The Redemption of Damon

The Redemption of Damon

The rain from the previous evening had left the streets of Paris slippery, and they gleamed in the early light like a revitalized metropolis. The diary was held close to my breast as I strolled with Damon through the narrow streets of Montmartre. The aroma of coffee and freshly baked bread surrounded us like a delicate web, drawing us more into the past.

However, we weren't pursuing Lucia this morning.

Not quite yet.

I hadn't heard anything from Damon. 
However, he had to do something that he had been putting off for longer than he cared to admit before we began searching for Lucia's hidden gallery.

From the corner of my eye, I could now make out his distant look in his eyes and the tension in his jaw. This Damon was different from the one who had teased me and kissed me irrationally under the stars. This was the man who had earlier learnt to live a life he hated by keeping everything behind steel walls.

I took hold of his hand and laced my fingers in his. His grip was almost too firm for a second, but then it loosened and his thumb swept slowly across my hand. His body experienced a little relaxation of stress.

I said, "We don't have to do this today."

He gave a headshake. "No. I never will if I wait much longer.

I gave his hand a single, discreet squeeze of assurance. We would confront whatever this was and whatever ghosts still plagued him.

After rounding a corner, we came to a halt in front of an aged structure with ivy growing up the walls like fingers trying desperately to cling on and a stone front that was cracking in some areas. Above the entrance, a worn sign swung a little in the wind.

"La Maison de l’Espoir."
The Hope House.

My chest constricted.

"Damon… is this…?"

He gave one nod. "The orphanage. The location from which I fled on my sixteenth birthday.

Raw and weighty, the words hovered between us.

He pushed the door wide after taking a breath that sounded more like a war cry.

Time seemed to slow down within.

The smell of chlorine and old books clung stubbornly to the air, and the walls were still the same faded yellow he had previously described in a drunken confession. The door creaked and a lady in her sixties sat behind a beaten desk, looking over her spectacles.

When she spotted Damon, her eyes became wide.

The words "Damon Blackthorn," she took in. "Is it really you?"

He forced a tiny, almost childlike grin. "Hello, Sister Anne."

She stood up and moved around the desk. 

My heart ached in my chest, so I remained back and gave them room.

Sister Anne drew back after a long while, her eyes glimmering. "You came back."

"I had to," answered Damon in a raspy voice. "I owe you… so much more than I ever gave."

Her grin was kind and understanding. "You had nothing to pay. You made it through. That was sufficient.

He lowered his gaze to his hands. "When I left, I wasn't kind. I grabbed items. Cash. Materials. I made things more difficult for others.

With a stern voice, Sister Anne shook her head. "You were a young man carrying out his perceived duty. But now look at you.

Her grin became brighter as she turned to face me. "And you brought someone special, I see."

I took her hand and moved forward. Saying, "Emma Renard," "It’s an honor to meet you."

Squeezing my fingers, she whispered, "And you, child," Her eyes gleamed as she turned back to face Damon. "There’s something you should see."

She led us into a tiny, brightly illuminated church along a short passageway.

A collection of paintings, rough, colorful, and alive, hung on the distant wall. images of kids having fun, developing, and laughing. Additionally, each canvas included a signature in the corner that was almost invisible.

Blackthorn, D.

I covered my mouth with my palm as I gasped.

Damon starred, unable to speak.

Sister Anne murmured softly, "You did these," "Prior to your departure. when you continued to feel that you were more than what society perceived you to be.

He approached, reaching out as if he was worried that if he touched the paintings, they might vanish.

"I thought…" he muttered. "I thought they were destroyed."

She said, "We kept them," "Because they were important. because you were important.

Damon felt a tear slide down his face. He left it in place.

Sister Anne remarked, "You didn’t just survive, Damon," in a firm voice. "You survived. You loved it. Even if you didn't think beauty existed, you nonetheless made it.

His eyes were wide and raw as he turned to face me.

"I tried so hard to bury this part of me," stated the man. "To put my origins behind me. But it's me, Emma. It was always that way.

I took two steps across the chapel and put my arms around him. Wild and vibrant, his heart pounded against me.

"You never had to hide from me," I said in a faint voice. "Never."

At that moment, he gave me a passionate, intense kiss, and I gave him my best kiss in return. In the gap between us, the world briefly vanished, leaving just the taste of him, his power, the breaking, and the mending.

Sister Anne only grinned and walked away from us when we eventually separated.

Later, the diary was again sitting between us as we sat together on the weathered wooden seats, our hands intertwined.

"She was right," remarked Damon. "We must discover Lucia's legacy. Not just for you. For every one of them. For all those who have ever needed to realize they are important.

With too much emotion in my throat to talk, I nodded.

His lips brushed my ear's shell as he drew in closer. "After this," he said in a deep, mouthwatering voice, "I'm taking you somewhere." A place free of ghosts. Just a bed that we never have to leave, you, and me."

Before I could stop it, the sound of my laughter began to bubble up. I raised my face to meet him, and we shared a deep, lingering kiss that promised everything we had not been able to imagine for years.

Hope, Home, and Eternity.

Damon stopped one more time in front of his old paintings as we got up to go.

He used his fingertip to trace one of the signs before turning away, not out of sorrow but in tranquility.

As the light filtered through the stained glass windows, his face was bathed in vibrant hues.

And I saw him really, at last, free for the first time since I'd met him.

We prepared to depart Paris and search for the next piece of Lucia's jigsaw that evening as we packed our belongings.

In bed, I nestled up against Damon, his breath warm on the back of my neck, his arm sluggish around my waist.

"Emma?" he whispered drowsily.

"Hmm?"

"I love you," was all he said. Angry. As if that were the world's most natural thing.

I put my fingers through his and grinned. "I love you too."

Then, both of us fell asleep, deeply and without dreams.

However, daybreak offered more than a fresh start.

A guy emerged from the throng as we were checking out of the motel.

tall. Slim. Time-worn features, yet eyes as keen as shards of glass.

He said a single syllable.

"Damon."

Beside me, my spouse froze, his whole body tensing up.

With my pulse pounding, I gazed at the stranger.

There was something off about him. Dangerous and familiar at the same time.

"Damon," the guy said again, his lips curling into a ruthless sneer. "It’s been a long time."

Damon's voice was quiet and lethal. "What the hell are you doing here, Vincent?"

Vincent, the guy, shrugged. "You didn't believe that your history could be permanently buried, did you? Not the bits you never paid for, in particular.

Instinctively, I took Damon's arm, but he remained still.

Vincent grinned broadly.

"Blackthorn," he continued, "you owe a debt," "And it’s time to collect."

Vincent immediately disappeared back into the throng after slipping a piece of paper into Damon's palm before I could respond.

My gut twisted as I glanced up at Damon.

He had a pale face. He had a trembling hand.

I looked at the document below.

Just one address.
Just one date.
Just one word.
Midnight.