The Struggle (21 page)

He was on the last when he saw Caroline huddling in the corner.

His mouth was dripping as he raised his head to look at her. Those green eyes, usually so narrow, showed white all around like those of a terrified horse. Her lips were pale blurs as she gabbled soundless pleas.

He pulled her to her feet by the green sashes at her waist. She was moaning, her eyes rolling up in their sockets. He wound his hand in her auburn hair to position the exposed throat where he wanted it. His head reared back to strike—and Caroline screamed and went limp.

He dropped her. He’d had enough anyway. He was bursting with blood, like an overfed tick. He had never felt so strong, so charged with elemental power.

Now it was time for Damon.

He went out of the Quonset hut the same way he’d come in. But not in human form. A hunting falcon soared out the window and wheeled into the sky.

The new shape was wonderful. Strong …
and cruel. And its eyes were sharp. It took him where he wanted, skimming over the oak trees of the woods. He was looking for a particular clearing.

He found it. Wind slashed at him but he spiraled downward, with a keening scream of challenge. Damon, in human form below, threw up his hands to protect his face as the falcon dived at him.

Stefan ripped bloody strips out of his arms and heard Damon’s answering scream of pain and anger.

I’m not your weak little brother anymore.
He sent the thought down to Damon on a stunning blast of Power.
And this time I’ve come for your blood.

He felt the backwash of hatred from Damon, but the voice in his mind was mocking.
So this is the thanks I get for saving you and your betrothed?

Stefan’s wings folded and he dived again, his whole world narrowed to one objective. Killing. He went for Damon’s eyes, and the stick Damon had picked up whistled past his new body. His talons tore into Damon’s cheek and Damon’s blood ran. Good.

You shouldn’t have left me alive,
he told Damon.
You should have killed both of us at once.

I’ll be glad to correct the mistake!
Damon had been unprepared before, but now Stefan could feel his drawing Power, arming himself, standing ready.
But first you might tell me whom I’m supposed to have killed this time
.

The falcon’s brain could not deal with the riot of emotions the taunting question called up. Screaming wordlessly, it plummeted on Damon again, but this time the heavy stick struck home. Injured, one wing hanging, the falcon dropped behind Damon’s back.

Stefan changed to his own form at once, scarcely feeling the pain of his broken arm. Before Damon could turn, he grabbed him, the fingers of his good hand digging into his brother’s neck and spinning him around.

When he spoke, it was almost gently.

“Elena,” he said, whispered, and went for Damon’s throat.

It was dark, and very cold, and someone was hurt. Someone needed help.

But she was terribly tired.

Elena’s eyelids fluttered and opened and that
took care of the darkness. As for the cold … she was bone-cold, freezing, chilled to the marrow. And no wonder; there was ice all over her.

Somewhere, deep down, she knew it was more than that.

What had happened? She’d been at home, asleep—no, this was Founders’ Day. She’d been in the cafeteria, on the stage.

Someone’s face had looked funny.

It was too much to cope with; she couldn’t think. Disembodied faces floated before her eyes, fragments of sentences sounded in her ears. She was very confused.

And so tired.

Better go back to sleep then. The ice wasn’t really that bad. She started to lie down, and then the cries came to her again.

She heard them, not with her ears, but with her mind. Cries of anger and of pain. Someone was very unhappy.

She sat quite still, trying to sort it all out.

There was a quiver of movement at the edge of her vision. A squirrel. She could smell it, which was strange because she’d never smelled a squirrel before. It stared at her with one bright
black eye and then it scampered up the willow tree. Elena realized she’d made a grab for it only when she came up empty with her fingernails digging into bark.

Now that was ridiculous. What on
earth
did she want a squirrel for? She puzzled over it for a minute, then lay back down, exhausted.

The cries were still going on.

She tried to cover her ears, but that did nothing to block them out. Someone was hurt, and unhappy, and fighting. That was it. There was a fight going on.

