A.N.: So my university has been cancelled; my school placement to finish my teaching qualification is cancelled indefinitely…which means I may have a lot of time to write! *cries inside*
On the plus side, I'll be raising morale one chapter at a time while we wait out this weirdness.
Resurgam
35
Harvest
He sighed, set his phone on Airplane mode, and tucked it into his inside jacket-pocket, glancing over his shoulder at the gathered denizens of the dark. His nightwalkers were thrumming with intent, eager to go out and prove themselves; his inner circle kept them in line, meeting his eye to communicate silently. A lot of them had been together so long, had done this so many times, they knew their roles, knew his signals, his body-language.
They knew not to interrupt him while he talked to Giulia Salvatore. He had long-term, big-picture plans for his city, and she was at the heart of a lot of them. He had seen her work; knew her character. He respected her, was awed by her brilliance and creativity - and appreciated her lifelong friendship with his frenemy Tyler Lockwood, who was, truth be told, more friend and respected colleague than enemy. He didn't like to use that term for people he respected and admired: He reserved it for the worst dregs infecting his city.
Tonight, he knew his enemy.
The cemetery was vibrant with nightlife, though strangely no drunken tourists on walking midnight ghost-tours. The city had shut the cemetery to humans - whether the Faction realised it or not, the witches had performed spells to repel the general human public from their sacred places, keeping them private and preserved for the benefit of future generations rather than instant gratification of kids on Spring Break defacing Marie Laveau's tomb for a wish. Marcel had tolerated the intervention: There was a thin line between encouraging tourism and letting vandals and thieves take advantage.
But now…it just meant there were no human witnesses they would have to deal with after the fact.
The insects created a soundtrack, concealing the sounds only vampires made in the dark, picking their way silently and meticulously around crumbling mausoleums, tall candles creating eerie shadows, the scent of decaying flowers and sun-baked earth pungent, the scent of death pervasive. There was a stillness, usually, to cemeteries. Lafayette was almost sentient in a way few places in the city truly were. It was haunted by the ghosts of French Quarter witches - those who formed the coven that practiced ancestral magic. Each coven had its own unique practices and rich heritage. The French Quarter witches were linked forever with their ancestors, relying on them for guidance and power…
It was the power Marcel was concerned with.
And the lengths some misguided people would go to get it.
He didn't care so much about what they used it for, just that they were foolish enough to believe he wouldn't catch wind of it, and put a stop to them.
Kieran had told him everything, after the nastiness with his nephew. Every single detail confessed to him by Sophie Devereaux. Words were weapons; after what happened to Sean, Kieran had weaponised the vampires to mete God's wrath on the witches of the French Quarter. They stole through the shadows, following the flickering eerie glow of firelight to one grand mausoleum reserved for Vieux Carré coven royalty - the Regents chosen from the French Quarter coven in obscure rituals that bound the nine covens of New Orleans, however tenuously, as part of a wider community. Held them accountable to each other as fellow witches in the most unique city on earth.
He should've figured something was up when Josephine declined his last request to meet. She was the mouthpiece for all the covens, their representative and their leader. As secretive as the witches were, it was telling that the other eight covens had gone radio-silent - as if they knew what was about to happen, and wanted no association with the Vieux Carré coven when they had to face any backlash. They were all withes together - to a point: Self-preservation won out over tenuous loyalty, every time.
They followed the high-pitched screaming. And the stench of freshly-spilled blood.
"Marcel!" He heard the tiny gasp from Sophie but ignored it: Timing was of the essence with witches - one of the few advantages they had over witches gathered in strength like this was the element of surprise, and they used it now, to snatch and kill.
The firelight flickering, two girls in white dresses slumped on the sun-baked granite steps, their throats slit open to the bone, eyes wide, glassy - unseeing. One of them was still choking on her own blood, gurgling, bubbles forming at the corners of her ruby-stained lips. Her heartbeat slowed, slowed…stopped…
Sophie Devereaux's scream was harrowing. "MONIQUE, nooooo!"
