A burning sensation began behind Bonnie's eyes, and a single hot tear ran down her cheek.
"No one wil ever love you," the voice whispered. "Not when you're standing next to Elena. Why do you think no one ever saw you as anything but Elena's friend? Al the way through school, she was standing in the sunshine and you were hidden in her shadow. Elena made sure of that. She couldn't bear to share the spotlight."
The words rattled inside Bonnie's mind, and suddenly something inside her shifted. The icy terror she'd felt just moments ago had thawed, making way for roiling anger. The voice was right. Why had she never seen it before?
Elena was Bonnie's friend only because Bonnie was a foil for her own beauty, her own sparkle. She had been using her for years without caring how Bonnie felt at al .
"She cares only about herself," Bonnie said, half sobbing.
"Why can't anyone see that?" She shoved the book away from her and it knocked over the black candle to her north, breaking the circle. The wick smoked and guttered, and al four candles went out.
"Ahhhh," said the voice in satisfaction, and tendrils of dark fog began to creep from the corners of the room. Just as quickly as her fear had left her, it snapped back. Bonnie spun around, holding the knife, ready to face the voice, but there was no one there - just dark, amorphous fog. Hysteria wel ing within her, she got to her feet and stumbled toward the door. But the fog moved quickly, and soon Bonnie was enveloped in it. Something fel with a clatter. She couldn't see more than a few inches. Bonnie opened her mouth and tried to scream, but the fog flowed over her lips, and her scream turned into a muffled moan. She felt her grip on the knife loosen and it dropped to the floor with a dul clank. Her vision grew blurry. Bonnie tried to lift her foot but could barely move.
Then, blinded by the fog, she lost her balance and pitched forward into darkness.
Chapter 21
When she opened her eyes, Elena found herself in someone's attic. Its wide wooden floorboards and low rafters were thick with dust, and the long room was crowded with objects: a hammock, sleds, skis, boxes with words like Xmas or toddler toys or B's winter clothes scribbled on them in black marker. Oilcloths were draped over larger objects that might be furniture, chairs and tables, by their shapes.
At the far end of the room an old mattress lay on the floor, with an oilcloth crumpled at one end, as if someone sleeping there had been using it as a makeshift blanket and had shoved it off when they rose.
Faint traces of pale light showed around the edges of a smal shuttered window at the nearer end of the attic. There was a soft rustling, as if mice were going about their private business behind the shelter of the stored furniture. It was al weirdly familiar.
She looked back toward the far end of the attic and saw, without the faintest sense of surprise, that Damon was now sitting on the old mattress, his long black-clad legs drawn up, his elbows resting on his knees. He was managing to give the appearance of lounging graceful y despite his awkward position.
"The places where we meet are getting less and less elegant," she told him dryly.
Damon laughed and held up his hands in denial. "You pick the locations, princess," he said. "This is your show. I'm just along for the ride." He paused thoughtful y. "Okay, that's not entirely true," he confessed. "But you do pick the locations. Where are we, anyway?"
"You don't know?" Elena said with mock indignation.
"This is a very special place for us, Damon! Ful of memories! You brought me here right after I became a vampire, remember?"
He looked around. "Oh, yes. The attic of the house where the teacher was staying. Convenient at the time, but you're right - an elegant setting suits us both much better. May I suggest a nice palace next time?" He patted the mattress next to him.
Elena, crossing the floor toward him, took a moment to marvel at how realistic and detailed her dream was. Each step she took sent tiny puffs of dust up from the floor. There was a slight scent of mildew: She couldn't remember ever having smel ed anything in a dream before these visions of Damon.
When she sat down, the mildew smel got stronger. She nestled close to Damon anyway, resting her head on his shoulder, and his leather jacket creaked as he put his arm around her. Elena closed her eyes and sighed. She felt safe and secure within his embrace, feelings she had never associated with Damon, but they were good ones. "I miss you, Damon," she said. "Please come back to me."
Damon leaned his cheek against her head, and she breathed in the smel of him. Leather and soap and the strange but pleasant woodsy scent that was Damon's own.
"I'm right here," he said.
"Not real y," Elena said, and her eyes fil ed with tears again. She wiped them roughly away with the backs of her hands. "It feels like I've been doing nothing but crying lately,"
she said. "When I'm here with you I feel safer, though. But it's just a dream. It won't last, this feeling."
Damon stiffened. "Safer?" he said, and there was a strained note in his voice. "You aren't safe when you're not with me? Isn't my little brother looking after you properly?"
"Oh, Damon, you can't imagine," Elena said. "Stefan..."
She took a deep breath, put her head in her hands, and began to sob.
"What is it? What's happened?" asked Damon sharply. When Elena didn't answer, just continued to cry, he took her hands and tugged them gently but firmly away from her face. "Elena," he said. "Look at me. Has something happened to Stefan?"
"No," said Elena through her tears. "Wel , yes, sort of... I don't real y know what's happened to him, but he's changed." Damon was looking at her intently, his nightblack eyes fixed on hers, and Elena made an effort to pul herself together. She hated acting like this, so weak and pathetic, sobbing on someone's shoulder instead of cool y formulating a solution to the problem at hand. She didn't want Damon, even a dream Damon who was just part of her subconscious, seeing her like this. She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Damon delved into an inner pocket of his leather jacket and handed her a neatly folded white handkerchief. Elena stared at it, then at him, and he shrugged. "I'm an oldfashioned gentleman, sometimes," he said, straight-faced.
"Hundreds of years of linen handkerchiefs. Some habits are hard to break."