A Million Reasons [ S. SALVATORE ]

EPILOGUE

It's a cold and rainy day, and the wind chills Margaret to the bone. Adelaide would have hated such weather, she thinks. Her older sister adored the summer, the sunlight and clear blue skies. It seems fitting that the warmth would have left with her.

The rain is light, but it drips down the gravestone, washing away the dust and dirt that had collected throughout the day. Adelaide Hughes carved into the rock, marking her burial place. It doesn't seem very necessary; Addie receives few visitors these days. No one likes to remember her death. It's too tragic, too painful.

But Margaret remembers. And she stands over her sister's grave, still wearing the black that signifies her mourning. She never wants to wear the color again. She's grown sick of it. Half the town is wearing black now. It seems almost everyone has known someone either lost in battle or lost on that dark, dark night. Twenty seven of their town members lost in the flames as the church burned down. The bonfire she had helped light. Twenty seven less vampires to hunt in the night.

Margaret breathes deeply, tries to make her peace. It doesn't come easily, but her chest feels a little less tight after a second steadied breath. And then, she hears the crunch of twigs under feet behind her. Before she can turn to see, he steps up beside her, shoulder to shoulder, both gazing down at the grave.

Damon doesn't say anything, but there's sorrow in his eyes.

"I'll be damned," Margaret breathes, her breath hitching. It's been so long since she's seen that face. She had thought him lost, along with his brother and father. The whole town had thought so. The boys had been branded sympathizers and thus shot down by their own father. Giuseppe followed soon after, found with a bite mark in his neck, lying in a pool of his own blood.

"Damon?" Slowly, his blue eyes lift up to look into hers. "How are you..?" There's an ache in her a chest, a fierce need to be close to someone familiar once again. With the loss of her family, with the loss of her childhood friends, she's been so alone.

But when she goes to reach for him, she begins to understand. There's a new kind of sorrow in him, but there's something more. There's a change that her newly attuned senses begin to pick up, in the way he stands, in the way he breathes, in the way he doesn't breathe. It's too silent, too still. It's unnatural. Inhuman.

In a bout of fear, she whips her revolver out and points it at his heart. He must be able to hear hers racing now but he hardly reacts. He doesn't appear angry or hungry, or even frightened (which he should be. the bullets are wooden, and soaked in vervain). But he does smile sadly, the grin never reaching his eyes.

"Hello, Margaret." His voice his gentle, sounding so different without his usual teasing tone. "You couldn't shoot me if you tried."

"Don't be so sure," she says coldly, thumb cocking back the hammer of the gun. It clicks into place, prepared to fire the moment she decides to pull the trigger. "What are you doing here?"

"Just paying my respects." Slowly, he lifts his hand and for the first time she notices the bouquet of flowers he holds. "May I?"

It takes a moment, but Margaret finally nods her head. It's a stiff, short movement, but Damon leans down to rest the flowers against the stone. She doesn't want her heart to betray her, but she can't help acknowledging how kind that is of him. Her gun inches down, until it's finally pointed at the ground. Still, she keeps her grip tight on it. Just in case.