My first thought was the sense of safety and the fact that I was in Damon's arms, with Thunder beneath me. Leaning against Damon's strong chest, I listened to his heartbeat, and somehow I felt his presence in my mind, further calming me and erasing the terrifying moments when I'd thought I would fall from the cliff. I finally took a deep breath, blinking slowly even though my face was buried in Damon's shirt.
He murmured something in my ear; I didn't focus on the words, only the soothing tone. "Baby, that's it, shh, don't fight me, just be, just like that, lemme do my thing, good girl..."
His warm whispers untangled the knot of fear in my mind. It seemed my mind had been doing this from the beginning, and I wondered if that had been their purpose—to break me with fear, terror, and rage until nothing human remained.
But fate had led me to safety, to Damon, who is essentially specialized in untangling these balls of fear. Perhaps everything has its reason, beyond my comprehension. It's simpler to go with the flow, to watch what comes next.
Surprises abound in my life; calm, good times are less frequent, but I try to avoid becoming a neurotic mess. I chuckled inwardly. Good going, I thought; here I was, trembling, terrified of falling, and I'm goddamn immortal!
As my mind recovered, reason and ideas returned, and I realized how quickly I could have shifted into avian form. Sure, the poor queen would have died, but at least I wouldn't have been mangled.
Damon's voice, calmly yet firmly, penetrated my thoughts as I began to process things rationally.
He explained, "Baby, there was over a 65% chance of you being seriously injured after falling. This wasn't trivial. I'm sorry; I dropped the ball. But I'm trying, as your doctor, your alpha, and your—admittedly flawed—pack leader. Don't even start; it was real, and I should have remembered your fear of heights, ironically, even though you're a sniper. Queen is a big horse; she panicked, and a panicked predator on a prey animal is a disaster waiting to happen."
I nodded, mentally replying, "Well, I don't look down when sniping, so there's that. God, I feel silly being scared of heights; I should be…"
Damon's voice remained calm, but with an undercurrent of authority: "Stop. Don't pressure yourself to be invincible. This was a valuable lesson for all of us. So stop, or take a nap."
Accepting his advice, I shifted my focus to planning our upcoming hunt, wondering what animals we might find. He really did not have the patience to listen to my neurosis rolling in my mind, so he would knock me out, and a warning was given. The snow meant fewer options, but surely we'd find something.
Damon's heartbeat, incredibly soothing, grounded me. I realized I needed it—a calming presence, unrelated to any medication. Simply his nearness, the ability to lean on him. This realization sparked deep self-reflection. I recalled several missions, not spectacular, but each carrying lessons.
One, from my early days, perhaps in Poland or Serbia (I couldn't quite remember), involved an enzyme silo or refinery. We had good intel, a large team, and it turned into—to put it mildly—a clusterfuck. Too many cooks spoiled the broth, and I rolled my eyes, recalling the frustration.
Damon's voice was amused. "Oh, please, baby, tell me. I wanna hear this one; this one sounds like fun—a little story."
I said, out loud now, "It was one damn clusterfuck, like something out of a comedy. We fumbled the entire mission, which taught me the crucial lesson of making it crystal clear who does what, when, and where."
Damon, still amused, said, "Tell me more. C'mon, share. Let me have some fun, too."
I sighed and said, "Well, it was back in the day. I'd just received intel from our group about one of the biggest enzyme facilities around—in Serbia, if I recall correctly. It's easy to hide nasty facilities there; less oversight thanks to the constant unrest and looming conflicts. They had good places tucked away. I'd learned enough of the language to operate and communicate, and since it was a large facility, I'd assembled a team of eighteen operatives. As you may recall, we don't normally use that many guys in enzyme facilities; it's usually easier to just blow them up and be done with it."
Damon muttered, "I spent some time in Serbia around 2000, during the war. It gave me opportunities for meals. You know, injured soldiers are easy prey, and once you clean up after yourself—no puncture marks—nobody cares how a soldier died if they're already shot and bleeding. I just finished them off."
I raised an eyebrow. Well, one learns new things from time to time.
I continued my story. "I was pretty new. Sure, I'd been around for a while, but the organization had expanded so rapidly, Jake wasn't in yet, and my enthusiasm sometimes got the better of me. I was directing—or attempting to direct—the plan to blow up the facility. I had all kinds of ideas, but I didn't make it perfectly clear who was responsible for what. Instead, it was more of a group brainstorming session, everyone throwing out ideas, and I just went with the flow."
