A crossbow. Two stakes. Three. Holy water in a plastic bottle.
Heart pounding against his ribcage, Alaric packed these things into an old duffel bag.
Wooden crosses. An iron crucifix. Dried vervain, by the bunch.
He zipped the bag up, swung it over his shoulder. Stopped to pick up Isobel’s journal off the kitchen counter. That, he won’t put in the bag, but will tuck into the inside pocket of his jacket instead. It helped somehow, to keep it close – like it was a childhood blanket, and not the doctrine that destroyed his life.
With single-minded purpose, he loaded the duffel bag into the trunk of his car and tried not to think what he was setting out to do. The Falls weren’t far, he knew – just down Main Street, where only the Grill still shone its neon signs. Past some homes, with warm-lit windows that now felt strangely distant. And, finally, through a wooded stretch – an upward slope where there was nothing at all but obscured streetlights and a handful of signs; all typical stuff. Welcome to the Falls at Mystic Falls. No camping. Watch out for wildlife. If you’re looking for the information center, you already passed it.
On another night, or by the light of day, it might even be charming.
Alaric shouldn’t have been surprised that, even at this time of night, the main parking lot was still almost full. He stopped as a boy, solo cup in hand, staggered across to his friends – crammed knee-to-knee in the back of a half-ton truck, a bassline thumping from open windows. Mercifully, he didn’t recognize any of them, and they paid him no notice. He drove up a winding, narrow stretch of road, past their drunken whooping and hollering, up to the lookout point above the Falls. The change of atmosphere was immediate. He could feel it, at once a welcoming respite from the commotion and a chill in the air.
Aside from a few cars at the far end, spaced apart and tucked away under the shade of old-growth trees – a few cars which he’d rather put out of his mind immediately, thank you – Alaric found himself alone. He parked his car out in the open, near the rickety wooden steps leading down to the base of the Falls, and got out. Left the keys in the ignition. Walked to the edge of the railing and clasped his hands around it. Down below, the clearing was lit up by the orange glow of the bonfire and what he was pretty sure must be Mystic Falls’s entire supply of fairy lights. He could make out figures, from this distance, but not faces. Whatever sound he might have heard was drowned out by the throbbing din of closer festivities in the parking lot.
The light in his car had flickered off, so he opened the door to revive it. He sat down; door still open, one leg outside, and brought Isobel’s journal reverently into the dim light. With a deep breath, he turned to a bookmarked page. Vampires. Contrary to popular belief, the vampire is not always a solitary creature. Instead, he or she may thrive in the chaos and relative anonymity of a crowd. Great. Long story short: if you want to throw a party, be careful with your guest list.
A sound. He froze. The loud, dull thump broke him from his concentration, and a dread paranoia gripped him; he knew, with sudden, horrible certainty. In the time it would take for him to open the trunk of his car, to get the bag and arm himself, it would already be too late.
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