Brushing his fingers across his chest absently, he let Elena’s emotions thrum through the bond between them. Nothing had changed; he still felt the same sharp, angry grief that had brought him back to Dalcrest, that had let him know his brother was dead. But nothing new. Wherever Elena had gone, she wasn’t in danger.
He ached to be out hunting Jack, to find him and tear him apart. Rage burned under his skin—how dare anyone touch his little brother. Even when he and Stefan had hated each other, no one else had been allowed to hurt him.
But for now, Damon was keeping a low profile, guarding Elena, waiting for the right time.
Meredith had tried laying down the law to him after Stefan’s funeral. “As far as Jack knows, you’re still in Europe,” she’d said. “We need to keep it that way. You might be the best weapon we’ve got.”
Every line of the gray-eyed hunter’s body had been tense with irritation at having to ask Damon for something; and under other circumstances, this would have amused him. Meredith had no right to tell him what to do, and he had no reason to do what she asked.
But then Elena, with a desperate pleading look in her eyes, had said, “Please, Damon. I can’t lose you, too.” And Damon had agreed to do whatever she wanted.
He sighed and sat down on the couch, glancing around. He was beginning to loathe this room, pretty as it was, with its heavy antique furniture and art on the walls. It was decorated to Stefan’s taste: dark, traditional, cozy. Stefan’s taste, Stefan’s possessions, Stefan’s Elena.
On the table beside the couch lay a thick notebook bound in brown leather: Jack’s journal, the record of the series of experiments he had done to create his new race of vampires. Damon had found it when he’d infiltrated Jack’s company in Switzerland.
Near the end was a list of vampires Jack had destroyed—and a list of those he still planned to hunt down. Damon picked up the journal and turned to the long column of names. Many were vampires Damon had known over the years, their names scratched through. Near the bottom of the page, three names, not yet crossed out: Katherine von Swartzchild. Damon Salvatore. Stefan Salvatore.
Damon traced the names lightly with his finger, remembering how Katherine’s face had paled as her life ebbed away. He felt again the sudden spike of anguished horror from Elena that had told him Stefan was dead. At least Damon had stolen the book before Jack had the opportunity to cross out their names.
Clenching his jaw, he flipped forward through its pages again. If he couldn’t just go out and hunt Jack down—yet—he could still look for clues on how to defeat him.
But there was nothing new written here. He’d gone through it dozens of times. After a few minutes, he groaned softly and closed his eyes, bringing a hand up to rub his temples.
There was plenty about the weaknesses of Jack’s creations, true. But the journal was a record of how Jack had overcome those flaws. Sunlight, fire, decapitation, stake to the heart: As far as Damon could tell, there was no way to kill these manmade vampires.
It was hopeless. Maybe Damon should give up, do what Elena wanted and hide.
No. His eyes snapped open and he gritted his teeth. He was Damon Salvatore. No mad scientist was going to defeat him.
He snapped the book closed. Any true danger to these manufactured vampires would have to be something Jack hadn’t thought of.
Almost unwillingly, Damon let his gaze travel to the heavy mahogany cabinet against the wall. Stefan’s talismans sat on top of it, a collection of objects from his long life. Coins, a stone cup, a watch. An apricot hair ribbon of Elena’s, acquired before Stefan had even really known her, before Damon had known her at all. What would have been different, Damon wondered, if he had been the one to meet Elena first?
Damon stood and went slowly over to the cabinet, where he touched the things lightly: iron box, golden coins, ivory dagger, silken ribbon.
Damon didn’t hang on to things the way Stefan had. He never saw the point of keeping objects he’d outgrown, dragging his past around the world with him.
Stefan had carried their past for him, he realized. The thought gave him a hollow feeling in his chest. With Stefan and Katherine both dead, there was no one left now who remembered Damon when he had been alive.
He drew one finger along the blade of the ivory-handled dagger and pulled his hand back with a hiss. Stefan had kept it sharp, although it had probably been centuries since he’d used it.
Their father had carried this dagger for years, Damon remembered, hanging in a sheath at his belt. A beautiful object, its fine glossy hilt curving above a well-cut, and useful, blade. He had given it to Stefan for his fifteenth birthday.