The Originals: The Rise

by Julie Plec

  “We can’t send her back,” a short blond soldier said worriedly. “The Navarros are criminals; she won’t be safe if she can’t pay them.”

  “We can’t very well escort her all the way up to Shreveport,” another countered. “And who even knows if she has people there?”

  Felix nodded his head decisively, as if agreeing with his own thoughts. “We will bring her back to camp for now,” he ordered. “She will have military protection until the captain can determine a safe place for her to go.”

  “Thank you,” Rebekah whispered. “Thank you all so much.” Fainting seemed like overkill, so instead she let the hook-nosed lieutenant help her onto his waiting horse.

  “Bring the husband. The captain will want to inspect him,” Felix called over his shoulder as he mounted his horse and situated himself behind her. “And of course we must give him a proper burial,” he added more softly for, Rebekah assumed, her benefit. She shifted forward in the saddle as much as she could. Oh, dear. She had hoped to leave the body behind entirely to avoid further inspection, but that had probably been unrealistic. The patrol arranged the wagoner on a roll of canvas secured with rope, and Rebekah hoped that her late “husband” was fat enough that the ropes would break from his weight.

  Even with the extra burden of the dead man, the encampment was only about a half hour’s ride. Rebekah was relieved, as it quickly became apparent that she had drastically overestimated her lieutenant’s charms. No matter how many hints she dropped about her new status as widow, he had little to say aside from clumsy attempts to console her. She hoped that his captain would demonstrate a little more imagination; she preferred to save compulsion for emergencies rather than relying on it for every little thing.

  There was no doubt which tent was his: It stood proudly in the center of the camp and fleur-de-lis decorated every available surface. Rebekah had to remind herself not to dismount too fluidly, instead falling into her gallant soldier’s waiting arms with deliberate clumsiness. The horse helped by shifting and shying away as she moved; it was better trained than the cart horse had been, but it was no more fond of her. “Please be brave, Madame,” Felix whispered as he released her hand, and Rebekah stifled a laugh.

  The short blond man must have run on ahead to alert the captain, because Rebekah noticed him hurrying back toward them on foot, and he was not alone. The new arrival crossed the camp in long, easy strides that indicated effortless authority. Although there was no doubt in her mind that he was in charge here, he was younger than she had expected; maybe not even over thirty.

  The French had a sizable army stationed outside of New Orleans, so either he was an unusually adept commander or extremely well-connected. Or, most likely, both. His hair was thick and brown with just a hint of gray at the temples, which Rebekah immediately decided was attractive. His eyes were a warm hazel shade, and surprisingly kind—with an alluring hint of mischief. When he looked up at her and smiled, she felt so protected and reassured that she forgot she wasn’t in any real danger. Rebekah knew that a man this handsome could only lead to trouble, and she felt herself already starting to travel down that dangerous path. A striking Frenchman in a position of authority was exactly her type—and she’d been long starved of it.

  “Madame,” he said, his voice rumbling and powerful. “I am sorry to learn of your circumstances. You will be safe here until we can arrange for your passage home.”

  “Home,” she repeated softly. Her brothers were the only home she had. Their parents had made them immortal and then turned on them, believing that their own children had become monsters—that saving their lives had been a terrible mistake. What kind of home could she build with that shadow constantly hovering over her? In truth, she was even more adrift than the character she was playing for the captain.

  “We will search for your family and your late husband’s,” he clarified. “Or we will find something else. Please don’t worry about all that now—you have already been through so much this evening.”

  “Thank you,” Rebekah said.

  He smiled again, as if weapons and death didn’t surround them, but his eyes flickered to her hands as if he was looking for something—and then she realized that she had forgotten to take that damned woman’s wedding ring, and her daylight ring sat on her right index finger. The ring allowed her to be in sunlight, and she dared not take it off even though the sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon. She chided herself for being so careless, and hoped that no one would wonder that bandits had left such a striking gem on her hand. “My name is Captain Moquet,” he told her. “But call me Eric. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your attackers? I think that they have stolen your ring?”

  “Yes,” Rebekah replied with deliberate eagerness. “I feel so strange to suddenly be without it.”

  “I understand, Madame,” Eric assured her with such conviction that she wondered if she had inadvertently compelled him without realizing it. Then his hazel eyes turned to the dead wagoner, and every trace of softness—everything human—disappeared from his face.

  He approached the corpse, and the soldiers stepped back. He leaned down, his long fingers tracing the wounds Rebekah had inflicted without quite touching them. “Bandits, you said?” he asked, pointing toward the short blond soldier without looking away from the dead body.

  A few of the men glanced nervously at Rebekah and then away again. Some shifted uncomfortably. She had heard one of the men refer to him as “the new captain.” How well did he know his new post? She decided it was best for her to say nothing and wait.

