by Julie Plec
They were filled with a rough but serviceable liquor—a few steps down from rye, but a few crucial notches up from moonshine. Elijah sipped cautiously, while Hugo drained half his mug in a single swallow. In the candlelight, he looked even older than Elijah had assumed at first. It was astonishing that he still lived out here, all alone, keeping his house and land in decent order and even attempting manual labor at his advanced age.
“That stuff keeps you young,” Hugo said, lifting his half-empty mug by way of explanation. It was as if he had followed the line of Elijah’s thoughts perfectly, as if Elijah didn’t need to speak to be understood.
Had it ever been so easy with his own father? This man was centuries younger than Mikael, but much older than Mikael had been when Elijah was still his cherished human son. And yet there was something about him that reminded Elijah of a father, of the way a father should behave toward a child who had grown up and chosen a path for himself in the world. Moving the barrels had not been a tremendous challenge for an Original vampire, but nonetheless, Hugo didn’t seem merely grateful: Elijah had the sense that the old man was proud of him.
“Have you lived out here long?” he asked politely, sipping again at his liquor.
“Twenty years at least,” Hugo replied vaguely. “The city’s closer to my doorstep now than it was.” He sounded as if he disapproved of that development.
“I’m a rather private person, myself,” Elijah offered. “I’ve been looking for land out here, actually. My sister and my brother like the nightlife in town, but I think we’d all be more comfortable with a quieter place to come home to.”
Hugo’s smile was distant. “I always thought I would have children,” he said suddenly, and Elijah blinked in surprise. “My life was never the type that gives much room for a family,” the man went on, “but I think there’s a part of you that never stops planning for the future as if there is one.”
Elijah wondered how Mikael would have responded to that. His own children obviously had no place in the future he wanted to build. Did Mikael have some other sort of legacy in mind, or did immortals eventually cease to think about such things? Elijah always thought of the future, although perhaps not in the way Hugo meant. When Elijah looked to the future, he was always still in it. “Family is a blessing,” he mused noncommittally, “but blessings can come in many forms.”
Hugo nodded and refilled his cup. He held out the bottle meaningfully, offering more to his guest. Elijah, whose cup was still nearly full, took the bottle from him politely and poured in just a few drops more. It was always proper to accept hospitality, in his experience, or at least to make a reasonable show of it.
“I suspect I’ve been blessed enough,” Hugo answered thoughtfully, swirling the liquid in his mug and staring into it for a moment before taking another long drink. “I’ve used my talents in my work, made and kept a good reputation my whole life, and owned this square of land outright since probably before you were born.”
Elijah was not inclined to correct him on that last point; instead he simply nodded. It was clear to him that the wheels of the old man’s mind were turning, and he suspected that, if he waited, Hugo would say more. A silent moment proved him right.
“A man should have a home he can call his own.” His voice was low and forceful, almost a growl. “It’s not natural to be adrift, family or no.”
Unnatural once again. Abomination.
“I’ll drink to that,” Elijah replied, and matched action to words. “And to that note, do you know if any of your neighbors are thinking of selling? We have had some trouble with going through official channels in this matter, so we would be open to offering a nice price for someone willing to sign over the deed quickly, with no formalities.”
Hugo’s lined face crinkled into a knowing smile. “Not so popular with the higher-ups, are you, my boy? Local politics have no winners, at least not for long. Why do you think I’m all the way out here? I don’t have to deal with anyone who doesn’t value my time and work, and I prefer it that way.”
“I think I could learn much from your example,” Elijah admitted.
Hugo pushed his chair back from the table abruptly, and when he rose Elijah noticed that he was unsteady on his feet. That was a surprise. Although Hugo had partaken quite liberally of the liquor in his cup, Elijah had been under the impression that he did not normally drink less. He should have been accustomed to his generous nightcap, and yet he swayed as he crossed the room as if he were on the deck of a ship.
He returned with an intricately mosaicked wooden box, which he set down wordlessly in the center of the table, halfway between the two cups. With a long exhale, Hugo opened the box to reveal some worn, yellowed papers. Elijah stared at them, unsure whether he was meant to pick them up and examine them himself.
“I have a house, and not much more need of one. You need a house and do not have one.” Hugo’s gruff voice was blunt, but his blue eyes avoided Elijah’s as if he felt suddenly shy. “Keep searching among my neighbors if you like, but if you want it, this home will be yours upon my death.” He produced a fountain pen from one of his pockets, and Elijah stared keenly at it. Such pens, with a reservoir of ink hidden neatly inside of a metal casing, were rare—yet another unexpectedly interesting item in this modest little house. Hugo scribbled on the papers before him, then signed his name at the bottom of each page with a flourish. “I have not met a man in a long time that I would wish to consider my heir,” he mumbled when he had finished. “But I cannot stop thinking of the future, even now. And here you are....”
He trailed off, his eyes still fixed on the papers before him. Elijah understood that they were two of a kind. “I would be honored,” he told the old man gently, “and grateful. Eternally grateful,” he added, a little ruefully. If Hugo wanted his home—and his memory—to live on, he could hardly have chosen a better beneficiary. “But I hope that it will be a long time before we have the use of this remarkable gift. I would rather come to visit you here again, and often, if you will allow it.”
