The Howling ▹ Klaus Mikaelson

12.

THE HOWLING.

     12. CHAPTER TWELVE : there is to me about this place a smell of rot

There were ghosts on the inside of her eyelids. Ghosts of werewolves that died as they tried to learn control. The ones who simply couldn't take the torture and ended it all with a bullet. Ghosts of her family, blood or not. Jules, the women who became a mother figure. Mason, the man who became her father. Richard, the man of whom sent her away, too afraid of what his daughter's pain would bring the family name. And the little girl whose death triggered the curse that still broke her bones now.

Everyone had these ghosts. The victims of all of the vampires, they were there. The sacrifices of witches, they were there. The tragedy of all of the lost human lives due to the war of the supernatural. Too many to count. She, too, was responsible; she had blood on her hands. She would admit that she was stained.

Murder ripped the soul into parts. And her soul was tattered; all of theirs were. No denying. And to halt upon a controversial topic, does it count as murder when one kill as murderer. No, it doesn't. Yes, it does. When that person's heart stopped beating, are their victims' revived. Metaphorically or not. No, they don't. Yes, they do. Justice or Murder? Murder or Justice? It's a tough decision. So how was one to decide? Easy, they don't.

If someone asked a twelve year old Rowan Lockwood, would you ever hurt someone? She would say, no, course not.

Even if it meant the well being of everyone around you?

No.

Even if this person had hurt so many others?

. . .

Even if this person had killed people?

. . .

Even if this person had killed people?

Yes. I would want to hurt them.

What if you knew this person, saw good in them?

. . .

What if you loved this person?

Why would I love a killer?

"Because you're a killer," Rowan muttered dryly, finishing her own thought aloud. She huffed out a sharp breath, staring at the ceiling. It was still shrinking. In the distance, she could hear her mom's hurried footsteps and the door slamming, though she didn't really care enough to actually get up. Her bed was too comfortable, and she was just tired. So tired.

Huffing one last time, she sucked it up and got out of bed.

The Grill, it was. Obviously not the most desirable company, but there was a bartender who would slip drinks, so that made up for a little. She walked the doors, inwardly rolling her eyes at the ding that sounded, and shot to the bar, hopping on one of the stools. When she was finally situated, Rowan allowed her eyes to wander across the restaurant.

"Why is my mother talking to the blonde?" Rowan asked aloud. She turned to the occupants of the stools down from her.

"I'll guess at that," Damon started, as Stefan began tapping his ring on the table. Both Rowan and Damon glanced down at the action. "If you'll guess what a medical examiner, Bill Forbes, and Alaric Saltzman have in common?"