Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Lockwood Estate was dressed to impress, but then again, it always was.

Golden chandeliers bathed the grand hall in warm light, catching on the crystal flutes of champagne and the gilded masks of Mystic Falls’ finest. The laughter was bright, the music even brighter, and the air smelled of wealth—freshly polished mahogany, expensive perfume, and the faint trace of overindulgence.

It was the sort of event designed to make anyone feel out of place unless they’d been born into it, and Rhiannon Vale had not.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the press badge tucked discreetly into her bag, and gave Andie Star a sideways glance.

“Remind me again why we agreed to this?”

Andie, effortlessly poised in a deep red gown that screamed network presenter, took a deliberate sip of her champagne before smirking. “Because Mayor Lockwood insisted we cover the ball for the station, and we both enjoy receiving a paycheck at the end of the month?”

Rhiannon huffed, leaning against the bar as she flicked through her notes. “Aye, well. I’m still deciding if it’s worth the agony of listening to another speech about ‘upholding the legacy of Mystic Falls.’”

Andie laughed, eyes scanning the room as she twirled her glass by the stem. “Oh, come on. This is the biggest event of the season. The gowns, the gossip, the flowing champagne—it’s practically begging for a scandal.”

“Then let’s hope one of these fine, upstanding citizens trips on their own ego and face-plants into the punch bowl,” Rhiannon muttered, flipping a page in her notebook.

“You’re in a right mood tonight.”

“Andie, love, I’d rather be home in my dressing gown with a cuppa and a good book. Instead, I’m standing in a room full of posh people who are pretending they’ve done something meaningful with their wealth besides hosting extravagant piss-ups.”

Andie grinned over the rim of her glass. “That’s what I love about you, Ri. Always the optimist.”

Rhiannon let out a quiet chuckle despite herself.

Still, the evening had started on the wrong foot.

Jenna should have been here. She’d been looking forward to it—or at least, she’d said so with that dry, put-upon humour of hers. But then, out of nowhere, an accident.

Rhiannon hadn’t been able to shake the unease since getting the call.

“Oh, by the way, I somehow ran into my own kitchen knife last night. Nothing serious, just a little hospital visit.”

A little hospital visit. Jenna had tried to laugh it off, but Rhiannon could hear the strangeness in her voice. It wasn’t like her to be clumsy. And it definitely wasn’t like her to sound shaken.

Andie must have caught the shift in Rhiannon’s expression because she nudged her with an elbow. “Stop thinking about it. Jenna’s fine.”

“No one is that clumsy,” Rhiannon muttered.

“Maybe she was having a bad day?”

Rhiannon gave her a look. “Aye, well. That bad day nearly got her stitches.”

Andie sighed but didn’t press the matter.

As if on cue, Sheriff Forbes passed by, offering them a brief nod before scanning the room with sharp, assessing eyes. Always working.

Andie glanced after her. “Think she’ll actually enjoy herself at one of these things, or is she just here to make sure no one gets murdered?”

“With Mystic Falls’ luck? Likely both,” Rhiannon mused, then smirked. “Though I doubt she’s keen on us lot. Not when my brother’s still a pain in her arse down at the station.”

Andie chuckled. “Ryan’s still giving her grief?”

“Less grief, more helpfully pointing out every mistake the department makes,” Rhiannon said dryly. “A real favourite, that one.”

The night dragged on, and as expected, it was much the same as any other Founding Family event—polite smiles, murmured pleasantries, thinly veiled self-importance. Carol Lockwood had made her rounds, graciously thanking them for covering the ball, and the champagne continued to flow as Mystic Falls’ elite entertained themselves with idle gossip.

By the time Rhiannon felt the walls closing in, she was more than ready for a moment’s peace.

She let Andie handle the next interview and stepped away from the crowd, weaving through the throng of masked figures until she found herself in a quieter alcove near the edge of the ballroom.

And that was when the shift came.

The music, soft and elegant, faded into something else. She caught it mid-note—a waltz, distinctly older, distinctly out of place.

She blinked, turning her head slightly, and then she saw him.

A man stood by the balcony doors, poised like he’d been there the entire time. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, crisp and elegant, with an old-world charm that didn’t belong in a room full of modern wealth.

And he was looking directly at her.

A smirk curled his lips. “Ah. Finally. I was beginning to think you’d never notice me.”

Rhiannon tensed instinctively, though she didn’t let it show.

“Funny,” she said, voice even. “I’m usually quite good at spotting arrogant men at parties.”

His smirk widened slightly. “And yet, it took you all evening.”

She tilted her head, gaze flicking over him. “Maybe I’ve got better taste.”

He chuckled, stepping closer, his movement too smooth, too measured—as if he weren’t quite tethered to the ground.

“Ah, you are interesting,” he mused. “More than I expected, cariad.”

Cariad.

Rhiannon barely reacted—but barely was enough.

It was there, the flicker of awareness, the way her fingers flexed against the fabric of her dress. The barest tell.

Welsh.

It was a Welsh word. And a deliberate choice, she knew that much instantly. Because no one in Mystic Falls—no one she had ever met outside her own family—spoke Welsh.

Hell, even the poor lad who delivered the morning paper needed a translation guide just to get through her grandmother’s morning grumblings when he turned up two minutes late.

But this man…his accent was decidedly not Welsh. Not even remotely. It was clipped, aristocratic, vaguely old-world European, and yet he had just casually dropped a word that no one in this town should know.

Her suspicion was instant.

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s a Welsh word.”

His smirk grew. “Is it?”

“Aye.” She tilted her head. “Where’d you pick that up, then?”

“Oh, here and there,” he said smoothly, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly as if this was a normal conversation. “I do like to travel.”

“That so?” Her voice was even, but her mind was already racing. He was lying. Or at the very least, he was not telling the full story.

“Mmm,” he hummed, clearly amused. “I’ve always had a fondness for languages. Picked up a few things along the way.”

“Odd choice, that,” she remarked, pretending to be unfazed. “Not exactly one of the more useful languages for a traveller.”

He arched a brow, smirking as if she’d walked into a trap she couldn’t yet see. “Depends who you’re talking to, doesn’t it?”

Rhiannon’s frown deepened slightly. Something about him felt… wrong. Not in the way that set off alarm bells, but in the way that made her skin itch. Like she was missing something.

And he knew it.

“So,” she said, folding her arms, “what else have you picked up on your travels then, boyo?”

He laughed at that—low, rich, genuinely entertained. “Oh, I like that. Boyo. Now you’re making me feel like a local.”

“You don’t sound like one.”

“Oh, but you do.” His gaze flicked over her, sharp and knowing. “You hide it well, but it’s there. The lilt, the way you roll your r’s just slightly more than the others here.”

She fought the urge to tense.

He tilted his head, watching her, all lazy amusement. “Let me guess—you don’t get many people here who’d know the difference?”

“Not unless they’re fluent in my grandmother’s morning rants about the state of modern America and the incompetence of newspaper boys,” she said flatly.

His grin widened. “Sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

“Aye, you’d get on like a house on fire,” Rhiannon muttered. “So long as you don’t mind the occasional lecture on how everything was so much better back in Wales.”

“Ah, well, mae'n debyg ei bod hi'n iawn.”

Rhiannon froze. The words had come too easily. Too naturally.

Perfect pronunciation. No hesitation.

Mae'n debyg ei bod hi'n iawn.

She’s probably right.

The sentence was so normal, so casual, but coming from him? A stranger with a non-Welsh accent?

No.

No, that wasn’t normal.

“You…” She trailed off, her heart beating just a little faster. “You speak Welsh.”

“Do I?” His smirk was pure devilry.

“Aye, you do.”

“Hmm.” He looked at her a little too intensely. “And how does that make you feel, cariad?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Like you’re taking the piss.”

“Oh, darling, I would never.”

“How many languages do you know, exactly?” she asked, watching him carefully.

He shrugged, all effortless charm. “Hard to say. One loses track after the first dozen.”

“Aye, I’m sure it’s terribly difficult keeping count.”

“It is, actually,” he said smoothly, smirking like she’d just handed him an opening. “Would you like me to start listing them? I could whisper something sweet in your ear in French. Or perhaps something scandalous in Italian. But then again, I do so enjoy Welsh—it’s got such a musical quality to it, don’t you think?”

Rhiannon stared at him, pulse thrumming.

He was doing this on purpose.

She didn’t know how he knew Welsh, but she knew he was enjoying every second of her trying to puzzle it out.

He took a step closer—just a fraction, just enough for her to feel the shift of space between them. His voice dipped, smooth as silk.

“Paid â chymryd gormod o amser yn ffiguro pethau allan, cariad.”

Rhiannon’s stomach dropped.

She knew what that meant.

Don’t take too long figuring things out, love.

Her breath caught. For the first time all evening, she had no reply. And then, suddenly, something tugged at her.

Not physically. Not quite.

It was subtle, barely a flicker, a strange little pull in her chest—like someone had taken an invisible thread and plucked it, just once.

There. Then gone.

She didn’t even have time to process it.

Because Andie’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.

“Who are you talking to?”

The spell broke. Rhiannon turned around to see Andie approaching, brow raised.

When she looked back, the man was gone.

The space he’d occupied was empty, nothing but candlelit air and the faint scent of old cologne lingering like a fading memory.

Andie frowned. “You alright, Ri?”

Rhiannon hesitated, pulse thrumming.

“There was a man,” she muttered. “Right here.”

Andie glanced around, unimpressed. “Don’t see anyone.”

Rhiannon inhaled, slow and steady, then exhaled. A trick of the light. It had to be.

She needed air.

“I’m stepping out for a minute,” she murmured.

As she pushed through the terrace doors into the cool March air, the unease didn’t leave her.

Something had just changed.

And she had no idea what.

The cool night air was a relief against her skin as Rhiannon stepped out onto the terrace, inhaling deeply, letting the noise of the ball fade into the background. Inside, Mystic Falls’ finest continued their revelry, champagne flowing as freely as the thinly veiled egos. Out here, it was quiet, still, the occasional murmur of laughter drifting from the estate’s open doors.

She reached for her phone, pulling it out of her clutch as it vibrated against her palm.

Ryan .

Ryan: How’s the ball? Full of posh arseholes yet?

She smirked, thumbs flying over the screen.

Rhiannon: Oh, absolutely. Peak Mystic Falls wankery.

A second later, another vibration.

Ryan: Bet Andie’s loving it.

Rhiannon: She’s having the time of her life watching me suffer.

Ryan: That’s what you get for going in the first place. Should’ve stayed home.

Rhiannon: Aye, well, SOME of us have jobs to do.

She lingered for a moment, staring at the screen, considering heading back in, but the thought made her stomach churn. She needed a proper breather before throwing herself back into that sea of masked pretension.

Her fingers moved instinctively.

Rhiannon: Anyway, I’m stepping out for air. Think I’ll head home soon.

She sent the message, her phone screen glowing softly in the dim light.

And that’s when she saw her.

Elena Gilbert was walking across the parking lot, phone pressed to her ear.

For a split second, Rhiannon didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t unusual to see Elena at these events, tangled up in the Founders’ world, but then—something was wrong.

The first thing that caught her eye was the blood. A dark red stain smeared across the sleeve of Elena’s pink sweater.

Pink. Not black.

Rhiannon frowned. Hadn’t she seen Elena earlier, slipping through the crowd in a scandalously short black dress? She was sure of it. And yet here she was, dressed entirely differently, looking shaken, talking softly into her phone.

Her stomach twisted.

Had she gone home and changed? Why? And what happened to her arm?

Rhiannon took a step forward, straining to hear the conversation.

“I’m fine, Jer,” Elena was saying, her voice quiet but firm. “I just need to go home, alright?”

Jeremy. She was talking to her younger brother.

The way she spoke, the slight tremble in her tone—it wasn’t just tiredness. She was shaken.

Something had happened.

The movement came fast.

Too fast.

A shadow detached from the darkness behind Elena. A man, masked, creeping up silently, a cloth already in his hand.

Rhiannon barely had time to process before he grabbed her. The cloth was clamped over Elena’s nose and mouth, his other arm locking around her waist.

Elena jerked, her phone slipping from her grasp as she struggled, fingers clawing at his grip.

Rhiannon’s heart pounded, her body freezing for half a second too long. The way Elena suddenly slumped, boneless and limp, was unnatural.

Too quick. Too wrong.

Shit.

Her mind raced. She could run inside. She could scream. She could—

No.

By the time someone got out here, Elena would be gone.

Her stomach coiled with a horrible certainty. This wasn’t some drunken mistake. This was a kidnapping.

Jenna’s niece.

A seventeen-year-old girl.

And Rhiannon Vale wasn’t the sort to stand by and let something like that happen.

She moved. Without thinking, she grabbed the nearest thing—her clutch, heavy with her phone and notebook—and swung it.

The metal clasp cracked against the side of the man’s mask, opening and causing her phone to fall out and land on the pavement.

He stumbled, cursing. But barely.

Shit.

He was stronger than he should be. His head snapped towards her.

A second of stillness. Then—he lunged.

Rhiannon barely had time to react before his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. His grip was crushing, like steel, and the next thing she knew—

Pain.

Blinding, searing pain as her head slammed into the hood of a nearby car. Her vision fractured, the world tilting wildly. She staggered, her knees buckling.

She tried to hold on, tried to fight the pull of unconsciousness, but it was a losing battle. Her body was giving up. Her knees hit the ground.

The last thing she saw was Elena’s limp body being hoisted over the man’s shoulder. And suddenly, she wasn’t alone.

He was there. The stranger from the ball. But this time, he wasn’t smirking. His presence flickered, sharp and burning, like the air around him was charged. His eyes—cold, dark, furious.

Not at her. At the man. The man who had hurt her.

His lips moved. And this time, she heard it.

Not a whisper. Not a plea.

A snarl.

“Rhiannon!”

She had never told him her name. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but the sound was fading, distant.

She was slipping. Her vision darkened at the edges, closing in. And the last thing she saw—the raw fury on his face. Like he was seconds away from tearing the bastard apart. Like he would, if he could…but he couldn’t.

And she didn’t understand why before darkness swallowed her whole.

The music pulsed faintly through the thick walls of the Lockwood Estate, the steady hum of conversation blending with the occasional clink of champagne glasses. The ball was still in full swing, guests laughing and twirling under golden chandeliers, oblivious to the passage of time.

Andie Star, however, was no longer paying attention to any of it.

She was leaning against the edge of the bar, a barely-touched glass of champagne in her hand, absentmindedly scanning the crowd. Rhiannon had said she was stepping out for some air—it must have been over half an hour ago now.

At first, Andie had thought nothing of it. Rhiannon had never been one for these high-society events, and after hours of dealing with pretentious Founder’s families and their self-important small talk, she’d probably just needed a few minutes to breathe.

But the longer the minutes stretched, the more Andie felt something was off.

She pushed off from the bar, standing straighter, her gaze sweeping the crowd with more purpose this time.

No sign of auburn hair. No familiar sharp wit cutting through the conversations.

Her frown deepened.

Rhiannon wouldn’t just leave without saying anything. Not without telling her.

Something was wrong.

The feeling only got worse when she started asking around. A waiter shook his head when she inquired. “Haven’t seen her in a while, miss.”

She flagged down one of the event coordinators, a woman with a clipboard and an earpiece. “Hey, have you seen my friend? About this tall, auburn hair, a face that says she’d rather be anywhere else?”

The woman smiled politely but shrugged. “I don’t think so. Is everything alright?”

Andie forced a smile back. “Yeah. Probably. Thanks.”

She turned on her heel, pushing down the unease clawing at her stomach.

Because no. No, everything was not alright.

Andie’s brows furrowed as she tried to piece together the last time she’d actually seen Rhiannon.

Then it hit her. Rhiannon had been acting strangely earlier. Not in an obvious way, but there had been a moment—a flicker of something off.

Andie had walked past one of the quieter alcoves in the ballroom, catching a glimpse of her best friend standing alone, slightly apart from the party. Except… she hadn’t been alone.

Or at least, she’d thought she wasn’t. She’d been looking at someone—speaking, even. But when Andie had approached, there had been no one there.

“Who are you talking to?” she had asked, laughing a little.

Rhiannon had blinked, as if she’d been pulled out of a trance. Then she’d scowled. “There was a man.” She’d turned back, eyes searching for someone. A second later, her frown deepened. “Right here.”

Andie had just shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t see anyone.”

At the time, she had brushed it off as a weird encounter.

But now…now, that moment sat uneasily in her memory. Now, Rhiannon was missing.

Andie inhaled sharply, her pulse quickening.

Time to check outside.

The night air hit her as she stepped onto the terrace, cool and crisp but not enough to shake the growing unease curling at the back of her neck.

The parking lot stretched beyond the estate’s garden, rows of expensive cars reflecting the dim glow of streetlights. Andie took a slow breath, glancing around.

If Ri had left, her car wouldn’t still be here.

But there it was. Still parked exactly where she remembered it. She stopped in her tracks.

That didn’t make sense.

She pulled out her phone, pressing Rhiannon’s contact without hesitation.

The line rang. And then, suddenly, faintly, barely audible, a ringtone echoed from the parking lot.

Andie’s breath caught in her throat.

She followed the sound, heels clicking against the pavement, her heartbeat speeding up with each step. The ringing grew louder.

And then it suddenly stopped. That’s when she saw it.

Rhiannon’s phone, face-up on the asphalt, screen shattered. A missed call notification glowing on the broken glass.

Andie’s stomach twisted. She bent down slowly, inspecting the broken display, but keeping herself from reaching out and touching it.

Then she looked up — and her blood ran cold.

There was blood. Dark smears on the hood of the car in front of her.

A sickening contrast against the pale paint. Her clutch nearly slipped from her grip as the realisation hit her all at once.

This wasn’t just a lost phone. This wasn’t Rhiannon dropping her phone.

This was—something had happened.

Andie’s pulse thundered in her ears as she straightened, looking around wildly.

The ball was still alive with chatter, laughter spilling from the open doors. People drinking, dancing, utterly oblivious to the fact that someone was missing.

Andie was the only one who knew something was wrong. Her fingers curled tightly around her clutch. She swallowed down the panic rising in her throat, forcing herself to think.

She needed to call someone. But who?

The police? No.

Not yet.

Rhiannon’s brother?

Yes.

Ryan Vale.

He’d know what to do. Andie turned on her heel, her heart pounding harder than it should have been, the bloodstains on the car burned into her vision.

This wasn’t just Rhiannon running off. This wasn’t just a mistake. This was wrong.

And someone needed to know—before it was too late.

The rhythmic pounding of his feet against the treadmill set a steady tempo, a grounding beat beneath the pulse of the music blasting through his in-ear headphones. The gym was practically empty at this hour, just a few other night owls lingering in the weight section or zoning out on the rowing machines. The air smelled of rubber mats and faintly of sweat, the cool hum of the air conditioning cutting through the otherwise quiet space.

Ryan adjusted the speed on the treadmill, increasing the incline slightly as he exhaled through his nose. It had been a long day at the station—nothing too dramatic, just the usual small-town rubbish. A stolen bike, a bar fight outside The Grill, a domestic dispute that ended with someone flinging a remote control at their spouse. Standard fare.