Damon said, "Yeah, I can see that there could be problems if you were too loose with your instructions."
My response, laced with irritation, reflected a less-than-stellar moment. "I mean, I'd learned a lot, but in our bigger plans, someone usually directed things, and I hadn't paid much attention. Most of my group were eager newcomers, but there was no Adam, no Brutus, guiding me. So I assumed everyone had taken responsibility and would handle it—I didn't pay attention to the big picture."
Damon smiled expectantly. I took a breath. Fine, let's show our husband our less-than-glorious leadership failures.
"I didn't tell anyone to reserve a certain amount of ammo and explosives, and I had three target areas in mind, but we'd thrown around at least four different plans for taking those targets out. We got the explosives, armed to the teeth, eager and ready, but I didn't ensure everyone was on the same page, that everyone had a clear assignment. I just let them go, relying on assumptions—a lesson learned the hard way."
I shifted. My ass was getting numb from the ride on Damon's spurred Thunder, who was now eagerly galloping or trotting quite fast.
My story continued: "We got in and began our plan. I was at the rear of the building, and no one had specified how to approach it, so I went in first to plant my explosives. I'd almost finished when my comm was activated. Terry asked why Juliet had already placed explosives where he was supposed to. I had no idea; I told him to find another spot—it was a big place. Then, Harriet complained on comms that Ivan had placed his charges incorrectly, rendering hers useless. I told them to press on; surely there were other places to plant them. I was feeling kind of irritated as they had this problem of finding spots where to put damn bombs."
Damon was now laughing out loud. "Oh, baby, I can see it in my mind: groups of your little operatives frantically trying to place explosives, only to find someone's already gotten theirs in place! You keep telling them to find the next spot. Hilarious!"
I rolled my eyes. "Sure, it's hilarious now," I said snarkily, "but it wasn't then. After placing my charges, I moved to my next spot, only to find someone had already put their charges in—the wrong kind, and not enough. But it was just my opinion, not actual facts. So I had to improvise. I wasn't a demolition expert back then, so I had to guess. I added some charges and moved on. Six minutes later, George told me some idiot had put more charges where he had placed his—meaning me!"
Damon laughed harder, making Alaric, who was riding with us, laugh until his eyes watered. It was just too funny for him. I took a breath.
"I told George I'd placed the charges as planned," I continued, "and he said he'd already told me during the planning that the spot needed fewer, higher-yield charges, and that he'd handle it. I had no idea he thought it was a done deal. The same thing happened to me and most of the team. We all had individual plans, but nothing had been clarified, so everyone just went ahead with their plan, not our plan. It took three hours to make sure we'd correctly placed our charges so that the damn facility would come down. We got back in the car, activated the charges, we got that damn place down and the next day, the news reported an old shoe factory blowing up—like a ton of dynamite had been inside. Fire investigators had no idea how or why, settling on a cover story about shoe cleaning chemicals and machinery exposed to sunlight, causing a chemical reaction that somehow turned them into TNT."
Damon was laughing uncontrollably, and I could see the other Salvatores smiling and talking amongst themselves.
Damon said, "I mean, baby, did you know I read that article? I knew no chemicals could react that way. It was viral for years as wannabe chemists tried to replicate it. So, you made quite an impression! Oh, if I had only known..."
I was silent, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment, even though it had happened long ago. Our little comedic operation had gained a reputation of its own. One can only hope to make such an impression, but it wasn't the kind I sought at the time.
Damon finally stopped laughing and said, "Oh, please, baby, more stories like that! I'm sure you have other fun tales to amuse your dear husband."
I remained silent. It hadn't been my most glorious moment. I still remembered meticulously assigning each member their own objective after that mission—their specific placement for the explosives and their individual roles.
What made the story bittersweet, perhaps even nostalgic, was that I hadn't carved any of their names into Lake Lanier's slabs. Each had survived; some had left the organization when I did, and I wasn't sure how many of the original eighteen were still around, or whether they'd transitioned to civilian life, died of old age, or lived fulfilling lives outside of being "little fleas" in my organization. Perhaps I should check up on them sometime, see if they recall it as fondly as Damon did.
