by Julie Plec
The Mikaelsons had come to New Orleans in search of a haven. It was supposed to be their home, their shelter. But the city had turned into a trap. They were exposed, surrounded by enemies, constantly on their guard. There was no safe harbor.
Rebekah peered out between two green canvas curtains, but the sunlit grass was undisturbed. Try as she might, she could not catch one single glimpse of someone hiding among the trees. The only thing to do was wait it out.
She rearranged furniture, chose the largest bedroom for herself, and tried to comb the remnants of the river out of her hair. She hung her gown out on the ramshackle front porch and sampled some of the previous owner’s surprisingly acceptable liquor in nothing but her damp cotton shift. She waited, watched, and fought against her paranoia for all she was worth.
When the sun finally began to dip back down toward the horizon, she decided that it was time to check on Elijah again. He might be strong enough to speak, or at least to share a drink with her. He might be able to tell her what had happened, and what they should fear was coming next.
There would be no need, though, to burden him with the news of her recent disaster. Eric’s first dispatches wouldn’t reach Mikael for weeks yet, so there would be plenty of better times to break that news. They would have to leave, but it didn’t really matter where they went. Rebekah understood now that trouble would follow them everywhere.
She poured some of the liquor into a flask. When Klaus arrived—if he ever got around to it—she would be free to go find some plump farmwife to help speed Elijah back to health. And Klaus always felt like he was being watched, so the eerie feeling she suffered from wouldn’t bother him.
Rebekah pulled open the trapdoor and dropped down. There was a stirring of movement from the blankets where Elijah lay, and her heart leaped with the hope that he was finally awake.
Then her eyes adjusted, and a feral hiss escaped from between her teeth. Elijah was still unconscious, lying exactly in the same position, except that his one eye had finally closed. He breathed shallowly and sweat beaded on his broad forehead. His body was fighting the poison, just as it should be. The movement she saw had come from another source entirely.
Eric crouched in the dank basement, a wooden stake in his raised hand. She prayed that it wasn’t made of white oak, but she could not rely on that hope. Eric was positioned over Elijah’s limp form, threatening his life even as Elijah barely clung to it. Eric gaped at her in surprise, and she experienced every feeling of his betrayal again in fresh, sharp detail as she threw her body against his.
They rolled together, away from Elijah, and the weapon fell from his stunned hand. His body was as hard as steel beneath hers, every muscle taut and tensed. He tried to speak, and part of her wanted to listen. Even now, the sight and feel and smell of him drew her in, made her want to be weak. But Eric had done more than enough damage already thanks to her traitorous feelings.
She wrapped one hand in a vise around his throat, cutting off his breathing until his hazel eyes fluttered and closed.
She fantasized a thousand brutal ways of repaying him for her broken heart, but her family’s safety hung in the balance, and so pragmatism won out. There was no need for another violent death, or for a mysterious disappearance that coincided so neatly with her own flight. His body would be found, drowned in the sea on the far side of New Orleans. It would be a mundane, ordinary death, and that would have to be vengeance enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AFTER TWO FULL days of pouring cloying amber liquid down his throat, Klaus was starting to feel nearly drunk enough. If he could just maintain this inhuman level of intoxication for a few years, he might—might—start to forget the sight of Vivianne turning her back on him. As always, the kind ladies at the Southern Spot had done their best to take his mind off his troubles, and one healthy-looking, bouncy brunette in particular had made it her mission to ease his pain. She had kept him supplied with good whiskey, charming banter, and every ounce of the expertise with which she plied her trade.
Best of all, she didn’t remind him of Viv in the slightest. Except when he noticed how dissimilar the two were, and then he called for more whiskey, and the dance began again.
Sooner or later, he suspected, he would have to step out of this happy haze and return to real life, but there was no rush. He liked it here, and this was a place that could never let him down. His siblings probably needed rescuing by now—they were talentless when it came to staying out of trouble—but surely they would rather have him at his best. He needed a few more days of restoration before he was ready to dust off his trademark swagger.
