The phantom stared past her, Meredith forgotten, at least for the moment. The phantom's glassy teeth were bared, and there was an expression of terrible rage on its greentinted face. As Meredith watched, the muscles in its icysolid arms seemed to strain, then dissolve to swirls of armshaped mist, then solidify again, stil in the same tense stil ness. She can't move, Meredith realized. She turned to look behind her.
Mrs. Flowers stood straight and tal , her blazing blue eyes fixed on the phantom. She held out her hands in front of her, her face set in strong, determined lines. Several strands of her gray hair had escaped from her bun, standing out in al directions as if caught by static electricity. Mrs. Flowers's lips moved soundlessly, and, as the phantom strained to move, Mrs. Flowers strained, too, looking as if she was struggling to support something cripplingly heavy. Their eyes, cool intent blue and glacierclear green, were locked together in silent battle. Mrs. Flowers's eyes were steady, but her arms were shaking violently, and Elena didn't know how much longer the older woman would be able to hang on and keep the phantom under control. Not long, she suspected. The battle with the kitsune had taken a lot out of Mrs. Flowers, and she hadn't recovered ful y yet. She wasn't ready for a new fight. Elena's heart was thumping like crazy, and she couldn't stand to look at the bloody figures of Damon and Stefan on the other side of the garage, because the one thing she knew she couldn't do right now was panic. She needed to be able to think.
"Meredith," Elena said crisply, with such a tone of authority that her friends al turned away from watching the struggle between Mrs. Flowers and the phantom to look at her. "Finish your part of the ceremony."
Meredith looked at Elena blankly for a moment and then snapped into gear. That was one of the many wonderful things about Meredith: She could always be relied upon, no matter what, to pul herself together and get on with the job.
"I have fed the phantom of jealousy," Meredith said, looking down at the floor where her brown candle stil burned, "but now I cast my jealousy away."
Meredith's words rang with truth, and the candle went out. The phantom flinched and grimaced, flexing its fingers angrily. The deep red of the rose in its chest dul ed to a dark pink for a moment before flushing back to crimson. But... it didn't seem like it was defeated; it seemed merely irritated. Its eyes never left Mrs. Flowers's, and its ice-sculpted muscles stil were straining forward. Almost al the candles were out. Only two flames were flickering, from the blue and red candles, only two victims feeding the phantom with their jealousy.
So, with almost al its victims torn away from it, shouldn't the phantom be weaker? Shouldn't it be sick and struggling?
Elena turned to Alaric. "Alaric," she whispered. "What did the book say? Shouldn't the spel be starting to kil the phantom by now?"
Alaric was watching the silent showdown between Mrs. Flowers and the phantom again, his own fists clenched and his body straining as if he could somehow lend Mrs. Flowers his strength, and it took a little time - time we don't have, thought Elena furiously - for him to drag his attention to Elena. When he did and she repeated her question, he turned a more analytical gaze on the phantom, and a new worry dawned in his eyes.
"I'm not entirely sure," he said, "but the book did suggest... the book said something like, 'Every word truly spoken by its victims, each dark emotion wil ingly rejected, wil draw back to them the life the phantom has stolen from their thoughts and deeds. The creature wil crumble with every honest word spoken against it.' It could be just rhetoric, or maybe the person who wrote down the spel had heard about the ritual without seeing it performed, but it sounds..." He hesitated.
"It sounds like the spel ought to be kil ing the phantom by now," said Elena flatly. "It sounds like this isn't working right."
"I don't know what's going wrong," said Alaric unhappily. The world shifted and everything snapped into focus.
"I do," said Elena. "It must be because this is an Original, not an ordinary phantom. We didn't create it with our emotions, so we can't destroy it just by taking them away. I think we're going to need to try something else."
Stefan and Damon were stil locked in combat. They were both bloody and battered. His hurt arm dangling at an unnatural angle, Stefan moved as though something inside him had been damaged, but they were both stil attacking each other viciously, Stefan no less than Damon. Elena reasoned that they must be fighting on their own initiative now. The phantom, absorbed in its battle with Mrs. Flowers, was no longer muttering poisonous
encouragement to them. If Damon and Stefan weren't being seduced by Jealousy's voice, maybe they could be persuaded to listen to someone else. Elena, trying not to catch the phantom's attention, eased her way toward the fighters.
Damon was bleeding from his neck and a long cut on his head, and the skin around both his eyes was bruising up. He was limping, but he was clearly gaining the upper hand. Stefan, circling warily now just out of arm's reach, was not only curled forward to protect whatever was injured inside him but had a long strip of torn skin hanging from his cheek. Damon was grinning savagely at him, moving closer with every shift of his feet. There was an alertness to Damon's eyes that spoke only of the predator within, of his joy in the hunt and in the kil . Damon must have forgotten in the pleasure of the fight who he was battling, Elena told herself. He would never forgive himself, once he was himself again, if he real y seriously hurt Stefan, or even kil ed him. Although, something inside her whispered, part of him has always wanted this.
She shoved the thought aside. Part of Damon might want to hurt Stefan, but the real, whole Damon did not. If there was anything that fighting the phantom had shown her, it was that the dark emotions everyone hid in their depths weren't al of who they real y were. They weren't their true selves.