#keepsdeathhiscourt fic
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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
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 10: The Rebekah Mikaelson Home for Wayward Girls
Elijah dreams. An endless loop of images, fabrications of his unconscious mind that meld with a thousand years of memories into a dizzying blend of joy and agony. But he does not wake. The ash-tipped dagger in his chest ensures it.
It is far from the first time his brother has imposed this particular punishment, and through each daggering he maintains some shred of himself, enough to understand that he’s asleep—most of the time.
He leans against the base of a pale oak. The dense stand of trees at his back shiver in the breeze, their weighted boughs unburdening themselves of fragrant white blossoms as the birds chirp out the songs of new spring.
The last snow of a hard winter is behind and the entirety of the village is out to banish away the cold and welcome the coming of the warmer months.
In a sunny patch, Rebekah settles in the grass with a handful of village girls, her coltish legs stretched out in front of her to work on her offering. She hums sweetly, tongue peeking out in focus as she weaves the choicest of her harvested early blooms into a crown of flowers.
A shout rings out. Elijah follows the sound with his eyes to a point just beyond, hand hovering over his dagger. He eases when he finds the source. Niklaus pins Kol to the ground, the sound of the younger boy’s outrage being what reached him. Just beyond, Henrik’s head shines like gold in the sun as he watches his brothers spar in a mixture of glee and envy.
Father and Finn are already hard at work erecting the altar alongside the other men. The task of collecting kindling is assigned to the younger boys. His eyes fall to a discarded pile of twigs beyond his wrestling brothers, duty forgotten.
He should intervene, coax them back on task, lest they risk provoking Father. His anger has always made Elijah nervous, a feeling that only builds with time. With each passing year, it seems his outbursts are more frequent, ramping up in intensity. He lashes out at all of them save perhaps Henrik, who is still too young to enrage him. But the greatest burden of his rages always, always falls on sensitive, gentle Niklaus. For him, the words are sharper and the blows harder in a way that only grows more disproportionate as his brother edges closer to manhood. Though he would never admit it out loud, lest he injure his adolescent pride, he worries for his brother.
As if sensing his thoughts, Niklaus lifts his head, strands of long hair mussed from his efforts, and diverts his attention from Kol’s thrashing to meet Elijah’s stare. His lips curl into a triumphant grin, the one that shows his dimples.
Oh, let them have their fun. For a little longer, at least. Besides, Elijah has his own offering to consider.
He gives his brother a nod, leaving them in the clearing to delve deeper into the woods.
The light stretches between the branches. Early afternoon eases past midday. Later, under the full moon, the community will gather to celebrate the spring and leave their gifts for Freyr.
He’s been tracking the stag for an hour now. The bow grip is rough beneath his calloused palms, his steps light as keen eyes follow the soft imprints of hooves in the brush.
The pigs, grown fat through the winter, will be sacrificed. But Elijah wants something special to give for reasons beyond religious devotion. Though he’s past the infatuations of adolescence, he is not immune to the desire to impress a maid, especially not a fierce, wild beauty such as Tatia.
His lips still burn with the memory of kisses stolen in quiet moments between chores and duties. These are memories he squirrels away, to revisit like a hoard of treasure.
He hopes the stag will be enough to assure the young widow of his ability to provide for her and her child.
A rustle of movement steals him from thoughts of Tatia. He pivots to the left, bow drawn, and freezes.
There, in a slight clearing between the trees, stands the stag and it is beautiful. The column of its elegant neck strains toward, unaware of his presence as it bellows for its mate.
Slowly, very slowly, he reaches back to his quiver. His fingers brush through the feathered fletching as he draws an arrow and nocks it.
He inches forward. A twig snaps. The beast reels its great head around to face him, lovely dark eyes wide and nostrils flaring.
Elijah is not sentimental, not in matters of survival. Yet, he finds himself reluctant to snuff out such a life.
He hesitates.
The stag is about to flee. He sees it in the tensed muscles, the trembling limbs. It forces him to make a snap decision.
The arrow propels from its rest, sailing forward in a straight arc.
There is a thud as it lands, a wail of pain, the rumble of the creature colliding with the earth.
And then silence.
The regret is instant. His hands tremble as he approaches his quarry, his bow discarded somewhere behind him. The creature is still alive, barely. Its chest heaves with the strain of its final breaths. Half tangled in the brush, it thrashes feebly to free itself. He approaches it with a cautious reverence, determined to ease its final moments.
The hide is wiry to the touch as he sets a hand to its ribs, murmuring soothing, senseless sounds. With his other, he untangles its legs. He strokes it a few times in reassurance, avoiding its wide eyes as he unsheathes his dagger. The creature settles beneath his ministrations, movements becoming less frantic. He continues to soothe the beast, careful in his motions lest it catch a glimpse of iron. He steadies himself with a cycle of breaths. The dagger rises, and he thanks the stag for its life and nature for the gift, just as his mother had taught him.
Elijah exhales. The blade strikes true. Straight to the heart, death is immediate.
But something happens the second he hits his mark. Beneath the dagger, the beast transforms. Hooves and haunches yield to long legs and fur to thick, dark hair matted with blood.
Desperate and frightened, he turns it over onto its back. He cannot contain the cry of horror, of grief, as he stares into Tatia’s dark, sightless eyes.
What has he done?
Trapped in the recesses of his mind, there is nothing to do but weep and wait for this dream to end and the next to begin.
____
It’s a fourteen-hour drive from Mystic Falls to New Orleans. When she isn’t flipping through radio stations, Rebekah spends most of the trip trying and failing to stay out of her own head.
For the first couple of hours, her thoughts are cotton candy sweet. Memories of sunset kisses in Rome and sipping expensive champagne in Paris as she stares into Matt Donovan’s baby blue eyes. She never expected to like him as much as she does, but something about his self-effacing, small-town quarterback charm has allowed him to worm his way into her affections.
It’s a dangerous place to be if she’s being honest with herself—something she’s been working very hard on lately. Despite all of Niklaus’ jabs, she is well aware of her tendency to dive blindly into love. And it would be so easy to let herself fall in love with Matt Donovan.
She also knows that her love interests tend to end up dead. While Matt has many good qualities, durability is not one of them.
That’s why, somewhere in Arkansas, she resigns herself to letting him go, to accepting their European tryst as a passing fancy. Painful, but better for them both in the long term.
Beyond an aching heart and an unfortunate confrontation with some vulgar nightwalkers in a backwater dive bar, she reaches the outskirts of New Orleans with relative ease.
She fiddles with the dial, settling on a classic rock station. Not her favorite, but the only thing coming through without static in this part of the state. In the convertible’s rearview mirror, she dabs a finger to her cheek, determined to clean off the blood before it dries into a disgusting crust.
Each mile that brings her closer to the city forces her to confront her growing anxiety.
It’s been weeks since she’s heard from Elijah. Some amount of distance between her and her siblings is normal. When tallying time in the centuries, it’s not unheard of to go months without contact. Yet something about this stretch of silence seems off. One day, Elijah has been proselytizing about the baby as a chance at redemption for them all and trying to convince her to join his latest crusade for Niklaus’ soul. Then…nothing.
If the abrupt drop off in communication is strange, his refusal to answer any of her calls over the last two weeks is damning.
The headlights catch the trees as she turns onto the unpaved back road, their trunks made skeletal by the beams.
She sighs.
Though she would rather die than say it out loud, she’s worried about Nik too. She knows him too well to believe he’s as indifferent to his new situation as he would have her believe—not her mercurial, sensitive brother who lashes out when things get tough and turns to violence instead of dealing with the deep well that is his emotions. All she can hope is that whatever outburst he’d chosen to vent upon Elijah, it’s something they can come back from.
The tires crunch against the dirt as she urges the car to a stop. The white doric columns frame the mansion, adding to its imposing aura. She’s out in an instant, the red door closing behind her with a slam as she tries to call Elijah one more time.
She gets his voicemail. Again.
“Elijah, if not answering your phone is part of your clever plan to get me back to this godforsaken city, then well done.” She uses the irritation to propel her towards the door. It makes it easier to forget where she is. “I’m here, and I’m worried. Now pick up before I kick in your bloody door.”
Her heels echo against the front steps. She doesn’t bother with the doorbell. It’s not like she needs to be invited in.
The foyer is just as she remembers, even at first glance. Her eyes graze over the intricate white panels, the priceless runner, the carved stair railing—
“Who the hell are you?”
She checks at a woman coming down the stairs. Her dark hair hangs in a curtain just past her shoulders, her brow arched in question over hazel eyes.
“Oh, you must be the maid. My bags are in the car—get them, will you?”
The woman’s plump, bowed lips curl into a wry smile. Rebekah barely registers the fire iron in her hand until she sets it down.
“Hello,” she says. “Not the maid.”
Recollection stirs. She’s seen her face before.
“Right. You’re that werewolf girl my brother, Klaus, knocked up,” she replies, rocking back on her heels. Her eyes rake over the woman’s slim frame, curiosity getting the better of her. “I was expecting to see some kind of supernatural miracle baby bump. Guess you’re not showing yet. It’s Hayley, isn’t it?”
“You have your brother’s manners.”
“And his temper, too, so watch it,” she fires back. Exchanging cuts with the wolf girl is all well and good, but she’s been on the road for a day straight and her patience is wearing thin. “Where’s Elijah?”
She cranes her neck, straining to survey the landing at the top of the stairs, down the long hall in front of her, as if she might glimpse him.
“Beats me. He’s long gone.”
Rebekah’s focus snaps back to the wolf girl. “What do you mean, ‘long gone’?”
Hayley shrugs.
“Well, one minute he was here making epic promises about protecting me in this predicament that a bottle of scotch and some bad decisions got me into—he was all poetic about how we’re family—and then Klaus told me he bailed. Guess that’s what I get for trusting a vampire.”
Though it only confirms what she already suspects, dread sinks in all the same. Whatever happened to Elijah, Nik is behind it.
“Elijah is not just any vampire, and he doesn’t break promises.” Defensiveness creeps into her tone. It’s not Hayley’s fault, not really. There’s no way she could know how wildly out of character his disappearance is, but it feels better to vent her worry somewhere. She exhales, “Which means Niklaus has done something dastardly and Klaus-like.
Hayley comes down a few more steps, looking perplexed. Rebekah pays her no mind. She has a bone to pick with her brother.
“KLAUS! Get out here and tell me what you’ve done with our brother, you narcissistic, back-stabbing wanker!”
The doors at the end of the hallway swing open. Somewhere overhead, the floorboards creak. But Rebekah has no time to consider because at that moment the object of her anger steps out into the hall.
“Enough with all the shouting,” he says reproachfully. Then he stops, seeming to register her presence for the first time. “Little sister, I should have known. I assume the six dead vampires were your doing?”
“They were very rude,” she sniffs. “Trying to victimize a poor, innocent girl just trying to find her way to the Quarter. So sorry, were they friends of yours? Oh, that’s right, you don’t have any friends.”
“I do have friends.” In any other situation, the defensiveness in his voice would have been amusing. Right now, it’s infuriating. “I have Marcel. You remember him, don’t you? Yes, of course you do. He fancies himself the ‘King of the Quarter’ now, and he has these rules about killing vampires. It’ll be fun to see what sort of punishment he comes up with for you.”
“I don’t care about Marcel or his rules,” she snaps and ignores the way her stomach swoops into the floor. “Elijah doesn’t welch on deals. What did you do to him?”
“Perhaps he’s on holiday... or taking a long autumn nap upstairs. Well, go on. Take a look around.” She wants nothing more than to rake her nails across his smug face. She opts for a storm-off instead. “You remember this house as well as I.”
She freezes, turning to face him. Her voice is low and full of venom when she says, “I remember everything.”
The siblings lock eyes, blue on blue, stuck in a silent stand-off.
The stairs groan. Her head snaps towards the noise, breaking the tension.
Near the top of the stairs, Rebekah finds another young woman, watching her from the railing.
“Oh, for the love of — Are we running a boarding house now, Nik?” she cries, throwing her hands up. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
“Rebekah, meet Lucie,” Niklaus says, with that damned smirk of his. “I’d suggest you play, nice. You never know when you may be in need of her services.”
“'Services?' — Ew!” she cries out, feeling ill. “A prostitute, Nik? Really?”
“Excuse me?”
She ignores her brother’s restrained delight for the woman at the top of the stairs.
Her eyes are narrowed, glaring daggers down at her. She’s a little slip of a thing, slight even at this distance. But she doesn’t flinch when Rebekah levels her with a withering look of her own, only tightens her grip on the banister.
Brave, but stupid. Oh, well. She’ll be easy enough to humble.
Before the situation can escalate, Niklaus interjects, “Easy now, sister. Lucie is a witch. She’s graciously agreed to assist us.”
A witch? Rebekah’s nose crinkles in distaste. Lovely.
She looks from the girl to Niklaus and back again, suspicious.
Where in the hell had he found this one?
It takes only a cursory glance to know she’s not Niklaus’ type. Dark-haired, where Nik leans to blondes. Though she supposes that didn’t stop him from knocking around with the wolf girl. Rebekah shudders despite herself and turns her attention back to the witch, eager to move away from the topic of her brother’s sex life.
Her hair is swept up into a ponytail that falls in a wave of messy curls over her shoulder. Large brown eyes stare at her from a heart-shaped face. Her posture is rigid, but Rebekah senses something softer behind it, an aura that all but screams ‘save me’—
Rebekah rolls her eyes.
Elijah.
She should have known. Her older brother is nothing if not predictable. She only wonders how long after meeting the twit he’d waited before charging in to play knight in shining armor.
She resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Here she is with one brother missing and the other inexplicably in possession of a familiar pregnant werewolf and a less familiar temperamental witch. She has no idea what’s going on.
It’s all very annoying, but she supposes she should count her blessings. It could be worse; she could be staring down yet another simpering doppelgänger. Rebekah nearly snorts. God knows she’s seen enough of Tatia’s face to last ten more lifetimes.
“Congrats on the collection of supernatural captives, Nik. You almost have a full set. Now where is Elijah?”
Her brother isn’t listening. She stamps down her impotent fury as he sails past her and towards the door, typing on his phone.
“Where are you going?”
“It appears the night is not quite over yet,” he explains, not bothering to look as he grabs his keys. “I’m off for another drink with Marcel.”
“Elijah told me about your plan to take apart Marcel’s empire piece by piece. I don’t remember it involving you two drinking New Orleans dry together.”
That gets his attention, she notes with satisfaction. It’s short-lived. The look on his face as he turns to her warns her he’s about to say something rude.
“I know you don’t have many friends, Rebekah, but what some friends do when they get together is they drink,” he says, dripping with condescension. “And when they drink, they tell secrets. Marcel has somehow found a way to control the entirety of witches in the Quarter, and I aim to uncover the ‘how’ so I might take it for myself. Finding Elijah didn’t make my to-do list today.”
With that, he turns and leaves, the door closing behind him. But not before adding, “Oh, and welcome home, little sister.”
Well, she was right. That was very rude. And she’s no closer to finding Elijah than when she got here.
She sighs, rounding on the two women staring from the stairs.
“You,” she calls up to the witch, who’s making her way down the stairs. “What did the locator spell tell you?”
She halts her descent. “Locator spell?”
“You mean to tell me you haven’t even tried one yet?”
“I didn’t—I…thought he left.”
Perfect, just perfect.
“Must I do everything by myself?” Rebekah groans. At least the girl has the good sense to look sheepish. “Wolf girl, I’m going to search this house inch by inch until I find what my evil brother has done to my good one. You’re helping. You too, witch. Come on.”
Something in her tone works because the other women fall in line behind as she leads them deeper into the house and towards the winding staircase that leads to the cellar.
She pauses, hand on the doorknob, and turns to the witch girl as if something had just occurred to her. “You’re not pregnant too, are you?”
It’s a joke—sort of. She fights a smile as she’s rewarded with a look of abject horror.
____
“This home once belonged to the governor. He had lots of secret rooms. I’ll show you his favorite,” she explains as they arrive in the middle of a dank cellar room. Cobwebs line the walls, only adding to the musty, morbid atmosphere.
She hears a gasp over her shoulder. While she isn’t sure which girl it comes from, she knows what they’ve found.
“Are these…coffins?” Lucie asks, incredulous at the same time Hayley says: “You think Klaus killed him.”
Rebekah sighs, rubbing away the dust tickling her nose as she roots about near the caskets.
“We can’t be killed, silly girl. That doesn’t stop Klaus from finding ways to torture us. He has a set of mystical silver daggers. One in the heart sends us into a deep slumber. Klaus gets his jollies from keeping us in a box until he decides to pull the dagger out. That must be what he’s done to Elijah.” She pauses in front of a black box near the middle. “This one’s mine.”
In the corner of her eye, she spots Lucie poking around by a few of the other coffins as if she wants to peek in but is simultaneously repulsed by the idea.
Hayley sidles up to her. “He keeps your coffin on standby?”
“He likes to be prepared for when his family members inevitably disappoint him. Elijah’s isn’t here—he must’ve stashed him elsewhere.”
Lucie joins them, arms crossed over her chest. They’re close together like some strange sort of team huddle.
Even in the dark, Hayley looks green. “I feel sick.”
Never prone to coddling, Rebekah says, “Welcome to the family, love. You should’ve run the second you realized Elijah was gone.”
“Yeah, well, the witches have put some sort of hex on me. As long as I’m carrying this baby, I can’t leave New Orleans. If I do, they kill me.”
“Well, knowing Klaus, he’s planning a box for you the second you give birth to whatever’s cooking in your tum. And you,” she turns to the other girl, “You should make yourself scarce the first chance you get. I’m not sure how well you know your history, but witches don’t fare well where my family is involved.”
They’re both watching her anxiously. She avoids their eyes. While Rebekah isn’t without sympathy, it’s best not to get attached. “I’m leaving as soon as I find Elijah. Being daggered in a box for decades sucks, trust me. You both need to get out of here as soon as you can.
“You, witch. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To the attic. You’re going to try a locator spell.”
Welcome to the Rebekah Mikaelson Home for Wayward Girls, she thinks bitterly as she leads them both back up the stairs.
#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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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
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 9: Pressure
Klaus pinches the bridge of his nose, doing his best to keep his temper in check. It’s proving exceptionally difficult. He’s getting close. He just needs to be patient for a little longer.
Full of displaced energy, he paces the length of the sitting room, wearing down the fibers in a 500-year-old rug. The object of his frustration sits in a wing-back chair in front of him, posture rigid and fingers clutching the armrests. Unease radiates off of her in waves.
They’ve been here for an hour now, sequestered in this quiet corner of the manor. For all his blustering, all his threats, questioning her has been more tasking than he’d expected.
She answers his questions politely enough. Things like:
How do you know Elijah? He saved my life.
What were the two of you planning? Nothing.
How are you able to do magic in the city? I don’t know.
Round and round they go in this dizzying little dance. She’s a stubborn thing, determined to circumvent his questions at every turn, to lie without lying. If he were anyone else, he might believe her. She’s but a novice compared to Klaus’ expertise in falsehoods. And he has had a millennium to perfect the art of getting people to talk. It is rather a point of pride.
Though she doesn’t give him the answers he’s looking for, the time elapsed isn’t without value. The entire time, he’s been sizing her up, surveying her every reaction. He knows her tells. She taps her fingers when she’s holding back, crosses her legs when a question makes her particularly uncomfortable. He uses these as his lead line, following faithfully until he has her where he wants her.
They will get there and soon.
If his unnaturally long life has taught him anything, it’s this: everyone breaks. It’s only a matter of finding the weakest spot and applying the right amount of pressure.
Most times, that pressure is violence. People respond very well to it. He doesn’t harm her, is determined not to unless she leaves him no choice. Not out of any notions of chivalry, but because he doubts it’ll be effective. And, ultimately, he will need her compliance.
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Really?” he asks, voice flat.
“Really.” Her fingertips press into the armrest. Not entirely the truth, then. It’s no matter, Klaus has done his research.
“I’m disappointed with your dishonesty. And here I thought we were getting along so well, but I suppose there’s nothing to be done,” he says, forlorn. He turns to her then. He wants to see her face for the next bit. “I’ll have to look for answers elsewhere then. Perhaps that charming little cousin of yours can help me, or maybe the pretty bartender from Rousseau’s.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Oh, but he would. He knows it and he knows she does too because her eyes flash with disbelief, anger, and then go bright with fear.
He restrains a grin. And there it is, the first crack in her defenses.
He watches her without a word as it spreads, fracturing like porcelain, and it is a beautiful sight to behold. When she exhales a broken shuddering sound, he knows he has her.
All she needs is one last little push.
“It’s frightening really, how easy technology makes everything.” He pulls his cell from his pocket and unlocks it. In his periphery, she fidgets uncomfortably at the non sequitur. With an air of disinterest, he continues, “For example, all I have to do is press this one little button and someone on the other line will snap darling Arabella’s neck like a baby bird. Hypothetically, of course.”
His thumb hovers over the dial button. Their eyes meet, locked in a life-or-death game of chicken, each waiting to see who caves first.
Her fingernails dig into the wood, nail beds white. Her cheek twitches, her eyes blaze in a last-ditch attempt at resistance. He moves his finger to make the call and—
“Wait!” she blurts out, and he has to repress his satisfaction. “Wait, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just please don’t hurt her.”
He takes his hand off the button, sets the phone within reaching distance on a nearby end table. “How very sensible of you.” Her chest heaves, as if she’s run a great distance. “Now, tell me how you came to be in league with my brother—the truth this time, love”
He hears her inhale as steadies herself and settles into a nearby chair, waiting patiently for her to gather her thoughts. She starts slowly, telling him of her arrival in New Orleans for a funeral, her lack of affinity with her own kind, and finding Jane-Anne’s body. He listens to the exposition absently, tucking the information away somewhere to be fetched should it prove relevant at a later date. Then she mentions his brother and his interest piques.
“A few weeks ago, a pair of nightwalkers attacked me on the Riverwalk. An Elder in the French Quarter coven sent them after me.”
“Of course.” Klaus has to suppress an eye-roll. Why is it that every time he turns his back, there’s another witch with a finger in the pie?
She shoots him a pointed look. “I held them back for a time. But there was no way I was going to walk away from it. That’s when Elijah stepped in.” Klaus snorts. Now that does sound like Elijah. “I was in pretty rough shape so he took me somewhere safe to see to my wounds-”
“This is all very precious, but will we arrive at an answer to my question anytime soon?”
Annoyance flashes in her eyes once more and this time, she puts a voice to it. “I’ll get there much faster if you don’t interrupt me.”
