Little Salvatore

¢нαρтєя 8

ELENA WOKE ME UP EXTRA early this morning. And not just regular early—no, the kind of early that feels offensive. The sun wasn't even out yet, but apparently, she was on some mission to find out where my dear Uncle Stefan had vanished to, and of course, I had to be dragged along. I guess being a baby doesn't give you a pass on supernatural drama.

The car ride was a blur. Literally. The world outside the window smeared together in streaks of green and gray as we sped past. I've finally started to see colors properly, and let me tell you, it's like going from an old black-and-white TV to 4K. Not everything is crystal clear, but at least it's not all one bland mush anymore. It's a small victory for me in this crazy mess of a life.

When we pulled up to the Salvatore mansion—Damon's lair of angst and smoldering gazes—Elena didn't even bother knocking. She just waltzed right in. I swear, if there were ever a manual on how to barge into a vampire's house, Elena would have written it. She's got that down to an art form. She headed straight for Damon's bedroom, carrying me in my little baby carrier like I was some accessory to this never-ending soap opera.

Inside, Damon was lounging on his bed, eyes locked on the TV, probably watching the news just to stay one step ahead of whatever catastrophe was brewing next. Because that's what he does—broods in front of the TV like a gothic poster child.

"Just can't stay away, huh?" Damon said without bothering to look up from the screen, his voice dripping with its usual blend of sarcasm and charm. Classic Damon.

Elena, exasperated but determined, plopped my carrier on the small couch at the foot of Damon's bed. It jostled me, but I was getting used to being shaken up like a bag of potatoes. "You've been dodging my calls," she shot back, arms crossed like she was about to scold a child.

Finally, Damon turned to face her, eyes glinting with that "I'm not in the mood" energy. "Yeah, well, busy dating a dead fake girlfriend and all."

Ah yes, Andie Star—the news anchor with a stripper name. Honestly, I had almost forgotten about her. Damon really has a knack for dating the most random people.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Elena asked, her earlier annoyance shifting into something softer. Concern. It's always concern with her when Stefan's involved.

Damon didn't miss a beat. "Happy Birthday, Elena. Stefan killed Andie. Cake?" His delivery was flawless, pure Damon. If I could laugh, I'd be howling right now.

The air in the room got awkwardly thick after that, and it hung there for a moment. Elena shifted, clearly trying to figure out how to respond to Damon's emotional grenade.

"He called me, Damon," she finally said, voice quiet but sure. That got his attention.

Damon's whole demeanor shifted slightly, the sharp edges softening just a bit. "What?"

"Stefan called me last night," Elena clarified, looking at Damon with a mixture of hope and worry.

Of course. Stefan. It's always Stefan. My perpetually brooding uncle, who seems to have an uncanny ability to disappear and reappear at the most inconvenient times. Honestly, at this point, I should be taking notes.

"What did he say?" Damon asked, his tone sharpening, curiosity piqued.

"He didn't say anything. But it was him," Elena said, her words steady like she was trying to convince herself as much as Damon. "I asked Sheriff Forbes if she could trace the call. It came from Tennessee."