A/N: welcome back, trash fam! this chapter is pretty gigantic for my standards, so that's why it took so long to finish (laziness is also a factor, but I'm also pretty specific about prose, snob alert!). Thanks again for everyone reviewing this piece of sin and enjoying it!

Sidenote: some parts of this chapter refer to stuff that happened in previous chapters (you'll know what I mean when you get there). So keep an eye out.

Anyway, have fun!


Chapter 7: he quite loves the Baltic Sea


She hears the waves before she sees them properly. The gentle lull is enough to put her back to sleep, but she makes an effort to open her eyes.

The sea is there, dark and white around the edges, like a mirror that reflects nothing. She can see it through a broken window.

Bonnie sits up on her elbows. There is no glass to keep the cool breeze away. In fact, it's just a crude opening in the stone wall. The room looks like a monk cell, bare and frigid and clearly a few centuries old. It's like something out of The Count of Monte Cristo.

She wonders, briefly, if Klaus has decided to take them to a convent. It's just the kind of ironic thing he'd do.

But gradually, she remembers the previous hours; the yacht, the captain, the bed, her head on his chest.

She's lying in a different bed now, still fully clothed thankfully. And Klaus isn't there. No, he wouldn't be.

Bonnie tries to stand up, but she falls back on the mattress like a raggedy doll. Her muscles cry out under her skin. A crippling pain shoots up her spine. Her throat is parched. She coughs for a full minute to regain her breath. Her strength has been compromised. She touches her stomach gingerly. There is a mark there under her sweater. A short, but ugly gash left by an arrow. The wound has been cleaned and sewn shut, but whatever substance was injected in her is still not out of her system.

She waits, for hours it seems, to try again. Day and night are entwined, indistinguishable almost. She thrashes and sweats and dreams of nothing. The sea remains the same, dark and white around the edges. After a long time, she gets up.

She hops more than walks to the opening in the wall. She looks down and catches her breath. She is not afraid of heights, but she feels dizzy at the sight of that deadly drop. The shoreline is hundreds of feet below. Bonnie leans forward nervously. To the west and the east there is only more shore and sea. A waxing crescent moon is her sole incandescent guide.

The coast looks nothing like Portofino. It should be dotted with villas and summer houses and pleasure cruisers; you would not be able to drop a needle in between. This is no man's land. There is no dock where a boat might rest, no lighthouse that could guide a floundering sailor home, no remote fisherman's shack.

There's only the stone edifice. She can't tell if it's a palace or a tower.

Bonnie resists the urge to sit down on the cold slabs. She has to stand, or she'll never get up.

She feels the injustice of her circumstances. When will she escape this long night? When will the mysteries end? She's only a girl from a small town. Who just so happened to anger a volatile hybrid. And all she can do now is keep going …or lose herself indefinitely.

There is a door at the opposite end of the room, but she imagines it's bolted shut.

Her surprise is not small when it only takes a soft push for the hatch to creak open.

Is she not a prisoner, then?

She steps out on the landing. She is staring at a narrow staircase, winding down into the dark belly of the unknown. If she plunges ahead, she will not be able to see anything. But if she stays here, the darkness will come for her anyway.

One hand glued to the wall, she makes her way down.


There is laughter on the corridor. It sounds like children's laughter. She can almost hear their little feet padding on the wooden floor. Bonnie flattens herself against the wall to let them pass, but no one does. There is only darkness and the cool draft that wraps around her bare ankles.

She thinks she sees a floating white dress in front of her, but it turns out to be cobwebs. There are picture frames on the walls, but she knows this only from touching the frames haphazardly.

The floorboards groan under her bare feet, but the echo is far too human for her liking. There's murmuring and something that sounds like prayer…more laughter…maybe even a lullaby…

Someone touches her shoulder. When she turns around, startled, it's only the sharp point of a blade. She is looking at a blazon, or what appears to be a family crest. It's got two short swords plunged into the frontispiece. She can't make out what it's supposed to represent. The image has faded with time.

