As Cyndi Lauper's iconic hit faintly played, I opened my eyes to another day of recovery. Sixteen weeks had passed since we'd left the medbay, and while Mariella was walking well and her attitude had improved—her snarkiness lessened, though she still struggled significantly with touch—our aversion to anything beyond clinical contact persisted. We didn't experience panic attacks, but the men's telepathy picked up our distress, forcing them to halt their attempts at comfort.
I felt their frustration keenly—unable to caress, heal, or help, only to wait and hope that time would mend us. Lying in one of the beds in our large bedroom (Damon, with considerable help, had decorated our rooms beautifully), we enjoyed breakfast in bed and assistance as needed. It was good, yet my rage remained absent, and my control over my powers was minimal.
Attempts to grapple with my alpha power, once an extension of my will, now felt like wrestling a thousand slippery eels. My willpower was the one thing I somewhat controlled, but it couldn't perform miracles. My bloodlust, however, was manageable. Wulfe and the others had their hands full, as we all struggled to control ourselves around our predator instincts.
Damon couldn't offer as much feedback as he'd like, as Mariella had lured him into her trap several times, feasting brutally. He simply subdued her, preventing further attacks, while someone brought bags of blood and a large jug of potent blood mix.
I suppressed my predatory instincts, though my bloodlust was palpable—I reeked of a candle factory broadcasting my need for blood to everyone around me. I tried to conceal this craving, an unwise but empowering act, making me feel slightly less of a failure, a weakling, a victim.
The room was predominantly pink—as pink as he could manage—though softened with accents of light blue and violet. Despite the dominant pink, the opulently luxurious surroundings were intended to foster my recovery. Thick, tufted rugs covered the floor; satin, ruffled curtains framed the immense windows; and soft, pastel rose-patterned wallpaper lent an old-fashioned charm. The ceiling featured rose and violet tiles arranged in an almost fractal, mandala-like pattern, perhaps intended to direct energies. Nightmare catchers hung from the ceiling, replaced daily.
I overheard the men discussing their research into the hive and energies, emphasizing their preparedness. However, I revealed nothing about my attacker, offering them a cryptic clue instead. Just as Elena's enemies were her old friends as her vampiric doppelgänger, meaning her nasty version who had been with Stefan at the time, and she had shut out her humanity and old school friends who had lost family members, as she directed Stefan to ripper jobs on them.
I gave males a similar target to pursue, like those friends. I mentioned the bitter witches expelled from the magic house, those who had targeted Mariella and the wolves. I withheld specifics about their ordeal, but the information I provided kept them sufficiently occupied. Wulfe and the wizards, who had spent considerable time in the magic house, shared this information with everyone. This, in turn, enraged Giselle and several other witches, sparking a witch hunt against anyone perceived as a threat to our pack.
These witches would likely not be killed, but instead transformed into breeders or imprisoned in one of the new realms, with no hope of escape. While these realms were habitable, they lacked food and shelter, forcing the witches to hunt and build from scratch. Since they'd permanently lose their magic—and possibly incur a curse condemning them to a long mortal existence—their building skills, naturally lacking, would be severely tested.
I had just woken up when Murdoc brought me breakfast. He sat beside me, ensuring I ate, and talked about what he'd learned from the Hive and new protocols designed to prevent further incidents. Although I ate, I was still deeply messed up as usual; my connection to the Hive was extremely weak. I didn't even sense Murdoc delving into the Hive to find me and strengthen our bond.
As Damon and Number Two had explained regarding the different strands within our bonds, Murdoc was adept at this subtle exploration. He began navigating my millions of strands, but sometimes excessive curiosity yields unintended consequences. After I finished the enormous tray of food, Murdoc's expression seemed slightly off, but I felt too weak to notice.
He took my tray and said, "Rest up, butterfly. Someone will take you for a walk later."
I could walk, albeit not long distances. Normally, my recovery would be lengthy, even with my powers; without them, it felt like wading through molasses most of the time, and the rest of the time I felt nothing—weak, like it was all my fault, and that others had suffered because of me. But I maintained a facade, concealing my mental state. No rage, no spunk, no irritation—nothing. I was dull, hollow, empty.
Damon found himself in the spell-casting room—not Mariella's potion lab, but a specially designed space created at Wulfe's suggestion. They were rehearsing various spells and magical techniques, at least providing some activity.
However, Damon still felt impotent as a leader; while the women were physically recovering, he hadn't yet discovered how to help them mentally. He took a breath and began chanting softly.
