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kottkrig · 8 months

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To Embrace The Shadow: Absolution (End)

Lucretia is faced with her own mistakes and what the consequences might be if she forgets why they call her the Shadow Mother.

World of Warcraft | Original Characters

Found Family

“Can you come home now?”

Zala looked up from Lucretia’s arms with misty eyes. The elf often asked to be held without any fear of her mentor's sobering presence.

“Yes, of course. I will not abandon my people, and I owe you three a lot for securing my recovery ahead of time…” Lucretia faced her anticipating audience. The men were reaching out as if she might slip away again, but they were too modest to ignore decorum as quickly as their Sister.

“First of all, you deserve an apology.”

Letting Zala go, she floated back as much as she could in their modest space. She took off her miter, which was constructed from nothing but pure energy, as was the rest of her; the Shadow Mother was the wraith of a mortality left behind. The vessel she mantled was the one her people knew best, and she let it appear largely as cadaverous as she was before her ascension. She refused to be ashamed of her undeath, which she never chose for herself. Failing her kin, however, was a result of her choices.

The trio watched as she apologized for her arrogance, for taking their loyalty for granted. She was sorry for seeing herself as above consulting them about her plans, and just expecting them to comply. Her overconfidence put them all in danger and left them to clean up her mess.

The prestige tied to her name was earned, but she was not invincible, and she was the most responsible for reminding them that neither were they.

“My greatest joy would be for you to one day walk your own ways, but I cannot let you go with the presumption that any of us are untouchable. It would violate our third and most difficult tenet, and in turn, undo the others. All three must work together.”

They stared at her in stunned silence. It certainly confirmed her arrogance.

“But I have shackled your growth, and you have every right to be disappointed with me.”

Zala was quick to accept her apology. Lucretia had a hunch that she was just exhilarated with their reunion, as their bond sometimes leaned on the familial side over simply teacher and student. It wasn’t Lucretia’s intention for Zala to become so attached that it might hurt her autonomy, and they would have to work on that. Lafayette was similar, albeit more guarded with his opinion. It was likely that he followed Zala’s initiative, as he often did choose to go with the flow and submit to a more assurant personality. Only when the following silence got too tense for him did he seem to add his own input.

“You couldn’t predict that this would happen. But maybe… maybe we should have talked more beforehand. We could have helped you prepare better.”

Lucretia agreed with him and was pleased to hear him speak his mind. She then faced Cletus and found him avoiding her gaze. She had supervised him the longest, with promises of prestige dangling in front of him–which she knew he would eventually achieve–but she had held him back for years. Perhaps she feared for his safety, or perhaps she savored having such loyal acolytes at her beck and call, but loyalty was unwise without mutual trust. It might have dawned upon him and made him hesitant. She could not blame him.

They didn’t need to forgive her, and she was hoping that they would take their time with their final decision. Receiving her humility was what they deserved. As for herself, she could handle any heat coming her way from the cult. Uppity Dark Clerics who thought she got her comeuppance were insignificant when she had the honor of seeing her students flourish together.

Things eventually started returning to relative normalcy, but Lucretia had to rethink her approach as a teacher. She decided to bring the trio aside, one at a time, and offer to loosen her grip on them. If they were to grow further, they needed to be challenged, and she could use her privileged position to advance theirs.

Lafayette’s anxiety held him back from progressing any faster than at a sloth’s pace, and Lucretia knew that she contributed to his sheltering. The living and the dead could walk all over him, and he would take it in silence instead of standing his ground. His success in reclaiming control of his sight tasted of the respect that he longed for. It was going to be a lifelong journey to challenge his fears, and he would be facing setbacks, but such were the trials they all faced as early as learning their first tenet. He often settled among the cult’s archives, where anyone who needed something had to consult an archivist. If he was taught on how to manage their texts, others were wise to respect someone who held onto occult knowledge.

Zala rambled on about a dozen things on her wishlist, but it wasn’t quite material things that Lucretia had in mind. They could revisit that matter at another time, so the two concluded that her role in preserving their grounds should broaden beyond menial labor and patrols in Deathknell. She had proven that she could plan for and journey into the unknown, and then return safely on her own. An elven ranger was exceptional for sweeping across the wilds with her silvan knowledge, and even someplace as haunted as Lordaeron needed care to maintain balance. It was her home, and she should be free to explore and nurture it. Lucretia urged her to be vigilant as the eyes of the Forgotten Shadow, and Zala eagerly swore to honor the trust put in her.

Cletus’s relationship with her had become tense. He fought harder than he should have for their sake, and was facing burnout as his only reward if he was just going back to being her eternal promising student. For one who had come so far, she still hadn’t ordained him. They both knew that his weak point was vainglory, and while power was what they all sought, every cultist had to constantly measure their capacity for it. Even the most successful of Dark Clerics weren't above remembering the tenets, or they risked falling like she had done. Cletus could charm his way forward all he wanted, but it meant nothing if he wouldn’t practice what he had been preaching in this time. Whenever he felt certain about it, Lucretia promised to be there to avow his commitment, and bow back at him as an equal.