Still, there was something gnawing at him, something that had been bugging him for days now.

Mason Lockwood.

He had come back for his brother’s funeral after almost a year in Florida—said he was planning to stay. Then, just as suddenly, he was gone.

And this time, when Ryan called, there was no answer at all.

No voicemail. No gruff voice telling him that Mason had "no time for his little human friends anymore," like the last time he’d tried to check in on him, months before Mason had even returned to Mystic Falls. That was a separate incident entirely, one that had already left Ryan uneasy. But now…now, Mason had simply vanished.

Carol Lockwood swore up and down that Mason had gone back to Florida. But if that was true, why hadn’t Mason told him himself?

Ryan slowed his pace, staring blankly at the treadmill’s digital display as sweat trickled down his temple.

Something wasn’t right.

And then there was Damon Salvatore. Ryan had been watching him for a while now, and nothing about the bloke sat right with him. Too smooth. Too smug. That charming little grin of his hid something rotten underneath.

And Mason…Mason had been a good bloke. A bit of a free spirit, sure, but Ryan knew him—Mason didn’t just up and disappear.

And yet, Damon had been downright hostile to him at that barbecue Jenna Sommers had hosted a few weeks back. Not outwardly aggressive, no—just dig after dig, jabs disguised as humour, but with an unmistakable edge to them.

Those weird dog jokes.

Ryan hadn’t understood them at the time. Hell, he still didn’t. Mason had laughed them off, like he always did. But Damon’s eyes—they hadn’t been joking. Ryan’s gut had been screaming at him that night.

And now Mason was missing.

Ryan exhaled sharply, slowing the treadmill to a stop.

Coincidence? Maybe.

Did he believe in coincidences? Not bloody likely.

He grabbed his towel and water bottle, stepping away from the cardio section and heading toward the free weights. He needed to stop overthinking this. Mason was an adult. If he wanted to take off without a word, that was his choice.

Ryan had bigger things to worry about.

Like the absurdly high rate of “animal attacks” in this bloody town. Or how Sheriff Forbes was acting oddly secretive about certain cases.

Or how the Founding Families had always had their own strange way of keeping the town’s secrets locked down.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair before reaching for the dumbbells. His muscles tensed as he fell into his usual routine, pushing through the familiar burn, the ache grounding him back into something tangible. Something real.

And then, suddenly, he wasn’t alone anymore.

It wasn’t obvious at first—just a flicker in his peripheral vision, a shadow where there shouldn’t be one.

Then, a movement.

A woman. Standing near the treadmills, watching him. Ryan stilled, lowering the dumbbell in his hand as he blinked at her.

She didn’t belong here. Not in the sense that he didn’t recognise her—Mystic Falls was a small town, and he knew most people by face if not by name. No, she didn’t belong here because she looked like she had walked straight out of a 1920s jazz club.

Blonde, blue-eyed, striking. But it wasn’t just her beauty that made him pause—it was the sheer contrast of her appearance. She was dressed in a shimmering flapper dress, complete with beaded details and a hem that danced just above her knees.

She didn’t look like someone who had stumbled in from the street, lost on her way from some themed party. No, she looked deliberate. Like she was meant to be here.

And she was looking at him like she knew him.

Ryan exhaled, setting down his weights before pulling out his headphones. He slung his towel over his shoulder, stepping closer.

“Hey,” he said, his voice measured, careful. “You need help with something?”

Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

“Finally, you noticed me. I was beginning to think you’d never look up from your little… weight-lifting session.”

Her accent was crisp, refined. Definitely not local.

Ryan raised a brow. “Riiight. Because everyone notices a woman in a flapper dress at the gym.”

“Oh, love, I do enjoy a man with good eyesight.” She stepped closer, studying him, her eyes dragging over him like she was assessing something unseen. “So serious. Always working, always trying to be the good little deputy, aren’t you?”

Ryan’s jaw tightened slightly. “How do you know I’m a cop?”

She let out a light, amused laugh, tilting her head as if the question itself was ridiculous.

“Have we met?” he pressed, suspicion edging into his tone.

“Not yet.” She smiled, eyes bright, playful. “But we will.”

The longer they spoke, the stranger it became. Her words, the way she moved, the way she looked at the gym equipment like it was alien technology.

She reached out, fingers ghosting along the metal frame of a weight rack.

“Such an odd place,” she mused. “So… metallic.”

Ryan stared. “You’ve never been to a gym before?”

She ignored the question, twirling slightly as if the hem of her dress should still be sweeping across the floor of a jazz club.

“What happened to proper boxing rings? To men proving their strength with their fists?”

Okay. That was it. She was drunk, high, or completely off her rocker.

Ryan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Alright, look—”

“Who the hell are you talking to, Vale?”

The voice came from across the room. Ryan turned sharply, blinking at one of the other gym regulars—a bloke named Jason, who he saw here often but never really spoke to beyond casual nods.

Ryan frowned. “What?”

Jason looked at him like he’d just lost his mind. “Dude. You’ve been standing there talking to yourself.”

Ryan’s stomach dropped. His eyes snapped back to the blonde—but she was gone.

Nothing.

No lingering presence, no trace of movement—just cold, dead air. His grandmother’s voice echoed in his head, full of Celtic nonsense and superstitions.

Bloody hell.

Either he was losing it, or she had finally managed to drug his tea.

And then, his phone rang, Andie’s name blinking up on the display.

How odd.

Ryan cleared his throat before picking up the call.

“Ryan—listen to me. I can’t find Rhiannon.”

The world narrowed at the sound of the news anchor’s frantic voice at the other end of the line. He couldn’t even begin to utter a greeting before she practically ambushed him.

“What do you mean you can’t find her?”

“I found her phone, Ryan. It’s smashed. There’s blood.”

Everything froze, even time itself.

“I’m on my way.”

The Lockwood Estate loomed in the distance, grand and ostentatious, glowing with warm, golden light from its many windows. The faint echo of music and laughter carried across the crisp night air, a stark contrast to the quiet tension settling deep in Ryan’s bones. He pulled into the parking lot, his tyres crunching against the gravel as he cut the engine and stepped out.

He felt wildly out of place, dressed in his gym clothes—sweat-dampened grey T-shirt, black joggers, trainers—while inside, Mystic Falls’ so-called elite pranced around in their expensive suits and ridiculous masks, sipping champagne like they were the cast of some television drama. The disconnect was jarring, but Ryan wasn’t here for a bloody ball.

He was here because his sister was missing.

Andie was already waiting near the edge of the lot, arms folded tightly over her chest. Even in the dim light, he could see the strain in her features, the way her lips were pressed into a tight line. Her red dress and matching mask made her blend in with the masquerade crowd, but there was no mistaking the tension rolling off her in waves.

The moment he stepped towards her, she let out a sharp breath.

“Christ, Ryan, took you long enough,” she muttered, uncrossing her arms. “I thought I was gonna have to march into the Sheriff’s office myself.”

“Traffic,” he said dryly, scanning the area as he approached.

Her eyes flickered to his sweat-soaked T-shirt, one brow arching. “You look like you just came from a street fight.”

“Gym,” he corrected, not in the mood for jokes. “Tell me everything.”

She exhaled and nodded, shifting on her heels. “She stepped outside for some air, and then—poof. Just gone.”

Ryan’s jaw tightened.

Andie continued, voice edged with unease. “The last time I saw her, she was talking to someone, but when I approached there was no one there.”

Ryan’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.

Bloody brilliant. That was the last thing he wanted to hear.

Andie shot him a sharp look. “Don’t you dare say it.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m just saying, I knew Gran’s tea was dodgy.”

She groaned. “Ryan.”

“Alright, alright,” he muttered. “Tell me what you found.”

Andie gestured towards a car parked further in the lot. “It’s over here.”

He followed her, his pulse kicking up a notch when he spotted the faint glint of broken glass against the pavement.

Rhiannon’s phone lay shattered near the front of the car, the screen fractured like a spiderweb. A faint smear of blood trailed across the hood, dark and drying under the artificial light of the nearby streetlamp.

Ryan didn’t hesitate. He crouched down, slipping a pair of gloves from his pocket before carefully picking up the phone.

“Did you touch anything?” he asked, glancing up at Andie.

She scoffed. “Do I look like I wanna mess up a crime scene?”

He gave a curt nod and turned his attention back to the phone. The screen was beyond repair, but that wasn’t what concerned him. If whoever took Rhiannon had touched the device, there might be fingerprints.

His stomach churned at the thought.

He pulled out a small plastic bag from his pocket, carefully slipping the broken phone inside before sealing it shut. Then, shifting his focus, he reached into his other pocket, pulling out a sterile swab.

The blood.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make his pulse hammer in his ears.

“Whose car is this?” he asked, pulling out his phone and snapping a quick picture of the number plate.

Andie shrugged. “No clue.”

Ryan made a mental note to check the registration later. For all he knew, the car had nothing to do with it. But this was his sister. He wasn’t going to take any bloody chances.

As he leaned down, carefully swiping the swab against the dried blood, he muttered, “Pray to whatever gods you believe in that this isn’t hers.”

Andie’s face darkened. “I already am.”

He was sealing the swab in another evidence bag when something caught his eye.

A faint glow. Just beneath the next car over.

His brows furrowed as he straightened, stepping towards it. The light flickered slightly, a dim blue hue against the asphalt. A phone.

Another one.

His pulse jumped as he crouched down, slipping his hand beneath the car to retrieve it.

Andie took a step closer, frowning. “What is it?”

Ryan flipped the phone over, pressing the side button. The screen lit up immediately, and his breath caught in his throat.

A familiar face stared back at him from the lock screen. A brunette girl, smiling, leaning into the shoulder of her boyfriend.

Elena Gilbert.

Ryan exhaled sharply.

“Jenna’s niece?” Andie asked, voice sharp with confusion.

He nodded. “Aye.”

Andie let out a low breath, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”

Ryan had no answer. Instead, he pocketed the second phone, adding it to the growing pile of evidence he now carried. The more he looked around, the more uneasy he became.

This wasn’t just an attack. It wasn’t a mugging or a drunken altercation.

This was deliberate.

He scanned the parking lot, searching for security cameras. If the Lockwoods were anything like the rest of the bloody Founding Families, they’d have them everywhere.

And sure enough—he spotted one, perched high near the edge of the estate, just overlooking the lot. If there was footage, it might tell him exactly what happened.

But Ryan wasn’t naive. He wasn’t a Founding Family member. He wasn’t someone with pull in this town. If he wanted access to that footage, he’d need Sheriff Forbes.

He just wasn’t sure he wanted to involve her yet.

Something still didn’t sit right. He stepped back, scanning the area again.

And then, suddenly, a pattern in the blood. Not just a stain.

A trail.

His chest went tight as he crouched again, his sharp eyes catching the faintest imprint on the pavement. A footprint.

Blood-smeared. Leading away from the car.

His heart pounded. Slowly, he followed the trail. The prints were faint—whoever had made them hadn’t been in a rush.

No signs of a struggle. No second set of prints.

One person.

A man.

Ryan swallowed hard. The prints led towards the far end of the lot, vanishing into darkness. His worst fear had just become reality.

She wasn’t just missing. She had been taken.

His grip on his phone tightened as he exhaled, slow and steady. He needed to think.

Should he turn this into an official police investigation? Should he involve Sheriff Forbes? If she got involved, things would move faster. She had authority over the Mayor—she could demand the footage.

But if this was something bigger than just an abduction—if this was something deeper, darker—then he wasn’t sure if he wanted to lose control of the case.

For now, he’d keep it close. But if he didn’t find her soon…he’d have no choice.

Ryan turned back to Andie, his voice grim.

“I need to find my sister.”

And pray that he wasn’t too late.

Chapter Text

Time had lost its meaning long ago.

For a century, he had known only darkness, entombed in the cruel silence of a dagger’s hold. No thoughts, no sensations, no presence in the world.

And then, one day, he had woken up.

Not in the way he should have. Not in flesh and blood, not with power humming beneath his skin and the freedom to wreak havoc as he pleased. No, he had woken up bound. Tethered to something unseen, something alive, something pulling him across the vast emptiness of existence and chaining him to her.

Rhiannon Vale.

At first, he hadn’t understood it. A girl—a child, barely a teenager back then—roaming the streets of Mystic Falls with a curiosity far greater than was safe for a town like this. She asked too many questions, poked her nose where it didn’t belong. Reckless. Stubborn. Entirely unaware of what lurked beneath the surface.

And for fifteen bloody years, he had watched her. A spectator, nothing more.

She never saw him. Not once.

Until last night.

And then, just as suddenly, she stopped seeing him again.

Kol still hadn’t decided if that was worse than the century spent in his coffin.

Now, she lay slumped in the trunk beside him, unconscious, blood dried at her temple, the scent of it thick in the confined space of the car.

His fingers twitched, the useless habit doing nothing to relieve the smothering frustration pressing against his ribs. He wanted—needed—to touch her, to shake her awake, to get her the hell out of here before she became just another nameless human casualty in the wake of an immortal war.

She had no idea what she’d stumbled into.

And he—fucking daggered, bodiless, useless—could do nothing to warn her.

The car slowed, pulling into an empty parking lot, and Kol barely had to glance at the waiting SUV before recognition hit him like a punch to the gut.

Trevor.

Oh, you have got to be bloody joking.

The fool was still alive.

Trevor—the pathetic wretch who had once dared to help Katerina Petrova escape from his brother, who had been branded a traitor and spent the last half a millennium looking over his shoulder.

Kol had almost forgotten about him. Not because he was easy to forget, but because Trevor’s kind—the desperate ones, the ones who betrayed their own for selfish gain—never lasted long.

And yet here he was.

And Rhiannon was tangled up in whatever this bastard had dragged himself into.

Kol’s rage burned low and deep.

The SUV sat idle, UV-protected windows shielding Trevor from the daylight. He didn’t leave the safety of the vehicle, barely rolling down the window.

Instead, he sat behind the wheel, watching.

Waiting.

The compelled human exited the first car, walking towards the SUV with cautious steps.

Trevor didn’t even acknowledge him at first. Just drummed his fingers against the wheel, impatient, bored.

Through the tinted window, Kol saw his mouth move.

"Where is she?"

The human gestured towards the trunk of his car.

"In the trunk. I did exactly what you said."

Kol barely held back a growl, though no one would have heard it.

The idiot had no idea what kind of game he’d just played.

The trunk popped open. The doppelganger was the first body lifted out, limp, lifeless in the compelled man’s arms.

Trevor watched through the rearview mirror as she was placed inside his SUV, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips.

Kol didn’t care. His attention was locked on Rhiannon. Still out cold. Still fragile and breakable and entirely too human.

Trevor’s eyes flickered past Elena, landing on the second body being pulled from the trunk. His fingers stilled on the wheel.

Kol saw the frown. Saw the confusion. And then—Trevor smelled the blood.

Kol felt it at the same time—the sharp tang of drying blood saturating the air, sickly sweet, too strong in the enclosed space.

Trevor inhaled, his lips parting slightly.

Kol watched, already knowing what was about to happen. The shift in posture. The subtle, almost unconscious way Trevor’s fingers curled against the leather steering wheel.

The way his tongue flicked across his bottom lip. And then, the words that made Kol’s entire body coil with violence.

"There’s a second one."

His voice was too smooth, too casual.

The compelled man hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. “She interfered. I had no choice.”

Trevor exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Is she human?"

Kol bristled.

What the hell else would she be, you rat bastard?

Trevor turned his head slightly, nostrils flaring as he took in another breath.

And Kol saw it.

That look. That ugly, familiar, predatory look.

Hunger.

Trevor hummed. "Shame to waste that much blood."

Kol’s fingers curled into fists. His vision blurred at the edges, darkening, something vicious coiling inside him, a violent and unforgiving thing, demanding release.

Trevor had no idea who she was. No idea what she meant. And yet, that didn’t stop him from seeing her as nothing more than food.

"Might have a taste before Elijah gets here..."

Kol saw red. His own fangs ached from the thought, his own instincts threatening to rise, but this was different.

This was wrong. Rhiannon wasn’t meant to be hunted. She wasn’t meant to be prey. She was—she was—

Mine.

But Trevor didn’t care. He only sighed, dragging a hand down his face, as though this was just another inconvenience in his miserable existence.

"Elijah’s going to be difficult about this."

Kol barely heard him. All he could hear was the echo of his own helplessness. His arms didn’t move. His body didn’t respond.

Because he wasn’t real. He wasn’t there. He was daggered and useless and watching his soulmate become prey.

I will end you for this, you pathetic little worm. I swear it.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. So he did the only thing he could—he stayed.

Because if Rhiannon couldn’t see him, if she couldn’t hear him, if she didn’t even know he was there—then he would make damn sure she felt him.

She wouldn’t wake up alone.

The coffee was stone cold by now, bitter sludge at the bottom of the cup, but Ryan drank it anyway.

It tasted like shite.

Not that it mattered. He wasn’t drinking it for the taste.

His apartment looked like a bomb had gone off—a chaotic mess of papers, notes, open case files, maps, anything that might lead him to the bastard who had taken his sister.

But after hours of chasing shadows, he had nothing.

The forensic report had come in an hour ago, confirming what he already knew—the blood on that car was Rhiannon’s. He’d gotten his mate from forensics out of bed to check the prints on the phones, but they’d come up with nothing useful. No strange fingerprints, no sign of the kidnapper’s touch. The only prints were Rhiannon’s and Elena’s.

Which meant whoever had taken them had been careful.

Smart.

And that pissed him off even more.

Ryan scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw clenched tight. The car’s number plate had come back linked to an elderly woman from the Fell family. No criminal record. No history of shady business. No bloody way she had anything to do with this.

Another dead end. Which meant all he had left was the security camera footage.

And for that, he needed Sheriff Forbes. Or, at least, he thought he did—until the loud, relentless banging at his door shattered the silence.

Ryan exhaled sharply through his nose. "For fuck’s sake—whoever it is, piss off!"

The knocking only got louder.

Muttering under his breath, he shoved back from the table and yanked the door open—only to find two very familiar, very exhausted faces staring back at him.

Jenna Sommers and Andie Star. Both looked like they’d been through hell and back.

Jenna, still pale from her "accidental" kitchen knife incident, leaned against Andie for support, exhaustion clear in every line of her face. Andie, on the other hand, looked smug as hell.

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "What the hell are you two doing here?"

Andie grinned tiredly, lifting a USB stick. "Good morning, sunshine. We got the footage."

Ryan stared. He hadn’t even managed to contact Sheriff Forbes yet.

"You—what?"

Andie smirked, looking far too pleased with herself. "Oh, you know, the Mayor was feeling particularly generous at five a.m. when we knocked her out of bed."

Ryan blinked.

Jenna, voice dry, "She was a bit… tired, obviously."

Ryan’s eye twitched. "Do I even want to know what shady bullshit you two pulled to get this?"

Andie patted his shoulder. "Probably not."

Ryan groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "You know what? I don’t even care. Just give it to me."

Andie happily handed over the USB. Ryan marched back inside, plugging it into his laptop. Andie and Jenna followed, hovering behind him, breathless with anticipation. Ryan fast-forwarded through the grainy, flickering security feed, fingers tense on the mouse.