Bonnie tries to drag a sword out but they're both stuck fast to the blazon. And they're rusted with age.

Everything here is ancient.

She thinks she's in a dining room now, because she keeps running into long tables and hard-backed chairs as she goes along. Her eyesight has yet to get accustomed to the dark. This is a special kind of dark, its texture too thick for penetration.

She thinks she hears a violin this time. The melody is faint, at first, but as she keeps walking, it gets louder and louder until it sounds shrill and plaintive. It makes her skin bristle. The player must be torturing those violin strings, because the music becomes unbearable. Bonnie turns back, wanting to put as much distance between her and those sounds. But the further she runs, the closer she seems to be getting to the violin. She can hear it behind her, in front of her, in her ears, in her mouth...

She can't breathe. There's a tall window in front of her. The latch is open. She sees the terrace and a short flight of stairs, bathed in moonlight.

Run, run, run, run…

She flees right into the maelstrom of persecuted strings and the music lashes at her with a terrible vengeance. Bonnie screams and covers her ears, but the sounds are everywhere, bursting her eardrums, blistering her skin.

She kneels on the marble floor.

A pair of polished shoes stops right next to her bowed head.

The violin emits one last choked ripple before the music stops completely.

"Did you like my playing? I've been practicing for centuries," she hears a man speak. His voice is theatrical, the words minced and ground into submission.

She sees the violin resting against his leg. His name is etched there in cursive lettering.

"This little ditty can be found in Malleus Maleficarum. No one takes that old treatise seriously anymore, but its methods are still quite efficient. Sanctus Dominus played backwards really does make a witch howl."

Bonnie grits her teeth. "Lucien."

"How perceptive of you. Shall we make introductions, Bonnie? Are you as lovely as your namesake?"

"Where am I?" she asks, looking up at him for the first time. There's nothing too frightening about his face, apart from that mad glint in his eye.

"On the esplanade, of course. Naughty little witch. She should rest in her room instead of wandering."

"You mean my cell."

"The door was not barred, as you must have discovered," he points out defensively.

"So then, I can leave this place?"

Lucien smiles ruefully. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

Bonnie raises her hand towards him. "Help me get up."

If he's surprised at her demand he doesn't show it. He quickly offers his arm with another pointed smile.

Bonnie grips the flesh and shoots magic through her fingertips, muttering under her breath.

Lucien barks out a laugh. "How positively shrewd! But I'm afraid it won't do you any good, my dear. You are depleted."

He shakes her off like dead weight and Bonnie stumbles back on the marble floor. Her knees take the brunt of the fall.

"That hurt," she musters.

"Pardon my manners, but I'm not inclined to courtesy at the moment. I am in mourning, you see."

Bonnie is seized with the sudden realization that she hasn't thought about the Countess in hours, days perhaps. Shame and remorse flood her without preamble.

"I'm sorry –"

"If you intend to apologize for your master, save your breath."

"My master? What do you mean -"

"Do not play coy," Lucien interrupts haughtily. "I know very well you were witness to his crime."

"His crime," she echoes faintly.

"I should tell you, none of your entreaties will spare him his punishment. The Countess was mine. I do not tolerate the murder of my own. Niklaus knows this very well."

Bonnie looks down at her hands, bathed white by moonlight. Lucien is accusing Klaus of the Countess' murder. Did Klaus take the blame for her? Why? What is going on?

She doesn't have time to ruminate, because Lucien has put bow to string and the discordant melody flares up again, tormenting her every nerve.

Bonnie clutches her head. "Stop it!"

"Come along then, little witch, we have much to discuss!" Lucien cries out over his shoulder, and he waltzes back inside with his violin. Bonnie has no choice but to follow. The music is impossible to resist. It drags her into darkness like a cat tugging at a mouse.

.


"What was in that arrow?"

Lucien feigns innocence as he holds the bottle of brandy over the fire. "Nothing fatal, darling."

