Couple history notes (Hey, chance to sound like a history geek here! :3 ) :

Bump off: To murder
Hooch: Bootleg (illegal) alcohol. Alcohol was prohibited through the early twenties.

Well, this is the end. I hope you all enjoyed it. :3 I've learned a lot writing it-know more than I ever wanted to about health corsets and shaving at the turn of the century and early toasters-but it's definitely been worth it. This is the story that I've had the most fun writing, so it's been the only one I've yet completed. And since you aren't here to listen to my babble, I'll stop talking so you can get on reading!

Six months had passed since the earthquake. Four months since their kills. David adjusted easily to the life of a vampire, leaving all but a few things behind him. One was the sketch of Emily.

He had found it in his second week of his new life, in his original bedroom. Max had explained that he found it in David's clothes, and had left it on the nightstand. He had insisted it be burned, but David had refused, hiding it instead in his pocket. His clothes, the ones Max had brought him in, were burned in the fireplace with Dwayne's. The last remnants of former lives turned to smoky ash as they watched solemnly.

Hunting had only become easier in those months, and continued to become easier each night. With three vampires now hunting almost nightly as opposed to one, people had become slightly suspicious, not leaving their homes quite so willingly. Even so, there were more than enough people to keep them heavily sated.

David lounged comfortably with Dwayne in Max's living room. They had become increasingly comfortable in each other's presence, and now thought of themselves as truly being brothers. Sometimes, they joked that they were twins. David would always call himself the older, despite the fact that Dwayne had twenty-two years as a human to his eighteen.
He had been turned by Max first, after all.

Dwayne was reading a book or novella of some sort, David hadn't bothered asking. Their hunt had been completed for the night, and he was content. The fire crackled and snapped enjoyably. His hand drifted down to the sketch hidden in his pocket, removing and unfolding it. Dwayne knew perfectly well that he had kept it, and hardly bothered to look up to see what his brother was doing. Max had no idea that he had kept it, and would not know.

David turned the picture over to the address on the back. It listed a street number in Los Gatos, which wasn't too far from Santa Carla. Perhaps he'd pay one final visit to Emily, before cutting the last part of his mortal life out.

"I'm going out." He announced shortly, before going out the front door and rising into the air. Flying had taken them the second longest to master, but they had become adept at it over the four months of vampire life.

He only made one stop along his way to the address, to a small florist's shop. One last gift for Emily. Then no more.

He arrived over Los Gatos with plenty of time before sunrise. The address was somewhat difficult to find overhead-that was one of the worst parts of flying. Street signs were harder to see. Eventually, though, he found the house, and Emily's bedroom.

The window overlooked the little street, and he could see her red hair spilling over her pillow inside. She would be asleep, of course, for nights were the time for mortals to sleep. She faced away from the window, her back to him.

David held his long, thin gift in his lips and carefully pried open the window. Small squeaks escaped from it, but they were low enough to avoid rousing her. Once inside, he took a moment to look around before continuing. The small room was mostly devoid of decoration, but it still looked comfortable. Emily lay sleeping, the blankets over her stomach forming an oddly round shape. He disregarded that, instead, placing the gifts on a stand. There was the oddest feeling that something was missing; with a start, David realized what it was. The music box. Obviously, she had lost it in the quake.

His mission done, David exited through the window and flew off, leaving it open in his wake.

The rush of air from his flight blew in Emily's window, waking her. "Who's there?" she asked blindly, her vision still cloudy with a sleepy haze. She raised herself a little higher on the bed, the movement awkward by her growing belly. She got off the bed, and closed the window when she saw it open. Turning around, the little stand caught her eye.

Two flowers were crossed, bathed in the moonlight. One was a lily, the other, a rose. "David?" she asked, her voice trembling this time. Even though it had been six months since they had spoken, revealing their favourite flowers, she still recalled that she had said lilies, while he said roses. "Oh, David…"

She clutched the two blooms to her chest. Tears dripped onto the petals.

**********

Life had been non-stop fun after their change.

They had prospered in the twenties. Each night, they had sauntered into speak-easies and danced the Charleston with various flappers, drinking prohibited hooch and bumped off folk, drinking their blood. They didn't care that alcohol was banned, they drank as much as they liked. It wouldn't kill them ay time soon.

Max moved them away from Santa Carla in the thirties. Said that it helped prevent people from realizing that they weren't aging. Return a decade or two later, and they'll have a harder time recognizing the face.

The forties were not so fun. Pearl Harbour had angered Max more than David or Dwayne. Neither boy had any interest in going overseas, and even if they did, they knew that it would be impossible. They kept low in Oregon, not going near California.