And then—there it was.

"Got her."

The screen showed Elena Gilbert, walking across the parking lot, phone pressed to her ear. She looked distracted, shaken. Ryan’s stomach twisted.

Then, suddenly, movement. A man, masked, stepping out of the shadows. He moved fast, and before Elena could react, he grabbed her from behind, pressing a cloth over her mouth, causing her phone to drop on the ground, sliding underneath the car where Ryan had found it last night.

Jenna inhaled sharply beside him.

Elena struggled, but only for a second. Then her body went limp.

Ryan’s grip on the laptop tightened.

Andie muttered, "What the fuck—"

But it wasn’t over. Because then, Rhiannon entered the frame. Ryan’s heart lurched as he watched Rhiannon bolt towards Elena. No hesitation. Not even a second of self-preservation.

"Oh, Ri, you bloody idiot," Ryan muttered, his stomach knotting.

She grabbed her bag, swung it like a weapon, cracking the masked bastard across the head.

It connected. He stumbled. But not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Because the man barely took a second to recover before he turned on her. Rhiannon barely had time to react. Her phone slipped from her grasp, crashing against the pavement. The masked man stepped over it, unbothered, closing the distance between them.

Ryan watched, helpless, furious, as the bastard grabbed his sister—and then—SLAM. Rhiannon’s head crashed against the hood of the nearest car.

Jenna gasped. Andie swore under her breath. Ryan’s breath caught in his throat.

Rhiannon went limp immediately. Her body crumpled, collapsing against her attacker’s grip.

Then, without hesitation—he dragged her out of frame.

The footage ended.

Silence.

Ryan barely registered his own breathing. No one spoke.

Finally, Jenna swallowed. "Holy shit."

Andie exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "Well. That was… upsetting."

Ryan just sat there, staring at the frozen screen. His sister had never stood a chance. She was out cold before she even hit the ground. And now, she was gone.

Ryan exhaled sharply, closing his laptop with more force than necessary.

"Right," he muttered. "I’m gonna kill that bastard."

Andie raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Just let us know when you find him."

Ryan stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket. "We’re going to find him. Now."

Jenna frowned. "Where do we even start?"

Ryan didn’t hesitate.

"Sheriff Forbes. It’s time to make this official."

Pain.

The kind that didn’t let go. The kind that lingered, pressing sharp and insistent against her skull, forcing itself into every breath, every sluggish heartbeat.

Rhiannon drifted between consciousness and oblivion, barely clinging to the fraying edges of awareness. The world around her was hazy—shifting shadows and dim light, the scent of damp wood and something musty, old, decayed. A cold chill seeped into her skin, settling deep in her bones.

Something wasn’t right.

She stirred, an ache spreading through her limbs, sharp and biting. When she tried to move, her arms didn’t respond. Neither did her legs.

A new kind of awareness sliced through the fog in her head.

She was bound.

The sharp bite of rope dug into her wrists and ankles, pinning her in place against rough, faded upholstery. Her chest tightened, heart kicking up against her ribs.

Where am I?

She forced her eyes open, blinking against the dimness. The ceiling above her was water-stained, cracked in places. Dust swirled in the beams of sunlight pushing weakly through dirt-streaked windows.

This wasn’t the Lockwood Estate. This wasn’t even her room, much less her apartment.

The cold press of panic bloomed in her chest. She twisted her head slightly, searching, her neck stiff and sore. Her hair stuck to the side of her face, damp with something she couldn’t quite place until her fingers brushed against it.

Dried blood. Her blood.

And then it hit her. The parking lot.

Elena.

The masked man. The brutal crack of her skull slamming into metal.

Rhiannon’s breath shuddered out of her. She had been taken.

Hours ago.

The realization sent her pulse into a frantic rhythm, the ropes at her wrists straining as she tried to move. It was futile. The bindings held, tight and unyielding. She twisted again, eyes darting across the room.

Elena was gone. The couch beside her was empty.

A new fear coiled in her gut, twisting like something alive. Had they taken her somewhere else?Had she woken up first? Or had something worse happened?

No. No, don’t think like that.

She needed to stay calm. She inhaled deeply, pushing through the nausea creeping up the back of her throat. Her ribs protested at the movement, aching deep, but she ignored them.

And then—him. The stranger. The man at the masquerade.

Rhiannon’s breath hitched slightly as she remembered the last thing she had seen before she blacked out.

He had been there, just before everything turned to darkness.

She had seen him. Hadn’t she? The way he had looked at her—like he knew her. The way he had said her name. It had felt so…real.

A flicker of something deep, twisting in her chest.

Was he here? Had he been taken, too?

Before she could think any further, the door creaked open. A man stepped through. Not masked, not hiding this time.

But she knew him, at least she was sure she did. The bastard who had stolen her from her life.

Rhiannon went still, because he carried someone in his arms—Elena. Her head lolled slightly, barely conscious. The moment he dropped her onto the couch beside Rhiannon and started untying her wrists, Elena stirred.

Her voice was hoarse, weak but pleading.

"Please—she has nothing to do with this. Let her go."

A rush of warmth flickered in Rhiannon’s chest, fleeting and fragile. This foolish girl. Tied in ropes and still looking out for others first.

"Her fate isn’t in our hands," the man muttered, barely sparing Rhiannon a glance.

The warmth snuffed out. Rhiannon’s blood ran cold.

Elena was still struggling weakly to sit up.

"She’s hurt," she murmured.

The man exhaled, kneeling beside her.

"I know," he said, almost sympathetically.

Then—his face changed. Dark veins spiderwebbed beneath his eyes. His lips curled back, revealing sharp, elongated teeth.

Something in Rhiannon snapped.

That isn’t real. That can’t be real.

And yet—it was.

"Just a taste."

He lunged. Not at Elena. At her.

Pain.

Rhiannon barely had time to react before his fangs tore into her throat. A white-hot agony ripped through her, sharp and searing. A choked, guttural sound escaped her lips.

It felt wrong.

Not like a knife wound. Not like anything she had ever felt before. This was invasive, unnatural, consuming. Something wet and hot trickled down her collarbone—her own blood.

The sick, obscene sound of someone drinking from her filled her ears. Her body convulsed, but she was too weak to fight.

No. No, no, no—her vision blurred, her limbs turning heavy.

He was taking something from her. Stealing something vital.

Her pulse stuttered. The world darkened. And then, suddenly, a voice. Deep, commanding, furious.

"Trevor! Control yourself."

The fangs tore away, leaving her gasping. Rhiannon collapsed back onto the couch, choking on air. The agony in her throat was nothing compared to the sudden, hollow emptiness that took its place.

Like something inside her had been ripped away.

Her vision swam. She barely registered the new figure standing in the room.

Elena's hand closed around hers, trembling. "Hey—stay with me."

Rhiannon tried. She really did. But her body wasn't listening. Her breath shuddered. Her eyelids drooped. And as the room tilted sideways, as her world shrank to the steady pressure of Elena’s grip—she saw him.

Not Trevor. Not Elena. Him.

The man from the masquerade. Standing at the edge of her vision, watching. And as the darkness dragged her under, his voice, low, strained, furious, echoed through her mind—

"Rhiannon."

Darkness stretched, vast and unyielding. A slow, creeping thing, pulling her under.

There was no pain here, only silence. A heavy, numbing weight pressing against her ribs, slowing her heartbeat, dragging her breath into shallow, uneven gasps. The world—what was left of it—slipped away like water through her fingers.

She wasn’t sure if she was still in that crumbling house. Wasn’t sure if she was anywhere at all.

Her body was cold. She was fading. And she wasn’t afraid.

Not at first. Then—the memories came.

A flicker of warmth. A golden glow. The scent of aged parchment and candle wax. Rhiannon blinked, confused, small fingers curling into the wool of her father’s cardigan.

She was in his study. The one that had burned down with the rest of the house. Dust floated lazily in the dim light, caught in the amber glow of the old desk lamp. Piles of books—worn, ancient—were stacked precariously around them, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed with time.

Her father sat beside her, voice steady, tracing faded ink with a careful hand.

"The old gods never truly left, cariad."

She remembered this. She had been six. Maybe seven. Young enough that the words had felt like bedtime stories, safe and distant.

"They don’t just disappear, do they?" she had asked, peering up at him with wide, curious eyes.

Her father had smiled then, warmth in the curve of his lips. "No, my girl. They wait. They watch. And sometimes, if you listen closely—" He had tapped the page, fingers ghosting over Celtic symbols etched into paper older than him. "They whisper back."

The words echoed, curling around her like a distant call. The pages beneath his hands seemed to ripple. The ink bled. The candle flickered—and the warmth vanished.

The golden glow of the study dissolved. Something cold and ancient settled around her, pressing against her bones, thick like the hush before a storm. The air changed, humming with something old, powerful, waiting. The edges of the world blurred.

And then—a crow. Black as ink, perched on an unseen branch. Its feathers shimmered like dark water, rippling between worlds. Its gaze pierced through her, sharp and knowing, like it saw into her marrow.

It wasn’t just watching her. It was waiting.

A voice followed, low and rich with something unshaken by time. Feminine. Commanding.

"Cymorth yn dod, fy merch. Yn dyfalbarhau. Nid yw dy amser eto."

Help is coming, my daughter. Endure. It is not yet your time.

The words were more than sound. They thrummed through her veins, deeper than language, vibrating in her ribs.

The crow tilted its head. Waiting. Listening.

Rhiannon tried to speak. Tried to ask who? How?

The darkness beneath her lurched. The world ripped apart.

And she was falling.

A gasp tore from her throat. Pain slammed into her like a hammer, burning, pulsing, pulling her back into her body. Her chest heaved. Her pulse thundered.

She was alive. But barely so.

Her mind spun, still caught between that cold, endless void and the unbearable weight of her body. She barely registered the ruined couch beneath her. The damp rot of the house pressing into her lungs. The sticky warmth of blood clinging to her skin.

But she wasn’t alone.

Someone was watching her.

She blinked, forcing her eyes open. And there he was—the man from the masquerade. The one who had smirked at her. Toyed with her. Vanished before her eyes.

Only—he wasn’t smirking now.

The sharp edges of amusement were gone. In their place, something raw, something frantic. His dark eyes searched hers, intent, desperate, like he was trying to hold her here.

"Come on, cariad, don’t you dare leave me now."

His voice was low, strained, cracking at the edges. He wasn’t touching her—couldn’t touch her, she realized dimly—but he was so close, so utterly fixated on her. Like she was the only thing that mattered. Like he had been waiting for her to wake up.

Rhiannon shivered. He knew her name. And he cared.

But how?

The effort to stay conscious was unbearable, but she forced herself to hold his gaze, even as the pain threatened to drag her back under.

"Who—" she rasped.

His jaw clenched. "Later, love. Just—stay with me."

Something in his voice sounded unsteady. As if he was afraid she wouldn’t. Rhiannon swallowed, throat raw, barely able to speak. But she managed two words.

"I’m here."

And for some reason—that was enough.

The police station buzzed with activity, the sharp hum of ringing phones and muttered conversations pressing against Ryan’s already frayed nerves. The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, too artificial, casting an unforgiving glare over the scene unfolding in Sheriff Forbes' office.

On the laptop screen, the grainy black-and-white footage played for the third time. Ryan forced himself to watch.

Elena Gilbert, walking across the parking lot, phone to her ear. Distracted. The masked man emerging from the shadows, his movements swift, practiced. The struggle. The chloroform.

Rhiannon.

His sister, charging into frame with all the reckless bravery in the world. The way she swung her bag at the man’s head, fighting even when she didn’t stand a chance. The way he overpowered her in seconds. The sickening crack of her skull against the hood of the car.

Ryan’s stomach twisted as he watched her body go limp, folding like a puppet with its strings cut.

He clenched his jaw. Look at the facts. Look at the details. Don’t react.

Both women were dragged out of frame. The video cut to static.

Sheriff Forbes exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair. Her gaze flicked to Ryan, sharp with barely concealed frustration.

“And you didn’t bring this to me first because—?”

Ryan dragged a hand down his face. “We didn’t have enough yet.”

Her brow arched. “So instead of going through the proper channels, you and your little team of independent detectives decided to take matters into your own hands?”

Andie coughed from beside him. “Well, when you put it like that—”

Forbes ignored her. “Deputy Vale, you know how serious this is.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s exactly why I didn’t waste time. I had Forensics run the blood sample last night—”

“Without my authorization.”

He met her gaze evenly. “It was Rhiannon’s blood.”

The sheriff muttered a curse, rubbing her temple. “I’m putting out a county-wide alert. Deputies will search the parking lot for any overlooked evidence. But there’s a problem.”

Ryan already knew. “The security cameras didn’t catch how he got away.”

Forbes nodded. “No footage of a vehicle. No plate numbers. No direction of travel. It’s like they vanished into thin air.”

Ryan’s stomach twisted. That wasn’t possible. And then, suddenly, the office door slammed open.

"Alright, let’s see it."

Ryan didn’t even have to turn to recognize the voice.

Damon Salvatore strolled into the office like he owned the place, moving with that same infuriating confidence he always did.

Sheriff Forbes sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Damon—"

"No, no, don’t ‘Damon’ me. Just show me the footage."

Ryan turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "And why exactly would we do that?"

Damon ignored him, his eyes flicking to the laptop. "Because Elena’s missing. And I’m getting her back."

Nothing about Rhiannon. Not a single word.

Ryan’s hands curled into fists.

Sheriff Forbes was already done with his bullshit. "You’re not a deputy, Damon. Let us do our jobs."

Damon tilted his head, giving a lazy smirk. "Right. Because the three of you are so much more qualified?" He gestured toward Andie and Jenna. "You’re not deputies either, and yet here you are."

Andie rolled her eyes. "I am the press, thank you."

"Oh, well, that’s useful."

Jenna, however, wasn't in the mood. "I don’t care what you think," she snapped. "My niece is missing. If you’re not helping, then leave."

Damon’s smirk didn’t falter. "Oh, but I am helping, Jenna."

Ryan stepped forward, blocking his path to the laptop. "No, you’re making this about you."

Damon finally looked at him. Ryan met his gaze head-on. No hesitation. No intimidation.

"You don’t give a shit about my sister."

Damon didn’t deny it. "I don’t even know your sister, Deputy." He shrugged. "But I know Elena."

Ryan’s jaw clenched. "That’s exactly why I don’t trust you."

The room went still. Sheriff Forbes sighed, done with this pissing contest.

"If you want to be useful, Damon, go find out if anyone saw anything suspicious last night."

Damon sighed dramatically. "Fine. But when I solve this before you, don’t be mad."

He winked at Jenna, who didn’t react at all, before strolling back out.

Ryan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "I bloody hate that guy."

Jenna sat stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, arms folded tightly around herself.

"This doesn’t make sense," she muttered.

Ryan turned. "What doesn’t?"

Jenna shook her head, voice wavering. "Elena. Why her? What—what did she do? Why take her?"

Andie hesitated. "Jenna—"

"And Rhiannon—" Jenna exhaled sharply. "She just—she just tried to help."

Ryan’s jaw tightened. "That’s who she is."

"I know."

Jenna swallowed hard. "What if this is about money?" she whispered.

"Then they’ll ask for ransom."

Jenna’s lips pressed together. "But no one’s called."

That somehow made it worse. Jenna stared at the table.

"I don’t understand."

Ryan sat down across from her. "We’re going to find them, Jenna."

His voice was calm. Solid. Unshaken.

Jenna looked at him, eyes sharp. "You don’t know that."

"No," Ryan admitted. "But I’m going to tear this town apart until I do."

He hadn’t thought about her. Not since last night. Not since he’d told himself he was hallucinating.

The flapper-dress woman.

And then, suddenly, there she was. Standing outside the police station, waving at him.

Ryan’s breath caught.

"Ryan?"

Andie’s voice snapped him out of it.

He glanced at her, then at Jenna—who followed his gaze. But their faces stayed blank.

"What are you looking at?" Andie asked.

Ryan’s stomach dropped. "You don’t see her?"

Andie frowned. "See who?"

Ryan’s blood turned to ice. He looked back at the street.

The woman was still there.

"Never mind."

Forbes put down her phone. "We start tracking. If they took a car, someone saw something. We pull records, traffic cameras—everything."

Ryan nodded. "And if that leads nowhere?"

Forbes met his gaze.

"Then we dig deeper."

Damon didn’t slam the door to the sheriff’s office when he left, but he came damn close.

A waste of time.

He stalked down the street, the early midday sun beating down in an annoyingly smug kind of way, like the universe was laughing at him. He hadn’t expected Deputy Dumbass to roll over and let him watch the footage, but the fact that it had been utterly useless anyway made his already foul mood worse.

No cars. No direction. No lead.

Which meant he’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.

He adjusted his leather jacket, turned toward Mystic Falls High, and picked up the pace.

The door swung open hard as Damon stepped inside. All eyes turned toward him.

Bonnie, mid-ritual, barely spared him a glance. Jeremy looked up from the map spread across the desks, his face pinched with frustration. Stefan was tense, but that wasn’t new.  And Alaric? He looked like he was one smart-ass comment away from throwing something.

Damon shut the door behind him, stepping inside.

"Well," he said, tone dry. "That was a waste of time."

Stefan’s head lifted. "Did you get anything?"

Damon gave a humorless laugh and flopped into the nearest chair, kicking his boots up onto an empty desk. "Nope."

Bonnie shot him an annoyed look. "Did you even get to see the footage?"

Damon smirked. "Didn’t have to."

Stefan frowned. "What does that mean?"

Damon shrugged. "It means vampire hearing is a wonderful thing. And unless the guy pulled a Houdini act, the cameras didn’t catch how he left. No car. No direction. No trail."

Jeremy cursed under his breath. Alaric, still visibly pissed off, rolled his shoulders and exhaled sharply.

"Jenna’s involved now." Alaric’s voice was tight.

Damon arched a brow. "And?"

Alaric’s eyes snapped up, sharp. "So, this isn’t just a normal kidnapping, Damon. And Rhiannon—she’s one of Jenna’s closest friends."

Damon’s smirk didn’t falter. "Then she should probably get a new BFF."

The room went still. Alaric’s grip on the desk turned white-knuckled. Stefan stiffened. Bonnie muttered something under her breath, but Jeremy was the first to react.

"You don’t even care, do you?" His voice was sharp, angry.

Damon turned his head, unimpressed. "If whoever took Elena is from Katherine’s past, that journalist is already dead. You just don’t know it yet."

Jeremy fisted his hands. Bonnie muttered something about sociopaths.

Alaric shook his head, disgusted. "Jesus, Damon."

Damon just shrugged. "What?" he said lazily. "I’m being realistic."

Alaric looked two seconds away from throwing a chair.

Before anyone could, Stefan cut in. "Bonnie, just do the spell."

Bonnie, jaw tight, turned to Jeremy. "Give me your hand."

Jeremy held out his palm. Bonnie took the dagger, her expression steady.

"This is going to sting," she murmured.

Jeremy didn’t flinch. A quick slice, a drop of blood falling onto the map.

It landed on Mystic Falls.

And then, Bonnie started chanting.

