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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Elijah shook his head in amused exasperation as Klaus drifted upstairs with five of the ladies at Madame Genevieve's. Klaus's excesses were guaranteed to keep him, and by extension Elijah, there at the Parisian pleasure house well into the morning hours. Which meant that he would need to send the rest of the men back to the townhouse before them so as to avoid the sunlight. Which in turn meant that Elijah was destined to spend several hours with no company save the Madame's girls, and he expected little in the way of conversation with any of their ranks. Not that he couldn't avail himself of the hospitality and pass the time not talking, but he generally found that the feigned arousal and disingenuous satisfaction of such creatures left him more lonely for companionship, not less.
So, with the men dispatched, Elijah found himself a drink and settled into one of the high-backed chairs before the marble fireplace, slipping a book out of his doublet. He was in the habit of carrying a volume with him, the better to amuse himself while Klaus made merry. Tonight’s treatise was a recent work by one Denis Diderot, a little work entitled Lettre sur les aveugles à l'usage de ceux qui voient. It had landed the French man of letters briefly in Vincennes Prison, though he had since regained his freedom, and Elijah found himself curious to see what the fuss was about. The backward-thinking, dual-edged sword of monarchy and church that fought against all advancement of knowledge and enlightenment continued to both amaze and appall him. Still, men such as this Diderot and his compatriots continued to push at intellectual and moral boundaries, and water, once spilled on the ground to nourish its growth, could not be put back into the pitcher.
He was perhaps a third through the book when the rustle of petticoats signaled the approach of one of Genevieve’s ladies. Prepared to brush off the usual come-on, Elijah was surprised when she remarked, over his shoulder, “You’re reading Denis’s work, I see. His thoughts are intriguing, no?”
Elijah turned in his chair to see who addressed him. The girl was petite, with lustrous, dark curls, olive skin, and a trim, tidy figure. Her eyes were large and dark, and showed a lively intelligence he didn’t often see in women of her station. To be sure, the girls at Genevieve’s were typically more educated than their lower-class counterparts, rutting in the gutters of the Parisian streets, but it was rare to find one who was educated beyond the basics. This girl was likely some aristocrat’s by-blow, orphaned before she could be married off in some backroom gentlemen’s arrangement.
“Indeed,” he answered, rising and gesturing her toward the other chair. “Do you know of it?”
“I do, my lord.” The girl sat, smoothing her skirts and folding her hands into her lap demurely. “I found his discussion of perception shaping reality to be quite illuminating.”
So she had read it. “Are you in agreement with his assertions, then?” he asked, reseating himself.
“As a philosophical paradigm, I believe the idea to have merit,” she said, watching the flames dance over the hearth as she considered. “Brought down to the mundane level, however, one cannot define reality solely by one’s own perception, to the exclusion of others’. Else, we would never agree upon anything.”
“One might argue that we rarely do agree.” He smiled at her, encouraging the discussion.
“That is true. But as the five senses must work in concert to define our perceptions, so too must the experience of being in the world be shaped together by the minds of men.”
“And of women.”
She smiled back at him, a genuine smile. “And of women,” she agreed. She nodded toward the book, which he had put aside. “You would have heard, of course, of Monsieur Diderot’s most recent literary undertaking; his passion for philosophical discourse has not been dulled by his recent misfortunes, nor has his voice been silenced.”
“One must make noise if one is to be heard.” One of the serving girls came and discreetly refilled his drink. “It is uncommon to find a woman so well-read in such an establishment,” he said, when she had gone.
“As uncommon as it is to find man reading therein, I dare say,” she returned, one delicate brow arched eloquently.
“Touche,” he allowed, smiling. “Might I have the privilege of your name, mademoiselle?”
“Of only my name?”
She was beautiful. Also bright, and articulate. He could perhaps be charmed by this one. “To begin with,” he decided.
“I am Sophia, my lord.”
~~~~~
“Watch out!” Jenna’s warning snapped Elijah’s attention out of his reverie and back into the present. He swerved to avoid the deer in the road, narrowly missing two of its kindred who had joined it in its roadside folly. The Rover wanted to fishtail, but he quickly brought it back under control. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jenna pull her fingernails out of the armrest and rub circulation back into her hands.