Hugo smiled and sat down heavily in his chair, although he was not a large man. “I would like that, too,” he said serenely, his gaze fixed on something in the distance that Elijah could not see. His lined face looked flushed in the candlelight. “But I think that the time for visiting is largely past. It has been very enjoyable, though. Very satisfactory.”
Elijah frowned and glanced down at his cup again. Was Hugo ill? Did he know something about his death that he had chosen not to share? His eyes moved forward to the signed pages between them on the table. He had made it his goal to own land, but now he felt deeply troubled about accepting it. As hard as it had been for the Mikaelsons to carve out a foothold in New Orleans, to find a friend had always proved even more difficult.
“I will use whatever time is left, then,” he promised, and a smile creased Hugo’s face. He poured them another glass from his bottle of liquor, which was already more than half gone, and Elijah raised his mug in a silent toast.
They talked well into the night. Their silences grew and lengthened as the hours wore on, and several times Elijah thought that Hugo might have dozed off. During these lapses, Elijah’s eyes roamed the room, taking in each small detail. He imagined how it would feel to have a home of their own again, a place as personal and lived-in as this one. Then the old man would rouse himself, and their conversation would resume. Hugo’s cheeks were still unnaturally flushed, and at times his mind appeared to wander, but he seemed to want their evening to continue, and Elijah was perfectly content to oblige him.
Finally, silence fell again, and to Elijah’s keen ears this one was deeper and more perfect than all the rest had been. The rainstorm had come and gone, and he could hear cicadas and bullfrogs outside. In the distance, the lazy spill of the Saint Louis River swept along. But inside the house, there was no sound at all.
Hugo Rey sat in his chair, one hand w
rapped around his mug, but his eyes were empty and lifeless. The rise and fall of his chest had stopped, while Elijah’s attention had been diverted. He had passed, silently and peacefully, in his home and attended by a friend. Elijah knew that few humans were so lucky, but still, as he collected the papers from the table and returned to his horse he felt a painful twisting of regret in his chest.
CHAPTER NINE
THE ATTACK CAME at sundown. Cries went up from the sentries near the river first, and then Rebekah heard a second set of shouts rise from the woods to the west. The setting sun had turned the Saint Louis River into a long line of glittering fire, blinding the soldiers and confusing their line of defense. The attackers had chosen their approach well.
They looked human, but Rebekah knew better: A dead werewolf had been carried out of the camp the night before, and now his pack had come for vengeance. Soldiers called to her to stay in her tent as they ran past, and Eric shouted to Felix and pointed her way. His hook-nosed lieutenant immediately separated four men out from the ones running toward the battle to form a ring around Rebekah’s tent, keeping her safe within.
She wanted to tell them it wasn’t necessary, that she was better equipped to protect them than they her, but there was no point. Men would die who didn’t have to, but that was the nature of the world. She could hardly look out for their interests and her own at the same time, and so she waited patiently in her tent, listening to the brutal sounds of death all around it.
By the time it was fully dark outside, it was clear that the worst of the battle was pitched along the western edge of camp, and all of her guardians but Felix himself had left to join it. He had refused, sending the others to glory or death while he stayed behind, under orders.
Rebekah was restless. There were other things she could do than stay put, if only Felix would leave her alone. While the attention of the soldiers was elsewhere, this would be the perfect time to explore the forbidden reaches of the camp. The gruesome fate of the werewolf she had condemned weighed on her mind, and she needed to find out how much Eric knew. And, even more important, what his intentions were.
Rebekah had been inside the public chamber of Eric’s tent many times, but she doubted that he’d conduct an interrogation and an execution across his polished rosewood desk. Did he have a secret room that he was hiding from her? She’d previously assumed that his private chamber was a sleeping space, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was time to find out, and to see what else Eric kept secreted away.
The werewolf would not have revealed anything intentionally, but Eric was too clever by half. He was an impressive man all around, really: intelligent and generous and obviously well respected by his men, even after such a short time in command. It frustrated Rebekah that the same qualities that made him so agreeable to spend time with also made him more of a danger to her kind. If things had been different, Rebekah could see herself falling in love with a man like him.
Eric knew what he wanted from life and how to take it without resorting to cruelty, setting him apart from the men she’d been surrounded by for most of her interminable life. If she was honest with herself, Rebekah knew she was having trouble combating her attraction to Eric, even in spite of her very reasonable suspicions about his activities. In her heart she hoped that his tent would reveal nothing nefarious, and she’d be able to let her feelings of affection grow without fear...as if she had ever been so lucky.
She peeked through her tent flap’s opening, ready to make her move across the barracks to Eric’s headquarters. Felix was prowling the perimeter and saw her immediately. He was obnoxiously devoted to his job, but as long as she was stuck with him as her “protector” she decided she might as well use him.
She beckoned Felix close with one finger, and then let the power of compulsion fill her. “Escort me to the captain’s tent,” she ordered, her voice quiet but throbbing with magic. “I have business there, but no one else must know.”
His face clouded, and then, inexplicably, cleared. “You must stay here, Madame,” he disagreed. “I have been given my orders.”