The brunette refilled his glass, and Klaus caught her around her waist and pulled her, giggling, onto his lap. “I’ve missed you,” he told her lustily, and she snuggled her ample bosom conveniently closer to his mouth. He sampled the whiskey, and then he sampled her. A week would be best, he decided. The world could do without him for a week.
Vivianne Lescheres obviously could.
It had never once occurred to him during their night together that she was saying good-bye. It should have, perhaps, but every clue had had an alternate explanation. A better explanation—one that fit Klaus’s way of looking at the world so that he had ignored the obvious. He hadn’t wanted to see that her relentlessly stubborn streak could work against him as easily as for him.
The brunette had an adorable sprinkling of freckles across her snub nose, and Klaus devoted all of his mental energy to counting them. He had everything he needed right here, and Viv could go to hell for all he cared. She didn’t appreciate him, anyway. He had been willing to reorder his entire life for her, to become a new and better man. If that wasn’t enough for her, then she hadn’t been worth it after all.
The belled curtain across the door chimed merrily, and a few of the whores squealed. Klaus’s girl didn’t so much as flicker her eyes toward the sound, and he made a mental note not to get so drunk that he forgot to pay her handsomely.
“Of course I found you here,” a voice snarled arrogantly, and Klaus furrowed his brow in concentration. It was a familiar voice, and it was attached to a pair of legs in dark leather boots. He followed the boots upward, then continued along a line of gold buttons that edged the waistcoat. There was a long neck above that, with a juicy pulse beating beside a large Adam’s apple. Klaus acknowledged he might be a bit drunker than he’d thought as his eyes finished their lazy trek to rest on Armand Navarro’s smug face.
“A likely story,” Klaus slurred carefully, “claiming you walked into a brothel because you were looking for my company.”
Armand’s answering smile really required a punch in the mouth, but Klaus’s hands were otherwise occupied and his head felt a bit fuzzy. He suspected that his best chance of winning a fight right now was to stay out of one. Perhaps if he sat very still, Armand would get bored and leave him alone with his cheerful brunette friend. Everyone would win in that scenario.
“Stand up and face me like a man,” Armand demanded. “We knew it was only a matter of time before one of you vermin went too far, and I wanted to be the one to ensure that you pay for it personally.” Perhaps a fight was unavoidable, then. Klaus had been ready to empty the city of werewolves once they learned about his affair with Vivianne, but having to do it without her seemed joyless and dull.
The smile had drained from the whore’s face, and Klaus patted her pleasingly rounded thigh reassuringly. “You should go check on our room,” he suggested, feeling considerably more sober already. “I’m sure you remember how I like it.”
She nodded and rose, shrinking away from Armand as she passed by. Klaus watched her shapely rear fondly as she walked away, then returned his attention to the annoying werewolf in front of him. Armand’s breathing was rapid, his pupils dilated. He was keyed up and ready for a fight, and Klaus could only imagine one reason why.
“We don’t have to
do this,” Klaus offered magnanimously. He certainly wouldn’t mind pummeling Armand into a pulpy corpse, but just this once he should give the werewolf a pass. He had, after all, spent a glorious and extremely thorough night with Armand’s fiancée, and that was probably injury enough. If Armand was willing to walk away, Klaus would let him.
“Stand up,” Armand growled menacingly. “You’ll answer for your brother’s crime whether you want to or not, so meet your fate like a man.”
The intoxicated wheels in Klaus’s head turned slowly around that new piece of information. It seemed possible this wasn’t about Vivianne after all—maybe Armand still didn’t even know about what had happened between them. Maybe Viv had kept their secret. Maybe she cared for him even now....
“What has my dear brother done to you?” Klaus asked, rising to his feet. He was pleased to discover that he did not sway.