Well, that was a lie. David had taken to visiting his parents' home in San Francisco once every ten years or so. He had started right on the one-year anniversary. That time, though, had been an accident. They had been in Santa Carla for a dedication ceremony in the park. A statue, in memory, the newspaper had said. David had checked it out, some fancy statue, was all that it was. Nothing terribly special. His parents had been standing along in the darkness, and he made himself comfortable in a tree before clearing his throat loudly. Their wide-eyed gasps had been amusing. He had been surprised to find them there, but it was well worth the looks on their faces.

And every ten years since, he had paid a little visit to their home. He'd just lean against his car-later a motorcycle-across the street, smoking a cigar or cigarette, until they noticed his presence, never aging or changing. It was 1937 before Dwayne joined him. His father was dead before his visit in the fifties, his mother, a few years later. Pity, he had enjoyed torturing them with his visits.

The fifties through eighties had been the most pleasurable. The younger generations had begun to learn how fun driving faster and parties could be. David and Dwayne had fit right in among the greasers and 'bad boys' of those years, even though they were always just a little wilder, a lot more daring.

They spent the greater part of the sixties and seventies in New York before returning once more to their base in Santa Carla. Both boys had refused to live with Max again, preferring to live on their own. Living in a house wasn't for them, though, and they settled first in a ruined house, before making a discovery on what was now known as Hudson's Bluff.

David blew a large quantity of cigarette smoke between his lips, staring out over the cliffs of the bluff. Much had changed there in almost seventy years. The Riolta had sunk into the ground, taking what was once a steep hill into the sea. A natural cave had enveloped the lobby, and the hole inside was treacherous enough to give mortals plenty of difficulty to enter. Sea spray was thrown onto the rocks, making it less than desirable for a vampire. Salt water was one of the few things that injured them, they had learned. It stung, but it took a lot to burn.

"Is it even big enough to be comfortable?"

Dwayne nodded. "Checked it out yesterday. Didn't get to the lobby, but it's been undisturbed all this time. A local legend, it would seem."

David exhaled again. "Even better, we're already familiar with it."

Dwayne shook his mane of hair from his face. They had both cut their hair in their first week, seventy years ago, only for it to be grow long again the next night. Dwayne was the first to have become sick of re-cutting it each night, and instead pulled it back with a ribbon and tucked it under his collar. It was surprisingly effective. David later discovered by accident that cutting his hair and dunking his head in salt water slowed the regrowth quite a bit. It still regrew, but even slower than a mortal's. "Want to check it out?"

The lobby of the hotel still bore the faintest scent of decomposition. Boulders were strewn throughout the once noble room, dust littered everything. The chandelier had fallen into the fountain, and the elevator shaft formed a cave in the back. Tunnels led to rooms on different floors, now next to and fused together.

They decided to make it home. The elevator shaft led to what was now their sleeping chamber, and they brought in old oil drums and candles for light. In time, the cave became homier than Max's ever had.

Paul joined them scarcely a year after they moved into the cave, and Marko wasn't long after. The boardwalk was their turf, their favourite hunting grounds. The patrons were the main course.

And that was where David had first seen the old man. His scalp gleamed in the neon lights, and, at first, he was going to be the nightly special. But when David saw his icy-blue eyes, and caught his scent, he couldn't. Because he realized that this man bore the smell of not only Emily, but David himself.

It had been easy to lure the man to a small coffee shop to talk. There, over coffee, David managed to steer the conversation to the man's parents. He made sure that Dwayne, Paul, and Marko were off elsewhere.

"Never knew my father." he said. "My mother said he died before I was born. Said he died in that quake in 1906, just before I was born."

It couldn't be true; Emily couldn't have been pregnant with his child. David was silent for a moment. "Emily Willows, she was born 1888? Father Adam?"

The man-he said his name was Vincent-nodded. "Yes, that's right."

So it was his Emily. And she had a son by him. He had a son.

"Tell me about her."

Vincent told David that she had found work as a maid after he was born. His grandfather had died back in the twenties. His mother had moved them to Watsonville after the war. If anyone asked where her husband was, or why she didn't have one, she said he'd died in the war. She had cried at his wedding back in '33.

She'd been there for the births of all her grandkids, seven of them in total. All but one had moved away now, with kids of their own. The youngest was actually living in Santa Carla, owned a shop on the boardwalk. She had married a hippie, had kids. He was staying with them.

Emily had lived a full life, been there to see what she wanted to see. She'd caught pneumonia at the age of ninety-eight, died a few weeks later in the hospital. He had been going through her things when he found the journals.

