Stephen Salvatore's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

Damon left the motel room at dawn. He did not say where he was going, but Stephen knew. His brother had stared at that leather journal too long on Elena's porch. Damon meant to take it, or burn it, before Stephen could use it. Stephen had the torn page in his coat. He did not have the rest. And the rest named the plant, the place, the words. He needed the whole thing. So he ran to warn her first. He found Elena in the town square, near the fountain, a paper cup in her hand. A blonde young man sat beside her on a bench. Stephen knew him by the way Elena leaned away, careful, kind, done. Her ex. The one she had left. He had the build of someone who lifted heavy things and the face of someone who trusted easy. "Stephen," Elena said. She stood fast. "This is Matt." Matt looked him over. "You the guy she keeps meeting at the cemetery." He said it flat, not mean. "She won't say why." "Matt," Elena said. "I'm just saying it." He shrugged. "I don't like it. Well. I don't like not knowing." He caught himself, corrected. "That's the real part." Stephen had no time for the boy's honesty. "Elena. My brother's coming for the journal. Now. Where is it?" Her face went pale. "Home. On the shelf. My aunt's still asleep in the house." She grabbed his arm. "Damon can't just walk in." Stephen did not answer. He was already moving. Matt stood, too. "Wait. Who's coming? What's wrong with your aunt?" "Keep her here," Stephen told him. "Please. Away from the house." He did not explain. Matt would not understand what Damon was, and there was no minute to teach him. Stephen reached the white house at a dead run. The front door hung open. Inside, Damon stood at the shelf with the cracked leather book in his hands. He was not reading it. He held a lighter to the corner. The pages had begun to curl and blacken. "Stop," Stephen said. Damon looked up, calm. "You've been lying to me, brother." He tilted the flame closer. "A cure. That's what this is. You'd rather be human than be with me." Stephen lunged. He tore the journal from Damon's hands. The fire caught his sleeve. He slammed the book against his chest and smothered the flame. When he opened it, half the pages were ash. The cure page, the plant, the ritual, all of it, gone to black flakes. Damon stepped back. He was not angry now. He almost smiled. "You saved a burned book," he said. "There's nothing in it." Stephen held the ruined journal. Damon was wrong. One page still lived, folded in his coat. But it named only the plant. Not the ritual. Not the place. And now the only record of those had turned to smoke in his hands.