Dark Side.
Chapter 40: Lady Death and All Her Friends.
"Who's in the shadows?
Who's ready to play?
Are we the hunters?
Or are we the prey?
There's no surrender,
And there's no escape.
Are we the hunters?
Or are we the prey?"
—Ruelle. Game of Survival.
The ground-floor living room of Cassandra's house is a room Caroline has stepped in many times before. She did live here for a little under a week, her old room just a restroom and a small study away, and was still too self-conscious or too embarrassed to venture upstairs without Cassandra being there.
So, she spent those days peregrinating from her room to the small sitting area that opened to the kitchen, to this living room. Arguably the only living room, since the one upstairs is much too small and cozy to be anything but a quaint little den for close friends and family.
It's where they've hung out since Caroline became a vampire and it's where she thought she'd find the redhead today.
Instead, she finds Cassandra here, sat on the floor with an array of papers and photographs spread around her. Dressed in a chunky, cable-knit cream sweater and a pair of leggings, she taps her chin with the end of a pen, lips pursed as she stares at the photograph in her hand and her long hair glinting a bright copper in the sunlight.
Aside from the quick greeting they exchanged, Caroline hasn't said anything. Neither has Casandra, but while the redhead is as at ease as always, Caroline can't help but feel a little awkward. Probably, no, most definitely because of what she came here to say.
Cassandra saved her life. She put herself in the line to ensure Caroline could see another sunrise and there aren't enough words to express how grateful Caroline is. Even when Bonnie had commented there could have been a less violent way, even when Elena had mentioned Stefan didn't think there was another way to deal with werewolves but that, yes, it had been a gruesome sight—not that Elena really knew, since she wasn't there—all Caroline could think was that those people had hurt her for no other reason than they enjoyed it and Cassandra killed them to save her.
If you give her to me, alive, I'll be more willing to let you leave unscathed. Give me my friend. Cassandra gave them an option and they'd chosen violence instead. Caroline doesn't have it in her to be sympathetic toward them. Shocked at what she saw, yes, but no sympathy. If that makes her a terrible person… then she might not be as good a person as Bonnie or Elena. That's not really brand new information, either.
"You didn't come to the sleepover," she says, breaking the heavy silence.
There used to be a massive rug covering most of the floor, a multicolored and patterned thing of beauty that has now been removed. Her voice bounces off the walls, unimpaired by the padding the rug provided.
"I didn't think you wanted me there."
Cassandra scratches at her head with the pen, eyes never straying from the picture she holds aloft. Her words are matter-of-fact, a suggestion that Caroline should have known this.
"Of course I wanted you there! You saved my life, Cass." Caroline adds, gesturing at her with one hand. Cassandra smiles at her, light and kind. Caroline is not letting her off the hook that easily. "Elena called you, you didn't even answer."
She crosses her arms, eyebrows raised, and waits to see what kind of excuse she can give to that.
"I was busy and didn't feel like being chastised by her for what I'd done," Cassandra says.
Her face conveys what she won't say aloud, you know that's exactly what would have happened. Caroline sighs, plopping down beside her. Based on how Elena has reacted in the past, Caroline can't really blame her for thinking that way.
"I know she can be a little judgey, but she wasn't angry! Neither was Bonnie." She assures. At Cassandra's less than convinced look, she amends, "Okay, Bonnie was a little… shocked, but she did say she was glad someone had helped me."
"Next time, I'll go." Cassandra promises.
She's distracted, Caroline notes. Not glum, but not okay either. Her eyes keep jumping back to whatever it is she's studying.
"Wow, okay," she scoffs, nudging Cassandra with her shoulder. "So, you're hoping I get kidnapped by crazy werewolves again?"
It's a risky comment. One that can go either way. Thankfully, Cassandra recognizes it for the joke it is.
"It's not everyday that I get to show off my hunting skills," Cassandra replies, tilting her head in mock contemplation.
"It was the worst experience of my life, but that was awesome." At the concern that shadows Cassandra's face, Caroline tacks on, not willing to linger on the terror she felt last night, "I mean, you had a sword. A sword!"
"I know." Cassandra hums, eyes dancing with amusement.
"You were like a warrior princess," she keeps going, vexed that Cassandra isn't sharing her level of excitement. "Or the main character of a book! You were so the main character of a fantasy book."