The journal described a man her age-said his name was David- and that he joined her in bed the night before the earthquake. That was the last time she had seen him. But there was the feeling of him being there around six months later, and he found a dried lily and rose tucked into the pages. They had crumbled when he touched them. So, he had come to Santa Carla to find the grave of this David fellow, whom he guessed was his father.

David was silent for another moment. "Did you find an old sketch in this journal?"

"Why, yes, I did. How did you know?" Vincent responded.

David merely shrugged in response. "I want to see it."

"Don't have it on me right now, but I can show it to you tomorrow afternoon."

"Days aren't good for me."

"Then how's tomorrow night?"

"Fine. Ten o'clock?"

"Good with me."

They met the next night at the same little coffee shop. David had been unable to ditch the boys that night, but they agreed to sit in another booth. Once they had their coffee, Vincent produced the small, leather-bound journal. "This is it. She recorded everything up to when I was a year old. There's a few others, but I think you're the most interested in this one, my boy."

David held the journal carefully, opening to one of the first entries. It was marked February 7, 1907. Just after her son was born, all right. He read the words slowly. I'm going to record the details of Vincent's birth and his father. I don't want to forget David, even though he will be dead a year in two months' time. I'm going to leave my son with Ella, my cousin, while I go to Santa Carla for the dedication of a statue. I'll go nowhere near the site of his demise.

Charming; she had added a surprisingly accurate description of him. And yet, the man had no idea who sat before him.

And there indeed was a folded, faded piece of paper. With slightly trembling hands-something he hadn't felt in many a decade-David opened it, looking at himself as a human. That night had been so long ago. His parent's address was still on the back, the ink faded to be only just visible.

"I dunno who the man is, but he actually looks a little like you," Vincent said, peering at David.

Of course he looked like him, the man was him. The tear line he had made was relatively smooth, and David pulled an equally old piece of paper out of his pocket. Why he had carried it for so long, he didn't even know. But he had. The two pieces still matched perfectly.

"Well, I'll be. What's that you have there?"

David looked up at Vincent for the first time in several minutes. "That's Emily," he responded. "She gave this piece to m-to David, and kept the one of him."

Vincent took a sip of his coffee and looked at David curiously. "You seem to know a lot about the man."

A lie wouldn't hurt much. He definitely couldn't not say that he himself was Vincent's father. After all, even though he was- ninety-eight, by his count- he looked eighteen. His son was somewhere around eighty and looked it.

"That's because he didn't die that night." Vincent's eyebrows raised as David leaned in over the table. "He survived- barely. Nursed back to health by a local. I know him pretty well."

"Could I meet him?" Vincent's eyes glittered. His blue eyes looked so much like David's own.

"He's very old…."

"He's still my father, supposedly, and I would really appreciate it."

David sighed, while a plan formed in his head. He sent the thought to Dwayne, who sat just a little straighter when he received it. "I suppose I could. However, I have to go to…work tonight, so my friends can take you." He nodded to the other three on the other side of the shop. "They should be able to take you now, they'll be free tonight. I'll ask."

David stood up and moved to stand before his three friends. Dwayne had a partial idea what was going on. They had known each other for so many years as companions and brothers that it was easy to slip thoughts and have silent discussions in the blink of an eye.

"Take him to Max's place." He said in a low voice. "To the small bedroom off the main hall. Dwayne'll fill you two in. I'll meet you there. And boys," he said, a note of authority in his voice. "Drive slow enough for him to keep up. Not all of us are eighty."

"Biologically," Marko smirked, making Paul laugh.

David growled and returned to Vincent's table. "They're ready whenever you are." He said matter-of-factly, sipping his cooled coffee without sitting down.

"Well, I'm ready then." Vincent replied, putting the journal and sketch into a bag he had brought. David nodded to Dwayne, Paul, and Marko, who stood and walked over.

"Meet the boys. Boys, this is Vincent. They'll drive for you to follow." He informed Vincent. "I'll see you later."

He left the coffee shop and took off on his motorcycle, driving fast enough to break every speed limit posted. The boys knew the plan, he wasn't worried. Not much, at least.

He arrived at Max's with plenty of time before they arrived. It was the same house Max had owned eighty years before; the only changes were modernization and redecoration. This time, it was full of neon. David disliked it.

He pulled the decorated bottle of blood out of the fridge, taking a deep drink. There were two of these bottles; one here, one in the cave. Max had disposed of most of the ones he and Dwayne had drunken from, keeping only these two.

