The Originals: The Rise

by Julie Plec

  “And a good evening to you, sir. Can I ask why you’ve come to bother me in this sacred place?”

  “I’ve come to ask a favor,” he said, reaching the ring of candles that surrounded her. Their flames were so steady in the still night air that they didn’t quite seem real.

  “I see, Monsieur Mikaelson. But I feel like we’ve had this conversation before,” she said, sounding interested in spite of herself.

  “Elijah, please,” he countered. “That other night, I wanted your help in securing a home. Now I have one.” He pulled the folded papers from his breast pocket, holding them at a careful distance from the flames.

  Ysabelle stood, and her deep-set brown eyes widened. “And which of my neighbors did you murder for that?” she demanded.

  Elijah started to explain how the house had come to be his, but even before he spoke he realized that the story would only confirm her suspicions. A complete stranger had promised his land to a vampire who wanted a home, and then had died that same night. Even if Elijah were to repeat every single word the two of them had exchanged, the tale would still sound exactly like a self-serving lie.

  “None,” he replied shortly, rather than making things worse by trying to defend himself. “It was left to me in a proper will by a man who died of old age and nothing else.”

  “Strange that you seemed to know nothing of this will when you came to me the other night begging for aid.” Was her tone thick with just suspicion, or could he also detect pride? It seemed like she was offended that he had resolved this problem so quickly and without her help.

  “I believe I told you, Madame Ysabelle,” he chided, “that I would prove to you that mine is not the losing side.”

  She considered this, glancing at one of the gravestones so briefly that he almost missed it. “You did,” she agreed, “but doing so by murder was no way to secure my allegiance.”

  Elijah stared through the haze of light to read the names on the stones within her circle of candles. He saw at least three marked DALLIENCOURT—Ysabelle was trying to contact her ancestors. He didn’t know why, but if he could help her communicate with them, he was sure he could leverage that to gain her trust. He did, after all, know a thing or two about witches.

  “There was no murder,” he reminded her firmly. The idea continued to take shape in his mind as he spoke. “If you want, we can speak with the shade of the man himself, and he will confirm that he died naturally. Assuming, of course, that such a spell is not beyond your abilities.”

  Ysabelle’s eyebrows drew together, and her mouth tightened. She obviously didn’t want to admit that Elijah was right.

  “I see that you are interested in ancestry, Madame Ysabelle,” he went on before she could invent a reason to refuse and save her pride. “How much do you know of mine?”

  The question seemed to catch her off guard, and she hesitated again before choosing an answer. “I have heard of your family,” she admitted cautiously. “Your mother is a legend.”

  We are legends, too, he wanted to retort. Esther’s reputation was the one that mattered for his purposes, but the existence of vampires was her most impressive achievement. “She worked the immortality spell on me, and here I stand before you, as alive as I was that day.”

  Ysabelle’s lip curled in disgust. “It is not usual for a witch to fear death so,” she said.

  To his surprise, the criticism stung. Ysabelle was still fairly young, and didn’t have a husband or children of her own yet. How could she know what a mother would do to protect her family? Esther had fled a plague only to find her family surrounded by werewolves. She had done what she believed necessary to keep the Mikaelsons together.

  “Yes, but her answer to her fears provides us with a rather neat solution to both of our problems,” he compromised.

  “I doubt that a vampire has much to offer when it comes to my particular concerns,” Ysabelle said. “If it’s your tainted blood you’re offering, go peddle that nonsense elsewhere. It is clean, pure magic I wish to do here, nothing mingled with the stuff that keeps you in this world.”

  “My blood is not available for purchase or trade,” Elijah answered stiffly. And you couldn’t afford it if it were. “The legacy of which I speak is a set of books containing all of the spells my mother ever worked or learned. ‘Clean, pure magic,’ as you say...for the most part, at least. Have you heard of a grimoire? I never knew if they were common among witches, or just a habit of my mother’s own.”