All right. She’d figured it out. Now she could sleep.

She couldn’t, though. The cries beckoned to her, drew her toward them. She felt an irresistible need to follow them to their source.

And
then
she could go to sleep. After she saw … him.

Oh, yes, it was coming back now. She remembered
him.
He was the one who understood her, who loved her. He was the one she wanted to be with forever.

His face appeared out of the mists in her mind. She considered it lovingly. All right, then.
For
him
she would get up and walk through this ridiculous sleet until she found the proper clearing. Until she could join him. Then they’d be together.

The very thought of him seemed to warm her. There was a fire inside him that few people could see. She saw it, though. It was like the fire inside her.

He seemed to be having some sort of trouble at the moment. At least, there was a lot of shouting. She was close enough to hear it with her ears as well as her mind now.

There, beyond that grandfather oak tree. That was where the noise was coming from.
He
was there, with his black, fathomless eyes, and his secret smile. And he needed her help. She would help him.

Shaking ice crystals out of her hair, Elena stepped into the clearing in the wood.

Elena stepped into the clearing.

Beneath her feet, tatters of autumn leaves were freezing into the slush. Dusk had fallen, and although the storm was dying away, the woods were getting colder. Elena didn’t feel the cold.

Neither did she mind the dark. Her pupils opened wide, gathering up tiny particles of light that would have been invisible to a human. She could see the two figures struggling beneath the great oak tree quite clearly.

One had thick dark hair that the wind had churned into a tumbled sea of waves. He was slightly taller than the other, and although Elena couldn’t see his face, she somehow knew his eyes were green.

The other had a shock of dark hair as well, but his was fine and straight, almost like the pelt of an animal. His lips were drawn back from his
teeth in fury, and the lounging grace of his body was gathered into a panther’s crouch. His eyes were black.

Elena watched them for several minutes without moving. She’d forgotten why she had come here, why she’d been pulled here by the echoes of their battle in her mind. This close, the clamor of their anger and hatred and pain was almost deafening, like silent shouts coming from the fighters. They were locked in a death match.

I wonder which of them will win, she thought. They were both wounded and bleeding, and the taller one’s left arm hung at an unnatural angle. Still, he had just slammed the other against the gnarled trunk of an oak tree. His fury was so strong that Elena could feel it and taste it as well as hear it, and she knew it was giving him impossible strength.

And then Elena remembered why she had come. How could she have forgotten?
He
was hurt.
His
mind had summoned her here, battering her with shockwaves of rage and pain. She had come to help him, because she belonged to him.

The two figures were down on the icy ground now, fighting like wolves, snarling. Swiftly and silently Elena went to them. The one with the wavy hair and green eyes—
Stefan,
a voice in her mind whispered—was on top, fingers scrabbling at the other’s throat. Anger washed through Elena, anger and protectiveness. She reached between the two of them to grab that choking hand, to pry the fingers up.

It didn’t occur to her that she shouldn’t be strong enough to do this. She
was
strong enough, that was all. She threw her weight to the side, wrenching her captive away from his opponent. For good measure she bore down hard on his wounded arm, knocking him flat on his face in the leaf-strewn slush. Then she began to choke him from behind.

Her attack had taken him by surprise, but he was far from beaten. He struck back at her, his good hand fumbling for her throat. His thumb dug into her windpipe.

Elena found herself lunging at the hand, going for it with her teeth. Her mind could not understand it, but her body knew what to do. Her teeth were a weapon, and they slashed into
flesh, drawing blood.

But he was stronger than she was. With a jerk of his shoulders he broke her hold on him and twisted in her grasp, flinging her down. And then he was above her, his face contorted with animal fury. She hissed at him and went for his eyes with her nails, but he knocked her hand away.

He was going to kill her. Even wounded, he was by far the stronger. His lips had drawn back to show teeth already stained with scarlet. Like a cobra, he was ready to strike.

Then he stopped, hovering over her, his face changing.