And now, to put the plan into action.

David moved into the bedroom he had mentioned to the Boys, making himself comfortable in the wicker chair. With a deep breath, he used one of the vampiric gifts he rarely thought of.

He and Dwayne had learned long ago how to manipulate illusions. The first childe's gift that Max had mentioned never appeared, which, after all this time, didn't surprise him in the least. Max didn't seem to want to give his childes anything extra. This time, he had to age himself without a mirror. For Vincent, he would have to change his face, his clothes, and his hair. Dwayne would help with that, while he focused mainly on the voice. Complicated stuff. Illusions could be difficult, especially larger ones. Smaller ones took only a little concentration, and were much easier.

The illusion was up and running when David heard the rumble of motorcycles outside the house. He rocked slowly in the chair, waiting for Dwayne's mental probe. It came after a minute.
Ready?

Yes. Bring him in, and help me maintain this.

Dwayne held open the door as Vincent hobbled into the room. The old man gasped, seeing what he thought was a ninety-eight year old man before him. His father. "Are-are you David?"

Now for the audible illusion. David bobbed his head in response, feeling ridiculous. "That's me, who's askin'?" The phoney accent even sounded like the weathered voice of an old man. He could see Dwayne in the corner, his face a blank mask.

"Me. My name is Vincent. I believe you knew my mother-Emily Willows?"

"Yes, yes, Emily. Lovely girl. Wonder what happened to her, all them years ago?"

"Well, after you and her-ah, met in her room-she gave birth. To me. I'm your son."

"Really now?" David put his hand to his face, the illusion making it look to Vincent like he was adjusting a pair of spectacles. "That's interestin'. How do you know that?"

"My mother left journals-the only man mentioned in them is you, and it was nine months before my birth."

"That would do it, s'pose." David replied. "Can I see them journals?"

Vincent passed them to David. He opened one, reading the first few pages. "Yep, that sounds like me. Looks like I'm your papa."

Vincent dropped to the bed, his back making a tiny creak in protest. "I've never had a father. Could we go out to eat, or-"

"I'm too darn old to go much anywhere," David interrupted. "But we can talk for a while."

Vincent nodded, a smile lighting up his face.

David let Vincent do most of the talking. He kind of liked it, being able to talk to a mortal without thinking of their blood. He could just talk to him, his son, and learn about the mortal family he had never known. Never would know.

Vincent finally mentioned Emily's timely demise, and David adjusted himself in the wicker chair. "Tell me where the grave is, I might try to visit it sometime."

"Ah, of course. Los Gatos Cemetery…" Vincent rattled off a description of the path to take. "…There's a funny little carving on the top, like an angel coming out of a flower. Pretty, but odd."

David nodded, and held out a hand to shake Vincent's. "Thank you, Vincent. I'll try to see it before I croak." With a gesture to Dwayne and a chuckle from David, Vincent left the room with the brunette.

David sank back into the chair with a sigh of release as the illusion faded. Maintaining it could be hard work. He knew Dwayne would be feeling it, too. They'd hunt again tonight. In the meantime, while the boys brought Vincent back to the boardwalk, he would check on something at the cave.

He had discovered the little bedroom just weeks after moving in, a little space to get away when he needed to. The boys knew that when he went down the tunnel that led there, he wanted to be alone.

The little bedroom's canopy bed was faded, the lace yellowed with age. The armoire had long since fallen apart. But what he was concerned with was up on the pillows.

The sheets had been thrown to the floor when she had run from the room eighty years before. He had replaced them upon the bed and made it up, fluffing the pillows. David grasped the pole at the foot of the bed, just looking at the objects.

The little wooden music box had been in one piece when he found it, a small crack running down the heart on the lid, but not splitting it. He had laid it on the pillows, as an honour to her. To Emily. He had added a lily in front of it, which was now dried and withered with age.

He had never considered going to Emily and giving her the gift of being a vampire. She had been a creature of the light; to bring her into eternal darkness would have been wrong. He couldn't have smothered her brilliance. Maybe that was why it had never occurred to him.

"I never really forgot you, Emily," he said quietly. "I just…pushed you to the back of my mind. My life wasn't right for you-never would be. Forgive me."

David moved to the side of the bed, and gently opened the lid of the music box. The melody still played after all the years passed, a little fainter, perhaps, but still the same haunting melody. It petered out into the lobby, where the remaining three boys were just returning. They stopped when they caught the melody. Paul and Marko started forwards to investigate, but Dwayne put an arm out and shook his head.

The melody finally ended when David silenced the music box with one finger on the lid.