"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience." ~Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
Jane Doe
Chapter 1: Quelque Chose Mauvaise Cette Manière Vient
Fridays never wound up well for Jane.
Be it over-seeped tea, a scratch from her cat, Josephine, or a lack of taxis on her street, Friday mornings didn't start well. Work at the archives was slow, too, students not willing to waste the first day of their weekend in the shelves. And nights were always a disaster. Detective Fletcher Gaudet, Jane's best friend, usually dragged her out to a club or a bar after their respective shifts were over. His excuse was that Fridays were one of the few days when he was off-duty, and he wanted to spend them having fun.
But fun, for Jane, was a quiet night at home with her cat and a good book, not tramping through the Desire Area in search of liquor and decent music.
So when her stockings ripped as she crouched to pick up Josephine, and she was ignored by so many taxis that she decided to walk to work, Jane was unperturbed. It was just another Unfortunate Friday, and the town archives were even more silent than usual when she finally made it to her shift. As a result, she dug her copy of Galwain the Green out of her bag, fished some Post-It Notes and a pen from her desk, and got to work annotating for the lecture in her Medieval British Literature class Monday morning.
It was around eleven when the first one walked in.
Tall- taller than Fletcher, even, which was a feat in and of itself- with dark blonde curls and a smirk like a hyena. There was the faintest hint of a five o'clock shadow painting his jaw, and a dimple on his chin. The man stuck out like a sore thumb, surrounded by wooden bookshelves as tall as he was and locally-made art pieces that Jane painstakingly dusted every morning. The man didn't seem to mind though, holding himself as comfortably as she thought he might have in his own home, and he approached her with a feral-looking grin curling at plump pink lips.
"Hello, love," he mumbled, British accent throwing Jane for a loop for a moment. "I'd like to request a record viewing."
Jane nodded, closing her book and stowing it in a drawer before reaching for the ancient desktop computer she worked off of. "What name is the record stored under?"
"Marcellus Gerard."
That name made Jane stop short for a moment. She had read those records when they were reevaluating the city archives, and good Lord. They were the ramblings of a mad man- a slave from the early days of the city, convinced that vampires and werewolves were real, and that his master was one of them. As sad as the story was, Jane could understand why the records weren't available for public access. If she were in the same situation as Marcellus' descendants, she wouldn't want anyone reading them, either.
Jane sent the British man a commiserating frown. "Those records are sealed, I'm afraid," she told him. "I'm going to need to see some form of-"
The British man rolled his eyes at her and leaned across her desk to get closer. Jane nearly leapt a foot in the air and fought the urge to smack him upside the head with her book. He was touching her desk.
"I'm sure you don't, darling," the man purred, accent and low grumble wrapping around his words and reminding Jane of tea hitting the bottom of her cup on a rainy day. "Are you sure you can't just fetch me those journals without seeing my ID?"
Jane tugged nervously on the necklace Fletcher had given her two birthdays ago. She didn't like the way this man was staring at her, eyes too wide and blue. "I really can't," she reasoned. "Those records are sealed by order of both the city and the Gerard family. I can't let you see them without their permission."
Of course, Jane left out the fact that she had read those journals herself, illegally, without permission from anyone, but that was beside the point.
The man frowned at her. "What's your name?"
"Jane," she supplied, feeling inordinately uncomfortable in this man's presence.
She wished, suddenly, that she weren't the only person working the archives at the moment. Her boss, Mrs. Wellington, was on lunch break, although she should have been back by now.
"Do you have a last name?"
Jane tugged on the necklace again. "It's just Jane."
"Alright, Just Jane," quipped the British man. "My name is Klaus, and you are going to let me see those journals."
Jane felt her face color considerably. "No, I'm not," she told him, because she didn't like it when people were rude to her, she didn't like pushy men, and she certainly didn't like it when rude, pushy men tried to tell her what to do.