The candles flickered. The air shifted. The blood on the map trembled. And then it began to move.

Damon leaned forward slightly, watching as the drop of blood slid southward….and suddenly stopped.

Bonnie opened her eyes, visibly drained. "They’re somewhere near Lynchburg."

Damon squinted. "That’s a whole lot of middle-of-nowhere, Bon."

Stefan frowned. "Can you narrow it down?"

Bonnie exhaled, rubbing her temples. "That’s where the spell stopped. Elena is somewhere there."

Damon didn’t hesitate. "Good enough."

He was already on his feet, grabbing the duffel bag of weapons Alaric had prepped.

Stefan blinked. "You’re just going?"

Damon shouldered the bag.

"It’s Elena."

As if that was answer enough.

Jeremy pushed up from his seat. "I’m coming with you."

Damon snorted. "Yeah, no."

Jeremy glared. "She’s my sister."

"And you’re a kid." Damon shot back. "Stay here. Be useful. Look up houses or anything distinct in that area on Google Maps."

Jeremy looked ready to argue, but Alaric cut in. "Jeremy, stay."

Jeremy clenched his fists. "This is bullshit."

Damon didn’t care. He was already halfway out the door.

Stefan caught up with him in the hallway. "You’re actually doing this?"

Damon didn’t even slow down. "Elena’s missing. Of course I’m doing this."

Stefan hesitated. "You never cared before."

Damon finally glanced at him.

"Yeah, well. Things change."

Then he pushed open the school doors and headed for the car.

Chapter Text

The room was too still. The kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful, wasn’t comforting. It was the kind of silence that swallowed everything whole.

Kol paced, back and forth, over and over again, trapped in the suffocating press of his own helplessness. He had never felt like this before. Not once in a thousand years had he been this useless. This  powerless . He’d spent centuries making men kneel, bringing kingdoms to ruin, carving his name into history with a smirk and a sharp edge. And now—now he was  nothing.  A ghost. A  damned  ghost.

He could feel his rage boiling beneath the surface, a hurricane of fury, but none of it mattered. None of it would  fix this . He couldn’t tear out Trevor’s throat, couldn’t rip the smug satisfaction off Rose-Marie’s face, couldn’t break every bone in their bodies for what they had done to her .

Rhiannon hadn’t moved in two hours.

Not really.

There’d been a flicker, a barely-there shift of breath, the kind that should have meant something. But she hadn’t sat up, hadn’t turned her head. She was still lying there, sinking into that decrepit, moth-eaten couch like she was  fading.

Kol had never been fond of silence. He had always filled it with something—words, blood, laughter, chaos. Now it filled  him .

He had never known the kind of anger that could hollow a man out, carve him raw from the inside. Not until this moment.

He  should  have been able to fix this.

He  would  have fixed this.

If he weren’t daggered, Trevor wouldn’t still be breathing. Kol would have torn him apart the second he’d touched her. He would have made him  suffer  for every drop of blood he’d stolen from her throat.

But instead, he had been forced to watch .

The memory burned, a brand against his ribs. Trevor, that pathetic little worm, sinking his teeth into her neck, draining her. Her pulse slowing, her skin turning pale, her body limp, her blood spilling. And Kol—Kol had screamed,  raged , his own voice tearing through the void, but it had done nothing.

No one had heard him.

No one had  stopped  it.

Not until Rose-Marie had stepped in at the last second, dragging Trevor back, snapping at him like he was a misbehaving pet.  "We need her alive, you idiot. Elijah will decide what happens with her."

Alive.  Barely.

They had just left her there, thrown onto the couch like discarded luggage. No care. No concern. No thought for the fact that she had nearly  died .

Kol could still smell the blood in the air.

It made something in him coil, violent and dangerous.  Mine.

He wanted to touch her. To grab her, hold her, press his wrist to her lips and force his blood down her throat. She needed to heal. She needed to  live.

And he couldn’t do  anything.

All he had were his words.

"Come on,  cariad ," he murmured, voice rough, nearly breaking. "You’re stronger than this."

Nothing.

Not even a flicker of recognition. She just lay there, still staring blankly at the ceiling, her eyes dull, unfocused.

Kol swallowed, his throat tight. He had never done this before.  Begging.  He wasn’t the kind of man who pleaded. It wasn’t in his nature.

But this was different.

"Rhiannon, you have to fight," he urged, forcing his voice to stay steady, to be something she could hold onto. "You  have  to come back to me."

Still nothing.

It was driving him mad.

In the next room, the doppelganger was still talking, still asking the same questions, over and over again. " Who are you waiting for? " " What do you want? " " Just let her go—she’s not part of this. "

Elena’s voice rose and fell, urgent, desperate, but Kol barely heard her. She didn’t matter.  Rhiannon  mattered .

She should have had something to say about all of this. Even half-dead, she should have had a comment—some sarcastic little quip, some scathing remark, something to show she was still  there . But she just lay there, barely breathing.

It made his stomach twist.

Kol gritted his teeth. Cariad , please.

No response.

His fingers curled into fists,  useless ,  useless ,  useless .

If he had a body, he would have been pacing, running his hands through his hair, kicking over furniture just to hear  something  other than this unbearable silence.

But he had nothing.

Nothing but  her , slipping through his fingers.

And then, outside the window, movement.

A crow.

Sitting on a branch just outside, watching them.

Kol’s eyes flicked to it, but he barely registered the sight. A bird. That’s all it was. A scavenger, lingering in the shadows, as if it  knew.  As if it had been waiting.

It didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, watching.

Kol exhaled sharply, dragging his focus back to  her.

"You don’t get to do this," he murmured, leaning close, like she could hear him if he just spoke low enough. "You don’t get to give up."

Still, she didn’t react.

He wanted to grab her, shake her,  force  her to fight. But all he could do was speak.

"You have no idea what you mean to me," he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "But I need you to live long enough to find out."

And for the first time in his existence, Kol Mikaelson  prayed.

Everything felt distant.

Sounds came in patches—muffled voices, the faint creak of old wood, the occasional hum of conversation bleeding in from another room—but none of it reached her properly. None of it felt real.

She was still lying on that moth-eaten couch, still staring at the ceiling, still drifting somewhere between wakefulness and the slow, sinking pull of something deeper. The ceiling had a long, jagged crack running across it, the kind of thing she might have found interesting once. Something to stare at absentmindedly while she pieced together a story in her head. But now, it was just another part of the room. Just another meaningless thing she couldn’t bring herself to care about.

She was  cold .

Not the kind of cold that came from a chill in the air, but something worse. Something bone-deep. Like the warmth had been leeched out of her from the inside. She could feel it in her fingers, in the weight of her limbs, in the way her body refused to do more than lie there, unmoving. It was exhaustion, and yet not. A heaviness she’d never felt before.

Her breath was slow, shallow, barely there.

Something was wrong with her. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew why.

The memory of it came in flashes—hands grabbing her, the struggle, the sharp, unbearable pain of something piercing her neck. But that wasn’t the worst part. The pain, she could understand. Pain made sense. But what had happened  after —the way she’d felt something leaving her, something being taken—it didn’t make sense.

She swallowed, barely. Even that was an effort.

Her throat hurt.

The pain was sharp, raw, like a wound that had only just begun to clot. She could feel where it had happened, the lingering sting of it against her skin.

It shouldn’t be possible .

That was the thing that kept circling back around, kept pressing against the edge of her thoughts, demanding her attention even when she wasn’t ready to think about it.

It shouldn’t be possible.

No one should be able to move that fast. No one should have  fangs . No one should be able to  drain  someone like that, as if blood wasn’t just blood, but something  more .

She shivered. The movement was barely noticeable, but it was there—a small, involuntary tremor rolling through her limbs. Was it fear? Or was it just the cold, creeping further into her bones, making itself at home?

It didn’t matter. Not really.

She wasn’t going to make it out of this. The thought came with surprising calm.

She wasn’t sure if that was because she had already accepted it, or because she didn’t have the strength to panic anymore. Either way, it settled over her like a thick, heavy blanket, pressing her down, holding her in place.

Her breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t move. She had no idea where Elena was. No idea if she was even still  alive .

The thought should have sent a fresh wave of horror through her, should have spurred her into action, made her fight, but she couldn’t. She just lay there, empty, drained, waiting.

And that was the worst part.

She was  waiting .

For what, exactly? For them to come back and finish the job? For them to decide they were done playing whatever sick game this was and put her out of her misery?

Would that be worse than this?

She didn’t know.

Her gaze drifted slightly, just enough to catch a flicker of movement beside her. She wasn’t alone.  He  was there. The man from the masquerade. She blinked sluggishly, her brain struggling to make sense of it.

He was watching her, leaning close, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his eyes, something intense, something almost…desperate.

She recognised him. The thought barely formed before exhaustion dragged at her again.

It didn’t matter. Nothing did. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach for him. Couldn’t speak. She barely had the strength to keep her eyes open.

A small part of her wanted to, though. Wanted to reach out, to ask why he was here, what he was doing, why he was looking at her like that. But she couldn’t.

So she didn’t. She just breathed. In, out. Slow, shallow.

And let herself think of home. Her last message to Ryan.

She’d texted him at the masquerade, before any of this had happened, before she’d found Elena being dragged into the dark. She’d sent some sarcastic comment about the Founding Families and their ridiculous balls, something light, something normal.

He had no idea she was here. No idea that she was lying on this couch, slipping away. Would he find out? Eventually, probably. And when he did, what would he do? She could picture it too easily—Ryan pacing, scowling, throwing himself into every dead end, demanding answers from people who didn’t have any. He’d be relentless. Stubborn.

And it wouldn’t matter. Because she’d still be  gone.

Her stomach clenched weakly. Her grandmother.

She must have realised by now. She must have woken up to an empty house, to a bed that hadn’t been slept in, to a morning gone all wrong. Would she be worried? Or would she just be  angry ?

Rhiannon could almost hear her voice. " What sort of idiot goes off in the middle of the night without even leaving a bloody note, then? "

The thought almost made her smile.  Almost .

Andie .  Jenna .

Her blog.

She and Andie had built it together, piece by piece, determined to dig up every little secret Mystic Falls had buried under years of founding family nonsense .  They had been  good  at it. Would Andie keep going without her? Or would it just become another unfinished project, abandoned the way everything else in Mystic Falls eventually was? The thought didn’t sit right.

And then, of all things, she thought about Noodle. That greedy, thieving, little bastard of a tabby cat. She bought extra lunch for him every single day, just so he wouldn’t steal food from everyone else at the studio. And now…now someone else would have to deal with him.

Somewhere in the haze of her exhaustion, she felt something twist in her chest. She wasn’t ready to let go of this. Not yet. But the darkness was pressing in again, pulling her back under, and she didn’t know if she could fight it.

Maybe she didn’t want to. Maybe it would be easier this way.

She let out a breath. And let herself drift.

The gas station looked like the kind of place that had been forgotten by time. The neon sign outside flickered weakly in the daylight, struggling to be seen against the sun that hung high in the sky, casting sharp shadows over the pavement. It was late midday, the kind of heat-heavy afternoon where the air felt thick, pressing down on everything like a weight.

Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets as he stepped out of the car, squinting at the rundown shop. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a single rusted truck parked near the pumps and a scattering of insects hovering near the old station lights.

This wasn’t the sort of place that saw much traffic.

Sheriff Forbes was the first to move, leading the way inside. Andie followed close behind, her expression set, eyes flicking over everything like she was scanning for clues before they even had any.

Ryan didn’t say anything. He wasn’t hopeful.

It had been hours since Rhiannon was taken, and every lead so far had turned into a dead end. This one would probably be the same.

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside, the sound oddly out of place against the low hum of a radio playing some old country song. The shop was exactly what he expected—dusty shelves stocked with overpriced snacks, an ancient coffee machine wheezing in the corner, and a layer of tiredness hanging in the air, like even the building itself had given up trying to stay awake.

Behind the counter stood an older man, mid-sixties maybe, a baseball cap pulled low over thinning grey hair. He was watching them with narrowed eyes, like he was trying to decide if they were worth his time.

Sheriff Forbes approached the counter, calm and professional. “You the one who called in?”

The man—Frank, according to his nametag—grunted, shifting his weight. “Yeah. Said to report anything strange, right?”

Forbes gave a sharp nod. “That’s right. What exactly did you see?”

Frank leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter. “Weren’t much at first. Just some guy pullin’ up real late, gettin’ gas.”

Ryan frowned. “What time?”

Frank scratched his chin, thinking. “Dunno exactly. Maybe… quarter past noon? Somewhere ‘round there.”

Ryan felt Andie tense beside him. That lined up.

Forbes stayed patient. “What was strange about him?”

Frank let out a breath, shifting his stance. “Looked off. Pale.  Real  pale. Didn’t say much. When I asked him how much he wanted, he just kinda… stood there for a second. Like he was thinking too hard about it.”

Ryan’s brows pulled together. “Like he was drunk?”

Frank shook his head. “Nah. Not drunk. Just… weird. Spoke real slow, real careful, like he wasn’t used to talkin’.”

A strange unease curled in Ryan’s stomach. That sounded too much like the way some missing people had described things before—people who had gone off the grid for days, only to turn up later with no memory of what had happened to them.

Compelled .

Not that he had a name for it yet. But his gut told him something was wrong.

“And you said there was a mask?” Forbes prompted.

Frank nodded. “Yeah. Was sittin’ on the passenger seat. Full face. Expensive-lookin’ thing. Not like a Halloween mask, but, y’know, one of them fancy ones.”

Ryan’s stomach dropped.

A masquerade mask.

His mind flashed back to the security footage—the man who had grabbed Rhiannon and Elena had been masked.

Forbes pulled out her phone, bringing up a still image from the Lockwood Estate footage. “Was it him?”

Frank squinted at the grainy image, then exhaled through his nose. “Hard to say. But… yeah, I think so. Way he moved, way he acted—it fits.”

Ryan felt his pulse pick up. It wasn’t a perfect ID, but it was enough. The man who had taken his sister had been  here .

“Did he say anything? Where he was going?” Ryan pressed, voice sharp, barely hiding his frustration.

Frank shook his head. “Didn’t say much of anything. Just got his gas, stared at me like I was a bit of wallpaper, then drove off.”

Ryan gritted his teeth. “Which way?”

Frank gestured vaguely. “Took the main road out of town. Headed towards Lynchburg, maybe Richmond. Didn’t really watch after that.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Ryan turned away, dragging a hand down his face. This was bloody  useless . No plate number. No solid ID. Just a vague direction and a half-decent description.

And now, they were losing time.

“Did he pay with a card?” Ryan asked, clinging to the last bit of hope. “Maybe we can track the transaction?”

Frank shook his head. “Cash.”

Ryan exhaled slowly, forcing himself not to punch the counter in frustration. They finally had something—and it was barely anything.

Forbes, to her credit, stayed level. “Alright, thanks. If you remember anything else, give us a call.”

Frank nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

They turned to leave, the weight of another dead-end pressing down hard, but just as they stepped outside, Forbes’ radio crackled to life.

“ Sheriff, you there? ”

Forbes lifted the radio to her mouth. “Go ahead.”

A burst of static, then—“ Got a report from a family out for a hike. They found a body in an abandoned parking lot on the road to Lynchburg. Male, mid-thirties, looks like he bled out bad. ”

Ryan froze.

Forbes’ posture went rigid. “Cause of death?”

The deputy’s voice came back, tense. “ Looks… nasty. Throat’s gone. Like something ripped into it. Like—”  A pause.  “—like an animal attack. ”

Ryan felt his pulse hammer in his ears. That wasn’t normal.

Forbes’ voice was measured. “Any ID?”

“ Not yet. But we do have a description. ” The deputy rattled it off—height, build, clothing—every detail matching what Frank had just told them about the gas station customer.

Ryan’s blood ran cold.

“The car?” Forbes asked sharply.

“ Dark sedan, trunk and driver door open. But no sign of anyone else inside. ”

No Rhiannon. No Elena.

The world tilted slightly. Ryan swallowed against the sudden rush of nausea.

Did they escape? Or did someone else take them?

Forbes exhaled. “We’re on our way.”

Ryan barely heard her. His mind was moving too fast, too many thoughts colliding at once. His sister had been in that car. And now…she wasn’t.

His hands curled into fists. They had been so bloody  close .

And now…now they were running out of time.

The house stood at the end of a long, winding road, tucked away in a stretch of land that had long since been forgotten by time. It was the kind of place where secrets came to die, where dust and decay had settled so deeply into the bones of the building that even the wind carried the scent of rot. Elijah regarded it with a slow, measured exhale, his lips pressing into a thin, unimpressed line.

He had  better  things to be doing.

His fingers twitched at his sides, the need to be moving, hunting, tracking down his brother still thrumming beneath his skin like a low, steady hum.

Niklaus .

He should be out there, chasing the scent of him across the country, scouring the ruins his brother had left behind, tearing apart every lead until he found the bastard and made him suffer for what he had done.

For what he had taken.

But instead—he was here. His expression barely shifted, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes.

Rose-Marie .

She had called for him, though not directly. One of his contacts had relayed the message—she had information, something he might find  valuable.  He wasn’t entirely sure why he had indulged her, why he had allowed himself to be pulled into this. Curiosity, perhaps. Or something closer to irritation.

A gust of wind pulled at the trees around him, and overhead, the crows circled. Elijah’s gaze flicked upward, tracking their movement for half a second before dismissing them. A strange omen, perhaps, but he had never been a man who put stock in such things. Let the birds watch. It made no difference to him.

His focus returned to the house. With the same practiced grace he carried into every room, every encounter, he strode forward, the heavy, deliberate  thud  of his shoes the only sound against the silence. He reached the door and knocked once, sharp and unhurried, his patience already wearing thin.

There was a pause. A shuffle from inside. Then, the door creaked open, revealing Rose-Marie’s familiar face.

She looked the same. The same guarded weariness, the same edge of caution beneath the surface, the same lingering remnants of fear she had never quite managed to shake.

“Elijah,” she greeted, voice carefully neutral.

He didn’t smile. “Rose-Marie.” A slow inhale. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

She stepped aside, allowing him through. “Yes. In here. You’ll have to forgive the state of the house.”

Elijah didn’t bother looking around. He could already smell the disrepair, the damp wood, the decades of neglect.

“Oh, no, what’s a little dirt.” His tone was light, but the sharp edge beneath it was impossible to miss. “I completely understand.” His gaze flickered back to her, unblinking. “So tell me, what is it that gives you the courage to call me?”

He watched as she squared her shoulders, as she pushed down whatever residual fear still clung to her. “I wanted my freedom,” she said simply. “I’m tired of running. Are you in a position to grant me that?”

His expression remained unreadable. “I have complete authority to grant pardon to you and your little pet—what is his name these days— Trevor ,” He let the name roll off his tongue with mild amusement. “…if I so see fit.”

Rose-Marie hesitated. Then, as if steeling herself, she spoke. “Katerina Petrova.”

The name settled between them like a weight. Elijah’s head tilted slightly, but there was no surprise on his face. Only expectation.

“I’m listening.”

“She didn’t burn in the church in 1864,” Rose-Marie continued. “She survived.”