Privately, he hadn’t really wanted Jenna to accompany him on this trip, if the truth be known, but she had insisted. Though she had only known the vampire for a month – and her sole relationship with her had been that of jailer and captive – Jenna had nevertheless come to like Sophia and evidently considered her to be somewhere in the realm of ‘friend.’ Once Elijah had described the inevitable outcome of the situation, Jenna wouldn’t be talked out of visiting. Not, he supposed, that it should surprise him. Jenna so blatantly wore her heart on her sleeve, and she was quick to extend her liking and friendship.
And her love.
Elijah squirmed inwardly. The last thing he had intended was for Jenna to fall in love with him, as she so clearly was doing. The fact that he should have foreseen that outcome did nothing to improve his mood or assuage his guilt at having allowed it to happen. It was a complication that he could well do without right now, honestly, and he could see no graceful way to extricate himself from the situation.
Are you sure you want to? You did tell her about Leah. The inner squirming intensified. What on earth had compelled him to talk about that? He had only ever spoken of it to Irina, and then only after she had been with him for well over a year. Then again, Jenna being pregnant did lend a certain immediacy to that particular topic that hadn’t pertained to Irina.
“Is it really so hopeless?” Jenna broke in, her voice subdued.
"Sophia? Yes, I’m afraid so. There is no cure for a werewolf bite."
"Not even if she fed from an Original? I mean, you guys are immune, right?"
"We are, but that immunity doesn’t transfer. For a normal vampire, a werewolf bite is a death sentence."
Jenna reached over and put her hand on his leg. "I'm sorry."
"So am I," he murmured. Sorry he had pulled Sophia and Marcus into this whole mess. This was his fight, not theirs.
"How...long have you known her?"
"Long enough." Elijah slowed and pulled into the Salvatore driveway; Damon and Marcus had brought Sophia there after her call had alerted them as to what had happened. Parking in front of the garage, he got out of the vehicle and went around to the passenger side. Jenna had already slid out before he could open the door for her, and she tucked her hand into his as they walked to the entryway. Elijah pulled his away to knock on the door when they reached the entryway.
Damon answered quickly. Elijah raised on eyebrow inquiringly. How bad? Damon shook his head. Bad enough. Elijah glanced away, nodding acknowledgment of the point. He stepped into the foyer as Damon moved back, Jenna bringing up the rear. Elijah could hear Sophia and Marcus talking in low voices in the great room and, squaring his shoulders, he made his way in.
The conversation stopped as he cleared the archway, Marcus turning to look at him from where he sat, side-saddle on the edge of the sofa upon which Sophia reclined, his expression half-accusatory, half mad hope that the Original could do something – anything – to make this awful thing not be true. Sophia met Elijah's eyes and tried to sit up, only to be pressed back down by Marcus's hand on her chest. "It's all right," Elijah told her. "Lie still."
Sophia took Marcus's hand in her own, and moved it away from her, pushing herself up so she sat, her back against the arm of the couch. "I'm not dead yet," she told him mildly. Laying her other arm on the back of the sofa, she held the hand palm up to him. "Elijah." Her eyes were clear and calm. She understood the truth, even if Marcus didn’t want to accept it.
Elijah crossed the room and took it, raising it to his lips. "Sophia."
Looking past him, she noticed Jenna standing uncertainly in the archway. "Hello, Jenna. It's good to see you again. I wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances."
"Hi," Jenna said, moving awkwardly into the room to perch on the edge of one of the chairs facing the sofa. "I'm so sorry," she told her. "As inadequate as it sounds, is there anything we can do?"
"Perhaps you could make some tea?" she suggested.
"Yeah, of course." Jenna stood, brushing her hand along Elijah's arm on her way toward the kitchen.
Sophia turned to Marcus. "Would you go into town and pick up some of that wine that I like, love?"
"What? No, I'm not leaving you," he refused, his mouth settling into a stubborn line.
"Please," she said, giving him The Look when he would have protested further. "I would like to enjoy it once more, while I still may. And I would speak with Elijah."
Marcus hesitated, at war with himself, and when he did rise to leave the look he shot at Elijah was just shy of mutinous, but he finally went. Elijah pulled the ottoman over next to the sofa as Marcus stormed off into the hall and out the front door. He sat, facing her. "Let's see it," he told her.
