It should have been a miracle, seeing Elena open our door, Klaus in tow. I should have been grateful, welcoming them home with relief. I should have wrapped my arms around them, held them tight, and never let go.

Something was very wrong. They both look like hell—clothes torn and bloodied and littered with freshly scabbing wounds—but that much was expected. But grief had seeped into Elena, into her face and posture, until she was left positively dripping in it. And Klaus, sweet Klaus, was pained and conflicted in a way I had never seen before, even on those late nights when he told me about his family in hushed whispers, afraid of a man entire states away. William is quivering against my shoulder, his tiny fists clenched in my shirt. Just old enough for his first steps, and even he can sense the shift in the air.

“What happened?” I can scarcely voice the question, whisper it like I’m curled up in Klaus’ arms on his stupid couch, hiding from a threat so distant it might as well not exist.

Distant until it walked right up to us in the park.

“Klaus, he…” She hesitated, turning to him. He met her eyes, defeat in them, then he said the words I would never forget.

“I killed the Butcher.”

I took a step back. It was unconscious, completely devoid of choice, but it hurt him all the same. The pain and defeat redoubled, and I hated myself for it. But he killed the Butcher. Killed him. I knew what that meant. Everyone did. I wasn’t stepping away from him. He knew that, right? He was hurt because he knew he couldn’t be around us anymore, that he was—was tainted? Right?

I almost missed the look Elena shot me. Missed her disapproval. I didn’t miss her saying, “We’ll figure it out, Klaus. We always do.”

We wouldn’t.