A/N: What? So soon? Yeah, so this might be a weekly update thing. Seven more chapters until the end, my friends. Thank you to those who remembered this dear little pic, and thank you to those who read it and commented. I really am glad. Thank you and enjoy!

Four Thumbs

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"He's, uh, taking it badly."

Damon drained the glass and tossed it into the fireplace. He lifted the decanter to his mouth and drained that too. When there was nothing left to pour he smashed the entire service cart against one wall and attacked the mantle with a poker. He hacked away until the wood split and fell, until the iron made his palms bleed, then he chucked the poker across the room.

Matt ducked. Elijah motioned for everyone to leave. The door closed as a paperweight collided with the frame.

"Have you exerted all of your frustration or shall I just have the room demolished?" Elijah asked.

Damon turned on him. He wanted to rip his smug head from his smug body and trample all over his Savile Row ink blue suit. He wanted to annihilate everything, tear it all down and grind it to dust.

"We come here, to this witch hub, and you want to tell me that there isn't one witch powerful enough to resurrect a technically dead person? Not a fucking one?"

Elijah stood with a hand in a pocket, the other toying with a cellphone. He treated Damon to an imperturbable look. It drove Damon past the edge of anger. He couldn't kill Elijah, only Klaus, Rebekah, and maybe enhanced Rick could pull that trick. He couldn't even hurt him, the asshole. He wanted to kill someone, snap someone's neck.

"Your aggravation is understandable. I too believed that such a strong convergence of magical ability might yield an answer to our dilemma, but the witches are aware of another, more powerful presence. They do not wish to interfere."

Damon narrowed an eye. "What?"

Elijah shook his head. "Damon, I am as concerned-"

Damon rushed him. He grabbed a letter opener and sunk it into Elijah's chest in one rapid move. Elijah grimaced but managed to take Damon's arm and snap the bone in half, then he brought his elbow straight down, fracturing the spine. Damon fell to the ground. Elijah gingerly touched the crystal top of the letterhead.

"As I was saying," Elijah extracted the blade, "the turn of events are disconcerting. For you especially." He set the bloodied opener aside.

"I know what it is you want to do," Elijah said.

Damon lay still on his back as the bones fused and healed. Pain brought a clarity of thought he despised and welcomed. It was as close to flipping the switch as it could get.

"I just tried it and failed," Damon said.

"Ripping out hearts won't win them. It will isolate them, or worse, send them over to Klaus. We cannot afford that."

Damon stared at the ceiling. Elijah stood over him.

"There is another Bennett witch. A cousin."

Damon blinked. A cousin. Far removed but Bonnie mentioned her once or twice, when she talked about how nice it was to have a living relative. He stood.

"Bonnie wouldn't want her involved."

"We are out of options, and I believe Alaric when he said we'll soon be out of time."

Damon stepped back. He flexed. The muscles of his arm and back were sore. He'd been boozing it up for two days without a single drop of blood. Hunger, immediate and intense, diverted his thoughts from everything else. Elijah continued to stare at him, waiting.

Damon found his coat. He shook off shards of glass. "Why are you even asking? You'll do whatever, fuck all of us. I don't give a shit what you do, what Alaric, a fucking zombie by the way, said, or if the entire witchy pantheon packs up and poofs off to Klaus."

He went to the door. "Bonnie's dead, Elijah," Damon glanced back, "better draft a new plan."

The door slammed shut.

Elijah sat on the edge of his mangled desk and assessed the state of his study. Damon, like Klaus, had a terrible talent for destroying dear things. Unlike Klaus, Damon at least knew the limit.

The study door opened. Elijah tensed, then relaxed. Rebekah brushed aside the shattered remains of the paperweight as she entered. She looked to Elijah with a wilted grin.

"I assume Damon is still alive," she said.

Elijah nodded. She went to a bookshelf and pressed a hardbound collection of Voltaire. A drawer of dusty bottles slid open. She selected a bottle of brandy, held it up. Elijah reached into the desk and removed two tumblers that escaped notice. He eased over so Rebekah could join him. She poured the exact amount he loved, three fingers and a splash.

"You remembered," Elijah said.

"Of course. You're the only brother I have loved consistently since birth."

He grinned and took the bottle. "Four thumbs," he said as he poured her glass.

Rebekah laughed. "I just said it to outdo you."

"I know. You have always been the surprising one, Rebekah."

She smiled at him. Elijah studied his sister, memories of their childhood floating up through time. She had always been the sunny one, the one who reveled in optimism. Even after they were reborn as vampires, she still maintained it despite the despair, in spite of the horror. He valued her for that, and loved her for how her smile hadn't dulled in its brilliance.

"Forgive me," Elijah said.

Rebekah stared at him.

"I should have prepared for this," Elijah murmured.