Bonnie touches the wound under her sweater. "Something bad for a witch. Something like…" She tries to remember all those hours of studying that her Grams had imposed on her, "valerian and nettle?"

Lucien smiles good-humoredly. "A very good guess, but my concoction also includes a dash of cinquefoil. It's a personal touch."

"It won't keep me down for long, you know. My powers are recovering," she informs him sharply.

"Oh, I know. If I'd wanted to, I could have paralyzed your magic for months, maybe years."

A shiver runs down her arm at his words.

"You're lying."

Lucien smirks impishly. She must admit he is handsome, in a rascal-sort-of-way.

"I could be. How would you know? You're a young witch. You've still got a lot to learn."

"Don't patronize me," she blurts out, more annoyed with herself than him. Why didn't Grams tell her about people like Lucien?

"Nik's tastes have improved in my absence," he muses. "Usually, his witches aren't quite so…brazen."

Bonnie stares into the fire, determined not to respond to his taunts. She's grateful for the warmth, at least.

At length, she asks, "Why didn't you paralyze my magic for good?"

"Clever girl," he chuckles. "I'm glad you brought that up. You see, I believe you and I need each other."

Bonnie can't help the snort of disbelief.

"Yes, I can see how that looks. A couple of centuries ago I would not have imagined I'd be bartering deals with one of Niklaus' witches."

"Deals?" she clears her throat.

Lucien offers her a tumbler and pours some brandy into it. "Well, call them what you will. But I, unlike Nik, do keep them. When I promise something, I usually deliver. I don't know what he's promised you, but I believe I can outmatch it."

Bonnie almost laughs, because Klaus, the Original Hybrid, can't be easily surpassed in her estimations, but then again, it wouldn't do well to compliment a monster. A monster with a lot of enemies, it seems.

"He…hasn't promised me much," she replies with reservation. She stares at the carmine liquid. "But you've got another thing coming if you think I'll accept anything from a person who stabbed me with an arrow and made my ears bleed."

Lucien barks out a laugh. "No, I didn't think so. But in my defense, I told that oafish captain to be gentler with you."

"He wasn't."

"I'll see that he's punished accordingly."

"No! He was acting under your orders. You're the one who deserves punishment," she retorts and almost throws the tumbler at him, but he's beside her in the blink of an eye and he's got one strong hand wrapped around her wrist before she can do anything.

"I wouldn't waste that brandy I were you."

"Believe me, I wouldn't waste it," she spits, trying to twist her arm away. But it's like fighting hard metal.

He shakes his head with a smile. "You're rather proud, aren't you? I knew I picked well, this time."

Bonnie can smell the honeyed scent of his skin. Perhaps that is what old vampires smell like. Klaus doesn't smell sweet. She finds strange comfort in that.

"Picked well?" she echoes, wrinkling her nose.

"It doesn't matter who deserves punishment," he continues thoughtfully, as if he had never been interrupted. "In the end, it's only Niklaus who deserves to suffer, don't you think, Bonnie?"

She stares at him. "Where is Klaus?"

He releases her wrist. "Don't fret, darling. Your master is safe and sound for now."

"I'm not fretting," she replies archly. She doesn't like the way he keeps calling Klaus her master.

"That's right," he gleans victoriously. "You are his witch, but you don't like him very much, do you?"

Bonnie scoffs. "Does anyone like Klaus very much?"

Lucien barks out another foppish laugh. "You are more right than you know. That is why I believe we may come to an agreement. I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't like Nik very much either."

"You don't say…"

"It's not just the fact that he killed my poor Countess, you know."

Bonnie stiffens imperceptibly. There it is again. What has Klaus told him? Why has he taken the blame for it?

"He's been a terrible Sire from the beginning."

Bonnie blinks. "Sire?"

"Oh, yes, did I not mention? He made me, of course. I'm his very first vampire."