Wulfe, sitting in a corner, interrupted as Damon neared the spell's climax: "You still say it wrong. It's not 'yeeew loorurh,' but 'yiiivwhrolld.' Don't drag it out; pronounce it deep in your throat, not your mouth."
Damon rolled his eyes. Wulfe was teaching them complex spells where every syllable mattered. This wasn't child's play; this was genuine spell casting, invoking ancient powers and energies that demanded precision. Wulfe had explained it simply: a spell, chant, or casting directed and channeled energies.
Speaking itself released energy—vibrating air molecules, releasing breath heat—and the chant was designed to manipulate these energies, causing them to react, vibrate, and move in specific ways. An imprecise chant meant failure, or sometimes, disastrously incorrect results. Therefore, accuracy was paramount.
This particular spell was designed to reveal Mimi's traumatic past. Using a few eyelashes he'd plucked from her, Damon aimed to see what she had seen, but he had to get the chant right to avoid witnessing too much of her past, too far in time. Stuff like Damien might have done.
Because of his biological connection to Mimi—he was her protector, her mate, and her vampire husband—he was best suited to perform this difficult spell. A tattoo on his arm served as a daily reminder. Damon frowned, struggling to pronounce the syllables correctly.
His Italian tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds, instinctively trying to reshape them into Italian pronunciations, only to fall short. Wulfe had demonstrated this many times, conjuring bizarre results, and Damon wondered if Mariella would share his frustration. He questioned whether she'd be better at this than him.
This was difficult, but at least it provided a distraction, so long as he could focus, which wasn't always easy. He knew it was an important skill, though he wasn't sure how proficient others were, or if Wulfe had even taught anyone else yet. Taking a deep breath, Damon carefully moistened his throat—not too wet to gargle, not too dry to cough. He wished for once that things would be easy, but the satisfaction of mastering a difficult skill was unparalleled.
The ability to chant and cast spells effectively would certainly enhance his wizardly abilities. His concentration was broken by Murdoc's entrance. Murdoc approached a cabinet filled with minerals, pendants, and other items. Wulfe and the others had taught them how to banish bad memories into memorial stones. Murdoc's expression was unusually stiff, almost sinister.
He opened the cabinet, searched through the contents, and asked Damon, "What's used to purge unwanted thoughts—not memories, just trash?" He muttered further, "I understand them now and don't blame… hell…"
Damon's expression hardened. "What are you trying to get rid of? Did you see something? Tell me!"
Murdock said, "Yeah, they say curiosity killed the cat. I was just one stupid tomcat going where I shouldn't have. Was it opals or lace agate?"
Damon's patience was wearing thin.
Wulfe remained seated, but he too was ready, his voice calm. "Just spit it out," he said. "It's your choice how much this hurts, but we will find out. Come sit in the living room and talk."
Murdock closed the cabinet door and walked to join them. He wore faded jeans and an old T-shirt, his corded forearms rippling as he clenched his fists. Even for him, the need for revenge burned fiercely; his killer instinct was primed.
As they reached the living room, the rest of the Salvatores and the other men were already there. Murdock took a breath, unsure what to say; his tightly clenched fists betrayed his nervousness, or perhaps his rage, as Number Two saw him.
"Tell us from the start," Number Two said. "You're about to explode. Tell and show us what you saw and why it's so fucking nasty."
Murdock's voice was low and growly. "I don't blame them for not wanting to be touched," he said. "Not at all, and I'm ready to give them every fucking minute to recover."
Damon leaned forward—this was good; he'd seen something. "Tell us," Damon urged, leaning forward in his chair. "Or better yet, show me. I can pass it on."
He reached for Murdock, who hesitated, but sensing Damon's protective need, Murdock grasped his strong hand.
"I want this out of my mind," Murdock said. "I know it's gone, but a part of me will still know. But this is too much, even for me. Are you sure? I was just learning to investigate those strands, and I went into Mimi's bond and... found what I should not have..."
Damon nodded calmly and telepathically instructed Number Two, "I give you this first, and you can relay it onwards. Use your own judgment on what to share with everyone."
Number Two blinked slowly, signaling his understanding. Murdock began, "This is from Mimi's point of view, so you are now Mimi."
Damon nodded, taking a breath, ready to receive the impact. This was necessary; he was taking the hit, and it felt right.
He sat in the cell, tired, hollow, and drugged; his hands, or Mimi's, were skeletal. Bran lay unconscious nearby, equally thin. Despite his exhaustion, he heard the sounds from the corridor and, though he didn't want to watch, he couldn't help himself.
