Elena liked Paris, he remembered; she had visited when she was a schoolgirl. Maybe she'd even been to the Musee. He remembered when this building had been a train station, modern in every detail at the beginning of the twentieth century: elevators, underground tracks, and above, a great sunlight-flooded space. It had seemed impossibly new to Damon at the time.
He shook his head, dismissing the memory. He'd been feeling melancholy and sentimental lately, ever since he'd said good-bye to poor Katherine's empty body, leaving it buried in a churchyard-the least he could do for her. He was angry, and tired of running, and most of all, he was hungry.
But not lonely. He was never lonely, Damon reminded himself. Vampires weren't meant to travel in packs. Still, it would be nice to hear Elena's voice again.
When he called, she picked up immediately. "Damon? Are you okay?" Her voice was thick with tears, and he stiffened automatically.
"What's wrong, princess?" he asked, peering over the side of the museum. Was that a vampire far below, moving purposefully toward him? He sent his Power questing, found nothing. Sometimes they seemed to turn up out of nowhere, and he wasn't good at sensing this new kind of vampire at all.
"Andres is dead," Elena told him, her voice cracking. "We think ... the Old One we thought Stefan and Andres killed, he's not dead after all. And he murdered Andres." She gave a desolate little sob that went straight to Damon's heart.
"Oh, Elena," Damon said softly. "I'm sorry. I know you cared for him." The Guardian had been a friend to Elena, and, for that, Damon found it in himself to feel sorry he was gone.
Wait a minute. The Old One had been strong enough to trick Stefan and murder a Guardian?
Damn Stefan, anyway. He had told Damon that everything was fine.
"Stefan couldn't kill the Old One?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the walkway below. There were definitely more figures gathering there.
"It wasn't Stefan's fault," Elena argued. Damon sighed. Elena would always defend Stefan.
"But that doesn't mean it's okay," he said. "Stefan thought he was in control, and he wasn't. He told me you'd be fine."
Damon got to his feet, keeping a careful eye on the little knot of people-or vampires?-far below. Straightening his jacket, he realized his hands were shaking slightly. It was so typical of Stefan. He wasn't as careful as he thought he was.
"Nothing's ever Stefan's fault, is it?" he went on, surprised at the bitterness in his own voice. "I asked him to come out here to help us, and he said no. And now Katherine's dead. He said he would protect you, you and all your little human friends out there wallowing in small-town America, and now they're dying."
Elena sucked in a short, horrified breath. "Katherine's dead?" she asked.
"Yes," Damon said. He could hear Elena starting to cry again. Belatedly, he tried to soften his tone. Katherine and Elena, he had forgotten they had their own tie. "We just ... weren't enough to fight what's after us, not this time. I asked Stefan to help, but he wouldn't come. I'll kill them, though, I promise you that."
"I had no idea," Elena said bleakly. "I'm so sorry, Damon. I know how much she meant to you."
For a moment, Damon was surprised that Elena knew how he'd felt about Katherine, when he'd only just figured it out himself. But of course Elena knew; she could feel everything he felt. He pressed his fist against his chest, letting the ache of sorrow pass between them.
"She and Stefan were the only ones left," he said. "The only ones who knew who I used to be. Now there's only Stefan."
Elena sighed softly through the phone, thousands of miles away, and Damon felt her sympathy like a warm pulse in the bond between them.
The group down below was streaming into the museum. It was dark and silent inside; these were no tourists. Time to go. "Elena, I can't talk," he said, speaking quickly, slamming shut her link to his emotions. "I'll call again soon."
He clicked the phone off and tucked it into his pocket, ignoring her call of "Damon!" Closing his eyes, he searched for his Power and pulled it around him.
For a moment, he didn't think he would be strong enough. He was so tired and hungry. He'd raced across most of Europe in the past few weeks, trying to get away from these nearly unkillable vampires, but they just kept coming. He could hear footsteps on the grand staircase of the museum, far below. Maybe Paris was as good a place as any to die one more time.
No. Fiercely, he dug deep in himself for more Power. He was Damon Salvatore. He was an aristocrat, a gentleman, a vampire. No one was going to bring him to his knees.
In his rage, he found what he needed. Long before his pursuers reached the roof of the museum, Damon had stretched his wings and flown into the darkness.
Elena couldn't breathe. Andres dead. Katherine dead. Trinity dead, or possessed-who knew how much of her was still in there?
Damon had asked Stefan to help him, and Stefan had said no. Why hadn't he told her?
She was gripping her phone so tightly that its edges hurt her hand. Carefully, she hit the off button and put it down. Then she went to find Stefan.
He was sharpening the machete, the long-bladed weapon propped carefully against his knee as he slid a file along it.
"I need some more blood from you for the weapons," he said without looking up. "If Solomon's still out there, we need to go after him."
"Damon just called," Elena told him. "Katherine's dead."
Stefan's hand jerked, slicing a long cut on his arm with the machete, and he gave a small cry of pain. But his leaf-green eyes were unsurprised. "I know," he said. "I've known since it happened."