trailing rope that hung defiantly free, veils floating in the wind.
When they did arrive beside Elena, Meredith gasped. Bonnie’s
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eyes opened wide and stayed that way. Elena understood what they were
seeing. Blood was flowing freely from the cut across her cheekbone and
her blouse kept opening in the wind to reveal her torn and bloody
camisole. One leg of her jeans was rapidly turning red.
But, drawn up into the protection of her shadow, was a far more
pitiful figure. And as Meredith raised Elena’s diaphanous veil to help
keep her blouse closed and once more enshroud her in decency, the
woman herself raised her head, to look at the three girls with the eyes of
a dumb and hunted animal.
Behind them, Damon said softly, “I shall quite enjoy this,” as he
lifted the heavy man into the air with one hand and then struck his throat
like a cobra. There was a hideous scream, which went on and on.
No one tried to interfere, and no one tried to cheer the slave owner
on to make a fight.
Elena, scanning the faces of the crowd, realized why. She and her
friends had become used to Damon—or as used as you could become to
his half-tamed air of ferocity. But these people were getting their first