1822 – New Orleans, Louisian
"Good evening, Marcus," Kamila greeted as she entered her favorite restaurant. Marcus was the owner and spoke fluent Italian – he'd been helping Kamila learn English for the past four years. He and his wife had become close friends of the Parisi family, taking them in like surrogate parents, something they sorely needed. Kamila smoothed her skirt out before perching on one of the high seats at the bar.
Marcus smiled at her, "Hello, Kamila."
She looked around at the dozens of patrons, "It's busy tonight, yes?"
He nodded, "Yes, very. So if you want a drink or something to eat, you'd better order it before I start running around. It's just Marie and I working tonight."
"Do you need help?" Kamila asked, pushing at her sleeves, "I can cook or wash your dishes."
He laughed and shook his head. "Kamila, if I let an upstanding woman like you do scrub work in my place, people will start asking questions."
"Well, if you change your mind, I am here."
"Of course," he nodded. "In the meantime, food? Drink?"
"Just a glass of sherry, please." He poured her the drink and then left the bar to tend to the restaurant guests, moving quickly from table to table in a blur. Kamila sat back, nursing her drink and exchanging brief pleasantries with people she knew, getting a second drink from Marie as the hour grew later. Soon, it was just drunks and newspaper reporters, sucking down their drinks and speaking far too loudly.
With the crowd thinned out, Marcus and Marie both circled around the bar and started taking inventory. "So, Miss Kamila," Marie said as she examined a bottle of wine, "What has you out so late without a chaperone? You know Mister Uberto wouldn't approve; it's not safe."
"Uberto and I have not been getting along today," she shrugged, "I thought it best that we have space from each other. He should be asleep soon, then I will go home."
There was a loud crash at one of the tables in the back corner of the restaurant and all three of them turned to see the man who'd been drinking there all night smash a glass against the tabletop. "Whoops!" He laughed, drunkenly gleeful and unaware of the cut on his hand. "I am so sorry," he called to Marcus and Marie, though his tone was insincere. There was a pleasant timbre to his voice, and his accent was English. This wasn't surprising, though; New Orleans was full of immigrants. "I will pay for that, I give you my word."
Marcus nodded to him, "That's fine, friend. Don't worry about it."
"Oh, no-no-no," the drunk shook his head, "No, I always keep my word. And now that I've given my word, I must follow through. I have, erm..." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, counting them out, "...I have not enough, at the moment. I will follow through, though!"
Marcus ignored this, turning his attention back to his wife. "Do we need more red wine, Marie?"
"Hey!" The drunk yelled, standing up so quickly that he rocked the table. "Are you calling me a liar?!"
"Nobody said anything like that," Marie called back, "Just settle down."
"I will not settle down!" His voice was a deafening roar, "I have had a very bad day and I do not want to be settled! I want to be drunk!" He kicked his chair and it splintered, causing Kamila to jump. "I want to be angry! I want to be distracted!" He picked up a second chair and smashed it against the wall. When he laid his hands on a third, Kamila jumped to her feet and ran across the room to stand in front of him.
"Distraction!" She shouted, louder than she meant to. "It's a funny story because when I was learning this language, I got the words 'distraction' and 'damage' mixed up. You, on the other hand," she cocked her head, "This is your language, no?" She reached out, wrapping her hands around the chair he still clenched and pulling it away from him. He let her, a curious expression crossing his face.
"What an audacious thing to say," he told her, voice becoming calmer.
"Audacious...?" Kamila repeated.
"Audace," he supplied. "È più facile se parlo Italiano?"
She shook her head, "No, this is my language now. Your Italian is very good, though."
"Thank you," he said with a tip of his head. He lowered himself down, realized his chair was in pieces, and jumped back up. "Where is my chair?!" He demanded.
Kamila pushed one toward him, "Here. Best in the house." He took it with a skeptical eye and sat down, watching her as she took a seat across from him. "So," she folded her hands on the table and leaned forward, "What has made your day so bad, signore?"
"My sister is a cow," he said immediately, then yelled, "Another drink! And one for the signorina!" Marcus hurried over with a bottle of sherry and two glasses, giving Kamila the are-you-okay look, then making his way back to the bar when she gave him a discrete nod. Meanwhile, the drunk man had started ranting. "I have done so much for my family," he took up the bottle with unsteady hands and attempted to pour, but he was already too far gone to maneuver it. Kamila took the bottle and poured a measure into each glass, pushing one across the table to him and taking a drink from her own, listening. "Especially for my sister," he said as he lifted his glass, "God, I have done so much for my sister. But none of them appreciate anything I do."
Kamila nodded sympathetically, replenishing his drink when he finished it off. "And do you know what it is?" He slurred. "It's because I'm not afraid to be the bad guy, because somebody has to be the bad guy." He punctuated this by slamming his new glass into the table. Kamila rolled her eyes and pushed hers toward him. In the corner of her eye, she could see a tense Marcus and a frightened Marie standing behind the bar, but she was unafraid. Fifteen years with Alrigo Parisi and it was going to take a lot more than a drunk Englishman to rattle her cage. "They know what I'm capable of," the man rambled on, "Yet still they cross me; why do they do that? Rebekah, that cow, she got what was coming to her."
This sparked Kamila's full attention. "What was coming to her?"
The man studied her for a long moment, raising an eyebrow and smiling a little, "I sent her away. Got her all cozied away in a box while she thinks about what she's done."
"In a box?" Kamila struggled to think of what this would mean, "She is in an asylum?"
"In a way, yes." He leaned forward, looking at her closely, "You're interesting."
Kamila snorted indelicately, "I am? Why am I interesting?"
"Because you're not afraid of me," he smiled, "And there aren't many people that aren't afraid of me. Also," he gestured to her, up and down, "You're not exactly the typical southern lady."
She rolled her eyes, "I am an Italian farm girl, not a southern lady. In my opinion, the women hear wear too much clothing." The drunk man snorted, and Kamila quickly backtracked, "I mean, so many skirts and corsets and shoes with pointy heels. Back home, all I had to wear with a dress, an apron, and flat shoes. I wear that here, and people think I am a...mm," she mulled over the word, "Meretrice?"
He'd just taken a drink of the sherry and promptly spit it across the table, choking with laughter. "A whore," he translated, "Though here, it's more proper to call them prostitutes. I agree, though," he told her as she refilled his glass, "The heavy clothing of city women seems unnecessary."
Kamila smiled, pleased. "And I agree with you," she reciprocated. When he gave her a look of confusion, she told him, "Somebody has to be the bad guy. No one can be kind all of the time – we would never get anywhere if we were."