She was self-aware enough to recognize her worries about letting go of control, knowing what it might cost a Shadow priest to be careless. She was proof herself of what rigid discipline could accomplish, but her students would never be able to breathe if they couldn’t reach above the surface. All four of them were left with scars reminding them of their trials, that they saw it through, and that there would be more trials to come. They would continue to face failure, prejudice, hatred and devastating loss, and she couldn’t always be there to protect them. What she could do was teach them how to protect themselves, and each other, until they were ready to walk their own ways. Their paths were not for her to decide for them, when such was not the will of the Forsaken.

It was challenging to adapt and persist through difficult times, and there may be endless time for any Forsaken to lead. But they were a stubborn people, and when those who reviled them as abominations kicked them down, they crawled back up and spat in the faces of their oppressors. The Cult of Forgotten Shadows sought to enhance what it meant to be Forsaken, and when to be Forsaken meant spiteful survival, they embraced the shadow that had been cast over them.

#the REAL final boss of this campaign: a codependent relationship #also yaaaaay we're done #this is the longest thing i've written as a newish writer thank u for the feedback everyone ily💜💜💜#to embrace the shadow #character: lucretia #character: lafayette #character: zala #character: cletus #kott writes

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 7 months

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Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

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Read on AO3

Chapter 4: Between the River and the Road

Jane-Anne Deveraux is feather-light in his arms as he transcends the invisible barrier that protects Lafayette Cemetery from unfriendly creatures.

Elijah is more well-versed than most in the ways of witches. He has faced the Strega of the old world, witnessed the potent magic of the Bennet lineage firsthand, and learned about ancestral magic from an Elder of a proud lineage. A millennium ago, he matured alongside the primal incantations and runic rituals of his druidic kin. The magic of witches had crafted him into an eternal predator and trailed him like a specter across the centuries of his immortal existence. Thus, Elijah understands the significance of his invitation into the sacred sanctum of the New Orleans covens—it reeks of desperation, a last resort in dire times.

He traverses between towering rows of family crypts with as much reverence as he can muster. In the shadows of cracked stones and weathered marble, he senses the spirits of three centuries of dead witches laid to rest here. They watch him with a thousand unseen eyes, suspicious and angry.

He can feel their accusation even as he passes by the carved names of generations of those come and gone, knowing he has befriended some and killed others. Knowing that as they turned to dust, he would live on. Knowing only a few miles away, in a secret place, the bones of Celeste DuBois rest unconsecrated, depriving them of her magic, her soul.

He adjusts the bundle in his arms and hopes that this gesture of goodwill, a drop in the bucket against the ocean of wrongs he and his family have brought upon them, would be enough at least to bring about the beginning of an alliance that might spare Hayley and her unborn child from the consequences.

Even this gesture, however minute, is the result of an evening of precarious negotiation with Marcel. Elijah had expected a certain level of vexation at his presence and that was before Niklaus had given into his more dubious urges and, in a fit of temper, bit one of Marcel’s men. That had complicated matters considerably. However, Elijah is a firm believer in finding moments of opportunity within a crisis. He knows that every disaster, every outburst of emotion, offers an advantage. And Marcel Gerard, in his fury and concern, had revealed a glaring vulnerability. One that Elijah exploited to his favor.

And so, they exchange the body of Jane-Anne Deveraux for the antidote to the venom ravaging Marcel’s man. Bringing him one step ahead in the chess game of New Orleans’ supernatural politics.

Which brings Elijah to the present moment.

The church clock tolls, brash and baleful, announcing the deadline for their deal. As he rounds the corner, his ears catch the frantic murmur of conversation.

“His time is up,” says a woman’s muffled voice from somewhere within a grand mausoleum. “What’re you going to do now, Sophie?”

A pause, then another voice he recognizes as belonging to Sophie Deveraux replies, “I’m going to do what I said I was going to do.”

He’s close enough to catch the uptick in Sophie’s heartbeat. If they were paying any attention, they would catch the dark lines of his shadow. But as it is, they are too engrossed in the matter at hand to notice. And so he listens, gathering as much information as possible, and waits for the opportune moment.

There’s a scoff from a third party. By now, Elijah can make out the silhouette of the woman from his first night in town, Sabine.

“What, kill the girl? Kill yourself?” she says, and Elijah goes still. The information isn’t surprising. The witches had been implicitly clear from the start about their intentions toward Hayley and the baby, should he or his brother fail to keep up their end of the bargain. The knowledge does nothing, however, to temper the murderous flare that bubbles at the surface.

“Klaus does not care about the child.” Agnes reminds the others.

The matter of Klaus’ emotional involvement in the survival of his child is a matter of some conjecture, one that’s been plaguing his thoughts since he found out about the werewolf girl and her predicament in this very cemetery only days ago, his position is crystal clear.

