My phone showed seventeen missed calls.
I stared at the screen without processing the information. The afternoon sun streamed through my window, harsh and unwelcome, illuminating dust motes and dirty clothes and a room that belonged to someone whose sister was still alive.
Caroline: 8 calls Elena: 4 calls Tyler: 3 calls Unknown: 2 calls
I set the phone down and went back to staring at the ceiling.
The grief hadn't hit yet. Not properly. I knew it was coming—a wave building somewhere beyond the horizon, waiting to crash over me and pull me under. For now, there was just numbness. A hollow space where Vicki used to be.
Sometime later—hours, maybe, or minutes—I found myself back at the cemetery.
I didn't remember driving there. Didn't remember getting dressed or finding my keys or any of the small actions that separated sleep from waking. But I was here, sitting beside the fresh dirt that marked my sister's grave, tracing letters in the soil that spelled her name.
VICKI DONOVAN 1992 - 2009 LOVED. LOST. PROTECTED.
The words weren't carved yet. Just shapes I made with my finger, disappearing as the earth settled.
The official story was already spreading. I'd heard fragments on the drive—or thought I had. Vicki Donovan ran away on Halloween. Troubled girl, history of drug use, probably left town with some guy. The Sheriff's department was "investigating," which meant filling out paperwork until everyone forgot to ask questions.
No one would look for a body. No one would find the grave I'd dug in the family plot.
My sister would become a missing person statistic, and I was the only one who knew the truth.
"Matt?"
Caroline's voice cut through the fog. I turned to find her picking her way between headstones, her expression caught between relief and concern.
"I tracked your phone," she said, sitting down beside me without waiting for permission. "You weren't answering, and I was worried, and—" She took in my appearance: dirt on my clothes, blood under my fingernails, eyes that probably looked as dead as I felt. "Oh, Matt."
"She's gone." The words came out flat. Factual. "Vicki's gone."
"I know. Everyone's saying she ran away again, but—" Caroline stopped. Looked at the fresh earth I was sitting beside. Put the pieces together in a way that was almost correct. "Oh God. Matt, is she—"
"She's gone," I repeated. "And I couldn't save her."
Caroline didn't ask how. Didn't demand explanations or details or any of the things she had every right to want. She just sat beside me, took my hand, and held on.
"I'm here," she said quietly. "Whatever happened, I'm here."
The wave hit.
I don't know how long I cried. Minutes. Hours. Time lost meaning as the grief poured out, all the pain I'd been holding back since watching Stefan's stake pierce my sister's heart. Caroline held me through it, not speaking, not judging, just being present.
When the tears finally stopped, I felt hollow. Empty. But somehow lighter, too.
"Let's get you home," Caroline said softly. "You need food and sleep and probably a shower."
"I can't leave her."
"You're not leaving her." Caroline's hand found my cheek, turning my face toward hers. "She's gone, Matt. Sitting here in the cold won't bring her back. But you're still alive, and the people who love you need you to stay that way."
She was right. I hated that she was right.
The drive home was silent except for the radio, which Caroline turned off after the first song. She found food in my truck—a granola bar from her purse, the kind she always carried for emergencies—and made me eat it while she drove.
I tasted nothing. I chewed anyway.
At the trailer, she helped me inside, made me drink water, sat with me while I stared at walls that still held Vicki's presence. Her jacket on the hook. Her makeup scattered on the bathroom counter. Her music still loaded in the stereo.
"I should clean up," I said. "Get her things. Donate them or something."
"Not today." Caroline's hand found mine. "Today you rest. Tomorrow we figure out the next step."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to push through the grief into action, to find something productive to do with the rage and guilt churning in my chest.
But my body had other plans. The exhaustion of the past month—the blood loss, the bond renewals, the Halloween horror—crashed over me like the wave I'd been dreading.
I slept for sixteen hours straight.
When I woke, my hands had stopped shaking. The grief remained, but so did something else.
Purpose.
Vicki died because I wasn't strong enough. Because my Stage 1 abilities couldn't match vampire strength. Because I'd pushed myself to the breaking point and still fallen short.
That ended now.
I found a notebook in my desk—the same one I'd used to track my training progress over the summer—and opened to a fresh page.
STAGE 2 REQUIREMENTS:
· Internal blood manipulation (attempted, failed)
· Greater control range
· Longer construct duration
· Less fatigue cost
I didn't know how to achieve any of these things. But I was going to find out.
"Never again," I wrote at the bottom of the page. "Never lose someone like this again."
The words felt like a promise.
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