Armand’s smirk was tainted by the ugly yellow gleam in his eyes. “He attacked us in the woods,” he explained, sounding both murderous and a little bit triumphant. “On his own, during the full moon. The fool died in the Saint Louis River, and now you’re going to join him.”
Well, good for him, Klaus thought. Elijah had taken on the entire werewolf population of New Orleans. Klaus realized that he must have interrupted the changing celebration, and for whatever reason he’d decided to fight off the wolves. In spite of Armand’s cocky assurance that Elijah had not survived, Klaus knew differently—mere werewolf venom wouldn’t kill an Original. Klaus felt a slow burn of pride for his idiot brother.
Klaus didn’t hesitate. He cocked his fist back and punched Armand squarely in the nose, and the werewolf’s hot blood spurted out in a sudden torrent of red. Armand looked surprised for a moment, and then his eyes went fully yellow and he struck. Klaus heard the sound of wood splintering as Armand knocked him first into a grandfather clock, and then downward through a low table. Klaus would pay for a lot more than the whiskey and his brunette’s time before he would be welcome back in the Southern Spot again, and the thought enraged him even further.
He drove his knee up into Armand’s stomach, pressing his advantage when the wolf gasped. He used the distraction to grab one of the shattered legs of the coffee table, and bashed it into the side of Armand’s head. The blow dazed him for a moment, and Klaus seized the opportunity. Driving his arms and legs upward, he threw Armand off of him and against the wall behind their heads, which made a dry cracking sound when the wolf hit it.
Armand fell heavily to the floor, but somehow managed to pull all of his long, awkward limbs into order and rolled to his feet with improbable grace. Klaus was still half crouched when he was knocked to the floor again, and the two of them struggled for a moment with neither getting the upper hand.
Elijah had struck at the werewolves when they were strongest. Drunk or no, Klaus could certainly do his part. And while Armand might not have realized it yet, he had Vivianne to pay for as well.
Klaus trapped one of Armand’s legs with his own and twisted, putting the tall werewolf flat on his back and rising up to sit on his chest. He lashed out with his fists, hitting Armand again and again. In his mind, Klaus saw Elijah wounded, Vivianne changing. Blood flowed freely until Armand’s face was barely visible through it, and then his eyes returned to their normal, dull blue and rolled back in his head.
Klaus watched him for a moment to make sure he would really stay down, and then staggered inelegantly to his feet. “Ladies,” he offered politely to the few whores who had remained cowering against the walls. “I apologize for any inconvenience this brute has caused you. Rest assured that I will always be available to defend your honor, just as I have today.” He tried to smooth his shirt, and realized that it was soaked with Armand’s blood.
He reached into his pocket and grabbed the hand of the nearest girl to drop in a handful of gold coins, folding her fingers closed around them in case she was too stunned to do so herself. He kissed her on the cheek for good measure, feeling more like his old self than ever. Whiskey, the company of half a dozen good women, and beating a werewolf unconscious: That was the recipe for Niklaus Mikaelson.
With a spring in his step, he left the brothel and turned his feet toward the house Elijah had acquired. He couldn’t wait to hear his brother’s side of this bizarre tale. If it was half as entertaining as Armand had made it sound, it was past time for the Original vampires to catch up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ELIJAH HAD GIVEN up on trying to figure out what was real. Rebekah had been gone so long that he wasn’t sure whether she had been there to begin with. Esther had walked in and out of the cellar more than a few times, which probably hadn’t really happened, but the man in the blue soldier’s coat with the wooden stake in his hand seemed almost as improbable.
Certainly, Kol and Finn had not stepped out of their coffins to visit with him, and his two mortal—and long-dead—brothers had not stood vigil at his bedside. But that meant it was possible Niklaus was not there, either. The werewolves’ poison had spun wild dreams and visions that he was sure were more meaningful than true, and yet Elijah could not quite grasp their message. Perhaps that was all a part of the hallucinations—the conviction that the nightmares must be trying to tell him something.
