Prologue: Two Witches
It's rare that the actualization of an idea exceeds expectation; and yet New Orleans has done just that for Bonnie Bennett. Upon setting foot in the city, she knew that this vibrant intersection of the magical and the mundane wasn't merely a place to visit.
This was a city to be experienced.
A piece of earth that seemed to have developed a kind of sentient life through ages of blood and birth; its consciousness separate from terra firma. It inhales a bit of the essence of each soul that enters and exhales a culture that can't readily be defined…to the visitor. A symphony of opposites, centering and transcending with each movement. New Orleans was a heady brew of sight, sound and sensation. The place Life and Death go for a quiet candlelit dinner.
Bonnie made her way easily through the sea of pedestrians out on a muggy Friday night. Back in Mystic Falls, a night like this would feel miserably oppressive. The combination of high humidity and summer heat resulting in sweat-sticky bodies lazily splayed, feeling thick and lacking energy. Even the gentle twang of the contemporary Virginian accent feels the effect, becoming drawn out and downright Antebellum. A night like this would be hell in Mystic Falls.
But then Mystic Falls is a sleepy little town that shuts down at 10 pm while the French Quarter dares you to ignore your creature comforts to come just a little closer and spy the details. Every sense is titillated, seduced into discovering the source of its attraction.
Humans drinking themselves stupid while here is understandable given the sensory overload such a place is capable of inflicting on a sober mind, especially at night. If things were different, Bonnie would throw caution to the wind and get lost within the stimulating expanse.
But things weren't different.
And she hadn't been in the French Quarter an hour before the Regent of the Nine Covens sniffed her out. Walked right up to the bar where she sat and plopped himself down on the stool beside her.
The funny thing about witches is that not only can they sense one another's power, they can sense the nature of it; how its use has molded and shaped its effectiveness. How well it's been cared for; how many wounds it's received and recovered from. How dirty its hands have gotten. They can sense the difference between a witch whose best trick is an aneurysm and one whose best is dropping the veil to The Other Side. A quick perusal of the magic emanating from him and Bonnie knows this Regent fits into the latter category.
He was tall, slender and looked as though he had been crudely carved out of a tree trunk. All sharp angles, uneven lines and splinters covered by walnut brown skin. But where a well-cared for goatee tended to give off an air of mystery and perhaps danger, on this man it made him seem tender. More approachable. There was kindness in his face. Too much kindness, Bonnie surmised.
So while he may know his shit, he wasn't a salty dog.
He wouldn't be of use to her in the end.
"Let me guess...Vincent Griffith?" Her tone is light as she nurses the drink in front of her. She doesn't face him as she speaks, but he can feel her magic prickle against his skin. Hell he'd felt it in the air an hour ago while dining at Rousseau's. Elbows deep in a piping hot bowl of gumbo, enjoying a brief reprieve from the supernatural clusterfuck that was French Quarter politics and he'd felt that power. Felt it so strongly that he half expected its owner to materialize at the table in front of him. Once he realized that the source of it was nowhere around, he began to worry.
With gumbo and peace of mind forgotten, he left Rousseau's and took to the streets, leveling up his senses to track down the witch broadcasting her presence to anyone with enough witchblood in their veins to catch it.
After everything that had gone down in the Quarter over the years, he half expected to find a resurrected Esther Mikelson, or perhaps her sister Dahlia or even—god forbid—his wife Eva. The thought of any of those women being back in the Quarter and he could feel a migraine coming on.
He finally stopped in front of Joe's Sippin Whiskey -the power wafting out the front door was so thick it was nearly tangible.
Full of foreboding, he warily entered and quickly absorbed the fact that he didn't know who the hell this witch was. And the closer he got to her, the more intrigue and apprehension battled for dominance.
She was tiny...maybe a sneeze over 5 feet with fine bones and soft curves all covered in caramel skin that clearly enjoyed the Louisiana climate-if its moistened glow was any indication. She sat there, seemingly unaware of the effect her presence was having on the patrons in this small dive. The humans could only interpret it as the magnetism of a beautiful woman and found themselves turning away from their conversations to discreetly glance in her direction at irregular intervals. The two werewolves and the vampire present were a different story; for they knew exactly what she was. And while the wolves were curious, wary and more than a little bit aroused, the vampire—one of Marcel Gerard's own—was practically channeling Pavlov's dog.
The bartender was serving her a drink by the time Vincent sat down. A quick glance to the salivating vampire in the corner and he knows that Marcel hearing of her is a forgone conclusion. He knows how this looks. It looks like the Regent of the Nine Covens is meeting up with some mysterious heavy-hitting witch in the middle of the Quarter.