Stupid Fridays, stupid Jane, stupid, stupid British man who was far more handsome than any living person had any right to be-
Klaus scowled and- were his eyes turning red? "Listen to me, Jane," he edified. "I want you to take me into the back room, give me the journals, and then forget that I was ever here. Do you understand me?"
"Of course I understand you!" Jane snapped, and she was started to get very frustrated, because she couldn't do anything unless he gave her some form of ID that would allow him to look at these records, and she was really wishing that he would leave her alone. "I don't think you understand me. I can't let you look at the Gerard records unless you give me ID that says you are a part of the family, or permission from either the city or from the family itself."
"Why aren't you listening to me-?" Klaus bayed, and then stopped short, back-to-blue eyes fixated on Jane's necklace. And- he just sniffed like a freaking dog. "Your pendant has vervain in it."
Jane frowned.
What on Earth was vervain?
"Um, sure?" she said, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
Klaus didn't seem all angry and roaring anymore, but there was still a quiet sort of violence crackling around him that made her nervous, like a wolf waiting to pounce. Where was Mrs. Wellington when you needed her?
When next Klaus spoke, it was far softer, and far more malignant than before: "Are you one of his?"
Jane felt her nose wrinkle in confusion. "One of whose?" she asked, because the only "him" she had any personable connection with was Fletcher, and she highly doubted he was incriminated in some nefarious plot that somehow also involved Klaus and the Gerard journals.
Fridays really did suck.
"Marcel's. Do you work for him?"
"No?" said Jane, confusion tinging both her voice and her face. "I work for the archives?"
"Then why the hell do you have a necklace with bloody vervain in it?" Klaus demanded.
"I don't even know what vervain is!" Jane babbled, sufficiently frazzled.
Just who was this man, and why was he so concerned with her necklace? There were a lot of crazies in the city of New Orleans, Jane knew, and she had run into her fair share of them. But this man didn't remind her of them, with their wind-swept hair and wild eyes, and he certainly didn't smell as bad as they did. And beside the yelling-at-her bit, Jane thought that Klaus seemed lucid enough to not be drunk, and he didn't smell like marijuana, at least.
Swallowing down her trepidation, Jane squared her shoulders and planted her feet. "Sir," she said, in as calming a voice as she could, "there's nothing I can do for you, so if you don't have any other business in the archives, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Jane closed her eyes immediately and held her breath, anticipating shouting, violence, and possibly her own death. None of that happened. Instead, there was a split second of silence before the chime over the front door rang and Mrs. Wellington returned from her lunch break.
Ah, good. Someone who could stand up for Jane since she hated standing up for herself. Problem solved!
Jane could have sworn Klaus was growling, staring at her with ill-disguised anger. His shoulders were thrown back, making him look impossibly taller, and then all of a sudden he was backing down again with a long breath of air and a jaunty smirk. "I'll be back later, love," he promised, and then with a jingle of the bell over the door, he was gone.
Naturellement, Jane's Friday got even worse.
Fletcher Gaudet, Cajun detective for the NOPD and amateur foodie, had made it a point to meet with Jane for lunch every single day at one pm on the dot since the moment he realized that they shared a lunch break. Jane's opinion on restaurants was somewhat meaningless, however, seeing as all she cared about was a good cup of tea with her meal and a distinct lack of tourists.
Bistro Daisy had none of these things, and Jane scowled into her Mozzarella salad as a loud family from Chicago exclaimed over oysters and salmon mousse terrine. Fletcher didn't seem to care, devouring his duck confit with gusto, and Jane couldn't help but envy him and his easy nature as a head ache slowly developed.
She usually didn't mind tourists- most of the New Orleans natives didn't- and the ones who did come into the archives were always pleasant. Jane appreciated their curiosity as to the history of her town. But after the fiasco that was Klaus and his impossible requests, Jane could use some peace and quiet. If it weren't for Fletcher, she'd be at her apartment right now, drinking Jasmine tea and probably debating on whether or not to call in sick for the rest of the day so as to end Unfortunate Friday ten hours early.
