Lisa Smith: The Awakening

But first… he was thirsty. His veins burned like a network of dry, hot wires. He needed to feed… soon… now.

The boarding house was dark. Elena knocked at the door but received no answer. Thunder cracked overhead. There was still no rain.

After the third barrage of knocking, she tried the door, and it opened. Inside, the house was silent and pitch black. She made her way to the staircase by feel and went up it.

The second landing was just as dark, and she stumbled, trying to find the bedroom with the stairway to the third floor. A faint light showed at the top of the stairs, and she climbed toward it, feeling oppressed by the walls, which seemed to close in on her from either side.

The light came from beneath the closed door. Elena tapped on it lightly and quickly. “Stefan,” she whispered, and then she called more loudly, “Stefan, it’s me.”

No answer. She grasped the knob and pushed the door open, peering around the side. “Stefan—”

She was speaking to an empty room.

And a room filled with chaos. It looked as if some great wind had torn through, leaving destruction in its path. The trunks that had stood in corners so sedately were lying at grotesque angles, their lids gaping open, their contents strewn about the floor. One window was shattered. All Stefan’s possessions, all the things he had kept so carefully and seemed to prize, were scattered like rubbish.

Terror swept through Elena. The fury, the violence in this scene of devastation were painfully clear, and they made her feel almost giddy. Somebody who has a history of violence, Tyler had said.

I don’t care, she thought, anger surging up to push back the fear. I don’t care about anything, Stefan; I still want to see you. But where are you?

The trapdoor in the ceiling was open, and cold air was blowing down. Oh, thought Elena, and she had a sudden chill of fear. That roof was so high…

She’d never climbed the ladder to the widow’s walk before, and her long skirt made it difficult. She emerged through the trapdoor slowly, kneeling on the roof and then standing up. She saw a dark figure in the corner, and she moved toward it quickly.

“Stefan, I had to come—” she began, and broke off short, because a flash of lightning lit the sky just as the figure in the corner whirled around. And then it was as if every foreboding and fear and nightmare she’d ever had were coming true all at once. It was beyond screaming at; it was beyond anything.

Oh, God… no. Her mind refused to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. No. No. She wouldn’t look at this, she wouldn’t believe it…

But she could not help seeing. Even if she could have shut her eyes, every detail of the scene was etched upon her memory. As if the flash of lightning had seared it onto her brain forever.

Stefan. Stefan, so sleek and elegant in his ordinary clothes, in his black leather jacket with the collar turned up. Stefan, with his dark hair like one of the roiling storm clouds behind him. Stefan had been caught in that flash of light, half turned toward her, his body twisted into a bestial crouch, with a snarl of animal fury on his face.

And blood. That arrogant, sensitive, sensual mouth was smeared with blood. It showed ghastly red against the pallor of his skin, against the sharp whiteness of his bared teeth. In his hands was the limp body of a mourning dove, white as those teeth, wings outspread. Another lay on the ground at his feet, like a crumpled and discarded handkerchief.

“Oh, God, no,” Elena whispered. She went on whispering it, backing away, scarcely aware that she was doing either. Her mind simply could not cope with this horror; her thoughts were running wildly in panic, like mice trying to escape a cage. She wouldn’t believe this, she wouldn’t believe . Her body was filled with unbearable tension, her heart was bursting, her head reeling.

“Oh, God, no—”

“Elena!” More terrible than anything else was this, to see Stefan looking at her out of that animal face, to see the snarl changing into a look of shock and desperation. “Elena, please. Please, don’t…”

“Oh, God, no !” The screams were trying to rip their way out of her throat. She backed farther away, stumbling, as he took a step toward her. “No!”

“Elena, please — be careful—” That terrible thing, the thing with Stefan’s face, was coming after her, green eyes burning. She flung herself backward as he took another step, his hand outstretched. That long, slender-fingered hand that had stroked her hair so gently -

“Don’t touch me!” she cried. And then she did scream, as her motion brought her back against the iron railing of the widow’s walk. It was iron that had been there for nearly a century and a half, and in places it was nearly rusted through. Elena’s panicked weight against it was too much, and she felt it give way. She heard the tearing sound of overstressed metal and wood mingling with her own shriek. And then there was nothing behind her, nothing to grab on to, and she was falling.

In that instant, she saw the seething purple clouds, the dark bulk of the house beside her. It seemed that she had enough time to see them clearly, and to feel an infinity of terror as she screamed and fell, and fell.

But the terrible, shattering impact never came. Suddenly there were arms around her, supporting her in the void. There was a dull thud and the arms tightened, weight giving against her, absorbing the crash. Then all was still.

She held herself motionless within the circle of those arms, trying to get her bearings. Trying to believe yet another unbelievable thing. She had fallen from a three-story roof, and yet she was alive. She was standing in the garden behind the boarding house, in the utter silence between claps of thunder, with fallen leaves on the ground where her broken body should be.

Slowly, she brought her gaze upward to the face of the one who held her. Stefan.

There had been too much fear, too many blows tonight. She could react no longer. She could only stare up at him with a kind of wonder.

There was such sadness in his eyes. Those eyes that had burned like green ice were now dark and empty, hopeless. The same look that she’d seen that first night in his room, only now it was worse. For now there was self-hatred mixed with the sorrow, and bitter condemnation. She couldn’t bear it.

“Stefan,” she whispered, feeling that sadness enter her own soul. She could still see the tinge of red on his lips, but now it awakened a thrill of pity along with the instinctive horror. To be so alone, so alien and so alone…

“Oh, Stefan,” she whispered.

There was no answer in those bleak, lost eyes. “Come,” he said quietly, and led her back toward the house.

Stefan felt a rush of shame as they reached the third story and the destruction that was his room. That Elena, of all people, should see this was insupportable. But then, perhaps it was also fitting that she should see what he truly was, what he could do.

She moved slowly, dazedly to the bed and sat. Then she looked up at him, her shadowed eyes meeting his. “Tell me,” was all she said.

He laughed shortly, without humor, and saw her flinch. It made him hate himself more. “What do you need to know?” he said. He put a foot on the lid of an overturned trunk and faced her almost defiantly, indicating the room with a gesture. “Who did this? I did.”

“You’re strong,” she said, her eyes on a capsized trunk. Her gaze lifted upward, as if she were remembering what had happened on the roof. “And quick.”

“Stronger than a human,” he said, with deliberate emphasis on the last word. Why didn’t she cringe from him now, why didn’t she look at him with the loathing he had seen before? He didn’t care what she thought any longer. “My reflexes are faster, and I’m more resilient. I have to be. I’m a hunter,” he said harshly.