She says his name and Vincent returns his attention to her.
"I feel like I'm at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I don't know who you are."
From her profile, he can see her lips curl into a small smile before her head turns to face him and...
He's known many beautiful women, many beautiful witches but he can honestly say that he's never seen a face like hers before. The mystery witch was striking. Her chocolate brown hair had been pulled up into a chignon, leave her face on full display. Large feline-shaped eyes that were olive green in color, high cheek bones, a proud nose and full lips that curved at the corners. A story written across more than one continent gave birth to this dark faery of a woman who made a compelling argument for the beauty of asymmetry. The glowing skin he'd spied on entrance was even more lustrous upon closer view. Vincent resisted the urge to find out for himself if it was truly as soft as his brain and his libido promised it was.
And that was from the neck up.
As his gaze drifted lower, he was greeted with a feast of lip-bitingly sensual dips and curves. Her breasts were ample in the oversized white tank top she wore and the small leather pouch tied around her graceful neck lay between them. Her small waist flared out into generous hips encased in skin tight jeans. And he already knew that was definitely an ass she was sitting on.
Constantly navigating a Cold War between witch and vampire had apparently caused Vincent to ignore one undeniable fact:
He needed to get laid.
Badly.
By the time he returned to her face, her smile had grown into a full toothed grin as her eyes laughed at him. As if she could hear his silent assessment.
"I'm Bonnie Bennett."
She almost laughed out loud when the record scratch of recognition bloomed on his face. Yes, that Bonnie Bennett, she confirms silently. Where once he looked like he was making a valiant effort to resist pouncing on her, now he looked a bit constipated. Constipated and alarmed. She can see him trying to process the magic that's rolling off of her, factoring it in with the knowledge of who she is, and what she's capable of doing. He'll begin insisting that she get the hell out of his territory in 3...2...
"Look, I don't know why you're here and I don't care. But we don't need the trouble that you being here will bring," he says. He's already signaling for a drink.
She watches him drink his courage and she sympathizes. She can recognize the feeling that's been bouncing off of him from the moment he entered. This man is a reluctant leader. Taking the reins out of fear that no one could or would do the right thing for his people. Driven by a desire to protect them as well as the humans around them from the bloody, entitled machinations of vampires.
She knows that feeling very well, thank you.
He's locked in conflict with one of the most powerful vampires this side of the Atlantic and now the Bennett Witch has landed on his doorstep. A spark dancing around a powder keg.
A spark that drinks bourbon.
She watches as his eyes keep darting back to the hard-on with fangs watching them from the corner. She knows he's heard their exchange. She knows that he will tell Marcel that she's here. She knows that Marcel will lash out at this Regent. She knows that this entire thing is working on poor Vincent's very last nerve.
She decides to help him.
Turning on the barstool she stares openly at the vampire, flashing an inviting smile while her eyes draw him to her.
"What are you doing?" She can hear the alarm in Vincent's voice.
"Keep drinking your drink," she murmurs as her prey accepts the invitation. He's a young vampire. A baby really. Turned too recently to be considered anything else. He's cute in a forgettable sort of way, with dark brown hair and eyes to match. She ignores the small voice that says he reminds her a great deal of Jeremy.
Vincent tries not to stare as Bonnie swivels toward the vampire now seated on the other side of her. He watches as she becomes a picture of coy smiles and soft touches. Vincent hears the vampire say his name is Donnie and then the sexiest, most promised-filled chuckle rumbles of the Bennett witch. He hears her make an adorably lame joke about how their names rhyme. And then he feels it.
Her magic.
While Bonnie smiles and flirtes, shyly regaling young Donnie with a tale about her vampire best friend and a teddy bear, her magic has begun to uncoil itself. Unseen by the naked eye, he felt it lift away from her shoulders and glide down her arms begin to slither up and around the hapless Donnie. Curious, Vincent concentrates his thoughts on Bonnie, attempting to touch her with his mind.
His ears are instantly filled with sound. Bonnie's voice, murmuring and muffled floated along the magic that flowed from her and surrounded Donnie. Vincent couldn't make out the words themselves, but the tone, the structure, the repetitiveness of it left no doubt:
Bonnie was chanting.
Whatever spell this was she was weaving around the vampire, Vincent hadn't seen it's like before. Donnie was completely engrossed, fumbling through an attempt at being charming while recounting how he was turned. Bonnie laughed, her hands never straying far from her target. If she wasn't touching his forearm, her hand was on his knee or brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder until finally she was simply holding his left hand in hers. Vincent couldn't help but look around the bar. The two witches and clueless vampire remained unnoticed. The wolves were already closing out their tab and leaving, having no desire to be around for whatever they could preternaturally sense going on. Vincent couldn't blame them. Hell he wanted to go with them, if he was being honest. The humans remained as oblivious as ever.