Rebekah sighed. "Bonnie knew the risks. So did I. We knew it would catch up to us. At least it's happening now rather than later, when our hope for happy endings outgrew our skepticism."

He sipped at the brandy. The relative calm Rebekah exhibited was peculiar, probably because not a day ago he had to strongly persuade her not to go on a rampage.

Elijah frowned. The brandy was his favorite. And Rebekah abhorred mess. At first sight of this room, imprecations would blister his ears as she itemized each and every stick and shard of damage. Instead, Rebekah smiled, nonplussed.

"What did you do?" Elijah asked.

"What can I do when you've made it verboten for me to leave the premises?" Rebekah drank her brandy.

It was his turn to stare at her. Rebekah grinned again.

"Rebekah," Elijah said.

"Oh no, not the tone," she rolled her eyes. "Look, I just did what had to be done, what none of you wanted to do. We have no other options. Quite frankly, I doubt we had any option other than the one."

Elijah slammed down the glass. It broke under his palm.

"This is not a situation where you should take witches lightly. To invite her here, without conferring with me-"

"Elijah," Rebekah cut in. She stood. "The last time I conferred with you, it was for sartorial advice. In 1765." She replaced the stopper on the brandy. "A thousand or so years have taught me one or two things about witches. I know what I'm doing."

She returned the bottle to its secret drawer.

"I'm going to the airport," Rebekah turned, "you can come with me if you like."

Elijah pressed a thumb against his temple. He should have known better. Not one of his plans had ever gone smoothly, or even garnered the desired result. It disturbed him how surprised he felt, after all this time, to be duped by Rebekah. It was one thing if she had been too presumptuous, but she leapt ahead to the correct conclusion a day ago, probably understood the course available to them the moment Damon stepped from the car. Since when did she face discomfort and potentially painful repercussions head on?

Elijah sighed. Rebekah checked her watch. "I have to leave now," she said.

"You stay here and I'll go," Elijah said. He straightened his suit jacket.

"No."

"I wasn't asking."

Rebekah stopped him before he reached the door. "And I won't be dismissed anymore. You brought us here," her grip tightened, "you brought us back into this obsessive game you and Klaus have enjoyed for centuries, and even though I knew it would end in more bloodshed, I came along because I now have people I love, people I have to protect."

He saw the naked anger and exhaustion in her wide, blue eyes. It was the same look she gave Klaus.

"Alright," Elijah said. Her hand fell away.

"I'll follow you," he said.

Rebekah smiled at him and it was the smile that saddened him the most. He too had a terrible talent for destroying dear things.

Blood pooled in his mouth, rich and hot. Euphoria slackened the hold on his prey, but the man was paralyzed, either by fear or painful pleasure, Damon didn't care to know. He drained down to the pulse, to the very milliliter before death, then let the body fall to the dirty, wet alley ground. Rain fell in light, silver drops. Damon turned his face to the purple sky and swayed. Weariness evaporated from his body and mind; he sharpened, brightened, blazed, became invincible.

It took longer than normal for the high to taper off. He plummeted back into his skin. He was soaked, the temperature had dropped to about thirty degrees, and the young man he fed on was dangerously close to death.

Damon carried him to the nearest establishment and called for help. While the bar patrons busied themselves crowding the young man, he disappeared into the shadows. He rarely got the opportunity to slink in the dark spots; it took a degree of finesse Damon enjoyed expressing.

He materialized a block from the old mansion. Alaric stood under a lamppost, smoking a cigarette. The smoke had a strangeness to its wisps and curls. A curious, metallic odor too. Damon strolled along the inside of the sidewalk, close to the iron bars and wilted vegetation of overgrown lawns. Sated from blood and exercise, his thoughts flowed without hysterical anger. He watched Alaric. Two days later and the man still wore his funeral suit. Alaric absently scratched his face, then rubbed the beard sprouting across it. He finished the cigarette.

"You used to be a better stalker," Alaric said.

Damon joined him beneath the lamppost. "You used to be dead."

Alaric shrugged. "Yeah, well."

They glanced at each other and grinned. The awkwardness lessened, but not by much. Damon peered out into the street. People returned all the time in their world, he understood that, but Alaric's departure was different. The guy was dead, soul ripped apart and life force scattered. The grief Damon felt did not dissipate over time, it just sank to the background. That was real. His relief standing next to him, at being treated to a quizzical examination, was real too, but the circumstances surrounding Alaric's revival prevented any sort of revelry. Damon was ill at ease, confused. Forgotten despair returned to permeate his mood.

"This must be serious," Alaric said.

Damon exhaled. His breath misted the air. "Isn't it terrible?"

"What is?"

"I have to almost kill a guy in order to breathe. And I don't even have to breathe."

"Horrible. Want to know what's even worse?" Alaric lit another cigarette.

"No."