Caroline might be making a joke out of it, but it's a compliment of the highest order. She's always watched movies and thought how cool it'd be to be that kind of girl, though she never believed she's fierce enough to be that. And it now turns out that Cassandra, her best friend, is a literal warrior princess. How impressive is that?
"You didn't see any of it, Caroline." Cassandra deflects with a laugh.
"No—but in my head, you were sword fighting your enemies while wearing a flowy pink ballgown." Caroline insists, fighting laughter herself. Cassandra lets out a dismayed 'oh, no! Not the ballgown', the exclamation's effect underplayed by the laugh that escapes her halfway. "And a tiara!"
"Okay, I'll allow the tiara but fighting in a dress is a certifiable nightmare." Cassandra gives her hand a squeeze. "Are you really okay?"
"I am."
She is. She won't pretend to be over the whole thing, and she thinks a part of her might never look at Tyler the same way again, but she survived. She dealt with her pain and processed it with her friends yesterday—a conversation she would have wanted Cassandra to be a part of, but Bonnie and Elena were a huge support.
"There might come a day when you find that actually you're not. I'm not saying it will happen, I'm saying that it might." Cassandra tells her, a seriousness to her eyes that makes Caroline wonder whether the redhead can read thoughts. "Someone very close to you betrayed you and you could have died because of it. That can leave a mark. When—if that day comes, I want you to know I am here for you."
Caroline nods. Words avoid her, held hostage by the tight knot lodged in her throat. All she can manage is a brief squeeze to Cassandra's hand.
She hopes she knows it's the same for her. That just because Caroline is the one going through it, it doesn't mean she's not there for Cassandra. She might have a tendency to get off topic and fixate on her own problems, something Elena is always reminding her, but she can still be there and listen. And she suspects Cassandra has a lot to say, considering Damon's words in that clearing last night. Not that she looks willing to talk about that.
"What is all this?" Caroline asks instead, turning back to the papers.
"A very old game of telephone." Cassandra sighs. "Also known as every single version of the Sun and The Moon Curse there has ever been."
Now that she mentions it, there are some similarities in the pictures. They're not all the same, but there seems to be a certain order to placed people and objects that give all the pictures a familiar air, regardless of color differences or art styles. The papers that are not photographs are simply rows upon rows of writing either in the same Medieval Latin Cassandra writes her journal in, or in an alphabet Caroline doesn't recognize.
"I thought there was only one version." Caroline frowns, eyes zeroing in on the one version she recognizes.
The same one that they found when Elena, Damon, Alaric, and Cassandra went on that road trip she wasn't allowed to tag along to.
"So did I," Cassandra muses. "Though my version isn't the one we found at Duke."
"Is that one it?" Caroline nods at the picture in Cassandra's hand.
It's a painting. Well, a photograph of a painting.
Against a dark forest clearing, the sky rumbling with approaching storm clouds, a creature that is half human, half wolf writhes on the ground, its upper half—the male human part—is inclining backwards as if crying to the heavens, a look of feral rage in its face. On the other side of the clearing is a vampire, or who she assumes is a vampire, considering the way the skin of his hands blisters under the sunlight. While the werewolf is enraged, the vampire shows a profound sorrow Caroline doesn't think connects to his physical pain. He's looking at the centre of the clearing, where a young woman lies, her skin pale with death, her copper red hair glistening like she's been embalmed by the gods themselves. She wears a gown of deepest blue with silver accents, the fabric glossy and thick. In one hand, she holds a bow. There's a quiver full of arrows by her head.
Cassandra's eyebrows furrow, before she follows Caroline's eyes to the picture in her hand. She blinks, almost like she forgot she's holding it.
"No, uh, this isn't my version."
"What is it then?" Caroline asks.
The painting is beautiful, raw with emotion in a way only classical art can achieve, but she doesn't think that's the only reason Cassandra is staring at it.
"The newest version of the curse," Cassandra answers, voice distant as she grabs the photograph with both hands.
"It looks super old." Caroline snorts, unconvinced.
"Yes, it's still really old." Cassandra lets out a huff of amusement. "Dated sometime around the 1620s, though that's still an approximate. But it's still the newest version, all others are older."
"And there's nothing after this one?" She checks. Cassandra shakes her head. "Okay, that's… odd, I guess? Why are you staring at it?"
