She wakes with a gasp, her breath clouding in the air. It is dark, she can barely see her hand in front of her face. She waits, though, and her eyes adjust. A wall looms and a gate and she almost realises where she is.
She pushes herself up into a sitting position only to bash her head on the low ceiling. She sees stars and swears loudly and at length, blood dripping from her forehead. She wipes it away and feels around with her hands, fingers rippling over dust and cold stone.
And there! Metal – even colder than the stone – edges smoothed by time and countless hands, the bolts holding it to the stone, fingers tracing the engraving...
She screams then, it all crashing back, what happened and where she must be.
Oh god.
She slips from her seat, and charges to the gate. It doesn't matter that she can't see, she knows this place like the back of her hand. She rattles the gate not expecting it to be that easy. It isn't, the lock is stuck firm. Only in New Orleans would you lock tombs.
She knows this better than most. After all, she's one of the people they're trying to keep out.
Well. Maybe not anymore. The dead do walk.
Speaking of, she puts her fingers to her wrist and panics in the long moment before she feels the blood rushing under her skin. Sagging in relief, she leans against the gate, the warm night air pulling at her dress.
Curious, she whispers under her breath, hands moving, and discovers she is as powerful as the day she died. The magic curls through her, sweeping through her limbs and settling in her belly.
Not powerless. Never again.
Unwillingly, the memory takes her over. A twist of fate, the daimon's teeth in her neck, blood and soul and power ripped from her in moments. She was dead before she hit the ground.
She doesn't remember what happened after.
There is a life after death, she knows this. Her magic uses it, her baby sister is married to a vampire.
She turns and grips the lock firmly in both hands, pushing her power into it until it pops. She may specialise in hoodoo but she can do regular sorcery as well. But it drains her. She bends over, hands braced on her knees, breathing hard, heart racing.
It takes a few minutes before she's ok but she steps out into the moonless night, low clouds hiding the stars, the smell of rain on the air. She looks back at the tomb, her family name written in corroding brass above the door. She pushes the gate shut and reminds herself to get the key to lock it.
Brushing the dust of her dress, it occurs to her that she doesn't know how long she's been dead. It's strange. It feels like it was only yesterday that she died, but it could have been months or even years. She needs to find a newspaper.
But what's stranger is that the cemetery is quiet, silent even. Right now, in the dead of night, it should be all but teeming with practitioners and the curious come to see the dead.
She hops of the tomb's step onto the path and knows why. Grief and suffering and pure, gleeful evil rips through her sending her stumbling back against the step. She trips and sits down with a bump, the sensation gone.
She experiments. Standing up, her hand on the wall, she braces herself before lifting her hand. Agony, flames and hate.
Her own ground is safe it seems. It becomes easier to think the longer she stays. The sensation doesn't go away but she becomes aware that it is not directed at her. She steps onto the path again and follows it to the exit. She could cut through the graves and get there faster but tonight she doesn't want to risk it with whatever it is out there.
She turns the corner and can see the gate, nervously happy. She may just get out of this without attracting its notice.
But whatever it is strides out onto the path in front of her and she jerks to a halt, heart in her throat. He is not human, not with eyes like that, but man-shaped. Taller than her by nearly half a foot, he looms in her vision, blocking her escape.
He is surprised to find someone here. Normal, sensible people run at the sight of him – even hugely powerful people like Jared and Seth fear him and what he could do if he let his iron hard control go for a moment.
There is fear in her gaze but mostly defiance. She doesn't want to be afraid, he realises. There is something vaguely familiar about her, too – the shape of her eyes, the way she holds herself, head slightly cocked – but he can't place it.
He looks at her properly. Long curly hair held off her face with a scarf, elegant wine red dress to her knees. She looks like she's off to a party except for her feet – bare but for mud and grit.
"Who are you?" he asks for a lack of anything else to do.
"I –" She stops and chews over for a moment. "I'm Tia. Tiyana Devereaux."
The name hits him like a punch in the gut. "Tabby and Mandy's sister? But you're dead!"
She opens her mouth to say something but he cuts her off. "I won't tell them. Not if you don't want me to. I understand, I do. I'm Nick Gautier."
She gapes in shock. "You're the snotty kid who works for Kyrian?"
"Mandy really called me snotty?"
"No, Tabby."
"Figures."
She laughs, surprising him. Nobody laughs at his jokes anymore. Not since that Christmas when the truth came out. And it is so gratifying that he laughs along with her and feels almost human.
He sobers up with her next question, however. "How long have I been dead?"
"Nine years."
She reels in shock. Nine years! She cannot even begin to imagine how the world has changed.
"Tell me," she says.
"What?"
"Everything."
Several emotions streak across his face – joy and hesitation and shame – before it all comes out in a rush, as if he doesn't want to say. "Tabby married Valerius – they've got two kids. Mandy and Kyrian had a son. Katrina – massive hurricane – killed thousands, drowned the city. I died the same night you did and became a Dark-Hunter –"
She interrupts him then. "How can you be in a cemetery then?"
"Four years after that I discovered that I was never human so..."
She nods, understanding that there are some things you can't just tell people, even – especially – if that person is the sister of your boss' wife. "The usual rules don't apply, got it." She cocks her head. "What are you doing here?"