Rebekah rocked back on her heels, stunned that he would—that he could—defy her. She could not think of another human who had resisted an Original vampire’s compulsion. That shouldn’t be possible. Maybe it was her own nerves, she decided, and tried again, leveling her powerful gaze into his eyes and repeating her demand.
“We will go at once,” he agreed thickly. It was as if he had never argued in the first place. Felix looked around to make sure no one was watching, then took her arm and led the way.
Together they crossed the camp, crouching low and staying near the walls of other tents. There wasn’t anyone around, but Felix took her command of secrecy very seriously, sometimes shielding her body with his own when he seemed to notice a movement nearby.
Felix stopped at the entrance of Eric’s tent, looking sadly purposeless. “Stand guard,” she ordered, compelling him anew. He shifted as if he wanted to object, but she took no chances, layering her power over and over itself until whatever restless will he had of his own was buried beneath the weight of hers. “Let no one enter until I have returned.” It was unlikely that anyone would attempt to come in while she was there, but in the very worst case she would hear the scuffle if they did. Felix, unable to reveal what he was really doing there, would seem to have gone mad, but such things were common enough even among seasoned officers. His fellow soldiers would be surprised, but hardly suspicious.
Apprehensively, Rebekah lifted the fleur-de-lis–covered flap of Eric’s tent. It was empty, and yet she felt like something was waiting for her.
The outer office looked just as she remembered it. The room was dark, but she could see perfectly well with her heightened vision. Nothing looked amiss, and she wished she could leave it at that. She liked Eric, she had to admit to herself, and she was reluctant to find out his secrets. Exposed secrets usually led to someone dying. And that wasn’t going to be Rebekah.
With a deep breath and a muttered curse, she shoved aside the curtains to the inner chamber with defiant force.
And then she froze.
It wasn’t a bedroom at all. It wasn’t a sanctuary or a place of repose...it was a shrine to death. The fabric walls were covered with crosses and mirrors, and around three sides of the room sat carved wooden chests. They were piled high with stakes, objects wrought in silver, crossbows with wooden bolts, and even strings of garlic cloves. One chest held piles of dusty books stacked among instruments she didn’t recognize with purposes she could not guess. Rebekah approached them carefully, studying each one. This was a room designed for catching and killing vampires.
It was all wrong, she realized with a sigh of relief. Some of the books looked ominously authoritative at first, but most were nothing but fairy tales. She nearly laughed aloud at one pretentiously titled The Mythes and Truthes of the Monstyrrs Known Throughout the Known Worlde as “Vampyrre.” She didn’t see anything in the tent that would especially hurt her. The thing that stung, actually, was that a man she’d begun to like had built a room dedicated to discovering the weaknesses of her kind.
She felt as though a heavy weight sat in her chest when she forced herself to admit just how wrong she’d been to trust Captain Moquet. She could no longer entertain her attraction to his relentless curiosity, not when it was such a clear threat to her. What if she’d been completely blinded by their chemistry, and he was using her much as she had intended to manipulate him?
She had to admit it was possible that Eric had never been interested in the human widow at all, and might have suspected Rebekah’s true nature all along. What if he was keeping her close in order to learn her weaknesses? Her hands shook as she picked up one cruel-looking artifact after the other, inspecting them for anything that might cause irreparable harm.
So far, the Mikaelsons had been both lucky and careful—rumors of vampires hadn’t sp
read from the Old World to the New. But Eric had recently arrived from France, and the truth was that he had never said much about why. What had really brought him to this distant swampland? Had he come to bring order to a lawless land for the greater glory of King Louis, or had he been sent to follow the trail of vampires?
Her eye fell on something she recognized, and she bent forward to pick it up. A small gold ring set with lapis lazuli hung on a chain that dangled from the corner of a silver mirror. The jewelry was twin to the one on her own finger. There were only six daylight rings in the world, to the best of her knowledge, and they were treasured family heirlooms. Her family’s heirlooms. What was one doing here? Had it been enchanted, like the ones Esther had made, or was it just a copy?
One thing was certain: Eric’s interest in the occult was much less haphazard than he had let her believe. He wasn’t just after “unnatural fiends”; he knew exactly what he was searching for. And in spite of all the things he seemed to have gotten wrong so far, he was also getting some things dangerously right. The lapis ring might look like nothing but a pretty trinket, but it would not have been created—and it certainly would not have been here—unless it had been meant for the finger of a vampire.
She could imagine him turning it over in his calloused hands, studying it. She could picture him prowling around this room, trying to connect all of its pieces into a coherent picture. The way his eyebrows furrowed when he concentrated, the strong line of his shoulders beneath a thin white shirt...Rebekah clenched the ring in her fist, furious with herself.
It was obvious now that she didn’t really know him at all. That brooding strength, that concentrated power...she could not afford to be attracted to the very qualities that would make him an effective killer of her kind.
Of course this was Eric’s secret. Naturally Rebekah had gotten involved with the one man who was the most dangerous to her. It was the same mistake she had made over and over, and every time that she thought she’d learned to choose more wisely, she was proven wrong. It was as if her heart had some instinctual longing for misery and pain.