  Ysabelle’s mouth hung open in speechless surprise. “A grimoire—Esther’s grimoire? It was lost centuries ago; it’s nothing but a myth.”

  “It’s a family heirloom,” Elijah corrected. “It has remained with her family. Although I’m sure you can imagine why we thought it better to let the world believe it was gone.”

  “If we had known...the things she could have taught us...” Ysabelle twined a long lock of auburn hair around her fingers pensively. Elijah could almost see the calculation taking place in her mind. “I understand you did not want to be hunted for them, but the books are no use to you.”

  “They are family heirlooms,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a stern rumble. She shook her hair back behind her shoulders and folded her hands together, an oddly girlish demonstration that she was listening. “What I offer you now is the use of them only, not possession. They could help you with whatever you are trying to accomplish here tonight. There is a spell that will allow you to speak with the dead; it will reach both your ancestors and Hugo Rey, who gave his house to me last night. You will speak with him to confirm the story I have told you, and then, in exchange for the gift of this spell, you will cast another one for me.”

  Ysabelle’s face was rapt as she listened to his terms, but at the final condition he saw doubt creep into the set of her jaw. “Which spell?” she breathed, as if she were afraid to hear the answer. “The bargain you offer seems tempting, but I must know what you want in return. I cannot betray my people or my principles, no matter what gifts you promise in exchange.” In spite of her decisive words, she licked her lips, and Elijah smiled confidently.

  “It is a simple matter,” he assured her. “There is another spell in the grimoire—a protection spell. It is meant for a dwelling, to defend a home and those within it from surprise or attack.”

  “And you have a home now,” Ysabelle finished, looking somewhat relieved. Elijah could tell that she had feared he would name some terrible price. In her eagerness, she had already conceded that the house was rightfully his.

  The candles between them suddenly, inexplicably extinguished themselves. Ysabelle stepped forward and held out her hand to shake his, confidently as any man would have. “Come at dawn with the spell book. I’ll be waiting for you.” For a moment she reminded Elijah of her bold, lovely niece, Vivianne. But he hoped, for Klaus’s sake, that Vivianne was not so eager to compromise her values.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ONCE THE FRENCH soldiers recovered from the initial surprise of the attack, it hadn’t taken them long to gain the upper hand. Rebekah could tell that the werewolves were cunning, using their knowledge of the wild environs to their advantage, and laying one ambush after another. Their plan was clever, but it hadn’t been enough to overcome the larger, well-organized, and better-armed French soldiers. By the time the sun rose red as blood, the wolves had melted back into the countryside.

  When the sounds of ringing metal and bursting gunpowder were finally silent, Felix was called away from his guard of Rebekah. He was needed, he explained tersely through the door of her tent, to command the men in the aftermath of the battle, and to supervise the care of the wounded. Still mulling over the discoveries from Eric’s room, it took some time for Rebekah to realize the full implications of Felix’s new responsibilities. What he described was the role of a commander, not a second-in-command. And if Felix was in charge of the army this m
orning, it meant Eric was not.

  She knew her brothers would say it was for the best. Eric’s knowledge of vampires was dangerous, and normally Rebekah would have agreed without a second thought. There was even a possibility that he specifically knew about the Originals, and had been sent from Europe to find them. It was feasible that their father had sent spies to the New World to locate them—even if he’d probably want to save the honor of slaughtering them for himself.

  If Eric had met some glorious end in a battle with “rebels,” she should be grateful that he had saved her the effort of killing him herself. And yet, every time Rebekah considered the possibility that Eric Moquet was dead, her throat felt tight.

  She kept picturing his strong hands and his smiling eyes. She could not believe that he wished her harm. If only she could ask him about the room, her heart insisted that he would be able to explain. She could see all of the might-have-beens so clearly that it would be too cruel for the universe to simply take them away from her.

  Besides...she had to learn if he truly had a wife back in Paris.