“Apologies, apologies,” he says, hands raising in a placating gesture. He can’t help a small, amused smile. She is a fiery little thing. “I’ll hold my questions until the end. Continue.”
“While he was cleaning me up, we talked. He told me about your family’s own trouble with the witches.” He straightens in his seat, leaning forward a fraction. Her eyes widen, as if catching his sudden intensity, because she adds, “He didn’t tell me much, only that the witches have some sort of leverage over you and brought you back to town to distract Marcel.”
His eyes narrow, assessing her. When he doesn’t detect any hint of a lie, he eases into his chair.
“That’s when he offered me a deal. His protection and resources for information.”
“What kind of information?”
If she’s irritated at his interjection, she doesn’t show it and Klaus doesn’t particularly care. He senses she’s reaching the zenith of the tale.
“On the witches, the vampires. Anything that might be connected. I refused, at first.” Klaus quirks a brow, savoring the mental image of the bewildered fury that Elijah undoubtedly experienced at having his careful plans thwarted. “I was going to go back to my life in New Mexico. I wanted nothing to do with any of it.”
“But things change.”
“Things change,” she echoes with a faint nod. “Let’s say I have my own score to settle with the witches now.”
In the fire's light, her eyes burn like melted copper. Her jaw tightens imperceptibly. It’s something he recognizes, has seen demonstrated many times over; mostly in himself. A consuming desire for retribution.
A shadow crosses her face, and the light dims, something sadder chasing it away. “And here we are.”
“Here we are,” he repeats, shifting to rest his ankle over his opposite knee. “But you missed one key detail.” Her head shoots up, expression curious. “You’re a witch. One that's used magic in Marcel's New Orleans and lived to tell the tale."
“Elijah...had a theory. My powers aren’t connected to the ancestral well like the rest of the coven. They’re weaker for it, but also means that whatever Marcel uses to track magic use, it keeps me off his radar. I’m…I’m sure that was a big factor in Elijah’s plans, but what those were, he never told me. And it’s not like I can exactly ask him now.”
He suspects there’s more. There will be time enough for that later. For now, he has exactly what he needs. It’s better than he could have anticipated, this little gift that his brother all but delivered to him on a platter.
Marcel has his secret weapon, his ace in the hole. And now Niklaus has his.
All that he has to do is keep her hidden. Miles away from New Orleans, protected by bayou and forest, there’s no better place.
She adjusts in her seat, a rustle of fabric that shakes him from his thoughts.
They’re at their limit for tonight. The girl, Lucie, is exhausted. He can see it in her slouching posture, the dimness of her eyes, and the dark circles beneath them.
He rakes a hand through his hair and concedes to his own exhaustion.
"That's enough for now," he says, rising. “The room at the end of the hall is mine, and Hayley’s claimed the one nearest the door. Take your pick of any of the others.”
He senses Hayley’s unsettled presence at the door where she’s been listening in for the last thirty minutes in a woeful attempt at subterfuge. Her breath catches, anger rolling off of her in waves.
Wolves and their tempers.
“Hayley, would you be a dear and show Lucie to the upstairs?” Hayley appears in the doorway. When Lucie hesitates, he adds, "Don't worry, love. It's not a full moon. She wont bite."
Hayley shoots him a sour look, then ushers for the witch to follow.
Two sets of footsteps retreat down the hall and up the creaky staircase. Klaus listens until there’s nothing left but the dull rumble of distant conversation before settling in with his thoughts.
The witch will know about Hayley and the baby soon enough if Elijah truly hasn’t divulged the full truth. Embers roil in his gut, hot and angry and so sudden, that he takes a moment to recognize the emotion as protectiveness. A desire to rip out her throat and silence forever her knowledge of his child. The ferocity confuses him. He stamps it down. Protectiveness leads to love and love leads inevitably to disappointment and betrayal. He slows his breath and curates his thoughts until the heat fades and there’s nothing left but cold pragmatism.
He needs this witch alive, needs her powers if he hopes to one-up Marcel in this drawn-out game of power. And if she should prove a complication, there’s no reason he can’t do away with her later.
____
The tall, model-esque woman leads her through trimmed hallways and up the staircase to the second floor. All the while, neither woman speaks a word.
Lucie watches her long brown hair swish back and forth across her back as they go, still wondering at this unexpected third party even as they come to a halt just beyond the top landing.
She expects the woman to show her to an open room and then leave her to brood in peace. Instead, she turns to her, arms crossed over her green tank top and looking unmistakeably angry.
Great.
Still, she doesn’t speak. Lucie shoots her a look as if to say what do you want?
The other woman eyes her head to toe, sizing her up. It doesn’t take a body language expert to see the blatant disdain radiating off of her. She huffs in annoyance, attempting to side-step the new hostile to find a bed to face plant into.
An arm darts out, followed by a body blocking her path.
Lucie rolls her eyes, stepping back so she can look her in the eyes. They’re almond-shaped, almost golden, and glinting with distrust. “Do you mind?”
“Listen, I know I have no say in you staying here, but we need to get a few things straight." Lucie’s brow arches, mirroring her posture, and she waits for her to continue.
“I don’t know where Klaus found you or what your deal is, but I’m done with witchy bullshit. So if you even think about doing anything to me or my baby, I’ll kill you.”
“Noted. Any more threats or can I go to sleep? It’s been a hell of a day.”
Hayley eyes her long enough for Lucie to wonder if they’ll spend the entire night in the hall, and then, finally, takes a step away and frees her path.
Lucie doesn’t think, just grabs the handle of the nearest door and slips inside. It closes behind her with a soft click, the wood grain smooth and cold where it meets exposed skin as she presses her back against it to hold some of her weight.
Though it’s well into the later hours of the evening, she doesn’t bother with the lights. She feels a distinct aversion to the idea. The overhead light would bring the room into relief and only confirm the harsh reality of her situation, of the uncertain future now before her.
So she leaves it off, not that it matters in the end. The moonlight filtering through the open curtains is bright, bathing everything in a deep blue. It’s more than enough to navigate her way around the mahogany dresser, tiptoeing around a priceless chest to the bed. It’s the focal point of the room, the wooden knobs of the headboard intricately carved. Even in the dark, she can tell the craftsmanship is fine, and ornate but somehow more elegant than gaudy.
She settles on the edge, the plush mattress creaking under her weight. The comforter is soft as kicks off her boots and draws her knees to her chest.
The glass window is slightly clouded, a testament to its age, alongside the brittle-looking panes framing it. Beyond it, the night is clear and quiet. Growing up around the hustle and bustle of New Orleans, she finds the silence oppressive. It makes her uneasy, finding it hard to settle even as her thoughts turn back to the night’s events.
As angry as she is at Arabella, as unsure about her role in Violette’s death, she can’t bear the thought of Klaus harming her. Or Cami, for that matter. Yet the second part of his threat would have frightened her more if she hadn’t seen the two of them interact at Rousseau’s. She remembers the soft way he’d looked at her. True, she doesn’t know Klaus well, but something tells her he doesn’t look at just anyone like that.
In the end, she hadn’t told him much — not as much as she could have. Still, Lucie’s skin crawls, unable to escape the wrongness, the sensation of having resisted and yet somehow moving right where he wanted. Like a marionette on a miniature stage, dancing with the illusion of autonomy but the strings guided by someone else’s hand.
She isn’t sure how long she stares out the window, knees hugged into her chest. Only that at some point, she cracks open the window and finds her way under the thick covers. There’s a weight to the air here that the city lacks. Dense like the blanket holding her in place.
She’s on the verge of sleep, eyes growing heavy—
Wait. Did she say baby?
____
After the first night, Lucie finds herself mostly alone. She’s scarcely seen hide nor hair of Klaus since his interrogation, and Hayley makes herself scarce. On the odd occasion they cross paths, the interaction is clipped to the barest amount of communication necessary.
Not that Lucie minds. She’s content to give her new housemate a wide berth. Call it a healthy mixture of standoffishness and self-preservation. Despite a lifetime in a coven of witches and decent working knowledge of vampires, she knows relatively little about werewolves. And though she’s fairly certain they aren’t a threat unless there’s a full moon, she isn’t willing to stake her life on it. Besides, something tells her that, wolf or not, Hayley can hold her own.
So she keeps to herself, stifling curiosity down in pursuit of other distractions. The house—even if it can even be called that—is massive in a way that borders on ridiculous.
She spends a lot of time exploring. At first, it’s with the hesitation of a child afraid of being caught out of bed. But with each venture, she grows bold, until the trepidation abates and is replaced with a surprised realization that Klaus isn’t lurking in the shadows to bust her and banish her to a locked cell somewhere.
She passes by him one evening, on her way to the kitchen, tries to sneak by the parlor where he’s slumped in an armchair, arms draped over the rests and angled toward the fireplace. Burning logs crackle and pop, the shifting flames illuminating his features in a warm flow. His eyes are fixed on it, reflecting the smoldering embers. Long fingers wrap around a glass of amber liquid. The acrid, earthy smell of bourbon reaches her as he takes a sip, expression indecipherable but markedly serious.
She’s been watching too long now from the doorway. It’s time to move on. When she steps forward, an ancient floorboard creaks, and she finds herself no longer looking at his profile but into tired blue eyes.
Freezing like a deer in the headlights, she waits. For what, precisely, she isn’t sure. Some form of cruel retribution for sneaking about and disturbing his privacy. He’s certainly the tit-for-tat type.
“Long night?” It’s stilted, uncomfortable, but she isn’t sure what else to say.
He stares at her for a stretch of seconds, as if she’s a particularly frustrating riddle. She watches the glass tip; the bourbon disappearing into his mouth.
“Something like that,” he says evenly. “Tell me, do you normally skulk about everywhere like a restless ghost or is this a recent development?”
“No skulking, just ah…going to the kitchen.”
He blinks at her, a vague glassiness to his eyes, but alert nonetheless. Then, slowly, he inclines his head and turns his attention back to the flames and whatever he’s puzzling over in his head.
Lucie recognizes the dismissal. Normally his imperiousness would make her bristle, but mostly she’s relieved and mildly bewildered.
Stunned, she can only manage a small ‘goodnight’ before she leaves him to his drink.
____
If there’s one thing Lucie has these days, it’s time—in abundance. Long uninterrupted stretches with no occupation and no purpose beyond running down a clock that only resets itself at the end of every day.
All the while, Klaus plays his cards close to the chest. He doesn’t tell her how long she has to stay here, or what he’s planning to use her for. In fact, beyond the night in the parlor, she only catches glimpses of the Hybrid over the first few weeks. A pass by in the hallway, the muffled sound of his voice behind closed doors late into the night.
He offers her no deals, no equal partnership in his plans. To him, she’s a toy. A magic dispensing wind-up doll, fetched when it serves a purpose and then promptly placed back on the shelf to gather dust when its utility is done.
In a way, Lucie is relieved to be left alone on her shelf. She’s had more than enough of threats to last a lifetime and engaging in small talk seems like an acute form of torture.
She resigns herself to it, this strange half-life she’s found herself in, and waits for Klaus to determine a use for her. But it’s its own brand of hell, being trapped inside your own head.
There’s too much time to think. And so often these days, her thoughts turn to her ghosts. It’s like they follow her, Peter whispering her ear over her shoulder or Violette leaning over her at night. All the what-ifs and why-nots bounce echoes on an endless loop, intermingled with fury and guilt.
It forces her to dwell on the culmination of all the emotional turbulence she’s been at the mercy of since she arrived back in Louisiana. Likely even longer than that, if she’s being honest with herself. It shouldn’t surprise her, this inevitable come-down, but it does. The uncertainty and fear of those first days out here in the middle of nowhere trickle away from the drudgery of routine and boredom of an indefinite stay. It isn’t long before it twists itself into a lingering melancholy.
There’s a slowness to everything she does during these autumn days that blend seamlessly into one another, like wading through knee-deep mud. All the while, the pain creeps in and makes a home in her chest—dense like swallowed stones.
Every day, she makes it a point to acquaint herself with another part of the manor. She gets to know the stern faces outlined in faded oil paintings, learns which rooms get the best sun in the morning and which offer the most shade in the warmer parts of the day. She roams the hallways until she knows which boards creak and which parts of the wallpaper are starting to peel. If she expects familiarity to breed fondness, she is sorely mistaken.
Every priceless vase, every draped bolt of rich heavy fabric grates makes her uneasy. Like four centuries of inhabitants are watching her with judgemental stares. She judges them back with equal fervor.
Any lingering doubts or confusion about Klaus’ permissiveness about letting her have free run of the place are conclusively stamped out when she finally ventures out onto the grounds.
It’s early morning and uncommonly chilly. The grass is tipped with crystals of frost as she steps out on the front porch, wrapping a long cardigan tighter across herself. It’s one of several articles of simple, but sensible pieces that had turned up nearly folded on her bed a few nights into her stay. At first, she suspected they were loans from Hayley, but the fit of the clothes debunked the theory. After all, the other woman is long-legged and has at least half a head on Lucie. She figures the most likely option is that Klaus compelled some poor woman to part with a chunk of her wardrobe. At least she hoped that was the case. In those first days, she spends extra time examining the garments for blood.
The air is crisp, whispering promises of a rapidly approaching winter. At the edge of the horizon, the sun is a faint line of pale yellow. She watches it creep its way higher and higher from the east.
She tries her best not to think of Elijah. Most of the time, she does a good job. But now and then, in more idle hours when the harder feelings grow teeth — like this one—she thinks of him, wondering where he is and what he’s doing. Sometimes, trying to decide if he’s even alive.
Beyond the exposed, sprawling orchard, the entire property is walled in by nature. Dense thickets of brush and jagged trees almost certainly conceal steep inclines and murky marshland. Should she run, a broken neck or tumble into a bog would likely do her in, if whatever made its home in the harsh wilderness didn’t find her first.
Lucie feels stranded in a way she’s never experienced before.
____
In these sluggish, lonely days, she finds her greatest solace in a corner room on the first floor.
She would be hard-pressed to name a single book she’s finished in years, but she finds comfort in the study all the same.
She’s nestled into the cushions of the window seat, an ancient volume cracked open over her lap. It’s late afternoon. The breeze beyond the window is soft as it combs through blades of grass. She resists the urge to crack the window open. The room always smells of polished wood and parchment and spice. It’s become one of her favorite things, enough that she’s loathe to disturb it.
The page rustles as she flips it. A compendium of genealogy, the neat, scrawling script, outlines centuries of New Orleans bloodlines. She’s ginger with it. The book is undoubtedly priceless just like most of the collections that line the shelves.
She pauses. This section diagrams the branches stemming from one of the casket girls. Lucie skims the lines without really seeing, her vision blurred by the sudden prick of tears. It’s October 22 -what would have been her brother’s thirtieth birthday. They should be out celebrating, instead, she’s a prisoner in some bayou, and her brother, her brother is…
She closes the book with a little more than necessary. The nearest pillow suffers its intended fate instead, careening through the air as she chucks it blindly to the side as she cries out in frustration.
She watches its path. It bounces once, twice, and settles by the doorway, right next to a pair of bare feet.
Mortified, she follows the long legs upward to a pair of wide eyes and a bowed mouth with slightly parted lips.
Hayley blinks at her. Lucie’s face is hot as she averts it, batting desperately at her damp cheeks.
“Do you need something?” Her gaze fixes beyond the window, her voice thicker than she’d like.
“No...no,” Hayley says behind her. “Just heard a noise and thought I’d check it out.”
Lucie clears her throat and nods. When she finally dares a sidelong glance at the doorway, Hayley is gone.
She thinks the incident is forgotten, that maybe by some miracle, Hayley had missed the worst of her outburst. Until the next morning, when she’s greeted by the smell of cooking oil and the distinctive crackle of frying food as she descends the stairs.
Feeling better if not somewhat drained after a night of crying into her pillow, she follows the noise, rounding the corner into the kitchen to find Hayley hunched over the stove.
Her back is to her, but she must hear her enter because she says, “There’s a plate for you over on the table. If you want condiments, get them yourself.”
Lucie is glad she can’t see her bewildered expression as she pours herself a cup of coffee. She settles into a spot in the sunny breakfast nook and pulls the plate toward her for inspection.
The toast is burned at the edges and the eggs are a bit shiny. Lucie is grateful all the same. Knowing a peace offering when she sees one, she seizes a fork and spears a piece of egg into her mouth. The texture is interesting, but the flavor is good. She’s never been a picky eater.
Not long after, Hayley slips into a chair across from her with her own plate.
They each dig into their respective breakfasts, both seemingly content to sit in silence. Lucie tears a corner off her toast, using it as a vessel to scoop up her eggs.
“Listen, I get what it’s like, being dragged into all this and not having any say.” Lucie’s gaze darts to her face, confused. “God, I suck at this. What I’m trying to say is maybe I was a little harsh with you that first night.”
Hayley doesn’t seem the type for apologies, but she thinks this is as close as it gets.
She struggles to find a response, settling on a soft, “Thank you.”
Hayley nods, taking a long gulp of orange juice. “I meant what I said, though. Mess with me or my baby and I will kill you.”
Fair enough. They return to their meals in silence. Though, perhaps one that’s less uncomfortable than before.
She spares Hayley the odd glance, gears in her head turning all the while.
Hayley huffs after a few minutes pass. “I can hear you thinking from here. Whatever it is, you might as well ask before your ears start smoking.”
Lucie’s head pops up, locking eyes with Hayley. She only looks mildly annoyed.
“You keep mentioning a baby. You’re pregnant?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Nope,” she says around a bite. “Should I have?”
“I guess not,” Hayley shrugs. “I figured if Klaus didn’t tell you, Elijah would have.”
Lucie stills a little at the name, gingerly setting down her fork so it doesn’t clatter against her plate. Hayley seems suddenly subdued. It seems obvious now, sitting across from her in their home, but she forgets sometimes that Elijah existed here, and lived a life beyond their harried encounters. It occurs to her that the woman across from her likely feels his absence just as keenly. Does she ever feel betrayed too?
She wants to bring it up, but can’t find the words, their peace is still too tenuous. All she manages is a slight shake of her head.
“Well, it’s true. Say hello to the resident knocked-up werewolf.”
“And the father?”
Hayley gives her a pointed look, waiting for her to put the pieces together.
“Klaus? You can’t be serious. I thought vampires couldn’t have children.”
“They can’t,” Hayley confirms. “But werewolves can. And Klaus is a hybrid, so…”
Lucie tosses her head in disbelief. “Elijah mentioned the witches had some sort of leverage over Klaus but never specified what. It makes sense now.”
“‘Leverage’,” Hayley snorts, putting down her glass of orange juice. “That’s a nice way of saying that they kidnapped me, took me to the bayou, and performed some freaky ritual to connect me to Sophie Deveraux.”
Lucie pauses, something else clicking. “The witch that performed the spell, it was Jane-Anne, wasn’t it?”
“For all the good it did her.”
And another piece of the puzzle falls into place. For the first time since she came back, she thinks she’s starting to understand. Losing her daughter in the Harvest Ritual and no doubt desperate, Jane-Anne performed a spell to link the mother of Klaus’ unborn child and that’s how they’d brought him here.
Horrible, but objectively it fits. But it still doesn’t explain what their end goal is.
She sighs, trying to put it all together is giving her a headache.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Huh?”
“Thinking too hard.”
#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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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, Mentions of Violence
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 2: The King of New Orleans
From the time King Louis’ cast-offs built their ramshackle settlement on the banks of the Mississippi, vampires had stalked New Orleans.
At the distance of three centuries, the legend of the Originals lives, a warning to the supernatural communities of Louisiana about what happens when vampires roam the streets unchecked.
Klaus, Rebekah, Elijah.
As a little girl, Lucie would whisper their names aloud to the darkness, like in the naming of them she might banish them from her room’s shadowy corners.
Klaus, Rebekah, Elijah .
She knew their names, but never their faces. A child’s overactive imagination left to run wild, she conjured images of tall, pale beings with shark mouths full of jagged teeth. They reached out to her in her dreams with yellow claws and feverish, hungry eyes. Then she’d wake. Tearful and frightened, she would run from their clutches into the safety of her parents’ bed, where her mother would soothe her with whispers and gentle circles on her back.
The Originals were the Boogeymen under the bed, but Lucie had grown up around the common vampires. They were more of an occupational hazard than nightmare creatures.
Deep and ugly, the angry red line that marks Jane Anne Devereax’s throat is as telltale as any puncture marks.
Her dark eyes stare up at Lucie without seeing. Their shining onyx reflects the tea lights of a nearby courtyard. It’s a jarring contrast to the grisly scene in front of her.
“No, no, no, no.” She drops to her knees in front of the body, eyes wet and stomach sick.
While they had never been close, there had overlap between the French Quarter and Garden District covens and Lucie had known the Devereaux sisters her whole life. She’d been closer in age and personality to Sophie, but Jane-Anne had been a constant presence as well. Lucie recalls she had always shown a particular devotion to her coven and the old ways. As she closes the woman’s eyes, she says a silent prayer to the ancestors for Jane-Anne and the little daughter that she’ll never see again.
She pauses. Beneath her fingertips, Jane-Anne’s skin still clings to lingering traces of warmth.
Her blood still glistens like glass beneath the moonlight, drawing Lucie’s eyes from Jane-Anne’s neck and to a jagged branch a few feet away. A droplet wells on the point of a thorn, catching the light as it drips black onto the asphalt.
It’s then that Lucie realizes that she’s not alone.
She spots a figure in the shadow of an alley, another two watching from a balcony. Then three more materialize as if from thin air. Before she can even think about running, she finds herself surrounded by a small army of vampires. They watch her with hungry, wary eyes, but none of them move any closer. The air crackles and they stand at the ready as if waiting for a sign to tear her to pieces.
Then, a murmur spreads through the ranks, the sea of vampires parts down the middle, and out walks the unmistakable form of Marcel Girard.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t little Lucretia LeMarche.” His almond eyes crinkle at the corners. His smile is friendly enough but shows a little too many teeth for comfort. “I thought that was you I saw walking out of Rousseau’s.”
“And if it isn’t the head vampire himself.” She spares a sidelong glance at his gaggle of vampires but does not dare withdraw her gaze from him. “You’ve been busy, Marcel.”
“You know it,” he says with a smirk. “Except I prefer to go by king now.”
It’s hard not to roll her eyes. “King of what, exactly?”
“Why New Orleans, of course.” Lucie can only guess at what that must mean, but before she can ask, he continues, “Not gonna lie, I never thought I’d see your face around here again.”
Marcel steps forward and the vampires close in. As Lucie rises to her feet, her hand twitches at her side, and the weak vibration of magic tingles in her fingertips.
