"Damon never trusted the Guardians," he said quietly.
"Wel , he wouldn't - they don't think much of vampires. But beyond that..." He reached for a tal stalk of Queen Anne's lace growing beside a nearby headstone. "Damon had a pretty finely tuned sense for detecting lies - the lies people told themselves and the ones they told other people. When we were young we had a tutor - a priest, no less - who I liked and my father trusted, and Damon despised. When the man ran off with my father's gold and a young lady from the neighborhood, Damon was the only one who wasn't surprised." Stefan smiled at Elena. "He said that the priest's eyes were wrong. And that he spoke too smoothly."
Stefan shrugged. "My father and I never noticed. But Damon did."
Elena smiled tremulously. "He always knew when I wasn't being total y honest with him." She had a sudden flash of memory: of Damon's deep black eyes holding hers, his pupils dilated like a cat's, his head tilting as their lips met. She looked away from Stefan's warm green eyes, so different from Damon's dark ones, and twisted the thick stalk of the Queen Anne's lace around the other flowers. When the bouquet was tied together, she placed it on her parents' grave.
"I miss him," Stefan said softly. "There was a time when I would have thought... when his death might have been a relief. But I'm so glad we came together - that we were brothers again - before he died." He put a gentle hand beneath Elena's chin and tilted her head up so that her eyes met his again. "I know you loved him, Elena. It's okay. You don't have to pretend."
Elena gave a little gasp of pain.
It was like there was a dark hole inside her. She could laugh and smile and marvel at the restored town; she could love her family; but al the time there was this dul ache, this terrible sense of loss.
Letting her tears loose at last, Elena fel into Stefan's arms.
"Oh, my love," he said, his voice catching, and they wept together, taking comfort in each other's warmth. Fine ash had fal en for a long time. Now it settled at last and the smal moon of the Nether World was covered with thick, sticky piles of dust. Here and there, opalescent fluid pooled against the charred blackness, coloring it with the rainbow of an oil slick.
Nothing moved. Now that the Great Tree had
disintegrated, nothing lived in this place.
Deep below the surface of the ruined moon was a body. His poisoned blood had stopped flowing and he lay unmoving, unfeeling, unseeing. But the drops of fluid saturating his skin nourished him, and a slow thrum of magical life beat steadily on.
Every now and then a flicker of consciousness rose within him. He had forgotten who he was and how he had died. But there was a voice somewhere deep inside him, a light, sweet voice he knew wel , that told him, Close your eyes now. Let go. Let go. Go. It was comforting, and his last spark of consciousness was holding on for a moment longer, just to hear it. He couldn't remember whose voice it was, although something in it reminded him of sunlight, of gold and lapis lazuli.
Let go. He was slipping away, the last spark dimming, but it was al right. It was warm and comfortable, and he was ready to let go now. The voice would take him al the way to... to wherever it was he would go. As the flicker of consciousness was about to go out for the last time, another voice - a sharper, more commanding voice, the voice of someone used to having his orders obeyed - spoke within him.
She needs you. She's in danger.
He couldn't let go. Not yet. That voice pul ed painful y at him, holding him to life.
With a sharp shock, everything shifted. As if he'd been ripped out of that gentle, cozy place, he was suddenly freezing cold. Everything hurt.
Deep within the ash, his fingers twitched.
Chapter 5
"Are you excited for Alaric to arrive tomorrow?" Matt asked. "He's bringing his researcher friend Celia, right?"
Meredith kicked him in the chest.
"Oof!" Matt staggered backward, knocked breathless despite the protective vest he had on. Meredith fol owed up with a roundhouse kick to Matt's side, and he fel to his knees, barely managing to raise his hands and block a straight punch to his face.
"Ow!" he said. "Meredith, time-out, okay?"
Meredith dropped into a graceful tiger stance, her back leg supporting her weight while her front foot rested lightly on her toes. Her face was calm, her eyes cool and watchful. She looked ready to pounce if Matt showed any sign of sudden movement.
When he'd arrived to spar with Meredith - to help her keep her hunter-slayer skil s in top-notch shape - Matt had wondered why she had handed him a helmet, mouth guard, gloves, shin guards, and vest, while she wore only sleek black workout clothes.
Now he knew. He hadn't even come close to hitting her, while she'd pummeled him mercilessly. Matt eased a hand up under the vest and rubbed rueful y at his side. He hoped he hadn't cracked a rib.
"Ready to go again?" Meredith said, her eyebrows raised in chal enge.
"Please, no, Meredith," Matt said, raising his hands in surrender. "Let's take a break. It feels like you've been punching me for hours."
Meredith walked over to the smal fridge in the corner of her family's rec room and tossed Matt a bottle of water, then sank down next to him on the mat. "Sorry. I guess I got carried away. I've never sparred with a friend before."
Looking around as he took a long, cool drink, Matt shook his head. "I don't know how you managed to keep this place secret for so long." The basement room had been converted into a perfect place to train: throwing stars, knives, swords, and staves of various kinds were mounted on the wal s; a punching bag hung in one corner, while a padded dummy leaned in another. The floor was lined with mats, and one wal was completely mirrored. In the middle of the opposite wal hung the fighting stave: a special weapon for battling the supernatural that had been handed down through generations of Meredith's family. It was deadly but elegant-looking, the hilt covered with jewels, the ends spiked with silver, wood, and white ash, and the needles steeped in poison. Matt eyed it warily.