Stefan frowned. "He was doing something to Trinity before we managed to kill him. And the way he went around to all of us in the room, like he was testing us. It could have been a spell, some kind of blood ritual."
Jack stood. The way he pulled his shoulders back, his weight evenly balanced between his feet, reminded Meredith of how he'd looked when they were sparring. But the enemy wasn't here to fight. "What are you trying to suggest?" he asked.
Elena swallowed. "He's saying that when Solomon was in danger, he might have ... moved into Trinity's body."
"If that were true," Stefan said, thinking aloud, "if he's really possessing Trinity right now, then all we've done is make him angrier. Make him want revenge." Stefan's eyes were fixed on Elena, and Meredith knew whom he was most worried about.
Elena's own mouth, however, had dropped open the moment Stefan said revenge. She looked around the circle of faces, her eyes wide with terror. "Where's Andres?"
On the porch of James's old house, Elena dug in her purse for her keys.
"I didn't know you guys kept this house," Spencer said cheerfully. "Sweet." Zander had sent the younger werewolf along with Elena, Stefan, and Meredith while the rest of the Pack searched the woods, but Spencer seemed pretty casual about it. He'd always been sort of a preppy frat-boy type, perpetually tan, collar popped. He wasn't Elena's favorite werewolf.
"James left it to Andres in his will," she explained tightly, finally unearthing the keys. "It comes in handy for Guardian business." In this case, "Guardian business" mostly meant that Andres had a place to stay when he visited Dalcrest, as did Aunt Judith and Elena's little sister, Margaret.
Elena thought fondly for a moment of James. He'd been her professor at Dalcrest and had helped her ease into her life as a Guardian. She owed him so much.
But she couldn't help remembering, too, that this house was also the place where James had died. As Elena turned the key she tried to convince herself that her feeling of dread was misguided. Andres had probably just overslept after everything that had happened last night.
The door swung open with a bang, and a rush of icy air chilled them. Spencer's and Stefan's heads shot up, both of them instantly on alert. It was as if they heard-or, God, smelled-something none of the humans could.
"Stay here, Elena," Stefan said, but she shook her head and moved forward with the others.
They found Andres in the bedroom.
He was lying sprawled out across the flowered comforter, blood flooding the bed from the wide gashes in his torso. His face, however, was curiously untouched. His dark eyes stared into the distance, their long black lashes framing only blankness, and his mouth hung slack. One hand dangled off the bed, fingers pointing down. A trail of blood still ran sluggishly over his wrist and hand, dripping slowly onto the floor.
Elena buckled when she saw him, almost falling, but Meredith grabbed her and held her up. Oh God oh God. He'd been ripped apart, just like Sammy.
All around them sounded the steady drip of water as the ice on the windows and mirrors began to melt.
"Solomon was here," Stefan said. "We were right; he's not dead." His voice sounded almost dry and matter-of-fact, but Elena could hear the devastation underneath. They had all thought they were safe.
Elena stepped forward slowly, a sob escaping her throat. Meredith tried to hold her back, but she shook off her friend's grip. When she reached Andres, she stood still and looked at him, trying to look past the gore to see her friend one last time.
Tentatively, she reached out to touch his hand, ignoring the sticky, lukewarm blood that coated it. Andres's hands had always been in motion, graceful and expressive, reaching out to embrace the world. She remembered the day they'd met, when he had taken her hand in his, warm and strong and reassuring. They sat under a tree together, and he told her the truth about being a Guardian, and she had been less afraid.
Behind her, the others were murmuring together. Spencer had pulled out his phone and was calling someone, probably Zander. They were all tense and eager to hunt, she knew, but Elena wasn't ready to join them.
Andres's eyes were dull now. They'd always been so bright. He'd been in love, for the first time, and somehow that seemed worse than anything, that he'd died here, thousands of miles away from his love.
Elena brushed her hand lightly over her friend's face, closing his eyes. "Good-bye, Andres," she said quietly. It seemed so important to be gentle with him now, even though he wasn't really here anymore. "I'm so sorry."
Chapter 21
"Damon, there's something wrong with you. I know it. I can feel it through our bond." Damon listened as Elena took a ragged breath, sounding tearful. "Are you okay?"
"Damon, please call me. I'm worried about you."
"Damon, I don't even know if you're getting these messages. If you are, call me. Please."
Clicking "delete" on the last of the many messages from Elena that had filled up his voice mail, Damon leaned back to rest against one of the small peaked roofs of the Musee d'Orsay. A stiff night breeze lifted his hair, and he huddled into the collar of his jacket. Normally the cold wouldn't bother him at all, but he hadn't fed since Katherine died, and he was starting to feel it.
This was a good spot to rest. He hadn't yet seen any of the vampires that were chasing him shape-shift or fly, so for whatever reason, they must not be able to. And from here Damon had a fine view over the rooftops of Paris, the river Seine at his back. There would be plenty of warning if anyone came after him. Finally, a moment to catch his breath and listen to his messages.