"Damon, there's something wrong with you. I know it. I can feel it through our bond." Damon listened as Elena took a ragged breath, sounding tearful. "Are you okay?"
"Damon, please call me. I'm worried about you."
"Damon, I don't even know if you're getting these messages. If you are, call me. Please."
Clicking "delete" on the last of the many messages from Elena that had filled up his voice mail, Damon leaned back to rest against one of the small peaked roofs of the Musee d'Orsay. A stiff night breeze lifted his hair, and he huddled into the collar of his jacket. Normally the cold wouldn't bother him at all, but he hadn't fed since Katherine died, and he was starting to feel it.
This was a good spot to rest. He hadn't yet seen any of the vampires that were chasing him shape-shift or fly, so for whatever reason, they must not be able to. And from here Damon had a fine view over the rooftops of Paris, the river Seine at his back. There would be plenty of warning if anyone came after him. Finally, a moment to catch his breath and listen to his messages.
Elena liked Paris, he remembered; she had visited when she was a schoolgirl. Maybe she'd even been to the Musee. He remembered when this building had been a train station, modern in every detail at the beginning of the twentieth century: elevators, underground tracks, and above, a great sunlight-flooded space. It had seemed impossibly new to Damon at the time.
He shook his head, dismissing the memory. He'd been feeling melancholy and sentimental lately, ever since he'd said good-bye to poor Katherine's empty body, leaving it buried in a churchyard-the least he could do for her. He was angry, and tired of running, and most of all, he was hungry.
But not lonely. He was never lonely, Damon reminded himself. Vampires weren't meant to travel in packs. Still, it would be nice to hear Elena's voice again.
When he called, she picked up immediately. "Damon? Are you okay?" Her voice was thick with tears, and he stiffened automatically.
"What's wrong, princess?" he asked, peering over the side of the museum. Was that a vampire far below, moving purposefully toward him? He sent his Power questing, found nothing. Sometimes they seemed to turn up out of nowhere, and he wasn't good at sensing this new kind of vampire at all.
"Andres is dead," Elena told him, her voice cracking. "We think ... the Old One we thought Stefan and Andres killed, he's not dead after all. And he murdered Andres." She gave a desolate little sob that went straight to Damon's heart.
"Oh, Elena," Damon said softly. "I'm sorry. I know you cared for him." The Guardian had been a friend to Elena, and, for that, Damon found it in himself to feel sorry he was gone.
Wait a minute. The Old One had been strong enough to trick Stefan and murder a Guardian?
Damn Stefan, anyway. He had told Damon that everything was fine.
"Stefan couldn't kill the Old One?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the walkway below. There were definitely more figures gathering there.
"It wasn't Stefan's fault," Elena argued. Damon sighed. Elena would always defend Stefan.
"But that doesn't mean it's okay," he said. "Stefan thought he was in control, and he wasn't. He told me you'd be fine."
Damon got to his feet, keeping a careful eye on the little knot of people-or vampires?-far below. Straightening his jacket, he realized his hands were shaking slightly. It was so typical of Stefan. He wasn't as careful as he thought he was.
"Nothing's ever Stefan's fault, is it?" he went on, surprised at the bitterness in his own voice. "I asked him to come out here to help us, and he said no. And now Katherine's dead. He said he would protect you, you and all your little human friends out there wallowing in small-town America, and now they're dying."
Elena sucked in a short, horrified breath. "Katherine's dead?" she asked.
"Yes," Damon said. He could hear Elena starting to cry again. Belatedly, he tried to soften his tone. Katherine and Elena, he had forgotten they had their own tie. "We just ... weren't enough to fight what's after us, not this time. I asked Stefan to help, but he wouldn't come. I'll kill them, though, I promise you that."
"I had no idea," Elena said bleakly. "I'm so sorry, Damon. I know how much she meant to you."
For a moment, Damon was surprised that Elena knew how he'd felt about Katherine, when he'd only just figured it out himself. But of course Elena knew; she could feel everything he felt. He pressed his fist against his chest, letting the ache of sorrow pass between them.
"She and Stefan were the only ones left," he said. "The only ones who knew who I used to be. Now there's only Stefan."
Elena sighed softly through the phone, thousands of miles away, and Damon felt her sympathy like a warm pulse in the bond between them.
