“Oh. But that was just to—never mind. I guess it’s true; I’m a martyr to my own intellectualism.” He tried on Stefan’s brooding aura of loneliness and got another warm, deep chuckle for his pains.
“Nah, you’re nothing like them,” Kenzy said. “Can we start this conversation over, please? I’m Kenzy, and my answers to the quiz are: I’ve seen both those tricks done, but never in combination—and never so fast. I mean, damn fast!”
Damon looked her over, his eyes gravitating without volition to the sturdy, rounded throat that stood like a pillar now that the young woman wasn’t crouching. His canine teeth began to ache pleasantly.
“All right,” he said. “I’m Damon, and, yes, I’m pretty fast.” He tried for a modest smile, but couldn’t hold it, and went straight on to stunning without regret. “Shall we sit down?” He flashed a folded bill over his head as they did so.
The surly barkeeper seemed to have preternatural sight for any kind of money, and no eyes for anything else. He called, “What’ll it be?”
“My friend would like . . .” Damon glanced at Kenzy.
“Oh, a rum and Coke,” she replied. “You’re not having anything?” she added when the bartender had come and gone.
“I’m leaving my options open,” Damon said lightly, touching the flask with just the faintest quirk of his lip.
Fifteen minutes later, he was smiling a genuine sharp-toothed smile. Kenzy had turned out to be broadminded indeed. She was interested in unique experiences. He hadn’t even had to Influence her in order to get her to tip her head back so that the sweet, sturdy column of her neck was bared.
It was definitely good to be back in the world of the upright and walking. In fact, it seemed almost ridiculous to think that only a few weeks ago he had been pretty much deceased. Undeath was a capital improvement, and for really savage kicks he had a large pack of werewolves to play with.
Nothing, he was certain, was going to prevent the next few weeks from being delicious.
* * *
Bonnie McCullough chewed her lower lip nervously. She was trying to do her Algebra 101 homework. Sort of. It was only the beginning of the third week of school and the homework shouldn’t have been so intimidating, but she couldn’t keep her mind on it.
Something awful is going to happen tonight, she thought.
She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain. Almost certain. She had been a witch for long enough to listen to her instincts in many cases. Between her grandmother’s advice and old Mrs. Flowers’ generous help, Bonnie had even got something of an education in the craft.
But she didn’t know what to do now. If her terrifying intuition did happen to be wrong, it would spoil the night for everyone. And one thing that Bonnie had not learned—and suspected she could never learn—was to have the sort of confidence in her own opinion that Elena and Meredith had.
At least, she thought, some of her natural optimism returning to her, Elena would be out of danger. Bonnie knew that because she’d just gotten off the phone with Elena and Elena was on her way to Stefan’s room. Stefan would die before allowing any harm to come to his beloved.
Now the only people that Bonnie had to fret about were Meredith, Matt, Caroline—and, well . . . him. The one she sometimes had trouble even naming in her own mind because it gave her inner shivers and made her eyes fill.
Damon, she thought in a sort of mental whisper.
* * *
Meredith Sulez sat with her back to Bonnie’s back, at a small desk that was the mirror of her roommate’s. She was trying to concentrate on her letter to her fiancé, Alaric Saltzman. It was a snail-mail letter because the village in the remote highlands of Scotland he was investigating had no Internet capabilities. Even to get on the telephone he had to visit the post office. There was always a little cluster of elderly people who amused themselves by listening to the half-shouted conversations of those who dared to touch that dangerous marvel of cutting-edge technology: the pay-phone.
So far the letter went like this:
Dear Alaric,
If you are reading this in front of other people, STOP! It’s really quite private . . . sweetheart.
I hope you’re safe and well. It’s the start of week three for us, and we are all fine. Dalcrest College is very different from what we thought it might be when we so nobly gave up our scholarships in order to stay near Fell’s Church and the many supernatural threats that seem to concentrate themselves there.
*sigh*
Honestly, though, I wish you’d come and investigate our hometown again. I’m sure it could use it, even if it seems quiet at the moment. And you might have a look at this college, too.
What is Dalcrest College like? How is it different from what we expected?
Well, for one thing, the campus began as an institute of higher learning back before 1900. The first dormitories were part of an old mansion that was bequeathed to a professor who had always wanted to start her own college.
I’m actually living in one of those dorm rooms now. All the girls are—and yes, this place is so old-fashioned that the dormitories are not coed. Some of the boys’ dorms are built in what used to be the big house’s stables.