It had been hours or days or weeks since Rebekah had pulled the unconscious blue-clad man through the ceiling, and yet she had never returned. So that may not have been real, either. Except how could Elijah have gotten here, in this dank cellar on a bed of soft blankets, if Rebekah had not first brought him, and then inexplicably abandoned him?
There was something about a sunrise across the river and a bleeding man in the bayou, but it was confused with the conviction that he had flown away from the wolves and then nested here like some strange, unlikely bird. He had no sense of what had happened since he’d been attacked, but each hour was a little less confusing than the last, and so Elijah suspected he was drifting toward lucidity.
He ached all over. His wounds itched as they faded into smoothness, and with every tiny movement he discovered a new source of tenderness. But there was no doubt that he was healing, and Esther’s magic had served its purpose once again.
He opened his eyes and blinked, trying to distinguish the faint difference between the darkness in the cellar and the kind behind his closed eyelids. There was the slightest outline of light around the edges of a trapdoor, and he stared at it intently until it was all he could see.
When the trapdoor was suddenly thrown open, the flood of light behind it nearly blinded him.
“Brother,” an amused voice called down, and Elijah wondered if he was hallucinating again. Klaus was haloed by sunlight and covered in blood, hardly the most encouraging sign of his mental recovery.
“Brother,” he replied cautiously, lifting himself gingerly onto one elbow and discovering with relief that it did not hurt as much as he had expected. “Did you bring me here?”
Klaus jumped down into the cellar and stared at Elijah, his eyes appraising. “You look well,” he remarked, sounding grudgingly impressed. “I heard you took on the entire Navarro pack under a full moon, but if that’s true I would hate to see how they fared.”
Elijah pulled himself up to a sitting position and sighed. “It’s true,” he assured his brother. “A few of them will certainly remember me.”
Klaus crouched companionably beside the blankets, looking totally unaware that his clothes were soaked with blood. It must not have been his, but that stirred something troubling in the back of Elijah’s foggy brain. Someone else’s blood had been the point of this fiasco, and he felt around frantically to find...something. Something that was missing.
“All your parts still there?” Klaus grinned, and Elijah glowered at him.
Blood! That was what he had needed—werewolf blood. And despite all his cuts and bruises, he had succeeded. So where the hell was his handkerchief? He
patted his clothes again, rifling through the tatters, but the bloody cloth was gone. It’d been the one thing he’d needed to work the protection spell, and he’d failed.
Elijah closed his eyes and breathed. He would have to regroup and come up with a new plan—that was how it always went. There were setbacks and then there were solutions, and then there were more setbacks. His next plan would have to wait until he absorbed the magnitude of this failure.
“Where have you been?” he asked Klaus, rather than answering him. “Is all that your blood?”
Klaus grinned happily. “None of it, as far as I recall. That idiot Armand decided to bother me during an otherwise lovely morning. He was under the impression you had been killed, and that he was capable of doing the same to me. It ended bloodily for him.”
Elijah opened his mouth, then closed it again, momentarily stunned. If he hadn’t felt his healing wounds so acutely, he would have sworn he was still dreaming. But when he reached out and grabbed Klaus’s soaking-wet shirt, he knew this was really happening. Suddenly, his grin matched his brother’s. “You did well,” he told Klaus, whose blue-green eyes widened in surprise. “Now give me your shirt.”
* * *
YSABELLE STEPPED BACK from the fresh line of peat and muttered as the flames sped around the perimeter of the Mikaelsons’ land.
“Nice trick,” Klaus remarked good-naturedly.
Elijah elbowed him in the ribs. “Concentrate,” he reminded Ysabelle, with a warning glare at his brother.
“I remember how this goes,” the witch assured him. She mixed her potion deftly, this time swirling in the blood she had coaxed from Klaus’s shirt. She rehearsed the incantation one final time before she began to circle the land and pour out the liquid.