Her eyes widen considerably. "His first. Then you're…"

"Over one thousand years old, yes."

Bonnie suddenly feels very stupid, because she's been talking back to a semi-Original and she's got little to no magic on her side.

"Oh."

"Ah, see, this is why I hardly ever reveal my age. Pretty girls like you don't like old men."

Bonnie ignores his comments. "What has Klaus done to you?"

"Besides making me immortal and eternally miserable? Oh, plenty of other inequities. I shan't bore you. You know half of them already."

Bonnie frowned. "I do?"

"Of course. All of his witches have suffered, without exception."

Bonnie licks her lips. They feel dry and cracked. She looks down into her tumbler. The brandy could be more witch poison, but she is thirsty and she knows it's going to be a long night.

She takes a long gulp. Lucien smiles.

The alcohol burns a line down her throat, but it's not altogether unpleasant.

"How many witches has he…" she trails off, uncertain. She doesn't know the tail-end of that question. She doesn't know if she wants to know.

"Oh, who can keep count now?" Lucien shrugged. "It must be in the hundreds. Why, every year there seemed to be a new one. Sometimes, every other month."

"Every month?" Bonnie echoes in disbelief.

Lucien snorts. "He hasn't told you much, has he? He wouldn't, of course. He can be very private, my Sire. But he can't hide his addiction for too long. And I'm not talking about blood."

Bonnie squirms in her seat. She wants to stop him from talking, but she also craves to hear more.

"Nik can manage his blood well enough. It's the witches that are the problem. He simply can't get enough of them. Never could."

Bonnie keeps her voice even with great effort. "Can't get enough of them? What does that mean –"

Lucien is suddenly close to her again. His smile is almost sympathetic this time around. He has one hand perched under her chin. She wants to push it away, but can't find the strength to do it.

"You would have found out soon enough, had I not come along, darling."

Bonnie swats his words away, like wasps that sting, like wasps that have already stung. She must not yield. Lucien is only frightening her.

"Let me guess," he continues mercilessly. "First he took you to the city of fair Verona. Nik has always been sentimental like that; he's got a soft spot for tragedies. You must not hold it against him. I'm sure he stood with you on Juliet's balcony. The real one, not the cheap thing they show the tourists. Did you both look down into the river?"

Bonnie chokes back a gasp. She remembers the balcony, jutting out at uneven angles, she remembers Klaus pointing out the girl in the mermaid-green dress, floating in the undercurrent...

"He probably presented you to Severino while he was there. Does that name ring a bell? Of course it does. I'm sure Severino made you mistress of ceremonies." Noticing Bonnie's look of confusion, Lucien elaborated. "You opened up the veins of his victims, served them on a platter. That's how Nik always begins; he trains his witches to become immune to human bloodshed."

"Next, he must have taken you to Venice. Am I right? You see, Venice has got the best infant market for blood-drinkers. He must have wanted you to witness child desiccation. His witches must be indifferent to the fate of babes."

Bonnie thinks she is going to be sick. She is going to vomit on the threadbare carpet. But Lucien's words ring harsh and true in her ears, and they make her chest burn. Because hadn't Klaus promised her a punishment worse than death? Hadn't he promised to harden her beyond mercy?

"And then, Portofino," Lucien murmurs, almost apologetically, although she can hear the smugness in his tone. "It's a favorite location of his. I will admit, I am fond of it myself. Or at least I was, until my child died. But I cannot lie. I was never happy with Klaus bringing his witches to my Countess."

"Why not?" she asks, as if through a thick film of fog. Her voice sounds mechanical to her ears.

"Because the Countess happens to own one of the largest collections of bottled human blood. You may have heard of the brew. Sang-Froid. Intoxication in a bottle."

Bonnie has. And she has tasted it. She remembers going down into the vaults. She remembers drinking with relish and abandon from a bottle, she remembers Klaus watching her.