He returned her smile, teeth sparkling white and perfectly straight. The smile fell to a small grin and he ran a hand through his blonde curly hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "You're a very clever young lady," he informed her. "I said I wanted to be drunk, and angry, and distracted; you allowed me to be all three without doing too much damage to your friend's place here," he waved a hand around. "And now, I feel better, and I thank you for that." He stood and picked up the sherry bottle, gulping down the last of it. "With that, I take my leave. I hope you have a wonderful evening, Signorina Italiano." He walked on unsteady feet, patting her briefly on the shoulder before continuing to the door.
She waited a moment, then a horrible realization hit her. She tossed a few coins on the table, enough for the bottle and the glasses that had been broken, and hurried after the drunk stranger. "Signore!" She called, surprised to find him already halfway down the street, walking sideways with his arms spread out from his sides. He stopped and turned, then waited as she ran to catch up.
"Signorina, I thought we'd already established that you are not a meretrice."
"What? No, I'm not!" She took a moment to catch her breath, pressing her hand to her stomach. Damn corsets. "It's not safe out here at night, especially if you've been drinking so much. Someone is going to take your money and kill you."
"You saw how much money I've got," his eyes were beginning to droop in his drunken stupor, "They'd be wasting their time."
She gestured to his feet, "You have nice shoes; they will take your shoes, too." She changed her pocketbook from one hand to the other and pushed a stray hair from her face. "I will walk you home."
He laughed loudly, the sound echoing off of all the surrounding buildings. "And who will walk you home?"
"People do not bother me." She gave no further explanation. "I will walk you home," she said definitively, raising her chin to show her resolve.
The man sighed and shook his head, "I have no home."
Kamila touched a hand to her chest, ashamed she hadn't put it together before. "You've got no money, no home... I am so sorry, signore. Come," she said, putting her hand on his arm and turning him around, "We have guest quarters on our property; you can stay there tonight. No, no," she held up a finger when he opened his mouth to protest, "No arguments. You will stay there. Come, Signore Bad Guy," she started gently pulling him, "We need a carriage; it is too long a walk to my house."
The man passed out in the carriage, but woke up enough to help bear some of his weight when they arrived at Parisi Piantagione. Kamila helped carry him to the guest quarters – a small blue box at the edge of the property that had originally been reserved for the servants, until the family had given them rooms in the main house – and deposited him on one of the four beds there. He was out again before she could even say goodnight.
Kamila woke the next morning to a sudden bright splash of light. "Rise and shine, Miss Kamila," her housemaid called as she pulled the curtains aside. "Your brother asked me to remind you that you said you'd help work the land today." She clucked her tongue as she began opening the drawers of Kamila's dresser, "It's still madness, if you ask me. A wealthy young woman like yourself working in the fields."
"It's how things are done where I'm from, Miss Celia," Kamila said as she yawned and stretched. "You should understand that." Celia had immigrated from Haiti and had a very similar background to her employer – abusive father, manual labor, four children to care for. When her husband died, she'd moved to America with her sister and her sons to seek a new life.
Celia nodded, "Yes, but I'm of color, Miss Kamila. We have to take the hardest jobs for the lowest pay; you, on the other hand, are a wealthy landowner. There's no need for you to be out there." She seemed to hear her words and her hand fluttered to her chest, her expression worrisome. "Not that this is the hardest job with the lowest pay. You know I enjoy working for you, Miss Kamila."
Kamila grinned sleepily and sat up, "I know what you meant, Miss Celia." She touched her fingers to her temples and groaned, "I'm afraid I had too much sherry last night. Would you brew some coffee, please?" Celia nodded, handing a set of work clothes to her employer before excusing herself to go down to the kitchen. Kamila was dressed by the time the woman came back to let her know the coffee was brewing, and proceeded to help her braid back her hair.
"How are your boys, Miss Celia?" Kamila asked, holding one end of a thin green ribbon as the housemaid wove it through her hair.
The woman sighed, eyes concentrating on the tendrils of hair between her fingers. "James has been sick for almost five days now. My sister says he can hardly stay awake, and his fever won't break." She tied the ribbon at the end of the braid and smoothed her fingers over it, "I worry for him."
Kamila turned away from her mirror to look Celia in the eye. "Miss Celia, why didn't you tell me sooner?" She lifted the lid of her jewelry box – the same one she'd...no, she'd stopped thinking about that long ago – and lifted the false bottom. She extracted a handful of coins and pressed them into her maid's hands. "Take the rest of the day off, Celia; take your boy to Doctor Vernon and tell him I sent you. This should cover the appointment and the medicine."
Celia was already shaking her head, "I can't take this from you, Miss Kamila. You and Mister Uberto already pay me far too much in wages." By local standards, this was true: All of their employees were people of color, who would normally be enslaved and forced to work without pay. Kamila and Uberto, however, didn't feel comfortable owning other human beings – they'd hired two housemaids and four field workers, and paid all of them twenty cents a day. Annually, they were making what the average white man made, practically unheard of in New Orleans.
Kamila forced Celia's fingers closed around the coins. "Miss Celia, I have been in this country for four years. You have been with me for three. You are not just my housemaid – you are my friend, and as good as family, and so are your boys. I insist you take this money and get him to the doctor today."
Celia's eyes began to fill with tears, and she nodded and tucked the coins into her apron pocket. "Thank you, Miss Kamila. Let me fix you a cup of coffee and then-"
"I am perfectly capable of pouring my own coffee," Kamila interrupted, waving her away, "Go." There was some more debate, but Celia finally departed after half a dozen thank yous. Once she was gone, Kamila gathered her braid and carefully rolled it into a bun, securing it with another ribbon so it wouldn't be hanging on her neck while she worked out in the hot sun. She slipped on a pair of mens shoes and made her way down to the large kitchen, where Uberto was helping himself to some of the coffee from the pot.
"Good morning, sister," he said shortly. There was still on the outs, arguing about whether or not it was time to tell the twins where they disappeared to one night of every month. Kamila thought they could handle the truth; Uberto wanted to keep it from them so they wouldn't worry about being cursed themselves.
She nodded to him, "Brother."
"Miss Nana took the twins to school," he told her, "Jessop, Hetton, and I will be in the far fields today with the sugarcane. Edward and Pierre will be in the indigo. Where are you going to work?"
She shrugged, "With the goats, I imagine, and the trees." He gave her a brief nodded and then departed, Jessop coming out of his room just in time to follow him out. Kamila watched them disappear over the hill that led to the sugarcane fields through the kitchen window, then noticed the guest quarters door popping open. The drunk stranger from the night before was shielding his eyes from the sun and stumbling across the yard. She chuckled, poured two cups of coffee, and went to meet him just as he collapsed onto the porch of the main house.
