The Good Daughter

Two

The house was empty, though not abandoned. Maybe they'd gone for the day? I crept through the hallway, straining for any kind of sound, a heartbeat, a draw of air, anything.

But there wasn't.

"Hello?" I called, knowing it was useless.

So this was where Damon and Stefan allegedly lived. It looked nothing like our original house. I dragged my fingers along the railing of the staircase, before taking them two at a time.

Bedrooms decorated the hall above, and it felt never ending.

This was a boarding house?

How had Damon and Stefan survived? Were they vampires? They had to be. It's the only way. Or had my descendants named some poor kids my brothers' names?

Had mine been stolen as well?

I found a room with a big ass bed in it. When was the last time I'd slept? Especially somewhere as nice as this.

It was rare enough that I stopped long enough to even enjoy sunshine, relying mostly on that special kind of endurance I had. I twisted my ring around my finger, smoothing my finger over the blue center. It matched those in a set meant for vampires far older than I was, though it had to be  altered as the true owner of it wasn't walking in the daylight.

Was this Damon or Stefan's room? It certainly smelled like someone lived here, though, it didn't quite match the personality of either brother.

Over a century.

What if they were completely different? I was.

There was a small, foolish, part of me that hoped they weren't. That they were still my older brothers.

Well, Stefan would technically be younger.

God, that was weird to think about.

Vampirism stuck one to the age in which they were when they turned. Which meant that while Damon was still older, I'd been eighteen when I turned.

Marking Stefan as the baby of the family.

I made my way out, casting a last look at the bed. Maybe when I found Kathrine and used her to negotiate, I could get one of them, a nice, large, comfortable place to sleep.

The silence was almost kind of haunting. Too quiet for my taste. Where I lived, there was always noise, no matter what time of day. I climbed the next set of narrow stairs, brining me up to the third floor.

There was only one room on it.

This had to be Stefan's. Easily. He was a pack rat back then, he was a pack rat now. To his credit, he made it feel more homey.

That and it smelled like him.

A wardrobe was open against the wall, displaying dozens of journals.

Sentimental.

I dragged the tips of my fingers along the spines, barely able to make out the dates. Though the further I went, the more pigment the ink had and the easier it became to tell when they were from.

Stefan's desk wasn't quite so organized. Papers sprawled across the surface messily, and little Knick knacks littered the edge of it.

What I'd guess is his most recent journal laid out and open, almost inviting a reader to it.

I was sorely tempted.

But I knew I shouldn't. I had to be gone, no matter how much I might hate it, the last thing my brothers needed was me back in their lives.

They probably believed me to be dead, which was for the best. I couldn't say if it was a relief they were alive, that they'd made it, or if it was actually a curse.

More to be leveraged against me.

I wandered to his closet, grabbing a shirt, and tucking it under my arm. If I couldn't see them, then I wanted something to remember them. Their clothes had only carried their scent for so long before mine overpowered it.

That night, the very same I fled my father's house, I'd stolen as much of their clothes as I could carry, half blind with grief, and clinging to the only things I had left of my brothers.

My protectors.

No, Morgan. Don't cry. They're alive, and that should be enough.

Why wasn't it?

I couldn't stay, I shouldn't. Would seeing them just once be so bad? Just to let them know I was alive too?

The front door opened, and I heard their voices. It made me freeze in my place. They were talking about some kind of kill, and a girl named Elena.

Who the fuck was Elena?