Despite the humid rain drumming on my tent, I felt surprisingly content. A million things could've annoyed me, but I chose not to let them. It was fun seeing everyone's creative tents and huts. Damon had forbidden copying mine, but Wulfe pointed out he'd only banned copies, not tents themselves. Many pack members built impressive, spacious tents—a good thing, considering things might get heated.
Damon warned us of a strict schedule; if things went sideways, so be it—a few days, maybe a week, of intense activity, not months. We ate the leftover meat and enjoyed the abundance of fresh fruit and berries. Everyone was settling in, while Mariella persistently discussed past traumas with several Salvatores.
I was adept at deflecting attention; no one needed to pry into my mind. Sleep wasn't an option for me; I knew myself too well. Everyone seemed occupied, and I wasn't going to ask for a sleep aid. I had my own methods, old habits, actually.
Smiling, I prepared for the night. Ironically, I was doing exactly what my mother used to do centuries ago. My playlist was ready, battery charged, and I had my music and other indulgences. I also had three bags of salmiak candies and four small bags of Dark Elf King blood—strong stuff, a guaranteed buzz, but not causing VENOMS. It was more of vampiric booze.
I went to my saddlebags to retrieve a few things, as I hadn't yet unloaded everything. Preoccupied, I did not pay that much attention to what everyone was doing as I was ducking back toward my tent when I heard a warm voice behind me. Number Four had crawled in.
"Oh, baby, let's see what you have here. I'm seeking shelter from Mariella and her prying questions. Let her interrogate others; I'm not in the mood, and I can see you aren't either, missy. So, how about we stay here, safe and sound? Whatcha plannin' here, darlin'?" His voice softened, but a dangerous glint in his eyes made me uncertain of his intentions.
However, I wasn't in the mood to be a victim, as I had a plan. "I'm planning to do something my mom used to do," I said, adding with a roll of my eyes, "Of course, I was a child or teen then, so I've even scoffed at it myself sometimes."
I produced my notepad, which contained my solitaire scorecards and a deck of cards. Number Four leaned closer, examining the notepad with a furrowed brow; he had no idea what I was about to do.
I smiled slightly and explained, "I'm going to play a certain type of solitaire, keeping score and cussing at myself as I'm not very good—it's more luck than skill. But it's fun! My mom used to play for hours. She had tons of these scorecards and would tally up her results after ten games. Her deck of cards was completely worn out."
Number Four noticed my several decks and suggested, "Well, do you have a notepad for me, too? Since you have extra decks, why don't you teach me, and we can see who's better? Let's cuss together and see what happens."
I took a long look at him. This was new; sure, we had done things together—like diamond painting—but this, my Damon mostly, he actually wanted to spend time with me, just being or playing cards, not fucking, cooking, or dominating. It was new to me.
But I took out another notepad and said, "Ten games, and here's what each hand is worth."
I handed him my notes as I continued my explanation. "This is an easy, simple game. See, first, you lay out five cards. This won't use the entire deck, so card counting is difficult. Two games per deck. As you play, you turn one card at a time and build hands; each hand gets two cards, then three, for a total of five. Here's the scoring: pairs, two pairs, etc." I played a hand.
Number Four watched intently. I was on my third row; I had one all-spade hand aiming for a flush, one forming a straight, one with a pair, and two with nothing yet. My next card was the queen of hearts. I considered adding it to the pair in my spade row, but I wanted the flush. This game was all about making these decisions.
Number Four grunted softly, remaining silent but eyeing each card I drew. As my game ended, he was already shuffling his deck, ready to play this version of poker solitaire. We played two games from a single deck, without shuffling between them.
I reached for my playlist, causing him to raise an eyebrow and grunt. I liked my music; this was my tent, my rules, and my Alpha side was as active as ever. Someone calling me "darlin'" still makes me want to recite a few good sentences, and I get to use my little tricks.
We continued playing. Seeing him grunting and furrowing his brow, writing down his displeased scores, and trying to figure out the best hands, was almost comical. He was competitive, too.
I took a sip from my bag of blood, and he looked up, saying in an extremely soft, dangerous voice, "And what blood are you sipping, my lady? And those candies aren't good for you in excessive amounts, either."
Before I could reply, he snatched my half-empty bag of blood, took a swig, groaned, and shook his head. "Good shit. What the hell is this? This isn't what we usually have. Does anyone know about this? Wulfe or Number One?"
I explained, "It's dark elf king's blood. I have a lot, but it gets me too buzzed to drink constantly. I take a small bag occasionally to relax."
Number Four asked, "So you're not sleeping?"
I shook my head. "Neurotic Mess here, as usual. Plagued by my past. I don't sleep. I am fine without."