Jane scowled into the white mug of hot water that the waitress called tea and sighed lowly, mixing in a big dollop of honey in an effort to give it some flavor. She fought back the urge to hold the warm cup up to her forehead to soothe the migraine, taking a big gulp from it instead.
Fletcher finally looked up from his meal at her sigh and frowned, eyebrows raising in acknowledgement of her displeasure. "What's wrong, beb?" he inquired, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin. "What's with the bahbin?"
"I do not have a bahbin," Jane replied petulantly, the very pout he was referring to rearing its ugly head. "I just have a head ache, that's all."
Fletcher made a noise of understanding. "Rough day at the library?"
Jane nodded glumly. "Not so much of a rough day as a rough guest," she corrected.
Fletcher tensed, immediately giving Jane his full attention. Unless she was mistaken, his hand started twitching to the firearm she knew he kept concealed beneath his leather jacket. "Anything I need to handle for you?" he asked.
"No," Jane soothed immediately. "No, no. I think I handled it okay… But he-" She paused in the middle of the sentence and shook her head, about to say But he said he would be back.
That would not be a good idea. Fletcher would assign either himself or a plain clothes officer to guard the archives 24/7, and Mrs. Wellington would probably have a heart attack. And then Jane would be in charge of the archives, which would just be awful for everyone involved.
"If anyone gives you any trouble," Fletcher began, "I want you to call me. I don't care what time it is or where I am, I will come help you."
"What if you're in the middle of a murder investigation?" Jane questioned, because Lord knew Fletcher and his coworkers had enough of those to deal with in New Orleans.
"I will drop the dead body and come get you."
Jane opened her mouth and then hesitated, about to tell him that that was a good way to get himself fired, and decided to just nod instead. Sometimes, there just wasn't much of a point in arguing with Fletcher.
Fletcher grinned and sat back in his seat, folding his cloth napkin primly and setting it down next to his plate. "There's a new jazz bar on Frenchmen Street," he began, eyebrows waggling like they always did when he got excited. "Blue Nile. Wanna check it out tonight, beb?"
Jane gave a groan of complaint, running a hand through her hair. Practically speaking, this wasn't the worst place Fletcher could have picked- Frenchmen Street was in Bywater, which really wasn't so far from Jane's apartment in Broadmoor.
"We'd have to go through the French Quarter to get there," she pointed out sourly. "On a Friday night? That's suicide, Fletch."
"We could take a ferry downriver," Fletcher suggested.
"Don't they stop running at midnight?"
"Fine. We'll take my motorcycle."
"Then you won't be able to drink."
Fletcher rolled his eyes dramatically, spearing the last bit of duck confit on his fork and popping it into his mouth with a sigh. "Stop complaining, beb," he instructed. "It'll be fun, I promise. I'll pick you up when your shift is over, alright?"
Jane shifted awkwardly in her seat before nodding promptly. "Fine," she said apace. "I'll go with you, but that doesn't mean I'm going to have any fun whatsoever during the entire night- I'm just going to sit there and complain about the music being too loud and there being too many people there until you get so cross with me that you take me home."
To her dismay, Fletcher just winked at her and grinned. "I wouldn't expect any less from you, beb."
Say what you will about Bistro Daisy and its patrons, but the one thing that increased its standing in Jane's favor was the restaurant's fortunate location in the Lower Garden District- which meant amazing proximity to both Tulane University, the college Jane technically worked for, and Mojo Coffee House, the shop that sold the best chai tea latte she had ever tasted.
Armed with her drink, and a chocolate croissant for good measure, Jane made the trek back to the archives and behind her desk, ignoring the "no food or drink" rule that she painstakingly reinforced every day. Laws be damned. It was an Unfortunate Friday, and Jane wanted her comfort food.
The croissant, of course, was a disaster just waiting to happen, and, predictably, a very surly Jane nearly burst into tears when she smeared chocolate all down the front of her shirt.
