Little Salvatore

¢нαρтєя 9

THESE LAST COUPLE OF HOURS have been an absolute nightmare, like some cruel cosmic joke played on me. I'm being carted around like a backpack, strapped into this ridiculous baby carrier while my so-called friends pretend we're on a leisurely hike in the mountains. But believe me, it feels less like a nature escape and more like being in a sauna made for giants.

Technically, I'm not walking—I'm a tiny prisoner in a baby holder, suspended from Alaric's back. You know, the kind of contraption that lets you carry a helpless child while still having your hands free. As if that makes this any less embarrassing. I'm practically a human accessory, and to add insult to injury, the heat is wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket.

Honestly, I could use a little magic right now—poof me out of here and into a cool, refreshing drink. But no, here I am, sweating profusely, and my current position is a grim reminder of my fate. Alaric, the poor soul lugging me around, is already drenched in his own sweat. I know this because I can smell it, and trust me, it's not pleasant.

With an exaggerated huff, I whine until he turns me around to face away from him. It's a slight improvement, but I still feel like I'm melting. As we navigate the rocky trail alongside a crystal-clear river, the idea of cannonballing into that water becomes increasingly tantalizing.

"In a couple of hours, the full moon's gonna rise just above that ridge," Alaric announces, his voice steady but tinged with anticipation. "If Tyler's right, that's where the pack will be."

"You were a Boy Scout, weren't you? A Boy Scout, slash vampire slayer?" Elena shoots back, her tone a mix of teasing and genuine curiosity.

"Slash whiskey-drinking all-around lost cause," Alaric replies, flashing a grin that's both charming and disarming. I would roll my eyes if I could muster the energy.

Suddenly, we come to a halt, and Alaric heaves off his backpack, the effort almost comical given the circumstances. As he unzips it, I catch a glimpse of the arsenal inside—crossbows, stakes, and all manner of weaponry that would make any action movie hero jealous. Elena's eyes widen, her surprise evident as she glances from the bag to him, a spark of admiration mingling with disbelief.

"Wow. You came stocked," she remarks, half-laughing.

"Well, we aren't exactly bird-watching," Alaric retorts, pulling out a grenade like it's a casual accessory and handing it to her. "Put that in your bag."

"Vervain grenade?" Elena asks, inspecting it closely, brow furrowed in suspicion.

"Wolfsbane," Alaric corrects her, his expression revealing the gravity of their mission.

Of course, the one thing that's lethal to werewolves has such a straightforward name. I mean, at least "vervain" sounds like it could be a lovely flower, you know? But this? It screams, "Hey, I'm here to ruin your day." I can practically hear the sarcastic eye roll forming in my nonexistent eyes.

Lost in my thoughts about how I could easily have become a murder suspect thanks to a plant—I've binge-watched enough true crime to know how these things go—I'm abruptly pulled back into reality as Elena digs deeper into her pocket.

"Well, since we're exchanging gifts..." she trails off, pulling out a ring that's so gaudy it almost blinds me.

"That's John Gilbert's ring," Alaric states, raising an eyebrow, a mixture of surprise and amusement dancing in his gaze as he sets me down on a soft blanket. I can't quite sit up yet, but I lift my head, eager to catch every detail of this unfolding drama.