I said to Damon, still held close, "You know, I'm recovered. I can ride with the Queen; no need to hold me."
His tone was amused, yet dominant. "Oh, no you don't, baby. You're not going anywhere from my arms. Just start learning this again—being a lapcat. Now, I'll ask you something, and you answer. As long as I'm happy, then it's your turn."
I smiled, tilting my head. "Ooh, bringing out the big guns, eh? Determined to wring my secrets out of me? Well, as you recall, not all my secrets are things you'll want to know or remember."
His eyes twinkled, his face crinkling into a genuine smile. "Oh, baby, this is good for both of us. Maybe it's good for me to learn what I did versus what Damien did. My first question, though, has nothing to do with your role as leader: Tell me about a good time with Bran. Do you have any good memories, or was it always rotten? As you accurately pointed out a long time ago, my perception of Bran is flawed, and I haven't addressed it much. It might be time for me to do so."
I took a breath. A good time with Bran?
I said slowly, "Sure, he helped. He boosted my connection to Adam after a few shed sessions, and, as you know, he pulled me through that ordeal with Dash and that lesson in humility. But I do have a fun memory. It was early on. He wasn't as rotten then; he didn't see me as this big beast. You had gotten on, but you were gone, and we were in Mexico. Adam had deals there, his people were busy, and he'd somehow blackmailed Bran into being my bodyguard, as he had no idea if anyone was after me. "
Damon raised an eyebrow; he had no idea.
I continued, "Well, you know me—always wanting to see and experience everything. And since I didn't know Spanish, I couldn't speak to the locals. I had to ask Bran to translate, and he was less than impressed. He was very protective. Anyway, we were in this large town or city, and I was flitting through shops, buying clothes and whatnot, Bran walking with me and translating. I got into a bit of a pickle."
Damon smiled. "Oh, I would have loved to see that—the great Marrok walking with you, trying to keep you safe while being translator and bodyguard. So, what was your pickle?"
I rolled my eyes and said, "I thought I was a virtuoso at speaking languages, but it didn't work out so well. We were in a restaurant, and I wanted to order some local specialties—large leaves filled with horsemeat and not many spices—but I had no idea what they were called. While Bran was talking to some local wolves, I tried to order them, attempting to say 'lechuga llenar caballo' (lettuce filled with horse), but it came out sounding more like 'lechuza llevar cabello' (owl carrying hair). It turned out to be a special festival; the dish was a traditional treat or some kind of code phrase. Owls were sacred birds, and carrying hair was an old wedding tradition—brides' tresses, carried by bridesmaids holding those owls, hair or braids being held in the beaks of owls, were part of the ceremony, and they even offered flash weddings. They somehow thought I wanted a flash wedding with Bran! They smiled, and I thought I'd placed my order. About fifteen minutes later, Bran joined me at the table, but he wasn't hungry."
Damon started laughing. "Don't tell me you married Bran in Mexico!" he exclaimed, his voice regaining its composure. "Oh my god, this is priceless! How on earth do you get into these situations?"
I glared at him slightly. "No," I said, "but when the priest came to our table and explained what was going to happen, Bran flipped out, told him to leave, grabbed me, and made sure I didn't try speaking Spanish for the rest of the trip. Adam had a field day with this; Bran even called him and told him the whole story. Adam speculated that you might have castrated Bran if he'd married me before you."
Damon was still laughing. "True, I would have," he said. "But baby, that was something else. You're a regular Mr. Bean sometimes. I wonder who else knows these minor stories?"
I was silent. It was hilarious now, but back then, I'd been mortified. However, I'd moved on quickly.
Damon then asked, "Fine, let me ask some more. I know Bran has done awful things to you, but have you ever felt sympathy for him?"
I frowned, unsure where his rather strange questions were leading. Had I ever felt sympathy for him?
My answer was honest, though I could have easily lied. I could have played the ice queen, but my voice was quiet as I explained, "Bridgette told me long ago, on that bridge, what Bran was. She also told me about you and Damien, but erased it all later. Then, during that awful year, when the evil wizard was removed from Bran, I saw what Bran was and what the wizard was. It seemed true that Bran was broken, shattered, and having lived a rough life, I felt for him; I understood his brokenness. As you and others realized, he hadn't tricked me much since getting his new body, meaning the evil was gone. I'm not saying he was entirely innocent, but..."
