oh, don’t bother to ask me about the visions,
Bonnie thought bitterly.
I’m only the one who has them.
Wasn’t that the way it always was, though? She was the one everyone overlooked.

“It
could
be a coincidence,” Meredith said doubtfully. “But if it’s not Caleb she was talking about, who is it? Who wants Elena?”

Bonnie glanced under her eyelashes at Matt, but he was staring out the window, apparently completely detached from the conversation. She could tell that Matt still loved Elena, even if no one else knew. It was too bad: Matt was awfully cute. He could date anyone, but it was taking him a long time to get over her.

But then, no one ever seemed to get over Elena. Half the boys at Robert E. Lee High School had gone around gazing wistfully after her, as if she might suddenly turn around and fall into their arms. Certainly most of the boys Elena had dated had stayed a little bit in love with her, even after Elena had more or less forgotten their names.

It isn’t fair,
Bonnie thought, twirling her hair more tightly around her finger. Everyone always wanted Elena, and Bonnie had never even had a boyfriend for more than a few weeks at a time. What was wrong with
her
? People always told her how cute she was, how adorable, how fun . . . and then they looked past her to Elena, and it was like they couldn’t see Bonnie anymore.

And while Damon, amazing, sexy Damon, had been
fond
of her, sometimes, when she wasn’t trying to kid herself, she knew he hadn’t really seen her, either.

I’m just the sidekick, that’s my problem,
Bonnie thought glumly. Elena was the star; Meredith was a hero; Bonnie was a sidekick.

Celia cleared her throat. “I have to confess I’m intrigued by the appearance of the names,” she said stiffly. “It does seem like they point to some kind of threat. Whether or not Bonnie’s purported vision comes to anything”—Bonnie shot her best nasty look at Celia, but Celia ignored it—“we should definitely investigate any background or context we can find for the unexplained appearance of the names. We should find out if there’s a recorded history of this kind of thing happening before. The writing on the wall, if you will.” She gave a thin-lipped smile at her own joke.

“But what would we investigate?” Bonnie said, finding herself unwillingly responding to Celia’s teacherlike manner. “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for something like this. A book on curses, maybe? Or omens? Do you have anything like that in your library, Mrs. Flowers?”

Mrs. Flowers shook her head. “I’m afraid not, dear. My library, as you know, is mostly herbals. I have a few more specialized books, but I can’t recall anything that might be helpful with this problem.”

When she mentioned “more specialized books,” Bonnie’s cheeks got hot. She thought of the grimoire on communication with the dead, still tucked under the floorboards in her bedroom, and hoped Mrs. Flowers hadn’t noticed it was missing.

After a few seconds, her cheeks had cooled enough that she dared to glance around, but only Meredith was looking at her, one elegant eyebrow raised. If Meredith thought something was up, she wouldn’t rest until she got the whole story from Bonnie, so Bonnie gave her a bland smile and crossed her fingers behind her back for luck. Meredith raised her other eyebrow and looked at her with deep suspicion.

“Actually,” Celia said, “I have a contact at the University of Virginia who studies folklore and mythology. She specializes in witchcraft, folk magic, curses, all that kind of thing.”

“Do you think we could call her?” said Alaric hopefully.

Celia frowned. “I think it would be better if I went up there for a few days. Her library isn’t as well organized as it could be—I suppose it’s symptomatic of the kind of mind that studies stories rather than facts—and it might take a while to discover if there’s anything useful there. I think it would be just as well for me to get out of town for a while, anyway. After two brushes with death in two days”—she sent a pointed glance toward Meredith, who blushed—“I’m beginning to feel that Fell’s Church isn’t the healthiest place for me.” She looked at Alaric. “You might find her library of interest, if you’d like to come with me. Dr. Beltram is one of the best-known experts in her field.”

“Uh . . .” Alaric looked startled. “Thanks, but I’d better stay here and help Meredith. With her sprained ankle and everything.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Celia glanced at Meredith again. Meredith, who had been looking steadily more delighted every second since Celia had announced she was leaving, ignored her and smiled at Alaric. “Well, I suppose I should give her a call and get my things together. No time like the present.”

Celia stood up, smoothed her sundress, and walked out the door, head high. As she passed, she brushed against the table near Mrs. Flowers’s chair, sending her knitting to the floor.