"You can imagine what that wine does to witches. It's not meant to be drunk by mortals. In time, it can become quite a nasty habit. As it did, for several of Nik's witches. They were far more…uninhibited after that. They would do and say things they normally wouldn't. It was a sight to see. They would dance madly into the night, coat themselves in blood from head to toe, and let their master lead them into oblivion."

Bonnie is shivering uncontrollably. She remembers how Klaus wiped the wine from her lips. She remembers…wanting to float…wanting to kiss the bottle's lips again and again and again…

"I hope I am not distressing you with such details, Bonnie. I know you haven't fallen prey to such horrors yet." Lucien is caressing her arm gently.

Bonnie does not want his comfort. She wants the truth, the whole truth.

"What happened next?"

"Sorry, darling?"

"To the witches. Where would he take them after Portofino?"

Lucien frowns, as if he was expecting a different question from her. But he obliges.

"It depends. He was always fond of Valencia. Alicante has an opening to the sea. He could give his witches a proper send-off there. Sometimes he'd burn them on Rügen. It's an island in the Baltic Sea. He quite loves the Baltic Sea. I think it reminds him of his Viking ancestors…"

He hasn't noticed that Bonnie is staring at him, wide-eyed. "Burns them?"

"Oh, yes. They would not live long after so many feedings. When their spirits withered completely, he would make them a funeral pyre and give them a Viking adieu. Let it not be said he does not have some honor, my Sire."

Bonnie feels sweat pooling on her upper lip. She swallows dryly. Her throat is still burning. She has to ask one question at a time. "Feedings? You mean the wine?"

Lucien smiles. "Don't play the innocent, darling. Every night, he comes into your chamber, doesn't he? He sits down by the bed and asks you if you are asleep."

Bonnie tightens her grip on the tumbler. "Yes…" she concedes, remembering the way Klaus stood at her bedside when she did not come down to the feast.

"He asks you to offer your neck. And the poor little witch must obey. It's not unpleasant, after all. It only lasts a pinch…"

Bonnie reflexively touches her neck. He was going to feed on her in the cabin. And she was going to let him.

"But day after day, it eats away at your spirit. Drinking is still quite better than being drunk from, you will agree. Nik can't help himself. The witch's blood is the greatest boon that comes with the conquered witch. Personally," Lucien pauses, drawing a finger towards himself haughtily, "I don't see the great fuss. I won't deny the blood is marvelous, but I don't care whether it comes from a witch or a goblin. Mind you, I prefer drinking from a pretty face." He winks at her. "Still, the witch is his obsession. Has always been."

He is quiet after that, studying her, waiting for her response.

Bonnie is too shell-shocked to offer anything but a terse shake of her head. All she can think of is being made into a funeral pyre and cast off into the Baltic Sea. And the worst part is that, she knows Lucien is telling the truth, all of it. She feels it in her bones, the way she's always been able to feel supernaturals. Damon and Stefan could never lie to her.

"Tell me, Bonnie," Lucien says at length, growing tired of her silence, "have you not felt your powers growing weaker?"

Bonnie glances at him, distracted. He's still here, talking to her. She does feel weak, because of his arrow. But he isn't referring to the arrow…

"Surely, you don't want to end up like the rest of them, do you?" he insists, gentle but firm.

It's then that the fog lifts.

Klaus has never fed on me.

"There is still time," Lucien continues quickly. "He has not depleted you yet."

Bonnie parts her lips. But I'm not depleted. He's never fed on me. Not once. He wanted to – in the cabin – but

Her mind fails to provide a continuation. She does not understand why Klaus hasn't done it already. Why he did not do it from the beginning. Weeks went by and he never...

Perhaps he is saving it for a special occasion. Perhaps he wants to drink her all in one go.

She shivers deeply at the thought.

Lucien misinterprets her silence. He nods, with conviction. "I can help you get away from him. We can help each other, darling."

Bonnie looks up at him, then. She sees his impatience. He's wanted to arrive at this point from the start.

"What do you want from me?" she asks quietly.