“I do,” he says, stepping into view. All heads turn towards where he stands at the entrance. “And I bring proof of my intent to help you: the body of your fallen friend, which I procured from Marcel himself.”

It was the right thing to do, an inclination only confirmed by the misty look in Sophie’s eyes when they flit from his face and then onto her sister’s body, with a shuddering exhale of her name.

But this was far more than a matter of morality, and Elijah’s intentions were far from selfless.

“May she be granted peace,” he murmurs, crouching down to shift the dead woman into her sister’s arms. “Klaus will agree to your terms. I just need a little more time.”

“You had your time,” The Elder, Agnes, juts her chin in defiance he would find admirable if they weren’t on the same side.

He’s not the only one bemused by the outburst, for Sabine snaps, “Shut up, Agnes.”

The older woman’s posture remains ramrod straight, eyes fixed on him, but she steps back. He meets her steady gaze, head tilting in assessment. Perhaps, he thinks, they may be on their way to understanding one another.

“For now, accept the deal,” he commands in a voice that brooks no argument. “The girl and the child remain unharmed, or Klaus will kill you all.” He turns to leave, then stops. “And I will help him.”

Better to remind them that Marcel Gerard is not the only danger in the city.

____

He feels no sense of relief as he leaves Lafayette Cemetery and makes his way back toward the French Quarter, and any satisfaction he might have gleaned from his success is short-lived. Yes, he has taken a significant stride in stabilizing tensions in the quarter, another small move towards ensuring the safety of his family. But there is nothing so foolish as a premature celebration, not when there is still work to be done.

The spell linking Hayley to Sophie Deveraux- the one that Jane-Anne sacrificed herself to complete- still stands. With witches dropping like flies, it’s a connection he would prefer to sever as soon as possible.

There is also still the matter of what had driven the witches to such lengths in the first place; Marcel’s secret weapon. In his long life, he’s encountered a few things that would enable someone to track the use of magic, but none with the magnitude or immediacy to fit with what he had witnessed the other night.

Despite a year in subjugation, the witches seem just as perplexed about the source of Marcel’s power as Elijah. Still, he cannot shake the feeling that they are holding back something critical, some vital piece of information that will solve the puzzle. And while he lacks any leverage that might encourage them to be forthcoming, it does not matter. He’s already found his way in and that is Lucretia LeMarche.

The night he had seen her fleeing the Quarter, he had tasked his contacts with delving into her background. The passage of a few days had yielded little, but what they had unearthed was more than enough to confirm that his suspicions were not unfounded.

The family name alone speaks volumes. He recognizes it as belonging to a magic bloodline that traces back to at least the eighteenth century. He was familiar with a few of their ancestors.

They were a proud lot, as he remembers them, fiercely loyal to their kind, wary of outsiders, with a zealous devotion to tradition. Yet even upon his departure, as more witches flocked to the cemetery to consecrate Jane-Anne Deveraux, her face had not been among them. For a family and a coven bound at the rootst, he knew there could only be two explanations for her absence; she was either uninterested or unwelcome. Given the report of a heated encounter with a cousin earlier, he would put money on the latter.

It’s an interesting consideration, especially with the routine isolation he had witnessed in his ventures past her hotel. But for now, Elijah knows there is nothing to do but wait for an opportunity to present itself.

All that leaves is the problem of Niklaus.

He does not doubt that getting his willful brother on side will be challenging. Mistrustful and paranoid, he sees everything as a threat, a nudge towards some larger plot to destroy him. Often he is right; never mind that many are traps of his own making.

He finds Niklaus amidst shuttered stalls and stacked crates in the French Market. The bottle dangles from his hand. He takes a long swig, so drenched with the smell of alcohol that Elijah briefly considers leaving him to his brooding.

“Have I not made clear my desire to be left alone?” Klaus asks, his back to him.

Elijah steps into the light. “Oh, you demand to be left alone at least once a decade. Your words have ceased to have impact.”

His brother smashes the bottle against the ground, projectiles of glass scattering to every corner.

“Why must you keep harping on about the baby?” He shouts, cutting to the root of the impending confrontation. “That child will never be born. In fact, Hayley is probably dead already.”

The obstinate self-pity is too much for Elijah, another spark in a long burning fuse. Years spent chasing his brother, cleaning up his mistakes and offering forgiveness, hoping to catch a glimmer of the boy he once knew. But to turn his back on something Elijah knows he wants and endanger his greatest chance at redemption is a step too far.

He careens into Nikalus at full speed, hand at his throat as a millennium of anger and frustration bubbles to the surface. “You will not walk away from this.”

“Let. Me. Go.” Niklaus warns. The flash of teeth may be enough to frighten lesser vampires, but it does nothing to intimidate Elijah.