  She ventured out of her tent in search of information. It was a ghastly scene outside, and the enticing smell of blood was almost overwhelming. The damage was mostly contained to the outskirts of the army encampment, but the battle had been devastating. Structures had been knocked down, trampled, and burned. The prison hut was nothing but ashes. By Rebekah’s count, not many soldiers had been lost, but dozens were wounded, and some might yet die—the thought whetting her appetite. It had been days since she had fed—almost a week. She knew she should have drained the wagoner’s wife as well, and she regretted that oversight now. It was almost impossible to prevent her fangs from extending.

  It would be worse in the makeshift infirmary, she knew, but there was nowhere else she could go to get answers. If Eric was alive he would be there, and if he was close to death she might not get another chance.

  The infirmary tent was hot, airless, and absolutely rancid inside. Blood was everywhere, so mingled with the scent of every other bodily fluid imaginable that Rebekah didn’t know whether to feel hunger or nausea. When she caught sight of all the fresh and bleeding wounds, hunger won out.

  Rebekah held a scented handkerchief to her mouth and searched for Eric. It was surprisingly difficult to recognize any individual man: They blurred together into a squirming mass of flesh and pain. They complained and screamed and prayed and laughed, and none of them looked like anyone she had ever met before, in spite of the fact that she’d seen them all at one point or another.

  She did recognize the chief medic, a burly, short-haired man who looked more like a butcher. He looked careworn and harried, and his jaw was set in grim determination. She called out to ask for his help, but he couldn’t hear her or pretended not to. She watched him for a moment as he moved from one patient to the next, barking orders to his assistants and keeping his weary gaze on wounds rather than faces.

  Rebekah guessed that Eric would probably be somewhere apart from the enlisted men, even in a section of his own. Some parts of the long, low tent were curtained off, but anxious-looking men with bloodshot eyes and bloodstained hands shooed her away whenever she approached. No one seemed to have time to reassure or even answer her, but at least no one cared why she was there.

  Finally, she found Eric in his own private corner. The breath rushed out of her lungs and for a moment she felt almost weak with unexpected relief. She hadn’t let herself think about how very much she had wanted to find him alive.

  Eric’s warm hazel eyes were unfocused, and his forehead was wrapped with a dingy-looking bandage. “Marion,” he whispered as she approached his cot. “Enfin, mon ange.”

  Rebekah jerked back at his words. So the woman in the locket had been his wife after all. A contented smile played on his lips, and that he thought she was another woman was a stake to her heart. “Je ne suis pas ta femme,” she told him coldly, taking a step back from his bed.

  Eric’s pupils swam, then focused. “No,” he agreed, his voice rasping hoarsely. “Not my Marion. You are a different kind of angel entirely. I’m glad it’s you who is here with me now.” The intelligent part of her wanted to be skeptical, but he seemed too weak and confused to lie deliberately.

  Besides, he had thought she was an angel. It was ironic, certainly, but it was also the sort of compliment that could go to a woman’s head. It also meant he had been so badly wounded that he thought he might die, and that brought the taste of her fear right back into her mouth. “Were you badly hurt?” she asked, almost afraid to know the answer.

  “A scratch,” he claimed with as much dignity as he could muster. “Maybe a few scratches, actually, and some bumps and a nasty kick from a panicking horse.” He smiled with charming self-deprecation. “I will heal, is what I mean to say. The doctors have given me laudanum, but I think your presence for just these few minutes has done more to improve my condition than all of their arts.”

  After a moment’s indecision, Rebekah found a nearby stool and pulled it to his bedside. “Tell me about this angel, then—about Marion,” she urged, taking his hand and pressing it between hers. If her company was a balm to him, then he would have it. Besides, asking about his wife could turn out to be the best way to learn his other secrets, such as why he’d collected such a frightening mass of occult objects.

  Eric winced as he turned his head so that his gaze could find her again. “Your hair is a little darker, but you looked like her, standing there,” he explained with painstaking slowness. “I thought she had come to take me away.”