"Visiting my mom."
What? And then it dawns. "Oh god, I'm so sorry."
"Don't be, it's not your fault. What are you going to do?"
The abrupt change in topic throws her for a moment. Shaking her head, she replies, "I have no idea, I hadn't got that far."
"What about a drink?"
"God, yes."
He takes her to Sanctuary. Where else would he go? They aren't his friends anymore – how can you be friends with someone who is afraid of you? – but he doesn't have to hide and that, in itself, is all he wants right now.
He is fascinated by her. The way she moves is smooth and drifting, her eyes wide in wonder.
It was strange enough for him – stepping into the world only to find that two years had passed even though it'd only been a few weeks for him – he thought it must be even stranger for her.
To be dead and to come back wasn't unusual – he knows this better than most – but to just wake up after nine years? It baffles him.
She baffles him.
She's taking this much more calmly than he would have thought. He had raged and screamed and killed people when he found out about Katrina but she had just nodded and moved on.
How could she do that?
Then again, she's a Devereaux. They take strangeness in their stride.
She halts suddenly and he turns to look at her. They're about a block away from Sanctuary and he can see Dev standing in the light from the doorway.
"What is it?" he asks, concerned.
"I can't do this. Look at me," she gestures at herself, "I'm a mess."
"They won't mind."
"No, I can't. I – I'm dead!" She put her head in her hands. "I can't just –"
He gets it. God ever, does he get it. He still can't bring himself to go see Maggie and Wren. He puts his arm around her, knowing nothing he can say will ever make it alright, and squeezes her tight. "Come on, let's go get that drink."
Ash walks in to Sanctuary to the strains of 'Sweet Home Alabama', his long coat swishing behind him, glasses flashing. It's all very dramatic.
At least, it is until he trips over his own shoelaces and Aimee takes one look at him and laughs her head off. If his wife were here she'd tell him his embarrassed blush was as cute as a button. He disagrees but – god – he loves her.
Every time he thinks that, it's a shock to him – as if realising it for the first time. And then he grins and asks Aimee for a beer.
She gets it for him and he leans against the bar so he can see the room. It's all the usual crowd – half the Were population of New Orleans, some bikers and a lot of tourists. All the daimons must have cleaned out when he arrived.
Shortly after his marriage and the birth of his son they'd become bolder. They thought that Tory and Bas would soften him – to be honest, Ash had thought so too – but, if anything, they had made him more ruthless.
He was quite happy with this state of affairs.
And then he saw the eternal headache and pain in his ass known as Nick Gautier and knew all chance of a peaceful night was shot to hell.
Nick was chatting up some woman. They both had beer and Nick was wearing his I-am-concerned-I-am-listening-I-am-going-to-get-la id face. Only he wasn't, not really. The woman was terrified – shaking, her knuckles white around the bottle – and Ash moved to intervene.
If Nick was scaring up dates now he was slipping faster than Ash had thought. It still grieved Ash that he and Nick had never made up after Cherise's death. Despite what Nick has gotten up to since, Ash still considers Nick his friend. He needed to deal with this.
Nick's head shoots up at Ash's approach, his face twisting with hatred, demon eyes flashing. Nick has no shame about his demonic paternity; anger, yes, but no shame – Ash envies him that.
The woman also turns around and you could have knocked Ash over with a feather. How had he not seen this?
She sees guilt and shock and relief on Ash's face. She knows who he is – how many six foot eight Goths are there? Putting her bottle on the table and slipping from her seat she grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him down to eye level.
"You bastard," she spits, fury filling her, power spilling over and affecting every dead thing in the bar. "You killed me. I have lost nine years of my life! Nine years! I could have been happy but you lost your fucking temper!" She pauses, taking care with her next words. "You will not tell my family. You will not interfere with my business. And you will not talk to me. I don't even want to smell you on my turf."
He pushes her away, she knows it's rougher than he'd be with any normal human and she is fiercely glad. She smiles at him, all teeth and malice, and relishes the moment, savouring each word before she speaks, "I died with power, Acheron, I've come back with a hell of a lot more and I'm going to tell the Malachai exactly what happened that night."
Ash blanched, sadness filling his eyes, his voice resigned, "What are you going to do?"
"What I was always going to, rule this city. You claim you're saving us but too often humans get caught in the crossfire. I will protect them, you won't."
She pushes past him, pulling Nick by the hand – out past the staring Weres, out on to the street, the night air filling her lungs. She breathes deep, feeling calm for the first time since she woke up.
He pulls her around to face him, their bodies bumping together. "What do you mean 'exactly what happened that night'?"
"Oh, Nicholas," she breathes, twining her fingers through his hair and pulling his forehead to hers. She kisses him, her power and memories flowing into him. What was, what never happened, what will be.
He kisses her back, hands roving and she feels the scrape of bricks on her back as he presses her against the wall. And he returns her gift. The rush of power is blinding in its intensity and she laughs, drunk with it, breaking the kiss.
She looks at him through her lashes, deliberately coy, and he makes to kiss her again. She slides away, out of reach. "You want me, Nick Gautier? Come and get me." She grins as she dances out of reach, running down the street.
He follows, as she knew he would. He will catch her and she is so happy her heart could burst.