She was as right as she was wrong: Klaus’s dual heritage had started a war, just as Vivianne hoped that hers would end one. “I am already ruined, Viv,” he told her. “Meeting you has ruined me. What do I care if the rest of the world burns as well? Having you with me would be worth any price.”
Light and laughter spilled out into the garden from an opened door, and Klaus shrank back against the wall, pulling her with him. “Vivianne!” a merry voice called. “Darling, where have you gone? You’re needed at cards—my mother has made a fortune off us in your absence.”
She gave a panicked start and pulled violently out of his arms. “Klaus, please, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” she pleaded, but if leaving him was difficult for her then he was certainly not going to make it any easier.
“Vivianne Lescheres,” he began, then paused long enough that she stilled to listen, her curiosity getting the better of her. “I have never had the pleasure of meeting a woman like you, and I’ve lived long enough that I would know if there were any. For you I’m even willing to beg: Please don’t break my heart quite yet.”
She gave him a hesitant little smile despite herself, and when she looked up at him again her eyes held a gleam that had nothing to do with tears. “Be careful what you wish for, Klaus,” she began, and then gave a small sigh. “Perhaps we could meet again, if only so I can tell you no once more.”
“My dear, I promise you that the only thing you’ll be saying with me is yes, and you’ll say it more than once. I’d be more than happy to prove it to you, if you’ll meet me again tomorrow night. Here?” Klaus felt reckless, ready to risk anything to keep from losing her.
“Vivianne, where are you?” the voice called again, and Klaus would have been happy to gut its owner with his fingernails.
Vivianne bit her lip, her entire body tense with worry, but she leaned up to give Klaus one more kiss. It lasted a second longer than a polite good-bye, and Klaus took that as the only answer he needed. He’d be here tomorrow night, and every evening after, until Vivianne made good on the promise of that kiss by meeting him again.
She struggled out of his arms and he watched her silhouette run across the grass, toward the light and the tall, thin figure waiting for her in the doorway.
Klaus didn’t have to see his face to know who it was. If he could kill every living being who was unworthy to speak her name, he would have started right then with Armand. It would end up as a massacre...which, now that Klaus thought of it, actually seemed rather appealing. He wondered how many werewolves were in the festively lit mansion before him—Armand and his mother, apparently, but from the voices and sounds of clinking glasses, probably quite a few more. It would not be worth facing Elijah’s wrath unless he succeeded in killing every one in the house—in the city, actually—this same night.
A worthy goal, but an unlikely one, and so he vented his rage on the high wall of the garden instead. His fist was unharmed, but the wall cracked and crumbled, leaving a satisfying hole in the mortared stones. It was a physical reminder that he would not give up Vivianne without a fight, even if it could not be the bloody battle he’d have preferred.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CEMETERY WAS darker than Elijah remembered. Clouds concealed the moon and stars, and it seemed there were fewer lit candles than during his previous visit. A cool wind blew in from the sea, picking up the murky scent of the bayou as it came.
Elijah weaved his way through the tombs on foot, careful not to disturb any of the stones. A mournful howl drifted toward him on the wind. The covered moon wouldn’t be full for a few more weeks, but the skin on his arms and neck still prickled at the sound. There was something happening in the cemetery, some kind of magic, and it was clear that outsiders would not be welcomed.
He’d rather be anywhere else, but he’d made a vow to Ysabelle Dalliencourt to prove her wrong. With Hugo’s will and the deed to his house, Elijah intended to show the witch that she had underestimated him. Hopefully, she would be impressed enough by his resourcefulness to reconsider her position on granting favors to his family. The service he needed now was much smaller than a gift of land.
Ysabelle wasn’t home when he’d gone to look for her, so Elijah had guessed that the only other place she’d be was the witches’ graveyard. After searching through the enchanted maze for the better part of an hour, Elijah’s sharp eyes finally found Ysabelle in the center of a ring of candles. She was dressed in a lilac shift with her reddish hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, but she did not look at peace. If anything, she looked angry.
Elijah hung back and watched as she muttered to herself then opened her eyes and began to furiously mix some substance in the copper bowl that lay at her feet. She straightened again, closing her eyes and looking as though every part of her body strained against some invisible force. He wasn’t sure what she was trying to do, but he could see the moment when she failed. Based on the slump of her shoulders, it looked like she’d been attempting the spell for a while without much success. Her frustration was just another asset to him.
“Good evening, Ysabelle,” he called, rather more cheerfully than was appropriate for a cemetery, especially in the middle of the night.
From the way she turned and glared at him, he was lucky that her magic wasn’t cooperating at the moment. Yet another point in his favor, he thought, approaching confidently. She knew he was not intimidated by her power, and she hated it.
“And a good evening to you, sir. Can I ask why you’ve come to bother me in this sacred place?”
“I’ve come to ask a favor,” he said, reaching the ring of candles that surrounded her. Their flames were so steady in the still night air that they didn’t quite seem real.
“I see, Monsieur Mikaelson. But I feel like we’ve had this conversation before,” she said, sounding interested in spite of herself.
“Elijah, please,” he countered. “That other night, I wanted your help in securing a home. Now I have one.” He pulled the folded papers from his breast pocket, holding them at a careful distance from the flames.
Ysabelle stood, and her deep-set brown eyes widened. “And which of my neighbors did you murder for that?” she demanded.
Elijah started to explain how the house had come to be his, but even before he spoke he realized that the story would only confirm her suspicions. A complete stranger had promised his land to a vampire who wanted a home, and then had died that same night. Even if Elijah were to repeat every single word the two of them had exchanged, the tale would still sound exactly like a self-serving lie.
“None,” he replied shortly, rather than making things worse by trying to defend himself. “It was left to me in a proper will by a man who died of old age and nothing else.”
“Strange that you seemed to know nothing of this will when you came to me the other night begging for aid.” Was her tone thick with just suspicion, or could he also detect pride? It seemed like she was offended that he had resolved this problem so quickly and without her help.
“I believe I told you, Madame Ysabelle,” he chided, “that I would prove to you that mine is not the losing side.”
She considered this, glancing at one of the gravestones so briefly that he almost missed it. “You did,” she agreed, “but doing so by murder was no way to secure my allegiance.”