Horticulture

The door to the cell creaked open, and silence flooded the space like a suffocating weight. Only the faint wheezing of a man, struggling to cling to life, broke the stillness. Tom stepped inside, unbothered by the gore clinging to the soles of his boots. His blood-stained coat hung heavily on his shoulders, and with a flick of his fingers, he peeled it off and tossed it onto the chair in the corner.

The man in the cell was a ruin of flesh and bone, his limbs gone, his spirit shattered. Tom glanced at him one last time and turned toward the door.

A squish stopped him mid-step. He froze, his eyes dropping to the floor. Beneath his boot, something round glistened faintly in the dim light. An eye.

He bent down, inspecting it with detached curiosity before scraping it off the sole of his boot against the frame of the door. He locked the cell behind him, though he knew the man wasn't going anywhere. Not anymore.

Clutching a blood bag, Tom ascended the basement stairs, sipping steadily as he quenched the hunger clawing at him from within. The metallic tang coated his tongue, grounding him.

When he reached the parlor, the others were waiting for him.

Bonnie and Elena sat stiffly on the couch, their faces pale. Stefan leaned close to Elena, his hand resting on her back, trying to soothe her. Damon stood by the fireplace, ever the picture of casual arrogance, though his sharp gaze betrayed his impatience.

Damon was the first to speak, tossing Tom a towel. "So," he drawled, "what did you get?"

Tom caught the towel and began wiping his hands clean. "He doesn't know who turned him."

A collective wave of disappointment swept through the room. Bonnie visibly deflated. Elena stared down at her hands, her knuckles pale from how tightly she gripped the armrest of the couch.

Damon groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. Do you want me to take another shot at him? You missed a spot, by the way." He gestured toward Tom's neck, where a smear of blood had gone unnoticed.

Tom swiped the towel over the spot. "No point," he said flatly. "There's nothing left of him to answer."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Elena stiffened, the weight of what he'd said pressing down on her. Bonnie looked away, as though turning her gaze could erase the horrors they all knew were waiting in that basement.

"So that's it?" Stefan's voice cut through the silence, tight with worry. "No leads, no answers? Nothing?"

Tom shook his head. "Not nothing," he replied, pacing slowly. "He said it was a girl. Someone who turned him. He mentioned there were two others with her—not counting himself."

Stefan shot up from his seat, his pacing mirroring Tom's. "Why? What do they want?"

Tom shrugged, his expression cool and unreadable. "No clue. But whoever she is, she's after something. And I think we'd better be ready."

Bonnie spoke next, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you going to do to him?"

Tom met her eyes, his tone quiet but firm. "Dispose of him. He's a threat."

Her face twisted in protest. "But can't you… I don't know, train him? Like you did with Vicki?"

Elena shook her head, her voice rising slightly. "No. You know what he's done, Bonnie. He can't be changed."

Tom turned to his brothers, his tone shifting to one of dark humor. "So," he said, "who's taking garbage duty?"

The room responded with silence and disapproving glares. Tom clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. "Fine. I was just trying to lighten the mood. Damon, you're it."

Damon frowned. "Why me? Ask Stefan. He's been sitting on his ass all day."

Tom glanced at Stefan, his lips twitching into a smirk. "I would, but he's too busy brooding over Elena to focus."

Stefan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, but didn't argue.

Damon groaned dramatically. "Fine. Where's the woodchipper?"

"In the garage," Tom replied, pointing behind him. "Oh, you might wanna grab the rubber boots and gloves, it's messy down there... and do it quickly. It's the least we can do."

Damon muttered something under his breath as he stalked off toward the garage.

Tom turned back to the others, his voice light as if trying to shake off the lingering unease. "So, what happened at school today?"

--—————————————————————————————-

The ride to Bonnie's house was steeped in silence. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed out the window, though she seemed to see nothing of the world outside.

When they pulled up in front of her father's house, Tom glanced at her. "Bonnie, we're here."

She didn't move at first. Her hands clutched her bag tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, she turned to him, her eyes shadowed with something between confusion and unease. "How do you do it?"

Tom tilted his head, his brows furrowing. "Do what?"

Her voice cracked slightly. "What you did to Logan. How do you—" She paused, struggling for the words. "How do you even know how to do something like that?"

Tom let out a long, sharp breath, leaning back in his seat. "Experience," he said simply.

She didn't look satisfied. "Experience? What does that even mean?"

His mouth quirked into a faint, humorless smile. "It's a long story," he said. "Let's just say I've been on both sides of the table. A long time ago, I learned how to survive. And sometimes survival means knowing how to make people talk."

Bonnie shuddered slightly, but he placed a hand on hers, his expression softening. "You did good today, Bonnie," he said. "Without you, Logan would still be out there, hurting innocent people."