A beat of silence. Elijah exhaled slowly, considering her words, tasting them, measuring them against the centuries of certainty that told him otherwise.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Rose-Marie hesitated, then, sensing his impatience, added, “You don’t seem surprised by this.”

Elijah let out a low, amused breath. “Oh, when you called and invited me into this armpit of civilisation, which is a mere three hours from the town we know as Mystic Falls, I surmised it had everything to do with Katerina.” His eyes darkened slightly. “Do you have her in your possession?”

Rose-Marie shook her head. “No.”

A flicker of disappointment.

“But I have better,” she continued. “I have her doppelganger.”

There was a pause. Elijah stilled, his body a perfect, controlled thing, tension settling only in the briefest flicker of his gaze.

“That’s impossible,” he said smoothly. “Her family line ended with her. I know that for a fact.”

Rose-Marie’s voice was steady. “The facts are wrong.”

Elijah studied her for a long moment. And then— “Well,” he murmured. “Show her to me.”

She hesitated. “Elijah, you are a man of honor, and I trust you, but I want to hear you say it again.”

He offered her a perfectly controlled smile. “You have my word that I will pardon you.”

It wasn’t a lie. He had every intention of allowing her to live. Trevor, on the other hand…

Rose-Marie nodded, satisfied, and turned. “Follow me.”

Elijah stepped forward, falling into place beside her as she led him through the dim, dust-filled house. And then, suddenly, there she was.

The girl. The doppelganger.

Bound. Terrified.  Human .

He could hear her heartbeat, the fast, frantic thrum of it against her ribs. He stepped closer, inhaling slowly, the scent of her blood confirming what he already knew. His lips parted slightly. His voice came softer this time, a quiet recognition that shouldn’t have been possible.

“Hello there.”

And then, suddenly, the world shifted. Something else. Something  wrong . It was subtle at first, just a whisper of sensation, a flicker at the edge of his awareness. But then— Blood .

Not here. Not in this room.  Somewhere else .

Something pulled at him, something unshakable, something more than instinct, more than logic, more than anything he had ever felt before. Before Rose-Marie or Trevor could react, he was already gone.

The scent led him to another door, and in a single movement, he was inside. And that was when everything changed.

She lay there, unmoving, her skin pale, her breath shallow, eyes unfocused as they stared at the ceiling. And for the first time in a thousand years, Elijah Mikaelson felt the universe shift.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a guess. It wasn’t a trick of the mind.

It was  her .

And in that moment, he  knew .

Trevor’s scent clung to her. Her blood. On  him .

His vision sharpened. The room felt too small. Too still. And suddenly, Trevor’s fate was no longer just decided.

It was sealed.

She looked so small.

Elijah stood over her, unmoving, studying the fragile human form lying against the moth-eaten couch. Her body was unnaturally still, but it was the emptiness in her eyes that unsettled him. He had seen a great many things in his time—war, bloodshed, men broken beyond repair—but there was something in the way she lay there, barely breathing, that made something in his chest twist.

He did not allow himself to dwell on it. Instead, he stepped forward, slow, measured. No sudden movements. No force. She has been through enough.

She did not react to his presence, not at first. It was only when he perched slightly above her, close enough for his warmth to reach her cold skin, that her bluish-green eyes finally found him.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Then, her lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Have you come to kill me?"

Elijah did not move.

"If you have," she continued, her voice hollow, "do it quickly… because I can’t do this anymore."

The words settled in his chest like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river. He had known fear. He had seen men beg for their lives. But this was not fear. This was resignation. The kind that only came when someone had already let go.

Elijah’s jaw tightened briefly before he exhaled, keeping his voice as gentle as it had ever been.

“If anyone else had come,” he said quietly, “perhaps. But not me.”

Her gaze did not waver, but something flickered behind her exhausted eyes—something he could not yet name.

“You are safe now.”

She shivered. He noticed immediately. It wasn’t just the room’s chill. It was something deeper.

“May I?” he asked, voice still low, still careful.

She blinked sluggishly, as if she had not fully processed the question.

“I only wish to inspect the wound,” he clarified. “Nothing more.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, she nodded.

It was small. Barely noticeable. But it was enough.

Elijah moved with careful precision, lowering himself onto the couch and gently pulling her up with him. He felt the tension in her limbs, the hesitance, but she did not resist. Her back rested against his chest, and for the first time, he could feel how cold she truly was.

Too  cold.

Even as she leaned against him, the shivering did not stop. He exhaled, letting his fingers brush lightly against her chin, tilting her face to the side. She flinched—barely, but he felt it. He did not pull away.

Instead, he waited. After a moment, she did not tense further. She simply  breathed.

Not much. But enough.

The wound was deep, but not fatal—not anymore. She had lost too much blood, and had she been left much longer, there would have been nothing left to save.

But she was still here. And he would not let that change.

“I can heal you,” he murmured.

She stilled slightly, her breath hitching just once. Elijah let the words settle between them before he continued, his voice steady.

“If you let me,” he said. “If you trust me.”

She hesitated. He could feel it, see it in the way her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his sleeve. The way her jaw tightened, just for a second.

She did not believe him. Not yet. But she was tired. So  very  tired. And after a moment, she nodded.

It was small. Barely noticeable. But it was enough. Elijah did not explain what he was about to do. There would be time for questions later. Instead, he lifted his wrist to his mouth, fangs extending without a sound as he sank them into his own flesh. The scent of his blood filled the air—rich, potent, something ancient beyond her understanding.

She stiffened. He did not rush her. He simply brought his wrist to her lips and waited.

She hesitated again. The deep-rooted human instinct to resist was still there. But she was weak. She was in pain. She did not have the strength to refuse.

Slowly, hesitantly, she latched on. The warmth of his blood seeped into her, spreading through every part of her body, rebuilding her from the inside out.

Flesh mended. The wound on her throat knit closed. Her breathing evened.

But the shivering did not stop.

Elijah felt it. The tension still lingered in her. This did not fix everything.

His hand moved to her auburn hair, fingers sliding through it gently. His voice was low, calm, a quiet murmur meant only for her.

"It’s alright. You’re safe."

"Just breathe."

"You have nothing to fear from me."

He felt the way her shoulders eased—just slightly.

Not much. But enough.

Elijah lingered for a moment longer than necessary. It wasn’t hesitation—no, that was not a sentiment he was accustomed to. It was something else. Something heavier, something unspoken.

She was still trembling, still staring into nothing as though reality had long since unraveled around her. His blood had healed her body, but it had not touched the deeper wounds, the ones woven into her very core. He could see it in the way she clung to the silence, in the way her fingers curled weakly against the fabric of his jacket, as if grounding herself in something tangible was all she had left.

He exhaled slowly, quietly. Then, without a word, he moved.

The coat around his shoulders slid off effortlessly as he shifted, his movements fluid as he draped it over her. The weight of it settled across her frame, far too large for her, but it would keep her warm. Keep her covered. Keep her safe.

She blinked sluggishly, barely reacting, too lost in the fog of her own mind.

"Rest now." His voice was softer than most would ever hear it, low and steady. "You are safe."

She did not respond. Not verbally, at least. But she did breathe. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but the tightness in her chest eased, just for a moment.

He allowed himself one last glance. And then, he rose to his feet.

Trevor was already trembling.

Elijah had felt it before he even entered the room—the thick, choking scent of fear curling through the air, sinking into the walls. Trevor had always been predictable in that way, all frantic energy, never knowing how to still himself. Now, it was worse. His entire frame was stiff, his breathing too sharp, too shallow, as though he had already braced himself for the inevitable.

It was the correct instinct.

Trevor’s lips parted the second Elijah entered, his voice cracking as he tried to form words.

"I—I didn’t know," he stammered, his hands clenched at his sides. "Elijah, if I had known—"

Elijah straightened his cuffs, adjusting them with deliberate precision. He did not look at him. Not yet.

"You misunderstand." His voice was level. Unhurried. Absolute. Trevor flinched, but Elijah continued. "It does not matter if you knew."

Finally,  finally , he lifted his gaze, meeting Trevor’s wide, panicked eyes. "It matters that you  touched  what was never yours to touch."

Trevor dropped to his knees. It was not a graceful fall, not a calculated surrender. It was clumsy. Desperate.

"Please," he whispered. Begging now. "Elijah, I didn’t mean—"

Elijah tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. "If you had known she was mine, would you have stayed your hand?"

Trevor hesitated—just for a second. That was all Elijah needed.

"That is where you faltered."

Trevor opened his mouth, but the words never came. In one smooth, precise motion, Elijah's hand pierced his chest, fingers curling around his heart. Trevor gasped. His eyes went wide, mouth parting in shock as though he had never truly believed this moment would come.

"I would have killed you regardless."

And with that, he crushed the heart in his hand.

Trevor didn’t even have time to scream. The body slumped, lifeless, before Elijah stepped back, withdrawing his hand as if nothing had happened at all.

There was no need to look down. Trevor was already gone.

Elijah took his time. Not out of necessity. Not for  her  sake. But because this moment was meant to be remembered.

As Trevor’s body slumped to the ground, Elijah reached for his handkerchief, unfurling it with practiced ease. He wiped his hand slowly, efficiently, erasing every trace of blood until his skin was once again pristine.

It was only once he was done that he finally looked at Rose-Marie. She had not moved. She didn’t need to. She  understood .

"You live because I  allow  it."

And with that, he turned and left.

She was exactly where he had left her. Curled beneath his coat, eyes open but distant, as though still caught between the world and something far darker.

For a moment, Elijah simply watched. And then, he lowered himself beside her once more, adjusting the jacket over her shoulders, ensuring she was still warm beneath its weight.

"My name is Elijah."

Her eyes flickered. A reaction, small but present.

Then, she hesitated. It was not hesitation born of uncertainty. No, this was different. This was the weight of giving something away. Of offering a name to someone who could do something with it.

Finally, softly, she whispered, "Rhiannon."

Elijah inhaled. It wasn’t a sharp breath, nor was it dramatic. It was measured, quiet—but deep. As though he was taking the name itself into his lungs, memorising it, anchoring it somewhere deep inside himself.

Because now, she wasn’t just a presence. She wasn’t just a moment of recognition. She was  Rhiannon .

And that changed everything.

Without a word, he moved. Her body barely reacted when he lifted her again, arms steady beneath her, securing her against him as though she weighed nothing.

She did not resist. She did not cling. She simply let him carry her.

He stepped into the next room, movements smooth, purposeful. The doppelganger was still tied to the chair. Her expression flickered through a thousand emotions at once—shock, confusion, outrage—before settling into something sharp.

Elijah set Rhiannon down carefully, ensuring she was comfortable before moving toward the chair. He loosened the ropes with a single effortless motion, letting them fall away as he met the girl’s glare with calm indifference.

"Come with me."

She didn’t move.

"Let her go!" she snapped, voice trembling slightly. "This has nothing to do with her!"

Elijah did not argue. Instead, he lifted Rhiannon once more—and turned toward the door.

"Where did Trevor go?" The girl’s voice cut through the room, and for the first time, Elijah paused. But he did not turn.

"That hardly is of importance right now."

The weight of that answer sank into the silence.

"And Rose?" she pressed, more hesitant now. "What about her?"

"She will live."

Elena hurried to catch up, frustration mounting. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere more appropriate."

That was all she would get. She did not trust him. That much was clear. But she followed.

Because no matter how much she fought it, no matter how much she wanted to pretend this wasn’t happening—She would not leave Rhiannon behind.

And as they stepped out into the late afternoon light, Elijah felt it settle.

The shift. The understanding. She was no longer just a hostage. She was something far more important.

And Elijah Mikaelson did not leave behind what was his.

Chapter Text

The drive was short, though it felt longer than it should have. Every mile that brought them further from the abandoned house in the middle of nowhere seemed to add weight to the atmosphere, pressing down on him. Rhiannon had barely stirred since he lifted her from the moth-eaten couch, and though her pulse was steady, the trauma of what she had endured was still written on her face. The remains of her elegant evening dress clung to her like a shroud, stained with blood and torn in places that no piece of fabric should ever be. It made his chest tighten in ways he didn’t care to examine too closely.

The house wasn’t much to look at from the outside—quiet and secluded, tucked into the thick woods that separated Mystic Falls from Lynchburg. A colonial-style property, the kind of house that might’ve been passed down through generations or simply left behind by the world. Elijah didn't need luxury. What mattered was the isolation it offered, the absence of prying eyes.

He brought her into the bedroom like something fragile—something valuable—cradled in his arms with a gentleness that felt strangely practiced. The bed was already turned down, a low fire casting soft light across the wooden floors and white linen. Carefully, Elijah laid her down, mindful of her stillness, the unnatural quiet that clung to her like a second skin.

The jacket he had given her earlier still rested on her shoulders, far too large for her frame, but it was warmth, it was weight, it was something tethering her to the present. Still, her legs remained bare beneath the hem of the ruined dress, the fabric riding up slightly from where it had bunched around her hips, torn and smeared with blood. A grim reminder of everything she'd been dragged through.

He reached for the wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed, shaking it out silently before draping it over her legs. The fabric was thick and scratchy to the touch, but warm. Practical. He tucked it in lightly at her sides, ensuring it covered the exposed skin where the dress had failed to protect her.

Then his gaze shifted downward. Her shoes—strappy, once-elegant heels—were still on her feet, stained at the toes with mud and blood. They’d carried her into a nightmare, and through more hours of pain than anyone should endure in a lifetime. With careful fingers, Elijah crouched at the side of the bed and slipped them off one at a time, the buckles giving way beneath his touch without a sound. He placed them neatly beneath the edge of the mattress.

He didn’t wake her. He didn’t speak.

But he stood there a moment longer, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers had curled lightly around the hem of his jacket, even in sleep.

She was still here. And he intended to keep her that way.

The doppelganger stood in the doorway, watching them both—eyes narrowed in suspicion, but unwilling to leave. Her face was pale, drawn from the same strain that had been etched into Rhiannon’s features. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him as he moved to the small basket of essentials left on the kitchen counter. Bread, fruit, bottled water. Simple things, but they were necessities, and Elijah was nothing if not thorough.

When he turned back to the girl, she had already moved, grabbing a bottle of water and glancing over the food. Her expression was full of questions she didn’t even have to voice.

“What are you planning to do with us?” Her voice was sharp, edged with a tension that had only grown since they left the house. She opened the bottle, but it remained in her hands, the cap twisted but not yet removed.

Elijah didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. He could feel her need for answers, the pressing frustration that seemed to suffocate her. But his thoughts weren’t for her. His eyes flickered back to the door of Rhiannon’s room. A sigh caught in his throat.

“You’ll be returned when the time is right.” His tone was steady, clipped, not offering more than necessary.

The doppelganger’s brow furrowed. She stepped closer, her eyes flicking between him and the room where Rhiannon slept.

“Why won’t you let her go? She has nothing to do with Katherine. Or… this .”

Elijah’s gaze was unreadable as he watched her, his voice calm but deliberate. “She is under my protection now. She stays.”

A pause hung in the air between them, heavy and silent. The girl’s hands fidgeted, still holding the bottle. She finally set it down with an audible thud on the table, her eyes narrowing as suspicion crept into her features.

“I didn’t see Trevor when we left… but I swear—I saw her. Rose. Watching from a window.”

The mention of Rose-Marie caused a slight shift in Elijah’s demeanor. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, but his expression remained neutral. She wasn’t wrong—he had seen her too, just before he left. Rose-Marie had been there, silent, hidden. But there was no need to explain the intricacies of their strange relationship to someone who hadn’t yet earned that trust.

The doppelganger’s gaze sharpened, as though something else was gnawing at her. “What did you do to him?”

The question came swiftly, and Elijah felt the weight of it settle into the pit of his stomach. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause.

“I did what justice demanded.”

Her expression faltered for just a moment, lips parting as she processed the words. “You killed him? Because of her?”

His eyes met hers now, fully. The calm, steady voice had been a shield, but now there was something else there—something quiet, intense.

“Because of what he did to her.” His gaze softened, but only just. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t defensive. He simply stated the truth, knowing it would not make sense to her. Not yet.

“You may not understand now. But one day, you will.”

She didn’t reply, her lips pressing into a thin line as she looked at the doorway, at the space where Rhiannon lay. She didn’t have the answer she wanted. Elijah wasn’t offering it, not yet.

“Chamomile. It will help you rest.”

He held the cup out to her as he spoke, the heat rising from the tea curling in the cool air of the room. The doppelganger took the cup without looking at him fully, though her gaze flicked up from the mug as she raised it to her lips. There was an edge to her posture, a scepticism that never fully abated.

The moment between them settled into a quiet tension, but it was broken by a rustling sound from the guestroom. Elijah’s attention immediately shifted back to Rhiannon.

She was still trembling, still unconscious. But it was a soft, almost imperceptible movement—her fingers twitching beneath the blanket, her breath quickening.

Elijah’s chest tightened again, the knot in his stomach unwinding as he recognised the subtle pull. He didn't move—he didn’t need to. The bond was clear now. Unmistakable. It had come too soon, but it was there.

“ There is no mistaking it .” His mind whispered the truth even before he had time to register it fully.

The tether had been made. The bond was real.

For the first time since he had stepped into the house, Elijah allowed himself a moment of quiet acknowledgement. He could no longer pretend it was a passing thing, something that would dissipate with time. This was real, undeniable.

Rhiannon .

Her name reverberated through his thoughts, like a steady rhythm that wouldn't stop. It had settled deep inside him, as if it had always been there.

There was no going back now.

The doppelganger’s voice broke his focus once more, but this time, Elijah didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The questions, the curiosity, the doubt—they no longer mattered in this moment. What was real was standing before him.

And so he waited.

The drive had been hell.

What should’ve been three hours stretched to nearly five. First, the road they needed was “unexpectedly closed for maintenance.” Then the GPS rerouted them in circles for twenty miles. Then came the crows. An entire murder of them, flapping out of the tree line and directly into their windshield like some Hitchcock remake from hell. Damon had to slam the brakes so hard Stefan cracked his hand on the dash.

He hadn't stopped cursing since.

“Birds,” Damon muttered under his breath now as they crept along a narrow gravel path toward the old house. “First roadwork, then the possessed SatNav, and now homicidal birds. Great omen.”

Stefan didn’t answer. He hadn’t for the last half hour. His jaw was set, eyes fixed ahead like his focus alone could cut through the trees.

The locator spell had burned clean and fast back in Mystic Falls, it had detected Elena’s whereabouts suprisingly fast. While they were driving into the unknown, Jeremy had searched on his phone and matched the coordinates with this abandoned-looking house just north of the county line. Only structure for miles. Only hope they had.

The sun was sinking fast now, bleeding orange through skeletal trees. Damon parked behind the tree line, far enough not to be seen from the windows. Assuming anyone was still alive in there to look out.

They popped the trunk. Damon unzipped the black duffel and started sorting weapons with the same energy as a man brewing coffee before a brawl. Vervain grenades. Stakes. Steel lighter. A half-loaded flamethrower nozzle.

“If this is the same guy Katherine was running from in 1864…” Stefan began, voice low. “He’s older than we are. Stronger, smarter. And he’s been playing this game a long time.”