Bonnie let out a breath as Celia left the room. “Well, really!” she said indignantly.

“Bonnie,” said Matt warningly.

“I
know
,” said Bonnie angrily. “She could have at least said ‘excuse me,’ right? And what was that with asking Alaric to come with her to UVA? He just got here, practically. He hasn’t seen you for months. Of course he’s not going to leave again with her right now.”

“
Bonnie
,” said Meredith, in a strangely choked voice.

“What?” said Bonnie, catching the oddness in her tone and looking around. “Oh.
Oh.
Oh, no.”

Mrs. Flowers’s knitting had fallen from its table, and the skein of yarn had rolled across the floor, unwinding as it went. Now, in the curls of soft pale pink, they could all clearly read one word written across the carpet:

bonnie

O
nce he got outside, Stefan remembered that Elena had taken his car. Turning into the woods, he began to run, using his Power to speed his pace. The pounding of his feet seemed to thud,
Guard her, Guard her.

He knew where Tyler Smallwood had lived. After Tyler had attacked Elena at a dance, it had made sense to keep an eye on him. Stefan burst from the woods at the edge of the Smallwoods’ property.

They owned an ugly house, in Stefan’s opinion. An inaccurate portrayal of an old Southern manor estate, it was too big for the lawn it sat on and bulged with unnecessary columns and twisting rococo decorations. Just looking at it, Stefan had been able to tell that the Smallwoods had more money than taste, and that the architects who’d designed it weren’t educated in true classical forms.

He rang the bell at the front door, then froze. What if Mr. or Mrs. Smallwood answered the bell? He would have to Influence them to give him as much information as they could about Caleb, and then to forget Stefan had been there. He hoped he had the Power to do it: He hadn’t been eating enough, not even of animal blood.

But no one came. After a few seconds, Stefan sent questing tendrils of Power through the house. It was empty. He couldn’t go in, couldn’t search Caleb’s room like he wanted to. Without an invitation, he was stuck out here.

He wandered around the house, peering through the windows, but finding nothing out of the ordinary other than entirely too many gilded frames and mirrors.

Behind the house he found a small white shed. Sending Power toward it, he felt something slightly . . . off. Just the slightest tinge of darkness, a feeling of frustration and ill intent.

The shed was padlocked, but the lock was easy enough to snap. And as no one lived here, he didn’t need an invitation to enter.

The first thing he saw was Elena’s face. Newspaper clippings and photos were tacked all over the walls: Elena, Bonnie, Meredith, himself. On the floor was a pentagram with more pictures and roses.

Stefan’s certainty that something was wrong solidified. Elena was in danger. Sending Power before him, searching desperately for any trace of her, he took off running again.

As she drove away from the florist’s, Elena turned the conversation with Stefan over and over in her mind.

What was going on with him since they’d come back to Fell’s Church? It felt like there was part of him that he was holding back, hiding from her. She remembered the loneliness, the sinking, dizzy feeling of isolation that she had sensed when she kissed him. Was it Damon’s loss that was changing Stefan?

Damon.
Just the thought of him was enough to cause an almost physical pain in her. Mercurial, difficult, beautiful Damon. Dangerous. Loving, in his own way. The thought of his name, written in water plants across Meredith’s legs, floated through her mind.

She didn’t know what it meant. But there was no hope. She needed to stop lying to herself about that. She had seen Damon die. Yet it seemed impossible that someone as complex and strong and seemingly undefeatable as Damon could be gone so quickly and so simply. But that was the way it happened, wasn’t it? She should know that death didn’t often come with a grand show, that it usually came when you were least expecting it. She had known that before all this . . . all this
stuff
with vampires and werewolves and evil mysterious opponents. She had known all about the suddenness and simplicity of death for years, back when she was just normal Elena Gilbert, who didn’t believe in anything supernatural, not even horoscopes or fortune-telling, much less monsters.

She glanced at the passenger seat next to her, where there lay the bouquet of pink roses she had picked up to give to Margaret. And, next to them, a simple bunch of forget-me-nots.
Like I’d ever forget
, she thought.

Elena remembered riding in the car toward home with her parents and baby Margaret on an ordinary Sunday afternoon. It had been a beautiful sunny fall day, the leaves of the trees by the roadside just beginning to be painted with red and gold.