Wincing, Sophia pulled her shirt up to expose an ugly wound on her stomach, a wound that roiled under the surface as the black, tainted blood sluiced through her veins, slowly poisoning her. Judging by the size of it, Elijah thought the wolf must have had her by the waist, full in its jaws. "Tell me," he said grimly, as she lowered the hem of her shirt.
"You know I overheard the professor say something of a meeting he needed to attend. I followed him, away from campus. I assumed he would meet with someone in town, but he went in the other direction, toward the old quarries," she told him, leaning back gingerly and letting her head rest against the back of the sofa. "Once he stopped, I continued on in the car and parked where he wouldn't hear me, doubling back on foot. I didn't realize at the time, of course, that he could smell and hear me coming anyhow." Sophia laid her hand in his palm. "When I drew close enough to the quarry to see them, one jumped me from behind. This wasn't a meeting of conspirators, Elijah. It was a pack gathering."
Elijah digested that bit of news. Of all the possibilities regarding the professor, that was one he had failed to consider, focused as he was on the other Originals and any impending challenges that might come from those quarters. In hindsight, it seemed so obvious. Jenna had told him that Mitchell's questions focused primarily on the werewolf mythologies she had outlined, as well as on the Sun and Moon curse. It also explained the professor's odd behavior at the meet and greet. Werewolves could sense vampires; unfortunately that ability didn’t hold true in reverse.
"A pack," he repeated. "How many?"
"I counted at least five, though there may have been more in the woods. When I realized they were transforming, I tried to retreat, but the one who caught me had mostly transitioned. The others shifted while I struggled with him. I killed two, maybe wounded a third before this," she said, glancing at her stomach to indicate the bite. "I thought they'd kill me then, but I think they wanted you to know. The professor mentioned the 'big vampire in town' earlier. Since they failed to kill you with the bombing, perhaps he thought to send you a message."
Pale, Sophia sank down a little lower onto the sofa. Elijah tucked an errant piece of hair back from her face. It clung to her skin a little; she was beginning to sweat. "I shouldn't have pulled you into this. I wouldn't have, if I had suspected." If I had been paying attention, and not let myself get distracted by matters better left alone. "I'm sorry."
"As am I." Her face tightened and collapsed as sudden tears filled her eyes. Careful not to disturb her wound, Elijah reached down and pulled her gently to him.
She clung to him for only a moment, breathing deeply to still the threatening sobs. "I can't do this," she told him, wiping a hand over her face as she struggled to regain control. "Marcus. I have to be strong for him."
Elijah settled her head more firmly against his shoulder, loosening her hair where it was gathered in a loose knot at her nape, and brushing his fingers through it. "Marcus isn't here right now," he whispered to her. "You needn’t be strong for me."
He felt her yield a little, letting him draw her against him. Her small frame shook with sobs she refused to release, to give voice to, as she put her arms around his waist. Saying nothing – what was there to say? – he held her to him and let her cry, realizing as he did that it was the only time he had ever seen her do so, though he had spent much of her first 80 years as a vampire in her company, after he had turned her. And before they'd met Marcus.
"Do you remember, how we found him?" she asked, as though reading his thoughts.
He nodded, kissing the top of her head. "Yes, I do."
~~~~~
The night air was heavy, and pregnant with the promise of the summer soon to be, balmy even at a half past midnight. They had spent an evening at the newly opened Niblo's Garden on Broadway and Prince, opting to walk back to the elaborate Greek Revival home that he had purchased on the trendy Bond Street
"How long do we have before Klaus arrives in New York
"A week, perhaps a fortnight before his ship arrives." Slipping the stem from her fingers, he tucked it into one of the combs holding her hair back from her delicate face. Not that that exquisite face required any additional ornamentation. Oh yes, he had very definite ideas.
Sophia slipped her hand through his arm and continued walking. "What did you think of the entertainment this evening?"
He shrugged. "The music was good, and well-received. The poetry readings, rather hit or miss."
"Agreed. Though there was the one fellow..."
"You wouldn't happen to be referring to the young – emphasis on young – man who all but prostrated himself before you during his recitation." Her silence was eloquent. "You are!" he laughed. "What was it that he was butchering, a sonnet?"
