#i got a really bad locked tomb brain rot

[onefleshoneendonebraincell]

y‘all, lyctorhood is genetic

Which is a huge mindfuck

But let’s start with my reasoning for this theory. Which is very simple: when John and Wake discuss her plan, John initially thinks her plan was to kill a lyctor‘s child to get a giant thanergy explosion. And he says that it was a good plan. So we know, that at the very least, John is convinced that a lyctor‘s child is different than a regular child, aka that lyctorhood is to some extent hereditary.

And that just brings us to so many questions: why would he assume that? I honestly intuitively thought that lyctorhood wasn’t genetic, that it was simply something done to the body but not to its DNA. Because (not 100% sure on that) literally everything you do with your body doesn’t change your DNA (not taking epigenetics into account but we aren’t manipulating our dna with that yet). So that’s the norm for people. Why would John know that it’s different for lyctors? Did one or more of the lyctors have children? Did he specifically establish their weird breeding pods to stop that from happening? (I honestly don’t think so, but it is weird that they use technology to have children. Do they have to? Did necromancy fuck up their ability to have children? (Actually I think the books mentioned that about Harrow‘s parents but I don’t have the quote))

Also, if a lyctor‘s powers are (even if just to a small extent) inheritable why make more lyctor’s why the eightfold word? Why not just have them have children? Especially since it could be literally outsourced to their pods? The obvious answer would be that the bond between parent and child is an incredibly strong one. Maybe John didn’t want to risk anybody rebelling against him because of their child. (Also, mildly related tangent: I might be wrong here, but it seems as if parent child relationships like we have them (and expect them!) don’t really exist in the locked tomb universe. Harrow certainly doesn’t have anything close to that. Gideon here is the exception, since she expected (and wished for) her mom to love her, to the point of fighting with Harrow over it. So there is an expectation of parental love. But if that’s the case where are everybody‘s parents? With most of the cast of the first book being children and young adults, I would expect parents to be mentioned. But they aren’t.)

But most importantly of all, this puts the whole idea that lyctors are powered by the souls they devoured, into question. Because it’s not like the soul or the link to it would be passed on to the child. So maybe the lyctoral process fundamentally changes the lyctor and then only the changes are passed on? Because I doubt lyctors can be made as easily as „just by having a kid“. Especially with all the thematic weight that is placed on the sacrifice and the horror of devouring another person to reach lyctorhood. One can only become a lyctor for the price of a soul and eternal regret. I cant imagine a child could just get the same powers without any sacrifice.

(Also Gideon’s inheritance from John is heavily likened to a lyctor’s child, but I don’t think that it checks out. John is definitely something else than a lyctor, whatever he is or did)

#the locked tomb #tlt #locked tomb #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #gideon the ninth spoilers #harrow the ninth spoilers #gideon nav #john gaius #lyctors #awake remembrance of these valiant dead #tlt meta #the locked tomb meta #i got a really bad locked tomb brain rot #pls help #this is the perfect synthesis of my genetics obsession from high school and my current locked tomb obsession #kinda sorry kinda not #i also have lots of feelings about Gideon inheriting god powers but not johns god eyes #but that’s a story for another day #lord knows this is long enough already #locked tomb spoilers #tlt spoilers

[gudlyf]

The Saddle [Short Story]

(Edited photo by Josh Puetz)

Why do I continue to abuse myself so?

I’m back at the NYC Midnight Short Story competition again. You know the drill: genre, location, object, 2500 words, 1 week. That’s the first round, at least. This time I’ve got: Crime Caper / A reunion / A police officer. At first glance, a bit too simple. Everyone’s gonna do the class reunion gone bad, or a family reunion with someone out to steal Grammy’s jewels. Trust me: you need to steer far, FAR away from such tropes. The judges will get sick of them, and yours won’t stand out, never mind a chance in hell.

The good news about having “crime caper” as a “genre” is that it’s not so cut and dry as “drama” or “comedy” – you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want, so long as you’ve got a planned crime involved. Comedy, drama, horror – it all works!

I had a few ideas in mind, but they were a bit too … cutesy? In the end, I decided I’d make the best of the levity and make the story work out for me, even if it doesn’t cart me forward in the contest: throw in some horror, of course. Later, without the 2500-word restriction, I can tighten and lengthen it, then slip it into my planned anthology perfectly. Works for me!

Something I want to note about my writing, that I’m pretty clear on: I tend to get wordy and deter from “the point” quite a bit. Ramble, maybe? I’m not sure yet if that’s a fault of mine or just an acquired reading style. Stephen King: he rambles. At least I think he does. He’s successful. Is it because he’s earned the right to ramble and so gets a pass? I know I’m no Stephen King but … OK I’m rambling. On to the story.

—

Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.

It was something Shawn used to say to Ruth when she was too scared or shy to do something she wanted – rather, needed to do. She’s pretty sure he got the saying from someone famous, but the man loved horses, so she thought it a fitting phrase for him to latch onto. And she still thinks of it when she’s too chicken shit to do what she wants to do; what she needs to do.

Sometimes courage has nothing to do with it at all. Sometimes it’s flat-out self-preservation; common sense. And when those situations face you square on, you may as well take that cowboy saying and toss it right in the toilet, because no manner of courage makes up for being stupid.

Ruth had barely a recollection of how she got there, squatting below the beam of Rack’s flashlight, picking at a mausoleum keyhole, thinking of Shawn. She hated Rack for bringing her there, but he was at least good at finding jobs worth paying a damn in that godforsaken armpit of the world. Worth paying for Shawn’s medical bills that a cop’s salary couldn’t touch. She’d have seen to Rack sporting orange duds at Hillsborough County, or among the many laying prone just inside, if he wasn’t at least good for that.

She winced as something flared within her brain, then stood, smacking her head on Rack’s flashlight.

“Shit! Why’d you pick this place?” she asked, rubbing her head. “This place.”

Rack threw his hands up. “You picked it, remember? Said ‘something-something Ambrose’ … A big score. Biggest yet. Wouldn’t say nothing else. Maybe you could, y'know, clue me in yourself?”

