Then he noticed the way Vivianne held her head high as she walked along the bustling cobblestones. Klaus sighed and let the idea go. Killing the competition had its advantages, but for a woman like Vivianne, it might not suffice. To win her, he would have to pull out all the stops: Klaus would need to prove himself to be the better man.
CHAPTER FIVE
ELIJAH MIKAELSON WAS a survivor. It didn’t hurt that he was invincible, of course, but on top of that he had a real gift for adaptation, for getting along.
Since he and his siblings had arrived on the muddy shores of the crime-ridden outpost known as Nouvelle-Orléans, those talents had served him well. After Klaus’s initial rampage, they’d eventually made peace with the local witches and werewolves. They’d had to swear not to sire any new vampires, but the cost of making a home was worth it. The balance was fragile, but the truce had held for nearly a decade. After years of being chased by their murderous father across Europe, they’d finally landed on their feet.
But times were changing, and it was time for the Originals to change with them.
As Elijah headed out of the city, the close-packed buildings began to grow sparse, and the noise of the city center faded as his horse plodded forward. Humans rode and so he did, too, to maintain his facade, but mortal creatures moved at an achingly slow pace.
His path would be shortest if he cut through the private cemetery on the outskirts of town, and after the slightest of hesitations, he urged the horse beneath the high iron gate.
It was deserted, as any graveyard was likely to be with night falling, but Elijah did not feel alone. Unlike the public burial grounds, this small one teemed with the magic of its deceased inhabitants. No one but witches was buried here, and the concentration of their remains was potent. Incense burned beside many of the curiously inscribed stones, and the light from dripping candles distorted the shadows into fantastical shapes. There was no doubt that the place was thoroughly haunted.
Elijah’s horse shied and pranced, liking this place no better than he did. But the curve of the bayou would take him miles out of his way if he didn’t cut through the cemetery. It could be considered a test of resolve for Ysabelle’s potential visitors: Would they brave the unholy ground? Or take the longer path and lose an hour to their cowardice? Or, as she probably preferred, would the mortals stay away entirely, whispering tales about the witch who lived on the far side of the cemetery?
This place of magic reminded Elijah briefly, powerfully, of another witch who’d surrounded herself with this sort of beautiful rituaclass="underline" his mother, Esther. A thousand years ago, he had considered her the strongest, most perfect and elegant woman in the world. Then she had cursed him in a desperate bid to save her family from rampaging werewolves, never admitting that she’d had more to do with those wolves than any of them would have guessed.
Her spell had made her husband, Mikael, and her children immortal, invulnerable, and murderers a thousand times over. She had done what she thought was best, but had come to regret it. She had died believing that all her children—those fathered by Mikaeclass="underline" Rebekah, Finn, Kol, and Elijah himself, as well as her bastard son, the half werewolf Niklaus—were abominations. She had died believing that it would have been best to let the werewolves kill them all.
Their father, the first vampire hunter, had made it his mission to eradicate the scourge of Esther’s children. Elijah and his siblings had run for centuries and crossed oceans to escape their father’s wrath. Whenever the thought of his mother crept up on Elijah, it hurt him to his core—the belief that his parents would never love him and wanted him dead.
There was nothing to be done except to focus on the witch at hand. Ysabelle Dalliencourt wasn’t half the witch that Esther had been, of course, but that could work to his advantage now. She was known to be ambitious: Her desire for power far outstripped her natural talents for magic or leadership. She might be inclined to do favors for other powerful beings in exchange for alliances and gratitude, and Elijah found himself in need of a rather simple favor.
The pact with the witches had not only cost the Mikaelsons the ability to make new vampires; the Originals had soon found that their attempts to buy or barter for land within the city limits, no matter how enticing—or menacing—were refused. The message was clear: They could stay, but they shouldn’t get too comfortable.
As a result, Elijah and his siblings had spent the last nine years living in inns, boardinghouses, and eventually hotels. Their accommodations had admittedly grown more comfortable as the city’s population swelled and prospered, but even the most lavish hotel room wasn’t a home. It couldn’t be owned; it couldn’t be defended. It certainly was no place for Kol and Finn, his two brothers who slept in their coffins after Klaus had daggered them in anger. Elijah could see the winds of change blowing into their city, and he had no intention of being swept away by them. It was time for the Mikaelsons to own a slice of New Orleans, and all he needed was one amenable witch to allow him to claim it.
The smell of incense faded as he left the graveyard, and the forest rose up ahead of him. His horse pranced sideways a little, objecting to the gloom. Elijah patted its neck reassuringly and kicked it forward, his sharp eyes scanning the edge of the trees for a shadow that was different from the others.
Just as he spotted the little house, a flickering light appeared in its window, and the horse shied again. Elijah sighed and dismounted; it had been overly optimistic to attempt to travel on the beast. Animals had never been as naturally suspicious of him as they tended to be of his siblings, but it was clear that a vampire was not the sort of companion this creature preferred.
Elijah couldn’t really blame it for that.
He tied the reins to a hardy sapling and covered the remaining distance to the house on foot. There was no one around to notice him being more than human, but by force of habit he walked, trying to look unremarkable. By the time he reached the house, more candles had been lit, and through a window he spied the shadow of the witch. Yet, when he knocked firmly on the door, there was not even the slightest rustle from inside.
He knocked again and waited: nothing. “Madame Ysabelle,” he called, trying to sound as polite as possible while shouting through a closed door, “I have come on business that I believe might interest you.”
“Every stranger comes on business,” a voice warned from behind him, “but it’s rarely any business of mine.”
She spoke in a singsong, otherworldly lilt, so when Elijah spun around he was surprised. The woman who stood behind him on the whitewashed veranda was tall and slim, dressed smartly in a striped pink dress that might have come directly from Paris. Her auburn hair was piled neatly on her head, and gleamed softly in the moonlight.
He realized with a start that he had seen her before: She had been at the ill-fated engagement party. Somehow he had never connected the murmurs about the odd and reclusive Ysabelle Dalliencourt with the stylish, even elegant woman before him. Youthful, as welclass="underline" Vivianne Lescheres was her niece, but Vivianne’s mother must be a considerably older woman.
“Madame,” Elijah said formally, recovering himself enough to bow politely. “Thank you for speaking with a stranger.”
Ysabelle’s full lips twitched. “Vampire,” she said, “I’m sure you can understand why I do not intend to invite you into my house.”
“Of course,” Elijah said. “And your reasonable concern highlights the intention of my visit—even though I mean no harm.”