Damon hummed thoughtfully, and I sensed he was trying to piece together what he'd learned about me, to understand who I truly am.
I said aloud, "It's not easy to figure me out. I've been a pretender for so long, altering your perception of me. I'm skilled at what I do; I've projected a chosen persona for so long that I've buried the real me beneath it all. Now, I'm digging myself out in the open from all of the shit in my life, and it's not glorious to meet the real me—my alpha side and everything else."
Damon said, "It's not that I don't know you; it's that you're far more complex. Part of it is my own perception of women; I tend to see them as shallow, not very intelligent. Mariella is intelligent, but easy to manipulate—sex or violence works on her. But you, you're a genuine challenge, even for an old creature like me. I admit, I need to work on my perceptions to truly see you."
I smiled and said, "Did you know you're not as old in mind as you are in years? Men tend to see women as weaker, but let me tell you, being a female leader wasn't easy. It was easier to suppress my femininity—what little I had—and become one of the guys. My rage helped; it wasn't a typical woman's hissy fit. As you know, my rage is palpable, but it's rare, and it prevented people from seeing me as a woman, more as a female creature, a victim, and a survivor—roles I've embodied, not willingly, but for the greater good. I can be a victim or survivor if it prevents more victims or helps to avoid people having to call themselves survivors."
Damon nodded. "True," he said, "but give me an example. How did you lose your femininity? I mean, men have eyes, and you know..."
He looked at my body, smirking slightly.
I rolled my eyes. "Tight bra, sports top, loose tee shirt, muted colors, often work pants or loose jeans, sneakers, hair in a tight bun, minimal makeup, a frown, a loud voice, and a leader's expression—not a woman's. It's easy; a few tricks, and you're a personified leader, not a tiny female trying to get big boys to listen."
He was surprised; he hadn't thought of it that way. This was the time for some revelations.
"My turn," I said. "Tell me, what is it like to sell yourself? I know you have, and surprisingly, so have Charles and the Originals. They told me some of their experiences, but please, the greatest seducer in the world, the man every woman desires—what was it like for you?"
He looked at me, genuinely surprised, and I felt his astonishment through our burgeoning bond.
"Yeah," he said, "I had my choices. I wasn't doing it for money, as the Originals surely told you, but I was a spy and assassin longer than you know. I used my body, my looks, my tongue, my skills to get close to my victims, and it wasn't always pretty."
Shivering in the growing cold, I leaned against Damon. Snow crunched under the horses' hooves as Mariella remained clinging to Alaric for warmth ahead of us. I could still hear her questioning poor Rick. The scent of eucalyptus had faded, replaced by the crisp, high-altitude Australian snow, though Damon's passionfruit scent remained a comforting presence. His body heat warmed me, effortlessly shared, without any conscious effort on his part.
He continued his explanation: "Well, as a vampire, knowledge was power, but money and reputation were also crucial, especially in those less noble times. Fear was a valuable tool. I was a veritable dark angel—that was my original moniker. Once I ensnared a woman, she was doomed. I manipulated them into falling in love, surrendering their love, knowledge, money, assets, relatives—everything I could exploit. I slowly drained them; they were handy meals as well, weakening them until they succumbed to illness, death, or my direct intervention, then I moved on to my next victim. It was easy to find victims: wealthy, older women seeking male companionship. I presented myself as the perfect prey, but they were unaware of my true nature until it was too late; the predator became the prey—roles reversed."
I looked at Damon and said, "Again, I don't see you as a beast. Those women—older, wealthy women—weren't always negatively impacted. You could be charming, and to do that, you needed a reputation. Those women talked, right?"
Damon chuckled, shaking his head. "You understand me, you really do. Yes, I had to hook them, and hook them well. If I told Mariella this, she'd demand details about my feelings and thoughts. But not you."