She shook her head. “No. No, I … How can I not remember that?”

“You better remember. We need this one. Damn place gives me the creeps. How much longer?”

“I dunno. Few more minutes. Now shut up.”

The lock was popped five minutes ago, but Rack didn’t know that. Ruth knelt once again and resumed picking at a keyhole that had already relented, like one would a toothpick digging at a stubborn gobbet. She wasn’t ready to go in.

Saddle-on up, Ruthie.

“Right. Saddle-up,” she whispered.

She supposed having courage had about as much to do with it as stupidity after all. The fact that she still wore her uniform on jobs like these pointed her actions firmly toward the latter camp, but it helped serve as a cover story more than once.

The iron door opened without a sound into the darkness, into the cold, into only where death lay.

“Yesss. Alright, ladies first.”

“No. Go ahead.”

Rack shrugged, lifted the toolbox, and shone his flashlight into the gloom.

“Whatever you say. Officer.”

She hated that Rack felt the need to say that. She could sense his wise-ass smirk as he stepped through the open doorway, as though what lay beyond was nothing at all. It was so easy for him to treat it as just another job, when the clothes he was wearing didn’t serve as a contradiction to the task at-hand. Her uniform was all part of the plan: she knew that. Always had been. It didn’t make it feel any less violating.

“Good to be working with you again, Cassidy,” Rack said. “Remember our last job? Shit, must’ve been a year now since-”

Since the last time I was here, she thought. Saying goodbye.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Rack shrugged off the interruption and continued into the cold air of the mausoleum. Ruth followed close behind, her own flashlight lit. The scent of flowers for the dead stung her senses and rattled her already pounding head as she shut the door, echoing off the marble floor and placarded tombs. There was a feeling of finality, of no turning back. If only the proverbial horse she’d saddled onto would carry her forward.

“Jesus this place is big,” Rack said, spinning around. “Must be a thousand of 'em.”

“Twelve-hundred,” she said.

“Really? Damn.” He shone his flashlight along the marble vaults, its beam catching nameplates as it went. “Alright, so … where is he?”

“Section 8C, row 28. Second from the bottom.” It came to her unhindered, automatic.

She’d last been there so long ago, yet recalled Shawn’s resting place like one would a friend’s phone number. Or a husband’s. She tried to shake the thought away.

Rack flinched, fazed. “You remember it just like that?”

Her head continued to shake. “No. Forget it. Someone else.”

Ruth turned her eyes to her left, toward Section 8C, where along row 28 and two doors up from the floor was a name plate she was sure she’d never cast eyes upon again. Yet there she was, mere footsteps away. And for what? Still, she wasn’t sure, and Rack’s patience with her would no doubt grow thin at the prospect of her not knowing.

“So. Lead the way,” said Rack, with a flourish of his hand.

She scanned the names outside the tombs around her, stacked four high, floor-to-ceiling. Some were clearly older than others: their name plates more tarnished; vases empty of flowers, or containing skeletal, leafless stems. Those more recent had flowers in varying states of decay, or with trinkets and mementos placed at the foot of their stack: notes, toys, more flowers.

Shawn had a plastic Appaloosa under his, she recalled. She had left it, then, before walking away for what should have been forever.

“Hey Cassidy,” Rack said.

The pain in Ruth’s skull surged as she snapped out of her thought.

“What do you call these things we’re looking at, on the graves? The things the names are on. Doors?”

“They’re tombs. Graves are outside, in the ground.”

“I think they’re, like, seals or something. Can’t call 'em doors, right? Ain’t like anyone’s opening them all the time, y'know? 'Cept us I guess.”

“Yeah. Well. Some doors are meant to stay shut.”

“Not tonight they ain’t. Not all of 'em.”

What kind of job was it, really? Parting the overly wealthy, the exceedingly fortunate of their over-abundances seemed an entirely different sort of job than relieving the dead of precious items left to rot alongside them. But was it so different? Were they not merely indulgences left to waste? Perhaps a more honorable thing was to see them do some good in the world than have them forever sealed away? Perhaps, she thought, that was reasoning enough to get her to find this “job,” as loose as that term was for it. It still didn’t put a veil over what kind of place it was, nor who took residence there.

If not Shawn, who was she looking for? She may have had a hand in putting some of the bodies there over the years, but names tended to wither away like the petals littering the floor. She chose to keep those names locked away in the mausoleum of her mind, with doors that are forever closed. Closed, perhaps, but apparently not sealed, with an occasional issuance that served to drive her mad.

“C'mon, Cassidy, which one?” Rack’s tone bordered on annoyed. “Just blurt it out. Come on. First name that pops in your head. Tick-tock, tick-tock! Go!”

Shawn. No!

“The blacksmith’s son,” she said, though not knowing why. “The blacksmith’s son. That’s all I got.”

“What? Blacksmith’s son? That’s not a name. That ain’t gonna be on the front of any of these doors.”

Ruth stepped forward, reading nameplates as she went.

“Maybe you’re wrong,” she said. “There’s more than just names and dates on these.”

“Yeah, alright. But 'blacksmith’s son’? I dunno. Don’t you have a name? Just need a name. C'mon, think. That’s what you cops do.”

What did he think she’d been doing the moment they’d arrived? And before that? And what did come before? She presumed a car ride, a phone call. All of that lost now, and none of it made sense.

“How did I tell you about this job?” she asked.

“What do you mean 'how?’ You called me, remember?”

“No. What did I say? I didn’t tell you a name or anything then?”

“Naw, you just said it was in Saint Ambrose’s and it was enough of a score we’d be set for life.”

Rack averted Ruth’s gaze. He suddenly didn’t look so good. Her cop’s intuition fired.

What are you not telling me? she wanted to say, but was stopped short as Rack’s flashlight flickered out.

Ruth turned her own light toward Rack, but he had disappeared as fast as his light had gone dark.

“Rack?”