“I WILL NOT!” He roars, throwing his brother to the floor. Before he can launch a counterattack, he heaves him up again with an iron grip.

Niklaus glowers at him. “Don’t make me say it again."

“I will not let go. I will never let go.” his voice cracks even as he shuts over the simple words so loaded with meaning.

He knows his brother hears it. It’s why he retaliates with heightened fury, grasping Elijah by the lapels of his jacket and hurling him across the floor. The iron rod fence is unforgiving as it cuts through his clothes and his skin. A warm sensation at his back tells him he’s bleeding, but by the time he gets to his feet, any wound sustained has already healed.

He steels himself, chest heaving. “Even if I have to spend eternity saving you from your own stubborn, petulant, vile self…”

The errant rod he had picked up bites into his fingers as he rushes forward. It reverberates as it crashes against Niklaus’ front.

“If I have to beat you as father used to beat you, to remind you of your own humanity–,” Another blow, “–to care about anything…”

He punctuates with another swing, but Klaus is faster. The iron bar stops in midair, snatched in the center by its intended target. It’s out of his hand in an instant, slamming into his back with a force that knocks him to the ground. Chest heaving, he stays there, peering up at his brother with a furrowed brow. The bar hits the concrete with a thud.

“You’re beyond pathetic, Elijah,” Klaus says, closing some of the distance.

“Well, who is more pathetic? The one who sees hope to make his family whole, or the coward who only sees the world through his own fear?”

“I haven’t cared about anything for centuries.” His gaze is sharp, but Elijah can see the embers of vulnerability. “Why on earth do you?”

“Because I failed you. Because the first time our father laid a hand on you, I should have struck him dead. I made a promise to you: always, forever, family above all.”

Niklaus laughs then and Elijah doesn’t miss the fondness behind it. He knows that all is right between them, at least for now. He confirms the inkling by extending his hand to help him up.

“You are a sentimental fool,” Niklaus says, hauling him to his feet.

“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But I’ve lasted this long in spite of it, haven’t I?”

A moment passes between the brothers, for in this moment that’s what they are. Not adversaries, not rivals, just two men bonded by blood and time. He walks away from the market, leaving Niklaus alone to reflect.

Elijah has only gone a block when he hears a commotion upriver.

____

The breezy idyll of the picturesque afternoon yields to an early autumn storm front. As night falls over the Mississippi Delta, the air is thick with the mingled scents of atmosphere and rich earth. The trees shudder, shaking off shriveling leaves that hiss as they settle, discarded, to the ground. And the moon fights a losing battle with the encroaching cloud coverage, its light is wan and thin.

A cargo ship bellows in the distance. The prow cuts through the silver glass water on its way to the Gulf. Mist closes in on river and city alike like a burial shroud, distorting the steel prow and sharp angles of shipping containers until it’s only a boxy silhouette with yellow fog light eyes on the horizon. The wind picks up, running its fingers through murky waters and churning the placid surface until choppy waves lap at the shoreline in short, staccato bursts before settling into lazy ripples.

Lucie pitches forward across the railing on the mostly abandoned Riverwalk, her stomach churning like the river as she empties its meager contents into the depths below. She wretches until there’s nothing left and then she wretches some more, until all that’s left in her aching gut is bile and acid.

Sweat prickles, cold on her brow. She pulls away, wiping her chapped lips with the back of a clammy hand. Blinking, she catches the eyes of a jogger who shoots her a look that’s half sympathy, and half disgust before they disappear into the mist. She should feel mortified. But as it stands, she’s too wound up to care.

The flare of her lighter keeps the fog at bay, a temporary force field against the dark until the cigarette lights. She presses it to her lips and inhales deeply, eager to rid herself of the bitter taste in her mouth.

Fog mutes and muffles every sign of life. Even the majesty of the cathedral vanishes until all but its highest steeple is swallowed up. And the silence hums. The city rests in a liminal space between evening and the late hours, the street lights straining against the mist. She flicks the ash and watches their orange halos shimmer and distort.

Her stomach settles, the edges of nausea losing their edge until only a vague queasiness remains. That and the anger.

That part is simple. She leans into it like a crutch, fanning the flames to keep the embers smoldering. Because deep down, she knows that what lies underneath the rage is a mess of emotions she can’t even begin to untangle.

So she sits and seethes and remembers.

She recalls coming into her magic. It was the same summer she’d gotten her first period, and at fourteen, gawky and awkward, it had been just as mortifying. Fluctuating hormones were hard enough, but paired with burgeoning powers, it made for a rough summer break. But Violette had been over the moon, practically radiating with pride. And so, while Lucie had never particularly dedicated herself to the craft, she threw herself into learning all she could, eager to please.

It's the reason she now understands why the girls agreed to be part of the Harvest. She knows all too well the blind trust and desire for approval that the Elders could evoke in a teenager. But what’s harder to wrap her head around is the way the coven leaders had taken that trust and twisted it into something so vile. Or why Violette had allowed things to go so far.