And yet Bonnie chanted on, winding her spell tighter and tighter. The density of the magic surrounding the witch and her mark was beginning to set Vincent's teeth on edge. What was she doing? When would she pull taut the trap she was clearly laying?
"Donnie, do you understand what I'm saying?" She gently stroked the back of his hand with her thumb.
"Yes." He seemed mildly confused. That, combined with his now dilated pupils and faraway voice, could only mean…
She was compelling him.
"That's good," she continued. Her voice was velvety smooth, with a huskiness that drew the vampire in until he leaned so far over their foreheads touched. Bonnie reached up and began stroking his cheek. "I need you to do something for me, Donnie. Do you want to do something for me?"
"Oh hell yeah," he exhaled.
"Good. Now when you walk out of this bar, you are going to forget you were ever here. You're going to forgot you ever saw me or my friend. You're going to forget even knowing my name. Do you understand?"
"How on earth could I forget you?" He was doubtful, almost child-like beneath her caress. His face had even fallen into a rather adorable pout.
Bonnie rewarded him with a 100-watt smile as she wound her magic more tightly around him. "Oh, I'm sure you could if you put your mind to it. Right?" The volume of her internal chanting spiked briefly as she pushed more of her will into the spell.
"Right". He suddenly felt firm in his ability to please her. He grinned as she lightly patted his cheek.
"Good boy. Now go home and get some rest and forget all about me." And with a sharp tug, she pulled her magic back herself leaving behind a completely disoriented vampire.
"Whaa…"
"Oh I completely understand if you have to go, it is such short notice," she assured him, completely shifting gears.
"Um…yeah…you know how that goes…"
"I sure do, so I won't keep you. Have great night."
"Yeah," he slid off his bar stool "I will." He laid two twentys on the bar and made a bee-line for the door.
Bonnie watched him until he left and then turned her attention back to an openly gaping Regent.
She frowned. "What?"
"What do you mean 'what'? You just compelled him!" Vincent was all tension and harsh whispers.
"And you're glad that I did, aren't you?"
The witch sighed, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. "Look, I know you don't give a shit about what's going on here, but I do." He began massaging his temples. "We're in a standoff. The vampires are spoiling for a reason to pop off and so are the witches. If Marcel finds out that a Bennett witch is here…"
"I get it. But I'm looking for something. I know it's here and I'm not leaving until I find it. So unless you want to help me…"
"No. No way and absolutely not-"
"—then the longer I stay here the more likely I am to be discovered." Her jaw was set. The warmth in her eyes, manufactured for Donnie, was gone.
"What are you looking for?" he asked quietly, unable to keep the worry at bay.
"Treasure."
Worry becomes apprehension. "What kind of treasure?" He's fidgeting. Bonnie thinks he may have inkling about what she's looking for. But then, there's only a few things here a witch of her caliber would be looking for.
"Oh nothing big," she says. "It's about this long," holding her hands a foot apart "it's made of bone and it comes with some really funky side effects." You'd think she was asking a store clerk for help in a hardware store.
Apprehension has become dread. "What do you want with Tunde's Blade?"
"I don't want it. I need it."
"Why?"
"Because my daddy always told me that to catch big fish, you need big bait. Terrible fisherman really but the logic is sound."
She looks at him pointedly and waits for him to put two and two together. When he finally does, she can feel him relax slightly. "You really think you can do something about that?"
Bonnie nodded.
Vincent's nodding as well, absorbing the fact that she isn't there to intentionally turn the Quarter upside down and shake everything and everyone loose. "Ok...Ok...I know where it is...but you can't have it."
"And why is that?" She's really developed a distaste for the word can't when it relates to her. She's been told she couldn't do something so many times and yet the reasoning has never been good enough to stop her. She doubts that it will be good enough now.
"Because it's been inside the chest of Klaus Mikelson for the past 7 years."
Bonnie blinked. Hard.
And Vincent is nodding again. As if each movement of his head is cementing both the truth of the matter and the theme park of problems it presents.
Bonnie pinched the bridge of her noise, shaking her head slowly in disbelief.
"No...fucking...way..."
Next up:
Chapter 1: Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil
A/N: This is my first fan fic and I plan to draw from canon in both shows while adding a few of my own ideas about S8, so be gentle. If you like it, blame Anastasia-G for encouraging it. And if you hate it...well...blame her too :-P