Sinister

John hadn't come to me until that night.

"You look unwell, detective," he said, a smile on his face. "Is something bothering you?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Go away," I whispered. "Please."

"Please?" He laughed, and I shivered. "God, you must be fucked up. I thought this was going to be this amazing experience for you—to remember what it's like to have taken a life. It's a powerful thing, Charlotte."

"I never meant to—"

"You didn't mean to kill Elena or Scott?"

"Stop."

I heard him move, his voice near my ear. "And what about Ray? All he wants to do is help you through this and you're thinking about killing him too?"

My eyes snapped open, and I stared at his face, blood dripping onto his temple. There were bits of flesh peeled away from his head, and a burning smell. From the heat of the muzzle placed against his skin.

"I don't want to do that," I said quietly.

Then, like Scott, he put his hands on me. He got in my face. I couldn't meet his gaze.

"But you did, darling." He tipped my chin up so that I looked at him. "You can never get enough blood on your hands." John grinned. "Underneath it all, you're exactly like me."