The past is a funny thing. Back then, it was incredibly irritating, but it was also a hell of a lesson. Maybe it all had a purpose: to make me a better leader, to think before acting. One never knows why some lessons are harder than others. But someday, I might understand the bigger meaning of it all, of what my life was at that point.
Damon's voice was calm and loving as he asked, "Baby, tell me, I know it's awful, but what was it like when you set out to destroy Damien? That book of a thousand lives? I know I was a piece of shit, and I must admit, I hated you. I truly did, and I couldn't understand why. What had you done to make me hate you so much? I didn't pay attention to what you did; I just listened to Mariella, always finding new reasons to hate you."
My voice was timid, lonely, reflecting the dark time in my life. "It was a lonely time, even though I had Number Two trying to be there for me. I had Magnum, Colin, even Wulfe and Jarod, but I knew what I'd destroyed—our love. I guess you hated me for that; you felt it was gone, and you blamed me. Our love was Damien's last official victim. I remember how you and others pulled me out of my darkness, but afterward, my life wasn't so glorious for years. Sure, I had children and relationships with others, but without our love, life sometimes felt not worth living."
Damon said, "Yeah, but we got it back. It took time, I admit, but I got you, and I'll never let you go. You see, your little story, as funny as it was, reminded me of my own shitty times and mistakes. I have to admit that time wasn't my best."
I was curious about how different he was from Number Four, so I asked, "We spent a night with Number Four confessing our darkest times, and he told me a memory. Now, I have no idea if this is traumatic for you or if you don't want to talk about it, but it was awful for Number Four. He doesn't want to talk to Mariella, but he told me."
Damon replied, "Well, tell me. It might give me some insight into the Salvatores' minds, and maybe I can manipulate them if I know their triggers."
I took a breath, unsure if this was wise, but decided to proceed. Trying to speak calmly and avoid prying too much—I had no idea if this was sensitive for Damon—I leaned closer and said, "He told about a time in Persia, or some Arab country, where he had a bloodlust. He was wooing this girl, a sheik's concubine, and, overwhelmed, attacked and killed everyone. He realized what he'd done as he emerged from his bloodlust…"
Damon's voice was pained; he squeezed me tighter. "I was holding a dead infant, mauled. There was no regret. I had killed them all—carved babies from their mothers' wombs while they were still alive. I can still recall their cries. I'd take them out, heal the mother so she could see the child, and then, while the child was still alive, I'd kill it, and then the mother. Did you know how sweet an infant's life force is? How glorious their blood tastes?"
I shook my head. "Not much experience eating humans, so no, but I imagine you do."
He nodded. "I haven't told Mariella this. Maybe I should, but she… she has this expression—revulsion, fear, sometimes almost hatred—that flashes across her face before she hides it. But you don't. You have no fear, no revulsion, nothing."
My voice remained calm, quiet. We'd slowed from a gallop to a trot, and the other pack members were talking. Mariella was waking in Alaric's arms, confused as ever.
"Did you know that when I wanted to feel less… whatever the reason… I took my memories from fight clubs, from nasty medical places—memories of plunging my hand inside someone and pulling something out? I recall the warm, slippery innards around my fingers. That's me. So, no revulsion at a vampire's feast. Sure, humans may see you as a monster, but which is the bigger monster: the one who orders mass murders because someone refuses to give up their land, or you, ensuring your survival? I'm not lessening your trauma or making it seem like nothing. I know you, I know how much humanity is in you. But maybe I'm truly the bigger monster, and I don't feel that much humanity in myself. But it's the past. Humans are your food; it's just the order of the world."
Damon continued to squeeze me, murmuring, "You're no monster, you hear me? A monster is someone like Sark. You're not one. You truly understand me, more than Mariella even, and it's funny. It truly is."
I was quiet. There wasn't much more to say, and perhaps it was time to move on, to talk more about the past and learn to forgive ourselves for our past sins.
Damon's bitter mutterings—"Well, first thing, baby, after we get to camp, is for you to take a bath in the river and change your clothes. No need to Wulfe go naked while you use his clothes,"—brought a smile to my lips.
It was hilarious. This had been a true irritation for Damon in the past, as I'd taken his jeans and altered them to fit me. Now, however, wearing his clothes seemed like a badge of honor, an accomplishment. Maybe this was an actual relationship, after all.