The Vampire Diaries: Bound By Blood (Kindle Worlds Novella) (5 page)

Dear Bloody Diary,

Stefan came home excited. Apparently, he’d seen something that freaked him out. I had said, what else was new? Although, admittedly, I had been damn interested. My little brother then went on to describe something freaky indeed. A windstorm in the restaurant itself.

“A windstorm?” I asked, and even as I raised my eyebrow incredulously, I felt my heart pick up a beat or two. One of the Four Elements, of course, was wind. I continued drinking my drink as casually as I could.

“It was … crazy.”

I said, “Someone left a door open—”

“The doors were closed, Damon.”

“So, what are you saying … the wind just appeared?”

“Something like that.”

“You sound insane.”

“Says the 150-year-old vampire,” said Stefan.

“So, what caused it then?”

Stefan opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again and gave me a half grin. “I don’t know.”

“You’re holding out on me, brother.”

He shrugged and headed up to his room, moving quickly along the wide stairway of the old boardinghouse where we currently resided. “I don’t know anything,” he said and smiled and disappeared from me.

I finished my drink.

He might not know anything—or, more likely, he didn’t want to tell me what he knew. But someone, someone at the Mystic Grill had piqued his curiosity.

I think it’s time to get some answers—and to put aside this damn diary. Now, where the hell are my car keys?

D. Salvatore

I was in my apartment, pacing.

Tom had gone home, probably to drink the night away. Truth was, I felt like drinking more, too. Except getting drunk wasn’t going to make this problem go away.

Did I want it to go away?

“Yes,” I said to no one. “I do.”

Then again,
I thought, as I turned again in front of my worn couch,
it was kind of fun to see Tom’s surprise.

I quickly dropped that line of thinking. Fun or not, something very weird was happening. Yes, I lived in Mystic Falls where the weird had become commonplace, but I had always seemed to exist outside of that. On the fringe of weird, not immersed in it. My life had always been decidedly
not weird
, and I liked that. I preferred that.

I raised my upturned palm and a blast of wind erupted through my simple dwelling.

“Welcome to Weirdsville,” I said.

I let in some air—air from my lungs that is, and paused in my kitchen. “Why wind?” I ask. “I mean, what was the deal with that?”

For an answer, I did the only thing I could think of.

I fired up my laptop.

I poked around on the Internet for a bit and only stumbled across various witchcraft and psychic experience sites of those who claimed to control the wind. I read through the experiences, but none sounded like my own.

Still, an article on one site caught my attention:
The Elementals: Earth, Wind, Fire and Water.

According to the article, Elementals were four nature spirits that embodied the elements of antiquity. The embodiments of these elements took on the characteristics of the elements. In fact, Shakespeare’s
The Tempest
was about a wind Elemental who aids the main character. According to legends, Elementals, under the guidance of archangels, were responsible for creating, renewing, and sustaining life.

I did more research and found a blog of interest. According to this writer, who claimed he was quite sensitive to the spirit world and was writing from firsthand experience, Elementals came in all shapes and sizes. Often they were as elusive as spirits, existing just beyond our earthly sensitivities, but sometimes, not so much. Sometimes Elementals could manifest through humans.

I rubbed my eyes and got up. Yes, I wanted to brush off my growing feeling of agreement with the article. I wanted to and yet… .

A small wind blasted through my small apartment, knocking over a lava lamp and nearly breaking it in the process.

Except I could do that.

I picked up the lamp and kept pacing. There was nothing else on the Internet that was of any help. I truly didn’t know what to do … until I remembered the blog. The author had an email address.

Fifteen minutes later, I dashed off a rambling, slightly incoherent email that I sent via one of my dummy email accounts. If that guy could make heads or tails of my email, then he was a psychic.

I grabbed a beer and dropped down into my overstuffed recliner—I was about halfway through it when I heard my email ping.

Dear Bloody Diary,

Apparently, Stefan was right. Something very, very weird happened in the Mystic Grill earlier. Hell, they were still cleaning up the place when I got there. The first kid I came up to confirmed Stefan’s story: some kind of wind had blasted through there. The bartender didn’t know much more. Some sort of devil wind had appeared out of nowhere. No explanation for it. No doors open, no windows open, no fan on, and yet, it was knocking over glasses and throwing around salads like there was no tomorrow. But other than that, he had no clue what caused it. The wind stopped just as quickly as it had started.

I next asked if he saw anything unusual after the windstorm, but he hadn’t. I sighed and wanted to break his neck for being so damn unhelpful, but I resisted the urge.

I might be a creature of legend, but that doesn’t mean I believe everything I hear. The story of the Four Elements, I suspected, was just that—a story, no doubt concocted by some old witch high on her latest batch of witch brew. Truth was, I hadn’t a clue as to what I was looking for, and the grimoire wasn’t much help either.

Still, as I drank at the bar and looked around at the mess—at napkins on the floor, silverware in piles, and broken glass still being swept, I felt in my dead heart that there was something to all of this.

The meteor would herald the Four Elements.

