Lisa Smith - The Struggle

“Try around October eighteenth. That was when it was stolen,” said Elena, putting her questions aside. She’d ask Meredith about it later.

There was no entry for October eighteenth or the weekend after; in fact, there were only a few entries for the following weeks. None of them mentioned the diary.

“Well, that’s it then,” said Meredith, sitting back. “This book is useless. Unless we want to blackmail her with it. You know, like we won’t show hers if she won’t show yours.”

It was a tempting idea, but Bonnie spotted the flaw. “There’s nothing bad about Caroline in here; it’s all just complaints about other people. Mostly us. I’ll bet Caroline would love to have it read out loud in front of the whole school. It’d make her day.”

“So what do we do with it?”

“Put it back,” said Elena tiredly. She swung her light around the room, which seemed to her eyes to be filled with subtle differences from when they’d come in. “We’ll just have to keep on pretending we don’t know she has my diary, and hope for another chance.”

“All right,” said Bonnie, but she went on thumbing through the little book, occasionally giving vent to an indignant snort or hiss. “Will you listen to this!” she exclaimed.

“There isn’t time,” Elena said. She would have said something else, but at that moment Meredith spoke, her tone commanding everyone’s immediate attention.

“A car.”

It took only a second to ascertain that the vehicle was pulling up into the Forbes’ driveway. Bonnie’s eyes and mouth were wide and round and she seemed to be paralyzed, kneeling by the bed.

“Go! Go on,” said Elena, snatching the di-ary from her. “Turn the flashlights off and get out the back door.”

They were already moving, Meredith urging Bonnie forward. Elena dropped to her knees and lifted the bedspread, pulling up at Caroline’s mattress. With her other hand she pushed the diary forward, wedging it between the mattress and the dust ruffle. The thinly covered box springs bit into her arm from below, but even worse was the weight of the queen-size mattress bearing down from above. She gave the book a few more nudges with her fingertips and then pulled her arm out, tugging the bedspread back in place.

She gave one wild glance back at the room as she left; there was no time to fix anything more now. As she moved swiftly and silently toward the stairs, she heard a key in the front door.

What followed was a sort of dreadful game of tag. Elena knew they were not deliberately chasing her, but the Forbes family seemed determined to corner her in their house. She turned back the way she had come as voices and lights materialized in the hall as they headed up the stairs. She fled from them into the last doorway down the hall, and they seemed to follow. They moved across the landing; they were right outside the master bedroom. She turned toward the adjoining bathroom, but then saw lights spring to life under the closed door, cutting off her escape.

She was trapped. At any moment Caroline’s parents might come in. She saw the french windows leading to a balcony and made her decision in that same instant.

Outside, the air was cool, and her panting breath showed faintly. Yellow light burst forth from the room beside her, and she huddled even farther to the left, keeping out of its path. Then, the sound she had been dreading came with terrible clarity: the snick of a door handle, followed by a billowing of curtains inward as the french windows opened.

She looked around frantically. It was too far to jump to the ground, and there was nothing to grab hold of to climb down. That left only the roof, but there was nothing to climb up, either. Still, some instinct made her try, and she was on the balcony railing and groping for a handhold above even as a shadow appeared on the filmy curtains. A hand parted them, a figure began to emerge, and then Elena felt something clasping her own hand, locking on her wrist and hauling her upwards. Automatically, she boosted with her feet and felt herself scrambling onto the shingled roof. Trying to calm her ragged breath, she looked over gratefully to see who her rescuer was—and froze.

“The name is Salvatore. As in savior,” he said. There was a brief flash of white teeth in the darkness.

Elena looked down. The overhang of the roof obscured the balcony, but she could hear shuffling sounds down there. But they were not the sounds of pursuit, and there was no sign that her companion’s words had been overheard. A minute later, she heard the french windows close.

“I thought it was Smith,” she said, still looking down into the darkness.

Damon laughed. It was a terribly engaging laugh, without the bitter edge of Stefan’s. It made her think of the rainbow lights on the crow’s feathers.

Nevertheless, she was not fooled. Charming as he seemed, Damon was dangerous almost beyond imagination. That graceful, lounging body was ten times stronger than a human’s. Those lazy dark eyes were adapted to seeing perfectly at night. The long-fingered hand that had pulled her up to the roof could move with impossible quickness. And, most disturbing of all, his mind was the mind of a killer. A predator.

She could feel it just beneath his surface. He was different from a human. He had lived so long by hunting and killing that he’d forgotten any other way. And he enjoyed it, not fighting his nature as Stefan did, but glorying in it. He had no morals and no conscience, and she was trapped here with him in the middle of the night.

She settled back on one heel, ready to jump into action at any minute. She ought to be angry with him now, after what he’d done to her in the dream. She was, but there was no point in expressing it. He knew how furious she must be, and he would only laugh at her if she told him.

She watched him quietly, intently, waiting for his next move.

But he didn’t move. Those hands that could dart as quickly as striking snakes rested motionlessly on his knees. His expression reminded her of the way he’d looked at her once before. The first time they’d met she’d seen the same guarded, reluctant respect in his eyes—except that then there had also been surprise in them. Now there was none.

“You’re not going to scream at me? Or faint?” he said, as if offering her the standard options.

Elena was still watching him. He was much stronger than she was, and faster, but if she needed to she thought she could get to the edge of the roof before he reached her. It was a thirty foot drop if she missed the balcony, but she might decide to risk it. It all depended on Damon.

“I don’t faint,” she said shortly. “And why should I scream at you? We were playing a game. I was stupid that night and so I lost. You warned me in the graveyard about the consequences.”

His lips parted in a quick breath and he looked away. “I may just have to make you my Queen of Shadows,” he said, and, speaking almost to himself, he continued: “I’ve had many companions, girls as young as you and women who were the beauties of Europe. But you’re the one I want at my side. Ruling, taking what we want when we want it. Feared and worshipped by all the weaker souls. Would that be so bad?”

“I am one of the weaker souls,” Elena said. “And you and I are enemies, Damon. We can never be anything else.”

“Are you sure?” He looked at her, and she could feel the power of his mind as it touched hers, like the brush of those long fingers. But there was no dizziness, no feeling of weakness or succumbing. That afternoon she’d had a long soak, as she always did these days, in a hot bath sprinkled with dried vervain.

Damon’s eyes flashed with understanding, but he took the setback with good grace. “What are you doing here?” he said casually.