So it was that when Elijah Mikaelson walked into the Tulane University Archives, it was to find that the rather small receptionist looked like she was about to cry. This stumped Elijah for a moment, because in his experience women didn't cry unless they had something to cry about, and nothing seemed outwardly wrong with this young lady.
It couldn't, he reflected quietly, be about Niklaus, could it? Elijah's younger brother had complained about the stubborn librarian hours ago, and while Klaus may be hard to deal with, his nonphysical battles with people usually didn't leave them weeping for the foreseeable future.
Usually.
Jane glanced up when she heard the doorbell ring and immediately proceeded to color considerably when she saw the tall, dark haired man staring at her with a raised eyebrow. She also spilled what was left of her drink all down her already-ruined shirt and the textbook she had been reading out of, as well as the notes she needed for class Monday morning. To make matters worse, the latte was still rather hot, and she let out a startled yelp at the burning sensation it elicited.
The tall, dark figure standing in the doorway reacted immediately, and before Jane knew it the man was in front of her, eyes sweeping her up and down to find any possible injury.
"Are you alright?" he inquired, British accent making Jane's blood run cold for a moment.
She straightened immediately and nodded hastily, stepping back and away from the desk to reach for the paper towels stashed underneath it-
Crunch.
When Jane looked down, it was to find that she had stepped on- and subsequently broken- her phone.
She sighed deeply, closed her eyes, counted to ten, and then opened them and forced a smile. "Thank you," she said. "I'm alright. Just a bit of a train wreck this afternoon. How can I help you?"
Elijah, for just a split second, was stumped. He didn't think he had seen this many accidents happen in such a short amount of time since the Battle of Karánsebes*.
He shook his head, clearing it, and held out a hand for her to shake. "My name is Elijah Mikaelson," he offered. "I believe you met my brother, Niklaus, earlier?"
Jane couldn't keep her expression from sourness, but she shook Elijah's hand nonetheless. "Yes," she replied ambiguously, thinking it might be rude to tell Elijah that his brother was the most uncouth man she had ever met. "The blonde man looking for the Gerard journals?"
Elijah nodded. "The very one." Here, he cleared his throat a bit awkwardly and stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. "I am also under the impression that he was quite rude to you. I feel the need to apologize, on his behalf."
Jane blinked, not expecting that particular set of words in the least, and, unbidden, color flooded her cheeks and she gave a toothy smile. "Thank you, Elijah," she acknowledged sincerely. "I really do appreciate that."
He gave a slight quirking of his lips before drawing his shoulders back, all business once again. "Well," he prompted. "As needs must, my family really is in great need of those journals, so I find that I am obligated to ask you if I may see them."
And there it was. Jane's breath caught in her throat, and she shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, feeling the shards of her cellphone's screen beneath her heel. Her gaze flitted to Mrs. Wellington's office door. Jane wished her boss were manning the desks today and that she was on inventory- it was a difficult day for customer service, that was for sure.
With a heavy sigh, Jane fixed her gaze onto Elijah's tie and stated, "Those journals are sealed. I can't let you see them without express permission."
Elijah couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for this young woman. She was clearly just trying to do her job, but he knew Niklaus, and he knew that his brother would find some way to get a hold of the journals. It was just bad luck on this girl's part that she was standing in his way.
"Look," Elijah began, "my brother will get his hands on the Gerard journals eventually, and while I understand that it might go against your policies, it would be much simpler for everyone involved if you just gave them to him now. We could make a deal, of sorts; if you let me have the journals now, I will promise you that Niklaus will never come to harass you again."
And Jane wanted to. Jane really, really wanted to. She hated confrontation, and even after only having talked with him for a few minutes, she had a premonition that Klaus brought conflict with him wherever he went.
There were, however, two problems with Jane's give-in-to-the-British-and-let-them-have-the-damn-journals plan.
One, the journals weren't even in the archives at the moment. She had snuck them up to her apartment when she first started reading them, and hadn't quite been brave enough to bring them back
Two, Jane had never, ever broken the archive's rules before.