Her flashlight sputtered out.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

The hairs on her neck and back sprung lives of their own, standing at shaky attention beneath her uniform. The pulse within her brain beat in rhythm to the reverberating sounds around her. She fought the urge to double-over in pain as her hand flew to her sidearm.

“Rack?!”

THUD! THUD!

The sound of a match being struck, then a soft glow from her left.

“Hey,” a male voice said.

She threw the latch off her weapon and drew it, wheeling about. It was not Rack.

The man stood twenty feet from Ruth at the center of the hallway. Along with the cigarette that hung sideways from his lips, the stained-glass-colored moonlight barely illuminated the contours of his pale face in the dark. He was young, well-dressed and, despite his submission with one hand raised, unafraid.

“I’m a cop,” she said. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in here? Put your other hand up!”

Slowly, he complied.

“I know who you are, Officer Cassidy. Thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Her pistol remained drawn and ready, safety released. There was nothing good about someone lurking in the dark of a place like that, no matter their business or intentions. She resisted the urge to call out to Rack again. She could explain a uniformed cop’s presence just about anywhere, but not with her slime-ball partner-in-crime in tow.

“How the hell should I know who you are?” she asked. “I can barely see you.”

He remained still, with only the movement of slender tendrils of smoke rising from his silhouette. An occasional auburn glow from a cigarette inhale gave hint to the bemused smile that held it. Something about it became at once somewhat familiar to Ruth, but only just.

“You work here?” she asked.

A drawn-out exhale. “Something like that, Ruthie.”

A realization struck her, and she did all she could to stifle a cry.

“Sh-Shawn?” Ruth whispered.

At that, the man began lowering his hands.

“Keep your hands up!” Ruth yelled. “Wh-What the hell is going on? Who the fuck are you?”

“Ruthie,” the voice said with calm reassurance. “Ruthie, it’s me.”

Ruth released the dead flashlight, letting it clatter to the floor, as she drew the now freed-up hand to steady the first. Her finger teased the safety on her pistol as she fought back tears.

“Shut up! My husband is dead! Shawn is dead! What kind of sick fuck are you, calling yourself Shawn, huh? Who are you?!”

The man dropped the cigarette, then took a careful step forward, into a shaft of moonlight that illuminated his face in full. Ruth’s tears released.

“Hey honey. Good to see you again.”

Through a watery veil Ruth saw that before her was indeed Shawn, just as she’d last seen him. It did nothing to make her lower her weapon; as much as such a vision brought her joy, innate intuition kept her in check.

“No,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “No no no.”

Shawn sighed. “I know. Sorry to drop in on you this way.”

THUD!

Again, to Ruth’s right. Again, her head. She snapped-to and spun around, her gun now pointed in the direction of the sound.

“Rack?!” she called out.

“Rack’s gone, Ruthie,” said Shawn. “It’s just you and me right now. He’s not coming back.”

“What do you mean 'right now?’ Who else is coming? My dad?!”

Shawn chuckled nervously. “No, not your dad.”

THUD!

“What the fuck is that?” she said. “What’s going on?”

Shawn stepped closer. Ruth kept her gun pointed down the dark hallway, where what sounded like imminent threats lay. The man before her – the person who had to be Shawn, but couldn’t be – was no threat in that place. As her tears continued their descent, Shawn gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Ruthie. You have to remember now.”

THUD!

Ruth jumped, her nerves shot. The sound was louder now, closer, more threatening.

“This is crazy. I must be going crazy. I-I-I don’t know what you mean. Remember what?”

“Shhh. You’re not crazy. The name, Ruthie. The one you came for. It’s important.”

THUD! THUD!

Shawn turned Ruth to face him and put his hand on her wrist. She complied as he slowly helped her lower her gun.

“It’s time to saddle-up, Ruthie. You said a blacksmith’s son. Do you mean 'son of’ a blacksmith? An Irish name, maybe? Like 'Mc’-something? You can do this.”

Her eyes widened and the flow of tears ceased, while a calmness began to wash over her. She realized then what she’d missed most about not having Shawn in her life: his reassurance that she could do no wrong, even when that was all she felt she ever did.

He also had a way of giving her a nudge when she needed it most.

“MacGowan.”

Ruth’s world slowed as she dropped her gun and let herself fall into her husband’s arms. He held her there, saying nothing.

She still had no idea why she was there, how Shawn was there, or why such a name was so important and so difficult to muster. All she cared for then was the unlikely reunion. To feel for once safe, and with a mind finally at peace.

Retired Officer Ruth Cassidy remained sedated and restrained in the dirty laboratory bed, an array of sensors covering her wounded head. Doctor Roland hobbled over with his cane once again to the set of monitors, still displaying the computer-generated interior of the Saint Ambrose mausoleum.

THUMP! THUMP!

He cast a glance over at the woman in bed, with puddles of sweat and tears soaking the sheets by her face.

He turned the monitors off, retrieved a phone from beside them, and typed out a call.

“It’s Roland. I finally got that name for you. 'MacGowan.’ Yes, right. Yes, glad we didn’t have to resort to, well, more dangerous means. She’s lucky. A woman in her mental state, the brain damage … she might not have survived the next phase.

"Strange thing: it worked even when your avatar malfunctioned and blipped out of the simulation. The names in there didn’t seem to matter. She just sort-of told the name to … well, nobody. Just out of the blue.

"Anyway, payment’s due tomorrow. Hope you find what you’re looking for, Mr. Racksmith.”

#horror #nyc midnight #crime caper #short story

[aivaehdaevis]

The More Things Change: Ch 14

The More Things Change

by Aivaeh

Disclaimer: Familiar characters, plot elements, and settings belong to L.J. Smith, Julie Plec, and the CW. The author of this work of fanfiction has made no money from it. Summary: I have no idea how it happened, but one morning I woke up in the world of The Vampire Diaries. Which, aside from the insanity of waking up inside a television show made real, might not be so bad—if I weren't stuck in the body of vampire magnet and doppelgänger herself, Elena Gilbert. Pairing(s): OFC x Damon, OFC x Stefan, OFC x Elijah, OFC x Klaus Rating: M Warning(s): Graphic descriptions of violence on par with the show itself. References to sex and drug use. Mind control and all the issues of consent that go along with it. Character death. Master List External Links: AO3 | FF.Net | Wattpad

Chapter Fourteen

The phone rang before I was fully up. Rolling out of bed, I stumbled more than walked to the desk and the cordless. “Hello?” I asked, voice sleep-rasped and hoarse. I used the chair to hold myself up.

