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The early morning dew clings to the grass, the fog rolling off the mountains carrying the fresh scent of pine and wild lilacs. Steam rises from the coffee mug clasp between my hands, mixing with the smoke rising from the end of a lit cigarette. The rocking chair beside me squeaks, beginning a rhythmic back and forth thudding against the worn wood of the deck. The sticky, sweet smell of iron overwhelms the other scents, causing my mouth to grow dry, tongue moving against forever sharpening teeth like sandpaper on wood. I fight the hunter instincts back, swallowing them down with another swallow of dark chocolate coffee, letting them out into the atmosphere as I blow cigarette smoke out my nose.
"How much longer is this going to take?"
A forest stares back at me, the edges smoldering, reigniting into a fierce red, and then once again snuffed out as the trees owner battles with himself. Chapped lips open and reopen; creating cracks in the blood that is beginning to dry around them. Trembling fingers, wipe haphazardly at a worn face, the hunter green eyes of my friend growing wide as the realization of his actions begin to wash over him. "He hasn't said."
"Well, you should ask," I answer, gently shooing my companion's hands away from his face.
"Why?"
I dip a napkin into a pool of water collected on the porch railing, using the damp paper to wipe away the dried blood, "Because, he likes you best, Stefan."
"Hardly," Stefan bats my hands away, taking the damp napkin from me as he continues to clean the dried blood from his face. "I've not totally slipped over the edge like he's been hoping. I think he's getting frustrated with me."
For two months now we've been following Klaus up and down the eastern seaboard, aiding in his attempts at finding a werewolf pack to turn into his first batch of hybrids. So far, we've had little luck. In an effort to get Stefan to flip the switch on his humanity, Klaus has been forcing him into leaving a trail of bodies; those unfortunate enough to not offer up any useful information. Stefan's been holding on, but he grows weaker every day, his thoughts constantly occupied by the guilt of his own actions. "How're you doing?"
"I'm tired," Stefan lets out a long sigh, leaning his head back against the rocking chair. "I'm holding on though."
I toss the butt of my cigarette over the porch railing, pulling my knees to my chest as I begin to rock back and forth, the sound of my chair hitting the off beats of Stefan's, "I'm sorry. For all of this."
"Hey," Damon's brother sits forward, reaching across to encase my hand in his own. Stefan's skin is warm against mine, a welcome feeling. Minus our morning talks, Stefan has been distant. He hardly sleeps, opting to pace the homes or hotel rooms we take up residence in. When I can get him into bed he's stiff and unaffectionate. "None of this is your fault, Diana. You're helping me. If it were just he and I, I would have given in a long time ago. You're keeping me strong, Di, just like you always have."