He wearily turned his head to the left, seeing Elena and Katherine's cells across the hall. Elena lay naked on her back while a fat, ugly guard brutally raped her, grunting and cursing as his tiny stub of dick slipped out. He reached down, shoved it back in, and slapped her face, calling her a whore. Loose, pussied freak who could not grab his dick like she should. He continued his assault, struggling to maintain his dick in bracing it with his hand, sweating, grunting, and finally collapsing on top of her, his weight crushing her as his limp dick remained inside her.
On the adjacent side of the cell, Katherine was bent over a table, being raped from behind while the guard strangled her with his belt, his hairy balls swinging, her breasts rubbing against the table. His dick was longer and Katherine was trying to not whimper, but her face was almost purple as the guard grabbed the belt harder.
Damon smelled her pain, her blood, but he was too drugged, too weak to act; his rage was absent. He took a breath, released Murdock's hand, his eyes now black, veins snaking across his face.
Murdock, noticing this, said, "I told you, I understand Mimi—that feeling of weakness, the inability to act, the forced observation."
Number Two was almost at his breaking point; he wanted to go to Mimi and unleash his fury, find out those who those damn guys were, but he knew she'd hidden this. Despite Murdock's actions, he might not find the strand again, and Number Two wasn't sure they could erase the memories through the hive or the strands.
Damon composed himself, saying, "There's more, right? Let's go, show me more."
Murdock paled; this would likely send Damon to Mariella, forcing him to dig until he found a clue, and ultimately helping her.
Damon grabbed his hand, and the scene continued. He was back in his cell, wearily hoping to pass out and avoid witnessing the horror. But no such luck. His head, turning slightly to the right, revealed the middle of the enormous space: a huge enclosure where Mimosa and Shadow, shackled in their wolf forms, were chained like cattle.
Dogs—mutts—were stepping on them, violating them; blood splattered the ground, mingling with semen puddles. There were at least 50 dogs or so. He could see their engorged dicks hanging out who had just knotted and gotten free. Mimosa's back legs were dyed pink with blood. They whimpered.
Men walked in, patting their heads, praising their docility, and rewarding them with dog treats, which they eagerly consumed. Damon knew the wolves were increasingly losing their human forms, sinking deeper into their animalistic states.
The rape continued, and he was too exhausted to bear the sights, sounds, and smells any longer. Then he heard footsteps—several sets, one heavier than the others, one with the click of heels. A couple approached, stopping near, but not quite at, his cell, the next one, Mariella's. The man was tall and dark-haired, dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. The woman was tall, curvy, and striking, with red hair and makeup.
A man cooed and crooned to a woman, praising her perfection and beauty, lavishing attention on her hands and body. He called her his darling, his one and only, and they kissed.
Damon, however, heard rustling, desperate breathing, and a raspy plea: "Please, I am here…"
He saw Mariella crawling on the ground like a wounded creature, dirty, her hair shorn, her face gaunt, her hands blistered, and her nails torn. She crawled closer, reaching for the man's shoe, but just as her fingers brushed it, the couple walked away, their voices fading into the distance.
A memory flashed in Damon's mind: Mariella licking the man's shoes to gain his attention. On a nearby wall, a monitor displayed their encounter, strategically angled so Mariella could see it constantly. Damon saw himself in the footage, sitting with a large-breasted, wide-hipped, red-haired woman in his lap, cooing and crooning just as the man had done.
Shaking, Damon released his grip and took several deep breaths, aware of someone walking away to vomit—a feeling he also desperately suppressed. Suddenly, everything made sense: Mariella's sniping, her drugging, brainwashing, and rape.
This realization ignited a furious desire to tear her abusers apart, but he lacked crucial information—names, location. He understood Mimi's broken state: witnessing the horrors daily, feeling drugged, rage suppressed, tortured, repeatedly killed, and finally raped.
Now, he had to devise a plan to help the women, to erase or even find this trauma. Mimi's blood had erased the memories, but the trauma lingered, demanding a miracle. Damon currently had no answers on how to alleviate their suffering.
He finally understood Mimi's pleas for him to take action in preventing the wolves from shifting—it wasn't for their own good. He had given the packleader order for them not to take animal form unless given permission, even though he had no idea why Mimi had asked this, but now he knew.
He contemplated how to erase the trauma from the women's minds so they could tolerate touch and affection. Small steps could be taken, but a complete solution eluded him. It would take time and collaborative effort to develop a comprehensive plan.