The Compelled (The Vampire Diaries 19)

“Stefan saved Mary Jane’s life. He deserves your help,” Cora piped up.

“We settled that debt. We helped him get his brother back—and we’re close to pneumonia for our efforts. At the end of the day, Stefan is a vampire. Look where helping him got you,” Jemima said to Cora, not unkindly. “You took a chance on him, and he forced you into battle with your sister.”

“He didn’t force anything. And I wouldn’t have killed Violet if she’d truly been herself. But my sister died weeks ago—that was a demon who died back there,” Cora counter

ed.

“Whatever gets you through the day,” Jemima said dismissively.

I staggered to my feet. “There’s no need for us to stay. We’ll go. Thanks for all your help,” I said. In truth, I was eager to get back to the tunnel. It may not have had creature comforts, but I felt like it was far safer than a room full of witches.

Just then, Damon unleashed a guttural groan from the corner of the room. Sweat poured from his hairline and Cora rushed to tend to him. “He’s burning up. He should be healed by now. I’m going to give him more blood.” Cora slicked back the hair from his forehead. Despite my suggestion at the bridge, he’d never properly fed. Even when Cora had cut her skin and held it up to his mouth, he’d only taken a few tentative sips. Ever since we’d saved him, Damon had been quiet. And a quiet Damon always made me uneasy.

I didn’t stop her as she pushed up her sleeve and unwrapped a muslin cloth from her wrist, uncovering the wound she’d made yesterday. She scratched a scab, and a small trickle of blood ran onto her skin. I quickly turned away. I wondered if she’d hidden the unhealed wound from me on purpose, so I wouldn’t be tempted. My heart twisted at the thought.

“Damon,” she said, shaking his shoulders slightly. “Wake up.”

“Heart,” he murmured, thrashing. “He needs a heart.” I leaned down and tried to listen to the words. What did Damon mean? Who needed a heart?

“Shh, wake up,” Cora murmured, holding her wrist to his mouth. Damon began to drink, but his eyes were still squeezed shut. Cora winced as Damon’s fangs grazed her skin, and I was aware of the rest of the witches watching us as though we were performing a macabre play. They shifted uncomfortably. Jemima huffed, and I knew she didn’t want blood-drinking to take place under her roof.

Damon paused mid-drink and a grimace crossed his face. Then, he curled his upper lip, as though readying for an attack.

“Cora!” I hissed.

“That’s enough,” Cora said firmly, extricating her wrist from Damon’s fangs.

Damon sat up and blinked, pushing the blankets away.

“Where am I?” he sputtered.

“You’re somewhere safer than hanging from the Tower Bridge, that’s for sure,” I said. Damon lifted his gaze to meet mine and nodded imperceptibly. His normally blue eyes appeared muddy, as if they had witnessed a host of unspeakable horrors. My mind drifted to the latest theory the papers had printed regarding the Jack the Ripper murders: Some doctors believed people’s eyes recorded the last image they saw before they died. Physicians from London University Hospital postulated that all the London Metropolitan Police had to do to catch Jack the Ripper was to photograph the faces of his victims, examine the negatives, and identify any hazy figure reflected in their eyes. So far, they hadn’t had any luck with the theory, but looking at the despair in Damon’s eyes now, I could understand where the idea came from.

“Are you all right?” Mary Jane asked with concern.

“I will be,” Damon said. His voice sounded rough and scratchy, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. He spotted the crimson trickle of blood on Cora’s skin and reflexively bared his fangs. Not meeting his gaze, she carefully retied the muslin, which immediately bloomed with a rosette of fresh blood. I glanced away, but not before a terrible, unbidden thought once again crossed my mind: Why not drink human blood?

“I have a spell that might help,” Vivian said shyly. “It’s just some lilac water and words,” she added, pulling a few sprigs of purple flowers from the pocket of her dress. She took a few of the leaves and dropped them in the pitcher that had held the eleuthro the night before. She swirled the mixture, muttering under her breath, then passed the concoction to Damon.

“You want me to drink your flower water?” he asked skeptically. I was relieved to hear a trace of his old, caustic self in his voice.

“I do,” Vivian said, rocking back on her heels. Her voice was soft but steady.

Damon shut his eyes and gingerly took a sip. Damon, the man who could easily down a few stiff whiskeys, was nervous about drinking a potion.

“Finish it off,” Vivian urged.

He choked down a few more sips. Already, he looked better. The color had returned to his cheeks, and his eyes had lost their haunted look. He was definitely well enough to make the journey back through London.

“I never thought I’d have to depend on witches to save me,” Damon said. “But I suppose we live in strange times.” He turned to Mary Jane. “Let’s just hope you continue to stay safe from Samuel.”

My ears pricked up. “What do you mean?” I asked urgently.

“He wants her,” Damon said. He jerked his elbow toward Mary Jane. “That’s why he’s been ripping humans apart. He’s hoping one of his victims might be a witch.”

“What? Why me?” Mary Jane asked, her voice rising in panic. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

“It’s not what you did, it’s who you are,” Damon said cryptically. “Apparently, you’re a purebred witch. And your heart is of great value to them.”