The Bourbon Diaries ✢ The Vampire Diaries Spin Off

Prologue - Damon Salvatore

Four Days From Now

Mystic Falls, VA

Damon woke up in handcuffs.

Not the good kind.

No, these ones were absent the familiar feel of the fluffy pink lining, his hands were behind his back---not against a headboard---and he was cuffed to a chair, not a bed. The only similarity between this and the kinky bondage play he had with his wife, Elena, was that he was lying down... and not comfortably. At some point the chair must have tipped over onto its side, and now he had a dead arm and the speckled imprint of scuffed concrete against his face. But at least he recognized where he was: the cellar of his bar. The situation immediately brought back memories of his bachelor party.

"Alaric!" Damon called out, his breath puffing up dust from the floor. "I don't know what you think the occasion is, but when I get out of this, there'd better be cake!"

The response was silence.

"Alaric!" Damon shouted louder, trying to make his voice carry towards the bar upstairs. He struggled against the restraints, only to discover that his legs were also tied to the chair.

That did not remind him of his bachelor party.

He was starting to strongly suspect he'd pissed someone off. But who? Hell, from contractors to bar patrons, that list was far too huge to tackle.

Just so long as it wasn't vampires.

A door slammed above him, footsteps coming down the wooden staircase. A voice continuing a phone conversation. "It's going to take a couple of hours for you to get here and I don't want them dead before you do. The last thing I need is a humanity-free vampire on my hands screwing things up."

Damon groaned in aggravation at the word 'vampire', rolled his eyes beneath his eyelids, and pressed his forehead to the floor. Not this shit again.

The stranger rounded the wall from the stairs, facing the back of Damon's fallen chair. There was a pause while a smirk drew across the man's lips, an idea forming, then he continued his conversation into the phone. "I've heard Wickery Bridge is quite symbolic," he finished smugly, ending the call.

Damon sighed into the floor. "So you're a vampire?" he checked with the stranger, who was pacing around out of sight behind him.

"Don't insult me," the man seethed contemptuously.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Damon spat back sarcastically. "I forgot I shouldn't insult someone who has me cuffed and bound to a chair in the cellar of my own damn bar. Allow me to compliment your knot-tying skills. Five stars! Highly recommend for camping, climbing, sailing, and kidnappings." He dug the side of his shoe into the floor and shifted his body in frustration, trying to swing himself into an upright position. He only succeeded in swivelling a few inches forward, scraping his arm against the concrete, and dragging the chair along behind him. He huffed in defeat, resting the side of his head back on the floor. Getting free was a long shot. Keeping the guy talking was probably the only way he was going to figure out what was going on. "Who the hell are you anyway?"

"Someone who's in love with your daughter," the voice said.

"Yeah, well, I don't know if you've noticed, but the irresistibly gorgeous gene kind of runs in our family, so you're going to have to narrow that down." Damon struggled against the ropes. If this involved Stefanie, he was going to have to figure this out quicker. "Where the hell is she?"

"You'll see her soon enough," came the far too casual tone.

"If you hurt her---" Damon growled.

"I'm not going to hurt her, I'm going to help her!" the man snapped, insulted by the accusation. He released a breath, calming himself, determined not to let Damon rattle him. "You know, if I'd ever met you, I might have been tempted to handle this a little differently. But, as it stands right now, you're the one who's about to get hurt. More specifically, you're going to die."

"That's a little inconvenient," Damon responded, "but it's not the first time someone's made that threat towards me. Care to tell me why you want me dead?"

"Believe it or not, I don't want you dead," the man clarified. "But I know someone who does, so it came as part of the bargain."

"Well, whoever that someone is, it sounds like they got the raw end of the deal," Damon said. "I'm not worth the energy it would take to kill me." He heard the sound of a cork being released and whipped his head back as far as it would go---which wasn't far enough---and fumed, "Are you drinking my bourbon?"

"You won't miss it," the man justified, "since you won't be around long enough to enjoy it."

"Which one?"

The man lowered the bottle from his lips, studying it. "Prohibition era," he finally answered.

Damon scrunched his face, like it physically pained him to hear it. "Damn it! I was saving that for a theme party, you prick," he whined loudly.

The man's jaw tightened at the insult. He took an empty glass from a stack of plastic racks and filled it to the brim with the liquor. Storming towards the chair, he grabbed it by one of the wooden slats running down its back, and yanked Damon into an upright position. As soon as the man spun around to face him, he threw the contents of the glass in his face. "Enjoy it now. I'll be celebrating your death soon enough."

Damon kept his eyes pinched closed, waiting for the sting of the hit to clear as the liquid ran down his face. "Your serving skills could do with some work," he snarked, shaking his head dry. At least he was off the floor. Time to see who this prick was. Damon opened his eyes.

Opened them wider.

"You?!" Damon blurted, recognizing the man in front of him. "I know you!" This wasn't possible. Confusion flooded his face. "I killed you!"