“Elena! Hi!” The chipper greeting had my muddled brain begging for mercy.

“Caroline?” I cleared my throat. “Hey.”

Katherine. Out of the tomb.

I bolted upright, more awake than a pot full of coffee could have managed as my heart pounded. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes.” Despite her agreement, she didn’t sound as if she were dead and transitioning. I was fairly sure she’d sound less petulant if that were the case. “You and Bonnie. What’s going on?”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“I know you’ve got a lot to worry about with Jeremy,” Caroline began. “But this weirdness between you two started way before that. All I get from Bonnie is a bunch of nonsense about witches and dreams and weird feelings whenever she’s around you.”

Oh. Crap.

I ran a hand through Elena’s hair, falling back onto the bed. “I don’t know, Caroline. She did some reading the future thing at the Falls party. Said I wasn’t me. She’s been avoiding me ever since.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Caroline declared. “Bonnie always made out that her Grams was crazy. I had no idea she was starting to believe this witchy-woo. But that doesn’t explain why you aren’t demanding she deal with whatever it is. Why are you avoiding her?”

“It’s pretty obvious she doesn’t want to be around me. I don’t want to push.”

“Since when?” Caroline said, sounding equal parts incredulous and amused. “Elena, you are the queen of pushing.”

I ran my hand along the top of the blanket. “I—guess I’m just trying to give her space to work out… whatever.”

“Well, it clearly isn’t working. If you two don’t start getting along by the car wash, I’m going to lock you both in a room and make you work it out.”

“Car wash?”

“The Sexy Suds Car Wash?” Caroline enunciated. “The fundraiser for the athletics department next week?”

I paled. “Um, I don’t think—”

“Don’t you dare try to back out, Elena Gilbert. I know where you live.”

A little intimidated, I eyed the phone. “…Right.”

“Bring your ridiculously hot boyfriend.”

“We broke up.” I was never happier to be able to say that.

“What?! And you didn’t call me immediately?! Elena! What happened?”

I pursed my lips. “The stuff with Jeremy embarrassed him.” And then he got the original model back.

“You cannot be serious. What. A. Jerk!” Caroline huffed. “Come over. We’ll eat junk food, watch movies, and trash talk him.”

“I can’t. I promised Stefan I’d spend the day with him.”

Caroline’s voice was laden with suspicion. “You’re certain Damon didn’t break up with you because of how close you are to his brother?”

If Damon and I had been in a real relationship, he would’ve only seen that as a challenge, not a deal breaker. “Pretty sure.” I rubbed my face.

“We are going to talk all about this, Elena,” Caroline promised. Or threatened. It was hard to tell.

We said goodbye and hung up. I closed my eyes, hoping to get back to sleep. That hope was dashed after ten minutes passed where I was stuck examining the back of my eyelids.

I decided I might as well start the day.

It was another beautiful morning in Mystic Falls. A few wisps of clouds floated overhead like over stretched cotton balls, but otherwise the sky was clear. I was starting to grow used to the town and its old southern charm. I still missed the convenience of the city, but I couldn’t deny I was learning the appeal of small-town America.

The way to the Salvatore Boarding House was becoming as familiar as the high school. Pulling round and parking, I eyed the door, wary of what I’d find on the other side. Getting out of the car, I kept my ears open as I took my time walking to the entrance. I didn’t hear anything as I reached the front door. Taking a steadying breath, I knocked.

As soon as my knuckles hit the wood for the last rap it opened to reveal Stefan. “Elena,” he said, relief lightening his usually somber features. He stepped outside, leaving the door open behind him.

“Hi, Stefan.” My brow ticked up. “Eager to get out?”

Stefan exhaled. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be over, so I came back around five.”

Last I’d checked the SUV’s dash had showed nine thirteen. “You spent the whole night in the woods?”

“Stefan likes to commune with the squirrels.”

A shirtless Damon appeared in the doorway. Hair mussed, the older Salvatore radiated a languorous, after-sex glow. Stefan’s face shuttered as he turned to regard his brother.

I grabbed Stefan’s arm before he could say anything. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Stefan and Damon stared at one another. Finally, Stefan allowed me to lead him away from the porch.

“Show me the forest?” I asked, trying to pull his attention from the house.

Stefan adjusted his stride to match mine. “If you want.”

“Was the original Salvatore estate very far from here?”

“No.” His expression eased into something more relaxed. “You’d like to see it?”

“Yeah.” I meant it.

“There isn’t much of the old house left,” he warned.

I’d figured that. “I’d still like to see the area.”

He headed left towards the river. I followed.

Stefan was silent, forehead crinkled in thought as we walked. The woods were thin here. The sparsity of trees let in plenty of light and the underbrush flourished. Our footsteps rustled as the grass brushed against our legs. Mine were bare since I hadn’t planned to go hiking. I felt every blade that slid against my skin.

For the next fifteen minutes, while Stefan stayed lost in thought and I enjoyed the scenery, only birdsong and rustling leaves broke the quiet. Off in the distance was the tapping echo of a woodpecker.

Then, as the woods began to grow thicker, a small lane wound its way between the trees. The slide of grass on my legs disappeared as we stepped onto the path. Ahead stood two old brick columns topped with stone sculptures too broken to tell what they might’ve once been. “Is this…?”

Stefan’s eyes were on me, rather than the columns. “Yes.”

We walked between them and further up the lane. The first thing to catch my eye were the bricks stacked into what must have been a chimney. Half of it had fallen away, leaving the inner chamber bare to the elements. Some of the foundation’s masonry remained, but most had also crumbled away. The forest had reclaimed all the land surrounding it.