One of the elders, her hair bound in a patterned scarf, her ceremonial necklace glittering in the firelight, wielded a sacrificial blade, red with fresh blood, and brandished it quickly and brutally against a young girl's throat as she cowered away from the vampires now feasting on the witches.
Monique Devereaux, her eyes wide and bulbous, her fingers twitching, teetered for half a moment, gasping, as her throat opened up, blood spilling, rich and hot and delicious, and Marcel stared, watching, as she dropped, her white high-necked gown stained with her own life's blood.
"Let me go! Noooo! Monique! Nooo! Let me go!"
The last of the Harvest girls. Tiny, really. Dark-eyed with the prettiest lips he had ever seen, long dark hair tousled around her shoulders as she writhed and kicked and wept and elbowed the witch manhandling her. Tears splashed down her pale cheeks, her eyes glued to the lifeless form of Monique Devereaux on the blood-splattered granite steps.
Baring his fangs, he growled, ran forward - broke the spine of the one holding the last Harvest girl. Reached for her; and tasted the salt of her tears and the ash on her brow in the air as she cowered close - instantly trusting of him, a vampire, as his nightwalkers picked off her coven, who ran, or wept over their daughters' bodies.
Sophie gathered her niece's body into her arms, her makeup smeared, her face wan, as lifeless as her niece. A terrible sense of grief and devastation, hollowness, seemed to settle in Sophie's eyes as Marcel watched. And the girl tucked safely in his arms lifted her hand toward her fallen friend, her face a mask of bewilderment, as her fingertips started to glow. In the dying firelight, Monique Devereaux's hands glowed, dimming as the other girl's hand brightened…as if something was transferring to her, something…had been at work, something magical - something powerful.
Something he had interrupted.
He couldn't stand the hollow look in Sophie Devereaux's eyes: He had been too late. Three out of the four Harvest girls dead, within seconds. The screams and roars died down, the sound of hurried footsteps receded, and the chorus of cicadas grew louder as silence fell on the cemetery like a shroud. The survivor shook like a leaf as shock settled in, her breaths shallow, her pupils blown; he sighed heavily, giving Sophie one last look as she bowed her head, silently crying over her niece, and whisked the Harvest girl away.
His car was parked a block away; he carried her when her knees buckled, her legs giving out beneath her. She was panting by the time he had her buckled in, and he cast her a careful look as he drove away. He couldn't take her to a doctor, turning up in an Emergency Room with her would only cause her more problems; and the witches would be able to find her, wherever she was. He glanced at the stereo as his favourite jazz musician started playing through the sound-system.
"Uh… What kinda music d'you like?" he asked gently, trying to distract her. Her hands were shaking in her lap; she was staring at them, as if she had never seen them before. Sweat beaded her brow and she shivered in her delicate little dress, her arms bare. But it was the shock, not the chill of the night that had her shivering.
And he was surprised when she answered, "Classical."
"Huh," he said thoughtfully. Sophie said all the girls involved in the Harvest were sixteen; he would have thought she'd be a fan of Ariana Grande or Beyoncé or Lady Gaga… He glanced sideways at her. "Just realised I don't have your name."
She licked her lips, gulping several times, before murmuring, "Davina."
"It's very nice to meet you, Davina. I'm Marcel."
"I know who you are," she breathed, her heartbeat stuttering. "Where - where are you taking me?"
"Figured I'd get you somethin' to eat," Marcel said quietly. Nowhere in the Quarter; it wouldn't be safe for her to be out in the open.
"I'm not really very hungry."
"Not now," Marcel agreed, "But your adrenaline's gonna crash, and before exhaustion hits I want you to eat somethin'. Go to sleep hungry and hollow, you'll only wake up the same."
"I don't think I'll be able to sleep."
"You'd be surprised," Marcel said quietly, glancing over at young Davina.
"My friends were just murdered." Tears slipped down her cheeks, and Marcel sighed heavily.
