Chapter 10 : Bitter Medicine
The oven hummed at its lowest setting.
I'd spread the vervain across two baking sheets, stems separated from leaves, flowers in their own pile. The internet—accessed through Matt's ancient desktop computer with dial-up that screamed every time it connected—had provided basic herb drying instructions. Low heat, good airflow, patience.
The kitchen smelled like a medicinal garden. Sharp, green, with an undertone of something almost metallic. I'd opened the windows to dissipate the scent, but it clung to everything—the curtains, my clothes, the air itself.
While the oven did its work, I ground fresh leaves with a mortar and pestle from the Goodwill. Five dollars, chipped ceramic, probably older than Matt's body. The pestle was heavy in my hand, satisfying to use. Twist, press, grind. The leaves broke down into coarse powder, then finer, until I had something that could dissolve in liquid.
Tea first.
I boiled water, measured dried leaves into a mug, let it steep for five minutes. The liquid that emerged was dark amber, almost brown, with an aroma that made my nose wrinkle.
Here goes nothing.
The first sip hit my tongue like a punishment. Bitter didn't cover it. This was the taste of every unpleasant medicine I'd ever taken, concentrated and amplified. My face contorted involuntarily.
I forced the rest down in three long swallows, then stood very still, waiting.
Nothing happened.
No burning, no nausea, no adverse reaction. Just the lingering taste of something that definitely wasn't meant to be enjoyed. After ten minutes, I poured a second cup.
If one dose was protection, two doses was insurance.
The morning routine solidified in my mind: vervain tea with breakfast, ground vervain in whatever I ate throughout the day. I'd build up a constant level in my system, make myself uncompellable by the time Stefan Salvatore walked through the doors of Mystic Falls High.
Eighty-nine days.
The number was smaller every time I checked. Less than three months until the supernatural apocalypse arrived in the form of two brothers with a complicated relationship and a lot of emotional damage.
I was removing the dried vervain from the oven when Vicki's door creaked open.
She wandered into the kitchen in the same clothes she'd worn yesterday, hair tangled, eyes puffy. Not high—I'd learned to recognize the difference—but definitely not fully awake.
"What is that smell?" She wrinkled her nose.
"Herbs. Working on something for a project."
"Ugh." She slumped into a chair. "It's too early for hippie stuff."
I glanced at the clock. 10:47 AM. Not early by any standard, but I didn't push it.
"Want breakfast?"
She blinked at me, suspicious. "You're cooking?"
"I can make eggs."
"Since when?"
Since I was twenty-eight and living alone and learned to feed myself because the alternative was starvation.
"Since now. Eggs or no eggs?"
"Fine. Whatever."
I cracked three eggs into a pan, added salt and pepper, scrambled them until they were fluffy. The toast came out slightly darker than I wanted—the trailer's toaster had exactly two settings: barely warm and charcoal—but butter covered the worst of it.
Vicki ate without complaint. Small victory.
"What's with the tea?" She nodded at my mug. "You never drink tea."
"Trying something new. Want some?"
I poured her a cup before she could refuse. She took one sip, made a face like I'd offered her poison, and spat it back into the mug.
"That's disgusting. What is that?"
"Herbal blend. Supposed to be good for you."
"It tastes like dirt and regret." She pushed the mug away. "Keep your weird health stuff to yourself."
But she'd swallowed some. I'd watched her throat move before she spat. A tiny amount of vervain, but present. In her system.
Accidental protection.
I hid my satisfaction behind another sip of my own tea. "Suit yourself."
Vicki finished her eggs, dumped her plate in the sink, and retreated to her room. A moment later, music started playing—something softer than her usual angry rock. Progress, maybe.
The kitchen needed cleaning. I washed dishes, wiped counters, stored the dried vervain in Mason jars I'd found in a cabinet. The ground powder went into a small container that could travel with me. The remaining fresh plants went back into plastic bags in the fridge, where they'd stay viable for another week or two.
First week complete.
I'd been Matt Donovan for seven days. In that time, I'd discovered blood manipulation, learned I could heal with my blood, acquired vervain, and established basic protection for myself and accidentally for my sister.
The phlebotomy kit waited in its lockbox. I had one blood bag stored, 450 milliliters. Time to make it two.
The donation process was easier the second time. I knew the technique now—find the vein, anchor it, angle the needle, watch the flash. The blood flowed dark and steady into the collection bag. I monitored the volume, timed the process, sealed the bag when it was full.
Two bags. 900 milliliters of combat-ready blood.
The cooler needed more ice, so I raided the freezer. The blood bags went in, nestled against the cold packs like precious cargo. Which they were.
I checked the calendar on my phone. August 31st was circled in my mental calendar—first day of senior year, first day Stefan Salvatore walked into Elena Gilbert's life. Eleven weeks away.
Not enough time. Never enough time.
But more than I'd had yesterday. More than I'd have tomorrow.
I finished cleaning, stored my supplies, and checked on Vicki one more time. Her music had switched to something almost cheerful. She was singing along, slightly off-key, behind her closed door.
She was alive. She was home. She had vervain in her system, however accidentally.
For now, that was enough.
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