Stefan guided me around what must’ve been the main house. A small distance away stood a stone bench and the remnants of a pedestal, perhaps for a bird fountain. “Gardens,” he explained, sights sweeping across the tall trees that grew everywhere. I wondered what he saw in their place. Rows of hedges? Flowerbeds?

I turned around, staring at the foundation. Replacing it with the enormous house I had seen on the show in my mind’s eye. “A two-story white antebellum style estate.”

“Yes.” Branches crunched as Stefan moved up beside me. “How much of the past—”

“Just the… highlights.” I gazed at the trees, at how tall they were. Nearly a century and a half of growth. “Katherine arriving. You and Damon asking her to the ball. The evening after the ball.” Stefan’s brows lifted at that. My own furrowed. “She sent him away that night.” At his questioning look, I clarified, “Damon. After your confession, Katherine compelled him to leave her alone.” I turned to face him. “She always picks you, Stefan. When she’s forced to choose.” I frowned. “She’s not going to be content with Damon. She wants you. She’s convinced you want her too.”

Stefan’s gaze flickered off into the forest. “I’m not Damon, Elena. I’m not pining after someone who controlled me and turned me into a monster a hundred and forty years ago.” He looked back to me. “If it weren’t for Damon, I’d have been more than happy to leave her in that tomb to rot. Or stake her myself.”

His expression barely shifted. His voice sounded as serious as always. Yet there was something behind those eyes that nearly had me stepping back. A hatred that hardened his stare, revealed a shadow of something darker in his usually gentle gaze.

Something of the Ripper.

Uncomfortable with what I saw, I studied the whorls sculpted on the bench instead, it’s leaves and blossoms. I sat down, let the chill sink through my denim shorts into my skin. My heart began to slow.

Stefan stayed where he was, preternaturally still as a corpse. No movement in his face, no breath, no swaying with the breeze, nothing. He must have heard my heartbeat and knew I was unnerved.

His creepy stillness wasn’t really helping that much, but I pushed it aside. It was the thought that counted.

There was a pinecone beside the bench. I picked it up, tested the scales with my thumb. “I didn’t mean to say you want anything to do with her. But she’s not going to let you go so easily, Stefan.”

“You know this from your show?”

I nodded.

“You didn’t say anything about it.”

Breaking off a few of the bottom seeds, I tossed them to the ground. “The fact she was trying to gather the ingredients to break the curse seemed more important.”

Stefan leaned back against a tree, hands tucked into his pockets, staring down. “What did she do?”

“Threatened Elena’s family. Had Jenna stab herself in the stomach.” Another seed snapped off. “But you and Elena were together. She thought if she could get you to break it off, you would—I don’t know. Remember how you felt about her.” I shrugged. “Or she’s just sadistic.”

“Try the latter.” Stefan gave a harsh breath and shoved off the tree.

I flung the seed on the ground. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Elena isn’t here. You’re not together.”

He hunched over. “You should’ve mentioned this sooner.”

A crack echoed through the forest as I broke another seed. “It’s not an issue, Stefan. But she’s going to try—”

“Who said it isn’t an issue?” Stefan stared.

“Stefan, I’m not Elena,” I repeated, slow. “I know you call me that, but I’m not her.”

“I know,” he said, his regard open and steady.

I spread my hands. “Okay.” Bringing my hands back together, I snapped off another seed. “So like I said, it’s not an issue.”

A bitter smile curved his lips. “It’s not?”

My skin began to tingle. I dragged down a breath, but there wasn’t enough air. Rubbing my lips together, I managed a small, “No.”

“Elena.”

“I’m not Elena,” I snapped.

Stefan crossed the distance, sights fixed on me. “I know,” he repeated, careful and deliberate. It was my turn to stiffen as he crouched down, hands settling over mine.

I squeezed the pinecone until its seeds dug into my palms, cracking into pieces. “Don’t,” I whispered.

Stefan’s head fell forward, almost dropping onto my hands. First was the whisper of breath across the back of my knuckles. My own breathing paused. The woods became alive with the creak of swaying branches and hum of insects hidden beneath the grass and bushes.

His lips were firm yet gentle, a mere hint of pressure as they pressed against my hand. A gesture from an older time, when a grand house stood yards away, and the trees lined a great parcel of land. The hedges would’ve hidden us from the world, and the perfume of flowers would’ve filled the air rather than moss and earth and wood.

I finally dragged in a breath as his lips lifted. But then he followed, eyes big and greener than the leaves dancing overhead, watching me and gleaming with hope.

My heart clenched. I swallowed. “You don’t know me, Stefan.”

“I think I know what’s important,” he argued, soft and still careful.

But I thought of the last time he’d made declarations to this face, blind to what truly lay behind it. I exhaled a breath and pulled my hands from his. I looked to the crushed pinecone, pieces stuck to my palm, rather than the way his eyes and lips had fallen.

I stood, not sure where I was going, but needing to move. I ended up back at the house. Stepping over bricks, my sights were glued to the ground as I sought fallen and broken pieces of masonry beneath the leaves and twigs and spongy mosses. I could hear his footsteps behind mine. He wouldn’t let me go beyond arm’s length. Protective, I’d have once thought. Now I wasn’t sure if that was the only reason why.

I sucked down another breath, bringing our problems to the forefront. Hoping they’d help me forget the way his lips felt pressed against my skin. “Who were Isobel and John working with?”

Stefan sighed and answered, “Themselves?”

I did my best to ignore the disappointment in his voice.

“I suppose.” Isobel could have found out about the curse through her occult studies. And John would’ve learned through her. “Maybe I should talk to John.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Some of the Stefan I’d come to know came back, spurred on by chivalrous concern. “Damon said you think he’s like you.”

“Not exactly. I think something’s taken over John’s body, but I’m not sure what it is.” I brushed my hand off on my shorts. “It talked about a being stuck in this—hell of nothingness.” Stefan looked confused. I gave a small smile. “I know, it sounded crazy. But Esther said something followed me. And John was attacked on the other side by—whatever it is. It isn’t human, I know that much.”