A hiss ripples through the crowd and a few vampires edge forward. Marcel stops them with a gesture.
“Easy, now,” he says with a sidelong glance. Though his voice is level, the command is unmistakable. “Lucie doesn’t know the rules yet, so let’s cut her some slack.” His almond eyes crinkle at the corner as he flashes his teeth. “Just this once.”
“What are you talking about?” Lucie asks over her thundering heart. She knows he can hear it.
“You’ve been gone a long time, Little Lucie,” Marcel drawls, pacing around her like a lion at the kill. “I figured they might have told you, but I guess you aren’t on the best of terms with the witches.”
Fear grates at her fraying nerves. Her temper flares. “I’m done with this game. Spit it out, Marcel.”
“Magic is illegal in the city. By my decree. So you’d better toe the line from here on out.”
The street becomes so quiet that the night hums.
“How?”
“Well now, that's my business, isn't it?”
The ground wavers beneath her feet. Her mind is reeling as she tries to get a handle on what he said. She can feel half a dozen sets of eyes boring holes in her skin, but she can’t tear her eyes away from the dead woman.
Marcel opens his mouth to speak once more and then stops. His eyes flit over his shoulder and his head tilts to the side, as if listening to something her ears aren’t sharp enough to pick up.
“You’d better get a move on, Little Lucie,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “The entire Cauldron is going to be here any minute, and you know how those French Quarter witches like to talk.”
Marcel’s smile wavers and for a moment, she sees beyond the posturing. Their eyes meet, silent understanding passing between them.
There’s no time to run and though she knows she’s only delaying the inevitable, she is not ready to face them - not yet.
Lucie dips around the corner and hides.
____
He doesn’t plan to follow her, at least not at first.
Her heartbeat is a blip. A trivial curiosity overshadowed by the gravity of the scene before him.
Grief hangs over the street like a shroud. Under the streetlights, the French Quarter witches close ranks around their dead. With much larger forces at work, Elijah pays little heed to the eavesdropper around the corner.
A dark-haired young woman kneels beside the body. Her hair is pulled back in a scarf and tears streaking mascara down her face as she clutches the dead woman’s lifeless hand. There’s no doubt of their closeness.
He keeps a careful eye on the tableau as the witch Sabine fills him in on the escalations in the French Quarter.
Witches that can’t do magic, bodies left in the street for anyone to find, and Niklaus’ inexplicable involvement in it all.
It’s enough to make Elijah’s head spin.
He must find his brother, and soon.
A loud whistle bounces off the narrow street, drawing his attention out of his thoughts. A ripple of fear spreads through the ranks. The tension in the air is sudden and palpable.
“You want to know who killed Jane-Anne?” Sabine asks, an undercurrent of anger running through her apprehension. “You’re about to get your first glimpse of Marcel in action.”
“The vampire Marcel?” There must be a mistake. The man Elijah knew with that name perished a century ago.
“Things have changed since your family left town. Marcel has changed.”
She’s pulling him backward now, away from the scene. He allows himself to be led, trying to piece it all together.
“I’m asking you, stay hidden.” Sabine turns to him, dark eyes frantic and pleading. Something about them sends a shiver through him, a reminder of a memory long past. “If Marcel finds out that a witch lured the Originals back into town, my people will be slaughtered.”
He stares at her for a long moment, searching her face for any hint of deceit, but there’s no decision to be made. Elijah finds refuge in the shadows of a nearby balcony as Marcel Gerard steps into view, alive and well.
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” Marcel’s voice carries up to him as a small army of vampires flood the street. “I gotta tell you, Soph, this street corner is not proving the luckiest spot for your family tonight. Not half an hour ago, we had to teach your sister a little lesson.”
“We’re putting her to rest, Marcel,” the young woman says, not once looking away from her sister. She tucks a strand of dark hair behind Jane-Anne’s ear. “Leave us alone.”
“I never said you could move the body. Matter of fact, I left her here for a reason: send a message.” His posture is a picture of ease as he saunters over to Sophie. Then he turns to address the witches, “If anybody is thinking of joining some kind of rebellion, my rules state that witches can’t practice magic in the Quarter and yet a little birdy informed me that Jane-Anne was cooking up something magically delicious.
Oh, yeah. While I have you, quick Q&A. My old friend—the hybrid, Klaus—he just happened to show up out of the blue asking for, of all people, Jane-Anne. Any idea why?”
Elijah goes stone still at the mention of his unruly brother, not daring to breathe lest he misses something critical.
Sophie looks up at Marcel. Even from a distance, Elijah can see how miserable she is. “I don’t know. Witches don’t get involved in vampire business.”
“Hmm. That would be pretty stupid, that’s for sure,” he says, looking unphased. “Tell you what, go back to the restaurant, cook up some of that famous gumbo, and keep those tourists happy.” The casual veneer shatters as he turns to his crew. “Take the body.”
Her eyes blow wide. “What? No! Stop! Stop! Marcel!”
“I’m gonna hold on to your sister’s body in case maybe you remember why Klaus is here.”
“Marcel, please,” Sophie Deveraux begs. “Her body won’t be at peace.”
A vampire at his left shuffles Sophie aside, hefting the body into his arms.
“Not my problem.”
With that, Marcel Gerard turns and walks away, his lackeys trailing behind him. There is no body for the witches to mourn as Marcel Gerard walks away. For a moment, he pauses and his gaze drifts off somewhere to Elijah’s right. Then he disappears from view.
That’s when Elijah catches it again. Now, the sound of the heartbeat is even louder. He hears the frantic patter. He knows that someone lurking nearby has witnessed the same thing.
The mess unfolding is far worse than he could have expected when he arrived in New Orleans, and that’s without knowing the full story. The city, already a powder keg, can't afford to have its secrets outed because of one human in the wrong place at the wrong time.
His eyes linger on the bereft and angry crowd below. Then, he steals away from the balcony.
He follows a steady cadence. It doesn’t take him long to track down its owner.
He spots her somewhere between Conti and Bienville, surprised to recognize the brown-haired girl from the bar. The cover of night blurs her features, and she’s far more frazzled than she’d been earlier in the day, but it’s her.
Truthfully, he had not given her much thought when she had ambled into Rousseau’s and occupied the space beside him. While pretty in a commonplace sort of way, there had been little to note. When he’d caught her staring, she had blushed and stared at him with wide, lovely brown eyes. And then Camille swept her into conversation, and he returned to his drink, forgetting the encounter in his quest to locate his unruly brother.
Now, she’s fixed on his radar and it doesn’t take more than a cursory glance to determine that things were not as they had seemed.
She’s calmer than she should be. Full of trepidation perhaps, but not the outward terror of someone who had just discovered the supernatural. Her pace is quick, paranoia exuding off of her as she glances over her shoulder every couple of steps. But there are no telltale signs of trembling, just a serious set of her lips as she crosses Canal Street and into the business district.
Something else bothers him, a small detail needling at the back of his mind as he dogs her steps. There had been a brief second where Marcel had paused as if straining to hear something. He had known of her presence. Elijah is sure of it.
But why would the self-proclaimed King of New Orleans spare one wayward girl, one who had witnessed something dangerous at that, when it would have been all too easy to snap her neck or leave her to the mercy of his nightwalkers?
Like everything in this blasted city, the discovery only raises more questions. But Elijah is determined to find answers.
He follows her through the winding blocks of downtown, not stopping until she slips into the refuge of a two-star hotel and disappears from view.
He does not pursue her. After all, now that he knows where she’s staying, it’s only a matter of watching and waiting.
With his attention away from the hotel, he retrieves the cell phone from his pocket and dials Rebekah.
#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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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
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 8: Sharing Secrets
The first thing Lucie does the day after the funeral is set wards about the perimeter of the property. In all honesty, she should have done it sooner. The strength of the protection spells that had been in steady decline for years vanished with Violette’s consecration.
Blessing each corner of the property with a representation of the four elements is a simple process. For a normal witch, it would take only a few minutes. But forced to take breaks to recharge, it takes Lucie well over an hour.
By mid-morning, it’s done. The result is a warm, unobtrusive magical presence, only noticeable to someone looking for it. It isn’t strong to fight off a large magical interference, but enough for some peace of mind.
With the wards taken care of, she turns her attention to the house. She passes through the wreckage of Violette’s garden on the way in. There’s no doubt it needs the most attention and she has time to give it, but something stops her. A mental block that makes the task seem impossible. The image of her hands in the soil seems like an act of sacrilege.
The sleet storm is gone and the forecast shows nothing but sun, she draws all the curtains wide. And after some trouble with the ancient panes, the windows follow.
The house exhales. Fresh air transforms the space, chasing out some of the stale feeling. Lucie latches onto the distraction, arming herself with an array of cleaning products to dislodge the rest of the dust. Anything to give an ounce of release to the pressure that’s been building in her chest since she found out about Violette’s murder.
She tries her best to curb the darkest of thoughts; flashes of her great-aunt’s last moments and ways she might make them suffer. No amount of revenge can bring back that dead, she knows that. But the fact remains that someone needs to be held to account, and she won’t rest until she sees it done.
In the meantime, it feels good to use her hands. To employ the muscles in her arms to scrub and consign her knees to the hardwood. There’s no thinking, no space left to fret and plan — the tasks consume all her focus.
She’s so preoccupied that first day, she barely thinks of Elijah and only for a moment between face-planting into bed and falling asleep. He trickles into her thoughts the next morning along with a vague memory that he said he would be in immediate contact. There’s been no word, she double-checks her inbox to make sure. It strikes her as a little odd, Elijah had seemed the meticulous type. However, the silence is easy enough to ignore.
When two more days pass with no contact and doubt creeps in, she texts him. Once with a short ‘hey’ and then later to ask for any new developments. She doesn’t receive an answer —not for the texts, or any subsequent messages, or the voicemail left in his inbox.
A week slips by, and then another, before worry yields to anger. She tries to keep herself busy with the mundane. Sifting through the clutter, buying groceries, and settling affairs with the estate lawyer. All the while, she plays their last conversation on repeat, examining it from every angle in search of any clues where it had all gone wrong or what might have held him up. Beyond the uncomfortable vulnerability she’d displayed, there’s nothing out of the ordinary.
She curses her naivety. Everything about his behavior had been underscored with a steady sincerity. It never even occurred to her he might string her along.
Had she been so desperate to trust, so blinded by grief and fear that she’d failed to pick up on deception?
She wants to deny it, but the signs are there. After all, he had given her no real promise beyond vague overtures of protection. He had left her with no details and no recourse. Despite that, she had given him all the information he wanted with no leverage to ensure he held up his end.
Why— because she was vulnerable and he had shown her an ounce of kindness?
That was all it had taken to draw her in. And now armed with information, Elijah is nowhere to be seen. His absence is damning and only confirms her blossoming suspicion: there had been no intent to keep his promise, no honor in his word — he’d sniffed out weakness and used her to his advantage.
It fits neatly with everything she knows of vampires. She had not been the first witch to be charmed into their games, but she should have known better. As much as it smarts, she supposes it could be far worse. She remembers a story Arabella had told her a few years ago, listening with her cheek resting against the receiver while she washed the dishes. Some well-to-do doctor from the Bywater coven —or maybe he was a lawyer?— had taken his son and left their home in New Orleans to do the bidding of some vampire in the middle of nowhere Virginia. No one had heard from him after that. Tragic, but unsurprising, not with vampires involved.
Wounded pride aside, Elijah’s abandonment throws a wrench in her plans, all of which had centered around him and his resources. Now she’s left to scramble and cobble together a new plan of attack.
She’s in the kitchen, a bushel of carrots taking the brunt of her frustration. Her fingers wrap around the end of the knife, slicing the vegetables into quarter-sized slivers—
Something flashes in her periphery. The knife handle freezes in her palm, tip poking into the cutting board. A shadow sweeps past the glass-paned down that leads out into the backyard. Her first thought is an intruder. But it shouldn’t be possible for anyone to get this close, the wards would have alerted her.
Silver glints under the overhead lights, her grip tightening on the knife. It hangs at her side, at the ready, as she crosses to the backdoor. Gauzy white curtains cover the glass panels. Meant for privacy, they’re now an obstruction. She can’t peek out, not without being seen.
The setting sun filters orange light through the curtains, it warms her skin even as her blood runs cold. A silhouette blocks out the light, the undeniable cut out of a human figure. The featureless mass of gray wavers behind the fabric. It's tall and lean, with long arms hanging at its sides. A man?
The sensible thing now would be to turn tail and run out the front door to call the police. But something gives her pause. A small flicker at first, a faint pulse of energy coming from the other side of the door. It grows in strength until she can feel the shimmery tendrils of its presence reaching out to her. And —
Something in her stirs in response. Like the presence on the other side of the door is reaching out to her and a piece of her reaches back in recognition.
A new emotion flares in her, the fear abating in favor of something that feels a lot like hope — unreasonable and potent.
“Peter?” she whispers, voice thin. She doesn’t know what makes her say it, knows it’s impossible. The knife clatters forgotten to the floor as she frees her hand to wrench the doorknob—
The door swings open to reveal the shady tranquility of the back porch, a bird skittering away in a flutter of wings at the sudden disruption. But there’s nothing that matches the silhouette, no older brother with warm, coffee-colored eyes greets her.
She peeks around the doorframe, just to be sure. The backyard is well and truly empty. The skin on the back of her arm prickles, tears threatening the corner of her eyes. She hovers for a few more seconds and then shuts the door behind her. She bolts the lock, retrieves the knife with shaking hands, and wonders what just happened.
There isn’t long to reflect. Her phone chimes, a single buzz that vibrates against the counter. Wiping at her eyes, she retrieves it to find a new message.
From Elijah.
She hesitates and then opens it.
There are no apologies, no explanations, just a time and place to meet.
Lucie wants to tell him ‘no’ —or more accurately to go fuck himself.
But the fact remains that she still needs him if she hopes to find justice. And maybe, just maybe, he had a good reason for his silence. She sighs and agrees to meet.
____
She waits longer than she should at Rousseau’s. The first fifteen minutes come and go in a noisy blur.
It’s Friday night, and every bar and restaurant in the French Quarter is packed to bursting, this one is no exception. It’s a minor miracle she finds a place at the bar. Cami pops by with flushed cheeks and sweat glistening on her brow and it’s no wonder. Between the body heat and the humidity wafting off the Gulf, it’s becoming closer to a sauna by the minute.
But the lovely bartender gives her a smile and a question about what happened to her trip back to New Mexico. Lucie gives her a condensed and heavily sanitized version of events. Cami listens sympathetically, giving her hand a quick squeeze. Lucie waves her off, promising to hash it all out with her when things calm down.
Sophie Deveraux is on shift too, slinging shots and taking orders at the opposite end of the bar. Lucie watches her slide three glasses down the bar in rapid-fire succession to a chorus of cheers. Their eyes meet, just for a second. Lucie scans her face, trying to determine where they stand, but Sophie’s dark eyes are unreadable. There had been no animosity from the other witch. Still, she watches to make sure Cami is the one who pours her drink.
All the while, she tries to shake off the vestiges of her early lapse. She finds it hard not to wonder if repression is making her go batty.
It’s been a while since she’s allowed herself to think of her brother. Even now, the grief is too sharp, the guilt too overwhelming. She tiptoes around it, like a beast she’s afraid of waking. Most nights, it’s easy to find distraction and it stays dormant. On others, it creeps in close, breathing down her neck. Those nights, nothing short of oblivion will make it leave. And even then, when the bottles are empty and the room is dark, she dreams of smoke, feels the heat of flames on the back of her neck—
The beer is cold on her lips. She only manages a single sip before a force bumps her shoulder, foam sloshing over the rim of her glass and onto the bartop. A body wedges between her and the nearest patron, squeezing in to order a drink. She holds the glass steady to salvage the rest.
Lucie huffs in annoyance, turning to get a good look at whatever douchebag is next to her. It’s too tight to do more than angle her knees towards him and crane her neck. She catches his profile. His short hair is light with little coils that escape the confines of their styling and rest against his forehead. Her eyes ghost the lines of a square jaw, full lips, an upturned nose. He smiles broadly as Cami comes to take his order.
It’s much too loud to hear what they’re saying, but she doesn’t miss the way his hand brushes over her fingers, or the way Cami's cheeks turn pink. They know each other.
She spares the scene a handful of seconds, long enough to determine that he’s not harassing the bartender before her attention drifts back over the crowded room, eyes hovering near the door. If she hopes to catch the familiar glimpse of a suit, she’s destined for disappointment. A sea of bodies of every shape and size stretches between her and the entrance, but Elijah is not among them.
“This seat taken?”
Her eyes linger on the door, then she turns to the accented voice at her shoulder. Done with flirting with Cami, the man is closer than she expects, drink in hand as he peers down at her with bright eyes. Recognition stirs in the back of her head. His features are familiar, but difficult to place.
“It’s all yours.” She shakes her head, checking her phone out of habit. “I’m waiting on someone, but he’s late.”
Five more minutes. That’s all you get, Elijah.
He sinks into the empty stool to her left, sipping amber liquid from a tumbler.
“First date?” he asks, blue eyes fixed on her with a strange intensity.
Making small talk with strange men in bars isn’t her favorite pastime, but with Cami occupied and Elijah nowhere to be seen, she’s short on things to do.
“Not quite,” she says, tentative. After all, how does one define an ancient vampire they’ve struck a deal with?
An acquaintance? A business partner? A big fucking mistake — “Just waiting for a friend.”
The man considers, leaning his weight into the elbow he has perched on the bar. “Seems this friend of yours has kept you waiting for a while.”
She snorts in agreement. The words are innocuous enough, their delivery hitting the right notes of polite sympathy. But something about the way it hits her ears feels odd like he’s hinting at a double meaning that she can’t figure out. It sets her teeth on edge. She takes it as a sign to go.
“Yeah. I guess it’s time to cut my losses.” She drops a few crisp bills on the table, enough for her beer and the tip.
Lucie doesn’t check to see if the man has heard her, doesn’t give any goodbye as she presses through the wall of bodies and makes her way to the door.
She doesn’t look back once as she steps out into the crisp night air, but maybe if she did, she would have noticed the man trailing after her.
____
It takes her fifteen minutes and five city blocks before she realizes she’s being followed.
At first, it’s just a sensation. Like eyes on the back of her neck or movement out of the corner of her eyes, easy enough to chalk up to paranoia. After all, she hasn’t exactly had the best of luck alone in this city.
Her car is parked in a lot only a few streets down. But instead of taking the straight path of sidewalks and streetlights there, she detours for reasons even she can’t parse. All she knows is that making a beeline there seems like the last thing she should do. So she turns, navigating her way through the crowds. Street bands and the pulsing bass of a nearby nightclub are the soundtrack to her journey.
General unease abates, transforming into something more urgent. With each stretch of concrete she puts behind her, it grows. Until the paranoia is great she knows it can’t be unfounded. She keeps a sharp eye on her surroundings from here on out. She can’t identify the man. It’s too dark and he is far too careful to veer into her direct sight. All she gets are glimpses of a wiry frame, a dark figure in her peripheral, and the overwhelming aura of menace that seems to roll off of him.
She makes another sharp turn, trading in the heavy foot traffic of the more popular blocks for the quiet of St. Ann Street. It’s trading safety in numbers for an increased vulnerability, this part of the corner is empty save the odd resident or drunken straggler. But the desolation will give her a chance to see if this man is still following her.
As the cacophony fades behind her, she fishes her phone out of her jacket pocket and opens the camera app with clumsy fingers. It takes a few attempts, especially while walking, but she angles the screen in a way that allows her to monitor what’s going on behind her. She sees nothing but parked cars and gas lamps.
The old abandoned church rises on her left, a conglomeration of peeling paint, cracked shutters, and weeds allowed to run wild. It’s a far cry from the dominating presence, the steepled magnificence of St. Louis’ Cathedral, but the unassuming little church has its own sort of beauty. Lucie’s always thought so. The cathedral may be the crowning gem of the French Quarter, but St. Anne’s is the heart. Or at least, it had been. Until tragedy and superstition had driven the populace away, the church fell into a state of neglect. She remembers the week it had happened, reading about it in a news article on her phone. An altar boy who had slaughtered all his comrades for no particular reason. One of those unexplained atrocities of human behavior.
Still, she thinks about ducking in, taking her chances with unmaintained infrastructure and rats for a safe place to hide. Then, she notices a light on, a faint glow through the slatted shutters of the upper story. She’s never been a believer, doubts that she would find any special type of protection within and something tells her that the danger she’s facing doesn’t respect the rights of sanctuary, besides. The alley beside the church is a better choice by a slim margin. It’s where stops to catch her breath and gather her wits.
Then the phone rings. She looks down, blinking at the familiar name. His timing is always uncanny.
“Elijah,” she answers on the first ring, breathless despite her best efforts at calm. She could sob from relief, but she holds it together and waits for the reassurance of his calm timbre.
It's fleeting.
“Well, hello there,” says a voice that is distinctly not Elijah.
She flounders, double-checking the name on the screen. It’s the right information, but she says, “Oh…sorry. I think this is the wrong number.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of it.” The man on the other end says, from the speaker and somewhere to her right simultaneously.
Her sight falls to the opening of the alley where a man is standing. Black boots, crisp jeans, and a wolfish grin — she recognizes him and not just from the bar.
Bewildered, her brain struggles to catch up with everything her eyes are seeing. The man from the bar — and her first day in town. Her phone is limp in her hand. Elijah’s cell is clasped in this stranger’s raised hand as the seconds of the active call tick by.
All at once, it catches up to her — the realization that she’s been ensnared in a trap.
His lips curl into a smile. “Hello again, love.”
They stare at each other, neither moving. His blue eyes scan black in the dark, sparkling with amusement.
Then, he advances and she retreats, matching him step for step until brick bites into her lower back and there’s nowhere left to go.
“My brother really should be more careful with his things.” He holds up Elijah’s cell phone as if to punctuate his point.
Brother.
And suddenly there isn’t a single doubt about the man’s identity.
“Klaus.”
“In the flesh.” The Original Hybrid bears down on her, exuding menace. “Now, tell me what you’ve been plotting with Elijah and I’ll make sure your death is quick.”
The bored tone contrasts the intensity in his stare. He boxes her in with proximity alone but stops short of making physical contact.
“Where is he?” she asks when she finds her voice and braces, afraid of the answer.
“Gone.”
"Gone?" It’s nothing she hasn’t considered a thousand times by now, but the confirmation is a gut punch. “Where?”
“Who knows? Michigan, London, Tasmania — he could be a thousand miles away by now.”