Because that's what's really odd. The unwavering focus she's giving this particular version when it's not even the one she knows best. Sure, it's a pretty painting but there's only so much time you need to appreciate every detail.
"I don't know. It just…" Cassandra trails off, mouth furrowing to one side. Then the other. "There's something about it that looks really familiar."
Aside from the only woman being a redhead, too?
She looks at the painting once more, taking it in as a whole first before examining the main elements.
"I mean, it looks—it looks baroque." Caroline tries, so uncertain of her observation that it ends up sounding like a question.
Cassandra hums, absentminded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Silence stretches. Caroline doesn't really know what else to add.
"Wait." Cassandra blinks. When she swivels to face her, it's so fast Caroline is a little alarmed. "What did you just say?"
"That it looks baroque? You know, like, uh… Caravaggio or—or Rubens?" she tries to explain, only realizing that the painting doesn't exactly match their work until after she mentions them. "Though, not really them. But the colors and stuff are similar!" she finishes lamely.
The feeling only intensifies when all Cassandra does is stare at her, wide-eyed and lips parted. She's not really here, though, her eyes are much too glassy for her to be present in the here and now. Whatever she's contemplating gives her an idea. Caroline can almost see the lightbulb going off. Her spine straightens and her eyes clear before she's up and walking out of the room.
"Cass?"
She follows her down the hallway.
"You know when we're in art history, and we're studying the work of one or two artists, comparing their work or whatever," Cassandra starts, stopping by the door right under the stairs. Caroline nods, more of an encouragement than an assent. "And there's a painting, but we don't know who's the artist yet?"
"I like to try and guess," Caroline says, still not following.
"And sometimes you get it right." Cassandra opens the door, revealing a small cabinet with nothing but a couple of cardboard boxes and a door on the right. "It's because artists sometimes have a signature, a way to do things that is so innately theirs it transcends the objects or people they're painting. It's always present, even when they deviate from their usual subject."
"Like Van Gogh's color palette." Caroline suggests, nearly thrumming with enthusiasm.
"Or the sense of movement to his brushstrokes." Cassandra grants her a nod, letting her know she hit the nail on the head.
She opens the door, revealing a wooden staircase descending into the basement. Caroline's delight evaporates with the sight.
Flipping the switch by the door lights up the small lightbulb hanging from the ceiling downstairs, but the journey down is still quite dark. And spooky. It doesn't help that it's much colder down here, which is ridiculous considering it's spring and they've had a wonderful weather lately.
The basement is bigger than any Caroline has ever seen, so much so that the single lightbulb isn't enough to illuminate the entire space. Shadows crawl across the cement floor, and the dimness around shelves play tricks on her eyes until she's sure a creepy clown is about to jump up and stab them. She's almost a hundred percent sure someone's watching her, too.
"Um, not that I don't trust you or anything," Caroline starts, stealing a glance over her shoulder. There's nothing but brick wall behind her. The sensation doesn't go away. "But why do I feel like I just walked into the beginning of a Halloween story?"
"Because English Lit teachers read The Cask of Amontillado and decided nothing else could compare," Cassandra says, sending her a teasing smile.
Caroline lets out a nervous laugh, dallying by the stairs instead of following Cassandra further into the room.
"That's not helping." She squeaks.
Something ruffles to her left, like paper sliding across a desk. She yelps, turning in that direction. She expects to see some sort of monster sliding across the floor, cloak in tatters and long, sharp claws scratching at the ground in a secret code. No eyes on its moon white face, and a gaping hole for a mouth, fangs dripping with black blood.
She doesn't find any of that. Instead, she just comes face to face with an old leather trunk, scuffed at the corners and covered in a fine layer of dust. Somehow, it doesn't help with her racing heart any.
"Okay, seriously!" She exclaims. "Did you hear that?"
Cassandra's voice comes from the center of the room, accompanied by the sound of something being dragged. "Don't worry, it's probably just ghosts."
…what? She didn't just—
"Did you just say ghosts?" Caroline demands, striding toward her.
She's standing in the middle of the room, balancing a tall black case against a bookshelf. The case is about as thin as a pocket dictionary, yet as tall as Cassandra and wide enough that it obscures the bookshelf behind it. When she stops in front of her and crosses her arms, Cassandra gives her an apologetic smile, nose scrunching up.