Her temper flares then wavers with doubt and the nagging feeling that she’s missing something important. So much about what Arabella had told her was strange. She couldn’t wrap her head around Violette’s complicity in something so cruel, and then there was Jane-Anne. Every thread she pulled seemed to lead back to her.

Monique’s death and Jane-Anne’s suicidal gambit were too close for coincidence. And for the first time, Lucie wonders what became of the final Harvest Girl.

She’s thinking about Davina Clare when the man appears, ambling out of the mist as if made from it.

Dull and hollow, the church bells chime.

She listens to the even gait shuffle in tandem with her thumping heart, so in sync that she can scarcely distinguish one from the other. And then footfalls taper of altogether and she stares at a pair of worn leather workman’s boots. The man clears his throat, hands stuffed into the pockets of his corduroy pants. Her eyes drift to a youthful face that seems out of place alongside the frayed hems of his corduroy pants or the loud pattern of a silk button-down shirt. He tosses the hair out of his eyes, blond, and parted down the middle with long sideburns. Lucie can’t shake the impression that looks more suited to a speed club in a trashy 70s flick than standing like a specter on the Riverwalk.

He doesn’t move, only lifts the corner of his lips in a crooked smirk. She wonders if he’s going to ask her for a light, or maybe some change. But the possibility withers to dust when she catches his eyes. They’re gray and indecipherable as the river behind her, but it’s the glint in them that makes her hair stand on end. They sparkle with amusement and something she can’t quite name… anticipation ?

“‘Evenin’,” he drawls with her the honied twang of the bayou counties. “Didn’t think anyone, but myself was crazy enough to venture out in this.”

He casts a sidelong glance over the edge of the walk, where the river is now all but undetectable save for the soft churning of the waves.

She traces the hard lines of his profile with wary eyes, waiting for his next move. He opens his mouth to speak, then pauses, eyes alight with recognition.

“There you are! Thought you must’ve gotten yourself lost on Bourbon.” Her head cocks in confusion, toying with the idea that he’s off his rocker when she realizes he’s not looking at her, his gaze fixed just beyond her shoulder. And that is so much worse.

She smells the second man before she sees him. Mildew and mothballs and something coppery announces his presence. It’s followed by a sharp exhale, so close she feels the balmy heat of his breath.

With a cry of alarm, she wheels around, scrambling to put as much distance between them as she can before the cold damp metal of the railing halts her retreat.

Tall and thin, the second man wavers like a cattail in the breeze. The tattered ends of his duster flutter about his long legs, only adding to the inclination that a stronger gale might bowl him over. Older than the other by a decade if she had to guess. His face is gaunt and deep-lined near his eyes. Eyes so fathomlessly dark that they don’t shine, just seem to absorb all the shadows into the void. They leer down at her in a way that can only be described as hungry.

She swallows hard.

She doesn’t need to wait for blackening veins or a flash of fangs. She knows a vampire when she sees one.

But there’s a feverish, feral glint to their eyes, and an agitated jerkiness to their movements so unlike the controlled poise of Marcel Gerard or the polished violence of his crew, so off that it distracts her momentarily from her fear.

Her palms drop to her sides, searching for anything she might use as a weapon, but finds nothing but the chipped guardrail. She could jump. They likely wouldn’t see it coming and she could vault the rail before either could stop her. But the water is treacherous in its own right and won’t deter them for long enough for it to matter. No, running won’t be an option.

When the taller one, tired of waiting, lunges at her, he strips the choice from her.

Lucie only has enough time to squeeze her eyes shut and brace herself for the steel of sharp teeth tearing her flesh. But when a second passes and then another and it still doesn’t come, she opens them again.

He’s close enough that if he were to reach a willowy arm out, she’s sure the tips of his bony fingers would brush against her jacket. A hand clutches at his shoulder, tethering him to the spot. The other man must have crossed the sidewalk because the hand belongs to him and he’s hovering just behind the towering frame.

“Teagan, that’s no way to behave. Look,” he chides, with a nod towards her. For the first time, she notices a strange lilt to his cadence. “You’re frightening the poor lamb.”

‘Teagan’s’ gaze drifts from Lucie to his friend and then back, head tilting to the side.

The younger man laughs, clapping him on the back like he isn’t a rabid dog on a fraying tether. “Don’t mind my friend here. We’ve been out of the city for a while now and his manners are a little rusty.”

His tone is reassuring, his posture relaxed. Yet she doesn’t miss the way he maneuvers around the larger man, angling himself just slightly ahead.

“I’m Adam and this is Teagan.” He flashes his teeth, laugh lines creasing at the edges, in what could be called a charming smile, under different circumstances. When he extends a hand, she dodges the touch, steadying herself on heavy limbs.

“No need to be so shy. We’re all friends here,” Adam says with a sidelong smirk, tucking the hand back into his pocket. “Isn’t the right, Teag?”

