The neon sign of "The Rusty Nail" blinked erratically, painting the rain-streaked alley in sickly green and flickering red. Another dive, another anonymous town. That's how I preferred it these days. Anonymity was a shield, and after a hundred and fifty years, I'd grown accustomed to its cold, impersonal embrace. My name is Laura, and I'm a vampire. Not the romanticized, tortured kind, despite what some might claim. The kind that feels the primal thrum of a beating heart in a crowded room, the kind that knows the metallic tang of blood better than any fine vintage. And yeah, I'm a little evil. It's an occupational hazard when survival hinges on predation, when your existence is an endless hunt.
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, the ice clinking softly against the thick-cut crystal. Bourbon. Human chatter around me was a dull thrum, usually just background noise. Tonight, though, a familiar scent wafted through the stale air – old money, old secrets, and something else, something distinctly… Salvatore. My fingers tightened imperceptibly around the glass, a hairline crack appearing in the rim that only I would notice. Impossible. I hadn't been to Mystic Falls in decades. Not since…
A shiver, entirely un-vampire like, traced its way down my spine. The memories, always lurking at the fringes of my awareness, threatened to surface. The late 1800s. The opulent ballrooms, the scent of lavender and longing, the whisper of silk against bare skin. And then there were Stefan and Damon. Young, vibrant, utterly human. Their lives, before she tore them apart. And then there was Katherine.
Katherine. The name was a venomous whisper in my mind. She was the reason for everything, wasn't she? The catalyst. The beautiful, chaotic destruction. She was the reason I'd found myself in that dusty old town, the reason I'd met the Salvatores. We'd crossed paths years before in England, two predators drawn to the same glittering opportunities. She was charming, manipulative, and had a knack for finding trouble and wrapping it around her finger. I was… well, I was drawn to the chaos, I suppose. And to her. She had a way of making you feel alive, even when your heart hadn't beaten in centuries.
We arrived in Mystic Falls together, a whirlwind of deceit and allure. Katherine, with her insatiable thirst for games, quickly captivated both Stefan and Damon. I, on the other hand, was drawn to the brothers in a different way. Stefan, with his quiet intensity and deeply rooted morality, was a fascinating contrast to my own dark nature. He had a soul, a genuine goodness that I found both intriguing and… disquieting. Damon, with his reckless charm and barely contained ferocity, was a kindred spirit in his own way. We understood each other, in the dark corners of our existence.
"Another one, sweetheart?" The bartender, a grizzled man with more tattoos than teeth, broke my reverie.
I offered a tight smile. "No, I'm good. Just… enjoying the atmosphere." A lie. The atmosphere was a greasy fog of stale beer and desperation.
"Rough day?" he grunted, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth.
"Rough century," I muttered, low enough that only I could hear.
But Katherine… she always played with lives, not just hearts. She turned them, one by one. I remembered the night vividly, the confusion, the pain, the grotesque beauty of the transformation. She turned Damon first, a cruel twist of fate meant to bind him to her forever. He fought it, initially, but she had her hooks in him. Then, Stefan. He was so distraught, so resistant to the darkness that had been forced upon him. His anguish was palpable, a raw wound. And me? I was already a vampire, a secret I kept close, a weapon to be wielded only when necessary. But seeing the anguish, the despair, that Katherine wrought upon them… it stirred something in me. A flicker of something that resembled regret, a sensation I rarely indulged in.
The rage that followed, the town's hysterical hunt for the vampires, the church burning… it was a blur of fire and fear and human cruelty. Katherine, ever the survivor, vanished without a trace, leaving a trail of broken hearts and burning bodies in her wake. And I… I left too. I couldn't bear to witness the aftermath of her games, the shattered lives, the bitter hatred that simmered between the brothers, a hatred fueled by her deception. I chose to disappear, to let them believe I was another casualty, another forgotten ghost of the past. It was easier than facing the wreckage.
But the scent in the bar, that familiar, intoxicating blend of Salvatore, was undeniable. It wasn't just a lingering echo of the past. It was fresh. Immediate. One of them was here.
My gaze drifted to the entrance, drawn by an invisible thread. A new patron stepped in, shaking rain from his dark, artfully disheveled hair. The black leather jacket, the cynical smirk that could melt steel, the eyes that held a thousand unspoken tragedies… Damon Salvatore.
My breath hitched, a non-existent sound in my throat. He hadn't changed, not really. The same magnetic pull, the same dangerous glint in his eyes that promised trouble and pleasure in equal measure. He scanned the room, his gaze momentarily flicking over me before moving on. Good. He hadn't recognized me. My appearance was different, carefully cultivated over the decades to avoid such inconvenient reunions. My hair was a different color, my posture altered, my very essence subtly shifted to avoid the ghosts of my past.
He settled at the bar, two stools away from me. "Bourbon. Neat," he grunted, his voice a low rumble that sent a strange reverberation through my undead senses.
I watched him, a hundred years of suppressed emotion threatening to spill. The anger, sharp and cold. The hurt, a dull ache that lingered even now. The strange, complicated affection I'd once felt for him, for both of them. And the guilt. Always the guilt, a faint echo of the human I once was, before Katherine, before the endless night.
"Slow night, huh?" Damon said to the bartender, his tone a casual drawl that belied the sharp intelligence in his eyes.
"Every night's a slow night in this hellhole," the bartender grumbled.
Damon chuckled, a dark, rich sound that seemed to snake its way directly into my memory. "Tell me about it." He took a long swallow of his drink, his gaze sweeping the room again, slower this time. And then, his eyes landed on me.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Just a flicker of recognition, or perhaps, just curiosity in his dark gaze. I kept my expression neutral, my internal pulse, if I had one, steady.
Then, he offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod. A common courtesy from one stranger to another. Or was it?
I returned the nod, just as subtle. My mind raced. What was he doing here? Why Mystic Falls, after all this time? Had he finally come back to face the ghosts of his past, or was he running from something new, something even darker? Either way, his presence here meant one thing: my carefully constructed wall of anonymity was about to crumble. And I had a feeling, a dark, exciting premonition, that my quiet existence was about to be anything but.
He took another sip of his bourbon, his gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second too long before he turned back to the bartender. "So, anything interesting happen around here lately? Any local legends? Strange disappearances?" The casual questions, but I heard the hunt in his voice, the underlying motive.
The game, it seemed, was far from over. And I was about to be pulled back into the volatile, dangerous world of the Salvatores. The question was, would I play by their rules, or would I finally write my own? The thought sent a thrill through me, a dark current of excitement that momentarily overshadowed the centuries of weariness. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it was time for the past to finally catch up. And maybe, this time, I wouldn't just disappear.