They’d gone to lunch at a little inn out in the country. Margaret, who was teething, had been cranky at the restaurant, and they’d taken turns walking her up and down on the porch of the inn for a few minutes at a time while the others ate. But in the car she was quiet, half drowsing, her light golden lashes fluttering down to rest for longer and longer periods against her cheeks.

Elena’s father had been driving, she remembered, and the radio had been tuned to the local station so he could catch the news. Her mother had twisted to look at Elena in the backseat, her sapphire blue eyes so like Elena’s own. Her golden hair, touched with a little gray, was pulled back in a French braid, elegant and practical. Smiling, she had said, “Do you know what I think would be nice?”

“What?” asked Elena, smiling back at her. Then she saw a strange glitter, high in the sky, and leaned forward without waiting for a reply. “Daddy, what’s that?” She’d pointed upward.

Elena never found out what her mother had thought would be nice. Her father never answered what
that
was.

The last things Elena remembered were sounds: her father’s gasp and the screech of the car’s tires. Everything after that was blank, until Elena had woken up in the hospital, Aunt Judith by her bedside, and learned that her parents were dead. They had died before the paramedics had even pried them out of the car.

Before they restored Fell’s Church, the Guardians had told Elena that she should have died in that accident, and that her parents should have lived. The glitter had been their air car, and Elena had distracted her father at the worst possible moment, causing all the wrong people to die.

She could feel the weight of it now, the guilt at surviving, her anger at the Guardians. She glanced at the dashboard clock. There was still plenty of time before she had to be at Margaret’s recital. Turning off the highway, she pulled into the cemetery’s parking lot.

Elena parked the car and walked briskly through the newer part of the cemetery, carrying the forget-me-nots. Birds were chirping gaily overhead. So much had happened in this cemetery in the last year. Bonnie had seen one of her first visions among these tombstones. Stefan had followed her here, watching her secretly when she thought he was just the gorgeous new guy at school. Damon had nearly drained an old tramp under the bridge. Katherine had chased Elena out of the cemetery with fog and ice and a far-reaching, far-seeing evil. And, of course, Elena had driven off a bridge to her death here by the cemetery, at the end of that first life, the one that seemed so long ago now.

Elena picked her way past an ornate marble memorial to Fell’s Church’s Civil War veterans and down to the shady glen where her parents were buried. The tiny wildflower bouquet she and Stefan had left two days before had withered, and Elena threw it away and put the forget-me-nots in its place. She picked a bit of moss off her father’s name.

The lightest crunch of gravel sounded from the path behind her, and Elena whirled around. There was no one there.

“I’m just jumpy,” she muttered to herself. Her voice sounded oddly loud in the quiet of the cemetery. “Nothing to worry about,” she said more firmly.

She settled in the grass by her parents’ graves and traced the letters on her mother’s headstone with one hand.

“Hi,” she said. “It’s been a while since I’ve actually sat here and talked to you, I know. I’m sorry. An awful lot has happened. . . .” She swallowed. “I’m sorry, too, because I found out that you weren’t supposed to die when you did. I asked the Guardians to . . . to bring you back, but they said you had moved on to a better place and they couldn’t reverse that. I wish . . . I’m glad you’re happy wherever you are, but I still miss you.”

Elena sighed, lowered her hand from the gravestone, and trailed it through the grass by her knees. “Something’s after me again,” she continued unhappily. “After all of us, I guess, but Bonnie said
I
brought it here when she was in a trance. And later she said he wants me. I don’t know if it’s two different people—or whatever—after us, or just one. But it’s always me the bad things focus on.” She twisted a blade of grass between her fingers. “I wish things could be simpler for me, the way they are for other girls.

“Sometimes . . . I’m so glad to have Stefan, and glad I could help protect Fell’s Church, but . . . it’s hard. It’s really hard.” A sob was building in her throat and she swallowed it back. “And . . . Stefan’s always been there for me, but I feel like I don’t know all of him anymore, especially because I can’t read his thoughts. He’s so tense, and it’s like he needs to be in control all the time. . . .”

Something shifted behind her, just the slightest hint of movement. She felt a warm, damp breeze like a breath on the back of her neck.

Elena whipped her head around. Caleb was crouching behind her, so close they were almost nose-to-nose. She screamed, but Caleb slapped his hand over her mouth, muffling her cry.