The other vampire’s lips contort into a grim facsimile of a smile.

“It’s a little late to be out here all on your own.” Rocking back on his heels, nonchalant when he asks, “Why don’t you let us take you somewhere warm?”

She doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t matter because it wasn’t a request.

Apprehension is a viper coiled in her belly, urging her body into high alert. Adrenaline floods her veins. They shimmer, warm and bright, as if full of champagne as magic stirs up her blood. She reaches out, pulling it forward like a rope in a deep well. It surges in veins and then, and suddenly, the rope jerks taut. Like there’s a weight at the end, caught on an edge and preventing her from drawing anymore up, barred from the font of ancestral power. It won’t be enough, but maybe if she can take one of these assholes with her, the next victim might have a fighting chance.

Her right hand curls in on itself and the vampire, Adam, tutts. “I don’t think you want to do that, little witch.”

“You drain me dry now or Marcel kills me later. I’m dead either way.” She dips her head to the side, stretching the straining muscles in her neck.

“I ain’t talking about Marcel or his rules,” he scoffs, visibly bristling.

She puzzles at his meaning. There isn’t time to ask. The horn from a passing ship pierces the tension. His head flicks to the side for just a moment and Lucie finds her opening. Her right-hand raises in front of her as the familiar words of the spell follow, spilling from her lips like water.

Adam turns to her, eyes cold and angry. “I thought I warned you-”

He staggers, the train of thought lost as he clutches at his head.

She jerks her raised arm to the side, and he crumples to the ground like a rag doll. He howls in pain, the sound garbled in the mist like a soundproof room. It sends a shiver of satisfaction through her, but it’s short-lived.

She bounds over him and across the sidewalk, desperate to cross the railway tracks and into the more populated refuge of Jackson Square. A few yards away, the green traffic lights glow like a beacon. Her joints ache as her feet jolt against the pavement at a brutal pace. It’s a small price to pay to survive the night.

She’s close enough now to see the deep parallel grooves of the steel rails. All she needs is to descend the steps down to them, pass over, and -

A gust of wind flutters behind her. She has less than. a second to react before the hair at the base of her neck is pulled taut and then wrenched backward. The force knocks her off balance, boots scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. Her scalp screams as she’s jerked back, fast enough to give her whiplash.

Then, the hand wrapped around her hair eases, but the change in momentum tells her she’s not free yet. Instead, it urges around and she’s forced to follow until the train tracks are back behind her and the edge of the river some distance ahead.

The skeletal fingers wind in her hair and she knows it’s the tall vampire, Teagan, that has her. Behind her, he pulls her back until she’s flush against his chest. Her heart pounds in short, stuttering bursts as she feels his nose press against her hair, hand releasing her hair to wind around her throat.

She feels more than hears the steady inhale as he breathes in her scent. Fingers press gingerly into the soft flesh of her neck like icicles as he whispers, “I bet you’ll scream so pretty when I drain you dry.”

It’s the first time she’s heard him speak, and she wishes she hadn’t. The voice is thin and reedy as the rest of him, soft from disuse. If a corpse could talk, she knew it would sound like the vampire in her ear.

“The others don’t like witch blood. Call it bitter.” The pressure around her throat increases ever so slightly. “I call it an acquired taste.”

His breath is hot on her neck, sickly sweet like dust and death. Her stomach turns. She calls on another burst of magic, but there’s no response besides a faint flickering.

Panic yields to white-hot pain when his fangs pierce the delicate flesh at the base of her neck. It burns like fire, then like ice, the sensation too overwhelming for her to cry out. Her veins are freezing over and then sharp pain relents to a thrumming sort of numbness. She feels the vibration as the vampire moans into her neck, greedy fingers holding her in place by her neck, her hip.

Her fingertips tingle. She thrashes against his grip, but all she can muster is a sluggish lurch from her leaden limbs. The edges of her vision are swimming, blackness creeping in at the corners.

“Teagan!” The voice comes to her from underwater, slow and distorted. “You’re…killing…”

She can’t make out the rest, her eyelids are too heavy and her body is too tired to care. She wants more than anything to let herself slip under, to sleep.

Blissful oblivion is within reach when she’s cruelly jostled back into reality. It’s a struggle to open her eyes, but when she does, the world is blurry and off-kilter. Emptiness rushes around her and she realizes she’s falling. Pain blossoms in her shoulder, her ribs, her side as collides with the pavement. Hard.

The worn boots in her direct field of view tell her that Adam has found his feet, now locked in a scuffle with the other vampire. The protective stance strikes her as strange, but her sluggish brain can’t seem to decide why.

Before she can figure it out, a lean form skids to the ground in a heap nearby and she’s tugged roughly to her feet.

Her captor spins around to face him, her stomach protesting. Adam’s gray eyes are hard, all pretense of friendliness gone.