It rings false. But even a man as wretched as the Original Hybrid wouldn’t harm his own brother — would he?
There’s no sure answer, all she knows is that she’s no blood relative and he wants her dead. She pushes concern for Elijah out of her head and worries about herself.
She keeps her expression blank even as her fingers inch their way toward the closest part of him she can reach — his wrist. She doesn’t stop until her fingertips ghost his skin.
Heat flows from the connecting point, the smell bringing her back to the night by the riverfront. Except there’s no Elijah to intervene and Klaus is much, much faster.
He cries out. She breaks free but only manages a single step before she collides with his arm, the unexpected barrier knocking the wind out of her.
She watches the flesh of his forearm knit together, purple burns fading to pink scarring and then disappearing altogether.
His hands grasp her shoulders, but there’s no vengeance on his face when she dares to look. He’s not angry. He doesn’t slam her back against the wall. Confusion, then calculation is all she finds as he comes to some kind of revelation. He’s staring at her with fresh eyes.
Then, he laughs. “Well, well. Aren’t you full of surprises?”
She doesn’t like the way he’s looking at her like she’s a cupcake in a bakery window, ripe for the taking.
“Hey!” A new voice cries out, bouncing off the bricks from the street.
Both their heads swivel towards the interruption. At the end of the alleyway is a man. It’s dark, but he stands underneath the streetlight. Lucie can make out the lines on his face beneath a dark blue cap, a glimpse of flushed cheeks, and stubble on his youthful face. His expression is serious, eyes furrowed in concern.
“Everything alright down there?” he calls out.
It’s when he takes a step forward, ready to intervene that Lucie notices the slight sway in his gait. Drunk, but sharp enough to sense that something seedy was happening.
If only he knew.
Klaus’ grip on her tightens, his eyes drifting away from the stranger and back to her face. Feeling the weight of his stare, she meets it. What she finds there gives her pause. A series of emotions pass as shadows over his handsome features. Then his eyes flash and the corner of his lips pick up into an easy half-smile. She isn’t sure what it means, only that it does nothing to set her at ease.
He pulls away, leaving her pressed against the wall as he turns towards the young man.
Realization dawns seconds too late. “No, wait—”
She hears bone break, watches his neck wrench to one side. He drops like a sack of potatoes as long fingers slip from his neck. Gravity takes care of the rest.
She stuffs her sleeve into her mouth, not sure if she’s stifling a scream or the urge to be sick on the pavement.
All the while, the man lays there in a tangle of limp limbs. She tries to avoid the unnatural angle of his neck, but even still she knows he’s dead. She’d known the second he’d been grabbed. She meets his eyes. Empty, still wide with shock.
Klaus nudges him with the tip of his boots, inspecting the lifeless mass with a detached curiosity and Lucie recalls she’s not alone. The innocent man’s murder is here with her in the dark.
Lucie feels numb, dazed, as she scrambles to find her feet. The sense of deja vu is overwhelming. She thinks of another night, another corpse staring up at her, and another Original vampire responsible. This encounter is so much the same but entirely different all at once.
“Stare all you’d like, love. It’s not going to unbreak his neck.”
“The neck you broke,” she replies softly, accusation slicing through the statement.
“Tomato, Tomahto.” He shrugs, crossing to stand between her and the dead man. “Now why don’t we find somewhere to continue our conversation.”
He closes the gap to grab her wrist. Lucie balks. “You can’t just leave him here.”
The look on his face says that he very much can. He levels her with something dangerous but must find some reason in her words because he gives her a curt nod, something akin to resignation passing over his features.
The casual demeanor he employs rattles her as he leans over, rifling through the dead man’s pockets. He fishes out a wallet, flipping through the contents.
Lucie watches on.
“There,” he says, discarding the man’s valuables into a storm drain with a flick of his wrist. “All the police will see is a mugging gone tragically wrong. Now, shall we?”
He offers her his arm. There isn’t much of a choice. She takes it.
They walk side by side, Lucie slowing her pace to match his leisurely stride. His arm drapes lazily around her shoulders. She shudders as the leather slithers across the back of her neck. The streets swell, getting fuller by the moment as more tourists and locals amass to blow off steam.
They blend in with the crowd, just another young couple joining the hedonism of Bourbon Street. Under neon signs boasting hurricanes and daiquiris, no one sees the way he grips her with iron fingers so she can’t run or the rigid tension in her spine as she navigates them closer to where her vehicle is parked —at his insistence.
It’s a wonder she sees her at all— the old woman that’s set up shop —so to speak— on a crowded corner in front of a drug store. …At her right is a bucket, the white plastic kind that Lucie is sure you can only buy at hardware stores. But where the beaten-up bucket is lackluster, the contents make up for it. Flowers stretch up over the wide opening, stalks of daisies and roses and carnations that she offers to people who pass her by with scarcely a second look.
She can’t blame them. On a night like this, each corner in the French Quarter is occupied by buskers and vendors and street performers looking to line their pockets. Still, she feels a flicker of pity for the woman, stooped and tiny amongst the crowd.
As if sensing her thoughts, the old woman catches her gaze, holding it even as Lucie internally begs her to let them pass.
She doesn’t and shuffles in front of them instead. The sudden movement is missed even by Klaus, who has to stutter step to prevent a collision at the last moment. Lucie isn’t so lucky. Without the benefit of enhanced senses, she notices too late and clips his shoulder. It may as well be a brick wall.
She feels more than hears his huff of annoyance and prays that this woman outlives her mistake. But the old woman doesn’t understand the danger. She pays Klaus no mind, cloudy eyes locked with unnerving focus on Lucie.
Her hand slips between the colorful bouquets, expression thoughtful, and plucks a flower between her thumb and forefinger. Her knuckles are swollen from arthritis, the skin on the back of her hand speckled with sunspots as she offers it to Lucie.
The begonia’s peachy petals are plump and bright, spiraling out from the center in a perfect pattern.
When Lucie doesn’t react, she turns to Klaus. He pauses, it’s only for a fraction of a second. Then his head tips and his lips pull into what he must imagine is a winning smile. And maybe to an outsider, it is. But all Lucie sees is bared teeth and cold calculation.
He plucks the bloom from the old woman’s fingers. And then he turns, offering Lucie the flower with an outstretched hand.
“Are you alright, sweetheart?” the woman asks, her round face twisted in concern when Lucie doesn’t move, only stares at it like it might bite.
“Come now, dear,” Klaus drawls in a sickly sweet voice. “Don’t be rude.” Then, to the old woman, “She’s a tad shy.”
He smooths a hand over the crown of her head, using the motion to draw her close. A perfect tableau of tooth-rotting new love, even as his whispers so soft only Lucie can hear, “You’re making a scene. Now take the flower before I slaughter every person on this block, starting with the old woman.”
Then he pulls back, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Lucie reaches out and takes the flower.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
And Klaus grins. Like this is all a big game to him and she and the other inhabitants of Bourbon Street are all here as outlets for his amusement and his ire, each in turn. She can still see the man crumpled in the alleyway, neck broken, and supposes that it’s close to the truth.
She doesn’t want the woman to die any more than she had wanted that man to pay the price for trying to come to her aid. The weight of hundreds of lives is heavy, a burden that she never expected to shoulder.
But she’s seen what he’s capable of and knows it’s only the tiniest tip of the iceberg of his ability. All he’s asking for right now is compliance.
She doesn’t need to look at Klaus to know there’s a self-satisfied smile on his face, but she offers him a glance and finds it anyway.
His blue eyes are bright, a mask for the unchecked power churning within him. Her eyes lock on them, brow quirked, to deliver a silent message.
Are we done now?
The nod is minute, nearly imperceptible, but she sees it. He murmurs a polite goodbye to the woman, slips a few bills into her wrinkled hands, and ushers Lucie back along the route to her demise.
She follows now, with no hesitation only racing thoughts. One thing is certain: this man is a ticking time bomb. The sooner she can get him off the crowded streets, the better.
____
It’s jarring, bordering on ludicrous, watching Klaus steer her beat-up car around jaywalking pedestrians. He taps the brakes, the car idling as he waves on a group of people to cross.
“Where are we going?” It’s a simple question. Her posture is stiff as the indicator clicks.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he drawls, urging the car through the light and around the bend.
She says nothing, schooling her features to keep her expression impassive. The fingers on her right hand wrap themselves around the loop beneath the passenger door handle. Her left rests in her lap, plucking absently at frayed threads on her pants.
This isn’t her first encounter with an Original, not even the first time she’s found one driving her to an undisclosed location.
But it’s becoming clear Klaus is not his brother. Already, she can see a tendency to be led by his by emotions, erratic whereas Elijah is stoic and steady. Prone to solve problems with violence rather than diplomacy.
Yet, not totally impulsive. Behind his eyes, there’s a burning intelligence — a trait very much shared with his brother. An alertness that hints at a shrewd, calculating mind behind the threats and power plays.
It’s the most dangerous thing about him.
In Klaus’ presence, it’s all too easy to see now how magnanimous Elijah had been with her, the patient forbearance he’d donned like armor in all their dealings. Offering choice —even the illusion of it— was a courtesy to a being that could reach out and take whatever they wanted whenever they wanted.
Even now, abandoned with no Elijah to be seen, something tells her that if she had never reached out to him, never changed her mind, he would have respected her decision.
It doesn’t matter now, she thinks as the city lights grow sparser and sparser, replaced by thick foliage and weather-beaten road signs as New Orleans becomes a miniature in the side mirror.
A few more miles pass beneath the tires when she feels eyes on the side of her face. She keeps her gaze fixed resolutely forward.
“Oh, come now. Don’t look so glum, love,” she hears him say to her profile.
She gives him a withering look. “Is this about threatening to kill you?” He sounds incredulous. “Plans change.”
She considers for a moment, teasing apart each and every word for hidden meaning. “So you aren’t going to kill me?”
Lucie is skeptical, and rightfully so.
He doesn’t respond right away. That too is an answer. “Well that all depends, doesn’t it?”
“On what?” She takes the bait, turning to look at him, and regrets it.
His lips curl into a smile, voice bordering on conspiratorial as he says, “Why on you of course.” Gravel pops as he steers them onto a country back road. “And how motivated you are to share secrets.
“Now, let’s start with an easy one. You’ve been doing magic in the Quarter and yet you still live. I want to know how.”
“How do you know I can?”
“Before Elijah’s…rapid departure from New Orleans, he confided he might know a way around Marcel’s pesky no magic rule. Now, he was light on specifics. But after meeting you, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”
“I don’t know.” And it’s the truth, mostly. She doesn’t know for certain, but after that night with Elijah in Violette's home, she has a strong suspicion.
She had been standing in the kitchen, brewing coffee on the night of the consecration. Before she spilled the truth to him, Elijah had told her of his hunch.
While he hadn’t been sure what it was about Lucie’s power that spared her from detection, he was sure that it was the reason Marcel had left her only. The lingering questions had bothered him, she was sure. However, he didn’t have all the information she had. And when he’d told her his theory, the answer was obvious to her. It wasn’t about an additional quality to her magic that had allowed her to slip past Marcel, but what it lacked - and that was the connection to the Ancestral well, the pool in which all New Orlean’s witches drew their power. The only thing she can’t piece together is how he knows when a witch pulls Ancestral power.
“How convenient,” Klaus says, tone suggesting anything but. “No matter, I have other means of ascertaining the truth.”
Her blood runs cold, the implication clear. Even as the car slows in anticipation of their arrival.
Dense foliage and ancient moss-covered trees stretch green fingers out towards the road, branches hang in an awning overhead. The effect is an oppressive tunnel of dark that guides them forward to some undetermined destination ahead.
She thinks to ask where he’s taking her, to tell him to kill her now instead of dragging it out, or maybe to spill the details of anything and everything he might want to know.
But any words die on her lips as the forest yields to the spacious sprawl of an orchard and, beyond it, she spies the massive white columns of a Civil War-era mansion.
#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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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
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 3: Mirror Images
Lucie lies low for the next couple of days, only leaving the sanctuary of her downtown hotel for necessities.
She’s not hiding. It’s what she tells herself, repeating it like a mantra until she believes it. Still, it’s all too easy to find an excuse to order takeout, to settle into the floral wallpapered confines of her second-floor room.
It’s been three nights since the encounter with Marcel and his posse -three nights since she found Jane-Anne dead- and she’s passed the time alternating between watching mindless television on the ancient, staticky set and staring out the window.
This morning, she’s engaged in the latter, watching people and cars buzz by with rapt interest. A woman weaves through sidewalk foot traffic, her heels high and her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She has two coffees stacked on top of the other and her cell phone is pressed between her shoulder and her ear. It’s a bold choice, but her stride is smooth and confident as she chatters to someone on the other line. She does not know that the city is crawling with vampires.
On the other side of the street, a man crouches down with a plastic baggy while he zips his windbreaker to his chin. The leashed Labrador flits between him and the nearest passerby, seeking pets, as his owner scoops his leavings off the sidewalk with a wrinkled nose. He could never imagine a coven of witches ruling the neighborhood.
She finds she’s jealous of him, of the woman, of every person who passes by on the way to complete mundane tasks in average lives and loved ones waiting at home. Right now, she’d give anything to trade places with any of them, if only for a day. Twenty-four hours in which the supernatural exists only in stories.
A pickup rolls up to a stoplight, honking its horn at the sedan in front of it the second the light turns green, and Lucie imagines another life. One where she kicks off her shoes after another day in an office. In this universe, she’s greeted at the door by a dog and maybe even a partner. They smile at her and ask about her day over dinner and fall into bed together at night. And when she closes her eyes to rest before another average day, she feels safe. In this place, no one murders women to prove points and no one pushes children to embrace powers they don’t understand.
She presses her eyes closed, resting her forehead against the cool glass, and allows herself a few moments of indulgence. But before long, her thoughts stray back to the situation at hand. She runs it over in her mind, trying to make sense of it.
How could Marcel Gerard possibly know any time a witch practiced magic in the Quarter?
And, knowing the consequences, why would Jane-Anne risk her life?
No matter what angle she looks at it, she can’t seem to find any satisfying answers. All she can do is wonder what had happened here in her absence.
She shakes her head, like her brain is an etch-a-sketch and the motion might wipe the slate clean. She moves to turn away from the window when she catches something out of the corner of her eye. Down on the closest street corner, a man stands with hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. His face is too shadowed to know for sure, but his head seems to tip up towards her, like he knows she sees him.
The phone rings, vibration loud as a gunshot against the lacquered end table. She jolts as the device continues to ring, cutting over the sounds of traffic and the low garbled conversion of a TV infomercial. Stepping over a takeout box, she grabs the phone and glances at the screen.
Incoming Call: Arabella
Her finger hovers over the green button as the ringtone starts from the beginning again. A few seconds tick by as she stares at it, then a few more until finally it stops.
It had been only a week ago that Lucie had received Arabella’s late-night phone call. Seven days since she’d listened to her cousin tell her in a tearful, halting voice that the only mother she’d ever known was dead.
Truthfully, she isn’t sure why she’d been dodging her cousin’s phone calls, only that she’d spent all the time since that night in a state of emotional free fall.
Phone still in hand, she glances over her shoulder and towards the window. Whoever she’d thought she’d seen, he’s gone now. It strikes her as odd. Despite being at the opposite end of the street when she’d first seen him, there’s no sign of him and she knows none of the nearby shops are open yet. It’s like he stepped off the curb and vanished. She concludes he was never there at all, just the light playing tricks on her exhausted mind. Then she drags a hand over her face and through her hair, which is far, far too greasy, even for her own company. Still, skin prickling with the sensation of unseen eyes on her, she jerks the curtains closed before she turns her back to the window.
She pads the length of the room towards the adjoining bathroom. There isn’t much in the way of square footage and it doesn’t take her long to navigate the minefield of discarded styrofoam boxes, coffee cups, and stray clothes strewn haphazardly across the place; the impressive accomplishment of only a few days. In actuality, it’s not all that different from her norm. Replace the floral wallpaper with tacky stucco and scatter a few more bottles across the room with some past-due notices, and it could almost be a dead ringer for her apartment back in Albuquerque.
Lucie winces as her feet hit the cold linoleum and flicks the light switch, bathing the room in a sterile, white light that flickers overhead every couple of minutes. She blinks against the intrusion, adjusting to the brightness. Her reflection blinks back at her behind streaks in the mirror, eyes red and punctuated with deep smudges.
Yeah, she looks like shit.
It’s no real surprise, given the sluggish lifestyle of the last couple of days. But knowing is different from seeing it -or feeling it. She pulls at a lank strand of hair and winces before turning to start the shower. The sound of rushing droplets bounces off the tiles in a way that promises decent water pressure. Only after waving a hand under the flow to check the temperature, she undresses and slips in. The water is warm, beating a steady rhythm against the knotted muscles in her neck and back. It’s enough to make Lucie groan.
She reaches for the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo, lathering a generous amount between her palms and massaging it into her scalp. It’s like magic for her mood. The feeling lingers even as she turns the tap and wraps the towel around herself, still glowing with remnants of warmth.
She steps out into the thick cloud of steam that permeates the confined space and drinks in the humidity with greedy breaths. She’s careful not to slip as she approaches the mirror, squeezing the excess water from her hair. A sheen of fog coats the glass, veiling everything but the sharper lines of her silhouette.
She reaches for her hairbrush, running the bristles through her hair, methodically untangling the more stubborn knots. The plastic handle clatters when she returns it to its home on the counter. When her eyes drift up to the still-steamy mirror, she goes still.
But the reflection does not.
Instead, its blurred form seems to move on its own accord. Its arms extend, beckoning to her, and it squares the broad lines of its shoulder: the posture that is too long and too perfect to ever belong to her.
The side of her hand catches the hairbrush, knocking it from the counter and onto the tiles with a clatter.
Against the speckled beige counter, her phone buzzes. She jumps, tearing her eyes away from the mirror and towards the source of the noise. Arabella’s name flashes across the screen again. This time, she only lets it ring twice before she answers, swiping up with clumsy fingers.
“Hello?” she says, breathless and uncertain, as if she didn’t already know who was on the other line.
“Lucie!” Her cousin’s warm voice sounds in her eye, contrasting with the impersonal neutrals of the bathroom. “You answered. I’ve been trying to catch you all week.” |
Arabella’s voice sounds shaky. It’s enough to make her feel guilty for dodging her calls.
Lucie leans against the sink, the porcelain cool against her skin, and tries to soothe her thumping heart. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“Is everything okay? You sound…off.” She doesn’t miss the edge of concern. “You’re not having nightmares again, are you?”
She barely catches the question, eyes trained on the foggy mirror. Absently, she raises a hand. The reflection follows suit.
“No, no.” She waves it off. ‘I’m just…it’s been a long week” “
The line goes quiet, but she knows her cousin is still there. She can feel her presence on the other end.
She nudges the damp towel she’d employed in lieu of a bath mat with her foot, encouraging it flat, and debates whether to tell her about the man in the suit or the mirror. She decides against it, chalking it all up to stress and lack of sleep. Instead, she asks what’s been on the back of her mind since she got the news of Violette’s death.
“What happened, Bella? You never told me.”
“You never asked,” she replies softly. It’s not a rebuke, just a statement of fact. “Pneumonia. That’s what the doctor said.”
“Pneumonia,” she repeats. She doesn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. It’s underwhelming in a way, to imagine her formidable great-aunt put to rest by something so common. But she’d been an old woman for most of Lucie’s life and larger than life though she may have been, she was only mortal in the end.
“Listen, Lucie. I know your default is to carry this alone, but don’t. We can do this together.” Arabella offers gently. Then adds, before she can protest, “Let’s grab coffee tomorrow. I’d love to see your face before the funeral.”
She wants to argue, to turn her down on instinct. But she can feel the wide smile on the other line and, to be honest, she’s had more than enough being alone to last her a lifetime.
So she agrees and after settling on time and place, she hangs up the phone with trembling hands and glances at the mirror, now free of fog. Her reflection blinks back at her, pale and apprehensive.
____
Under a canopy of ageless trees, wedged between a tax office and a brewery, sits The Lazy Bean. Once a double-family shotgun, the pale orange coffee house now serves as a haunt for bleary-eyed commuters and hipsters looking to finish their screenplays.
The shop is half full, energy winding down after the lunchtime rush, but she only spends a minute in line before the barista takes her order.
She posts up against the far wall to wait. The interior is painted a sunny, chipped yellow, but it’s nearly impossible to tell; each wall is covered floor to ceiling in painted canvases and flyers advertising local events. And any spare corner or window sill has been repurposed into a home for a mishmosh of potted plants. In a strange way, it reminds her of the cluttered quiet of the Jardin Gris.
The barista calls out her order. Sidestepping a young man in a fringed coat, she retrieves the steaming ceramic mug. It’s purple and, by the imprints along the handle, likely homemade. She murmurs her thanks and slips through clusters of tables and mismatched chairs.
Arabella is there, waiting, when she steps out onto the back patio. But she doesn’t see her right away. Lucie takes the opportunity to drink her in, unobserved.
Seated at a corner table, she taps at her mug with pale, anxious fingers. She’d never been able to sit still. Even as a child, she’d always been twiddling her fingers or pulling a lock of copper hair. It’s darkened with age, she notes, eyeing the deep, rich auburn that spills over her shoulders. She worries at her lip with her teeth. There’s a pronunciation to her cheekbones and a wariness around her eyes that wasn’t there before, but otherwise little has changed. A smattering of freckles stretches across her nose and her round cheeks are flushed in the sun, the same as the girl she remembers.
A surge of insecurity washes over her. after all, ten years is a very long time, especially spanning over that critical junction between adolescence and maturity. Lucie knows that for all she might look like her cousin, Arabella and her sixteen-year-old self might have little in common. She wonders what the woman tapping her foot under an oak might think of her wayward cousin. Will she like who she sees?
It’s enough to make her reconsider. She hasn’t been seen yet. There’s still time to leave before she-
“Lucie!” Arabella’s cheerful voice rings out, waving to catch her attention. Her pink lips curl in a smile that reveals the charming gap between her white teeth and makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. Despite her uncertainties, Lucie’s smile widens at the sight of her.
The wooden planks groan beneath her boots as she makes her way to the table.
“Hey,” Lucie greets softly, sinking into the chair opposite her.
“Hey,” Arabella responds in kind, matching Lucie’s shy demeanor. “I was worried you wouldn’t show.”
Lucie hesitates before admitting, “I wasn’t going to.”
“But you did, and that’s what matters,” Arabella says, a hint of relief in her voice, as she sets down her tea and reaches across the table to squeeze Lucie’s hand. “It’s so good to see you, Luce. I can’t believe you’re here.”