"I thought he was sweet," she bristled.
Elijah leaned down so his lips were close to her ear, brushing it almost. "Perhaps you can sample his blood tomorrow evening, and know for certain. If they'll have him back, which is admittedly a gamble." He moved his hands to her waist, intending to pull her to him for a smoldering kiss, but the ringing clatter of hooves on the paver stones, followed by a loud thud and the sound of shouts as window sashes along the street were thrown open, had Sophia moving toward the corner to see what all the mayhem was in aid of.
When they reached the intersection, a man lay in the street, groaning as the sound of hooves receded. As they neared him, Elijah could see a wheel track across the youth's chest from where the carriage had run over him. Closer inspection revealed several hoof prints as well. One arm was twisted at an impossible angle and looked to be crushed just below the elbow. Blood flowed freely from his mouth, where his head was turned to the side; heavy internal bleeding, by the looks. Likely a crushed lung and shattered ribs.
Sophia knelt next to him, her back to the windows from which the awake and the curious looked on. Blocking their view, she extended her fangs and bit into her own wrist, sliding her other hand under the youth's head to turn it upright so she could feed him. Elijah heard her gasp, and looked more closely – the same young man whom they had just been discussing, Sophia's hapless poet – was the man now dying in the street.
~~~~~
"I don't think we had even reached the house before you were ridiculously besotted," Elijah smiled into her hair.
"We both were, he and I." Sophia pushed away from him, brushing the tears from her cheeks. "I need to ask you for something, Elijah. Two things, actually."
"All right."
"Take care of him, this next little while? He'll need it."
Elijah nodded, though privately he thought the chances of Marcus allowing him to do so were slim to none at the moment. "And the second?"
Sophia drew in a shaky breath, released it. "When the time comes..." Two more tears coursed down her cheeks, and she batted them away impatiently. "When the time comes, I want you to do it. Please don't let him be the one. It would kill him..." She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob. "Please."
He pulled her to him again. "You have my word."
"Thank you." She let him hold her until she was once again composed, pulling away only when she was in command of her voice and her emotions once again. "It was worth it, you know. Loving him. You should try it."
"I don't think Marcus is precisely my type."
"Don't be obtuse," she chided him, glancing meaningfully in the direction of the kitchen. "You know what I mean."
He did know. And if the present circumstance wasn't a perfect example of why it was unwise in the extreme to fall in love, he couldn't imagine a better one. "I'll take it under advisement."
Hearing footsteps and the rattle of teacups against saucers coming down the hall, Sophia sat back against the couch. Jenna came in with a tray complete with the cups, teapot, sugar bowl and creamer; setting it on the coffee table, she poured tea and milk into one of the cups and pressed it into Sophia's hands. Elijah left them to talk and made his way out onto the terrace, wanting nothing so much as to commit an encore performance of the mass destruction he had leveled there a few weeks prior. But he would save that, for a more opportune time.
For starters, he had a pack of werewolves to kill. He planned to enjoy that, and to make it as drawn-out and painful as possible. Then there was the matter of the other Originals. Perhaps Hilda had been right; perhaps he should call a conclave, gather everyone together to hash over matters, air grievances, come up with a plan to address certain situations that Klaus had refused to deal with.
He would do so, he decided. Plan it around the long weekend built into the school schedule that he had rather ridiculously committed himself to, a schedule now rife with meetings and parent-teacher conferences, and the faire that Caroline had asked him to oversee. What had he been thinking, involving himself in all of this when there were far more pressing matters that required his attention? Clearly, he hadn’t been thinking. Or rather, he had been – about Jenna. About staying in town to pursue her. Remaining to watch over the doppelganger had been a consideration, for sure, but if he were to be honest with himself then he needed to own that she had been the primary factor in his decision-making.
And where had that gotten him?
Walking around the side of the house, he let himself in through the kitchen door, taking the back stairway to the second floor, and down to Damon’s room. The door was open; Damon lounged inside, tumbler in one hand, the remote control to the large, flat-screen TV in the other. Elijah leaned against the door frame. “We need to talk.”
Damon emptied the tumbler in one smooth swallow. “About?” he asked, not turning to look at him.
“Alaric Saltzman.”
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