“All the more reason why you shouldn’t talk to it.”

“But it wants to talk to me,” I argued. “It might, I don’t know, tell me something about what John was up to.”

“If it knows.”

“True.” I hadn’t known anything of Elena’s life before waking up in her body, after all.

“Let me try,” Stefan said. “If I don’t get anything, then you can.”

“Do you think they’re…” I grimaced, “finished?”

Stefan arched a brow. “If we’re going to talk to John, having Katherine distracted would be ideal.”

“Oh.” I rubbed my hands together, grit from the walk and the pinecone still stuck to my skin. “True.”

By unspoken agreement, we left Stefan’s old estate and headed back to the boarding house. A huge elephant trundling along between us the whole way.

As we approached the boarding house, Stefan cocked his head. “We should have time.”

I didn’t know what was more surprising. That he could hear them from all the way across the lawn, or that they were still in bed. I chose not to comment on either, following Stefan into the house.

We went straight for the door that led to the basement. Stefan opened it silently, pressing a finger to his lips and motioning me ahead.

I tiptoed as quietly as I could down the steps, Stefan moving down behind me. We reached the storage room and crossed it in silence. Stefan put a shoulder on my hand before we reached the door and stepped ahead of me. Lips pressed together, he pulled it open. It groaned. Stefan glanced upward, listening for a moment. They must not have heard us, because he swung it far enough for him to pass through.

This time he led the way through and held out a hand. He wanted me to stay near the storage room while he crossed the few feet between us and the cell. I hugged my upper arms and watched Stefan lean forward and peer inside.

Stefan’s eyes widened. He unlatched the door, taking no care to keep from making noise, and disappeared into the room.

“Stefan?” I whispered.

At first, there was no answer. Then, “Elena,” Stefan appeared at the doorway, mouth screwed into a grimace, eyes serious. “John’s dead.”

“What?” I darted down the hall and grabbed the door frame, skidding to a stop.

John was on the ground, eyes shut. Even without getting closer, I could tell he was gone. There’s something about the eerie stillness of death. It’s much more than just the lack of the chest rising or falling. It’s a total absence of everything, even warmth, as the body settles. The skin stiffens and turns sallow as the blood drains inside and pools. Everything freezes into place, from muscles to bones to tissue and veins.

But I had to be sure. Stepping carefully inside, I looked down at John. At the torn pink and white flesh of his neck glistening in the dim light. The blood that had dried beneath him, dark and sticky against the floor. There was far less than there should have been. Careful, I crouched beside him and pressed my fingers over his wrist.

I didn’t need to look for a pulse. He was cold.

My head turned to Stefan, who stared down, mouth a grim line. “Who did it?”

Stefan’s eyes narrowed. “Katherine.”

“Not Damon?”

“Maybe,” Stefan allowed. “But he could have killed John anytime.” He frowned. “It’s more likely he stood and watched. Or stayed upstairs and drank.”

I turned back down and stared at John. “Why?”

“Does she need a reason?” Stefan asked, bitterness darkening his tone.

Katherine caused death and chaos, but there was usually a reason behind the things she did. Manipulative, selfish reasons—but… Perhaps it had been nothing more than hunger. John had been convenient.

But perhaps not.

“Where’s Zach?” I asked, turning around.

“His car was gone this morning.”

“But where’d he go?”

Stefan shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

Zach was right. They really didn’t notice what their human servants were up to. Not even Stefan. He and Damon still must’ve believed Zach could be compelled.

I stood and turned around, hurrying through the storage room. Whatever had been in John was back on the Other Side. I gripped the bracelet, rubbed my thumb along the beads and charms, inordinately glad of its presence. The thought of that—thing—being able to spy on me chilled me to the core.

But right now, I had hot blood pumping through my veins, thawing my fear. Either Damon had done it, or he’d done nothing to stop it.

“Damon!” I shouted, stomping up the staircase.

Stefan kept behind me. “Elena—”

“You swore you wouldn’t kill anyone, Damon!”

I reached the top and made for the stairs that led to the second level.

“Elena!” Stefan appeared in front of me, hand up. “Stop.”

“He promised!” I said, angling over his shoulder and shouting. “I guess his word is worth nothing.”

Stefan opened his mouth, then paused, turning to look up over his shoulder. He sighed.

A moment later, Damon appeared at the top of the staircase. Shirtless again, a lone pair of silk pajamas hung off his hips. “What’s she yelling about?”

Stefan rubbed his forehead. “John’s dead.”

Damon arched a brow. “And I’m supposed to care because?”

“Did you kill him?” Eyes narrowed, I climbed the last steps between us. I could smell the sweat on his skin. The musk of sex that had my nose wrinkling.

Damon glared down his nose at me. “No. I didn’t.”

“The man in the basement?”

I had to lean to the side to see around Damon. Katherine strutted down the hall, legs bare beneath the silk top that partnered Damon’s pants.

“Yes, the man in the basement,” I said. “Did you kill him?”

“Mhmm.” She stopped behind Damon, hand curling down one shoulder while she lifted up onto her toes, resting her chin on his other. “He was delicious.”

My head turned, glaring accusations as my lips pinched together. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

“No, I didn’t,” she agreed, lips turning into a little smile.

As the buffer separating Katherine and I, Damon’s eyes flickered between us. Stefan was wound so tightly, he practically vibrated behind me.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

I glared. “You don’t do anything without a reason, Katherine.”

Her hand slipped back off Damon’s shoulder. She sauntered slowly around him, coming up to me, instead. I found myself reflected in her dark eyes, expression as placid as a lioness as her sights swept over my figure. “You talk like you know me.” Her eyes flickered back up to mine. “But you don’t.”

“I know you well enough,” I shot back. I took a steadying breath. “I know you won’t kill me.”

Her brow arched. “You didn’t think that in the tomb.”

“You didn’t know who I was, before. You do now. I’m too valuable to kill.”