Damon rolled his eyes, but he tightened his grip on the vervain grenade. “Yeah, well. So did Dracula. Doesn’t mean he wins.”

They didn’t speak again as they approached the house. The abandoned house loomed out of the trees—weather-beaten and crooked, the porch half-collapsed and ivy crawling up its frame like claws. The windows were dark. Still. No sound. No movement. Not even the familiar hum of a heartbeat.

Damon narrowed his eyes. “This whole place is a bad horror movie waiting to happen.”

Stefan didn’t argue. That, in itself, was unsettling.

They stepped through the door, Stefan first, and the creak of the hinges might as well have been a scream. Inside, the air was cold. Heavy with absence. The living room was wrecked—chairs overturned, bags tossed, a cracked lamp bleeding wire onto the floor. A cold fireplace stood dead in the corner.

And then Damon saw it. In the centre of the room—flat on the floor like a ragdoll tossed aside—was a body. A male vampire, his eyes glassy, his chest caved in. Heartless. In the  literal  sense.

“Well,” Damon muttered, crouching beside the corpse, “someone didn’t get out in time.”

He didn’t recognize the guy. Too young. Too dead.

“Still warm,” he added after brushing the skin with the back of his fingers. “Whatever happened here, we missed it.”

A rustle from the back room snapped them both to alert. Stefan was already moving, stake drawn, eyes sharp. Damon followed, quieter now.

The figure that appeared in the doorway wasn’t what he expected. A woman. Pale, dark-haired, her clothes wrinkled and stained with old blood. But she didn’t run. Didn’t threaten. She just looked at them like she'd already had all the fight drained out of her.

“You’re too late,” she said calmly.

Damon arched a brow. “Story of my life. Mind catching us up?”

She said nothing.

“Let’s try the obvious,” he said, cocking his head. “Where’s Elena?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Taken.”

Stefan stepped forward, voice low. “By who?”

Her eyes didn’t move from Damon. “Elijah.”

The name meant nothing. Just a syllable, hanging heavy in the dust-choked air.

“Elijah  who ?” Damon asked.

“Just Elijah.”

Damon snorted. “What, like Madonna?”

Her stare was ice. “He’s one of the Originals.”

Silence fell. Damon glanced at Stefan—who’d gone still as stone.

“No way,” Damon muttered. “You’re serious?”

The woman didn’t blink.

Stefan’s voice came quieter. “And you are?”

“Rose,” she said, as if the name cost her something. “I never met you, Stefan. But someone I trusted once said you were one of the good ones.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Lexi.”

That stopped Stefan cold. His mouth parted just slightly. No sound came.

“She thought the world of you,” Rose added, voice softer now.

Stefan nodded once. “She was family.”

Damon looked away. No one said anything more. Then, like a loose gear catching, Damon’s brain looped back. There was no second body as far as he could tell.

“Wait.” He frowned. “The journalist? She’s still alive?”

Rose said nothing.

He looked at Stefan. “I figured she’d be dead by now. Or at least kept on tap.”

That earned him a flicker of disapproval, but he shrugged. “What? Not like I’m wrong.”

“Don’t say that,” Rose said quietly. “Not in front of Elijah.”

Damon raised his brows. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”

Rose didn’t look at him. She looked at the body on the floor.

“He didn’t say it,” she murmured. “He just treated her like one. That was enough.”

Damon’s smirk faltered. “And that’s what got him killed?”

“He didn’t even raise his voice.”

A long breath passed between them. Damon no longer felt like smirking. Stefan’s voice was hoarse. “Why take them? Why not just kill them?”

“Because she’s a doppelganger,” Rose said. “She’s the key to breaking the curse.”

Damon blinked. “You mean the sun and moon curse?”

She nodded. “That’s what they believe. Whoever breaks it first controls the outcome. Vampires want to walk in the sun. Werewolves want to break their tether to the moon. And she—she’s the price of that choice.”

Stefan exhaled, the sound quiet but tense. “So it’s not just Elijah, is it?”

“No.” Rose looked between them, her voice colder now. “If Elijah is here, then Klaus is watching. Waiting. And others will come. Those who serve him. Those who want to stop him. She’s not just a girl anymore. She’s leverage. She’s sacrifice.”

Damon barked a short laugh—but there was no humour in it. “ Klaus ? Oh, come on. You mean that bedtime story vampires tell baby vamps to keep them in line?  That  Klaus?”

Rose met his eyes. “He’s very  real . And if he’s not already on his way, he soon will be.”

Stefan didn’t move. His whole body seemed to tighten, eyes locked on hers.

Damon’s expression darkened. “Well. That’s just  fantastic .”

He stepped past the corpse, the overturned chairs, the stale ashes of something they’d failed to stop.

“So we’re not just outnumbered,” he muttered. “We’re  outclassed .”

Stefan crouched beside the  corpse again, fingers curling around the edge of the floorboard like he needed to feel something solid.

“Then we stop playing catch-up,” he said quietly.

Their eyes met. The sun outside had fully set. The trees groaned in the wind. And somewhere, not far from here, a girl Damon Salvatore would burn the world for was already out of reach.

And someone else was holding the match.

The air was sharp with the sting of pine and rot, and the last of the sun was bleeding out across the treeline when Ryan stepped away from the marked tape and stared at the cloth-covered body on the ground.

A white sheet couldn’t make it any less grim.

He’d seen death before—grizzly car wrecks, overdoses, more domestic violence calls than he liked to remember—but this was different. This wasn’t messy. It was... clean.  Too  clean. Like someone had known exactly what they were doing when they tore that man’s throat out.

He heard the crunch of gravel behind him and turned, only to see Forbes walking away from the sedan, face unreadable, posture too composed for someone who’d just ruled out every logical explanation with two quiet words.

“No animal did this.”

Ryan had heard her say it. Not to him. Not loud enough to record. But she’d said it.

He crouched next to the sedan again, trying to work through it all for the tenth time. The door was wide open, same with the trunk. Nothing had been stolen. No blood inside the car. No signs of panic or struggle. Just... a man, a mask, and a vanishing act.

He stared at the object still sitting on the passenger seat—sleek, black, and undeniably theatrical. The mask.

Same as the one from the Lockwood Estate footage. Ornate, full-face, slightly cracked along the right side. The only thing tying this corpse to his sister and Elena Gilbert.

“Paul Hargrove,” someone had said earlier, according to the papers found in the glove box. Accountant from Atlanta. Wife confirmed the ID by phone. She was still crying when Ryan walked off the call. No record. No mental illness. Disappeared three weeks ago after leaving work and hadn’t been seen since.

Now he was lying dead in the woods of rural Virginia with a ripped-out throat and a teenage girl and a journalist missing in his wake.

Ryan stood up, rolling his shoulders. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes—the tension, the headache, the creeping panic. He glanced at the SUV tire tracks that had been flagged in the dirt. Deeper tread, different pressure. A second vehicle had been here. Bigger. Cleaner. Smarter.

Paul wasn’t the end of the line. Someone else had taken them.

And no one knew who.

He walked over to where the forest started, crouched near the edge of the asphalt, and stared at the deep grooves in the soil. The SUV had turned back into the trees—off the grid. No camera, no traffic record, no aerial cover. Just gone.

Sheriff Forbes came up beside him a moment later. “We’ll check for traffic cams on the old logging road,” she said, tone clipped. “See if it caught the vehicle heading south.”

Ryan glanced sideways at her. “You’re being careful.”

She gave him a look. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, Deputy Vale.  Nothing  about this is standard.”

“Right,” he muttered. “That’s the part I’m stuck on.”

She didn’t say anything to that.

So he tried again. “You’ve seen things like this before, haven’t you?”

Forbes hesitated just long enough for him to notice.

“It’s…complicated,” she said eventually, and then walked off to speak with the deputies.

He stayed where he was, watching the trees shift in the wind, and tried not to punch the nearest tree trunk out of sheer frustration. His sister was still missing. And this— this  was all he had. A dead man in a mask and tire tracks that vanished into nothing.

We’re not chasing a suspect. We’re chasing shadows.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned back toward the lot.

And that’s when he saw her.

Same woman. Blonde. Pale. Eyes like glass and lips just slightly redder than made sense for this kind of place. But it wasn’t her face that stopped him—it was the dress.

Flapper-style. Cream silk. The same one she had worn earlier. It caught the light like it didn’t belong here at all, and shimmered when it shouldn’t.

“ You ,” Ryan said, throat tight. “What the hell…”

She was standing right beside the car. The mask reflected dimly in the window beside her, but she didn’t react to it. Her gaze was fixed on the white sheet.

“Throats don’t tear like that by accident,” she said softly.

Ryan blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She tilted her head, not looking at him. “Strange, isn’t it? He vanished. Quiet. Obedient. Not the kind of man who snaps. And then he shows up here, in the middle of nowhere, and dies like… that.”

Ryan stepped closer. “You’re not law enforcement.”

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

She finally turned to look at him. Her expression was calm, but distant. Like someone who already knew the ending to a story no one else had read.

“You wouldn’t believe me. Not yet.”

“Try me.”

She ignored that. “She got close once. Your sister. Her friend.”

“What?”

“They didn’t know what they were looking at. But they found pieces of it. Glimpses. Enough to draw attention.”

Ryan’s brow furrowed. “I don’t—”

“The blog,” she said, gently. “ Vale & Star Investigates . You used to roll your eyes at it.”

He stared. “How do you—?”

“She left more behind than you think,” the woman went on. “Start at the beginning. Look at the things no one wanted them chasing. Look at what was hidden in plain sight.”

Her voice was soft. But firm. Like she wasn’t just making conversation. Like she was…  instructing  him.

He blinked. “Who are you?”

She smiled then. A soft, melancholy curve of the lips. Not cruel. Not mocking.

“I’ve been watching you.”

Ryan took a step back.

She didn’t follow. Her hand drifted up to touch the bonnet of the car—and passed right through it.

No contact. No weight. No reflection. His stomach turned cold.

“I’m going mad,” he muttered.

She looked at him one last time. “Not mad,” she said. “Just… waking up.”

And then she was gone.

No footsteps. No sound. No trace. Just the wind in the trees, the fading light, and the echo of something Ryan had no name for.

He turned back toward the white cloth. The forest. The shadows gathering around the edges of what should’ve been a straightforward investigation. But nothing was straightforward anymore.

And even the ghosts were starting to talk.

He couldn’t see her anymore.

Rebekah didn’t need to be told. She felt it the moment his eyes drifted past her, the moment his thoughts folded inwards again, focused on blood trails and tyre tracks and questions no one had answers for. That flicker of awareness—that rare, precious tether—had vanished. The world dimmed with it.

She stood exactly where she had been when it happened, still and silent beside the car. The white cloth covering the dead man fluttered slightly in the late breeze. Shadows stretched longer between the trees now. And Ryan… Ryan was walking away, back toward the other deputies, jaw tight, expression carved from grief and fury.

The tether had snapped. Again.

She exhaled quietly, though there was no real breath in her chest. Not anymore.

It was always like this. Moments of clarity. Fleeting awareness. The briefest brush with visibility before she faded into the margins again. She wasn’t dead. Not properly. But she wasn’t  alive  either. Not as the world understood it. Somewhere between form and memory, anchored to one person and one person only.

Ryan .

She could still feel him. Even with the connection broken. He was a steady pull in her blood—or what passed for blood in this strange echo of a body. She couldn’t move far from him, no matter how much she wanted to. Not even now, when his sister’s life might be slipping through their fingers and he was looking for answers in all the wrong places. She couldn’t go after Rhiannon herself. Couldn’t help. Couldn’t even raise her voice unless he looked her in the eye.

It wasn’t fair.

But fairness had never really been part of her story.

Chicago. 1924. That was the last time she remembered choosing something for herself.

She’d packed her bags. Finally.  Finally , after years of being shadowed, controlled, and warned into submission, she had dared to draw a line in the sand. She was going to leave. No more Klaus. No more pretending. She’d even found a flat of her own and people who didn’t care what her last name was.

It lasted four days.

Nik found out. And like he always did when she tried to live without him, he put her back in a box.

The next thing she remembered was Mystic Falls. Waking up without waking properly, in a form that wasn’t solid, wasn’t living. She didn’t understand it. Still didn’t. All she knew was that she was tethered—to a boy. A stranger.

He’d been fifteen. Gangly, with too-long limbs and dark circles under his eyes. Carried books too heavy for his frame and a chip on his shoulder even heavier than that. The other boys called him “posh” behind his back. Teased him for his accent, for his quiet stubbornness, for the old woman he lived with on the edge of town.

She watched it all unfold. Silent. Useless.

Years passed. She never moved far. She couldn’t. It was like her existence orbited his. When he hurt, she hurt. When he fought, she flinched. When he smiled—rare, cautious, but sincere—it settled something in her chest that she hadn’t even realised was broken.

She didn’t know what he was to her. Not at first. It took time. Took a decade, in fact, before she started to feel it in her bones.

The bond.

Fifteen years. She’d been with him for fifteen years.

And he never saw her. Not even once. Not until last night.

That was the first time. The gym. He’d been alone, lifting weights, when he suddenly looked up and  saw  her. If she had known it would only last a few moments, she would have done more than flirt.

Then this morning, outside the police station. She’d waved. He blinked. Frowned. Turned. But again—gone before she could even try to speak.

And today, just now, at the parking lot. The longest encounter yet. She’d spoken to him. He’d answered. He hadn’t run. Hadn’t shut down.

He’d listened.

It gave her hope. Foolish hope, perhaps. But it was more than she’d had in a long time.

Still, the connection was fragile. Held together by belief, and Ryan... he was too logical for his own good. Too used to facts and evidence and neat, prosecutable conclusions. The supernatural didn’t fit into his worldview. Not yet.

But he was close. Closer than ever. And she could feel the bond strengthening.

God, she wanted it to hold.

What she didn’t want to admit—what she hadn’t even whispered aloud—was how much she hated this. Being tied to him but unable to help him. Knowing that his sister was probably dying, or worse, and all she could do was stand by and watch him unravel.

She’d seen the body at the scene. The way the man’s throat had been torn out—not cut, but ripped, like claws or fangs had done it. And she’d seen the SUV tracks. Two cars. One kill. Two girls taken.

She knew what it meant. She’d known the moment she saw the masquerade mask.

Rhiannon had been taken by a vampire.

Maybe she’d seen something she shouldn’t. Maybe she’d tried to protect the doppelganger. Maybe she’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But if doppelganger lore was involved, it meant Originals. It meant  Klaus . And that… didn’t bode well.

Rebekah wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t shiver, not physically, but she felt cold in places she hadn’t known she could anymore.

She hoped Rhiannon was alive. Desperately.

Not just for Ryan. For Kol.

She’d felt it, the same way she felt her own bond. When the twins were near each other—Ryan and Rhiannon, Kol and herself—there was a resonance. An echo. A doubling of the invisible thread that tied her to this world. Kol had found his soulmate. At long last. And if the universe had any sense of grace left in it, he wouldn’t be made to lose her now.

She let her gaze drift toward the treeline where Ryan had disappeared into the dark. Still walking. Still fighting.

Still hers.

She had no idea what she was. A ghost? A remnant? A punishment? But she knew who she was bound to. And that meant something.

It had to. Because if it didn’t, then all she was left with was the silence.

And the silence had never once been kind.

The fire popped softly, its glow flickering across the edges of polished wood and worn carpet like some old, faithful theatre set. The house was warm—too warm—and smelled faintly of cedar and dried tea leaves. It was the kind of house one might find in a glossy lifestyle catalogue, if one were into rural charm and curated solitude.

Elena hated it.

She paced the perimeter again, checking each window for the tenth time. Still locked. There was and old wall-mounted landline, but no signal. She already tried. Every door led to another pristine hallway, another cosy room, another perfectly stacked bookshelf or untouched bathroom. Even the wardrobe in her temporary bedroom was stocked with clothes in her size, folded like they’d been waiting.

It wasn’t a prison. Not technically. But it  felt  like one. No chains. No guards. Just... stillness. Politeness. Silence thick enough to choke.

And worse—no answers.

She replayed Bonnie’s voice in her head like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Stefan and Damon are coming for you.”

A whisper, a flicker, nothing more than magic passed between thin air back at the abandoned house—but it had been real. Bonnie had sent that message. And Elena had held onto it like it was a life raft in a rising flood.

But now… now it had been  hours . Maybe longer. There was no way to tell in this house where the clocks didn’t tick and time felt like it had given up. She had no idea where her friends were. No idea if Rose had told them anything. For all she knew, Stefan and Damon had arrived at the location only to find two dead vampires and an empty house.

Would they know where to look next? Would they think she was dead?

That thought made her stomach twist.

Rhiannon hadn’t stirred in nearly an hour. Elena stood in the doorway to the guest room, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest. She looked better than she had earlier—less pale, less on-the-verge—but she still wasn’t right. There was something faraway in her even in sleep, like she was caught in a dream she couldn’t wake from.

Elena moved closer, sat beside her on the edge of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. She’d done that same thing earlier, maybe ten times already. It didn’t help. But it made her feel less useless.

Jenna had told her about Rhiannon before. High school stories. Kind words. She was kind, Jenna had said, but stubborn. Stubborn enough to walk into the middle of a kidnapping and get dragged down with it.

Because of  Elena . Because Elena existed. Because she had Katherine’s face. Because she’d walked into a masquerade ball instead of minding her business.

Now this woman—Jenna’s best friend—was half-conscious, wrapped in Elijah’s coat and a heavy wool blanket, looking like she’d been drained of something far more important than blood.

And Elena didn’t know if she’d ever forgive herself for that.

Rose and Trevor had told her enough to keep the nightmares alive.

It hadn’t taken much. They’d been running for centuries. Betrayed by Katherine. Punished. Terrified. And Elena—Elena was the key to it all. The thing they needed. The thing  everyone  needed.

She was the key to breaking the Sun and Moon curse. The curse that supposedly chained vampires to the night and werewolves to the moon. The curse that had ruled the balance of power for who-knows-how-long. And to undo it?

Someone had to  die .

The doppelganger.

Elena .

They hadn’t said who exactly wanted to break it. Or what would happen to the world if it did. Just that she was the price. That someone out there—many someones—were looking for her.

And now Elijah had her. Was he different? Did he want to protect her? Or was he just playing the long game?

She didn’t know. She didn’t  trust  him. Not yet.

She made tea she didn’t drink. The kitchen was too clean, too fully stocked. She found fresh fruit. A loaf of bread that hadn’t even started to go stale. A sealed envelope on the counter with no name and no note. Inside, a list of emergency contacts. Neat handwriting. Not hers.

It was too neat. Too ready. It was the kind of place one prepared for someone to stay in. Not crash in. Not hide in.

Stay .

And that made her skin crawl.

She heard him before she saw him—footsteps as quiet as snow.

Elijah stepped into the sitting room like he had every right to. He probably thought he did. His coat was dusted with pine needles; his expression was the same calm, unreadable thing it had always been.

Elena rounded on him before he could speak.

“What are you going to do with her?” she demanded. “What are you going to do with me?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Nothing.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’re not my prisoners.”

“Then why can’t I  leave ?” she shot back, arms folded. “Why can’t I call anyone? Why does this house feel like it was designed to trap us?”