He suggested, "How about we talk? Nothing else, just talk. Put those cursed cards away, stop the music, and let's see if our games still work."
I furrowed my brow, unsure what he meant. He quickly put away the remaining blood and my mostly untouched candies, then lay down, pulling me beside him.
He said softly, "Remember when we met? How did we get to know each other? Let's play a darker version of that game. I'm not keen on talking to Mariella; it's not my thing. You're the one for me."
I nodded. "What are the rules, and what are these 'darker tones'?"
He explained, "Simple. Try to shock me. Tell me something dark you think I don't know. If it's new to me, I'll share something from my past."
I took a breath. I had plenty of dark memories, but this wasn't Number One; he didn't need Mariella as a go-between.
Feeling perhaps overly brave, I said, "This revelation might blow this entire pack apart. I understand if it's too much for you."
Damon sighed. "I'm not so entrenched in the Salvatore hive. I can keep a secret. Let's hear your big, shameful secret. I can tell you what would happen if others knew, and if there's a sea of rot in your mind."
My voice was quiet; we'd just been playing cards. But I sensed he wanted to tell me something, and maybe this was his way of finding out if he could. He had a substantial amount of core, so I couldn't predict his reaction.
"I'm worse than you," I whispered. "Darker. Not necessarily evil, but my darkness, what I've done... it surpasses your little blood-drinking and torture."
He looked at me, a slight smirk playing on his lips, and said, "Don't brag, and please don't challenge me. I need a little more than just cryptic suggestions of nasty deeds."
My voice never faltered. "I have actually destroyed a soul, sniffed someone out of existence, and felt a pleasure like no other."
Number Four's expression hardened. "Fine," he said, "then tell me more. Again, too vague."
I took a breath, my voice remaining clear. "Damon, have you ever wondered why none of the witches, wizards, or other evil creatures have pulled Damien out of hell? The reason is simple: he's not there. He doesn't exist. It was his soul that I destroyed. Bridgette helped me. She made it look like she merely pushed him back to hell, but that wasn't the case."
Number Four pulled me closer; his murmur somehow helped. "Poor baby," he said. "That is a nasty secret. You have a sea of deep rot in your mind, but tell me more. I'm curious, and it helps. I'm not sure how Number One will react, but this won't trash the pack; in fact, it might bring us closer. You might find yourself even more cared for."
A part of my mind still refused to believe it. "Well, he'd trapped me for a year or so. I was pregnant, almost giving birth, when I just couldn't take it anymore. So Bridgette and my memories of her popped into my mind, and I summoned her. She trapped those nasties so you could deal with them, but she trapped Damien—not preventing him from moving, but from leaving—while she dealt with the unborn evil creatures inside me and healed me. Of course, Damien talked incessantly. I don't have many clear memories, as Wulfe took them away, but I know what happened, and he didn't get this part because it's a different section of my mind."
In the dim light of the tent, I looked at Number Four, who wrapped himself even tighter around me, shaking uncontrollably—a rare sight.
I continued my story, feeling Damon shaking against me, trying to comfort both me and himself. I guess he hated Damien a lot.
My voice was quiet and detached; I didn't really want to recall the feeling. "However, after I was able to move and talk, though still skinny and weak, I was no longer drugged or tethered to Damien's life force. The spell was broken, and I felt my rage, darkness, and inner killer surge. My hate was a liquid fire in my veins. Bridgette said, 'My friend, balance is on your side, and it will continue to be so no matter what you do. You have a choice. I can entrap him in hell, permanently, with no one able to retrieve him, or you can use your hate and destroy his soul. It's your choice. Your hate will undo his soul; each touch will destroy his vessel and soul a little more.' So I walked to Damien, placed my hand on his cheek, and he hissed in pain as my touch burned him. I could feel the effect. I taunted him, walked around him, touched him, making him yelp, hiss, and groan. Bridgette watched, unable to do what I could—and I did it slowly. My inner killer was having a blast; I felt a dark satisfaction, an ultimate pleasure."
Damon kept murmuring, and I saw his eyes flash white. He was somehow seeing the past; I sensed it, so he saw the beast I was.
I continued, as Number Four's gentle command echoed in my mind. The rain drumming on the tent roof provided a muted backdrop to my narrative, a sonic counterpoint that helped me focus on the present, preventing the memory from overwhelming me.
My voice remained detached, or at least I strived to maintain that detachment. "Damien weakened with each touch. He saw the pleasure in me killing him clearly on my face. Slumped in a green velvet lounge chair, he was no longer able to stand, his body growing grey and lifeless; I could feel his soul disintegrating. As death approached, he looked at me and said, 'Baby, I'm tired. I've struggled for millennia, and sometimes I must admit, it would have been kinder to die as a child. But I was forced into existence, and I feel it ending. You truly are my masterpiece. I molded you into a perfect being—merciless to your enemies, yet capable of suffering. I scarred your soul, gave you memories to last your eternity, so you'd never forget me. You truly are my baby; I'm so very proud of you.' I lost control. I plunged my hand into his chest, seized the remnants of his soul, and crushed it with my hate, feeling it extinguish in my hatred—and it felt so damn good. His body turned to dust; Bridgette dealt with the remains, but the satisfaction of destroying his soul lingered for days."