"Not knowing what thrusted you back into life. Knowing why is one thing, but knowing how," Alaric paused, "that's the trouble."

Damon turned up his collar. "What's your theory?"

"Residual power from Esther's spell, maybe a loophole in the last one Bonnie cast, or moonlight hit a werewolf's eye at just the right angle the very moment the miasma lifted. Could be any of those."

"I like that last one," Damon said. "Here's one: Bonnie died four years ago and your death wasn't really a death, but a placeholder, and when she died, you came back."

It had been on his mind the second Alaric knelt beside her. Karmic retribution of some kind, maybe something Bonnie did and she neglected to tell anyone because she was prone to martyrdom. It was possible. Actually, it was the only plausible reason. Alaric was too much a coward to say it, so Damon said it. He said it to see the disbelief on Alaric's face because he didn't believe it either, despite Bonnie's nature and his innate distrust of coincidence. But as Damon looked at his friend, at the trepidation wrinkling his forehead, it turned out he did believe it.

A bleak wind lifted their hair and ruffled their collars. Brittle branches snapped, the smell of soil and smoke became more pungent, along with some other scent, unfamiliar, human, but with a twist. Damon turned towards the house. His eyes went to the bedroom window, expecting to see it darkened. Dim light shone through the heavy purple curtains. Shadows moved.

"What's going on?"

"Rebekah called Lucy Bennett."

Damon went to the wrought iron fence and grasped the bars. These fucking Originals. He squeezed. The cold metal warped under his grip.

"That's why I've been waiting out here," Alaric said. He stubbed out the cigarette. "Parlay time."

Damon heard them as soon as he entered the house. He listened as he climbed the staircase.

"I should have been called the moment it happened," Lucy said.

"We thought a solution might lie elsewhere," Elijah said.

"The solution, Mr. Mikaelson, was to leave my cousin out of it."

"I see no point in discussing what should have happened. As it is, your cousin is...severely wounded."

"You mean dead. Because that's what she is. And she's been lying here for two days while you scramble to cover your ass."

Damon met Rebekah's eyes at the landing. She stood with Matt at the door, waiting for the inevitable eruption of violence. She shook her head as he approached, warning him to wait downstairs, but Damon didn't care.

He leaned against the opposite wall. The grand entrance moment hadn't arrived and while the two decanters of brandy he passed in the sitting room were tempting, hearing Elijah get his ass chewed was satisfying enough.

"I may be capable of many things, Ms. Bennett, but prescience isn't a trait I possess. I had no reason to believe Klaus had a witch this powerful on his side."

"Do I look simple to you? You, an Original, had no way of deducing that a witch, not just any witch but Abigail Bennett, worked for Klaus? So you're either lazy or incompetent."

"This will not end well," Matt whispered.

"If you paid even the slightest attention to what Klaus has done to your cousin, if you had the capacity to understand the lengths we have gone through, the trials we have endured-"

"Why is she lying here?"

Damon pushed off the wall and entered the room. Lucy and Elijah stood at the foot of the bed, locked in a battle of heated glares. They both turned as he entered, the scale of irritability shifting from high to critical.

He fixed his eyes on the body. They had a witch cast a spell to ward off decay, but they kept the room frigid and burned incense. It wasn't enough. The scent of death still permeated the room.

This was the first time for him, seeing the body. Someone washed off the dirt, cut the hair and brushed it, so that it fanned the pillow. Someone washed the bloody mouth until the lips were bloodless. Someone, some morbid person, pulled wool socks over the feet and cut a hole in a loose shift so the stake piercing the chest could breathe.

Damon almost laughed. He inhaled, almost letting the sound out, but his eyes blurred, and his throat ached, and the body laid there, unable to partake in the joke.

"She's dead because of me," Damon said.

Lucy glanced at Elijah. "What?"

Damon turned to look at her. They had the same haunted look about the eyes, the same worried lines. It was the same look Bonnie gave him when she handed him the coat. The same look when she found him in the dark. The same look just before her eyes shut off. Worry. Caution.

He closed his eyes, unable to look anymore. "Bonnie wouldn't want you here. Here is a dead end. You should go, hide, there's no shame in it. It's living, and Bonnie would want that for you."

Damon brushed past them. He couldn't look anymore. He didn't want to see the body that had been Bonnie, see the stake meant for him, see the devastation of love. That's what it was, love. That was how it manifested in her, he finally understood. Caution. The spell, the bloodbag, the crow. Worry. The coat settling over him, the frown as she gazed at him, knowing. Love. Alaric's resurrection, the destruction of the grimoire, the plunge back into hell. Damon couldn't look anymore, didn't want to feel it anymore, didn't want to know or understand or do. He wanted her back, wanted her back like he needed blood, and she was dead. He sank to the floor, grasping for something to hold, to anchor him, felt her cold fingers, felt it snap in him, the reality.