She leaned forward, and a finger trailed over my collarbone. “You’re assuming killing you is the worst thing I could do.” Her finger came to the end of my shoulder and fell away. “It’s not.”

…There was that. I took a deep breath through my nose to try and slow the sudden uptick of my pulse.

Damon watched us, eyes bright and gleaming.

“You haven’t heard my offer, yet,” I countered, once I was sure my voice wouldn’t tremble.

Katherine’s brows dipped. “Offer?”

I dared a step closer to her. It felt like stepping into a tiger cage. “Are you still interested in making a deal with Klaus?”

“You don’t deal with Klaus.” Her eyes wandered over me again. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to unnerve me or read me. Probably both. “You give him what he wants, or you die. Those are Klaus’ terms.”

“Then why go after the moonstone? Gather up a doppelgänger, a werewolf, and a vampire if not bargain with him?”

Katherine gave a slow blink. “I’ve been locked inside a tomb for over a century.”

I had nothing to say to that. I bit my lip.

“But your offer has… potential,” Katherine finally allowed, narrowed eyes fixed on me. “What is it you propose, exactly?”

“You give Klaus everything he needs to break the curse. And with your freedom leave Mystic Falls alone. Forever.”

“You leave. And don’t come back,” Stefan clarified.

Katherine looked past me to Stefan. Her eyes shifted back to me. “If you can deliver what you claim.”

“I’m the hardest ingredient to get, aren’t I?” It was a rhetorical question, and we both knew it. “And I know where the moonstone is.” Probably. Unless that was different too.

Head turning to the side as she gave a small curl of her lips, Katherine said, “We have an agreement, then.” Her chin tilted up. “I hand you and the moonstone to Klaus for my freedom, and never return.”

“I’ll go with you, Katherine,” Damon pledged.

Eyes narrowing, Katherine glanced over at him.

“Fine with me,” Stefan said, folding his arms.

My heart dropped. “You swore you’d stay.”

“If the tomb was empty,” Damon retorted. “It wasn’t.”

“You never stipulated the condition of the tomb.”

“Elena.” Stefan took my arm. “Let him leave. We’ll manage.”

Katherine’s head tilted further, displeasure stealing the gleam from her eyes. “You won’t be coming, Stefan?”

“No, Katherine.” Stefan turned to look at her. “I won’t.”

Katherine’s lips curled into a frown. “But it’s to be the three of us.”

“That was what you wanted. You never gave me a choice. If it were up to me, I’d have nothing to do with you.” Stefan nodded to me. “Elena insists we deal. But I’ll be all too happy to never see you again.”

Eyes wide, I held my breath. Katherine frowned. “That hurts, Stefan.”

“I don’t care,” Stefan replied, voice rough with hatred.

Katherine stared at him before that intense, predatory gaze transferred to me. I realized there was a way to tell us apart. Her eyes were darker than Elena’s and glittered with malice. “Hm.” She moved closer. “We’ll see how you feel after Klaus drains this—little shadow of mine,” she turned to look at the tense vampire beside me, “Stefan.”

My shoulders tightened as my stomach turned rock hard. I couldn’t even swallow against the sudden rigidness in my belly.

“If that’s all?” Damon said, taking hold of Katherine’s hand.

Stefan shook his head. “It’s not. John’s body needs to be dealt with.”

Damon’s brows rose. “So deal with it.”

“She’s your problem, Damon.” Stefan turned, and with a hand still around my arm, took me with him. “You clean up after her.”

Stefan led me back down the stairs. It wasn’t until I realized he was leading me out of the house that I asked, “What—”

“You’re leaving.” His tone brooked no argument.

Once outside, he guided me to the SUV. He let go at the driver’s side, turning me to face him. “That was dangerous, Elena,” he said, concern in the draw of his brows and the low curve of his mouth. “You shouldn’t antagonize her.”

My own brows pinched together. “What about you?”

Stefan shook his head. “I heal fast.”

“Stefan—” I was about to protest, but what sense I had reasserted itself. “You’re probably right,” I admitted.

He looked taken aback by my agreement. His lips quirked upward. “Call me when you get home.”

I nodded and climbed in. Before Stefan could shut the door, I asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Commune with the squirrels,” he said, voice wry, and shut my door.

We shared another of those long looks that were becoming typical for the two of us. I pulled out my keys and started the car.

That afternoon Jenna and I made a trip to the police station for another fun hour of sitting in awkward silence. I spent the rest of the day finishing up Elena’s homework.

It was a little after seven o’clock when the phone rang. The caller ID read Salvatore, Zachary.

“Zach?”

Damon spoke instead. “Turn on the news.”

Taking the stairs, I walked into the living room and picked up the remote. Powering on the television, I asked which channel. Damon directed me to Mystic Falls’ local station. A handsome reporter that epitomized telegenic spoke into a microphone. The graphic beneath him identified him as Logan Fell.

“…saying little about the remains. A tip to the Sheriff’s office identified the burial site. The sheriff promises…”

“They’ve found Sheila and Isobel,” Damon explained, annoyed, as the report continued.

I watched replayed footage of body bags being loaded into a coroner’s van. “You’re sure it’s them.”

“I know where I bury my bodies, Fake-lena. That shot’s off Brookside, a half-mile’s hike from where they’re at. Were at.”

“Maybe it’s another vampire’s burial ground.” My god. Had my life become this? Talking about burial grounds?

“Doubt it. I’d have smelt any other bodies.”

“What, like a cadaver dog?”

Damon ignored that. “It’s interesting they only found two bodies. I suppose they could still stumble across John.”

“How do you know one of the bodies isn’t John?”

“Because the report opened stating they found two women buried off Brookside road,” Damon explained, all faux patience.

“Liz could be covering up the fact they found him, too,” I muttered.

“We need to do something about this council of yours,” Damon replied.

“It’s not my council. And you infiltrated it.”

Damon hummed. “That does sound diabolically brilliant.”

“Or reckless and stupid,” I shot back.

“Someone’s in a snit.”