Damon said to me, "Baby, you did well. I'm so glad you ensured he's truly gone. Now, it's my turn to tell you something."
I looked at him and asked, "Now that I've destroyed a soul, what's your dark secret?"
His voice was quiet as he began, "It was around the 15th century. I was indulging my vampiric power, having sent Stefan away while I turned several virgins—boys, actually—into insatiable, lust-filled creatures. They seduced and preyed on maidens while Stefan dealt with them. In Persia, I met a fun, human girl who seemed like decent prey. I intended to ensnare her, but she was a concubine of a powerful sheik, so my initial plan failed. Frustration mounted as my bloodlust intensified. Eventually, I lost control. I attacked a village, intending to leave most alive, but I killed about 15 before regaining-or-so—so I thought—control. Then I realized it was day; I was standing amidst the carnage, holding the ravaged corpse of a three-month-old infant, its blood still in my mouth. I thought I'd killed 20 or 25, but it turned out to be 147, including seven babies, all drained of blood. The pain, the blood, the memories flooded back—how I'd killed every single one brutally, painfully, including those precious babies, and the 15 pregnant women whose babies I'd carved out, killing them in front of their mothers before killing them. All I felt was satisfaction. My hunger was satiated, I was calm. I washed up and moved on. There was no regret, not in a long time, and I must admit, I don't regret. I don't even remember their faces, but the taste of that blood, the smell. Those I do remember."
His grip on me tightened, as if seeking solace. I stroked him, pulling him closer, encouraging him to continue.
I let him grip me. While this might not have been a big deal for someone else, for this specimen, more healer than killer at times, it was less pleasant.
Calmly, I said, "Fine, let's call it a draw. It's my turn to shock you, if you're ready."
He looked at me, smiled slightly, and said hesitantly, "Sure, baby, let's see who's the bigger beast."
Lying in that dimly lit tent, sharing our darkest moments, time ceased to matter. For both of us, it was a time to heal deep-seated wounds, to connect through our stories, and to see each other in a new light. He saw that I wasn't simply nice; my killer instinct was as strong as ever, and it wasn't solely about darkness.
He, too, possessed a killer instinct—not merely a vampire's, but something born of trauma, pain, and torture, just as mine was. This shared experience allowed us to know each other far better.
Yes, we both harbored vast pools of inner rot, but we also had this pact, this shared attempt at healing. We knew we weren't perfect, not by a long shot, and that was okay. It was time to accept the past and move on.
I knew I would eventually have to reveal my darkest secret to others, but sharing my story felt incredibly liberating. We fell silent, and as usual, my protective instincts surfaced. Perhaps it would have been better if he remained unaware of Damien's ultimate fate.
His voice murmured in my ear, "Baby, by the way, I've got a spell in my mind. If you try to use your vampire abilities to make me forget, it won't work. There's a backup; if you try to influence me in any other way, the memory goes straight to numbers two, three, nine, and ten. Let's see what you can do if they find out. So, it's your choice: let me keep your secret, or take a risk and let everyone know."
I replied, "Oh, you're blackmailing me. Fine, I won't try to make you forget, unless you want me to. I understand it's a damn hard secret, and I know you might regret your curiosity someday."
His voice was slightly amused. "Baby, I make no promises about your secrets; I've made no promises not to tell anyone else, ever."
I rolled my eyes. He was speaking the truth, and it was time to see where this was going. Our trip would continue, and perhaps I could steer him toward more carnal activities—not with me, but with other women. A little misdirection might be in order, allowing me to move on.
It was almost funny how a simple card game had turned into a therapy session. This was, I realized, perhaps the first time he had truly opened up to me, shared himself with me. He hadn't done this with Mariella; I wasn't sure why. Perhaps it had something to do with Number One, or maybe he felt Mariella's pity for him, or whatever she felt.
But he was more my Damon than Number One, more than the core of Damons, and this had become our thing. I couldn't help but wonder what our life would have been like without Bran's meddling, without Damien, without the pain and suffering.
But here we were, and I remembered how Number One, well, he had been then my Damon, had once spoken like this, telling me to meet him on the other side. Maybe, just maybe, this was that other side.
The future was open; sure, there would be drama and trauma, but I was living in the moment, sharing, connecting, and feeling—three very important lessons for me, the ice queen, to learn.