"You look like you need this," she said by way of announcement as she sat down next to him on the steps, handing him the coffee. "Have you had coffee before?"
He nodded and took a sip, grimacing, "Yes, but I find I don't have a taste for it. It does the trick, though, thank you." He took another sip and set the cup next to him, holding his head in his hands, "Have you any idea how much I have to drink to have a headache in the morning?"
"Roughly the amount that you drank last night?" She guessed, drinking from her own cup.
He looked her over with an amused smirk, then asked, "So, Signorina Italiano, what has you so dressed down this morning?" He gestured to the country skirts she wore, and the tattered white shirt that had once belonged to her brother. "If anyone in town saw you dressed that way, it would certainly cause a scandal. Mens shoes and shirt, peasant skirt, no corset," he clicked his tongue in mock disapproving.
"If anyone in town thought this scandalous," Kamila shook her head, "They would be a fool. Everyone knows that I help in the fields from time to time, and I can hardly do that in dress and petticoat. Speaking of which, Signore Bad Guy," she finished off her coffee and set the cup aside, "Would you like to earn some wages?"
"Pardon?"
"It's just that I noticed last night that you had very little currency, and said you had no home to go to." Kamila gazed out across their property, "We have more crops than we can harvest with just four men, my siblings and myself. I wouldn't be able to offer you the same wages as they make right away," she warned him, "But I could give you ten cents a day if you are willing to work in our fields. If you do good work, I will raise it to twenty."
He studied her – she felt like he was always studying her, like she was truly as interesting as he'd said she was the night before. "Why would you do such a favor for a man whose name you don't even know?"
She shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her skirts, "I was a lost soul once, and as such I can recognize another lost soul when I see one. I believe that everyone can find their way back as long as someone is willing to help them, and I would like to help you." She reached over the edge of the porch and groped around until her fingers found the large wicker basket she'd left there. "We can start small, if you like; you can work alongside me in the orchard today and, if you enjoy the work, you can stay."
"All right, then," he agreed, picking up his cup and finishing off the thin black liquid inside. He stood, hopped from the steps to the ground, and clapped his hands together. "Where is this orchard?"
"You would have seen it last night if you'd been conscious, Signore Bad Guy," Kamila teased. "It lines both sides of the road up to the plantation. Come," she waved him on, leading him down the dirt road that circled the house and then stretched out from the property. On either side of the road, there were dozens upon dozens of trees with long, soft green leaves and mounds sprouting like tumors from the branches. "Are you familiar with these?"
"Black walnut trees," he confirmed. "Though I've never seen so many of them before."
"I've always loved them," Kamila explained, walking to the closest tree and picking up a deposit of the tree – a pale green husk, slightly smaller than an orange. She pulled up one layer of her skirts and dropped the walnut into the makeshift hammock. "Only gather the ones from the ground," she told him, "It's dangerous to pull them from the tree; you could damage the branch and it won't be able to sprout anymore. Gather all that you find from the ground, though, even if it looks like something's eaten into it. We'll sort them all out later." He smiled and walked across the road to the other grouping of trees, kneeling to pick up the walnuts from the base.
They worked together in mostly silence for the next hour, as the hot Louisiana sun beat down on them from above. Kamila pushed up her sleeves, revealing her long, wiry arms as they struggled to hold up the increasingly heavy pile of walnuts in her skirt. When she thought she couldn't hold any more, the man appeared at her side with a half-filled basket. "Here," he said kindly, reaching to add her pile to his, "We'll fill it up and take it back to the house." She smiled gratefully to him and helped him transfer the nuts from her skirt to the basket.
"I'm Niklaus, by the way," he said suddenly, and she realized they hadn't exchanged names yet. "Niklaus Mikaelson."
She blushed, because she'd brought home a drunken stranger and offered him work on her property, all without knowing his name. "I'm Kamila Parisi," she replied, then stuck out her hand to shake, "Nice to meet you."
He shook her hand, obviously stifling a laugh. "You are quite the curious creature, Kamila Parisi. A man's handshake instead of a bow of the head." He stood with the basket, pulling Kamila along with him. Both of their hands were stained black and they were sweating and tired, but on the walk back to the house and for the rest of the day sorting walnuts and tending to the goats, they never seemed to run out of things to laugh about. At the end of the day, when Kamila counted ten cents out into Niklaus's hand, he told her he would stick around for a while. She didn't say it at the time, but she was happier than she'd been in years.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Niklaus asked, almost a month later as he worked next to Kamila in the indigo fields. All that was required here was to pull the leaves from the plants and put them in her apron pocket, but she was so sore and spent that she could barely manage it. The night before had been the full moon and not only had she had a tough transformation, but the pack she and Uberto now ran with had happened upon a campsite. She'd spent the entire morning running around, healing all they'd harmed, and the use of so much Power had left her exhausted.
She yawned and stretched, her shoulders popping loudly. "I just didn't sleep well last night."
"Uberto looked pretty wretched this morning, as well," Niklaus said observantly. "Were you two up all night fighting again?"
Kamila and Uberto still hadn't resolved they're disagreement about what to say to the twins, and they're fights had become more frequent. And when they weren't fighting, the hostility between them was so apparent that everyone had taken notice. She decided to take the out he offered her. "Yes," she lied, "We used to get along so well. My brother and I love each other very much, but lately...things have been difficult."
"What do you fight about?"
She couldn't tell him that, and she didn't want to lie to him more than she had to. Niklaus had quickly come to be her friend, and one of the few true ones she had. Outside of her family, Marcus and Marie, and the servants in her home, everyone else was just a pleasant acquaintance. No one else really knew her past the surface. Instead, she changed the subject. "I've never noticed that before," she pointed to the ring on the middle finger of Niklaus's left hand. It was a dark blue stone set on a polished gold band, with some kind of symbol on it that she did not recognize. "Is is a wedding ring?"
He examined the ring, his eyes softening at first but then going hard, and he shrugged it off. "It was a gift, from my mother. She gave one to each of her children."
"Where is she now, your mother?"
"Same place as yours," he said shortly, "The ground." He went back to his work and didn't say another word for the rest of the afternoon, not that Kamila minded. His comment about her mother had offended her, and for some reason she believed he'd intended it to. There had been moments like this before, when she said something offhand or asked a question that sparked a rough side of Niklaus – a dangerous side.
After they'd put the leaves in a barrel of water to soak overnight, Kamila found her voice again. "Niklaus," she called as he headed for the guest quarters. He stopped, but didn't turn. Still, she knew he was listening, "Celia and Nana are with their families, and the boys are going into town for the night. I was going to make dinner – I don't usually get to do it by myself anymore, since there's usually almost a dozen mouths to feed and Nana has to help me, but-"
"Is there a point here, Kamila?" Niklaus sighed like he was the weariest man in the world.
