“Salvatore,” another of the starers said mock-reproachfully, “having a girl in your room at this hour will get you suspended—unless you share.” He leered.
“That’s right,” the final starer said. “You have to share her with us. In my room—right here, right now. You got that?”
“No,” Stefan replied coolly. “I have a better idea. You three are going to forget that you ever saw me tonight—and certainly forget that you saw her.”
The three freshmen started to laugh at that in the rudest possible manner, when suddenly their expressions turned into blankness. They froze, staring now at the wall. Then, all three of them shut their eyes.
Elena watched, furious with herself. Because she’d wanted a thrill, Stefan had been forced to work like this. She knew how much effort it cost him. He wasn’t a predator like Damon, drinking the blood of young women each day. He stuck to animal blood, which gave far less Power. That meant that he was using up precious energy right now Influencing these three jerks instead of keeping it for simple living.
Well, there was one way to make that up to him, and Elena smiled a little while still berating herself. Stefan did drink the blood of one particular human girl: herself. Usually he only took a ceremonious mouthful so that their souls could merge together and they could talk without words.
But Meredith had taught her how to access a dozen vampire pressure points. One of those might be just the thing to help Elena make up his loss of energy.
Elena’s smile deepened as Stefan opened the door to his room. She slipped inside, while the three stooges in the corridor stared with open mouths into the distance. The last she saw, they were starting to drool vacuously.
* * *
Stefan followed Elena into his room. He was breathing quickly, not because he was excited to see her—although he was—but in order to oxygenate his blood and raise his level of Power.
He and Elena shared a brief, fierce smile and then she walked over to the bed in the stark little room. It was a single bed, but it had been luxuriously fitted out with a heavy velvety spread custom-made for it. Elena stopped, blinking as she looked at it. Stefan saw that she recognized the painting it was based on, which had been done by George Frederick Watts back in the 1800s.
In a black oval on the dark green background, a girl in a brown dress with long fair hair flowing down her back was pictured. She was surrounded by climbing wild red roses, most of them fully opened, some just in bud. The girl was holding one of the living wild roses to her face, as if breathing in its fragrance. At the bottom a small scroll read Memoriam, Latin for Memory.
Elena swung around. “Stefan! That’s my favorite picture. It’s the one from Alkemia’s shop on Etsy online—they make that perfume you like so much, that has Heirloom roses and balm of Gilead in it.”
“And just the faintest touch of smoke, the tiniest scattering of ashes,” Stefan said quietly, remembering. “It’s the scent of love . . . and loss. Of tears, maybe. Balm of Gilead is supposed to soothe away tears.”
Elena was watching him closely. “Are you . . . sad, Stefan? I mean—I guess I mean, are you sorry we came to Dalcrest?”
“How can I be sorry about anything when I’m with you?” Stefan asked. He meant every word. Elena was dressed in a way that only she would dress for a rendezvous, for their first liaison in over two weeks. He couldn’t help smiling as he watched her pull off her wool cap and let the brilliance of her hair spill out.
She was meant to be a boy, he was guessing. She was wearing clothing that a boy might wear, and he didn’t doubt that she thought it was loose enough to cover up her betraying femininity.
The only problem was that somehow the deep blue hoodie and the oversized Levis were working against her. She gave the vague impression of a small, rebellious tomboy who’d been ordered to put on a frilly pink dress she disdained for a photo, and had turned up in her older brother’s clothes instead. She was . . . quaint.
And she was starting to frown. Elena didn’t miss much and her vibrant golden aura was turning icy blue with suspicion.
“Sorry to ogle you,” Stefan said, hiding any shade of a smile.
Elena’s lip quirked. “Oh, you’re ogling me in this, are you? I suppose I really should have bound up my bosom—although, A: to be honest, I’m not exactly sure how you do that; and Two: I don’t know any way to bind up my hips without wearing Spanx or something and that I absolutely refuse. I mean, the name itself is degrading.”
“True,” Stefan said judiciously. He couldn’t help but add, “A and Two?”
“Oh, yes. They’re just part of different arguments. I got all the way from A to Z and then started using those little Roman numerals in my full discussion about merchandise degrading to women. It was my first assignment in Nonfiction and Memoir Writing, and it took forever to finish.”
“I did wonder why you wanted that class,” Stefan said. He had been the one to Influence the chief technician who handled Dalcrest College’s computers. He’d made sure that all of the students from Fell’s Church got the courses they wanted. For that matter, he’d had to Influence the same woman twice. The first time had been to get Elena and Meredith and Matt and himself into the college in the first place, since they had only decided on joining Bonnie and Caroline at the end of summer.
“I mean,” Stefan added, “given all the writing you do in your diary.”
“Yes, well, that’s the only place I can tell the whole truth,” Elena said, sounding not so much bitter as resigned. “In regards to what actually happened this last year. Our Memoirs assignment for next week is to write something about what we did over the summer. And I can’t help thinking what the teacher’s face would look like if I brought up, say, how we managed to get Damon . . . back again. I mean, it’s that or me and the adventures of my vampire boyfriend.”
Stefan stilled. He had moved over to the plain mahogany dresser that had come with the room, along with his single bed and nightstand.
“Elena? Are you . . .” he began slowly.
“Don’t,” Elena interrupted. “Don’t even, Stefan. Don’t you dare ask if I’m sorry, or sad, or having second thoughts. Not when I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
Stefan’s heart quickened. Elena always said exactly what she meant—except when what she meant actually meant something private. He wished she had put a “with you” in the sentence about being so happy. He could remember too vividly how grieved she had been while Damon had been absent.