Elena saw the green eyes widen. The pupils, which had been contracted to vicious dots, sprang open. He was staring down at her as if truly seeing her for the first time.

Why was he looking at her that way? Why didn’t he just get it over with? But now the iron hand on her shoulder was releasing her. The animal snarl had disappeared, replaced by a look of bewilderment and wonder. He sat back, helping her to sit up, all the while gazing into her face.

“Elena,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“Elena, it’s you.”

Is that who I am? she thought. Elena?

It didn’t really matter. She cast a glance toward the old oak tree.
He
was still there, standing between the upthrust roots, panting, supporting himself against it with one hand.
He
was looking at her with his endlessly black eyes, his brows drawn together in a frown.

Don’t worry, she thought. I can take care of this one. He’s stupid. Then she flung herself on the green-eyed one again.

“Elena!” he cried as she knocked him backward. His good hand pushed at her shoulder, holding her up. “Elena, it’s me, Stefan! Elena, look at me!”

She was looking. All she could see was the exposed patch of skin at his neck. She hissed again, upper lips drawing back, showing him her teeth.

He froze.

She felt the shock reverberate through his body, saw his gaze shatter. His face went as white as if someone had struck him a blow in the stomach. He shook his head slightly on the muddy ground.

“No,” he whispered. “Oh, no …”

He seemed to be saying it to himself, as if he didn’t expect her to hear him. He reached a hand toward her cheek and she snapped at it.

“Oh, Elena …” he whispered.

The last traces of fury, of animal bloodlust, had disappeared from his face. His eyes were dazed and stricken and grieving.

And vulnerable. Elena took advantage of the moment to dive for the bare skin at his neck. His arm came up to fend her off, to push her away, but then it dropped again.

He stared at her a moment, the pain in his eyes reaching a peak, and then he simply gave up. He stopped fighting completely.

She could feel it happen, feel the resistance leave his body. He lay on the icy ground with scraps of oak leaves in his hair, staring up past her at the black and clouded sky.

Finish it,
his weary voice said in her mind.

Elena hesitated for an instant. There was something about those eyes that called up memories inside her. Standing in the moonlight, sitting in an attic room … But the memories were too vague. She couldn’t get a grasp on them, and the
effort made her dizzy and sick.

And this one had to die, this green-eyed one called Stefan. Because he’d hurt
him,
the other one, the one Elena had been born to be with. No one could hurt
him
and live.

She clamped her teeth into his throat and bit deep.

She realized at once that she wasn’t doing it quite right. She hadn’t hit an artery or vein. She worried at the throat, angry at her own inexperience. It felt good to bite something but not much blood was coming. Frustrated, she lifted up and bit again, feeling his body jerk in pain.

Much better. She’d found a vein this time, but she hadn’t torn it deeply enough. A little scratch like that wouldn’t do. What she needed was to rip it right across, to let the rich hot blood stream out.

Her victim shuddered as she worked to do this, teeth raking and gnawing. She was just feeling the flesh give way when hands pulled at her, lifting her from behind.

Elena snarled without letting go of the throat. The hands were insistent, though. An arm looped about her waist, fingers twined in
her hair. She fought, clinging on with teeth and nails to her prey.

Let go of him! Leave him!

The voice was sharp and commanding, like a blast from a cold wind. Elena recognized it and stopped struggling with the hands that pulled her away. As they deposited her on the ground and she looked up to see
him,
a name came into her mind. Damon.
His
name was Damon. She stared at him sulkily, resentful of being yanked away from her kill, but obedient.

Stefan was sitting up, his neck red with blood. It was running onto his shirt. Elena licked her lips, feeling a throb like a hunger pang, but which seemed to come from every fiber of her being. She was dizzy again.

“I thought,” Damon said aloud, “that you said she was dead.”

He was looking at Stefan, who was even paler than before, if that were possible. That white face filled with infinite hopelessness.

“Look at her,” was all he said.