"They're naturally attracted to me. I tend to block the ones that seek me out on a day-to-day basis, but the ones that make their way into my home, I keep contained to the basement," is the very terrifying explanation she is received with. "They won't harm you; just ignore anything you hear or see."
As if on cue, there's another unexplainable sound behind them. This time it's an insistent knocking. Caroline finds the ruffling was much preferable to that.
"I thought Bonnie said ghosts can't interact with us unless there's a spell." She argues, though it's more a request for reassurance that she's safe than any real doubt of what Cassandra's saying.
When it comes to magic, she's come to realize it's best to believe the centuries old witch over the seventeen-year-old one. The serious look that takes over Cassandra's features is not reassuring in the least.
"The Other Side isn't the only existing plane."
Okay, so that's even worse.
"That's ominous." Caroline mutters, deciding she does not want to know any more. "Why are we here?"
"We're here, because of this." Cassandra reveals, flipping the case open.
"Wow."
The word escapes her before she can contain it.
The case holds an oil portrait, no frame. A beautiful, large oil portrait of the very woman standing beside her.
In it, Cassandra is sat on an intricate high-backed chair of deepest mahogany, one hand on the armrest, the other resting delicately on her own lap. She is clearly meant to be the main focus of the piece, supported by the way what little furniture is on the canvas is angled towards her. There's very little in the background, just a fireplace to the right and a shadowed bookshelf to the lest. Everything else is swallowed by darkness, but Caroline infers she's in some sort of study.
She wears a dress Caroline would attribute to the early 20th century, cream with black stripes interrupted by what looks like Celtic knot patches at the skirts, one row of these at the knees, then at sporadic intervals until the hem, which gathers on the floor. A short train, no doubt. The sleeves are cream lace intertwined with tulle from the elbow down, cuffed at the wrists with a band of black velvet. The same velvet is at her tapered waist, acting as a decorative belt. The bodice of the dress is similar to the skirts, cream and black, adorned with cream and black lace patches down the front and along the neckline like a rounded collar. The neckline starts just at her collarbone, showing no more skin but that of her neck.
Yes, everything from the dress to the way her hair is styled would suggest early 20th century to Caroline, who has spent years obsessing over fashion like it's as vital as regular education. But that doesn't match the baroque period, which this is clearly inspired by, evidenced by the way light and darkness play on the canvas.
Mr. Bender would be proud of her for that assessment.
Straight-backed, chin-raised, Cassandra resembles a queen holding court. The likeness is uncanny. Looking at the portrait and Cassandra stood beside it, there's no doubt they're the same person. The painter even got her freckles right, the green of her eyes. If this were in a museum, Cassandra would have trouble keeping her immortality secret. And it could, should, be in a museum. The painting is that good.
Wordlessly, Cassandra lifts the photograph of the curse and holds it beside the portrait.
It takes Caroline a second longer than it does Cassandra for the penny to drop. Still, when it does, she can't help the gasp that leaves her.
Because it's the same artist.
The color theory and palette. The shine of both dresses. The colors and shading used for the hair are similar to the ones used for the wolf's pelt and the woman's own red hair. How the dark aspects appear to almost play with the light, a constant tug and pull.
"It's the same," she says what Cassandra already knows, based on the way she's gone totally still. "You know the person who painted the Curse? How is that possible?"
Cassandra stays quiet for a long time. Minutes and minutes of nothing but their breathing and that uncomfortable otherworldly presence all around them that apparently means ghosts.
Finally, Cassandra turns and makes for the stairs. Caroline follows, not willing to stay down here a second longer than necessary.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut your visit short, Caroline." Cassandra tells her, voice uncharacteristically soft as she leads her to the front door. "I have other matters to attend to."
The front door closes behind her before Caroline can even open her mouth.
Young vampires are a disgrace. Especially that Salvatore boy, thinking himself clever because he's lived past the hundred-and-fifty-year mark. So arrogant. So much hubris Elijah considered killing him just to teach him a lesson. Alas, that would not do. He hopes his jugular hurts the rest of the day.
What does Cassandra even see in him? He can't help but wonder, closing the door behind him. Not that it's surprising—she's always liked them a little reckless, Niklaus was proof enough of that. It helps balance out that burning coldness about her, how every move she makes is calculated. At least he tolerated Niklaus; there's nothing palatable about Damon Salvatore.