I replied, "Well, maybe I don't always ponder everything, and I don't analyze your feelings. However, it's helpful for you since you lack memory, making it less traumatic. For me, though, Mariella's approach is ill-fitted. I need safety for dealing with my trauma, or being near you, Wulfe, maybe Charles—would keep me safe, drugged out of my mind if my memories were traumatic."
After a short while, Damon said, "Come on, baby. I want you to tell me a horror story I've never heard before—something nasty, but unraveling. I have an idea in mind."
I hesitated—quite damn hesitant, actually. My memories were rotten and difficult to unearth, but perhaps I was masochistic for doing this again. Past experiences had been traumatic, leading to days of naps as my mind healed. My voice was quiet, and I sensed Damon casting a spell of privacy around us.
It was sweet that he wanted to help, but… I began my story: "This has nothing to do with you, the pack, or Damien. I was in New Orleans. Our base was large but one of several in the area, so we had a lot of ground to cover, meaning the base was often empty during missions. I was targeting a nasty medical facility with a small crew. But as evidence mounted and urgency increased, I knew we'd attempt something—save victims, maybe blow it up or disable it. I was stressed. You were with Amanda, Georgina, or whoever. Bran had taken Adam as his errand boy, and Samuel and Colin were in Japan investigating infections."
I let my memory surface, shuddering, as it was truly unpleasant.
Damon said, "Shh... this is rotten as shit. Now, wait a moment; be present, but let the memory be, just as it is. Now, hold on."
I felt his presence deep within my mind, more deeply than ever before; he somehow located the memory, which felt almost like a bubble, and I could feel him trying to enter it. In my memory, I was standing in the base, looking at charts, feeling powerlessness, frustration, and a growing need to act.
Suddenly, Damon appeared beside me within the memory, saying, "Okay, show me more. What happened then?"
I could see him moving through my memory, subtly altering it, slightly fading it.
I continued, "It didn't take long. We were nine of us—a good team—and we had a plan, but we knew that, in such a large facility, we'd be outmatched in case of a fire and would need significant backup. And as for saving victims, I wasn't sure how many we could get out; we simply lacked the personnel and drivers, even though we had vehicles. So we hit the facility at night, from the less-guarded south side, and got in pretty easily. But then all hell broke loose." I paused for breath.
Damon, still within my memory, said, "Hush, stop pushing me out. Don't fight me; just keep telling."
I had no idea how or why I was pushing him out, or what I was supposed to stop, but I continued my story. "They had nets, darts, bullets, and this awful hallucinogenic gas. My team went crazy, attacking each other. I wasn't as affected—my rage remained—but I tried to stop them from killing each other. I could smell their fear, and then it hit me—the gas or darts had poisoned me. It also affected my sense of time, so what I thought were a few minutes was actually much longer. I was starting to see my team as merely convenient cleanup kits; my vampire side was somehow crazed."
Damon's presence faded from my memory. I heard him cursing under his breath, wiping away a nosebleed. But my recollections, once unraveling, propelled me forward. I continued recounting my ordeal, unsure if he was even listening, reliving the experience as I spoke.
My voice droned on, robotic and unstoppable. "But I controlled myself, didn't attack anyone, though I scared the hell out of them before blacking out after they hit me with more darts. I woke up chained in a cage, naked, broken, beaten, tired, and sore. A tingling itch spread through my limbs, my vision blurred, and comprehension was difficult. But I could see my skin rippling."
Damon grunted, a pained sound, but I was too immersed in my memory to notice.
My voice remained steady: "There were grubs under my skin, different species—about seventeen of them. Every day, these sadists would watch as the grubs consumed my muscles and tendons. When they finally pupated, they carefully extracted them, attempting to create superbugs, insects capable of surviving harsh conditions and surpassing the strength of nature. Their goal was to make the grubs consume supernatural beings, pupate, and then see what emerged."
Damon whispered, "I'm sorry, my love. I wasn't strong enough, and I can't help you the way I planned. This is awful. Do you want to stop?"
