Stefan woke up feeling overheated and dizzy. He was in the Old Woods, the restored and cleansed Old Woods.
He was hungry.
Tiger-hungry, he thought. Wolf-hungry. Hungry enough to bite a blind beggar in a churchyard.
Hungry enough to take down the first prey that crossed his path.
Automatically, as his hand groped in his jeans pocket, he looked around the small clearing where he had collapsed last night. He had hunted a deer then, and almost drained it before the dizziness and darkness had overtaken him and he had fallen, exhausted, into fever-dreams.
At least his task was done, he thought. Wasn’t it done? His hand closed on the hipflask, which was disappointingly light when he opened it and lifted it to his lips.
Three tantalizing drops fell onto his parched tongue. That was all. He stuffed the flask back in his pocket.
Where was the deer? Although he had wished it no harm, he would have sworn that he had taken enough blood that it should have become a carcass by now.
Maybe something—and his mind brought up an unpleasant picture of a couple of wolves turning into people—had taken it out of the clearing. Or maybe he had wandered away from the clearing where he had fallen in his sleep, which had been restless and fitful.
Or perhaps he had drunk less than he thought and the deer had been able to rise and stumble back into the sheltering trees while he was unconscious. That might make the most sense, and would explain his broken sleep and ravenous awakening.
It was strange, but even in prison he had never felt quite this desperate for blood. Even when he had been dying, it had never been this bad. The closer he’d gotten to dying, the more peaceful he’d been then.
This hunger was like wearing a white-hot suit underneath his skin. It burned and itched and stung over every inch of his body, while claws tore at his internal organs.
It urged him into walking unsteadily, trying to be noiseless and stealthy, trying to listen for the tiny sounds of prey and look for the tiny signs that would shape his path.
But how to be stealthy when every step threatens to lead to a searing, raging darkness? How to hear when your ears are already thrumming with your own heartbeat? How to see when vision is distorted and wavers between too close and too distant?
There! A fern was bent. It had been trodden upon and the lacy green triangle that lay flat on the ground acted as an arrow to show the direction of the animal that had disturbed it. Stefan followed, sweat collecting on his forehead as he concentrated all the Power he could summon into his eyes.
Steady vision. Steady vision. A few leaves were dislocated and a print showed clearly in the moist ground between them. It was the double teardrop and crescent shape of a white-tailed deer’s hoof. The print was easily five and a half inches long and very deep. A buck, then, and no slender yearling. A big fellow, from three to six years old. Exactly what Stefan needed.
Now that he was on the trail his body seemed to switch to automatic mode. He followed each of the buck’s strides as if he were being pulled along on a string. He had done this so many times; it was so blessedly easy to see his way. Stefan began to run and felt his legs stable underneath him. He was gaining on the buck, for its strides remained of a uniform length; it was ambling along, heedless of any danger.
Stefan burst into a clearing and saw a magnificent red-brown animal in front of him, its antlers a miracle, a miniature forest towering on its head. The velvet hung in taters from some of the tines.
Stefan’s canine teeth were sharpening even as he leaped forward, seizing the buck by its rack even as he knocked it off balance. His fangs cut through the wiry summer coat to the carotid artery in the buck’s neck. Immediately rich blood fountained into Stefan’s mouth. He didn’t remember deer blood being as energizing and delicious as this, but then he couldn’t remember ever being so desperate to feed before.
I’m sorry, cousin, he
thought, Influencing the animal to rest quietly and feel nothing. Your life is my sacrifice to my own internal beast today. But you won’t feel it ebbing away, I promise. Sleep now and dream of being a fawn with your mother. I’m sure you’ve sired some beautiful fawns yourself in your time.
The buck lay quiet. Great gushes of blood, pumped by its strong heart, fountained into Stefan’s mouth and scarcely a drop was lost. The hot red liquid tasted of exotic spices, of port wine, of black currants, cherry, and cassis. No animal’s blood had ever been so smooth, so soothing to Stefan’s fever, so delectable.
It was strange, though, that although Stefan’s hunger was gradually appeased, he did not become less lightheaded. In fact, he felt darkness settling around him like a heavy, thick fog of warm air. His appetite was blunted, but so were his senses. The last thing he remembered before the darkness pulled him into the folds of a velvety black cloak was a vague curiosity about whether he might be dying.
* * *
With her friends gone, Elena vaguely planned to confront Damon. But she had to figure out exactly what to say to make sure she could convince him she was able to protect herself.
She sat down at the desk, where she found a pretty journal in the cubby, with a cover of lavender crushed velvet. She was supposed to start keeping a journal for her English class. Once she’d picked up this one, she felt she couldn’t put it down without writing in it, and there was a fresh black ballpoint pen waiting for her. She untwisted the pale lavender ribbon that held the journal closed from its carved silver button and opened it.
She began to write about how frustrated she was with Damon, but to explain why she was frustrated she had to go back and recount the details of why he thought she needed protection.
Soon, engrossed in her task, she was writing fluently, her hand in direct contact with her brain, the pen streaking over the journal’s pages.
She was so involved that she scarcely noticed when Damon settled on the bed and turned on her new TV. He kept the volume low, but if it had been blasting into her ears, she wouldn’t have heard a word. She was in her own world now, unconscious of anything but the strange story she told.
* * *