  “No,” Eric said at last, bringing one fingertip down on the edge of the long slash across the dead man’s throat. “The marks are almost hidden, but they are here. This is not the work of any man.” He looked up finally, his eyes burning into Rebekah’s so deeply that she couldn’t possibly look away. When he spoke again, it was as if the words were meant only for her. “There are unnatural and cursed things in those woods. You were lucky to escape with your life.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  KLAUS MOVED ACROSS the cobblestones, grimacing at the chattering roar of hooves and carts passing by. When the Mikaelsons had arrived in New Orleans, there had been nothing except dirt tracks, but civilization had not left their grimy little French outpost alone. In addition to the elegant manor houses and villas that seemed to spring up like weeds, there was now a bona fide town center, with cobblers, jewelers, a surprisingly up-to-date milliner, and a few taverns.

  Progress marched onward, Klaus supposed philosophically, but not everything was an improvement...especially not after the dizzying, skull-shattering night he had just spent on the town. New Orleans may have grown more sophisticated, but its whores were just as raunchy and wild as they had ever been. And the brand of whiskey served at Klaus’s favorite brothel, the Southern Spot, was almost enough to drive the residue of discontent from Klaus’s tongue. Almost.

  There had come a point when he could no longer see her glittering black eyes, when her mocking smile no longer broke in on his every thought. But, to his intoxicated vision, every neck he had tenderly bitten had looked like her slender and marble-white throat; every drop of blood had tasted of her. Niklaus drank because oblivion could not come too soon and, given his headache this morning, it had probably come far too late.

  The sun was high and the locals were bustling. He kept reflexively touching the daylight ring on his finger, willing it to somehow work more. Everything was too bright and too loud—until suddenly it was perfect. He didn’t need to glimpse more than the merest sliver of her profile to know who it was. With the way she fit into her white muslin dress, she might as well have been created with Klaus alone in mind.

  Her. She glowed; she pulled the light in. It was as if he’d made her appear. No matter what people whispered about the cursed fate of vampires, at that moment, he felt positively blessed.

  L
uckiest of all, she was unchaperoned. Vivianne stood alone at the side of the high street, gazing into the window of a couturier, who boasted of having just arrived from Paris. There was no one to interfere in their conversation, unlike at that miserable engagement party.

  Klaus took a moment to brush off his coat and smooth the collar of his loose white shirt. She didn’t need to know how he’d spent the night. As he approached her, he could feel the whiskey mixing treacherously with the blood in his stomach, but he would have bet his never-ending life that she would not be able to tell how deeply their first meeting had shaken him.

  “Mademoiselle Lescheres,” he purred, trying to keep his voice from rasping. His throat felt sore and hoarse, which was hard to understand given how many hours he’d spent lubricating it with food and drink. “You are even more radiant in the sunlight than by chandelier.”

  She did not bother to conceal her shock at the sight of him, but it was unclear how happy the surprise was. “Niklaus Mikaelson,” she said formally, as if demonstrating a true society girl’s gift for memory. As if he’d made no real impression on her at all. “I would not have thought to encounter you here so early in the day.”

  Because sunlight was poison to his kind? Or because she could see the previous night’s excesses written on his face? Knowing that she had bluffed her way politely through several dances without mentioning the blood on his mouth, it was difficult to guess what else she might choose to leave unspoken.

  He felt an almost overpowering need to check his coat for telltale stains or tearing.

  “My lady Vivianne,” he replied instead, with what he knew was a winning smile, “had I known that you would be here, I would have arrived even earlier so as not to miss a moment of your company.”

  Her answering smile was perfunctory, but she seemed distracted. A cart piled high with crates of produce rattled by, and she watched it go as if even carrots were more interesting than Klaus Mikaelson. “That would have been unnecessary,” she explained in a clipped tone, “as recently I can’t seem to turn around without meeting you.”

  Impossibly, she didn’t sound pleased by this coincidence. Had his first impression on her really been so unremarkable? It was understandable that the sight of blood might upset a young woman. But in Klaus’s considerable experience with women, upsetting them did not tend to make them any less intrigued. Yet Vivianne’s face showed no fear, no disgust, no curiosity. Could it be that he was drawn to her because of her disinterest?

  He ached to gently brush back a tendril of black hair that had snaked free from under her cap and coiled along her collarbone. Then, perhaps, to throw an arm around her narrow waist, pull her to him, and kiss her. And maybe bite her, just a little, as well. Surely she would have to feel some real emotion toward him then.

  “Speaking of unexpected pleasures,” he recalled, “I have not yet had the opportunity to congratulate you on your engagement. You must be deliriously happy.”

  “Deliriously,” she confirmed, ignoring the sarcastic edge in his tone completely. “Thank you for your well-wishes.”

  “I would have offered them more promptly, had you mentioned your situation when we met,” he said. Not that he actually cared, but he trusted her to understand his real meaning—that she had deliberately kept the news from him as long as she could. A woman who avoided mentioning her betrothal usually had a motive, and it was typically one that her fiancé would disapprove of. Vivianne might not show any overt signs of interest, but she had some kind of game on her mind. He felt sure of it. She was far too aware of him to care as little as she was acting.

  “I thought you knew!” she said smoothly, raising an eyebrow. “You were attending the engagement party after all.”

  “I gate-crashed the engagement party,” he corrected. “I was simply in search of decent champagne.”