And, she realized, disappointed, she wasn't about to start now.
"I appreciate your understanding," Jane began reluctantly. "Truly, I do- But." She cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and said, quite clearly, "I can't let you look at those journals. If your brother wants to see them, he can come back here with a note from either the Gerard family or the city, but otherwise, he's just going to have to deal with it."
To Elijah's credit, he took this rather well.
The only reaction was a sigh and a straightening of his jacket. Elijah nodded (although Jane didn't miss the sad, tired pull of his eyebrows), and replied, "Very well, then. I'll let Niklaus know your response. It was very nice to meet you, Miss Jane. I am sure that we will be seeing each other again very soon."
Jane bopped her head up and down quickly, eager to get the strange man to leave. As kind and gentle as Elijah seemed, there was an air to him- and his brother, for that matter- that did not sit right with Jane. Fletcher would have called it intuition, but Jane didn't care what it was called. All she knew was that she wanted nothing to do with the Mikaelsons or the Gerard journals, and the first thing she was going to do after her lecture Monday morning was bring the documents back to the archives, and then lock them up where no one would ever have the desire read them, ever again.
"Have a good day," Jane called wanly after Elijah's retreating form.
He turned, smiled at her, and waved, and then the door was shutting behind him and the library was quiet once again. Jane let out a sigh of relief and slumped down into her desk chair, trying to ignore the now-cold, spilt coffee seeping into the bottom of her skirt.
Her gaze flitted to the old clock over the door and she emitted a huff of air. Two more hours to go until the end of her shift, but, unfortunately, many more left before Jane's Friday finally came to an end.
At eight pm that night, Fletcher pulled up on his bike in front of Jane's apartment building, and the two of them made their way from Broadmoor to Bywater.
All things considered, traffic in the French Quarter was really not as bad as it could have been on a Friday night. Jane and Fletcher made it through in less than twenty minutes, and Fletcher turned to send Jane a smug grin the moment the bike's wheels hit Marigny.
Frenchmen Street, however, was a mad house.
It was mid-October, and as such, crowded as all get out. Tourism was at its peak the closer you got to Halloween, although not anything near to the insanity that was Mardi Gras season. The street was packed, and Fletcher nearly hit a few people as they weaved their way through the masses.
Past The Spotted Cat and the Frenchmen Market, past the Poets' Gallery and the Apple Barrel. Fletcher finally pulled to a stop in front of Blue Nile, already bursting at the seams with booze and blues-happy patrons.
Jane could already hear the music pulsing as she hopped off the back of the bike and shook her head free of the extra helmet. The hodge podge of crooning jazz mixed with the pounding hip hop from the club across the street, and the screaming rock 'n roll from the bar next door made her head spin. People from every walk of life laughed and danced on the porch that clung to the second story of the venue, and the line to get in wrapped around the block.
"Come on." Fletcher tugged on Jane's wrist, leading her past the line to the entrance of the bar. "Alexie is bouncing tonight."
"Really?" Jane blinked in surprise. "Wasn't he working the Spotted Cat last weekend?"
Alexie Popov was a freakishly tall, obscenely well-built Russian immigrant with the heart and personality of a goofy teddy bear. He was something of a serial bouncer, switching from club to club across all of New Orleans in an effort to earn enough money to pay for his college education. At last count, he was employed at ten bars, although, considering his position at Blue Nile, Jane mentally upped that number to eleven.
Even in the midst of the lunacy of tourists and locals trying to get into the bar, Alexie was an island of cheerful serenity. His already-toothy grin grew even wider when he caught sight of Fletcher and Jane edging their way toward him, and he called, in his voice like a bullhorn, "Professor! Good to see you!"
Jane gave him a delighted smile. "You too, Alexie," she replied, soft voice swallowed by the clamoring masses. Alexie seemed to hear her, regardless, and flushed warmly in pleasure.