He didn’t flinch. “Because you shall return home when it is safe to do so.”

Elena stared at him. “Safe from  what ?”

That made him pause. She saw it—just a flicker. Like something shifted in the room.

“I already know what I am,” she continued, voice low now. “Rose told me. Trevor too. I know what it means to be the doppelganger. I know I’m supposed to die for some curse you people want to break.”

Elijah looked at her then. Fully. Calm, still—but there was something old in his eyes. Something heavy.

“You won’t die for it,” he said quietly.

“Then  what  am I here for?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t raise his voice.

“Klaus.”

The word dropped like a stone. Elena stared. “Who?”

Elijah didn’t answer. But the look on his face said everything. Not fear. Not anger.  Memory .

As if the name itself carried more weight than a thousand explanations.

She sat down again without realising it, the room suddenly too cold despite the fire. She didn’t know who Klaus was.

But she knew one thing with absolute certainty: If Elijah was trying to protect her from him,
then he must be worse.

The dream didn’t begin like a dream. No soft fade, no blurred edges. It was sudden. Real. And warm.

She stood in the heart of a grand ballroom, her bare feet brushing mosaic tiles worn smooth by time. Jazz curled through the air like smoke—raw, haunting, full of brass and longing. People moved past her in elegant, fluid motion—women in beaded dresses, men in tuxedos, their laughter low and reverent beneath the weight of some distant celebration.

A garland of pine and gold ribbon curled along the upper banisters, threaded with flickering fairy lights. And in the corner, nearly hidden behind velvet drapes, stood a towering Christmas tree—decked in crystal baubles, silver bells, and long strands of delicate ribbon that swayed with the movement of the air.

‘ Christmas Eve ,’ she thought, the recognition blooming without prompt. Somehow, her body knew what her mind did not.

The scent was intoxicating: jasmine, bourbon, something spiced and sharp underneath. Then, overhead—perched on the curve of a wrought-iron balcony—she saw it.

The crow.

Its feathers shimmered with hints of blue and violet in the golden light. It tilted its head to look at her, and when their eyes locked, a weight dropped in her chest like a stone falling through water. It spoke, again.

" Roeddet ti'n dymuno gwybod pwy ydy e. Gwylia'n astud, fy merch. "

The Welsh rolled through her like thunder through valley fog.

You wished to know who he is. Watch carefully, my daughter.

The bird blinked, turned, and vanished into the shadowed rafters.

Her breath hitched. And then she saw him.

The man from the masquerade. Same black tuxedo. Same careless smile. He stood at the edge of the room, glass in hand, looking infuriatingly comfortable among strangers and chandeliers.

She followed him. He moved through the party with easy charm, his laughter low and dry. Someone clinked a glass beside him.

“Kol Mikaelson, you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.”

That was it. The name. The sound of it settled somewhere in her ribs like it had always belonged there.

He disappeared into a quieter room, and she trailed after him without hesitation. Inside, it was quieter. A woman stood beside him—older, cloaked in deep green, fingers brushing old runes carved into the surface of a half-forged golden dagger.

Kol leaned over the table, voice hushed. “The others don’t work on him. This will. Temporarily. That’s all I need. Just long enough to get lost before he notices.”

Rhiannon felt it like a memory pressed through glass—his exhaustion, his hope, the bone-deep fear he was trying so hard to hide.

He didn’t want revenge. He wanted  freedom .

Then the door slammed open. She jumped.

Three figures entered. The first—Elijah—tall and composed, his presence eerily calm. The second—a blonde woman Rhiannon didn’t recognise—wide-eyed but determined. And behind them came the third.

A broad-shouldered man with golden hair and a cold sort of beauty. His expression was amused. Leisurely. His gait slow and deliberate, as if he already knew exactly how this would end. There was nothing soft in him. Not even his smile. ‘ Predatory, ’ she thought, ‘ that’s what he is. ’

A lion in a dinner jacket.

Kol’s smile vanished the moment he saw them. “Bekah?” he asked, voice low. Not angry. Just wounded.

The blonde didn’t answer. Not right away. Her eyes dropped.

“I had to,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Then the man in the back stepped forward—dagger already in hand. Kol spun to move, but Elijah was faster. He caught Kol’s arm, firm and unforgiving. The blonde joined him, catching the other.

Kol fought them. Hard. He snarled, cursed, twisted against their hold—but he wasn’t strong enough.

“Don’t do this,” he snapped.

But the man raised the dagger.

“No—wait!” Rhiannon’s voice burst from her throat, full of alarm and panic. She lurched forward, instinct taking over.

“Don’t!”

They didn’t hear her. But Kol's head turned. Just slightly. His eyes flicked—right to where she stood.

And in that fraction of a second, she could have sworn—

Then the dagger plunged into his chest. Kol gasped, mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body arched violently. His hands flexed once—and then the transformation began.

His skin turned a dull grey. Dusty. Ashen. Thick black veins exploded beneath the surface, spidering across his throat and jaw and arms like oil in water. His entire body stiffened, frozen mid-motion, eyes locked somewhere far away.

Still.

Like a statue. Like a relic.

Like  death .

She fell to her knees. “No—no, no, no—”

But it didn’t matter. They were already walking away. Leaving him frozen, grey, and gone.

She jolted upright with a strangled breath, heart racing, lungs burning for air. The fire cracked gently beside her. The wool blanket scratched at her neck. She was back.

Safe.

But the dream—no, not a dream—still clawed at the back of her mind. And then she saw him.

Kol.  Sitting in the chair across the room, face shadowed by firelight, watching her like she might shatter.

Her breath caught again.

“You’re dead,” she whispered. “I saw you die.”

He didn’t answer. He rose slowly. As she shifted, the blanket slipped from her shoulder. She reached for it—He moved first.

His fingers caught the edge of the blanket, out of reflex—and brushed against her hand.

They both stilled.

Kol’s eyes flicked to the place where their skin touched. Carefully, he reached again—more deliberately this time—and touched her arm.

No resistance. No barrier. He was  solid .

Her breath left her. He stepped closer, eyes never leaving hers, then lifted his hands and cupped her face.

His palms were warm. Reverent. His thumbs traced her cheekbones like he was mapping something sacred, like if he memorised her well enough, he’d never have to be afraid of losing her again.

She didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

“Kol,” she whispered, voice catching around the syllable like it meant more than she could say.

He didn’t speak. But his hands didn’t leave her.

And this time—neither did he.

Chapter Text

Elijah sat behind the old oak desk in his study, a single lamp spilling light across parchment and ink, shadows pooling in the corners of the room like patient animals. He had been here for hours, though he had little to show for it. Neat lines of notes. A map with measured notations. A plan that shifted every time he allowed his thoughts to linger too long.

Niklaus.

It had been three decades since they had spoken. Thirty years since his brother had turned his back on blood and bond alike, leaving his siblings to sleep at the bottom of the ocean.

Elijah could not say with certainty where Niklaus was now, only that he was searching. Always searching. And if he was searching, it meant the doppelgänger’s life was already measured in grains of sand.

Elijah leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Niklaus wanted the girl for the curse. That much had never been in doubt. She was the key. The sacrifice. And if Elijah were pragmatic—truly pragmatic—he could deliver her. Secure leverage. Buy himself a measure of control over his brother.

But pragmatism was rarely so simple.

She was seventeen, barely more than a child. And while Elijah had carried out ruthless acts in the name of family, of survival, of necessity—he had never enjoyed the blood of innocents on his hands. His conscience, however unwelcome, was relentless.

And then there was the other problem—Rhiannon.

His eyes flicked briefly to the doorway, as if he might see her there. She was not, of course. She slept still, beneath firelight and blankets.

She had tried to save the doppelgänger, had thrown herself into the jaws of danger for the girl. That act alone complicated everything. How could he allow Elena Gilbert to be sacrificed, when his own soulmate had nearly given her life to prevent it?

To do so would be to dismiss her courage, her sacrifice. It was unthinkable.

Elijah exhaled softly, the sound sharp in the stillness of the room. His principles, his conscience, his heart—all at odds with reason. And yet he could not ignore them.

A sound interrupted him.

The faint rustle of movement. A sharp breath, half-strangled.

From the guestroom. 

He rose at once, his steps measured but quick as he crossed the hall. He had nearly reached the door when he stopped.

“You’re dead. I saw you die.” 

The words were soft, but to his ears, they carried clearly, every syllable etched into the silence.

He waited, listening. Another whisper followed, quieter, but unmistakable. 

“Kol.”

Elijah froze. 

For the briefest moment, something passed over his face—a flicker of memory, of disbelief. Then it was gone, smoothed into calm neutrality once more. He stood there, still, every sense sharpened.

But there was no second voice.

No companion. Only her.

His jaw tightened. He turned the name over in his mind, tasting it like something foreign.

Kol.

It was uncommon, yes. But not unheard of. There were other men who bore it. Surely she could not mean his brother. His brother was daggered. Silenced. Buried. 

And yet...

Elijah resumed his walk, slower now, his expression unreadable. But in the depths of his mind, the question lingered like a shadow that would not leave. 

Why Kol?

He knocked lightly against the door. 

Inside, there was a shuffle, fabric rustling against sheets, the quickening of a heartbeat he had already been tracking. A pause. Then, her voice—unsteady, uncertain. 

“Come in.”

He stepped through the doorway, measured, unhurried. The fire cast a faint glow across the room, illuminating only her. She was sitting upright now, hair mussed from sleep, eyes wide and still glazed with shock. 

Alone. 

For a moment, Elijah lingered in the threshold, studying the scene. Then he allowed the faintest smile to touch his mouth, careful and composed. 

“I heard you stir,” he said gently. “I wanted to be sure you were well.”

She blinked at him, startled. “You… heard me?” 

Elijah inclined his head, almost apologetic. “Our hearing is… keener than yours. Even whispers carry.” 

Something flickered across her face—unease, sharp and unmistakable. Her gaze slid away almost immediately, down to the blanket she clutched higher against her chest, then past him to the empty chair by the fire.

Not once did she look him in the eye.

He filed the gesture away, silent. 

“Do you require anything?” he asked. “Water, tea, food?” 

She shook her head too quickly. “No. I just… I want to know where we are. And when I can go home. My Gran—she’ll be worried if I’m gone too long.” 

Her voice was tight, rushed, as though the words themselves might shield her from him.

Elijah stepped further into the room, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His expression softened, but the weight in his gaze did not.

“You are safe here,” he said evenly. “As for home…” He paused, measuring the fear he read so clearly in her posture. “You will return when it is safe to do so."

Her lips parted in protest, but she said nothing more. The silence pressed thick between them, punctuated only by the crackle of firewood. 

He did not press her further. He would not force trust where it was not given. But as he turned, as he left her in the hush of the firelight, Elijah could not shake the echo of the name he had heard only moments before—drawn out of her in a tone that had not been meant for him.

Kol.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, she pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

Her whole body was trembling. Not from the cold—the fire was still burning steadily—but from him. 

She hadn’t been afraid of Elijah before. Not really. At the abandoned house, when he’d carried her out of that nightmare, wrapped her in his jacket, patched her up—she had let herself believe, if only for a moment, that he was safety. Order. Someone she could trust.

But after what she had seen—what he had done—she couldn’t look at him now without the image flashing behind her eyes. His hand locking down on Kol’s arm. The dagger plunging deep. His face calm, unyielding, as if killing his own brother was nothing more than duty. 

Her stomach turned. A man like that couldn’t be safe.

She glanced toward the empty chair by the fire. Empty to anyone else. Not to her. 

Kol’s eyes found hers at once, his face shadowed but sharp with awareness as he stood up and made his way over to her, settling back on the edge of the bed.

She reached for him instinctively, her fingers closing around his hand. She traced letters quickly, pressing the words into his palm with trembling strokes.

We have to go.

His lips quirked, faintly amused despite the tension lacing her grip.

“Already plotting your escape, cariad?” he drawled, voice low, steady. “And here I thought you liked my brother’s hospitality.”

Her eyes flashed, her touch firmer now.

He killed you. 

The humor faltered. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, as though trying to anchor her. “Not quite. Not in the way you think.” 

But she shook her head violently, tracing the words again, harder this time.

Murderer. Can’t trust him.

Kol exhaled slowly, the sound caught between resignation and sympathy.

“I don’t blame you for believing that,” he admitted. “I’d think the same, in your place.”

His eyes softened, intent on hers. “But trust me on this: if you’re going to run, you’ll need more than fear and firelight to get you out of here alive.” 

She squeezed his hand, her pulse still racing, her chest tight with the weight of decision.

She couldn’t stay here. Not with Elijah. Not when Elena was under the same roof. 

They had to go.

Her hand stilled on his palm. Then she spelled again, slower this time.

Elena. Is she safe? Did he hurt her? 

Kol tilted his head, studying her with a look that was far too perceptive. His thumb brushed over her fingers once before he answered.

“She is alive,” he said, tone deceptively casual. “Safe, for now.”

Rhiannon let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging against the blanket. Relief, sharp and fleeting, surged through her veins.

But Kol wasn’t finished.

“Though,” he added, voice dropping into something quieter, darker, “being a doppelgänger is as good as a death sentence. She won’t grow old, won’t have the luxury of fading quietly into the ordinary. Not unless she pulls a little Katerina act and makes herself a vampire.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, searching his. He only smirked faintly, the firelight flickering across the sharp planes of his face. 

“But that path has its own price, darling. She would spend the rest of eternity running. And Nik—” his mouth curved around the name with bitter familiarity, “—Nik won't take kindly to being denied what he wants twice.”

The letters scratched harder against his skin this time.

Who is Nik? 

Kol’s eyes glinted, part mirth, part warning. “My darling brother. Klaus, if you prefer the monster’s stage name.” 

Her pulse lurched. The man with the golden hair plunging the dagger into Kol’s chest came to mind. She scrawled again, the strokes shaky.

And doppelgänger? What does that mean?

Kol’s smirk softened into something grim. “It means Elena Gilbert was born to be a sacrifice. The blood in her veins is the key to breaking the curse Nik’s obsessed with. And if she doesn’t die for it… he’ll keep hunting her until she does.”

Her breath caught, throat dry, as the words sank in. A death sentence. Written into Elena’s very existence. 

Kol leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though he already knew Elijah couldn’t hear him.

“So yes, she is safe tonight. But tomorrow? Next month? Next year?” He shrugged lightly. “That depends on how long she can keep from bleeding for my brother.”

The words hung between them like smoke, heavy and acrid.

Sacrifice. Death sentence. 

Her stomach knotted. She thought of Jenna—Jenna, still pale and shaky from her “accident” with the kitchen knife. Rhiannon had rolled her eyes at the excuse, called her clumsy, but now… now she wasn’t so sure.

Not in this town. Not with what she had seen.

Jenna, who had already lost her sister and brother-in-law barely ten months ago. Who was barely holding herself together, suddenly responsible for two teenagers when she was still figuring out her own life. If something happened to Elena—if something happened to Jeremy—what would that do to her? 

And Jeremy himself. Fifteen. Just fifteen. A boy who had already been handed grief no one his age should carry, who only had his sister and his aunt left in the world. 

Her chest tightened.

Elena was seventeen. A child. Still in school, still caught up in teenage drama and crushes and Founders’ events. And yet, here Kol was, saying she had been born to die. That some ancient bastard had written her ending before she had even had the chance to begin. 

Rhiannon’s jaw clenched.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him. Then she scrawled hard into his palm, the letters sharp, decisive.

No. Not happening. She’s not dying. Not on my watch. Only over my dead body.

Kol’s hand tightened around hers. She dared a glance upward. He was watching her with an intensity that made her pulse stumble—something sharp, almost hungry, and yet… softer than she expected.

Like her defiance had struck him somewhere he hadn’t been touched in a very long time.

It unsettled her. Made her throat dry. She wasn’t used to being looked at like that—like someone had just found a rare, precious thing and wasn’t planning to let go. 

He leaned closer, voice low, brushing the edges of a laugh. “Adorable, really, how you think you can stop it.” 

Her glare sharpened. She pressed her fingertip harder against his skin.

Try me.

The corner of his mouth curved—not the sharp smirk he wore at the masquerade, but something quieter.

Almost reverent. 

And suddenly, she wasn’t sure who was more dangerous: Elijah with his cold civility… or Kol with his unshakable eyes and the way he made her feel seen.

The bag jolted with every strike. Leather smacked against canvas, dull and rhythmic, each punch harder than the last.

Sweat stung his eyes, slid down his spine. The gym was near-empty this late, just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional clang of weights from the other side of the room. 

Ryan didn’t care.

He drove his fist into the sand sack again, knuckles aching through the wraps.

Again. Again.

The chain above creaked in protest, the bag swaying violently, almost tearing loose from its mount.

He could almost picture a face there—blurred, indistinct, but cruel enough to deserve every hit. Whoever had dragged his sister into this nightmare. Whoever had left a man gutted in the woods.

His breath came ragged. He had been at it too long, but stopping wasn’t an option. Stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant facing the one truth he couldn’t shake: they had nothing.

Hours of questioning, chasing every half-useful lead, sifting through lies and panic, and all they had to show for it was a dead accountant in a mask and a second set of tyre tracks vanishing into the woods.

No suspect. No car. No direction.

No bloody reason.

His fist cracked against the bag so hard the seam split slightly at the top, sand hissing down onto the mat. He let it hang there, shoulders shaking, chest heaving.

What the hell was he supposed to tell his Gran?

Rhiannon had been living with her even after uni—quiet house, cups of tea, familiar routines. She would have noticed by now.

Of course she had.

He could picture it too vividly: Gran standing in the kitchen, hands folded, waiting for an explanation when he walked through the door.

He couldn’t show up with empty hands. Couldn’t tell her the truth—“someone in a mask dragged her off into the night, and now we’ve lost the trail”—because what good would that do?

But he couldn’t lie either. Not about this. 

He slammed his fist into the bag again, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. 

Bloody useless.

His thoughts spun in circles, picking apart every fragment of information they had scraped together. Gas station footage. Mask. Atlanta accountant. The blog.

The damned blog.

Vale & Star Investigates.

He’d mocked it enough times. And yet, wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing Rhiannon had been sniffing out for years? Things hidden in plain sight. Mysteries no one wanted solved.

The bag sagged against its chain, a sad, battered thing barely hanging on. His arms trembled from the effort, sweat dripping off his chin, but his mind wouldn’t still. 

Somewhere out there, his sister was alive. She had to be. And until he knew otherwise, he would keep punching.

“Very dramatic.” 

He froze, and then slowly, he lifted his head.

There she was. Again. Leaning against the far wall like she owned the place, cream silk catching in the dim light, every inch as pristine as the first night he had seen her. Same dress. Same impossible, smug calm.

Ryan’s stomach twisted. “Oh, for—bloody hell. Not you again.” 

Her brows arched delicately. “I’m flattered.” 

“Do you own anything else to wear,” he shot back, tugging at his wraps, “or is this a full-time haunting gig?”

The corner of her mouth curved. Not quite a smile, but close enough to make his blood pressure rise.

“You’re welcome to focus on my wardrobe, if it distracts you from the fact that you are wasting time.”

