Jack paused, looking at her with his bright, inquisitive brown eyes, and then shook his head. “Take the deal, Meredith,” he said. “If you don’t, I’ll come after your friends. I always get what I want.”

“Go to hell,” Meredith snarled. She clutched the stake in her pocket and gauged the distance between them, her muscles tensing. He was so relaxed on the car’s hood, not alert to danger. If she moved fast enough…

Jack smiled at her, his big, beautiful, warm smile. “Go to hell?” he echoed, his tone light. “This whole world is hell, Meredith, you should know that by now. The only choice is whether you’re a demon or a victim.”

His grin widened, and he leaned back on his hands, turning his face up to the sun. “You know which side you’re on, don’t you?”

Now. Yanking the stake from her pocket, Meredith lunged at him.

And, suddenly, Jack moved so fast that all she saw was a blur. Her hair lifted in the breeze as he passed.

He was gone.

Chapter 23

Dear Diary,

I shouldn’t be enjoying anything about this.

We’re in serious trouble. Jack won’t stop sending his vampires after us until either we kill him or he kills Damon. He’s powerful and relentless, and I know how intelligent he is—he fooled us all.

When I close my eyes, sometimes I see Damon falling, a stake through his chest, and it feels so real. I can see the pain in the tight lines of Damon’s body, the blood streaming from the wound. Agony rips through me—I’m losing something I thought was mine, that I thought was forever.

It feels just like when Stefan died.

Our search for Siobhan is the slenderest of leads. I should be panicking. Damon is in terrible danger.

And I should be grieving for Stefan just as hard as I was a month ago.

Nothing has changed. If anything, things have gotten worse.

And yet…

Elena glanced up from her journal toward the driver’s seat.

Damon was driving, his long, strong fingers curled around the wheel, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon. He was so beautiful, Elena thought, examining the fine bones under his flawless pale skin, the soft curve of his mouth, the straight line of his nose. He glanced at her, and his lips curled into a brief smile before his eyes went back to the road. A pulse of affection went through the bond between them, and Elena wasn’t sure whom it had come from.

Damon hums when he doesn’t know I’m listening, she wrote, turning back to her journal. Tunes I don’t recognize, dances and holy music from the long centuries he lived in Europe, but other things, too: the ballet music Margaret dances to, old Beatles songs, pop from the radio.

Even though he technically died centuries ago, Damon’s more alive than most people. I remember what Stefan said, back when he first told me their story.

After they rose and realized what they had become, Stefan ran, horrified, far beyond the city gates, preying on animals for fear of harming humans. Damon joined a band of mercenaries, fighting his way across Europe, drinking human blood amid the slaughter and confusion of battle.

Stefan made the noble choice. Damon was wicked, then. But Stefan held himself apart from humanity, caring too much to endanger them by coming close. Damon was right there in the thick of it, always, and it’s kept him almost human, tangled up with our warm bodies and complicated, messy emotions.

I loved Stefan so much, with all my heart. I still love him. I’ll never stop.

Damon is flawed and quick tempered and selfish. He’s as likely to do the wrong thing as he is the right one.

Damon and I are more alike than Stefan and I ever were. I’m spoiled and headstrong, and I want everyone to fall in line with my plans. The worst things anyone ever said about me are sometimes true.

And despite everything—despite Jack, and poor Meredith, and everyone depending on the slimmest chance that we’re following the right lead here—I’m having fun. It feels easy and natural, gliding along the roads together, hunting for Siobhan.

This isn’t the first time we’ve traveled like this. When Stefan was missing, imprisoned in the Dark Dimension, we looked for him together. And it was fun then, too.

But then, Stefan was waiting for me. Now he’s gone. We’re going to avenge Stefan, not save him. It’s too late for that.

Elena’s breath hitched, and she tightened her jaw. She wasn’t going to cry again, not now. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Damon glance toward her and then his hand, cool and reassuring, brushed her shoulder. Elena sniffed and looked back down at her journal.

Would it be so wrong? If Damon and I stopped fighting these feelings we’ve always had for each other?

I made up my mind. I chose Stefan, and I’ve never regretted it.

But now he’s gone, and I’m going to live forever. Alone forever. I can’t help panicking every time I think of it.

I could turn to Damon. I’m not going to lie to myself about that. I can have him, if I want him. If I stopped holding myself back, I could fall into his arms, and I know he’d catch me.

But I don’t know if I can. For years, my feelings for Damon tainted what Stefan and I had. It hurt Stefan that I loved Damon, too.

Would turning to Damon now be my last, worst betrayal of Stefan?

Elena looked up again. Damon was humming to himself, softly. His eyes, fixed on the road, had a faraway look.

Something in her chest turned over, a tight, uncomfortable feeling. Elena realized that, for maybe the first time ever, she had no idea what she wanted.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t have any suggestions.” Mrs. Flowers sipped at her tea, holding the delicate china cup carefully. “Vampires created by science are a little outside my area of expertise. All I can recommend is increasing your use of the protection spells you already know. Try to keep your friends safe.”

Bonnie nodded. It had been a long shot, anyway, expecting her old friend to have a suggestion. But it just felt natural to come back to Fell’s Church and ask Mrs. Flowers, who had taught her so much of her magic, for advice.

Since Bonnie had broken up with Zander, she’d thrown herself into trying to find a way to help Meredith and to protect them all from Jack and his minions. It had made her feel a little better, helped her to avoid thinking about how empty her apartment was, how empty her big bed was.

How empty her heart was.

Mrs. Flowers was looking older and frailer than the last time they had seen each other, Bonnie realized with a pang. Her hand, pale and thin and spotted with age, shook as she placed her cup back on the table. A little tea sloshed into the saucer.