“Two bodies whose murder I was involved in were just dug up, Damon,” I hissed into the phone. “How should I be?”

“Technically, Isobel was already dead,” Damon pointed out, so unhelpfully. “Either way, don’t worry. They won’t find anything.”

“This is the era of CSI and DNA.” I was definitely going to worry.

“This isn’t my first time covering up forensic evidence, Fake-lena.” I could hear Damon’s impatience.

I was about to ask if he was always this much of an ass when his murder victims were uncovered—though I supposed technically they were Stefan’s—when I heard the front door open. “Someone’s here.”

“Not me.”

“Yes, Damon. I figured that,” I sighed, moving back to the hallway. I rounded the doorway and took one glance down the hall towards the door.

I nearly dropped the phone.

John smiled at me. “Hello, Elena.”

I stared at the large bandage covering his neck, mouth open, horrified. His color was horrible. Even under the yellow houselights, he looked bleach white. “John?”

“Where the hell have you been?!” Jenna demanded as she appeared from the kitchen like an avenging valkyrie.

“Detained.” He winked at me.

“Damon,” I uttered into the phone, “I have to go.”

“What? We have a situation—”

“John’s here.”

Silence, then, “What?”

“I said Uncle John’s here.”

“Uh, no. No he’s not. Because I have his ring, Elena.” There was distinct irritation mixing with confusion in his voice now. “The one that raises the dead?”

“Uh huh. I’ll… call you later.”

“No. You come over. Right. Now.”

Uncle John was staring at me over Jenna’s shoulder. “Fine.” I hung up and placed the phone on the hall table. “Jenna? I’m heading over to Stefan’s.”

Jenna paused in her tirade against John to turn to me. “Again?”

“I’m not sure I like you going over to the Salvatore’s, Elena,” John said. Whatever it was, it didn’t look happy.

Jenna’s lips mashed together and she glared at John. “You know what? Have fun. Be back by nine.”

“Okay,” I said, heading off to the kitchen as fast as I could go without outright running. “Bye!” I shouted, grabbing the keys off the holder and rushing out the door. I did run, once the storm door shut behind me, all the way into the garage.

My hand shook as I stuck the key into the ignition. What the hell? How was John back? He’d been dead!

I forced myself to breathe and calm down as the garage door lifted. By the time I backed out, my heart was merely trotting instead of galloping. I eased out and started for the boarding house. Again.

It was a crisp night out. Chilly enough I kept the window up and turned the heat on. My head swam with implications. How the hell had John—or whatever was possessing John—gotten back up? More than that, it sounded as if Damon had buried him. His clothes hadn’t been dirty. Where had he gotten them? What about the bandage on his neck? Was his wound still there? Didn’t the ring heal wounds like that? But he hadn’t had the ring, so—

A person appeared in the middle of my headlights.

I gasped, slamming the breaks and twisting the wheel hard to the right. But there would be no avoiding them.

The body thudded against the corner of the SUV’s hood. Coming down like a mallet, their head cracked against the windshield. There was another thud as it flew up and over the roof. They rolled off the side of the SUV and slammed into the road.

The SUV screeched to a halt. Gripping the wheel, I stared out the windshield. Through the spiderweb of cracks spread out from where a forehead had smashed into the glass. “Oh my god,” I whispered, repeating myself a few times. I turned, was about to shove the door open when…

I remembered what world I was in.

I blinked, hand resting on the door handle. This was Damon’s favorite trap. Get hit and run over, then when someone runs over to check on him, grab and feed.

They had come out of literally nowhere. The road had been clear, and then someone was standing in the middle of it, looking at me.

Unless I was misremembering things in order to assuage my conscience. Had they been crossing? Mind swimming in adrenalin, making it hard to think, I wasn’t sure.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered, uncertain what to do. I couldn’t just… leave. What if it wasn’t a vampire? What if I’d actually hit someone?

What if it was a vampire?

Skull buzzing, I wrestled with the question of what to do. Get out, check? Drive off? What if I left someone to die I could’ve helped? But in this world… I ran a hand through my hair, torn. I looked back over my shoulder.

The body was gone.

I cursed and slammed down on the gas.

The engine revved. The wheels screeched against the road. The SUV didn’t move.

A fist smashed through the window. It unfurled into a hand that gripped the door.

Twisting and tearing apart, metal screamed as a yank ripped the door clean off the car. Tossed aside, it whooshed through the air. Rubber burned against concrete as spinning tires struggled to propel the SUV forward.

The hand wrenched at the seatbelt and broke it from its mooring, flinging it aside.

It grabbed onto my arm. I had the wheel in a death grip, the gas pedal pressed to the floor. I nearly broke my fingers and wrists trying to hold on when the vampire hauled me out. I ended up pressed against them in a kind of Heimlich bear hug. The swell of a chest told me my attacker was a woman.

I shouted, fear and fury powering my scream. I swung my feet with wild abandon. Each kick smashed my heels into sharp shin bones. If she flinched, I couldn’t tell. She did nothing but stand there, holding my back flush against her.

Another vampire covered in a dark hoodie let go of the back of the SUV, explaining why the vehicle hadn’t shot off. Not that I could’ve outran them.

An arm moved from beneath my ribcage and a hand wrapped around my throat. It squeezed. The breath I’d drawn all my life stopped. My eyes bulged. Frantic, my mouth gulped for air I couldn’t suck in, even as my belly moved to draw it down. There was nothing.

Suffocation is a long process. It’s terrifying on a primal level. A whole minute and a half passed until the need to breathe became urgent. Another thirty seconds before the night began to close in and colors danced in front of my eyes. My struggles weakened as my body and mind grew lethargic. Everything slowed, even my once frantic struggles to breathe.

And then it all went dark.

#fanfic #the vampire diaries #tvd #damon salvatore #stefan salvatore #the more things change #damon x ofc #stefan x ofc #elijah x ofc #klaus x ofc #elijah mikaelson #klaus #bonnie bennett #caroline forbes #elena gilbert #katherine pierce #ofc