“I ought to make you suffer for that stunt you pulled, witch bitch,” he grits out. He’s close enough that she sees his jaw tick. “But just ‘cause I can’t kill you doesn’t mean I can make you wish you were dead. You understand me?”

His fingers dig into her upper arms hard enough to bruise through her leather jacket, giving her a shake that makes her teeth clatter. She’s sure it’s all that’s keeping her on her feet, but she manages a nod.

The crumpled heap rustles. Teagan, rising back to his feet, levels his companion with a murderous glare. He wipes at his mouth, the back of his hand coming red. It smears streaks of red around the corners of his lips, on his chin -blood, her blood?

“You just stay out over there,” Adam commands, shuffling her behind him. She wavers, leaning against his back for support. “You hear me, Teag?”

Teagan sneers, lips curling into a snarl, but stays put. “I wasn’t going to kill her. Just wanted a taste.”

“That’s not part of the arrangement.” Adam shifts, boots scraping the concrete. “Unharmed or we get nothing. That was the deal.”

The words land like a series of blows. Even in her stupor, the renewed threat sets her heart racing once more.

Teagan looks ready to pounce, and Lucie runs through ways to keep out of a scuffle between the two vampires. But just as violence is about to break out, the atmosphere changes.

Adam goes rigid, tensing as both he and Teagan angle toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

It’s hard to make out through the fog and around the solid form in front of her, but she glimpses dress shoes, shiny and black. They click like a metronome, drawing closer to a steady beat.

“Get lost,” Adam barks at the stranger. He shifts and Lucie spies a dark suit jacket and white cuffs. Her dread rises, leaving a bitter taste in her throat. “Don’t want to get blood on that pretty white shirt.”

The immaculate tips of the shoes stop, pointed towards Adam.

“I thought Marcel’s nightwalkers were better behaved,” she hears a man’s voice say, even and calm. There’s an edge though, an air of vague disapproval. “It seems someone was let off-leash prematurely.”

She imagines him wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Adam stiffens. “I don’t answer to Marcel,” he spits, “or any damn Original.”

Original?

“Spare me the arrogance of young vampires,” he mutters, exasperated. It only confirms her fears, her face hot and her ears ringing with panic.

He tips his head to the side, a flash of dark hair in her eyeline. “I’ll make this simple for you. Hand over the girl and I’ll give you a head start.”

If squaring off against two nightwalkers was bad, being in the clutches of an Original would be catastrophic for her chances of survival. She doesn’t have any idea how. All she knows is that she needs to get out of here. Now.

The second she jerks to the side, though, arms ensnare her waist in an impossible grip. It tightens like iron bars around her, caging her in. No longer obscured, she finds herself face-to-face with the Original vampire.

It only takes a cursory glance, a brief survey of his dark eyes, the angles of his jaw for recognition to dawn. The man from the bar, the shadowy figure on the street beneath her window. Not a figment of her imagination, but flesh and blood only a few feet before her.

A hand curls around her neck, with none of the gentleness of the other vampire. His nails are sharp, grip vice-like. It leaves her vulnerable; his shield before the firing squad. “How about you crawl back to wherever you came from and I don’t snap her neck like a twig?”

Lucie can’t help the little yelp that escapes her throat as his grip tightens. Her arms sweep up, tugging against his forearms in an exercise of futility.

Something flashes, dark and dangerous in the Original’s eyes, gone as fast as it came. His face is a cool mask, expression indecipherable.

“Now, why would you go through all the effort of keeping her alive, only to kill her now?” He muses, thumbs hooking in the belt loops of his pressed slacks.

“You calling my bluff?”

The Original shrugs. And if Lucie wasn't so frightened, she would be offended by his willingness to gamble with her life.

She takes a shaky breath, gathering as much focus as she can muster. Her fingernails dig into the flesh of her captor’s forearms, not strong enough to register on his supernatural pain scale. At least, not until the skin beneath her palms starts to smoke and sizzle.

He drops her, curses pouring from her mouth. She darts forward like a rabbit in a den of foxes, leaving the acrid smell of burning flesh in her wake.

She’s quick, but not quick enough. Long fingers ensnare her ankle and she topples, chest colliding with the ground. Her jaw clamps shut from the impact, teeth sinking into her tongue. She tastes blood. It doesn’t matter.

Teagan leverages his grip, flipping her onto her back. She scurries up onto her elbows, kicking wildly as he advances on her. In a flash, he’s bearing down on her. His weight is an anvil on her chest, pressing her into the pavement, pinning her in place. Over his shoulder, she can vaguely make out rapid movements, the sounds of a struggle.

Lips pulls back, revealing razor-sharp fangs as he forces her flat. His legs hold her in place. He catches both her wrists in one massive palm, holding them in place against her chest. And he speaks, in that horrible ashen voice, “No one to save you now, little lamb.”