If she had been worried about ill-will or uncomfortable reunions, there’s none to be had. Not from Arabella.
“It’s been good to see you too, Bella. You look great.”
“Thanks. And you look rough,” Arabella says, then quickly amends, “I mean, you look good, just tired.”
Taking a sip of her coffee, Lucie nods. “It's been tough, to say the least.”
Arabella offers a sympathetic hum, and the conversation lapses into a shared moment of grief. Lucie admires the way the dappled shade of an oak paints patterns across her freckled skin, and how the sun picks out strands of her hair in gilded orange.
Eventually, Arabella breaks the silence. “She asked for you, you know - right at the end.”
Lucie doesn’t need to ask who she’s referring to. Violette’s presence is as corporeal as if she were occupying a chair beside them. Unsure of what to say, she takes a long sip of her drink, feeling the warm bitterness spread through her.
“Honestly,” Arabella continues, “I don’t think you were ever far from her thoughts. Sometimes, she’d get this faraway look in her eyes, and I just knew she was thinking about you.”
Lucie snorts softly. “You mean thinking about what a catastrophic failure I turned out to be?”
Her tone may be flippant, but the sentiment chafes. The second she had left the city limits, she might as well have been dead to Violette. She was sure every trace of her had been struck from the record with a methodical precision. If she had been so desolate in Lucie's absence, why hadn’t she ever called?
“Oh, Lucie,” Arabella says, dismayed. “It’s not like that at all. You know that, right?”
“I don’t really know what to think anymore, Bella,” Lucie says, feeling the weight of her uncertainty.
“I know things are different,” Arabella reassures her, “but that doesn’t necessarily have to mean bad. It just means ‘different.’”
Lucie cants her head, acknowledging the truth in her cousin’s words. “I wouldn’t exactly call being shunned a positive.”
The constricting feeling in her chest belies her nonchalance. Even at a distance of ten years, the memory still stings. The absence of the connection throbs like a phantom limb.
“So you can’t tap into ancestral power, so what?” Arabella shrugs. “You still have your magic, and more importantly, you still have family.”
“Do I?” It’s a question she’d asked herself many times in those early days of exile. And as months stretched into years of near radio silence from all except the woman across from her, it was a foregone conclusion that the answer was a resounding: No.
Arabella insists, “Of course you do.”
Her optimism is unyielding, like looking into the sun. It clashes with the tender angst in Lucie's stomach. Feeling a flicker of irritation, she shifts in her seat. “I don’t think the coven is going to roll out the welcome mat.”
“They only just found out you’re here. Just give them time,” Arabella offers by way of explanation. “The Elders have been a little preoccupied lately. There’s a lot going on-”
“Like getting Jane-Anne’s body back from Marcel?” Lucie interjects.
Her cousin is taken aback. “I… How did you know?”
“I found her in the middle of Royal with her throat cut, Arabella,” Lucie says, something sharp seeping into her tone at the confirmation that she'd known too. “Something like that is hard to miss.”
“Shit,” Arabella curses softly. “I’m so sorry you had to find out like that. I was getting around to telling you, honest. But I wasn’t sure how to bring it up and I thought it would be kinder to drop the news gently.”
Lucie’s patience wears thin. “You know what would’ve been better? If you told me what was happening so I didn’t have to hear it from Marcel-fucking-Gerard.”
This time it’s her cousin’s turn to fidget in her seat. She passes the cup back and forth between her hands, chewing at her lip as she seems to be mustering up the right words. “It’s been hard around here for a while now. I need you to understand that before I tell you what I’m about to tell you.” |
She can’t help the involuntary flutter in her stomach. “Arabella, what are you-?”
“You have to promise me. Promise that you’ll keep an open mind,” she says in a shaky rush, “or I’m not going to say another word.”
“Okay, okay. I promise.”
She hesitates, taking a moment to gather her thoughts before she begins.
“Since you’ve been away, things in the city have taken a turn. It started with small incidents - a shop in the Cauldron vandalized, a few witches harassed. But then it escalated rapidly. Nightwalkers began patrolling the streets, monitoring our every move and word. The safe areas for practicing magic shrank until all nine covens could only operate within five city blocks.”
“One night, the Elders convened at Greataunt Violette’s. They had a heated discussion behind locked doors. Violette stormed out, pretty upset. When she came back, she told Viv and I that the Elders had reached a decision.”
Arabella pauses, her cup nearly empty, prompting Lucie to inquire further. “What decision?”
“To proceed with the Harvest Ritual.”
Lucie’s world spins at the revelation. “The Harvest Ritual,” she repeats, her voice flat.
“Our powers were diminishing, and it had been centuries since the last Harvest. We needed to renew our bond with the Ancestors,” Arabella explains.
“I know how it works,” Lucie snaps, immediately regretting her tone.
Arabella continues, undeterred. “Four girls were chosen: Abby, Cassie, Davina, and… Monique.”
Lucie feels sick. “Monique Deveraux?”
Arabella nods solemnly. “Yes.”
“What happened?” Lucie demands, gears turning. “Tell me everything you know.”
And she tells her. She tells her about how the Elders showered the chosen girls in honors and praises; she tells her about how they were marched like lambs to the slaughter, expecting a prick on the thumb up until the moment Bastiana slit Abigail’s throat. And finally, she tells her about Marcel Gerard’s intervention and his swift, furious retribution upon the witches of New Orleans for what they’d done.
Lucie doesn’t speak for the duration of her story, only listens as Arabella tells it in faltering pieces.
By the time she finishes, hands shaking and eyes weary, the sun is beginning its descent into the west. The diminishing rays cast the patio in streaks of gold and orange that fall across Arabella’s face as Lucie watches her.
“Lucie, say something. Please,” she says when the weight of the silence becomes unbearable.
Lucie’s arms instinctively wrap around her chest. “What do you want me to say, Bella?”
Arabella’s voice trembles, thick with emotion. “I don’t know. Something. Anything.”
Lucie’s hand cards through her hair in a futile attempt to find the right words. “I...,” she struggles, the words slipping through her grasp. Finally, she manages, “I need to go.”
The chair protests against the patio as she stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Where?” Arabella says with a note of desperation.
“I don’t know,” Lucie admits, her head shaking in numb disbelief. “I just... I need some time to think.”
Arabella’s expression wavers between concern and resignation as she nods in reluctant acceptance and Lucie disappears down the street.
#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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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, Some Language, Smoking, Death, Drinking
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 1: City of the Dead
The streets are packed shoulder to shoulder as Lucie steps out of the cab and onto Decatur.
With the worst of hurricane season behind and the oppressive summer heat fading, the French Quarter is in full swing to prepare for Halloween. Beneath the wizened, watchful eyes of St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square is a veritable menagerie of excitement. Tourists pose for photos in front of the manicured gardens while artists, street performers, and fortune tellers seek to alleviate their heavy wallets by a buck or two. The honeyed notes of a corner brass band reverberate off the walls of the red, pink, and purple Spanish-style buildings, rising above the bustle to join the music coming off Royal and Bourbon, mixing into a cacophony of jazz that floats overhead like a cloud.
Lucie hates the French Quarter. It hits her in full force as she squeezes between feverish bodies and dilapidated storefronts, the air thick with the miasma of sweat, seafood, and alcohol. The colors are too bright and the smiles too broad, both painted and polished for the out-of-town crowds.
But Lucie knows the truth. The sugared confections, clinking plastic beads, and the curated romance of wrought-iron balconies and Spanish oaks, are a mask. Like a corpse sewn and rouged for the wake, they hide the telltale signs of decay.
In a land below the water table, the earth spits out its dead in a final act of rejection. Above-ground burials are hot real estate, dotting the landscape like ant hills. Yet even in death, all is not equal. Towering over regular “ovens,” the grand mausoleums of Lafayette and St. Louis are monuments to the elite.
New Orleans is more mausoleum than city.
She weaves through a sea of people crossing the square. Her feet travel the well-worn flagstones of streets where victims of Yellow Fever were once left to molder in the heat until they could be dumped into the Mississippi. There had been too many to bury.
It’s only one of many gruesome moments in the city’s long history. Stories of not only apparitions, but the atrocities that humans commit against each other were enough to make even the most skeptical of locals harbor a healthy fear of that which lurks in the dark.
Even they don’t know what Lucie does, don’t know what monsters make their beds on the banks of the delta.
A chill radiates through Lucie like long, bony fingers running down her spine. The cathedral’s shadow amplifies the ice in her veins as she slips into one of its quiet side alleys.
The air is lighter here. She fills her lungs and finds her bearings against the faded white-washed facade. Only when she retrieves the box of cigarettes from her purse does she notice her trembling hands.
It’s not surprising. Not when she passed through two state lines, including the entire width of Texas, in the last eighteen hours. That’s saying nothing of the half day spent on some roadside trying to find a tow company to haul her and her sedan out of the bayou. The ride here alone had cost her close to a week’s old wages.
And Violette is dead.
The sentence plays on an endless loop in her head. Like if she only tells it to herself enough times, it’ll make it seem real. But all she can muster is a dull acceptance and sharp edges of a distant pain.
She’ll have to deal with it eventually, but for now, presses a cigarette to her lips and lights it. Her eyes close against the familiar harshness as the smoke slides down her throat.
“That’s a terrible habit, you know.” A voice says and Lucie jumps out of her skin. Smoke catches in her throat. She coughs and scowls at the intruder with stinging eyes.
The first thing she notices is the tattoo on his chest. It’s eye-level, peeking out from beneath the collar of a light-colored Henley. The shirt is tucked into a pair of jeans so meticulously distressed they must have cost a fortune. She doesn’t need to look at his face to know this isn’t the average LSU frat boy. But she does anyway.
What she finds is blue eyes beneath sandy locks of curly hair and a smug smile. She realizes he’s smirking. At her.
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” she says, flicking the end of the cigarette. She watches the ash flutter to the ground before taking another drag, despite her burning chest. Irritation flickering, she adds, “So is sticking your nose in other people’s business.”
If she thought it would humble the strange man, she was wrong. His smile broadens in a way that can only be described as wolfish.
“Then I suppose we’re both in need of a little self-improvement.” His accent is unmistakably English. That in and of itself is surprising. Usually, foreigners opt for more well-known travel hubs, the Gulf Coast or Floridian beaches. But there’s something in his tone, too. Like he’s laughing at a joke she’s not in on.
She hums in a non-committal response, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave her alone. She’s never been particularly lucky.
“Shouldn’t you be out with your friends, enjoying all that the French Quarter has to offer?”
She exhales, watching the smoke swirl and dance in the space between them. “Needed some air,” she shrugs.
If he’s fishing for personal details, he has the wrong girl. And she certainly isn’t going to let on that she’s here alone. Despite her more melancholy tendencies, she doesn’t have any desire to end up at the bottom of the Mississippi.
“Well, filling your lungs with poison seems a strange way to get it,” the man drawls. The amused sparkle in his eyes sets her teeth on edge and tests the limits of her already strained nerves.
“Are you bad at picking up hints or just a dick?”
The man laughs.
“Easy, love,” he says, hands up. “Your point is clear enough. I’m just passing through. It’s a free city, after all.”
Lucie feels the tiniest flicker of regret. Exhaustion and stress and years away had eroded her manners.
“I’m sorry,” she says reluctantly. “It’s been a long day and crowds make me edgy. Do you need directions?”
His lips flicker in the faintest of smiles. “Oh, I think I can find my way.”
And with that, he steps out of the alley and into the bright daylight, disappearing into the crowd beyond.
Well, that was weird.
_____
She’s hit with a blast of cool air as Lucie steps off Chartres Street and into Rousseau’s. She blinks a few times, eyes adjusting from the abrupt transition from bright autumn sunlight to the dim ambiance of the bar.
A handful of patrons drink at tables scattered across the room. Nobody raises their voice above a whisper. The soft sounds of conversation only seem to add to the sleepy atmosphere. It’s a far cry from the world outside its doors.
The bell jingles as the door shuts behind Lucie and a blonde head pops up from behind the polished bar top.
“Hi!” the breathless bartender says. “Take a seat wherever and I’ll be around to take your order in a sec.”
Lucie nods, but the woman has already returned to rummaging around behind the bar.
Framed art and candles cover the walls. It’s an odd mismatch, but it works somehow, giving the place a quaint, hole-in-the-wall sort of charm, Lucie thinks as she slides into a seat at the bar.
“Alright,” the bartender says after a few minutes pass. “What can I get for you?”
‘Camille ’- according to her nametag- peers at her from the other side. Dark blonde strands escape the confines of her loose ponytail, framing her angular cheekbones. She seems a little frazzled, but her lovely hazel eyes shine with curiosity, and her smile is friendly. And even though her nose wrinkles in disgust when Lucie orders the cheapest domestic on tap, she doesn’t say anything.
She turns away to pour her beer, and it’s then that Lucie realizes that she’s not alone at the bar.
She watches the man at the other end, with detached observation. She traces the sharp lines of his profile, from the meticulous coif of his dark hair to the strong jut of his jaw. The perfect tailoring of his suit accentuates the broad span of his shoulders and the curves of his biceps in a way that makes him seem more fit for the pages of an Armani catalog than an empty French Quarter haunt.
What are they putting in the water here?
When his eyes, dark and arresting, lock on hers, she realizes that she’s been caught staring. His lips quirk at the edges and she turns her head to inspect the patterns in the wood grain, cheeks hot.
It’s not until she has a beer in hand and some of the initial embarrassment has faded that she dares another glance. To her relief, he’s looking down into the amber contents of his glass. If she had to put a name to his expression, she’d call it pensive.
“So, how long are you in town for?” Camille asks.
“Hmmm?” Lucie tears her gaze from the man in the suit to look at her. “Oh, just a week.”
Camille’s lips quirk as she rubs at the wood with a washcloth. “Is it your first time in the city? I’ve got a laundry list of recommendations if you need them.”
“Thanks, but they’d be wasted on me.” When the bartender gives her a curious look, she adds, “I grew up not too far from here.”
“I thought I smelled a local,” Camille says wryly. “Irish Channel.”
“Garden District,” Lucie replies with a soft smile. Her eyes wander about the room as she searches for a friendly topic. “Do you still have family nearby?”
It’s the wrong thing to say because the bartender’s smile slips and her eyes go blank. Then she plasters it back on, though more lackluster than before. “Just an uncle, but we don’t really talk.”
Lucie gives a sympathetic hum. “Families are tough.”
The bartender snorts. “You can say that again. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Lucie.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucie. I’m Cami.”
“Likewise,” Lucie says, sipping at her beer. “You can’t be that much younger than me, but I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“You wouldn’t have,” Cami says, tensing to a stack of empty glasses. “Catholic school until I left for college. I’ve only been back for a couple of months. I didn’t plan on being here this long.”
Lucie swallows the foamy liquid, only wincing a little as it goes down. “This place has a way of dragging us back, kicking and screaming.”
Cami huffs in agreement, leaning against the bar top. “Good to know it’s a universal experience. What brought you back? -No wait, let me guess, a wedding?”
“Funeral, actually.”
She expects the stilted silence that follows, but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she asks gently. “Can I ask who it was?”
“My great-aunt.”
“I take it you were close?” She pauses at the stunned look on Lucie’s face. “Actually, you know what? It's none of my business. I’m going to shut up now.” Cami’s cheeks flush and she returns to wiping at the counter with renewed vigor. “Grad degree in psych. I need to learn to shut it off.”
“Impressive,” Lucie laughs. “Maybe you should lean into it. I bet a drink-slinging therapist could make some pretty amazing tips.”
“You know, I think you might be onto something there.” Cami smiles at her, cheeks still pink, but seemingly relieved she’d been let off the hook. “Maybe we can be business partners.”
She reaches under the counter to the distinct sound of clinking glass.
Then a bottle of bourbon lands on the bar, followed by two shot glasses. Cami pours both and slides one to Lucie. “Here, on the house.”
Lucie gives her a questioning look.
Cami shrugs. “Let’s say I know what it’s like to come back to say goodbye.”
The expression she gives her is so sincere that Lucie finds herself at a loss for words.
She lifts the glass, locking eyes with the beautiful bartender. “To goodbyes.”
“To goodbyes,” Cami echoes, clinking their glasses together before knocking the whiskey back.
Lucie does the same. The amber liquid burns her nostrils and sears down her throat, but settles like a warm blanket in her belly. It almost feels like home.
When she steals a glance to her side, the man in the suit is gone.
____
A light breeze tugs playfully at her hair, but her body is liquor-warm as she steps out of Rousseau’s. A reluctant smile forms on her lips. It’s late. She had stayed at the bar far longer than she’d meant to. But Cami was easy to talk to, and it had been a long time since she’d been in the company of women her own age. They’d swapped stories and numbers, sharing more than a few drinks.
A couple of squandered hours and a long walk on a nice night seemed a small price to pay to find a kindred spirit here of all places.
Nearly a mile of clubs and bars stand between her and her hotel. She knows the streets like the back of her hand. The walk should take her twenty minutes except she opts to detour down to St. Peter. It’ll add another ten minutes to the trip, but at least it’ll keep her a safe distance from the east side of Dauphine.
The last thing she wants is a run-in at the Jardin Gris. So she commits to enjoying the extra long walk that allows her to bask in the peaceful balmy night and ignores her aching feet.
The streets are mostly empty, though a few individuals are out enjoying the evening. She sidesteps them as she passes, deftly avoiding uneven slabs in the sidewalk.
The trees rustle as another gust picks up, carrying the rich scent of gumbo and soft brass.
When she was a girl, she used to wile away autumn evenings like this at Violette’s. She and the other girls would park themselves on the front stoop with glasses of lemonade and listen to the music. Inside, the older women chatted in the kitchen, peeling vegetables and taking turns stirring the pot.
Now and then, one of them would step out of the hot kitchen to catch the cool air. Bastiana would chide them for their laziness and, more often than not, Violette would shoo them away to do some chore or another. But she always liked it when Agnes came to join them. She was quick with a smile or a gentle pat, and she always had the best stories.
Her chest constricts. It’s a past that’s no longer hers. No one lives in the old house in the Garden District and Agnes would be more likely to drive a knife through her heart than tell her story if they were to cross paths now.
She shakes off the pain like a chill. It’ll still be there in the morning, but for now, the night is too lovely to let old ghosts ruin it. The sun has long since dipped beyond buildings and the French Quarter comes to life. Neon signs and gas lamps glitter like stars from every corner, casting Chartres in an ethereal glow.
She watches a group of girls stumble out of a bar, leaning on each other for support as they amble along in their heels like drunken gazelle. Their laughter jingles like bells as they pass her in a gaggle of hooked elbows and hairspray.
Cool air wafts off the river, bathing the neighborhood in a crisp shroud. The street lamps glow and fairy lights twinkle from balconies overhead.
Bewitched, she follows rows of picturesque balconies block by block. Laughter and music trail behind her.
The Ursuline Convent looms a few blocks ahead, but even it can’t dampen her spirits. For a moment, she wonders if she ever truly thought she could hate this place.
Then, she turns the corner and finds Jane-Anne Deveraux dead on the pavement.
#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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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
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 7: Memento Mori
The morning of the funeral dawns cold and gray. Lost somewhere behind the clouds, the sun rises to the soundtrack of wind howling over the rooftops.
Lucie’s been awake for hours now, listening to the shutters beat against the siding. Or maybe she’d never gone to sleep at all. In and out of the strange space between sleeping and waking, it’s hard to tell. But she knows she must have dozed for at least a while because dreamed. She wakes in a haze of sweat and dread, yet when she tries to recall the dream, it slips away just beyond her grasp. All that lingers is the scent left behind by pink and purple petals, a glimpse of antlers through the trees, and a snake with gleaming emerald scales.
From the window, she watches New Orleans rub its eyes and stretch, groggy, as the day approaches with the speed unique to unpleasant events. She hopes that for better or worse; it passes quickly.
A leaden weight takes residence in her belly and she tears herself away from the gale outside, daubing her wet hair with a towel.
It’s been ten years since she’s been face-to-face with the witches of New Orleans. In her heart, she’s always known that this day would come. She just wishes it didn’t have to be so soon. If she had it her way, she could easily wait another ten to delay the uncomfortable reunion she knows awaits her.
But like it or not, the moment is here, and there’s little time to dwell. Not when there’s so much to be done.
The morning comes and goes in a rush of activity. There are bags to be packed and affairs to get in order. With Cami’s help, she makes the trek up to St. Amant and back, returning with her now semi-functional sedan.
It’s touch and go, but with some strategy and more than a few curses, the two women manage to fit everything into the compact backseat. After a hug and Lucie extracting Cami’s promise to come visit, they part. She watches from the porch until her friend’s car disappears from view and then turns to give the house a final once over.
It’s an efficient scour, flitting from room to room for anything she may have forgotten, skipping over the closed middle bedroom. And she finds nothing. Heading back down the hall, she checks just short of the front door.
Draped over the coat rack is the black suit jacket, a glaring oddity amongst the earthy clutter. And just beneath, resting on the hutch, is a small card, a splash of white that catches her attention amongst the orange envelopes of legal documents. The card is light, the paper fine as she takes it between her fingers.
There’s no name, but it doesn’t matter. The neat, tight handwriting could only belong to one person. She wonders when he had left it, how she had missed it.
She supposes it doesn’t matter now and runs a thumb over the writing. She should throw it away. She shoves it into the depths of her purse to be forgotten, steps out onto the porch, and locks the door behind her, jacket abandoned along with the rest of the house.
The black funeral dress fits her like a sheath, her heels sharp, and as she starts the short trek to Lafayette Cemetery, it feels a lot like going to war.
____
The last fragments of sunlight mark the way, a thin beacon illuminating the path to Lafayette Cemetery — as if anyone could miss it.
Made of high stone walls and intricate wrought-iron gates, the first planned cemetery in New Orleans was designed to be a spectacle. Even in the waning light, Lucie spies the spires and marble carvings of the tallest of tombs peeking out over the walls. Over one thousand families bury their dead within this single city block, erecting monuments to outlast any living memory of those entombed within.
Her own parents rest there, in a quiet, mossy corner alongside grandparents and great-grandparents she had never known. The last time she had walked the cruciform layout of carven angels and dilated tombs, she had been only a girl. Too young to understand death, as Bastiana and the other Elders eulogized, but enough to understand that they wouldn’t be coming back. And she remembered crying then, her brother reaching out to hold her hand, as Violette led the consecration. A shudder wracked through her little body as her parents’ magic dispersed to join the Ancestral well.