Lucien sighs with relief. "Now that we understand each other…what I want is simple. I want to kill my maker."

Bonnie is not very shocked. Many people want to kill Klaus, but she is startled by the ease with which Lucien launched the proposition. She's still reeling in the aftermath of his revelations, but he only seems mildly inconvenienced.

Before she can reply, he's already raised a hand. "I know you can't kill him. From what I understand, you've got vampire friends who have been sired from his line. They would perish too." He chuckles. "So would I."

Bonnie raises her eyebrows in confusion. "Then…you would commit suicide?"

Lucien smirks with relish. "I like myself too much for that. No, I've got a better plan, darling. Only Nik needs to die."

He offers his hand. "Come, let me show you."

Bonnie hesitates for a moment, but she remembers Klaus' thumb on her lips, wiping away the wine, and she takes Lucien's hand.


She is looking at a spell, a complicated spell. It's got to be several centuries old, but there have been additions and alterations made to it across the years. And that makes the magical web difficult to master. It's like being in several places at once. Her forehead is wrinkled in concentration. She can't even follow all the trajectories. It's too hard.

But Grams did always say nothing is hard; it's just shy.

"The spell is being shy, Bonnie. You have to coax it out."

"Well?" Lucien asks, voice dripping with pride.

"This would...break Klaus' lineage," she surmises, flipping the parchment over.

"Very good. It would un-sire all his children from him. And thus, we would be free to do with him what we please."

Bonnie feels her fingers tremble slightly at the thought. He never drank from me. Why didn't he?

She focuses on the magic instead. She brings the candlestick closer to the Grimoire.

"There's one problem. Magic like this can't be done in a vacuum. If we un-sire all of his line, we create chaos in nature…vampires might die anyway. Every creation needs a creator."

Lucien winks at her. "Clever girl, again. But I've got that solved too."

Bonnie frowns. "You have?"

"You are staring at the solution," he beams, brushing the lapels of his jacket. "Nik's line would have to be transferred to a vampire as strong and old as he. And who is stronger than his first-born, his very first child?"

Bonnie gapes at him. "You… you want to become the new Sire?"

Lucien nods, flashing his teeth. "I believe I am quite up to the task."

"So, my friends would be sired to you, afterwards?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. "That's not exactly better."

Lucien puts his hand over his chest, his expression almost genuinely hurt. "It's not worse, though, is it? Come now, Bonnie. I don't care for your friends! Which is a good thing, because it means I would leave them well alone. In fact, I don't intend to ever step a foot in that hick town of yours."

Bonnie feels absurdly compelled to defend her tiny neck of the woods. Mystic Falls is not glamorous or very smart, but it's still home.

"I know I haven't been very trustworthy, Bonnie," Lucien presses on passionately. "But trust this. My desire to kill Nik is much stronger than any desire to hurt your friends. Or you, for that matter. I don't share his craving for witches. I have other cravings, all mine own."

Bonnie watches him as he struts towards her, confidently, but also hopeful. She can see this has been brewing in his mind and heart for quite some time. She's frightened sometimes, how quickly witches can guess the desires of others.

He stops in front of her, lifts her hand to his fingers. "What I crave is justice for myself and others who have been wronged by Niklaus Mikaelson. I want to end his reign of terror. And I see in you my twin inquisitor."

His eyes are gleaming madly again, but he is not repellent. There's something graceful about his conviction.

"Will you help me, Bonnie?"

She thinks she hears the laughter of children again. Somewhere in the distance, they are running, their little feet padding down the corridor. This house is full of whispers, songs of old, secrets which should never be uttered…

She wonders if the Countess was born here, made into an immortal, only to be killed by a girl.

Why did he take the blame for the Countess? Why did he never drink from me? she asks, but no one answers.

She nods imperceptibly, to herself or Lucien, she cannot tell.

"Where is Klaus?" she finally asks again.

Lucien caresses her fingers softly. "Shall we see him together, then?"