Wind was one such element.

“Oh, give it up,” I said to myself. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

I ordered another bourbon, neat, and, as the bartender brought it over, I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward me. I caught his eye and said, “You are to tell me everything you saw immediately following the windstorm.”

He got the glazed look that I love so much when I compel someone. “Paper flying everywhere. Glasses breaking. Three people jumped up from their table directly behind you.”

“What else?”

“One man didn’t jump up. He stayed at the bar.”

“Hollywood hair, long face, lips like a girl?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“What else did you see?”

“Two men sitting at the bar were standing over there. One of them had his hands raised.”

“Hands raised? Why?”

“No clue.”

“What did he do next?”

“He lowered them … and the wind stopped.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall guy, slender, wide shoulders.”

“You recognized him?”

“Of course. He’s the local private dick.”

“He’s a private investigator?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Max Long.”

“Max Long? Kind of redundant.”

“It’s his name.”

I shrugged and downed the rest of the bourbon … then I went looking for Mr. Long. He was easy enough to find. His office was just off the square a few blocks down, under some ratty apartments. I knocked a few times, called his name, stood there like an idiot for a few minutes, and then headed home.

More to come.

D. Salvatore

I was in my apartment, pacing, waiting for the phone call when I heard the knocking from down below.

I didn’t have an appointment today, nor was I expecting anyone. Technically, I should have still been in the office, as it was just before six p.m. Then again, technically, I shouldn’t have been able to control the wind either. Things changed.

The knocking came again, this time more urgently.

I made a living out of following cheaters and catching the occasional bad guy. I’d sent a handful of people to jail, and I’d even testified against them in court. It’s why private eyes kept our guns around: We were known to make a handful of enemies, ones who were probably more than a little vindictive.

It’s also why I had installed a cheap camera in a shadowy nook above my office door. It was always a damn good idea to see who came pounding on your door after hours. I went over to my laptop and clicked on the camera icon. A window appeared on my screen, displaying the darkened facade of my building below.

The man standing before my office door was a handsome devil: black hair, grayish eyes (although hard to tell in the twilight), slender build … and a lot of attitude. I’d seen him around town a few times. Okay, more than a few. I had often seen him drinking at the Mystic Grill and hanging around some of the high school kids, although he looked a little older than high school. Maybe early college. But that could have been the confident, cocky way he held himself. Either way, he looked like trouble, and I wasn’t in the mood for any trouble.

He knocked again and sort of cocked his head, as if listening. My apartment was located directly above my office. Few people knew that, especially since the apartment was leased in my mother’s maiden name, God rest her soul. Private eyes needed our anonymity. But I also liked to keep a close watch on my office. It was my man cave when I didn’t have any cases. I even had my Bowflex in the corner. I needed to dust that thing off and use it.

So, I stayed quiet through his knocking and listening, although there was no way in hell he could hear me in my apartment above. Still, trouble sort of radiated from him in a way that surprised me. It was almost as if I could feel his darkened energy, but I knew that was paranoia on my part.

After half a minute, he gave up and continued on down the street. I had a sneaking suspicion I was going to see that guy again … and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

About five minutes later, the call came.

“Is this Max?” asked the voice on the other end.

“Yes.”

“This is Michael, you emailed me about my article.”

“Yes, sorry … I’m sure I sounded insane. Hell, I feel insane—”

“Just relax, Max. I don’t think you’re insane.”

Michael had a soft, comforting voice, one that immediately calmed my nerves—nerves that had been on edge, all day.

“Well, you should. I mean, I feel insane.”

“Max, would you say you’ve had an affinity for wind all your life?”

That was an easy one. “All my life.”

“Would you say you have a similar affinity for water? Do both elements calm you, make you feel alive, somehow resonate deeply within you?”

“Yes, but isn’t that the case for every—”

“How about fire, Max? Do you ever catch yourself staring at a fire?”

“Yes, but who doesn’t?”

“Do you find yourself enchanted by fire? Nearly hypnotized?”

“Yes, dammit. But doesn’t everyone?”

“No, Max. Not everyone. Last question: do you enjoy walks in nature? Hiking, camping, backpacking? Do you have, say, a garden at home?”

I thought of the little herbal garden on my balcony—the same one that Tom mercilessly ridiculed. I thought of my many weekend hikes and camping trips.

“Yes to everything,” I said. “What’s your point?”

“We need to talk, Max. And now.”

“Where are you?”

“Doesn’t matter, Max. I’ll fly or drive all night. You and I need to talk.”

“We are talking—”

“This requires face time. How do I find you?” he asked.

I could literally hear him rushing around what I presumed was his home. “We’re not doing anything like meeting up,” I said, “unless you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Max … there was a recent meteor….”

As he spoke those words, I nearly dropped the phone. Instead, I dropped myself into my recliner. “Go on,” I said.

“Did you feel … funny after the meteor? Different perhaps?”

“I felt sick.”

“You need to see me, Max. ASAP.”

“Fine,” I said, and gave him my address.

When I hung up, I was feeling sick all over again.