She cleared her throat and straightened her back, getting right to it. "I know you usually go into town for dinner, but I would like it if you stayed and ate with us tonight." There was a beat of silence, and she rushed on like the stubborn woman she was. "I know I struck a nerve with you today, and I apologize for that, but I think it would be rude for you to turn down my invitation because of it."
He did turn then, and she was surprised to find a smile on his face. "Curious creature," he said quietly, a phrase he so often used in reference to her. "You owe me no apologies, Kamila; I had a strained relationship at best with my mother, but you had no way of knowing that. And I apologize for bringing your mother into it; I know that you two were close."
Kamila tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and replied, "It's all right. I know you didn't mean anything by it. So, you will come to dinner?"
"I'd be delighted to."
She smiled, nodding, "Wonderful. It will be ready at seven."
"I'll be there with bells on, my dear."
And promptly at seven, Kamila opened the front door to find Niklaus in a crisp, clean white shirt and black dress pants with suspenders drawn over his shoulders. She didn't even know he had clothes so nice – in fact, she could only ever remember seeing him in the clothes he'd been wearing the night she discovered him at Marcus's restaurant. His hair was pushed back from his face and he was smiling at her, "Am I late?"
"Stop that," she reprimanded him teasingly, "You know you're precisely on time." She stepped away from the door so he could enter.
Except he didn't. "You know what's just occurred to me?" He said, peering through to the foyer. "I've never been in the main house."
"What?" Kamila touched her index finger to her chin, thinking, "No, you must have been. You've been with us for almost a month. Surely you've been in for lunch."
He shook his head. "We always have lunch in the fields."
"Coffee?"
"You always bring it out with you in the morning."
She frowned, "Well, I feel awful now." And she truly did. This man had become a close friend and she'd never invited him into her home; how could that be?
"You can make it up to me by being a proper lady for once," he joked, "And give me a formal invitation."
She put on a big sigh and pantomimed a wide bow, "Please, good signore, do enter."
"It would be my pleasure," he said, stepping over the threshold and into the house, looking around and taking it in. "This is a very beautiful home, Kamila. Thank you for inviting me in."
"Of course. The dining room is this way," she led him through a maze of hallways before stopping in a large room, one wall lined with windows draped in silk curtains. In the middle was a long, perfectly polished mahogany table with twelve matching chairs even placed around it, with one at each head. It was set with candles and silver, cream colored napkins and crystal glasses. Uberto was already seated at the head of the table, the twins side by side to his left, waiting patiently. "Niklaus, you've met Tasso and Brunela, yes?"
"We've crossed paths a few times," he affirmed, regarding them both with a nod.
"He told me about art," Tasso added, leaning on the table. "He told me about a man called William Ashford-"
"A man that painted a lot of trees," Niklaus murmured to Kamila, so only she could hear.
"And William Vandy Flossen-"
"van der Hagen," he corrected, loud enough for the boy to hear.
Tasso continued on, hardly bothered, "And a lot of others, too. He told me about-"
"Tasso!" Uberto snapped suddenly, shocking his little brother into silence, "Don't bedevil our company with your nonsense. I apologize on behalf of my brother, signore," he told Niklaus with a bow of his head, "He's young and has not yet learned his place. I hope he hasn't been bothering you with his silly questions about art and music." He said the words like they were poison on his lips. Kamila remembered a time, just a few years before, when he would have encouraged their brother to pursue either of these things with a passion. Back when they were poor Italian farmers. Now he wanted Tasso and Brunela both to be scholars, or doctors, or politicians.
"On the contrary," Niklaus said easily, but there was a biting undertone in his voice, "I welcome his questions. Anytime." This last word was spoken like a promise, directed at the younger boy. Kamila could see it sparked a nerve in her older brother, but he kept his mouth shut.
She took advantage of the silence and asked, "Niklaus, may I get you a glass of wine?"
"That would be lovely." He pulled out the chair directly to Uberto's right, lowering himself into it with that unshakable smile, and his eyes never leaving the man.
Kamila came back with a bottle of wine and filled Niklaus's glass, as well and Uberto's and her own. She splashed a single swallow into the glasses of her younger siblings as well before returning to the kitchen to begin serving the meal. Since her father died, she'd taken great pleasure in preparing the meals and giving each member of the family equal portions, something they'd never had when he was around. Still, she would always give the twins a little extra – it was a force of habit. She delivered their plates first, then Niklaus's and Uberto's, before finally taking a seat next to her guest with her own plate.
She knew Niklaus was not a religious person – he never accompanied them to church on Sundays – but he joined them as they said grace, bowing his head politely, his hand grasping hers. Then they ate, feasting on the arrangement of goose and brown sauce, rice and snap peas, slices of soft bread and butter that she still made once a week from her best nannies. "Kamila, this is a truly spectacular meal," Niklaus told her after a few bites. "I haven't eaten like this in years."
She hid a smile as she dabbed at her lips with her napkin, "Thank you."
"Tasso," he turned his attention to her little brother, "Did I tell you about Susannah Drury yet?" When the boy shook his head, Niklaus took in a breath, like he was remembering a lost love. "Brilliant eye, that woman had. I met her when I was in Ireland years ago, admiring the Giant's Causeway. She was there painting it – she was one of the first people ever to do that."
"What's a causeway?" Brunela asked around a mouthful of food, earning her a stern look from Uberto.
Niklaus took a sip of his wine before answering. "Most causeways are meant to be paths, raised above the road – it's hard to explain. But the Giant's Causeway is something else entirely. It's made of columns of basalt – that's a sort of volcanic rock – and some are very tall, and some are short, and they spread across the land like the footpath of a giant.. It's something everyone should see at least once in their lifetime."
"I want to see it," Brunela piped, excited. "That sounds very lovely."
"It is very lovely," Niklaus confirmed. Kamila had stopped eating and drinking, and was instead just watching him. She'd always felt there was a danger living within this man, a sort of withdrawn torture that made him incapable of interacting with other people. Sure, he spoke easily enough with her, but they were both lost souls. Seeing him speak so easily with her younger brother and sister was almost heart-melting, and definitely unexpected.
A few minutes into a conversation in which Brunela tried to convince Niklaus to take them all to Ireland, he leaned toward Kamila and said very quietly, "Don't think I don't notice you staring at me." She flushed quickly and went back to her meal, picking at it until everyone else had finished and was complaining of the pains in their full stomachs. Kamila stood and collected their plates, halting by the kitchen door as she juggled them all.