"Yeah, honey…I know," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I couldn't get to them before it happened." Davina blinked her long lashes, scattering more tears; she turned a gentle frown on him.
"Why did you come?"
He sighed, and settled on the truth. "I gotta rule about hurting kids…and I don't like the idea of the covens getting more powerful. I've known somethin's up for months now, just couldn't figure out what. Guess the other covens didn't want any part of this Harvest ritual."
Davina settled into her seat, her eyes faraway, and more tears slipped silently down her cheeks. "Because they knew…the other covens, they knew they were going to slaughter us." Marcel glanced over at Davina.
He sighed again. "What the covens know about each other is open to debate. They're all suspicious and paranoid, protective… Don't take kindly to outsiders… And they all have their own ways of doin' things."
There was a thin line between slaughter and sacrifice where witchcraft was concerned, he was told. He was lucky only the extremists in New Orleans practiced sacrificial magic - but nothing like tonight. Nothing to alert the humans. Nothing to risk their exposure. Dead chickens was all fine and good, to ensure vegetable gardens flourished. But little girls? That crossed the line even some of the most hard-core witches wouldn't touch.
His recent conversation with Giulia Salvatore reminded him of the unpredictability of magic, of sacrifice, of rituals like the Harvest he knew too little about. He'd saved Davina, but what about the other three?
What would happen to Davina now? The ritual was incomplete.
It settled in his stomach, then…the other covens wanted nothing to do with the Harvest. And they had drawn a line in the sand Marcel could not cross: They would not interfere with the Vieux Carré coven, but he wasn't stupid enough to think he could convince the Regent to speak to him about whatever it was that had been happening over the last months…not after tonight. Not when the Regent promoted the interests of the witches, and it was in the witches' interests to stay out of a conflict that had been escalated, tonight, to an all-out war between the vampires and one of the covens.
He cringed to himself, realising suddenly, that going forward, figuring out what the witches were up to was going to be a hell of a lot harder, even than usual. What happened tonight would resonate throughout the city: Every coven would know he had slaughtered their fellow witches - witches who followed their faith in direct contravention of his rules. He did not let his people harm kids: What desperate fools had they been, to think he would let them do the same? Their crucial mistake had been letting word get to him of the Harvest. Going forward, learning from the Vieux Carré coven's mistake, the other covens would be wiser, craftier… He would never find out what had been rumbling through the city the last few months - he would never see what was coming 'til it was too late.
In fighting for the four girls, in saving Davina's life…in doing the honourable thing, he had condemned his chances of maintaining peaceful relations with the other eight covens.
One of two things would happen. The other eight covens would truly unite, and become a force even his people couldn't match… Or fear would spread through the city, the covens would close ranks, and whatever they did, they did in secrecy, in desperation, and they would do it alone, without allies.
He would bet on the latter.
There hadn't been a show of force from the vampires against the other species of the supernatural community in New Orleans in decades. And the wolves still roamed the bayou, a reminder to anyone who thought to go head to head with Marcel.
Kids had been caught in the crossfire back then, too, when the sprawling pack had divided, and turned on each other, a civil war wrecking families, orphaning children - killing kids, too; more than one werewolf had found it a blessed relief to retreat into their animalistic form, instead of lingering as men with nothing but the memories of their dead children to torture them.
What had Giulia just asked him, a half hour ago? Are you about to do something very noble and incredibly stupid?
She'd warned him to think of the consequences.
Damn.
A.N.: Because as decent as Marcel is, as honourable as his motives were, he should've known better than to interfere in something he didn't understand.
I'm not a Davina fan (Cami grew on me) but I faithfully vow to you not to exaggerate her flaws - she'll just be a regular teenage brat with too much power and time on her hands, and an epic chip on her shoulder! However, I think it'll be interesting to write interactions between her, a teenager and Giulia, an adult and mother and working professional - who also sacrificed herself to protect her friends, changing the course of history with Klaus' transformation.