He dives forward to meet her neck and her eyes slam shut. Adamant that the void of his black eyes, his greedy face, isn’t the last thing she sees, she conjured up images in her head. Imaginary hands reach for memories, pulling them to the surface. Arabella’s laugh, Vivienne’s freckles, the perfume of wisteria, and the taste of Violette’s sweet tea. She burrows herself in them, waiting for an end that doesn’t come.

Something hot and wet splatters her skin, bursting into her refuge. There’s a garbled noise in her ears, a heavy choking sound -also wet. Then the weight on her chest increases tenfold. If he’d been an anvil before, he’s a streamliner of dead weight- |

Dead weight. She freezes, gathering the willpower to open her eyes. Black irises reflect her face back at her, empty and glassy as marbles made of pitch. His mouth hangs open at an odd angle as if stuck in a silent scream.

Dead. He’s dead. The thoughts bounce around her skull, directionless and chaotic even as the weight leaves her chest, even when she stares up into a dark, starless sky instead of lifeless eyes.

She pushes herself back onto her forearms, propping herself up just in time to see Teagan’s body land off in the grass, to catch the disembodied heart hit the ground with a wet squelch.

“Now I do hate an unfair fight,” the man in the suit says, turning towards the remaining vampire. “Don’t you?”

Adam doesn’t speak, gaze drifting from the corpse and back to its killer in abject horror.

“I suggest you run.”

And he does. In a flash color so fast that her eyes can’t keep up. And for one moment, she thinks he’ll get away. That the Original will let him leave.

Until the Riverwalk echoes with a sound she doesn’t have a comparison for, like splintering firewood, but…wrong. A blond head hits the ground with a thud, rolling to a stop at the juncture between the grass and the sidewalk. The body wavers, a few feet behind, wobbling in a macabre sort of shuffle before collapsing like a marionette with the strings cut.

He never stood a chance.

He makes quick work of the bodies, the Original, handling them with an efficiency only born of practice. Only once their remains have vanished into the black water does he turn his attention towards Lucie.

The commanding force of his dark eyes roots her to her spot on the ground, all the while the most primal part of her brain screams at her to run. She can’t seem to make her shocked system move, can’t do much of anything but watch as he advances on her with exaggerated slowness, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. There’s no anger in his eyes, but the damning specks of blood on the collar of his pristine dress shirt scream at her. And she notices how his cuffs are now stained a deep, violent red.

It lights a spark in her, just enough to find her feet, supporting herself on the back of a park bench.

“It’s alright,” he says in an even tone, stopping an arm’s reach away, clearly for her comfort. She has no illusions about his ability to dispatch her in seconds at any distance. “You’re safe now. I swear I won’t harm you.”

Something akin to concern seems to dance behind his eyes as he gives her a once-over.

“I..you…you killed them.” It’s all she can muster.

“I did.” His tone is matter-of-fact, eyes drifting down. She follows the trail of his gaze from the ripped shoulder of her jacket, the rust-colored blood drying on her shirt, and back up again until she feels them settle somewhere around her neck. She remembers intruding fangs and imagines the remnants of carnage he must find there because his mouth pulls in a hard line.

He steps forward and a slow steady hand rises to ghost over the junction of her neck. She notices that beneath his spoiled cuffs, his hands are pristine. When had he found time to clean them?

When she winces, the hand drops back down, hovering somewhere near her upper arms. Confusion stirs, then understanding. He’s afraid I’m going to fall.

She watches his lips move with a fuzzy detachment that probably has a lot to do with all the blood loss. Sees him mouth, “Are you alright?” more than hears it.

She knows she should respond, but can’t seem to find the right response. “Hmmm?”

There’s a sigh, not quite impatient but certainly long-suffering. Twin pressures register at the tops of her shoulders, holding her in place, keeping her from drifting off into outer space as the adrenaline leaves her exhausted body.

“Look at me,” he prompts.

And she complies because, despite the gentle delivery, there’s an innate authority to it that her subconscious responds to even in her present state.

The scene beyond is blurry, but she blinks his serious features into focus. His finger catches her beneath the chin, urging her to look up into his eyes.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks, with a dreamy disinterest.

“No.”

“Oh,” is all she can manage, and wonders if she imagines the way he winces. The veil is fading fast beneath the warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his gaze. Something warning her she’s still in danger.

“Who are you?” Suspicion prods at the corners of her tired mind even as the hand at her chin glides down to examine her bleeding neck. His fingers ghost over the wound and she shivers.

She knows the truth, even as he speaks the words to confirm it.

“I’m an Original, but I think you already know that. My name is Elijah. I take it you’ve heard of me.”

Klaus. Rebekah. Elijah.

Lucie swallows down her fear and nods.

“Good, that’ll save us time,” he says. “We have a lot to discuss, Miss LeMarche.”

#elijah mikaelson fic #elijah mikaelson x oc #elijah mikaelson x ofc #keepsdeathhiscourt fic #original female character #elijah x ofc #elijah x oc #the originals fic

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