"Why don't you all retire to the den? I will bring drinks and dessert."
The twins jumped up immediately, running to the other side of the table to tug on Niklaus's sleeves. "Yes, yes!" Tasso insisted, "I can show you my drawings!"
"I can show you my books!" Brunela exclaimed at the same time. Niklaus allowed himself to be pulled from the table and into the other room, Uberto close behind and berating his younger siblings for their rudeness. Kamila took the dishes into the kitchen and set them in the sink, taking her time in preparing a pot of tea. She was confused by these feelings for Niklaus – they were not romantic, as she would have expected them to be. She mostly saw him as a close friend, or a brother, but every so often she caught herself having...feelings. Feelings she had yet to have the opportunity to act on with any man. Feelings that were not proper of a "southern lady". She could only imagine how mortified she would be if he ever found out; she vowed to keep these urges locked tight within herself, never to be spoken of or acknowledge. Much like everything else in her life. Yet another secret she had to keep from him.
When the tea finished brewing, she took a few deep breaths and arranged the pot and five cups on a tray, carrying it carefully to the den. Uberto was sitting in his wing-back chair, staring in disgust as Niklaus sat on the floor with the twins, cross-legged, a sheet of drawing paper in front of him. He was hunched over, a stick of charcoal flowing above the paper in smooth, delicate lines. Beside him, Tasso was drawing something also, though his markings were more crude and unplanned. Brunela sat in front of them both, holding up a book page for them to see and, presumably, to draw. Kamila set the tray on the table, pouring a cup for Uberto before perching on the divan behind where the boys sat, looking at the drawing they were trying to replicate. It was of a woman, sitting on a rock with water in the background, ocean air whipping her long hair across her face. She was wearing a long dress that pooled at her feet, and a flower in her hair.
"What is the game you're playing?" She asked, crossing her ankles and leaning her elbows on her knees. "Whoever makes their drawing look most like the original, wins?"
Niklaus shook his head. "It's not about replication," he said absentmindedly, glancing at the original drawing before pulling a few lines over his paper. "It's about interpretation – taking this image, and making it something different, yet the same. It's the best way to develop an artist's eye."
Kamila leaned across to her brother, who was equally immersed in his work. "And you understand this, Tasso?"
"I'm ten years old, Kamila," he grumbled, "I understand things."
"Okay, okay." Kamila stood and went back to the table, pouring four more cups of tea and setting three of them on the floor before settling onto the divan again with her own, sipping delicately as she watched the drawing continue. Uberto excused himself just minutes later, having grown weary of his siblings' antics, leaving his cup behind.
Almost an hour later, they were finally finished, and they exchanged papers so they could examine each others' work. Over their shoulders, Kamila was astounded at what she saw. Niklaus's was...truly a work of art. Instead of sitting on a rock, the woman was now sitting in the sand, propped up on her arms, body twisted so she was staring out at the water with a mournful expression. The flower in her hair was wilted, petal falling and catching in the wind. There was such detail, from the grains of sand to the ocean waves, to the frays at the bottom of her skirt. She looked so real, so full of sorrow, that it broke Kamila's heart.
Tasso's, on the other hand, was a little cruder, but still surprising. In his drawing, the woman was still sitting on the rock but she had her knees pulled up to her chest, one arm wrapped around them. The other arm was extended and, in her open palm, she held the flower that had been in her hair. Though it was a child's drawing, Kamila could see the potential in it – the way she could recognize each aspect of the drawing for what it was meant to be, the way she could feel what her brother had been attempting to translate with his charcoal.
"These are both beautiful works of art," she said sincerely, reaching past them to pick up both pieces of paper. "I am going to have them both framed and hung in the foyer." Brunela hopped up and moved to the divan to study the drawings as well, coming to the same conclusion with a nod of her head. Tasso smiled triumphantly, thrusting a fist into the air, while Niklaus just smirked and brushed the charcoal from his fingers.
Kamila gently placed the papers on her end table, then put one hand on either of her siblings' shoulders. "And now, little ones, it's time for bed." Typical noises of complaints followed but were shushed as she pushed the twins toward the staircase. They went up with dragging feet, calling their goodbyes to their guest before finally disappearing.
Niklaus laughed as they went, finally picking up the cup of tea that had gone stone cold. He gulped it down anyway. "I like your younger siblings," he announced, pulling himself up to sit on the divan, "They're almost as clever as you."
"I'm the only mother they've ever known," Kamila told him, putting all of the cups back on the tray and lifting it to her hip, "Naturally they have picked up some of my better habits. Please excuse me while I return this to the kitchen," she said of the tray, "Can I get you anything else to drink?"
"I wouldn't object to another glass of wine," he smiled, leaning his head against the back of the divan.
Kamila nodded and made her way to the kitchen, placing the tray on the counter and opening the door of their wine cupboard. When she selected a bottle and closed the door, she was shocked to find Uberto standing at her side. She gasped loudly, almost dropping the bottle but recovering quickly. Animal reflexes. The thought almost made her laugh. "Uberto, you startled me."
He was in no mood for polite exchanges. "Why do you encourage them?"
Her forehead wrinkled in confusion and she walked toward the counter, setting the bottle down. "I don't know what you mean."
"You know exactly what I mean," he countered. "The twins – why do you encourage these ridiculous ideas they have?"
She rolled her eyes, "If Tasso wants to be an artist, I want him to be an artist. If Brunela wants to travel, I want her to travel."
"Tasso will be a scholar and Brunela will be a wife," her brother barked, stepping close and grabbing her arm, forcing her to turn and face him. "I have worked too hard to make this life for us; I won't have them throw it away on a lower-class existence."
"They will be whatever they want to be," Kamila glared up at him. "And might I remind you, brother, that you did not make this life alone; I have been there every step of the way. I am just as responsible for our success as you are, and I have no problem with our brother and sister pursuing their passions, so why do you?"
"Why must you always undermine me?!" He was shouting now, stepping closer still and forcing her back against the counter. "I don't want to tell them about the curse, you do. I want them to hold our family status, you don't. Do you do this just to enrage me, sister?"
She put both hands on his chest and shoved him back, "Lower you voice, Uberto; we still have company."
"I will not be told how to behave in my own house!" His voice boomed, taking Kamila by surprise and causing her to lose control of her Power for a brief moment. Behind her, the cork burst from the bottle of wine and ricocheted around the room before rolling to a stop near the door. Uberto didn't see this as a loss of control, however; he saw it as an attack. "You would use your abominable Power against me?" He spat, and in a flash his hand made a fist around her throat. Uberto had always been strong from work in the fields, but he'd become even stronger since his transformation; he lifted her clear off the ground.