The group down below was streaming into the museum. It was dark and silent inside; these were no tourists. Time to go. "Elena, I can't talk," he said, speaking quickly, slamming shut her link to his emotions. "I'll call again soon."
He clicked the phone off and tucked it into his pocket, ignoring her call of "Damon!" Closing his eyes, he searched for his Power and pulled it around him.
For a moment, he didn't think he would be strong enough. He was so tired and hungry. He'd raced across most of Europe in the past few weeks, trying to get away from these nearly unkillable vampires, but they just kept coming. He could hear footsteps on the grand staircase of the museum, far below. Maybe Paris was as good a place as any to die one more time.
No. Fiercely, he dug deep in himself for more Power. He was Damon Salvatore. He was an aristocrat, a gentleman, a vampire. No one was going to bring him to his knees.
In his rage, he found what he needed. Long before his pursuers reached the roof of the museum, Damon had stretched his wings and flown into the darkness.
Elena couldn't breathe. Andres dead. Katherine dead. Trinity dead, or possessed-who knew how much of her was still in there?
Damon had asked Stefan to help him, and Stefan had said no. Why hadn't he told her?
She was gripping her phone so tightly that its edges hurt her hand. Carefully, she hit the off button and put it down. Then she went to find Stefan.
He was sharpening the machete, the long-bladed weapon propped carefully against his knee as he slid a file along it.
"I need some more blood from you for the weapons," he said without looking up. "If Solomon's still out there, we need to go after him."
"Damon just called," Elena told him. "Katherine's dead."
Stefan's hand jerked, slicing a long cut on his arm with the machete, and he gave a small cry of pain. But his leaf-green eyes were unsurprised. "I know," he said. "I've known since it happened."
Elena found a cloth for him in the kitchen. "Here," she said. "Put some pressure on it." But the cut was already healing. Stefan just wiped the blood away and went back to sharpening the machete, his face closed off again.
"I thought-I felt something; I knew she was gone. How did she die?" he asked, his eyes on the blade. Elena knelt beside him and pressed her face against his shoulder, and he stopped sharpening the machete for a moment to rest his hand heavily against her hair.
"Damon didn't have time to say. I think something is chasing him." Elena drew back and watched Stefan keep moving the file steadily along the blade. Then she said, hesitantly, "He told me he asked you to come and help them. Days ago."
Stefan nodded, still not meeting her eyes. "I couldn't," he explained. "We were hunting for Solomon. I had to keep you safe."
"Stefan! Look at me." Stefan's head was still bowed, his gaze averted. Elena grabbed the handle of the machete and pulled it away from him. Stefan hissed in shock, yanking his hands back before it cut him again. Elena tossed the machete onto the floor.
"I am not that vulnerable," she said hotly. "I'm a Guardian, and I have Power of my own." Powerful and amazing, Trinity had called her. Elena knew she needed to remember that, to remember that she didn't need to be protected.
Getting to his feet, Stefan stared at her, stricken. "Andres was a Guardian," he said. "And look what happened."
"And we weren't able to prevent it," Elena said. She was tired of this, tired of Stefan treating her like she was more vulnerable than the rest of them. Yes, Andres had died, and it was terrible and frightening. Any of them could die, not just Elena. "All I'm saying is that I can take care of myself sometimes. And when I can't, there are people around me who can help. Meredith. The other hunters. A whole Pack of werewolves. I'm not alone."
Stefan reached out and took Elena's hands, pressing them against his chest, above his heart. "I had to be here," he said. "I want to protect you."
"It's not just about me," Elena said. "When Damon called you for help, you should have gone. He's your brother, and he needed you."
Stefan's mouth twisted into a bitter parody of a smile, still clinging to her hands. "It's always Damon, isn't it?" he asked. "Even when he's thousands of miles away, he manages to come between us."
Elena stared at him, and then she pulled away. "This has nothing to do with Damon. This is about us. I'm not something to protect. I'm a protector. We need to work together, and we need to keep the big picture in mind. I'm not the only person in the world, Stefan."
"To me you are," Stefan said, and reached for her again. Elena shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. How had they gotten to this state?
The room blurred around her, and she wiped her eyes. "Maybe you should sleep out here tonight," she said, her heart aching. "I need some room to breathe."
#TVD11TroubleInParadise
