MTL NOVEL Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Blood and Bonds
### Chapter 2: Blood and Bonds
The air in Mystic Falls carried the scent of pine and regret as Alexander "Xander" Salvatore stood atop the quarry's jagged edge, the moon casting silver light across his chiseled features. It had been three nights since the turn—three nights since Katherine Pierce's blood had rewritten his fate, and his brothers'. Below, Damon sprawled on a rock, swigging from a flask of stolen bourbon, his laughter cutting through the stillness. Stefan sat apart, knees drawn to his chest, staring at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger. Xander's emerald eyes flicked between them, a mix of pity and exasperation tightening his jaw. He'd inherited these two as family, and while he'd die for them—hell, he already had—he couldn't shake the irritation. *Blockheads,* he thought. *One's a drunk, the other's a martyr. And I'm stuck babysitting.*
"Cheers to immortality," Damon called, raising the flask in a mock toast. "No more lectures from Father, no more church on Sundays. Just us, the night, and all the pretty necks we can sink our teeth into."
Stefan flinched, his voice barely a whisper. "This isn't a gift, Damon. It's a curse. We're monsters now."
Xander snorted, crossing his arms. "Spare me the melodrama, Stefan. And you, Damon—put the flask down before you trip over your own ego. We've got bigger problems than your hangovers or your guilt trips." He stepped forward, his presence commanding their attention. "Katherine's gone, but she's not dead. I'd bet my new fangs on it. She played us, and now we're stuck cleaning up her mess."
Damon smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Oh, lighten up, big brother. She's a fox, sure, but she gave us eternity. I say we track her down, thank her properly—maybe with a kiss, maybe with a stake."
"She turned us into pawns," Xander snapped, his tone sharp as a blade. "You think she cares about your gratitude? She's a survivor, not a saint. And you two drooling over her like lovesick pups didn't help."
Stefan looked up, eyes glistening. "You didn't love her, Xander? Not even a little?"
Xander paused, considering. Katherine was a wildfire—beautiful, dangerous, and best admired from a distance. He'd enjoyed their verbal sparring, the way her dark eyes danced when he matched her cunning. But love? No. "She's a hell of a woman," he admitted, "but I don't fall for someone who'd rather use me than stand beside me. You two should've seen that."
Damon rolled his eyes. "Saint Xander, always above us mere mortals. Well, ex-mortals."
"Call it what you want," Xander said coolly. "I'm not here to chase a doppelgänger ghost or her next lookalike. We're vampires now—stronger, faster, forever. Let's use it, not waste it pining."
The words hung heavy, a challenge neither brother met. Damon took another swig, and Stefan buried his face in his hands. Xander turned away, gazing at the horizon. In his past life as Xavier Langston, he'd built empires from nothing. This was just another game, another board to dominate. But the Weaver's cryptic promise—*"Your power will grow"*—gnawed at him. What power? And why did he feel like a pawn himself?
---
Days bled into weeks, and Mystic Falls settled into an uneasy quiet. The Salvatore brothers adapted—or tried to. Damon embraced his new nature with reckless abandon, feeding on travelers and flirting with danger. Stefan resisted, starving himself until his eyes hollowed and his hands trembled, only to break and feed in a frenzy of guilt. Xander watched, guided, and occasionally intervened—snapping a neck to stop Damon's rampages, forcing blood down Stefan's throat when he grew too weak. He hunted with precision, never killing unless necessary, always cleaning up after his brothers' messes. It was exhausting, but he refused to let them spiral. They were his now, flaws and all.
One night, under a sky thick with stars, something shifted. Xander was alone in the woods, tracking a deer to hone his control, when a searing pain lanced through his chest. He staggered, clutching a tree, blood dripping from his nose. Not his—impossible, vampires didn't bleed like that—but it poured anyway, warm and coppery. His vision swam, and then he saw it: the wheel, spinning in his mind's eye, runes glowing like embers. The Weaver's voice slithered through him: *"The thread tightens. Your power awakens."*
The blood on his hands moved—twisted, coiled—forming a dagger of crimson, sharp as steel. He stared, heart pounding (or the memory of it), and willed it to shift. It obeyed, stretching into a whip, then a shield, before dissolving back into droplets. A laugh escaped him, low and triumphant. *Blood manipulation.* A vampire gift no one else had. He could feel it now, a current beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed. The Weaver hadn't lied.