She was too astounded to think straight. Had she been, she would have just used her Power to force him away, to create a barrier between their bodies. But this was her brother – the one who'd always been there for her, the one she loved dearly – and she couldn't imagine him hurting her, so she couldn't think to react. "Uberto," she gasped, her throat crushed under his hand, "Ti prego, fratello." But she saw the wolf in his eyes, knew his animal instincts had taken over; he would kill her within moments without even realizing.
"I'm going to have to ask you to release the lady." Niklaus appeared in the doorway, calm and collected and walking toward them at a leisurely pace.
"Niklaus, no," Kamila managed to croak. She was Uberto's sister and he was doing this to her; she could only imagine what he would do to a near-stranger in this state.
Still, Niklaus continued forward. "Uberto, let her down."
Uberto shifted his body, throwing out his free hand to grab for Niklaus. Too quick to follow, Niklaus had Uberto's arm in his grasp, twisting it painfully to one side before using it as leverage to pull the man closer, causing him to lose his grip on Kamila. She collapsed to the ground and sucked in several deep breaths, rubbing her throat and watching the scene unfold before her. Niklaus had Uberto in the grip he'd had her in, fingers around his throat, lifted off the ground. He wasn't as wide-built as her brother, muscles not as define, and it was hard for her to contemplate how he was able to lift the man a foot off the ground.
Was Niklaus like them? Was he a wolf as well? To Kamila, this was the only thing that made sense, but at the same time made none at all. The wolves of New Orleans ran in a pack – he would have been among them. Besides, she'd seen him poring over a book in the guest quarters as she made her way to the woods the night before, hardly looking like he was in the pain of transition. Still, the way he held her brother was not natural. Not completely human.
She could see Uberto struggling for air, his face growing dark red, his lips purpling. Niklaus was staring at him with dark, hungry eyes – eyes that looked different, somehow. Red around the edges, like veins protruding from beneath the skin. "You are a smug bastard," he was saying in a low voice that, before her transformation, Kamila wouldn't have been able to hear. She could see something familiar in her brother's eyes: The life leaving them.
Without thinking, she put out her hand and concentrated her energy. In a flash, Niklaus flew across the room and hit the far wall with a thud, and Uberto's back hit the opposite wall so hard that the glass of the window shattered behind him. He was still staring at her, angry, but he picked himself up and left the room quickly.
Niklaus rubbed the back of his head as he slid back up the wall, getting to his feet. The red veins around his eyes slowly sunk back into his face, leaving no trace that they'd ever been there. He looked stunned, but still curious. He walked across the room, helped Kamila to her feet, and grabbed the wine bottle from the counter. "It seems," he said, breathing heavily, "That we have both been keeping some secrets. So," he took a gulp straight from the bottle and then handed it to her, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
He showed her his eyes, his fangs, the way his skin healed quickly after being cut. He told her about his blood and how it could heal, how he could make others like him, how he could walk in the daylight because of the ring on his finger. He was called a vampire. Kamila had only heard of them in horror tales. She showed him some examples of her Power, then told him of her monthly transformations. She told him about how she'd triggered the curse when she'd killed her father, and how Uberto had changed soon after. Niklaus knew something about werewolves and witches and he filled in facts even she didn't know, and she lapped up the knowledge like a starving stray. He told her he was old – over eight hundred years, in fact – and that, contrary to how she'd come to know him, he wasa very bad man. She wasn't sure if she didn't believe him, or she just didn't care.
They stayed up the entire night, sitting on the roof of the guest quarters, going through three bottles of wine as they exchanged secrets. The sun rose as Kamila told him about Nature Herself visiting her, bestowing the gift of magick on her. The light came over the horizon and shined brightly in her eyes, and Niklaus seemed to focus on them. "Your eyes weren't green before you became a witch, were they?"
Her hand fluttered to her eyes, fingers touching them delicately. It had been weeks before she'd noticed, but it was true – after her encounter with the Spirit, her dark brown eyes had turned green. "No, they weren't. How did you know?"
"They change," he said, still watching them intently with his own pale gray orbs. "They're always green, mind you, but the shade changes. They match whatever natural green you're around; it's quite fascinating. I've always wondered about it, and I guess now I know."
"I never knew that," she said, awed. "It's sort of wonderful and frightening at the same time." She tipped the wine bottle and drained the last of it, shaking it before letting it roll down the roof. "Any more secrets you'd care to share, Niklaus Mikaelson?"
"Many," he said immediately, "And I wish I could tell you each and every one of them, but that's been known to come back and work against me." He finally looked away, squinting out at the skyline, "I will tell you this, though: I am quite well-off."
"What do you mean?"
"Financially," he clarified. "I am a very wealthy man."
This, after everything she'd heard that night, surprised Kamila more than anything. "You're wealthy, yet you've spent the past month working your fingers to the bone for ten cents a day?"
He leaned back against the roof, leaning on his elbows. "The night you met me, I'd just sent my sister away; I suppose I just needed the company."
"Or needed to feel human," she suggested.
He snorted, shaking his head. "I never long for humanity; it's beneath me."
"So you say." He gave her an unreadable look and she couldn't tell if she'd angered or impressed him. She cleared her throat and asked tentatively, "You said you needed to be invited into my home before you could enter, yes?"
"Yes."
"And now that you've been invited in, you can enter as you please?"
"Yes."
She swallowed and looked away. "I hate to ask this," and she did, "But you wouldn't...you wouldn't hurt my family, would you? I saw the way you were looking at Uberto last night; you might have killed him if I hadn't done something."
"No harm will come to Tasso or Brunela from me, I give you my word," he vowed, voice sincere. "Kamila, I need you to understand something: I do not have many friends. In eight hundred years, I've found that they just become a burden. But you," he looked her over, "There's something different about you. I would never hurt anyone you loved so much as your young siblings."
"And Uberto?" She asked shakily.
He sighed and sat back up, "I can make no promises with Uberto. If he harms you again, I will intervene."
"He won't—"
"You don't know that, Kamila," he contradicted. "A part of the werewolf gene is anger and violence; it's probably why your father was the way he was."
She couldn't deny that Uberto had grown increasingly more angry since his first transformation, but the violence was very new. "I have the werewolf gene, and I'm not like that. Neither are Tasso and Brunela."
"There's a mental factor to it, as well," he explained. "You were born a pure soul; that's why Nature gave you the gift of magick. I imagine the same is true of Tasso and Brunela: A boy who just wants to make art, and a girl who just wants to see the world. But even the best people can go bad, you just never know."