Speaking with Alexie was always a joy. Jane had first met him at the beginning of the school year when he enrolled in one of four lecture courses that she taught at Tulane University- Regional History 1101. He was a breath of fresh air in the classroom, always happily engaged and nodding along during Jane's lessons.
How he and Fletcher knew each other, Jane wasn't sure, but she brushed it off rather easily. Fletcher seemed to be friends with everyone in New Orleans, tourist or otherwise. It wasn't that difficult to believe that he had run into Alexie on patrol one day and struck up a comradery with him.
Fletcher grinned at Alexie and tugged him into a quick handshake-turned-hug, patting his heavily muscled back before pulling away. "Think you can get us in there, man?" Fletcher asked, pointing a thumb at the blue-tinged, dimly lit interior of the jazz bar.
Alexie nodded earnestly. "For Professor and Detective? Yes!"
He pulled a stamp out of his back pocket and pressed it onto the back of Jane and Fletcher's hands, pectorals straining against his tight blue shirt as he did. When Jane looked down at the mark, she saw an azure crescent moon that matched the one hanging off of Blue Nile's sign. Alexie waved them through, then, not bothering to check either of their ID's. Both Fletcher and Jane were of age, although Fletcher, who had a very young face, got carded more often than not when they went out together.
Fletcher sent Alexie a playfully judging glance and raised an eyebrow. "You know it's illegal not to card someone in America, right, Popov?" he joked, waving the stamp on the back of his dark hand impishly.
"You not arrest me, Detective," Alexie scoffed.
Jane chortled, spirits sufficiently raised, and said, "Thank you, Alexie! I'll see you in class on Tuesday!"
Alexie waved at their retreating forms, nearly smacking a nearby patron, waiting in line, as he did. "Have good weekend, Professor!"
"You, too," Jane cried back.
Fletcher just rolled his eyes, arm going around Jane's waist and swinging her off the floor. Jane let out a yelp of annoyance as he did so, but she went ignored, Fletcher maneuvering the two of them over to the packed bar and setting Jane down on a stool.
"I hate when you do that," she told him, pushing mussed hair out of her face and pouting.
"Aw, beb, drop the bahbin," he instructed, sending a suave grin at the bar tender behind the counter. "You and Alexie would have stood there all night making the veiller. We came here to party!"
Jane huffed, a grumpy expression clouding her face. "There's nothing wrong with being nice," she pointed out petulantly.
Fletcher laughed at her again, finally catching the attention of the bartender, who meandered over to them and gave a red lipstick and white teeth smile.
"What can I get for you two, darlings?" she asked, though her attention was fixed firmly on Fletcher.
"A whiskey sour for me and a Moscow mule for my Mamere," Fletcher instructed, winking when the bartender giggled at his joke. Jane did not think that it was very funny.
"Coming right up," the bartender replied, disappearing not soon after.
Jane pursed her lips at Fletcher, and said, "I can't believe you called me a Grandma."
Fletcher's mouth twitched as he tried to fight back a smile. "You're right, beb," he acknowledged. "I think Grandpappy might be a better description for you."
A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it, and Jane was grinning, eyes bright and cheeks rosy, when the bartender passed their drinks across the countertop, waving away Fletcher's attempts at paying her and asking for his number, instead. Fletcher gave it readily.
"You can't go anywhere without getting asked out, can you?" Jane teased.
Fletcher shrugged and then guffawed, taking a long draught from his whiskey sour. He was blushing noticeably. "It's 'cause I'm so charming," he bragged. "C'mon, beb. Let's go-"
And at that moment, Klaus and Elijah Mikaelson appeared.
"Hello, love," Klaus chirped, looking very dangerous indeed. "Fancy seeing you here."
Elijah forced a pained smile, looking very out of place in his stiff suit, and greeted Jane with; "I did tell you that I would be seeing you again soon."
Jane's eye twitched. "Connard!" she cursed, immediately flushing at Elijah's raised eyebrow. "Pardon my French," she asserted immediately. "Why are the two of you here?"