He tested it in secret, nights spent bending blood into weapons, deflecting imagined blows with shields of red. It was raw, unrefined, but potent. He kept it hidden from Damon and Stefan—they'd either mock it or fear it, and he wasn't in the mood for either. But the power came with whispers, fragments of his past life bleeding into this one: the jet's explosion, the taste of wine, the thrill of a deal closed. And always, the Weaver's eyes watching.
---
It was late October 1864 when Lyra Voss entered his world, a hurricane in human form. Xander was in town, charming a merchant for information on Katherine's whereabouts—not out of love, but strategy—when he felt her before he saw her. A prickle on his neck, a scent of sage and steel. He turned, and there she stood: five-foot-eight, lean and lethal, with raven-black hair tied in a messy braid and a scar slicing across her left cheek. Her eyes, a stormy gray, locked onto his, unflinching. She wore a dark cloak over leather breeches and a corset, a dagger strapped to her thigh. Not a local. Not human—not fully, at least. He smelled vampire blood in her, faint but undeniable, mixed with something else. Magic.
"You're a Salvatore," she said, voice low and edged. "Which one?"
"Alexander," he replied, stepping closer, testing her. "And you're trouble. Who are you?"
"Lyra Voss," she said, hand resting on her dagger. "I hunt your kind. Heard there's a nest here. Looks like I found it."
He smirked, unfazed. "Hunt us? Good luck. We're not exactly defenseless."
She didn't blink. "I don't need luck. I need answers. A vampire bitch named Katherine Pierce—know her?"
Xander's interest piqued. "Intimately. She's the reason I'm like this. You after her?"
"She killed my sister," Lyra said, her tone flat but her eyes blazing. "Slit her throat, drained her dry. I've been tracking her for months."
He studied her, intrigued. A witch-assassin hybrid with a vendetta—now *that* was a twist. "She's long gone from here," he said. "But I might know where she's headed. What's in it for me?"
Lyra's lip curled. "I don't kill you. Yet."
"Fair enough." He stepped closer, voice dropping. "But I'll need more than that to betray a woman I almost liked. Convince me."
She drew her dagger in a flash, pressing it to his throat. "How's this for convincing?"
He didn't flinch, just grinned, grabbing her wrist and twisting it—not to hurt, but to hold. Her strength surprised him, a match for his own. "Better," he said. "But I don't negotiate with blades. How about a deal? You help me with a little problem, I'll point you to Katherine."
Her eyes narrowed. "What problem?"
"My brothers," he said, releasing her. "They're a mess. Help me keep them in line, and I'll give you what you want."
Lyra sheathed her dagger, considering. "Fine. But if you're lying, Salvatore, I'll carve your heart out and feed it to you."
"Deal," he said, extending a hand. She took it, her grip firm, and a spark jolted through him—something electric, dangerous, alive. He didn't know it yet, but Lyra Voss was no ordinary ally. She was a thread the Weaver hadn't shown him, a wildcard in a game he thought he controlled.
---
That night, back at the Salvatore estate, Xander introduced Lyra to Damon and Stefan. Damon leered, offering her a drink she ignored. Stefan stared, sensing her magic, too shy to speak. Xander watched her move—graceful, predatory—and felt the first stirrings of something he hadn't expected: fascination. She wasn't Katherine, all coy smiles and manipulation. Lyra was raw, real, a blade forged in pain. He liked that.
As they planned their next move—tracking Katherine's trail to New Orleans—Xander's blood stirred again, unbidden. A glass shattered across the room, crimson tendrils snaking from his hand before he could stop them. Lyra's eyes widened, Damon cursed, and Stefan gasped. The secret was out.
"What the hell was that?" Damon demanded.
Xander met Lyra's gaze, steady despite the chaos. "A gift," he said. "And it's just the beginning."
The wheel spun silently in his mind, and the Weaver laughed. Mystic Falls would never be the same.