  It bothered Klaus that the entire city seemed to know of her engagement before he did. Once he started listening, there was nowhere he could go without hearing about the beautiful girl who had ended the war between the witches and the werewolves of New Orleans. Under the circumstances, getting so very drunk for the past few days had definitely been the best course of action.

  Vivianne shrugged and ran a gloved hand along the filmy fabric of her skirt. “I assumed you were simply desperate to be among the first to congratulate me. Us.”

  It was a very minor slip of the tongue, but it gave him hope. “You know,” he offered impulsively, “I could escort you on your errands today, and save you all that trouble of trying to run into me again by chance. These streets are not always the safest for a lady alone anyway.”

  A real smile touched her red lips, and he felt his pulse quicken in triumph. But she wasn’t looking at him. “Armand,” she answered, a little more loudly than he had expected.

  She lifted one gloved arm to wave to someone farther along the cobblestoned street behind him.

  Armand, most likely.

  Klaus resigned himself and turned around. Indeed, the lanky werewolf was making his way toward them with amusing haste. His foot slipped on the cobblestones and slid into a muddy puddle, but he was so eager to interrupt them that he did not even appear to notice his wet shoe.

  “Vivianne,” Armand called out a tad too cheerfully as he approached, and Klaus smirked. He may not have made much progress with the young half witch, but it seemed her fiancé had his own doubts about his ability to hold her attention. It wasn’t much, but it was yet another of the tiniest of encouragements that could add up over time. And Klaus had plenty of time.

  “Armand,” Klaus repeated heartily, holding out his hand so that the werewolf could not reach Vivianne without either shaking it or mortally insulting a vampire in broad daylight. Armand glowered, but opted to shake; his hand was disgustingly hot in Klaus’s cool palm.

  “I’m sorry to leave you alone for so long, Viv,” Armand continued, as if Klaus’s greeting had never interrupted him at all. “But I saw this and simply had to have it for you.” He sidestepped his rival and held out a lavishly wrapped box, and Klaus rolled his eyes without the slightest attempt at discretion. There was a distinction, after all, between thoughtful and pathetic.

  Vivianne’s eyes widened for a moment in surprise, although whether at her fiancé’s rudeness or his gift Klaus could not be sure. However, she accepted the box gracefully, rising onto her tiptoes to kiss Armand’s cheek in thanks.

  Armand smiled down at her, and Klaus fantasized about splintering his neck into dozens of tiny shards of bone. If he struck now, the tall werewolf would never even see the blow coming.

  “We should really be going,” Armand said smugly to no one in particular. “Lingering where you’ve no business does nothing but invite trouble.”

  Vivianne’s lips pressed together, concealing either disapproval or a smile. Klaus still could not read her any better than when they had first met, and he was starting to wonder when—not if—he would ever have the opportunity to learn. The werewolves would be keeping a close eye on her, and he couldn’t count on her cooperation if he tried to spirit her away. She couldn’t possibly love the priggish, correct Armand, but if she never got the full experience of Klaus’s charms she might faithfully marry Armand anyway. And live a dull, proper life. It would be too terrible a waste to contemplate.

  “Of course,” Vivianne purred, turning to go without so much as a meaningful glance over her shoulder.

  For a moment, Klaus played out what would happen if he broke Armand’s arrogant, undefended spine. Vivianne would be angry—Elijah would be livid—but eventually everyone would agree that the world had not come to an end because of one dead werewolf. Time would prove Klaus right; it always did.

  Then he noticed the way Vivianne held her head high as she walked along the bustling cobblestones. Klaus sighed and let the idea go. Killing the competition had its advantages, but for a woman like Vivianne, it might
not suffice. To win her, he would have to pull out all the stops: Klaus would need to prove himself to be the better man.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ELIJAH MIKAELSON WAS a survivor. It didn’t hurt that he was invincible, of course, but on top of that he had a real gift for adaptation, for getting along.

  Since he and his siblings had arrived on the muddy shores of the crime-ridden outpost known as Nouvelle-Orléans, those talents had served him well. After Klaus’s initial rampage, they’d eventually made peace with the local witches and werewolves. They’d had to swear not to sire any new vampires, but the cost of making a home was worth it. The balance was fragile, but the truce had held for nearly a decade. After years of being chased by their murderous father across Europe, they’d finally landed on their feet.

  But times were changing, and it was time for the Originals to change with them.

  As Elijah headed out of the city, the close-packed buildings began to grow sparse, and the noise of the city center faded as his horse plodded forward. Humans rode and so he did, too, to maintain his facade, but mortal creatures moved at an achingly slow pace.

  His path would be shortest if he cut through the private cemetery on the outskirts of town, and after the slightest of hesitations, he urged the horse beneath the high iron gate.

  It was deserted, as any graveyard was likely to be with night falling, but Elijah did not feel alone. Unlike the public burial grounds, this small one teemed with the magic of its deceased inhabitants. No one but witches was buried here, and the concentration of their remains was potent. Incense burned beside many of the curiously inscribed stones, and the light from dripping candles distorted the shadows into fantastical shapes. There was no doubt that the place was thoroughly haunted.