Now, when she passes the LeMarche crypt, there will be a new carving amongst the stacked family names. Its etchings will be fresher than all the rest, not yet broken in by weather or neglect. And another, just under her parents, only a few years older than Violette’s.
The gate looms overhead, a wide, oversized thing. She only falters for a moment. If she stops now, she’ll never keep going. So she refuses to yield to it, refuses to allow herself any time to dwell, and passes through, with only a flicker of surprise that nothing stops her.
It is only a short way to the center, especially for one who knows the way. Upon rounding the corner of a cracked mausoleum, she meets a sea of black. Gauzy veils and gaudy brimmed hats frame the faces of the older members of the coven, the junior members uncovered and less adorned. She parts the way through the unavoidable bodies that dot the perimeter of the sprawling rectangular opening. Weeds shoot up through cracks in the uneven flagstones. She watches them with rapt interest, their company preferable to the stares searing into her every time someone recognizes her.
Whispers crop up in her wake, culminating in a soft hiss that rattles like pebbles in a rain stick. When she weaves too close, she’s given a wide berth.
“Lucie!” a voice cries out, far too warm by comparison. Her head tips up in time to see Arabella gliding towards her, hem swishing about her heels as she goes.
Her lacy sleeves roll down to her elbows as she sweeps her arms up, catching Lucie’s hands between her own. Tension still lingers from their last meeting, a tinge of bitterness amongst the sense of relief at finding at least one friendly face.
The silver spoon clinks against the porcelain tea cup, swirling the steaming mixture, diluting the earthy color of tea, and dyeing it into a ruddy clay.
A sugar cube drops in with a ‘plop’. It dissolves by the time Arabella presses it to Violette’s lips with murmurs of encouragement.
A flash, gone as quickly as it came. She shakes it off.
Arabella’s eyes scan Lucie’s face, following her line of sight to the unwelcoming congregation. Giving her hands a reassuring squeeze, she whispers, “Don’t mind them. They’re starved for gossip. They’ll forget all about it the second someone trips on their feet or says something stupid.”
Lucie appreciates the kindness of the sentiment, but something tells her that’s not going to happen.
“Lucie?” a voice asks, and she turns to find herself face-to-face with Sophie Deveraux. “I thought that was you.”
“Hey Sophie,” she replies.
The silence stretches out between them, Lucie and Sophie assessing each other and Arabella watching on.
“I was really sorry to hear about Jane-Anne,” she says in a stilted voice. After all, what else is there to say?
Sophie’s posture eases, sadness creeping into her eyes. “Thanks,” she mutters, hand ghosting over Lucie’s elbow. A moment of understanding passes between the two. “Seems grief is contagious these days. Violette was a good woman.”
Lucie nods, unsure what to say, searching for a response when a commotion of shuffling fabric and red hair flashes nearby.
“What is she doing here?” Vivienne demands, wedging Sophie into the background before appearing at her sister’s elbow.
“Vivienne,” Arabella chides and slips between, partially obscuring Lucie from her twin’s view.
“It’s good to see you too, Viv,” Lucie says flatly.
Vivienne’s eyes flash, locking onto her with a laser precision. She shoots Arabella a sidelong glance. “You shouldn’t be seen talking to her.”
Irritation flickers, compounded by being referred to as if she isn’t there. Before Arabella can respond, Lucie cuts in, “Violette was my blood, too. I belong here just as much as you.”
“No, you don’t,” comes the clipped response. Her lips curl into a snarl, green eyes glacial. “Not anymore.”
The venom in her voice stings, but what’s more jarring is the sheer depth of the animosity she hears beneath it.
True, of the four LeMarche cousins, Vivienne and Lucie always had the most…challenging dynamic. A fusion of conflicting personalities and a shared competitive streak, compounded by external pressures and a burning desire to be the best. But beneath it had always been love. And childhood squabbles aside, there had been no doubt of their loyalty to one another when the chips were down.
Now a chasm stretches out between them, a fissure of resentment left to grow and the hurt to fester, twisting rivalry into something far uglier.
The pure disdain in Vivienne’s eyes, the cold-tempered steel of resentment on her face, cuts. And the force of rejection, of their splintering bond, is all more painful knowing that Lucie is mostly to blame.
“I’m not trying to start any trouble,” she says softly. “I only want to say goodbye.”
Her eyes fix on the deep purple scars that trail from the edge of Vivienne’s jaw to where they disappear into the lace collar of her dress. Guilt overwhelms the hurt, stifles the anger.
That is until Vivienne, never able to leave well enough alone, says, “Why don’t you tell that to Peter? He’s right here after all, not that you ever bothered to visit.”
She gestures around to the endless rows of family crypts. Lucie hears Arabella gasp, feels her fingers wrap around her wrist — whether to support or restrain her, she’s unsure. The name is a slap across the face, a punch to the gut. Shame heats her face, grief and outrage warring within.
“Don’t,” Lucie chokes, fists balled at her sides. “Don’t you dare throw his name at me—’
“That’s enough,” a commanding voice says and Lucie turns to see Agnes coming towards them. “You should be ashamed of yourselves, raising your voices here.”
Agnes’ trembling fingers clutch the pestle in her hands, grinding the purple and pink petals against the mortar stone until they form a ruddy mixture.
Vivienne looks abashed, but not enough to stop her from crying out, “She shouldn’t be here! The ancestral laws say—”
“Vivienne LeMarche, I have been practicing magic since before you were even a twinkle in your mother’s eye. Don’t cite the laws at me,” Agnes replies. “The ancestors are aware of her status and they’ve told me that, given the circumstances, they’re willing to make an exception.”
The look Vivienne shoots her is incredulous. “Agnes, you can’t mean—”
“That’s precisely what I mean.”
The abrupt shift in conversation is enough to give Lucie whiplash, her brain struggling to keep up with the rapid repartee between them. But what her head is fighting to grasp, her body already knows. A stone blocks her throat, holding in the river of panic that wants to escape out of her mouth. A terrible understanding creeps its way from her subconscious and into the foreground.
“But-”
“I said ‘enough’, Vivienne.” The bass in her voice is enough to cow Vivienne into obedient silence. She dips her head in deference as Agnes continues, “Violette named no other before her death.” She places a calming hand on Vivienne’s shoulder and turns her gaze on Lucie. “Lucretia must lead the consecration or the Ancestors will not accept her.”
A chorus of voices rise in discontent.
“I’m not…I can’t…,” Lucie tries, struggling against the desert of her throat. “There has to be someone…anyone else. Maybe Vivienne - or Arabella-”
“She didn’t name them,” Agnes echoes the same refrain. “It has to be you. Would you gamble with your aunt’s eternal peace?”
“No,” the answer is immediate. “Of course not-”
“Then you will do it. This is the way of the Ancestors, and it is our duty to obey.” Her expression is stiff as she turns to address the rest of the coven. “Whether we like it or not.”
Jaw tight, Vivienne levels Agnes with a long, hard stare. She looks ready to argue further, but she deflates and steps out of her way, rejoining the other witches.
Agnes takes advantage of Lucie’s doubt to usher her forward. She makes the first few steps on hesitant, unwilling legs.
All eyes fall to her. The crowd parts, a wall of bodies that follows her with disapproving whispers and accusing stares. Self-doubt wriggles like a belly full of worms, but she forces it down, focusing only on the path before her. Steady breath, one foot in front of the other, until her steps lead her to the altar where Violette is waiting for her.
She stops at her side and lays eyes on the woman who raised her for the first time in ten years.
Violette LeMarche had been lovely in her youth. With cascading tresses of deep, russet hair and clever emerald eyes, she had been the gem of the Garden District. It had been a generally accepted truth that she would marry well and marry rich. But she had been wild and willful as she had been beautiful, showing no interest in the suitors lining up at her door. And so she had glided into her twilight years, unmarried. Her wild streak transitioned gracefully into wisdom. Paired with a steely resolve, it was as if she had been born to be their matriarch.
To a young girl, recently orphaned, Violette had appeared larger than life. Now, clad in white and hands folded in gentle repose, she barely recognizes the frail woman before her. The hair pulled back into a chignon is dull and white at the temples, the rest a dusty orange. The skin wrinkled and pulled taut against her cheekbones is translucent and thin as paper, as if she might crumble at the slightest touch.
The tremor that rips through Lucie’s chest comes on, sudden and violent. She chokes it down, but the tears that sting her eyes won’t fall, dry out in the chilly autumn breeze.
Numb, she feels the weight of the coven watching her. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and she sinks to her knees.
For a fleeting moment, she worries she won’t remember the words, that she’ll botch this honor and let Violette down one last time. But they flow off from her as if of their own volition, her lips and tongue wrap around the familiar language of the Ancestors.
“Sub sacris frondibus temporis,” she says in a halting voice. Her voice echoes against the long rows of stone until fading into nothing. The cemetery falls into silence, the coven in witness. And for one horrible moment, she’s sure they’ll just stand there. That they will refuse to follow.
Then, Arabella drops to her knees, followed by Sophie, and then Agnes. It does not take long for the rest to do the same. The hostilities of a decade are nothing to ancient tradition. They forget hurts and grievances, at least for now.
Lucie lifts a candle. It flickers as she waves it in a languid pattern over the body, leaving a trail of fragrant smoke in its wake.
When she murmurs the next line, her voice is stronger, joined by the others. A chorus crying out for the Ancestors to accept Violette’s soul.
She replaces the candle, dips her fingers in a pewter bowl, and flicks the blessed oil over the altar.
The heady scent of myrrh and sage fills her nose as the candles flicker, and then burn brighter. Beneath the twinkling flames, the cemetery comes alive. Her veins tingle and the hair on her neck stands on end as magic sizzles in the surrounding air.
The Ancestors are here and they are listening.
She bows her head in supplication and lets her eyelids slip closed.
“Ancestors, hear me. I consecrate our fallen sister to the Earth.”
Nothing happens. The candles continue to burn bright and the presence at her shoulder lingers. A murmur of unease ripples through the crowd.
Lucie shifts on her knees, grounding herself. “Ancestors,” she repeats. “I consecrate our fallen sister to the Earth. Will you take her?”
Again, nothing. Tension builds as the atmosphere stagnates.
Then, a power gust of wind rips through the cemetery. Dirt stings her cheeks, but she doesn’t flinch.
All at once, the candles extinguish. The cemetery plunges into a pall of smoke. Dead leaves settle against the dirt. It all feels like an exhale.
A sense of calm washes over her along, accompanied by a profound knowing. The Ancestors have heard her plea and accepted.
The tension evaporates with the smoke as the coven closes in to shower the deceased in rose petals.
Lucie shifts, ready to rise and join in when Violette’s pale white fingers wind around her wrist. With remarkable force, she pulls her down, down, down until all she can see are white eyes and waxen skin.
There’s no way to move, no way to cry out, no world beyond the deathly grip and the shadows that creep in from beyond the veil.
The corpse’s slack jaw hinges and clicks, mouth opening and slamming shut like a floundering fish. It pulls her closer until the cracked lips are an inch from the shell of her ear.
Agony wracks through her body, an earthquake that radiates out to the tips of her extremities and back again to the source — an iron vice clamps down on her heart. It struggles to beat. She can feel its strained, erratic fumbling in her ears.
Suddenly, she’s gazing with eyes that aren’t her own into a different scene. The heavy damask curtains are drawn, the room lit by the bedside lamp. The stained glass shade paints orange shards on the ceiling. Through Violette’s eyes, she watches them dance as her vision dims. The brassy notes of a familiar tune drift to her ears, masking the labored heaving of her lungs.
She wants water, wants her children — the ones she’d raised and loved as her own. She calls for them more than once. First for Peter, then for Lucie.
It’s a great effort to speak. And all it ever earns her are pitying smiles and gentle pats on the hand.
A hazy figure urges a cup to her lips, urging her to drink. But the sickly floral smell that assaults her dulling senses has her turning her head in refusal.
She wonders how she’d missed it all the times before.
Foxglove.
The signs of betrayal were right there, had she only stopped to look for them. Now she sees them clearly, as if etched into the peeling wallpaper. But it’s too late now. Far too late.
The pain soars to a fever pitch, grips her so tight she’s sure her heart will explode from her chest and—
Gasping, Lucie draws back. The pale hand slips back into its place, motionless at the corpse’s side. Her tailbone makes contact with the unforgiving stone dais, but Lucie is too focused on sucking air back into her lungs to notice.
The cemetery scene creeps back into her consciousness. Over her racing pulse, she can hear soft murmurs, full of confusion and perhaps derision, but not the panic the moment deserves.
She rakes over the crowd with wild eyes, only to meet questioning glances and profiles caught in unhurried side conversations.
She tries to speak, only to find that the words won’t come, that there’s no way to put a voice to what she had seen — no, what she had felt.
Only a few paces away, Violette’s body is still, eyes closed as if in a deep sleep.
There’s a pressure on her shoulder, but she only continues to watch for any sign of movement, even as she’s guided to her feet.
Red and green dance in her vision and for one horrible second, she thinks the process will start all over again. But the face is unlined and flushed with life, eyes guileless and full of concern.
“...lu..cie..,” the woman in front of her calls from miles away, punctuating with a shake of her shoulders. “Lucie!”
She blinks at Arabella twice before recognition dawns.
“Lucie, are you alright?”
She nods, the gesture automatic as her eyes lock with her cousin, who sighs in relief.
“What happened?” she grinds out, hoarse.
“I don’t know. One minute we were finishing the ritual and then next you got this faraway look…”
A small group of witches huddle nearby, dispersing amongst the scattered crowd. All except Agnes. She keeps her eyes trained on Lucie.
Arabella wraps around her and she leans into the warmth of the embrace, savoring the comfort of the chin on her shoulder and the hand that rubs at her back. The side of Arabella’s hand brushes against the bare skin just above her shoulder blades.
A breath before it all falls into place. Lucie reels back as if struck.
“Lucie, what’s wrong?” Arabella asks, eyes darting towards the curious stares they’re drawing, even as she reaches for her hand.
She swats it away. When she finds her voice, it’s little more than a whisper. “What have you done?”
A hurt confusion overtakes Arabella’s features, “What are you—”
“Pay her no mind,” Agnes says. Lucie had not heard her approach. “Tonight’s activities have no doubt exhausted her.” She doesn’t miss the pointed look in her direction. “Lucretia, perhaps you should rest before you say something you regret.
It only fans the flames. She rounds on Agnes. “Or what, Agnes?” Her voice is climbing in volume. “Are you going to shut me up, too?”
The Elder shifts, her posture stiff, and something clicks. An awestruck disbelief washes over her as she whispers, “You already tried.”
“Agnes, what is she talking about?” It’s not Arabella, but Vivienne, who has sidled up just behind the Elder with an uncertain expression.
“Go on. Tell them, Agnes. Tell them all about the poison you had Arabella slip into Violette’s tea. And about the nightwalkers you sent after me while you’re at it.”
Agnes’ eyes flash, she opens her mouth to speak but Lucie is only getting started. “Why bother telling them to keep me alive? It would have been so much easier to let them kill me and rid yourself of the coven’s prodigal daughter.” Her breath is ragged, the words falling in a desperate stream. “And Violette…how could you? She loved you, trusted you—”
“ENOUGH!” the older woman bellows, chest heaving. The air grows thin. Then, recovering herself, in a calmer voice, she says, “I understand that you are grieving, but that is no excuse to spew such vile lies before the coven — before the Ancestors.”
“You may not hold with the old ways, but we do. And as the remaining Elder, I won’t stand idly by and listen to this blasphemy. It’s time for you to leave.”
Agnes’ eyes drift to somewhere over her shoulder. She nods and two of the coven’s younger men approach. One reaches for Lucie’s elbow, presumably to escort her out.
She snatches her arm away. “I’ll see myself out,” she snaps. Her eyes scan the small crowd of curious stares. She slips over Vivienne’s puzzled look of disapproval, Arabella’s stricken face. She levels the Elder with a hard stare. “This isn’t over, Agnes.”
Lucie will never forget.
____
She doesn’t stop until Lafayette is a gray miniature beneath the trees. She barely remembers the walk from the cemetery, only that at some point she’d kicked off her heels, straps dangling from her fingertips as she rounds onto Poppy Street.
It’s cold. She understands that on some subconscious level. It slices through the thin fabric of her dress, nips at her exposed skin. Spurred by the force of her anger, her aching chest, it doesn’t bother her. The wind picks up, whipping her hair violently around her face.
With nothing to do but walk, her thoughts run wild — a chaotic jumble of implications and possibilities.
I should leave. It repeats on a loop as she ascends the porch steps. The car is packed, everything is ready to go. The discarded heels hit the wood floors with a thunk, the door slamming shut behind.
There’s nothing for me here.
She paces the length of the hallway, watching the invisible trail of her feet trek across the floor. Back and forth, back and forth.
Then she stops. The photos on the wall stare at her with accusing eyes. In them, she sees the truth and the carefully constructed lie she’s built around herself shatters.
This place, her bloodline. She can never truly escape it, not when she carries it will her everywhere she goes. There’s no more running, no hiding from what Violette showed her.
The only option is to stay, to find a path to justice for Violette, and to stop the witches from whatever it is they’re seeking. She doesn’t know how she’ll do it, only understands the strength in her resolve and the depth of her anger.
And so she retrieves her phone and dials the only person in all of New Orleans who might help her.
____
Bitter sleet explodes against the glass, falling faster than the wipers can combat. It makes the drive to the Lower Garden District seem longer than he remembers it. Though not the type to fall victim to bouts of impatience, he cannot help the frustration that needles under his skin as he hits yet another red light. Something in Lucretia LeMarche’s voice had troubled him, an undercurrent of desperation and…an emotion he could not quite put his finger on, even as she all but begged him to meet her. An urgency that made him accept with no further questioning.
He had not wanted to push too hard, to jeopardize the brittle fragility he sensed on the other line. Now he wishes he had the foresight to press a little harder, to figure out what situation he is about to walk into.
Though he makes it to the LeMarche residence in record time, he feels unforgivably late. And as he exits the car and finds himself on the porch that spans the width of the house, it’s clear that something is wrong. A slight shift in atmosphere that his body responds to on instinct with tensed muscles and sharpened senses.
He steals a breath, urging himself into a near-meditative state of calm before rapping against the door. It’s a cursory gesture. He detects signs of life from the other side. The warmth of a human presence and a distant heartbeat that tells him she’s there — or rather, someone is there. When no answer is forthcoming, he lets himself in.
The front door swings open on an empty hallway. The boards groan beneath his feet, the only sound his craning ears detect over the howling wind.
With each empty room he passes by, unease grows. A feeling that abates when he finds her in the back garden.
She cuts a slight figure, overwhelmed amongst rows of wilted plants and barren vines. So still, she could be mistaken for a garden sculpture, if not for the tresses of hair and fabric picked up by the wind.
She does not turn around as he descends to join her, makes no sign that she’s aware of his presence at all as he stops just behind her.
His hand settles on her shoulder, seeking to rouse her from whatever dream has overtaken her thoughts.
She jolts at the touch, spinning around with wild eyes, an inclination to defend. Recognition washes over her and then relief. It’s chased by something else, something darker.
“Elijah.” She sounds much the same as she had at their last encounter, level and guarded. But he senses a shift, a forced quality that wasn’t there before.
“Miss LeMarche.” He inclines his head. For the first time, he notices the stalk clutched between her fingers. A sickly stem that struggles to hold up the heavy heads of its colorless buds.
“A little late for tending to the garden,” he remarks, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he surveys the plant graveyard with a detached air.
She gives him an indecipherable look, nudging an overturned stone with a bare foot. “I used to come out here when I needed space to breathe.”
“Acanthus?” He asks, gesturing to the dead plant in her grip.
She hums in confirmation, raising it up to inspect the dried petals. “It used to be.”
Elijah senses her skirting about the true issue. Knows that should he pry before she’s ready, she may never speak her mind. It’s a delicate business, and he has both the time and patience enough to indulge her, to set her at ease before delving into the heart of things.
“In the Victorian era, flowers were used to deliver messages. Each plant undertaking its own meaning, just as any word in a written letter might,” he offers. “Acanthus, for example, symbolizes resurrection.” His gaze turns to the withered garden, allowing her something else to focus on.
“My great-aunt tried to teach me once,” she says to the flagstones. “Marigolds for jealousy, white carnation for mourning, and foxglove for—”
Her lips curl up, a brittle, bitter thing, and he knows they have reached the crux of the issue.
Turning to face her, he prompts with a pointed gentleness, “You had something you wished to discuss?”
She nods. He watches her jaw clench, watches her resolutely not watch him as she gathers her thoughts. “I want to accept. Your deal, that is.”
He freezes, eyes fixed unseeing upon a collapsed rose bush. “I see,” he says. “You seemed rather determined in your decision last we spoke. Might I ask what changed your mind?”
She hesitates, her eyes drifting up to meet his. “I don’t think I can talk about this, not out here.”
“Then shall we go inside?” He suggests and allows her to lead him back into the house.
____
Lucie sits cross-legged against the sofa cushions, a steam cup of coffee cradled in her palms. Across from her, Elijah has taken up residence in an armchair. For a while, neither speaks, simply sips at porcelain in silence.
He doesn’t push or prompt. He only waits with kind eyes and an aura of patience. She’s sure that’s what urges her to speak. The ones come out one after the other, gaining momentum until a steady stream pours from her mouth. And she tells him. She tells him her account of finding Jane-Anne, everything she knows of the Harvest Ritual and the Elders, and finally, in a stilted, faltering voice, she tells him about the funeral — about the nightwalkers and the strange magic that had revealed her great-aunt’s murder.
Beyond catching her breath, she doesn’t stop once. Too afraid that if she hesitates, she’ll never be able to speak it all into the open. And to his credit, Elijah never interjects nor interrupts, just watches her with those intelligent dark eyes and a calm expression as she spills her heart onto the coffee table.
By the time she reaches the end, she’s standing, coffee abandoned on the ledge of the mantle.
Only when the silence seems a permanent fixture of the living room and Lucie is spent does he speak. The bottom of his cup clinks against the coffee table as he sets it down, rising from the armchair with an effortless grace.
“Miss LeMarche,” he says from somewhere very near. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I know it cannot have been easy.”
The dam cracks, long splinters stretching to every piece of her. And all at once, every shred of power holding her together dissipates. A tear escapes, carving a fiery trail down her cheek. Followed by another and another until they become a flood that threatens to wash her away.
A steady hand grasps her arm, buoying her to the present. She hears her name, a gentle urging. Hollow and exhausted and frightened, she winds herself into his arms. At this moment, not an Original vampire, but a warm body, a balm for the sudden vulnerability that cries out like an exposed nerve. There will be time for embarrassment later. For now, she needs something to hold on to.