Fletcher, it seemed, did not hold the same reservations that Jane did. "Who the hell are you?" he asked rudely, not-so-subtly edging himself between Jane and the two Mikaelson men.
"Klaus Mikaelson," the blonde brother explained smoothly. "Your sweet little girlfriend has access to some documents I need to take a look at."
"I'm not his girlfriend," Jane corrected quietly, shutting up when Fletcher turned around to glare at her.
"Are these the douchebags who were harassing you at work today?" he asked, voice taking on a frighteningly serious tone that Jane had never heard from him before. At her nod, he got up, grabbed Jane by the forearm, and steered her away from the bar. "We're leaving."
"But-"
"Now, Jane."
"Ah," Klaus' voice called from behind them. "You're a witch, aren't you, boy?"
Jane dug her heels into the ground and turned back to face the brothers. "What?" she asked. Fletcher tried to pull her away again but she shook him off. "A witch? What is he talking about, Fletch?"
"It doesn't matter," Fletcher growled over the pounding music. "Jane, let's go."
"No," Jane insisted stubbornly. Elijah had gotten up from his stool and was looming over her shoulder. "I want you to explain what's going on."
"And I will. Just not here. Come on, Jane."
Jane couldn't help but harrumph at that. Fletcher had absolutely no intention of telling her anything, and Jane knew it. And like hell she was going to let him treat her that way. There were already far too many things she didn't know about without Fletcher adding to that list.
"I'm leaving," Jane said sharply, not sparing a glance at either Mikaelson.
Fletcher heaved a sigh of relief. "Great. Let's-"
"Not with you," Jane interrupted him, beginning to walk away, only to be blocked by a very British asshole in a leather jacket.
"That's great, love. Why don't we take a little trip to the archives, in that case?" Klaus purred smoothly, Jane glaring up at him like a very irate child.
Fletcher cut in, once again, with a snarled; "She's not going anywhere with you, buddy!"
Jane, feeling very uncomfortable with being talked about as if she were an object, took this opportunity to slip into the roiling crowd of the jazz bar and shuffle her way over to the door. Alexie was too busy trying to convince a very upset-looking, obviously underage girl that he wasn't allowed to let her into the club. Jane found herself feeling relieved, glad that she didn't have to explain herself to him.
She slipped around the perimeter of the street to an empty backlot, planning on cutting through Seventh Ward in an effort to avoid the New Orleans party scene. SW was a family neighborhood, full of townhomes and small businesses, which meant it was a good deal less dangerous for one tiny, lone girl at night. Or at least Jane hoped it was. If all else failed, she had heels to dig into someone's foot and a very loud scream.
Neither of these things came in handy when she was karate chopped in the stomach and sent flying across the lot.
Jane wheezed out a choked breath (and maybe just a little bit of blood- Were her ribs broken?) and glanced up at her assailant- Assailants. There were two of them, one in a black newsboy cap, the other curvy and pale. Both with red eyes and fangs-
"Saint baise," Jane breathed, voice scratchy with the effort to come out of her throat. "Vampire."
Marcellus Gerard had been right.
At that moment, a gigantic ball of auburn fur came barreling around the corner of the building and into the lot. Jane held back a shriek of surprise as it came to a stop in front her, stopping and snarling at the vampires. It was a wolf. A wolf the size of a fucking horse.
And it seemed to be defending her for some reason.
"Fuck off, mutt," the female vampire snapped. "This doesn't involve you."
The wolf ignored her, lunging forward and biting at her arm. A good chunk of pale flesh was yanked away, and the woman let out an enraged scream, swiping at the wolf's muzzle and leaving a slash of red blood across its snout.
The creature howled in pain, bones breaking themselves and shifting and fur falling away to reveal-
"Alexie?" Jane cried.
There was a clattering sound, and Fletcher came barreling onto the scene, face more enraged than Jane had ever seen it.
"Thierry!" Fletcher bellowed. "What the fuck?"