He glared at her. “I’m training.”

“You are sulking,” she corrected, eyes flicking toward the mangled bag. “And hitting things that can’t hit back. Meanwhile, your sister is still out there. I already told you where to look.”

His jaw tightened. “You didn’t tell me anything.” 

Her gaze sharpened. “The blog. Vale & Star Investigates. I spelled it out for you in the parking lot, and here you are, pounding sand like a sulky child instead of opening a bloody laptop.” 

Ryan clenched his fists, the sting of raw knuckles throbbing in time with his irritation. “You don’t get to waltz in here like some overdressed fortune-teller and lecture me.”

She tilted her head, studying him with infuriating calm. “I don’t lecture. I remind. You have already got the pieces—you’re just too stubborn to put them together.” 

His breath came sharp, uneven. He wanted to tell her to sod off, to vanish like she always did before someone else walked in, but the words stuck. Because deep down, part of him hated that she might be right.

The abandoned house smelled like dust and old blood. Chairs overturned, ash in the fireplace, one headless vampire sprawled across the floorboards like a warning no one asked for.

Damon kicked a broken lamp out of his way and pressed the phone tighter to his ear. 

“Finally,” he drawled, pacing tight circles through the wreckage. “Sleeping Beauty decides to wake up. Tell me you’ve got something useful this time, Bonnie, because sitting around in Dracula’s summer home hasn’t exactly been a thrill.”

Her voice on the other end was hoarse but stubborn. “I can do another locator spell.”

Jeremy’s voice cut in, sharp. “No, you can’t. You already—Bonnie, you collapsed. You were bleeding.”

“Minor side effects,” Bonnie snapped. “I can handle it.” 

Damon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Just don’t keel over before you spit out a location.”

“Damon.” Stefan’s voice carried from across the room, a quiet warning.

“What?” Damon shot him a look. “You wanna sit here polishing our stakes while Elena’s off god-knows-where with Tall, Dark, and Murdery? Be my guest. I’m not wasting another night.”

He jabbed a hand toward the corpse on the floor. “This guy’s heart didn’t rip itself out. Whoever did it—Elijah, Santa Claus, I don’t care—is dangerous. And Elena’s with him. End of story.”

Rose shifted in the corner, arms folded, sulking like the world had ended and maybe it had for her.

Damon ignored her.

“Look, witchy,” he said into the phone, pacing faster now. “You want to help? Then help. Forget the nosebleeds and the melodrama. Just point us in the right direction before Little Miss Doppelgänger ends up on the wrong end of a sacrificial knife.”

Bonnie’s silence on the other end stretched long, taut with defiance. Damon’s grip tightened on the phone. He hated the waiting. Hated the helplessness. He needed a direction. A name. A fight. 

Anything but this.

The line crackled faintly as Bonnie’s voice filtered through, low and determined. “Jeremy, I need candles. Four. And a map of Virginia.” 

Jeremy’s protest came immediately. “Bonnie, no—you already pushed too hard. That collapse wasn’t nothing. It was a warning.”

“I said I can handle it.” Bonnie’s tone was clipped, the kind that dared anyone to argue. 

Damon pinched the bridge of his nose and paced another tight circle across the ruined floorboards. The old wood groaned under his boots, matching the tight pull in his jaw.

“You heard her, Mini Gilbert. Fetch the props. Let the witch work her magic.”

“I don’t like this,” Jeremy shot back.

“Newsflash: neither do I.” Damon turned, eyes flicking toward the heartless corpse still bleeding into the floor. “But unless you’ve got another way to track down your sister before something really nasty happens to her, maybe shut up and light the candles.”

He kept moving. Back and forth. Step, turn, step. Waiting for Bonnie to mutter something useful. An address. A town. Hell, he’d settle for the name of a diner.

Anything to chase. 

But instead, another voice cut through the silence. 

“This won’t work.”

Damon glanced up.

Rose.

She was still huddled near the wall, pale and worn, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion in her face. 

“Excuse me?” he asked, one brow arched.

“The little witch,” Rose said, nodding toward the phone. “Even if she pushes through… Elijah has witches of his own. Experienced ones. They’ll have cloaked the doppelgänger by now. She won’t be able to find her.”

Jeremy’s voice rose through the phone, frustration spiking. “See? She’s right! You’re pushing Bonnie for nothing—”

Damon cut him off with a sharp gesture he knew the kid couldn’t see. “Save the sermon. We don’t quit just because some ancient babysitter says so.”

Rose’s eyes narrowed. “If you keep forcing her, she’ll break. And then you’ll lose the only chance you have left.”

Damon barked a laugh, humorless. “Oh, here we go again. Story time with Rose. The Originals and Klaus and bedtime tales meant to scare baby vamps into eating their vegetables.” He waved a hand. “Forgive me if I don’t take the ghost stories too seriously.”

Her mouth tightened. “They’re not stories.”

“Really? Because Stefan and I have been walking this planet for a hundred and sixty years, and guess what—we’ve never seen them. Never met anyone who’s seen them. So if they’re real, where the hell are they hiding? Mars?”

His words cracked through the dust-thick silence. Stefan shifted by the doorway, his expression taut but quiet. Rose didn’t move, didn’t blink. She just watched Damon with the tired, unflinching look of someone who knew the ending of the story and hated having to repeat it. 

Damon turned away before she could say more, jaw set, phone still hot against his ear. He needed answers, not fairy tales.

The line rustled with movement. There was a hiss, then Jeremy’s sharp intake of breath. The sound of a blade, quick and precise, and then a drop of blood hitting paper. 

Bonnie’s voice came next, low and steady, already shifting into something heavier. Latin spilling through the line, words that carried more weight than he liked to admit.

Damon stilled, listening. The chanting built, pressing against his ear like heat through glass.  For a heartbeat, he let himself hope.

Just a heartbeat. 

Then Bonnie’s voice faltered. 

“It’s… blocked,” she gasped, frustration bleeding through. “Someone—someone’s cloaking her.” 

Damon’s pacing grew sharper, faster. “Then push harder.” 

“I’m trying.” 

“Try harder.” 

The chanting rose again, fierce and raw, and Damon’s jaw tightened as he paced another sharp circle.

Jeremy’s voice cracked through, panicked. “Bonnie, stop—you’re bleeding again.” 

“Not yet,” she ground out. 

“Bonnie—” 

And then—silence.  Jeremy’s shout ripped through the phone. “Bonnie! Bonnie, can you hear me?!” 

Damon froze. The silence on the line was too deep, too heavy. 

Stefan was suddenly at his side, prying the phone from his hand. “Jeremy—what happened?” 

“She collapsed,” Jeremy’s voice broke, high and frantic. “She’s bleeding worse this time—her nose, her ears—what the hell am I supposed to do? I should take her to the hospital—” 

“No,” Stefan said firmly, even as his eyes flicked at Damon. “Stay with her. Keep her breathing. She’ll recover.”

Jeremy’s voice cracked. “This is exactly why I said it was a bad idea!” 

The line went dead quiet except for Jeremy’s ragged breathing. Damon clenched his fists. Across the room, Rose gave him a look so sharp it might as well have been a blade.

I told you so without even opening her mouth. 

“Fantastic,” Damon muttered, throwing the useless phone onto the couch. “Witch down, doppelgänger cloaked, zero answers. Productive night.” 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing again, faster now, the weight in his chest twisting tighter. 

There was only one angle left. Not a good one. But maybe good enough. 

“Alright,” he muttered, grabbing his own phone, dialing before Stefan could argue. “If we can’t find Elena, we find the journalist. Maybe she’s still trackable.” 

The line clicked. “Ric,” Damon said as soon as Alaric answered. “Do me a favor and go squeeze Deputy Dumbass for some blood. Yeah, Vale. If he wants his sister back, he’s donating to the cause. Soon as Bonnie’s back on her feet, we’re trying this again.” 

He hung up before Ric could argue, pacing like a caged animal, every movement tight with restless energy. 

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The night air was cool when Ryan finally stepped out of the gym, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower. The parking lot was half-empty, lit by a handful of sputtering streetlamps. He slung his bag over his shoulder and dug out his keys. 

And of course—she was there.

The same cream silk dress, catching the glow like it belonged in another century. Blonde hair pinned just so. Expression maddeningly calm. She strolled beside him as though she had been waiting for him all along. 

Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody brilliant. Should’ve known.”

Normally she disappeared the second someone else looked his way. Flicker, gone, no trace.

But tonight, she didn’t.

She walked next to him all the way to the car, heels clicking even though the sound didn’t quite match the pavement.

He unlocked the door, tossed his bag in the back, and slid behind the wheel. When he looked up—there she was, in the passenger seat, like she had been buckled in the whole time.

Ryan exhaled hard, muttering under his breath. “Definitely the tea. Has to be.” 

Still, he started the car.

The engine rumbled to life. He shot her a sideways look. “You actually got a name, or am I supposed to keep calling you ‘Ms. Flapper Dress’ until I check myself into psych?”

Her lips curved, faint amusement in her eyes. She tilted her head, like she was deciding whether or not to tell him. 

Ryan’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Look, if you’re going to keep… showing up—materializing—in my car, in the gym, wherever, I can’t exactly keep introducing you in my head as the blonde hallucination in period fashion. It’s getting old.”

The silence stretched. Then, finally, she spoke. 

“Rebekah.”

Ryan blinked, lips twitching. “Rebecca.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “With an h.” 

He let out a short snort, turning the wheel as he pulled onto the main road. “Of course. Can’t just be normal spelling, can it? Fancy ghost, fancy letters.”

She folded her arms, chin lifting ever so slightly. “It’s the way it’s meant to be.” 

“Sure it is,” Ryan muttered. “Rebecca-with-an-h. Very distinguished. Bet you come with a coat of arms and a family crest too.”

Her mouth curved again—not quite a smile, but enough to make him feel like she was enjoying this far more than he was.

The drive home stayed silent. By the time Ryan pulled up outside his flat, his jaw ached from keeping it clenched the whole way. He slung his gym bag over his shoulder, trudged up the narrow stairwell, and let himself in. 

She followed. Of course she did.

When he flicked the light on, she was already standing in the middle of his living room, pale silk dress bright against the muted beige walls. Her gaze drifted across the place—bare walls, old sofa, case files stacked like leaning towers on the coffee table. 

Ryan’s stomach dropped.

Bloody hell. Has she been here before? Walking around while I was none the wiser?

Her eyes lingered on the furniture, and he bristled.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, dropping his bag. “Some of us have more important things to do than interior decorating.”

He suddenly became hyper-aware that no woman—apart from Gran and Rhiannon—had ever really been inside. Jenna and Andie once or twice, but they didn’t count.

Family didn’t count.

And now here he was, standing in a flat that looked more like a crash pad than a home, being silently judged by a… what? A ghost? A hallucination?

His ears burned.

Christ. First time a woman sets foot in here and it’s a bloody flapper apparition.

Ryan growled under his breath, opened the fridge, and grabbed a beer, the hiss of the cap puncturing the silence. He collapsed onto the sofa, flipping his laptop open like he had something to prove. 

Vale & Star Investigates. 

If she noticed the flush still creeping up his neck, she didn’t say a word.

The page creaked open at its own pace, white letters bleeding across black like it resented being dragged back from the dead. Outdated platform, slow as hell, but his sister’s voice sat there frozen in pixels.

He pulled the laptop closer, beer in hand, and started scrolling from the top.

February 26, 2010 — Founders’ Day Fire

Mayor Richard Lockwood, 40, dies in a fire at Grayson Gilbert’s old clinic.

Cause of fire: “accident.”

Questions: What was the mayor doing in a boarded-up clinic after dark? Why was the Council meeting there at all? Why did half the Founders vanish that same night?

(Andie’s note: Ghost-cat convention. Bring your own matches.) 

Ryan grunted. He had been on traffic duty that night. No one had told him the mayor was even there. He was supposed to be out at Town Square, opening the Founders Day fireworks.

February 10, 2010 — The Council Doesn’t Like Questions

Sheriff Forbes, Mayor Lockwood,  and John Gilbert cornered us after we asked for records. Told us to stop digging or they’d have the blog pulled.

Interesting how the Founders’ Council, which claims to preserve history, doesn’t like people recording it.

Ryan rubbed at his jaw. He could hear Andie’s bite in the sarcasm, Rhiannon’s patience in the phrasing.

February 6, 2010 — Blood Bags Go Missing at Mystic Falls Hospital

Multiple pints vanished overnight. Council calls it a “clerical error.” Because blood bags just grow legs and walks off. 

(Andie’s note: Maybe the cougar needed a transfusion.)

He swore under his breath. He remembered Forbes waving it off, and he had gone along with it, due to lack of any other reasonable explanation.

January 20, 2010 — History Repeats Itself (Literally)

Town archives show “animal attack” waves in the 1950s and 1990s. Even earlier in 1864 and 1912. Always sudden clusters, then silence for decades. History doesn’t just rhyme here. It bites. 

(Andie’s note: Either Mystic Falls’ wildlife hibernates for decades at a time, or someone’s covering something up. Place your bets.)

Ryan slowed his scroll. They’d gone to the archives. Christ. He had teased them for wasting Saturdays on microfiche.

January 18, 2010 — The Storm That Spat Out Secrets

Vicki Donovan’s body uncovered after three months missing. Cause of death: “drug overdose.” Convenient how nature exposes what the Council won’t.

Ryan’s stomach knotted. He remembered the mud, the rain, and Caroline Forbes screaming hysterically over the phone. 

November 09, 2009 — Logan Fell: Anchor, Councilman, Dead with a Stake in His Chest

Logan Fell, 29, local news anchor and member of the Founders’ Council, was found dead on the side of the road with a stake through his chest. Sheriff Forbes declined comment. The Council has been silent. 

What we know: Logan stopped showing up to work several days before, supposedly “sick.” Staff at the network (including us) were told he was taking time off. Witnesses say he was acting strange. One neighbor swears he couldn’t enter his own apartment. 

What we don’t know: why a Councilman ended up staked like a horror movie extra. Or why the official story is no story at all. 

(Andie’s note: First the cougar learned to drive. Now it’s using stakes. What’s next, press passes?)

Ryan blinked hard, beer halfway to his mouth.

Logan.

He had shaken the man’s hand at fundraisers. Watched him read the evening news. Worked his crime reports into Logan’s scripts. And then he just… vanished.

Staked. 

He muttered, “Bloody hell.”

November 1, 2009 — Another Teen Vanishes

Vicki Donovan, 18, last seen Halloween night. Sheriff says she “ran off.” Because that’s what teenagers with no car, no money, and no plan always do.

His hand clenched around the bottle. 

September 24, 2009 — Campers Torn Apart in Wickery Woods

Three young adults, presumably late twenties to early thirties. Same verdict: “animal attack.”

That’s seven deaths in three weeks. Mystic Falls apparently has more predators per capita than Yellowstone. Someone tell Fish & Wildlife. 

(Andie’s note: Maybe the animal bought a tent too.)

Ryan’s jaw locked. Seven deaths. He had known the number. Seeing it spelled out made it worse. 

September 19, 2009 — Another “Animal Attack”? Inside a House?

Zachary Salvatore, 37. Dead in his own home. No forced entry, no broken windows.

Cause of death: “animal attack.”

Because wild animals always wipe their paws on the mat before shredding you.

Ryan tapped the laptop edge. Salvatore. His stomach twisted. 

September 12, 2009 — Friday Night Lights, Forever Night

Coach William Tanner, 38, mauled in the school lot after the first football game. Witnesses said they heard “growling.”

Sheriff Forbes says cougar. Last cougar sighting in Mystic Falls? 1953.

He muttered, “Still an ass,” but his throat was tight. 

September 8, 2009 — Back-to-School Bonfire, Back-to-School Mauling

Vicki Donovan, 18, attacked during the annual bonfire. Woke up in the hospital with no memory of the night.

Sheriff calls it another “animal attack

Curious how no one else saw an animal at a crowded party.

September 6, 2009 — Two Bodies, One Road, No Answers

Brooke Fenton (19) and Darren Malloy (20), car abandoned on Route 9, doors wide open. Bodies found less than ten feet away. Cause of death: “animal attack.” 

(Andie’s note: Maybe the animal was learning to drive.)

Ryan sat back hard, beer warm in his hand. 

Ten deaths. Half a year. Every one of them wrapped in the same lazy explanation.

From the corner of his eye, he caught her — the flapper-dress woman, perched like she belonged here, watching him squirm. 

“Funny, isn’t it?” Rebekah murmured, voice soft but sharp. “How it looks when you stop pretending it doesn’t.” 

Ryan shut the laptop. Hard.

“Doesn’t prove anything,” he muttered. “Just a bunch of questions with no answers. Conspiracy theory drivel. And even if it wasn’t—” He shoved the laptop away from him. “—what the hell does any of this have to do with my sister? How does it help me find her?”

From the sofa, she tilted her head, hair glinting like spun glass in the dim light. No pity in her eyes. Just that maddening composure. 

“You’re asking the wrong question."

Ryan shot her a look, sharp and tired. “The wrong—?”

“You don’t ask why it happened,” she went on, calm as if she hadn’t just shattered his night. “You ask who benefits. Who moves in the silence after all that blood. That is where your answers shall be.”

Ryan barked a short, humorless laugh. “What do you know?” 

She only smiled, faint and infuriating. 

He swore under his breath, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Bloody useless. All of it.” 

But he didn’t open the laptop again.

The knock came sharp and fast, rattling through the flat like whoever was on the other side had no concept of patience. 

Ryan swore under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s like this whole bloody town’s conspiring to ruin my evening.” 

From her spot on the sofa,  Rebekah arched one perfect eyebrow, smirk curling at her lips. “Maybe it’s your winning personality.” 

He shot her a look—pointless, since she didn’t exist by any rational definition—and stalked to the door. 

Alaric Saltzman stood in the hallway. Schoolteacher. Jenna’s boyfriend. Looked like he had just come off a long day of grading essays and hating teenagers.

Ryan blinked at him. “Saltzman.” 

“Vale.” The man’s voice was clipped, no casual greeting, no wasted words. 

Ryan’s suspicion prickled immediately. “Something wrong with Jenna?”

“No.” Alaric hesitated—then said, flat as stone: “I need a vial of your blood.” 

Ryan stared at him. Then barked a short laugh, incredulous. “Sorry, what?” 

“You heard me.” 

“Yeah, I heard you. I’m just trying to work out if this is the part where you tell me it’s for some kinky teacher ritual or whether I should call Forbes and have you dragged in for attempted organ theft.” 

Alaric didn’t flinch. He looked tired, restless, like this wasn’t his idea in the first place. “It’s important.” 

“For what?” 

“Can’t tell you that.”

Ryan folded his arms, cop stance kicking in without thought. “Right. So you show up at my door after dark, demanding my blood, no explanation, nothing? And I’m just supposed to hand it over because you’re—what—dating my friend?” 

Behind him, Rebekah’s laugh slipped out—low, amused, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Ryan grit his teeth and ignored it. 

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”

Ryan leaned against the doorframe, narrowing his eyes. “Then make it necessary, Saltzman. Explain it. Otherwise, you’re not getting a damn thing.”