She nodded slowly, her lips curving into a weak, reluctant smile. "You're right," she murmured. "I just… I need time to wrap my head around all of this."

Tom nodded, watching as she stepped out of the car and walked toward the house. At the door, she paused and turned to wave. He waved back before driving off into the night.

—————————————————————————————————————

Later that night, the sun long set, Tom stood alone in his room, his fingers tracing the worn edges of an old journal. He flipped through its pages, scanning the familiar entries—until he stopped. His eyes narrowed as he reread a single line.

The location of his father's unmarked grave.

Without hesitation, he strode out of his room and called for Damon. No response. Of course. Stefan was at the school event, and Damon was likely nursing a drink somewhere.

So, he headed for Vicki's room instead.

She was meditating, her eyes closed, her posture steady. A flicker of pride flashed through him—at least she was doing something useful.

"What do you want?" she asked coldly, not opening her eyes.

Tom smirked. "Come on. We're going out."

"Why did the witch gave you a cold shoulder?" She opened her eyes and stood up.

Tom sighed and said, "It wasn't her fault… she was possessed. Now put on something decent we have some work to do."

Vicki wanted to say 'Go fuck yourself' but she didn't she did what he asked of him. They both got into his car and she asked, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Tom said with a grin on his face.

"What are we doing out here?" Vicki asked, trudging along behind Tom. The woods were dense, the thick canopy above blocking out the moonlight. She carried a bag slung over her shoulder, her breath coming out in short huffs.

Tom glanced back, his grin sharp and playful. "Teaching you something useful. Consider it a life skill."

Vicki rolled her eyes. "And what exactly is this 'life skill'? Why am I hauling around this bag?"

"Tools," Tom replied vaguely.

She stopped, looking around at the scattered bricks and crumbling stone structures peeking out from the ground. "Tools for what?"

Tom stopped and turned, his expression unreadable in the shadows. "Grave robbing."

Vicki froze, staring at him like he'd lost his mind. "Are you serious? We're digging up a corpse?"

"Yep," Tom said cheerfully, pulling out a folded map from his pocket. He studied it for a moment, muttering to himself before gesturing to a patch of uneven ground near some collapsed stonework. "Right there."

"Why are we doing this?" she demanded, setting the bag down.

Tom crouched by the spot and began clearing away debris with his hands. "Because you need to learn how to do grunt work. It builds character."

"Grunt work?" Vicki repeated incredulously. "I thought Damon handled the body from earlier!"

"He did," Tom said, shrugging. "This is something else. Now grab that shovel and get to work."

She opened the bag and pulled out a dirt-encrusted shovel. "Unbelievable," she muttered as she began digging. "You're making me do this while you just stand there?"

Tom leaned against a nearby tree and began rolling a joint, his hands working quickly and efficiently. "Pretty much," he said without apology.

"You're smoking weed while I dig up a corpse?"

"Yep," Tom replied, lighting the joint and taking a drag. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his grin widening. "Tell you what—finish faster, and I'll let you have a hit. It's good stuff."

Vicki scowled but kept digging, her movements fueled more by irritation than anything else. Eventually, her shovel hit something solid. She paused, leaning on the handle. "I think I found it," she called out.

Tom approached, crouching down and brushing away the dirt with his hands. A rough, weathered coffin emerged from the soil, its edges rotting with age.

"You weren't kidding," Vicki said, watching as Tom pried the lid open with a crowbar from the bag. Inside lay a skeleton dressed in a dark, decayed suit. Its bony hands clutched two books,one large and tan, the other small and black, its surface shimmering faintly in the dim light.

Tom gave Vicki the joint and she took a drag and coughed "Who the hell gets buried holding books?"

"Apparently, my father," Tom replied dryly. He carefully picked up the books, brushing off the dirt.

"Your dad?" Vicki asked, her jaw dropping. "That's messed up, even for you."

Tom shrugged, "That's the least messed up thing about me, kid." His attention fixed on the smaller black book. He opened it, flipping through the delicate pages, his eyes glinting with something that almost looked like triumph.

Vicki tilted her head, taking a closer look. "Wait… blood popsicle."

Tom glanced at her and with an intrigued look. "It's a sunny day, you need to cool down but you're also hungry. This about it?"

She let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. She looked at him and asked, "Who's book is that?"

Tom looked at her and said, "The big one is from Emily."

She started giggling "That's… Emily'ssss!" she said, her voice dragging out the name as she giggled uncontrollably. The joint he'd handed her earlier was already taking effect.

Tom chuckled, amused by her sudden giddiness. But his gaze drifted back to the grimoire, his smile fading into something more serious. The weight of the book in his hands felt like a key—a key to answers he'd been chasing for far too long.