  “Back to France?” Rebekah asked, uncertain of what he was trying to tell her. Humans were so breakable, so fragile. A few angry werewolves later, and this formidable leader of men could barely form a coherent sentence. She had never given much thought to Eric’s vulnerability before, and she found the whole idea quite upsetting. She tried to push it from her mind, to converse as if he were not lying in a hospital bed. “Is she waiting for you there?”

  Eric’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “I don’t think she waits for me anywhere,” he said quietly. “I have studied and searched, and all I can believe by now is that death was the end for her. A cart horse bolted and struck her in the road, a pointless, random accident that need never have happened. And yet in that one trivial moment she went from existing to not. It seemed impossible that someone so full of life could be extinguished so utterly. I never would have believed before then that the world might simply take her from me in the blink of an eye.”

  “Death,” Rebekah sighed, relieved. The woman in the portrait was dead—that was so much better than what she had thought. Then another word he had uttered caught her attention. “Studied? You’ve studied...death?”

  He coughed, and she half jumped from her seat, ready to demand the doctor come at once. But the cough subsided quickly, and she sat back down. “I’ve studied the dark arts,” he grunted. “Death and those who claim to have conquered it. Whether it’s true that some people walk the earth forever, untouched by mortality.” He paused to catch his breath, then went on, “There are wealthy, powerful men in Europe who have devoted their lives and fortunes to learning the truth of such stories, and they saw promise in me. One such man sent me here to chase these tales. He thinks that the end of death itself has come to the New World, and I am someone who wants to believe that death can be ended.”

  The end of death. Was that what she was? How many thousands had died to sustain her eternal life? But she was glad that one thing was clear: The clutter of destruction in his tent wasn’t an obsession after all. It was only an assignment. “Did he tell you more than that?” she asked, trying to keep her tone conversational, hoping it wasn’t her father who had sent Eric. “I would not know where to begin to look for ‘the end of death,’” she prompted.

  He smiled again, the corners of his mouth crinkling in that way that always made her want to smile a
s well. “You are too modest,” he disagreed. “I think you could find anything you set your mind to. I am only a curious widower....I can hardly believe my luck that my employer invested such faith in me. He would have done better to choose someone as spirited and tenacious as you are.”

  She smiled automatically at his flattery, but behind it her mind worked in steady, relentless turns. That was it, then. Eric had taken an interest in eternal life, and it had led him almost innocently to a position as her nemesis. The whole thing was, just as she had hoped, a misunderstanding. In a way.

  Still, Elijah would want to know about this immediately, and she had a duty to her family that went far deeper than any feelings she might have developed for Eric. The way he smiled up at her, the pressure of his strong hand beneath hers, the admiring light in his eyes...none of that could matter more than their safety. If Mikael was involved with the local military, she had to warn her brothers, no matter what unwelcome decisions they might make based on that information. Even if Eric was blameless.

  “Your ring is beautiful,” he said suddenly, and she startled to see him gazing intently at the hand that still pressed his own. “That sort of stone is rare in the colonies, is it not?”

  Rarer than he knew, but one of the few in existence was in his tent and she could not possibly explain the presence of its twin on her finger.

  She shifted her hand so that just a sliver of the stone was visible and half of the metalwork around it was hidden. Perhaps he only thought it looked faintly familiar, or perhaps he hadn’t even connected it with the one he possessed. After all, he’d sustained some sort of head wound, and obviously had been given generous amounts of laudanum. He wasn’t thinking clearly.

  She pulled her hand gently from his and folded it in her lap. “A trinket,” she answered airily. “A gift from my mother when I was a girl. I think it’s a piece of glass—she never said.”

  Eric paused with the tip of his tongue resting on his lower lip, as if he was trying to think of how to keep her by his side. She found herself longing to be drawn out, to be seen and touched. She imagined the feel and taste of his mouth against hers. But the pain or the drugs had dulled his usually sharp mind, and the silence stretched out between them. The groans and whimpers of the injured men around them filled her ears, seeming to grow louder until she could no longer stand it.