“Now tell me, Bonnie,” Mrs. Flowers said, fixing Bonnie with sharp blue eyes that were not in the least dimmed by age. “What else is bothering you?”

Bonnie fumbled for a reply. “Well, Meredith…”

“Not Meredith. Meredith’s problem is the same as the vampire problem. There’s something else.”

Bonnie heard herself give a funny, half-choked laugh. Mrs. Flowers had always been able to read Bonnie’s emotions.

“It’s Zander,” she said, as a hot tear ran down her cheek. “He’s left me.”

With that, the dam broke and she burst into sobs. By the time the frantic storm of tears stopped, Bonnie found herself sitting on the floor, her head in Mrs. Flowers’s lap as the old lady made soft tutting noises and stroked her hair. Mrs. Flowers’s dress smelled of lavender, and Bonnie couldn’t bring herself to care that she was probably staining it with tears and snot—it was amazingly comforting.

“Tell me everything,” Mrs. Flowers said, and Bonnie blurted out the whole story: Zander’s strange disconnectedness and the way Bonnie had finally confronted him about it; how he had proposed in the warm, fragrant rose garden and how Bonnie had said no, even though it broke her heart. That Zander was gone now, and that Bonnie ached with loneliness without him. That the few werewolves he had left behind to temporarily guard Dalcrest looked away, their faces stony, when they saw her now, and that Bonnie couldn’t blame them. Of course they hated her—she’d hurt their Alpha.

“But I had to,” Bonnie said, sitting back on her heels and wiping her eyes. “Didn’t I? I have to put my friends first right now. They need me.”

Mrs. Flowers sighed and sat very still for a moment, gazing off into the distance. Then she rose, resting one hand on the table as she shuffled toward the living room. “I want to show you something,” she said. “Wait here.”

After a moment, she returned, a framed picture in hand. Bonnie recognized it as one she’d seen before, sitting on the mantelpiece in the living room. A black-and-white photograph of a handsome young man in uniform. His dark hair was close cropped, and his eyes were pale, probably blue. His face was serious, but there was a natural curve at the corners of his mouth that suggested he had a sense of humor.

“He looks nice,” Bonnie said, scrubbing her hand against her face again. She felt exhausted and longed to just lie down on Mrs. Flowers’s floor and take a nice long nap. “Who is he?”

“William Flowers.” Mrs. Flowers gazed down at the picture, her smile soft and sad. “Bill.”

“Your husband?” Bonnie asked, peering at the picture with fresh interest.

Mrs. Flowers sighed again, a soft, almost soundless exhalation of breath, and shook her head. “Not quite, although I took his name,” she said. “He was my sweetheart. We grew up together and fell in love. It felt like it was meant to be. We laughed so much together, knew each other so well. Understood each other without having to try. I thought we’d go on like that forever.”

“So what happened?” Bonnie scrambled up off the floor, settling herself into the chair next to her mentor.

“We were engaged. And then he was drafted.” Mrs. Flowers passed a hand over her eyes. “I was so afraid of losing him. He wanted to get married before he went overseas, but I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t start our married life with him in danger. And then he was killed in action. I lost everything.”

Bonnie gasped. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Mrs. Flowers’s wise, calm face crumpled in well-remembered pain. “I spent years trying to contact him from beyond the veil. I wanted him to know how much I loved him. I tried everything: Séances, working with mediums, wandering the no man’s land between the living and the dead, inducing visions… nothing worked. Some people, when they die, pass out of our reach.”

“We couldn’t reach Stefan,” Bonnie said, feeling achingly sad.

“Come outside with me.” Mrs. Flowers rose stiffly and led the way out the kitchen door into her herb garden, moving more quickly than she had earlier.

It was warm and bright outside, and Bonnie automatically tipped her head back to feel the sun on her face. Mrs. Flowers led her through the winding paths of her herb garden. “Let’s see what you remember,” she said. “Tell me about this herb bed.”

“Oh. Um.” Bonnie scanned the plants. “Marjoram. For healing. And for cooking. Amaranth, also known as love-lies-bleeding. For healing and protection. Celandine, or swallow’s wort, for happiness.”

“Very good, I see you haven’t abandoned your training. And the bush next to them?”

The bush had long green leaves and cascading purple flowers, each made of a round spray of thin petals. “Pretty,” Bonnie said. “But I don’t know what it is.”

Mrs. Flowers picked one of the blossoms and sniffed it. “Mimosa, my dear. It’s for joy rising from sorrow. Second chances.” Smiling, she passed the flower to Bonnie, and Bonnie automatically brought it up to her face and sniffed. It smelled clean and fresh. “Sometimes, Bonnie, true love is worth fighting for,” Mrs. Flowers said gently.

Bonnie held the flower carefully, but her heart felt as heavy as a stone. Mrs. Flowers had loved her Bill, and despite everything, had lost him anyway. Mimosa or not, it was hard to believe that joy could come from sorrow.

Chapter 24

Matt shifted the two full bags of groceries he carried, balancing one against his hip as he dug his key to Jasmine’s building out of his pocket.

A little thrill of satisfaction shot through him as he twisted the key in the lock. They’d only exchanged keys last week, and it felt really important, another sign that they were all in, really and truly committed to being part of each other’s lives. Jasmine had kissed him hard, her lips firm and sure against his, after she pressed her keys into his palm, and it had been the best moment of a very tough week.

Jasmine had been stressing out. She’d run every test she could think of on Meredith’s blood but was still coming up empty.

He clumped up the stairs, swinging the bags and thinking about how a nice dinner might help Jasmine feel better. Stuffing the chicken with thyme, lemon, and garlic, he thought, would give it a nice flavor. And wine might help her relax. Matt was humming as he reached the top of the stairs and turned toward Jasmine’s apartment.