I was almost robotic, my memory driving the narrative; the only way to end it was to finish telling my story. "Next, they tried to evoke my vampire side and then introduce the grubs, but that failed. Whenever they went wild, she killed everyone and used their blood to cleanse herself, instantly killing the grubs. They changed tactics; since the grubs yielded nothing, they started interrogating me, showing me a member of my team to try and force me to save them. But I knew these bastards well enough to know my team was as good as dead. So, at the first opportunity, I broke free and ended my teammate's suffering before anyone else could. The scientists were puzzled, thinking I was feral, unable to distinguish friend from foe. Then they realized my method: my team had waited for me to end them, knowing there was no saving them. They, too, had deep wounds and grubs, as well as amoebas."
Taking a few breaths, I heard Damon cursing under his breath. I sensed him trying to intervene, but it was too late. He could remove the rot, perhaps, but fading memories of this magnitude weren't possible without medical intervention. Strangely, he didn't smell of velvet at all, which made me question his perception of my distress. This was, however, merely my analytical mind at work.
My voice continued, recounting the events: "I had no sense of time. I killed my entire team long ago. I endured torture—waterboarding, drugging, gassing, killing—and I snapped, or tried to. But with my recently amputated left leg not yet regrown, movement was difficult. I found crutches, or some stick, to hobble along, and I began the slaughter. The pleasure was gone; some drug had suppressed my killer instinct, and I vomited after killing just a few. It was awful, yet something within me showed no mercy, leaving me disgusted with myself. As I said, I vomited repeatedly. Finally, I started walking towards the police station to confess, a complete mess. Getting into one of our safe houses was difficult, but I managed it, went to bed, and cried, consumed by self-hatred. I didn't tell anyone I was free, didn't tell anyone I had killed everyone. It took 72 hours before I stopped crying and passed out."
My eyes welled up; the monstrous feeling lingered. Damon's hand rested lightly on me, preventing a fall, but he was distancing himself. I felt a literal pool of rot, untouched by him, as he closed our bond as tightly as he could.
Mariella, having mounted her horse, approached Damon, her worry evident. Adam rode closer, assisting me onto Queen. It was time to regain my strength and independence, to end this interrogator's game. Once more, my wings burned from flying too close to the sun.
I maintained a neutral expression, though I felt intense worry from Wulfe, Adam, and Charles, while every Salvatore remained withdrawn. Why? I didn't know, nor did I care to find out.
I felt Wulfe delve into my mind, isolating the memory and preventing it from affecting me, fiercely draining the rot. Exhaustion, not drug-induced, settled over me; the repetitive reliving of past horrors was debilitating.
Charles's warm hand clasped my wrist. "Stop," he said, "you're digging your skin raw. Let it be; there's nothing there. It'll heal soon. Let Wulfe remove it." He was worried, irritated, and angry at Damon for needlessly traumatizing me to satisfy his curiosity.
I suspected Wulfe knew this technique and had warned Damon that I wasn't ready, but Damon, in his stubbornness, ignored him, with these results. Now I wondered what the next leg of this journey would bring.
Sure, it had been a nasty time, and my life hadn't been easy afterward. Immediately after regaining some semblance of normalcy, Bran assigned me a huge mission that took a tremendous toll. This mission also severely strained my relationship with Damon.
He'd planned something special for us, but my absence, coupled with Bran's portrayal of me as a neglectful wife who prioritized others over her husband, created a rift. Ironically, my absence was due to a mission for Bran—rescuing over seventy of his closest wolves from Sark after his arrogance endangered them. However, I was unfairly cast as the villain.
Exhausted after the mission, I didn't bother defending myself to Damon, and he subsequently pursued Cynthia, even having her in Alabama house fucking her all over the house, and getting angry as I forbid use of our bedroom while I was at home. That's all in the past.
As I rode the Queen, I realized Damon hadn't truly shared himself with me; he'd made me feel special only to the extent that I understood his manipulative nature—nothing more. A cynical perspective, perhaps, but true.
This realization, compounded by overhearing him discuss me, my trauma, and his efforts to comfort and feminize me (as Alaric had suggested), cast his grand confession of understanding in a different light. However, I refused to let bitterness consume me, determined instead to enjoy this trip and cherish the memories.