He’s rigid beneath her fingertips, her cheek pressed to a chest that barely moves, tears soaking into his pressed shirt. Then his hand rises to cradle the back of her head. He uses the other to frame her against him, the motions made more sincere by the awkwardness.
When he pries away from her, it’s with gentle hands that rest on her shoulders.
“I do not intend to let the cycle of violence that has fallen on this city continue unchecked.” She exhales a shaky breath as his hands slide down, enveloping hers within them.
She wants to protest, but something about the earnest glint in his eyes and the softness of his tone stops her. Swallowing an unexpected lump in her throat, she nods.
“You’ll be safe, Lucie. And they will pay.” He captures her hand between both of his, gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I swear it.”
They lock eyes. And, fool that she is, she believes him.
#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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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
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 6: Remembrance
Any vestiges of vitality she has left follow Elijah out the front door. Lucie leans into the wall to support her wobbling legs and regrets it. Her gashed shoulder throbs, reminding the rest of her body that it's been running on fumes for hours.
Beyond the brick wall of exhaustion, she can glimpse the mounting pile of concerns waiting for her. But there is no room to reflect, not tonight. She's pushed herself far beyond her limit in every sense. Her body aches and her courage trickles away. Calling on a shallow reserve of magic that's laid dormant for years leaves her feeling drained and hollow. All are worthy of consideration, but Lucie can't form a coherent thought beyond an all-consuming desire to sleep.
She makes it as far as the living room, only taking time to check the locks, flip the lights, and kick off her muddy boots before dropping face-first onto the couch. Any worries she might have are forgotten the second she hits the cushions. Sleep takes her as soon as she shuts her eyes and she falls into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
When she wakes sometime in the late morning, it's to a different world. The storm passes sometimes in the night, yielding to a golden morning. Light streams through the gaps in the linen curtains, bright strands that settle over her closed lids, coaxing her into full wakefulness.
She rises with a groan, limbs stiff. Her arms reach above her, fingers wiggling away any numbness as her eyes flutter open with some reluctance.
Motes of dust dance in her field of view. She yawns, savoring the warmth of the morning sunlight on her skin. It's always been her favorite time of day, those peaceful, sleepy hours when everything seems to still be coming back to life.
There's a brief, perfect moment that often comes after a deep sleep, when there are no memories or worries, no thoughts beyond I am alive and I am awake. Lucie revels in it while it lasts.
In the blink of an eye, it fades and reality seeps in at the edges. Her stomach turns as it all returns to her in a rush. Each recollection is more troubling than the last, crystal clear in the light of day. The attack by the river, the Original vampire that had saved her, that she had invited in, berated, and then all but shoved out the front door.
Your smart mouth will bring you nothing but trouble, Violette’s voice sounds in her head, clear as if she were sitting on the couch beside her. Stern words that had been delivered with little bite to a little girl with a penchant for talking back. She doubts even her great-aunt could have foreseen the mess she's dug herself into now.
Grief flares, cutting through the anxiety. A terrible ache settles as the full truth of where she is sinks in.
The walls of the living room close in on her, alternating vertical stripes of soft yellows that only amplify the sunny feel. Her eyes drift to the dark wood of the fireplace, a permanent fixture from when this place was built sometime in the 1870s. A thick layer of dust covers the mantle as well as the framed photos resting there.
She pretends not to see them, every inch of her bruised body crying in protest as she rises to her feet and heads out into the main hall.
The door across the narrow width of the hall is cracked open just enough for a glimpse of the rich, patterned rug inside. Violette’s room is the closest to the front door, perfectly positioned as a last obstacle for teenagers trying to sneak out —or in. The smell of cloves and jasmine lingers around the doorframe, haunting the threshold of the room where her aunt had once slept — the room where she died.
She doesn't linger. Her feet still remember the best path for avoiding the creakiest floorboards, a testament to years of rebellion.
Two more rooms branch off from the same side of the hallways following Violette’s. The next one, settled in the middle, is closed. There’s a resolve to the barred passage, a divider between the present and the painful memories on the other side.
She slips past it, not realizing she's holding her breath until it's behind her.
At the end of the hall is a final bedroom, directly across from the kitchen. Unlike the others, this door is flung open wide. She can't help but look inside.
Her breath catches and she falters, hand wrapping around the doorframe for support. The first thing she sees is sage green walls, haphazardly plastered in band posters and album inserts, all relics of the interests of an adolescent girl. The twin bed sits in the middle of the little room, splitting it in two. The dark gray coverlet is neatly pressed, not a wrinkle to be found as Lucie ventures in and runs a hand over the fabric. The headboard is ancient, made of curved wood. It’s part of a matching set alongside the nightstand and a long dresser.
The chest of drawers is covered with small stacks of books, an anthology of a college freshman’s curriculum. An attached mirror rests above, serving as both a jewelry hanger and photo album, polaroid prints tucked into the edges.
And there, set in the middle is a music box, a delicate construction of carved wood and hand painted. Lucie takes hold of it with shaking hands, sinking down onto the bed as she winds it up.
The high, clanking notes fill the room, only slightly off-key from years of disuse.
It's as if she's traveled in time, each and every aspect of her childhood bedroom exactly as she remembers. She'd assumed that Violette emptied it, repurposing the space and striking the memory of her wayward girl from the record.
But she hadn't. The room stands as a shrine to a willful girl who hadn't appreciated what she had, who had done something wrong and ran far, far away. Not a single speck of dust can be found.
The first sob that breaks free is small and tearless, a decibel above a whimper. The next is bigger, constricting in her chest. She braces for tears, longs for the catharsis they'll bring. But they don't come, trapped in the cage of her ribs, buried somewhere beneath all the aching.
The music stops. She clutches the box to her chest and waits for the pain to pass.
In the days that follow, Lucie spends more time than she'd like to admit looking over her shoulder. For more nightwalkers seeking to whisk her away, for Marcel to descend upon the Garden District to punish her for using magic. Even for Klaus to appear in all his fury and rip her heart from her chest. But somehow, in all her paranoia she never thinks to keep an eye out for a threat dressed up in a suit.
She follows his advice, checking out of her hotel early and keeping her head down. The morning after their argument, her bags appear on her porch, contents all accounted for and neatly packed. She tips the delivery man, who can't quite seem to recall who had hired him, returning to his van slightly stupefied.
And she watches as he pulls away and, clutching the mug of coffee, in her hands, she feels the beginnings of regret.
She's still angry at Elijah and it's mostly justified. His judgment and his attempt to drag her headlong into problems she wants nothing to do with fester like a sore tooth. And can't leave it alone, leaving the wound red and raw. But as she returns to the kitchen and spots the borrowed suit jacket draped over the back of a chair, she concedes that she'd allowed her emotions to run away with her and maybe —just maybe— he hadn't deserved all of her ire.
A day passes and then two. The initial shock fades and reality takes its place. She finds herself with long stretches of free time and nothing to do but think.
Someone had enlisted those vampires to take her, someone connected neither to the Original faction nor Marcel—
Marcel. Another sword hanging above her head. She waits with bated breath for his men to beat down her door or corner her in the neglected back garden and enact his retribution. But it never comes.
She spends much of the time within the confines of the house, amongst dusty photographs and empty furniture. Occasionally, she makes it out onto the back patio to observe the comings and goings of life in the back garden -if it can even be called that. The arched trellis entrance, once verdant with bright, climbing ivy is a sad cluster of dry, dead vines framing the graveyard of neglected plants. Long rows of overgrown shrubbery border the narrow pathway, the flagstones covered over by dirt, as it meanders around patches of struggling stems and shriveled blooms. The flowers that used to fill the air with sweet perfume are now dormant and sickly. She wonders how long it’s been since anything bloomed here. Even the birdbath at the center is devoid of life, its visitors long gone in search of more pleasant places to pass the time.
Lucie feels a flicker of regret. This place had been Violette’s dominion, more so than any other aspect of the house. She’d attended to each fixture with a devotion that bordered on obsessive. A stooped figure in a broad sunhat, she would spend hours out here, pulling weeds and whispering encouragement with the same sternness she used to rear the children. And the plants responded, thriving under her steady hand. It had been the beating heart of the LeMarche residence. Now it lies in a state of decline brought about by years of arthritis flare-ups and summer illness. She stays outside, even after the discomfort becomes heavy, forcing herself to take it in. Only when she can’t bear it another moment does she retreat back into the shady refuge of the kitchen.
The Lower Garden District remains quiet and her unease slowly settles into a desperate need to see something other than the inside of this graveyard of memories, to hear a voice that isn't her own.
She ventures out if only to prove to herself that Elijah isn't right, that she isn't hiding. At first, it's only to the coffee shop at the end of the block, then further out to the shopping district to window-shop and get some sun.
She would be more afraid if her stay here wasn't about to end.
In two days she’ll be gone. The chaos of New Orleans fading in the rearview, easily forgotten in the shuffle of routine. She isn't exactly looking forward to long shifts and tv dinners, but she's carved out a semblance of a life for herself in the Southwest. A shabby haven free of magic and vampires and secrets.
Her outings beyond the old house pass without incident. She tests her luck by making her way to the French Quarter, enjoying the fresh air from the St. Charles Streetcar.
In the coffee shop on Conti where they'd agreed to meet, she finds Cami with her nose tucked in the pages of a backbreaking psychology book. She doesn't notice her until Lucie slips into the seat across from her.
Her face lights up with a smile.
“Hey!” She tucks a bookmark between the pages before closing the volume. “Good to see you.”
“Hi,” she smiles back, settling in. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
“No need to thank me. I'm surprised you called. I wasn't really sure if I'd hear from you.”
Lucie feels a twinge of guilt. She'd left Rousseau's on her first day in town with Cami’s number and the intention of meeting up but the exchange had been forgotten in the chaos of the last days.
It doesn't last long. Cami is friendly and easy to talk to, and before long the conversation finds a rhythm. An hour passes, discussing shared teenage hangouts around the city and exchanging memories ranging from sweet to embarrassing.
“Are you sure you don't want to hang around for a few days?” Cami asks her after an hour passes. “I'm off this weekend and we can find something fun to get into.”
Her expression is earnest and so without guile that for the first time, Lucie feels a flicker of regret over her impending departure, enough for her to hesitate before saying, “My boss is already pissed at me for being away this long…”
“All the more reason to blow off steam before going back,” Cami replies without missing a beat. “If not the weekend, then just one more night. You know you want to.”
There's no real pressure behind the sing-song suggestion. Cami doesn't strike her as the type.
She is in the process of voicing a denial when a figure sidles up at the end of their table, too close to be passing by.
Lucie stills like a rabbit caught in the open, but Marcel only has eyes for Cami.
“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here,” he drawls with a smirk. “I was beginning to think you were a permanent fixture over at Rousseau's.”
“This coming from a man who spends most of his time in the bar,” Cami rolls her eyes, offset by a good-natured sparkle in her eyes. “Unlike you, I have hobbies beyond drinking and bothering innocent bartenders.”
“Like?” His almond eyes glitter flirtatiously.
“Like spending time with friends. Something that you're currently interrupting, I might add.”
His eyes slip from her face and fix on Lucie, truly seeing her for the first time.
Goosebumps prick her skin, muscle tensing on instinct. He won't make a scene here –will he?
She's ready to spring from her seat when he says, “Hey there Lucie. You sure have a habit of popping up all over the Quarter, don't you?”
His tone is friendly, she scans his dark eyes for any flicker of recognition, any indication of threat. She finds none.
“You two know each other?”
The two supernatural beings eye one another, waiting for the other to speak.
“Oh me and Lucie's family go way back,” Marcel says, breaking the silence. “Been a while though.”
Cami looks to her to confirm and Lucie nods.
“Feel free to join us then, if you two want to catch up.”
“No, it's all good,” he says with a casual wave. “I'm passing through to meet a friend too. Just saw an innocent bartender to bother and couldn't resist.”
There’s a little ‘hmmph’ from Cami’s end of the table. His smile broadens as he says his goodbyes to the bartender. Then he turns to Lucie. They lock eyes.
“It was good to see you too, Lucie,” he says without a particular inflection. “Maybe we’ll see each other around.
She seizes the second before he turns to retreat to search his eyes, scanning them for any sort of indication of double meaning. But his dark eyes are soft and she can’t catch a hint of malice. Either he has no idea or he's a damned good actor. She knows Marcel can lie with the best of them, but something tells her that he’s not playing a part.
Could it be possible he really doesn't know?
____
Elijah’s phone is never far from his person as he waits for word from Niklaus. All the while, he does his best to keep himself busy, fills the time attending to other matters and for the most part, it’s effective. There’s enough on his plate —though none are quite as pressing as Niklaus holding up their carefully brokered bargain with Marcel.
He's done all he can on that front. Now it's up to Niklaus to handle the rest. It's an unsettling notion, one that forms a stubborn knot in his gut that won't leave no matter his level of distraction, but overthinking will accomplish nothing. All he can do now is trust his brother will do his part and hope that his temper won't get in the way.
The screen lights up as he checks his phone once more. Finding no new notifications, he sets about occupying his mind with something else. The bookshelves that occupy three of the four walls from floor to ceiling provide a worthy diversion as he sets about exploring their contents with an air of determination.
The encounter with the LeMarche girl had been disappointing, to say the least. He had not expected her to embrace an alliance with enthusiasm and had prepared himself for some level of hesitance, but an outright refusal was not something he had planned for. Perhaps it was his fault for not conveying the gravity of their situation, for not fully highlighting what was at stake. Or maybe, presented with the broader picture, he had neatly filled in the lines of how the encounter might go and overlooked that which did not fit.
And had he not allowed his own hopes to cloud his judgment, he would have seen the signs clear as day. She had been frightened and disoriented at times, but surprisingly steady for someone who had just lived through what she had. And while she had been reserved, she did not shy away from answering his questions or from posing her own, following the lines of logic with a sharp astuteness. A ll of it pointed to a steelier resolve and a shrewder mind than he had initially believed. These characteristics he had missed and then in his anger, he had pushed her and found himself met with a blazing defiance.
Elijah flips through a hand-bound journal, perusing the contents before placing it back on a high shelf.
He had underestimated the girl. It is not a mistake he will make twice. He only hopes she survives long enough for them to find a way forward.
In the meanwhile, he commits himself to discovering the meaning behind the lead she had given them in a reluctant show of gratitude.
And so he settles in the leather armchair near the empty fireplace, a glass of bourbon in hand, and begins to read. He's pulled an impressive number of materials from the shelves, ranging from dense, leather-bound grimoires to handwritten manuscripts - the byproducts of six lifetimes of careful collection. Anything that might possibly yield information of a Harvest Ritual he had tugged from its place and added to the piles steadily collecting around him.
The first hour yields little success. A folio on the heightened magical properties of plants harvested at the autumnal equinox. A waterlogged grimoire rendered nearly illegible with a smeared depiction of a snake swallowing its own tail. Each is interesting and valuable in its own right, but utterly irrelevant to his current purpose.
That is until he reaches the journal at the bottom of the second pile. The cracked leather is soft beneath his fingers, a rich, earthy red. His body responds to it before his head can catch up, his heart lurching painfully before he realizes what he's holding. It's enough to give him pause, to debate whether or not he should leave this one be. Celeste’s journal had been one of the few possessions that had survived the mob, Elijah had taken it into his own keeping as a memory, a warning.
Chasing away old ghosts, he cracks it open. A sprig of lavender slips from the pages and lands in his lap. He plucks it up, setting it delicately on the end table, and reads. The intimate details of her day-to-day life are interspersed with diagrams, the specifics of spells, and celestial movements. A star chart draws his particular attention, fingers grazing over the elegant lines of her handwriting. It reveals to him the workings of a planetary alignment that happens once every three hundred years. Under a sketch of a constellation, the word ‘harvest’ is written beneath one end and ‘reaping’ at the other. His breath catches. There's nothing on the next page or the one after that. The journal ends, punctuating Celeste’s life.
Groaning furniture echoes, breaking the spell. He leaves the book on the table and follows the sounds of coughing into the main hall, digesting the information.
Hayley Marshall stands in the middle of the salon, barefoot amidst heaps of covered furniture and piled storage. The edges of a tarp knotted in her hand, she inspects an antique crib, a holdover from when the governor had owned the place. Dust scatters in all directions, settling in a haze across the surfaces in the interior of the grand plantation home.
The girl coughs again, hand drifting up to cover her mouth.
“Are you alright?” Had he known she was of a mind of unpacking, he might have offered his help. Or at least suggested she wear shoes. The floor is dirty, unfinished and home to errant nails.
“Just dust,” she replies, voice a little hoarse. “This place is ancient.”
It prompts him to look around, taking in the columns and fine white moulding of a place that he once called home.
“Yes, it should serve our purposes. It's a sanctuary from our business in the Quarter.” There’s a detachment between the life lived here before and the present situation, like an opaque veil dividing them. It unsettles him in a way he does not expect. Thus, like Elijah is prone to do when faced with the discomfort of his own emotions, he turns all his attention to someone else. “Right now, you are the most important person in this family. You need a good home. So I'm curious... in all this time, has anyone asked you how you feel?”
She cocks an eyebrow at him, hazel eyes glinting with sarcasm. “About having a miracle baby with a psychotic one-night-stand?”
“About being a mother.”
Her expression softens, vulnerable as she wraps her arms over her stomach. “I – I was abandoned when I was born and my adoptive parents kicked me out the second that I turned into a wolf,” she says, softly. She pulls away from his stare to look up at a point on the far wall. “So... I don't really know how I feel about being a mother because I... I never really had a good one.”
It impacts him more than he expects, this revelation. And he feels for the girl. To be thrust from a life of self-reliance and rejection only to have all autonomy stripped away —dragged into the center of a supernatural conflict that began years before her birth— it must be harrowing.
“This family will always protect you,” he says. “You have my word on that.”
It surprises him, the force of truth backing the vow as well as a surge of protectiveness. She reminds him of Rebekah sometimes —or rather how Rebekah had been as a human. Something in her movements every now and then when she tosses her head a certain way or makes a specific gesture.
But as they grow to know each other, he's reminded more and more of Niklaus too. She's only a little younger than his brother had been when they were turned. And there's a harshness to her, a defensiveness used to protect the sensitive nature beneath — a fierce, burning desire for love and acceptance. He's beginning to understand how the werewolf girl and his volatile brother had been drawn into each other’s orbits.
“And noble Elijah always keeps his word.” Klaus saunters in, as if summoned by Elijah’s thoughts.
He elects to ignore the jab. Conflict with his brother often tends to escalate. “Is it done?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Your underhanded deal worked quite well. Marcel was only too happy to accept my blood even as he accepted my heartfelt apologies. His man, Thierry, yet lives, and I remain a welcome guest in the French Quarter.” Elijah breathes a sigh of relief. “My only concern now is this coven of impudent witches.”
Ah yes, the witches. It’s the one looming issue that offered him the most resistance to conquering. “I believe them to be honorable. They did release Hayley to me. Although, they haven't been entirely forthcoming. Marcel obviously has something that they need. They don't want him dead. There must be a reason why.”
He does not tell Niklaus that he’s on his way to discovering what that reason may be.
#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
0 notes
Text
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
Series Masterlist
Read on AO3
Chapter 5: Dealing with the Devil
The rain is a drizzle when they reach Elijah’s car, an SUV with sleek, black angles and pristine leather seats that cost more than she made in two years of waiting tables in Albuquerque’s South Valley.
Lucie presses a borrowed handkerchief against the side of her neck and listens to the erratic cadence of water droplets hitting the windshield.
Tap. Tap. Taptap. Tap.
The world beyond the rain-streaked windows is an oil painting of damp brick and shiny streets. She shifts in the heated seat, pulling the cloth away from her neck. It comes away red, but less saturated than when she’d first accepted it from Elijah after rejecting his offer of his blood. It tells her that the bleeding is slowing, the mess on her neck coagulating as she repositions the handkerchief and reapplies pressure.
The inside of the vehicle is warm and silent, a refuge from the gathering storm outside. Neither occupant has spoken a word since he deposited her onto the plush upholstery and left the carnage of the Riverwalk behind.
The engine is a steady hum, the drive smooth as they wind through empty streets.
Her eyelids are heavy as she spares a sidelong glance at the driver. His expression is as enigmatic as it’s been all evening, shadows and light casting over him in alternation as they pass under streetlights and out again. His grip on the steering wheel is loose, with all the surety of an expert. The gold of his ring glints as they round a corner, the blue stone black in the faint light.
She rests her head against the passenger window, the cold glass a balm to her aching head. The vibration is a focal point for her swimming thoughts, a respite for the worst of her lightheadedness.
If circumstances were different, she might sleep. Even now, the allure is there, a testament to the ordeal she’s just been through. But she won’t allow it. The nature of the danger may have changed, but its presence still lingers.
Yes, she’d allowed him to steer her away from the river, leaning into him for support as the raindrops washed away the bloody sidewalk until streams of diluted pink carried all evidence into the river. She still doesn’t understand why she’d taken his arm when he’d offered it. Perhaps it had been exhaustion in the wake of all that had transpired. Or maybe she had been tired of making live or death decisions, and the appeal of placing all of it in someone’s hands, just for a little while, was too appealing to turn up. Either way, the expensive fabric of his sleeve had been smooth beneath her fingers as she’d delivered her unwieldy body weight into his care. He had been a steady presence at her side, guiding them through winding, uneven streets.
She’d been aware of the odd image they cut. Elijah, immaculately dressed and exuding a calm confidence in a designer suit. And Lucie in her tattered, bloody clothes, unsteady on her feet and clinging to him like a foal. Many things can be said about the inhabitants of the French Quarter, but they are skilled at minding their business. And so, they had passed through undisturbed.
By the time they crossed over Canal Street, he’d been practically carrying her. But if Elijah had any complaints about her inability to literally pull her own weight, he never expressed them. And when she hit her limit, knees buckling and legs refusing to take her another inch, he didn't miss a beat, simply hooked an arm under her legs and swept her against his chest in a single fluid motion and murmured that they would be there soon. There was no energy to protest, and she’d been secretly grateful to be off her feet.
She’d contented herself to listening to the drizzle rap against striped awnings, to the soft whoosh of runoff that turned potholes into dirty puddles, to the clack of his shoes against the wet pavement as he maneuvered them around both until they reached his car, parked on a side street.
Yet despite his helpfulness, his willingness to assist her with a stalwart patience, the truth of the matter is that Elijah is an unknown quantity. An Original vampire who knows too much about her and had appeared at the most opportune of moments to play the savior. The role of avenging angel suited him from the rough dispatching of those who would harm her to the gentleness in which he’d handled her since.