Kamila mulled this over, chewing on her bottom lip for a few silent moments. Then she leaned back, laying out on the roof, and Niklaus laid back so they were side by side, elbows touching. It sent an electric shock through her, and she was surprised to find that those feelings she'd started to experience earlier the night before remained, even after find that the man she'd come to call a friend was, for all intents and purposes, dead.
"Will you stay?" She asked a long while later, after the sun had risen fully in the sky.
"Hm?" He asked, having dozed off in that time.
Kamila let her head fall to the side so she could look at him. "Will you stay here at Parisi Piantagione, continue working the fields?"
He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus his attention. "I fear I've grown bored of this manual labor. I think I might return to the city."
"Oh."
He laughed then, and it was a tired but still carried all its usual charm. "Don't sound so disappointed, Signorina Italiano."
"You're telling me you're leaving, Signore Bad Guy," she countered, voice flat. "I feel I have a right to be disappointed."
"What if I told you that you would still see me every day?"
"I would say you were lying," she sat up and started easing herself down the roof until her legs dangled over the edge. "I spend all my days working on the land, and you said yourself you've grown tired of labor. What reason would you have to come here?" She let go of the shingles and dropped the eight feet to the ground, landing painlessly on soft grass with bare feet. She gathered the three empty wine bottles and brushed her hair away from her face. "Well, Signore Mikaelson," she called up to him diplomatically, "It has been nice to know you, and I hope things turn out well for you in life." From atop the house, he was studying her that way he always did. She could practically hear the words in her head. Curious creature.
By the time Kamila had gone inside, bathed, put on her work clothes, and came back out, he was gone.
The next day, Kamila spent the entire day expecting Niklaus to show up somewhere – in the fields, at the house, on a roof – but he never showed up. She felt foolish. Of course she wouldn't see him every day; she'd been right when she said he was lying. If he was truly a wealthy man with no need to work, why would he keep coming around? Still, she waited every day for the next week – he never came.
Until two weeks later, when she was making her way back to the house in the dark after helping one of her nannies through a difficult delivery. She was exhausted, covered in dirt and blood and membrane, and could barely move her feet forward. She made her way slowly up the steps and laid her hand on the knob of her front door, then a voice stopped her.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he said, "But you look awful."
As if she wasn't already aware of this. Her clothes were filthy, her arms and legs were covered in the filmy, gummy grime, and her hair was loose and matted to her face. "Three weeks absent, and that is what you have to say to me, Niklaus?" He was sitting in a chair in a dark corner of the porch, dressed in a nice suit, one leg crossed over the other. "Well, excuse me if I'm not invested in this reunion."
"Ooh," he stood, "You're angry with me. I understand, and I deserve it, but I had some business to take care of up north before I could come back."
"For three weeks?" She regarded him incredulously.
"I owe you an explanation, and a proper apology; I know that." He crossed the distance between them and looked her over, smiling at the state of her. "If you go inside and get cleaned up, I will take you someplace to make it up to you."
Kamila sighed and weighed her options. On the one hand, she was overjoyed to see Niklaus again – she'd missed her friend dearly in the weeks he'd been away – but on the other, she was hurt by his disappearance, and the way he was now acting like everything was just fine, like he'd never left her. Niklaus could see this on her face and he said, "Just give me this one night. If you're still mad at me in the morning, I'll leave and never come back."
"And if I'm not?" She challenged.
"Then I'll make good on my word," he said with a bow of his head. "You will see me every day, for as long as we can tolerate each other."
She thought on it for a minute longer, then gave in reluctantly. "Ten minutes," she told him, then left him outside while she went in to get ready. She poured hot water into the basin in her room and used a cloth to wipe herself clean, changed into a "proper" dress, and covered herself with powdered perfume to mask whatever smell of birthing goats still clung to her. When she came out, exactly ten minutes later, Niklaus was holding a bouquet of strange flowers. Like roses, but not.
"Apology number one," he said, handing her the bouquet, "Camellias, all the way from Asia. They're your namesake flowers," he plucked a pale purple one from the stem and tucked it behind her ear.
She breathed in their fragrance, ran her fingers over their soft petals, and couldn't help but smile. "Apology number one, accepted."
He nodded, then gestured out. "Apology number two," he said as a horse and carriage came around the house on the dirt road. "I warn you, we'll be out late."
"Apology number two, accepted," she told him as she allowed him to help her into the carriage. She thought they'd be going into the city, but the ride was far too long and Niklaus wouldn't allow her to look out the windows. When the carriage finally came to a stop, Niklaus pushed open the door and hopped out, extending a hand to her.
"Apology number three," he smiled. When she emerged from the carriage, she found they were high on a hill that overlooked Lake Pontchartrain. From the back of the cart, Niklaus unpacked a square wicker basket and a rough wool blanket, handing them to Kamila. He then walked around and looked their driver in the eye, catching his gaze almost hypnotically. "You will return for us in exactly three hours."
"I will return for you in exactly three hours," the driver repeated, then blinked a few times and looked forward, urging his horses on. Niklaus walked Kamila to the edge of the hill, laying out the blanket and sitting down on it, motioning for her to do the same. He then took the light cloth from the top of the basket and extracted two candles, burying then a little ways into the ground and lighting them. Then he unpacked a bottle of sherry and a tin box of chocolates, putting them between himself and Kamila.
"You don't intend to seduce me, do you, Niklaus?" Kamila asked nervously. Though she'd had those sorts of feelings about him, she found the idea of actually following through made her nervous.
He made a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat and shook his head, "Afraid not, my dear. I just thought you'd enjoy something quite the opposite of your daily life. Trapped in that big house, completely surrounded by animals and crops, burdened by responsibility for your family and your chores. But out here, you're free to see the stars and feel the ocean, drink sherry and eat chocolates and think only of yourself for a while."
"That does sound wonderful," she mused, finally putting down the bouquet of flowers and plucking one of the chocolates from the box. It melted on her tongue, coating it in slick, sweet substance. She washed it down with some of the sherry and the combination of the two was intoxicating in and of itself. "Apology number three, accepted."
Niklaus picked up the bottle of sherry and took a pull from it. "Does this mean you forgive me?"
She looked out at the water and sighed. "Why were you gone so long, Niklaus? What were you really doing all that time?"
"It's just as I said," he insisted, "I went north. My brother lives in New York and he worries if I don't check in with him from time to time. I hadn't intended on staying so long," he shrugged, "But he seemed desperate for company. He doesn't make friends easily."
"Is he like you, your brother? I mean, is he a vampire as well?"
Niklaus nodded, "Yes, he is. But I'd rather not waste time talking about my family; I'd rather have an answer to my question. Am I forgiven?"
