07 The Return_ Midnight - L. J. Smith

“No, I’m serious! When I’m a vampire again, let me Influence you not to be so much
afraid of a bite. I swear I won’t take more than a teaspoon. But that would give me time to show you
—”
“A nice big house of candy that never existed? A relative who died ten years ago and
who would have abhorred the thought of you taking my memory of her and using it as a lure? A dream
of ending world hunger that doesn’t put food into one mouth?”
This girl, thought Damon, is dangerous. It’s like a Counter-Influence that they’ve taught to
their members. Wanting her to see that vampires, or ex-vampires, or Once and Future Vampires had
some good qualities—like courage—he let go of the pillowcase and grasped the end of the fighting
stave with both hands.
Meredith raised an eyebrow. “Did I not just recently tell you that a number of those
spikes you’ve just driven into your flesh are poisonous? Or were you not listening?”
She had automatically grabbed the stave as well, above the dangerous zone.
“You told me,” he said inscrutably—he hoped.
“I particularly said ‘poisonous to humans as well as to werewolves and other things’—
recall it?”
“You told me that, too. But I’d rather die than live as a human, so: Let the games begin.”
And with that, Damon began to push the two-headed stave toward Meredith’s heart.
She immediately clamped down on the stave as well, pushing it back toward him. But he
had three advantages, as they both soon realized. He was slightly taller and more strongly muscled
even than lithe, athletic Meredith; he had a longer reach than hers; and he had taken up a much more
aggressive position. Even though he could feel poisoned little spikes biting into his palms, he thrust
forward and up until the killing point was once again near her heart. Meredith pushed back with an
amazing amount of strength and then suddenly, somehow, they were even again.
Damon glanced up to see how that had happened, and saw, to his shock, that she also had
grasped the stave in the killing zone. Now her hands were dripping blood onto the floor just as his
were.
“Meredith!”
“What? I take my job seriously.”
Despite her gambit, he was stronger. Inch by inch, he forced his torn palms to hang on,
his arms to exert pressure. And inch by inch she was forced backward, refusing to quit—until there
was no more room to back up.
And there they stood, the entire length of the stave between them, and the refrigerator flat
against Meredith’s back.
All Damon could think of was Elena. If he somehow survived this—and Meredith did
not—then what would those malachite eyes say to him? How would he live with what they said?
And then, with infuriating timing, like a chess player knocking over her own king,
Meredith let go of the spear, conceding Damon’s superior strength.
After which, seeming to have no fear of turning her back on him, she took a jar full of
salve from a kitchen cupboard, scooped out a dollop of the contents, and motioned for Damon to hold
out his hands. He frowned. He’d never heard of a poison that got into the blood that could be cured by
external measures.
“I didn’t put real poison in the human needles,” she said calmly. “But your palms will be
torn and this is an excellent remedy. It’s ancient, passed down for generations.”
“How kind of you to share,”—at his most sharply ironic.