And while Lucie is thankful for the intervention that had saved her life, she isn’t so naïve as to think it was done out of the kindness of his heart. She knows no matter how the rest of the evening unfolds, her actions will determine if she lives to see morning. She’s no longer dealing with fledgling nightwalkers, but a cunning and infinitely powerful being. As someone who's often struggled with curbing a sharp tongue, she needs to be careful.
So she resists the misguided urge to roll out of the moving vehicle and take her chances with the harsh asphalt and allows him to drive her to whatever secondary location is waiting for her.
That destination, much to her surprise, is the La Maison Blanche, her residence during her short-term stay in New Orleans.
The vehicle pulls into a parking space and Elijah’s only just pulled the key from the ignition when he’s opening her door and guiding her out onto the sidewalk. Raindrops dissolve against her hair. He doesn’t lead them into the lobby right away, not until he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around Lucie’s shoulders.
“To avoid uncomfortable questions,” he explains, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt to hide the stained cuffs.
The garment dwarfs her, cuffs stretching comically past her fingertips and lapels settling high on her neck, but that seems to be the point. The dark fabric covers the worst of her injuries and disguises her torn clothes as long as she’s mindful of her motions.
A hand settles on her mid-back, guiding her through the entryway as the automatic doors shudder and slide open for them.
The light of the lobby is bright after so much time spent under a cloudy night sky. Her eyes blink against it until she can see the sparkle of quartz beneath her feet that gives the faux marble tiles a golden finish. The air in here is stale, with the distinct damp smell that all structures take on in Louisiana after a decade or two. Built at the height of the roaring 20s, La Maison Blanche is the pinnacle of Jazz Age opulence. From the brassy, fan shapes of the art déco light fixtures, jeweled-toned wallpaper, and heavy discolored curtains, the entire place gives off a distinct out-of-time feel. Even the doorman, Murphy, in his gold-edged, red button-down jacket seems to have stepped right out of a low-budget Great Gatsby.
He greets them as they enter with a smile for Lucie and a wary gaze at the man at her side.
“Good evening, Lucie,” he says, seated behind the concierge counter. There’s no word of welcome for Elijah, only a nod of acknowledgment. Lucie’s heart warms a fraction at his protectiveness.
The portly older man has shown her nothing but kindness since she checked in, showing her to her room with stories about his childhood spent in the city, lighting up like the Fourth of July upon finding out she had been born in New Orleans as well. He had a daughter her age, off at college somewhere on the East Coast. Studying music, he’d told her, beaming with pride. She’d also learned his wife had passed two years ago and with his daughter so far away, it wasn’t a stretch to guess he was lonely, pouring his heart into his work and the revolving door of hotel customers.
“Hi, Murph,” Lucie replies, jacket sleeve sliding down her arm as she gives him a little wave. “Slow night?”
He hums in consideration, fingers smoothing down the bristly hairs of his salt and pepper (but mostly salt mustache). “You could say that. Not much in the way of guests. You get caught out there in the rain? You look half drowned.”
The answer is already apparent from the damp strands of hair that cling to her face, a halo of frizz blooming in all its glory. Though the jab is subtle and delivered with all the precision of Southern manners, it’s clear who Murph faults for her bedraggled appearance.
“We were out on the town when we were swept up in the sudden deluge,” Elijah explains, taking the rebuke in stride.
Murph huffs. “Glad you stayed out of trouble. I don’t know what it is about weather like this that brings out all the miscreants.”
Elijah, who had been moving to usher Lucie toward the elevator, freezes. Turning back to the older (but not really) man, he asks, “Did something happen here?”
Murph leans forward in the rolling desk chair, lacing his fingers together as rests his arms against the counter. “Some out-of-towners, come in here kicking up a fuss and causing a problem,” he shrugs. “Looked like they’d been roughing in the backwoods for a bit.”
Lucie’s breath hitches in her throat. “Did they hurt anyone? Are you alright?”
“There was no one here but me. Gina’s got a sick baby at home,” he says. “You know how young men are: cock-sure and looking for a fight.” He looks pointedly at Elijah. “Wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Besides, I always keep the old twelve gauge on hand.” He pats the underside of the counter. “This is New Orleans, after all.”
She doesn’t miss the way the vampire beside her goes statue still or the subtle way he positions himself between her and the entrance. “Do you know what they wanted?”
The soft tufts of gray hair around his ears flutters as he shakes his head. “Seemed pretty adamant about getting upstairs, but I can’t say what for. They scattered like roaches when I threatened to call the cops. Strung out on drugs, if you want my guess.”
"Do you know what they looked like?" Elijah asks evenly.
The doorman considers, lips pressed together. "Strange. One real tall, dressed like he'd just come from one of those goth club. The other looked like he was trying out for Saturday Night Fever."
Lucie and Elijah exchange a glance, loaded with meaning.
“It’s safe as can be now. You don’t need to worry, Lucie,” he chimes in, mistaking the meaning behind their silence.
“I know,” she says with a strained smile. “Thanks for looking out for me, but I…uh…just realized I left my wallet back at the restaurant.”
She pats her pockets for emphasis.
“I told you to put it back in your purse,” Elijah replies, feigning a good-natured jab. “We’d better go get it before they close.”
Lucie nods, glancing back to the doorman. “Thanks for looking out, Murph. I’ll see you later.”
“You take care out there. I’ll be off by the time you get back, but Charlie will be here. You just give him a buzz if you need anything.”
Exchanging goodbyes, the pair steps back out onto the street. The storm has ramped up in intensity, rain lashing against the ground and the covered overhang. Elijah opens the car door and ushers her in before rounding the vehicle. Settling into the driver’s seat, wrists resting against the wheel, he turns to face her. “You cannot stay here.”
She knows that, of course. And she agrees, but the command needles at her already frayed nerves. “Any chance you know of some super secret, vampire-proof hideout we can go to?”
The words come out sharper than she intends, and she sighs, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.
There's no immediate response. It tells her he doesn't have an answer
Then it comes to her, crashing into her lap, and she winces, not wanting to put a voice to the idea.
She sighs, resigned. “I know a place.”
____
Elijah follows Lucie’s directions to the Lower Garden District. Keen ears catch her pulse. It seems to race harder with each turn signal, each mile passing under the tires. It forces him to wonder where it is that she’s taking them.
By the time they turn off of St. Charles and onto the tree-lined tunnel of a sleepy residential street, her heart is hammering like a hummingbird. The car slows, a mix of Creole Cottages, Double Shotguns, and Victorian Townhomes slipping by in his periphery.
He remembers this neighborhood, back when it had been little more than a ramshackle cluster of shacks in the shadow of the palatial Greek revival mansions only a few blocks over. The entire Garden District had cropped up around one central point, the handful of square city blocks that made up Lafayette Cemetery. They pass by the high gates as they wind deeper into the neighborhood. It’s the second time he’s been by it tonight and this time, he’s thankful to let it slip into the review mirror without stopping. He wonders for only a moment if the witches are still there, keeping vigil over their fallen sister. Then the cemetery vanishes from sight and he allows the thought to disappear along with it.
His attention turns to the girl fidgeting in the passenger’s seat. He glances at her, but Lucie's gaze remains fixed forward, her eyes unseeing even as she murmurs that he should take a right. Her face is blank, but he does not miss the way her fingers pull and twist at the fabric of his jacket.
“Are you alright?” Elijah asks. She takes a moment to answer, lost in whatever thoughts are whirling around in her head. He breaks his gaze from the road to look at her more fully. He sees the instant where the question lands. Her head pivots towards the sound of his voice, eyes wide and distant.
Her heartbeat stutters, then evens out, though still fast. She must not be able to trust her voice, for she nods, knowing he’ll catch it. And he does, answering with one of his own. He asks no more questions, doesn’t pry, even as she points to a home on the right side and he pulls the vehicle to a stop against the curb out front.
There’s no light on when Elijah helps her out of the car. Her constitution has improved steadily since they left the River Walk. She wavers only for a second when she steps out, but he imagines that has much more to do with whatever trepidation is plaguing her than any physical side effect. Her skin is less peaked, the flush returning to her cheeks. Elijah has to admit to a small amount of relief, spending the first half of their time together debating whether to take her to a hospital, which would have been undoubtedly complicated. The set of her jaw is determined and her fingers are only trembling a little when she takes his proferred hand.
They make the quick journey across the tiny front lawn and up the steps of the elevated Central Hall cottage in relative darkness. The sensor trips when they reach the top landing and the flood light illuminates the deep-set porch.
He releases her hand, allowing her to lead the way. It’s clear that whatever her connection is to this place, she’s battling a maelstrom of emotions. He’s determined to let her engage with it on her own terms.
Near one of the tan pillars, be watches her as she lifts the welcome mat, slides the plate back on the wall scone. She finds what she’s looking for underneath a terracotta flower pot with a huff of triumph. He spots the glint of a key and feels a flicker of doubt about whether he can trust her determination of safe places if hiding a key on the porch is her idea of security. But he lets the matter rest for now because she pauses in before the front door, peeling and forest green.
He recognizes the posture, the slow inhale and even release of breath, knows she’s steeling herself as the key turns in the lock. She jiggles it, leveraging her weight against it. He’s halfway through an offer to help when the door swings wide and she takes her first tentative step beyond the darkened threshold.
He crosses the porch in two strides, halting just before the doorframe, an invisible barrier preventing him from entering.
She turns around with a quizzical look and then understanding dawning on her delicate features. “Oh right, vampire.”
Yet she hesitates, assessing him from head to toe and then fixing her gaze on his eyes, searching the depths as if trying to discern the nature of his soul. He does not fault her for it. She seems to have good instincts, from all he's seen so far.
Her teeth worry at her bottom lip and finally, as if against her better judgment, she says, “Please, come in.”
There's a shift, the release of that particular magical energy, and follows her into the house. She closes the door behind him, the lock sliding into place with a click of finality. He almost reminds her that a piece of metal won’t do much to protect her from the supernatural, but he holds his tongue. The girl has been through enough for one night. To deprive her of something that might bring her some peace of mind -no matter how small- would be needlessly cruel.
And so he turns his attention to his new surroundings, brought into sharper clarity as she flips a light switch somewhere just beyond his shoulder.
The home opens on a main hallway that gives the architectural style its name. Its passage is narrow without feeling cramped, rich eggplant walls rising on either side of the pine floors. His shoes echo against the wood which is light in places from centuries of foot traffic, but the planks remain a deep, lovely brown.
She turns to him, arms folding protectively over her chest. Whether in an act of self-consciousness or at his intrusion upon a sacred space, he isn’t sure. They both hover near the front door, locked in an awkward sort of impasse.
Elijah is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat. “Perhaps there’s a first aid kit?” he ventures, gesturing towards her neck when she seems confused.
“Oh, yeah. In the kitchen, I think.” She inclines her head, a wordless message to follow. And he obeys, careful to keep a few paces behind and his footfall loud enough for her to hear.
They progress down the hall and his gaze slides from one side to the other, taking in the decor. A smattering of hangings cover both walls. Framed paintings selected by someone with a discerning eye for quality, dried flowers, and hanging crystals he imagines capture the light and cast the walls in rainbows in the late afternoon. But it’s the photographs that catch his eyes, that add the touch of the personal.
The first one he passes is a small print, color washed out from sunlight within the wooden frame. Four children stand in front of a fountain in Audubon Park, arms wrapped around each other in a chain of broad smiles. The two girls on the end are mirror images, identical from their freckles to the long copper braids that hang over their overalls. Next to them is another girl, smaller than the first two. Dark eyes crinkle around the corners and her front teeth were missing. On her other side is a boy, lanky and taller than the other children by at least a head.
Elijah wonders at the people in the photo, frozen in this vignette as perpetual children, but now surely adults with lives and aspirations.
He moves on, following the photos like a visual narrative of someone else’s life. Graduation photos and birthday parties, mostly of the dark-haired boy and girl, but the twins as well. And a woman with thick auburn hair and stern green eyes set in an oval face. Pausing there, he scans the features of her thin mouth, and her high cheekbones with a dull sort of recognition. He’s still trying to make sense of it when Lucie’s head pops from a doorway at the end of the hall and he realizes he’s fallen behind.
Leaving the hall behind, he follows her into the kitchen.
Lucie LeMarche as she flits about the room, a contrast to the stationary position he's taken up against the far wall. Pale yellow cupboards open and close with a dull thud as she searches for a first aid kit. Despite her unease and her radiating anxiety, she seems to belong here. As natural a fixture in the home as the latticed window above the sink or the beams holding up the roof.
Something akin to alienation wells up in him, a profound sensation of being out of place. It’s as if the house itself is reacting to his presence, resenting his intrusion upon it.
“Found it,” Lucie proclaims, straining to reach a red tin box nestled on the highest shelf.
Elijah stamps down the unsettled feeling and moves to assist. “Allow me.”
____
Lucie winces against the sting of the antiseptic as Elijah wipes the cotton pad against the sensitive skin on her neck. His jaw is tight, dark eyes narrowed in focus as he attends to the wound with the precision of a trauma ward surgeon. He tends to it with the same care he’d used to address the cuts and gashes on her arms, her leg.
She watches from her perch on the counter as he sets the soiled pad on the table behind him, his makeshift triage center. It joins the other red smudged cotton discards.
“It doesn’t bother you?” she plucks up the courage to ask, curiosity overcoming shyness at his proximity. When he quirks a brow, she adds, “All the blood, I mean.”
“No, not anymore. I might have struggled once, as all new vampires. But I’ve had centuries to perfect the art of controlling my hunger.”
Lucie half-nods, unsure sure what to say to that. Content to leave at that, Elijah returns to the wound at her neck with a fresh pad, and they fall into silence.
The pressure is gentle beneath the familiar sting. The side of his hand ghosts against her skin and she responds with an involuntary shiver. He is unperturbed as a consummate professional, even as his breath fans against her collarbones.
The silence is oppressive and the questions that have only been building since they met bubbling over the surface.
“You said we had a lot to talk about,” she prompts, struggling to find the right approach.
He doesn’t answer until the work is through, cleaning up the mess and washing his hands before sinking into a metal-framed kitchen chair.
“We do,” he concedes with a nod. He weighs his words before asking, “What do you know of my family?”
That they were the root of all evil. That Klaus terrorized this town while his siblings watched on before fleeing as Royal Street burned.
Instead, she says, “I know you’re the first vampires, created by a powerful witch, and that you helped build New Orleans before disappearing.”
“Tactfully put,” he says. Lucie isn’t sure what inflection she hears under the even delivery. “As you know, it’s been a century since my family left this place and I had never intended to return. That is until a witch lured my wayward brother here.”
The revelation of Klaus’ presence in town and how he got there land like twin blows.
Dread makes a home in her belly as she asks, breathlessly, “What witch?”
But she knows the answer, knows what he’s going to say even as he tells her, “Jane-Anne Deveraux.”
Her head swims, the implications rippling out like a stone dropped off a pier.
A few pieces fall into place at once. Monique’s death and her mother’s desperate gambit to cast a spell. Marcel’s brutal retaliation. All of it is inextricably linked to Klaus’ arrival in town-
“But why?”
“Witches brought Niklaus back to town in hopes that he might topple the supernatural hierarchy that’s allowed Marcel to keep the covens in subjugation.”
“That explains why he killed her,” Lucie says. “But not how she was able to convince your brother to come here in the first place.”
Something akin to surprise flashes in his dark eyes, like he’s seeing her for the first time. “No, it does not. During the duration of my stay, I have learned that the witches have gained some kind of leverage over Niklaus. But there are still questions that need answering.”
“You mean like how Marcel Gerard went from vampire mob boss to supreme overlord of the French Quarter overnight?”
His head tilts a fraction to the right, considering, and she’s struck by what a strange sight he is in the kitchen of her childhood home. What’s stranger still is that he doesn’t seem that out of place.
“Precisely. As well as what events precipitated this whole sorry situation. I find myself curious as to what could prompt such rash actions from the witch faction.”
Lucie knows the answer, knows deep in her gut that the Harvest Ritual started this whole affair and that the answer to Marcel’s secret weapon are connected somehow.
It’s a revelation she isn’t ready to share, not until she knows what it means and what the man across from her wants. She shutters her expression but not quick enough it seems, for Elijah rights himself in his chair, keen as a bloodhound at the scent.
“You know something,” he states, gaze burning into her. “What is it?”
She goes still, caught in his sights. Resentment flares. She doesn’t appreciate feeling cornered. “I’ve answered plenty of your questions. I think it’s only fair that you answer mine.”
He hasn’t released the thread of conversation, she knows that, but he shifts in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee, and says, “Very well. What would you ask of me?”
“You knew my name,” she starts, not missing the sharpness behind his pretense of forbearance or the renewed crackle of danger around him. “You’ve been following me. I want to know why.”
His hands rest against the boomerang pattern of the table, long elegant fingers folding over each other. “You were not the only one hiding in the shadows when Marcel Gerard took Jane-Anne’s body. I heard your heartbeat, knew Marcel allowed you to escape. I wanted to know why.”
Her fingers wrap around the edge of the countertop, scarcely daring to breathe. “And what did you find out?”
His eyes lock on hers as he leans in, the motion almost imperceptible.
“Very little,” he admits, and she exhales. “I know your name is Lucretia LeMarche. Your parents were both professors at Tulane until their death. At which point your great-aunt, a prominent member of the Garden District coven, took custody of you. And that her death brought you back here, despite your apparent disconnect from the witch community in New Orleans.”
“So it was you,” she says. It chafes, listening to the broadest strokes of her life repeated back to her as if read from a textbook. “Watching me.”
“Yes. I thought it best to keep tabs on you until I could determine your level of involvement in all this.”
“And?”
“And,” he stretches the word out. “I’ve decided to offer you a deal.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off. “Please, allow me the courtesy of hearing me out.”
Her lips press closed. She nods at him to continue.
“You are a witch with intimate knowledge of this city and the inner workings of the nine covens. However, you lack any of the protection the witch community affords to its members, putting you in a rather vulnerable position.”
“Is that a threat, Elijah?”
“It is a fact, Miss LeMarche,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just as it is a fact that had I not intervened earlier this evening you would be dead.”
Her cheeks flush and she has to admit the truth in his statement.
“So, what are you suggesting?”
“Your position, however precarious, also offers a unique opportunity. You can move through the circles of the city’s supernatural factions without the burden of any particular loyalties.”
“But as you just pointed out, I’m a sitting duck,” she interjects, following the path he’s laying out.
“Yes, though not quite in those terms.” his mouth twitches at the corner. “That is where my offer comes into play. What I propose is this: you be my eyes and ears in the Quarter and, in turn, I will not only extend to you my protection but also any resources at my disposal to help you figure out who sent the men who came after you this evening.”
She says nothing, just watches him from her place on the counter. A part of her wants to say yes, that small foolish fraction of her heart that tells her to trust, that begs her to not be alone.
She stamps it down, remembering the long line of witches that had been collateral damage in the game of vampire politics. He’s not a savior, not an unlikely ally. He’s a jailer, another person holding the key to a cage she’s fought tooth and claw to be rid of.
Anger crashes over her, a sudden and unexpected tidal wave of resentment. At Violette for all her secrets, for dying and robbing her of her guidance. At Arabella for withholding the truth and pulling her into all of this at the same time. And at Elijah for sparing her life and darkening her doorstep, for hiding his motives behind heroics and deals.
She hops off the counter, standing in front of him with hard eyes.
But she feels it still -beneath the anger- that small thread of safety, of trust, even as she tells him, “No.”
“No?” he repeats, a hint of surprise as he wraps his lips around the syllable.
“No,” she says again, firmer this time like she can make the both of them believe it.
“Might I ask why?”
She bats the delicate thread between them away like a cobweb. “What guarantee do I have that you’ll keep your word or that I'm safe from you? You’ve already admitted to following me.”
He blinks, arching a sharp brow as if he’d misheard her. “Need I remind you I just saved your life?”
“You did,” she acknowledges. “And I’m grateful.”
“And that isn’t enough to prove my good intentions?”
“No,” she says, and the chair protests as he rises to his full height before her. He towers overhead, grave and cold like marble. She wonders if she’s made a terrible miscalculation.
“I see.” His posture straightens in resolution, a picture of cold professionalism. “And what is your plan, if I may ask? To hole up in this cottage as you did at the hotel and hope that no one comes to carry you off in the night or that Marcel doesn't kill you for the magic you used earlier this evening?”
Her temper flares, rising to meet his. Her jaw clenches hard enough that it feels as if her teeth might break.
The judgment smarts, both in how close it comes to the truth and also from the delivery. Original or not, this man doesn’t know her, doesn’t understand the agony or the joy between the neat facts he’s learned of her life. She knows she should keep her mouth shut, that's she toeing a very treacherous line, but she won’t let him shame her, not here.
She squares her shoulders, tipping her head back to look him in the eye. “It’s late. And unless you have any more glaring flaws of mine that you’d like to point out, I think you should go.”
It’s a challenge. They both know it. She’s testing the waters to see if he’ll comply with her request or force her hand and prove himself unworthy of trust. She isn’t sure how long they stay locked in their tense tableau, but he relents first. His posture eases and he steps back, allowing air into the room once more.
“Then I suppose that leaves me only one option,” he says with finality. He’s angry at her. She can tell by the rigidity of his shoulders, the tick in his jaw. Yet, he doesn’t allow it to carry him away.
“And that is?”
“I’m afraid I have no choice but to honor your decision — misguided though I believe it to be.” He turns his back to her then, and she follows his retreat down the hall. Hand on the doorknob, he pauses. “I will respect your wishes, Miss LeMarche. But as someone who saved your life, I’m asking you one last time to tell me what you know. For my family’s safety.”
“Is this the part where you compel me to do it, anyway?” she asks, trying to hold on to her anger with both hands.
“I think you and I both know that won’t work,” he smiles, or maybe it’s a grimace. “I recommend you don’t return to your hotel. Someone will be along tomorrow with your things. Consider it a parting gift.”
She’s stunned into silence, unable to do anything but watch as he opens the door. He’s through the threshold before she calls out, “Elijah, wait.”
He meets her eyes over his shoulder in a wordless question.
She steels herself for what she’s about to say, for the act of treason it feels like she's going to commit. “The Harvest Ritual,” she says, voice clipped. “Start there and I’m sure you’ll find your answers.”
He searches her face, and her eyes for a long moment and then inclines his head. “Thank you. Take care of yourself, Miss LeMarche.”
Then, the door clicks shut behind him, leaving Lucie alone in the empty house.
#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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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
Series Masterlist
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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