Kamila gave him a begrudging shrug, "Oh, I suppose. Will I really see you every day?"
"Until we tire of each other."
"But we won't always have to travel so far, will we?"
"Only if you want to."
"That sounds lovely to me." They drank to their friendship, to their secrets, to their future. They spent three hours looking out at the lake and up at the stars, talking, not talking. When the carriage arrived to reclaim them, exactly three hours after dropping them off, they rode back to the plantation with heavy eyelids. Niklaus saw her off with a soft kiss on the cheek, like the ones she exchanged with her siblings, and promised to see her the next day. And he did. They spent the day in the barn with the kid, hand-feeding her when she didn't take to her mother's teet. The day after that, they went to Marcus's restaurant for dinner. Every day for the next five years, they were together. They became more than close – they became each others' first and only best friends.
Then, just after her twenty-fifth birthday, Kamila grew ill. Her chest felt heavy and her lungs grew tight, and breathing became too difficult to manage on her own. She was sent to an institution for others like her – others afflicted with a virus called tuberculosis, with an outlook that spelled death for her. Even still, she saw Niklaus every day. He rarely left her bedside, in fact, even when the masked nurses insisted Kamila was contagious and he was putting himself in danger. He knew he couldn't catch the virus, but even if he could, Kamila wondered if he would have left. In five years, she'd seen him do some terrible things to innocent people, but he never treated her with anything but kindness, even when she'd disappointed him by refusing to take part in his devious acts.
He tried everything to help her. He paid for all the best doctors and medications, but they failed. He sent for witches, but none of them were strong enough. He even fed her his own blood, but it was only meant to heal physical injuries, not illnesses. He asked her to heal herself, but her Power wasn't meant to be used like that; she could only heal others. Like her victims in her early years as a wolf, Kamila could feel herself fading. She knew she would be among them soon, begging their forgiveness at heaven's gates. She didn't want to die, but it was out of her hands.
"Please," Niklaus begged in a whisper as Kamila entered the worst of it. She was wheezing her breaths, suffocating slowly. He sat at her side and held her hand between both of his, not moving to eat or sleep for days. "Please stay with me, Kamila; you're all I have."
"I wouldn't say 'all,'" a new voice said – the voice of a dark-haired man with a pointed chin and soft eyes. Kamila saw him through a haze, the sickness making her eyesight clouded and dim, but he was handsome, and bore a slight resemblance to Niklaus.
Niklaus didn't even spare him a glance, but asked, "What are you doing here, Elijah?"
"I've come to collect you, brother," the other man, Elijah, replied.
"So this," Kamila struggled to make her words sound light and playful, as it did before, but they took so much energy that they just came out sickly and sad, "Is the...brother...from New York. Ni...klaus...never mentioned...how handsome you were."
Elijah smiled down at her, "Well, his letters did you no justice. You are quite the eye-catcher yourself."
"Yes," she said, rolling her eyes, "With my...death face, and...matted hair."
Niklaus finally looked up at his brother, "I'm not going anywhere, Elijah. Surely you can understand why."
"I do understand," the other man said sympathetically, "And I wouldn't ask unless it was dire."
"No?"
"Of course not. Witnessing you so invested in the life of someone else, it's something I never thought I would see." Kamila's eyes were growing heavy – she was so tired all of the time these days – but she fought to follow the conversation. "I know that you care for the girl, Niklaus, but we must go."
"Why?!" Niklaus roared, jumping up and getting close to his brother's face, "Why must I abandon the only true friend I've ever had?!"
"Mikael." One word and the atmosphere around them changed completely. When Niklaus said nothing, Elijah continued, "Our father, Niklaus, he is near. If we don't leave within the hour, he will be upon us by tomorrow."
Niklaus looked from his brother to Kamila, obviously torn. But there was fear in his eyes and she could see it; it was something she'd never seen in him before. He'd told her of his father in their second year of friendship, and she knew what would happen if he caught up to them. "Go," she put as much authority into her voice as she could manage. "You've done...more than enough...for me. Go now. Be...safe."
Elijah grabbed his brother by the arm and pulled, but Niklaus resisted. There were tears in his eyes, but he had command of them; they would not fall. "I can't just leave her," he said in a whisper.
"Brother, you must," Elijah gave him another hard pull. "Niklaus, we will send for Myra. She can be here within three days; she will be able to heal the girl."
"That witch will do me no favors, brother," Niklaus objected, "You know that."
"Yes, but I am still in good standing with her; she will do it for me." Again, he attempted to pull his brother toward the door, "Niklaus, we must go now."
Niklaus broke free and sat at the edge of Kamila's bed, taking her hands in his again. "Kamila, I need you to keep fighting, do you understand? In three days, a very Powerful witch will come and she will heal you, and then I will come back for you. I give you my word. Now you have to give me your word that you will fight."
"Pr...omise," Kamila struggled to give him a smile, but she was so very tired. Niklaus leaned forward and kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair away from her forehead, and then finally allowed himself to be pulled away by his brother. They took a few steps, but then stopped.
"Mikael will come through New Orleans – he will have tracked us here," Elijah said, glancing at Kamila. "She knows you. You must compel her to forget."
Niklaus considered this, losing his control now as a single tear rolled down his face. "No," he finally said definitively, "No, she will tell him nothing."
"And if he compels her to tell him?"
"I said no, Elijah."
Elijah clearly wanted to argue this, but they were losing precious time. He conceded, taking his brother's arm once more and turning away from the dying girl. She watched them take a few human steps, then disappear with the extraordinary speed vampires possessed.
The brothers left the institution and got into a waiting carriage. The driver whipped his horses and they took off into a trot that quickly escalated to a gallop. After an hour, they stopped so Elijah could send a letter off the Myra, a witch that lived to the west. Then they continued on, traveling for days before settling in a no-name town in the northwest.
Ten days after leaving New Orleans, Elijah received a response from Myra, via a spell. While he and Niklaus sat in front of a fireplace one evening, the fire began to crackle and spit until a crumpled paper ball rolled from among the logs. Elijah opened it and, after running his eyes over the words, hung his head and handed it off to his brother. Myra had made in to New Orleans in three days, as they'd estimated.
Kamila had already been dead for two.
A/N:
All right, this painfully long back-story has finally come to a close. I intentionally left some gaps in it regarding Klaus's behavior with others because 1) they will be covered throughout the rest of the story in dialogue and flashbacks, and 2) come on, this monster is already 10,000+ words. I didn't want to make you all hate me even more.
In the next chapter, we will pick back up on the TVD plotline, the chapters will (hopefully) be much shorter, and Klaus will be more in character to what you're all used to, but a little different.
Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favorited so far! It means a lot to me!