The male vampire, apparently named Thierry, glared at Fletcher with red eyes and replied, "She's on Marcel's list, Gaudet. You should leave before you are, too."
"I'm not part of the New Orleans coven, asshole," Fletcher hissed back. "I don't answer to Marcel. She's under my family's protection-"
"Is there a problem here, Thierry?"
The Mikaelson brothers, it seemed, had a penchant for appearing out of nowhere at the strangest times.
Thierry glared at Klaus, adjusting the brim of his hat and letting the red bleed from his eyes. "No," he replied in a clipped tone. "Just taking the trash out for Marcel."
Jane bristled at the "trash" comment, but was too shell-shocked to respond to it. She vaguely noticed Alexie approach her and push her hair off of her neck to survey the extent of her injuries. Jane could faintly feel a line of something hot trickling down her spine from the back of her head.
Elijah remained silent at the remark, and Jane saw that his eyes were locked, worried, on her. Klaus barked out a laugh and flexed his hands menacingly.
"Tell Marcel that this one's mine," he purred. "And if he has a problem with it, he can come talk to me. Run along now."
Thierry looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded stiffly and turned tail. In a moment, he and the injured, female vampire were gone.
"She's not yours," Fletcher growled at Klaus, striding over to Jane and hooking his arms under hers to yank her to her feet. She could feel her skin shuddering against his. "You need to leave her the hell alone-
"I apologize, mate. Did you want her to die?" Klaus asked snidely, venom dripping from his voice.
"Stop," Jane croaked out. She shook off Fletcher and Alexie, stumbling away from them. "What the hell is happening?"
Elijah materialized in front of her, face appropriately concerned, and said, "Nothing, Jane. Forget this-"
"Are you trying to wipe my memories?" Jane asked hysterically. "You're trying to wipe my memories! Can vampires even do that?"
"Da," Alexie offered helpfully.
"Put some clothes on, vous psychopathe!"
"Oh for God's sakes," Klaus complained. "The supernatural is real, love, and currently rules the city of New Orleans. And because you, curious little minx that you are, read the leader of the supernatural community's journals, you are on the vampires' kill list. Congratulations."
Marcellus Gerard is the leader of the vampires in charge of New Orleans- vampires are real- those two knew who Fletcher was- Fletcher-!
Jane turned to Elijah. "You talked about making a deal with me earlier," she prompted curtly. At his nod, she continued; "I'd like to now, if you don't mind."
"Beb, what the hell-?"
She ignored Fletcher completely, and explained; "I'll let you two have the Gerard journals and anything else you may need from either me or the city's records, and in return, you keep Alexie, Fletcher, and the rest of the Gaudet family safe from whatever's going on here."
Elijah studied her for a moment (everyone ignored Fletcher's squawk of outrage) before nodding, apparently satisfied with what he had found in her face. He turned to Klaus. "It might be fortuitous, brother, to have an informant inside of the humans' city. You would be able to more easily learn Marcellus' history."
Klaus snorted and replied, "Brother, if you really think the little treat will be useful, do what you like."
And with permission, Elijah grasped Jane's extended hand and shook it firmly.
Footnotes: Translations and Definitions
Quelque Chose Mauvaise Cette Manière Vient- "Something wicked this way comes." A fitting chapter title, I thought.
Naturellement- French for "naturally"
Beb- A Cajun term of endearment, meaning "sweetheart" or "darling". Fletcher uses this as "sweetheart".
Bahbin- A Cajun slang word for "pout".
The Battle of Karánsebes- On September 17, 1788, during the Austro-Turkish War, two different sets of the Austrian army, drunk off of schnapps and mistaking each other for the Turkish, began to battle each other, resulting in 10,000 casualties. I couldn't make this up if I tried, people.
Making the veiller- Cajun slang. To spend the evening talking with friends.
Mamere- A Cajun term for grandmother
Connard- French for son of a bitch.
Sainte baise- French for holy fuck.
Da- Russian for yes
Vous psychopathe- French for "you psychopath"