He walks further into the apartment, removing his suit jacket. Jonas is somewhere in the building, though he hasn't bothered to welcome Elijah. He'll have to seek him out, order him to keep a closer eye on Elena. He doesn't trust Damon's vague answer concerning Elena's whereabouts.
He's folding his jacket in the best way to avoid wrinkles when he senses it. A ripple in the air. Eyes on his back. He turns just in time to catch the dagger flying his way with his hand.
He stares at it, unable to control the widening of his eyes.
An intricate silver handle, the mid-sized polished heliotrope decorating the pommel, swirling words engraved in the blade, now half obscured by his own blood. He knows the weapon, has seen it plenty.
Elijah looks up.
She sits on the wingback chair by the window, legs crossed and an arm on each armrest. She's leaning to the right, toward her propped-up arm, softly resting her temple against her index finger. Showered by sunlight, her hair is set aflame. A queen on a makeshift throne.
"Hi, honey, I'm home." She croons, lips quirking upward in the smallest of motions.
There's nothing soft to that smile. The green of her eyes is as sharp as the dagger still in his hand.
He drops it, frustrated. She's dangerous, and he just unwittingly gave her his blood.
The dagger clatters once it reaches the hardwood floor, sliding across and stopping right in the shadows between them. He straightens, more than willing to pretend her presence isn't surprising.
She doesn't look away from him. The finger on her temple twirls a pattern down the side of her face until it reaches her cheek, palm flexing to procure the perfect seat for her jaw. Casual, yet as dangerous as she's always been. And looking thoroughly unimpressed.
In lieu of a greeting, he says, "if I recall correctly, I promised you a painful death next time we met."
"You didn't specify the time said painful death would occur," Cassandra answers without batting an eye, voice as even as his. "So, I thought, what the hell? I could probably get one last conversation in before my heart hits the floor."
And make his life as difficult as possible meanwhile, of this Elijah has no doubt. He eyes the discarded dagger, his blood glimmering in the dimmed light of the apartment. She's made no attempt to retrieve it yet. Odd, very odd.
"Would you like a drink?" he offers, centuries of diplomacy winning over.
"I'm alright, thank you." She declines just as politely only to add, as graceful as a queen appeasing a subject, "You may have one, if you'd like."
As if to say I won't find offense, as if he needs her approval to drink in his own apartment. As if she owns the room and isn't an intruder. He does not get that drink.
"What can I do for you, Cassandra?" He asks, hands folded behind his back.
"Do you remember my 427th birthday?"
Her head tilts to the side, revealing the smooth column of her throat. Bare, unprotected, it'd be so easy for him to rip it out with his teeth. It'd certainly stop whatever cat-and-mouse game she seeks to start with such an arbitrary question.
"I'm afraid I don't."
The lie leaves him as a heavy sigh, betraying his impatience.
"No?"
She raises her eyebrows, purses her lips. The picture of amused. And then it happens, that cursed little hmm she's always liked to use when she's about to enjoy gutting an enemy. Elijah can barely stop the growl of annoyance that looms at the sound. His top lip curls. She smiles.
"We danced and dined from sundown to sunrise for three days straight in Vienna," she reminds him, subtly patronizing, like his forgetting is nothing but a byproduct of his old age.
Something is wrong. Not that long ago she was so fiercely gripped by fear and grief at encountering him again that she pulled the plug on her emotions. While she's resembled the Cassandra he knew more and more since returning to her humanity, this is not the way she behaved when confronting someone who promised to kill her. This feels like a simple argument, tenser than usual, but nothing more than a spat. Like she doesn't believe he'll make her pay for the betrayal.
How wrong she is.
"Ah, yes," Elijah chuckles, encouraged by the ace up his sleeve. "You dragged us all out of the country and demanded we bestowed upon you the best of gifts."
Another lie, of course. Cassandra would have been content with dinner and a trip to the opera house, had requested it even. It was Niklaus who had insisted on something grander, had planned the whole thing, including the impromptu trip to Austria. Rebekah was more than willing to participate. Marcel paid for quite the spectacular pyrotechnics display. Even Kol behaved civilly towards the redhead, a feat all in itself. A happy memory, one of many, before her plotting tore his family apart once more, drew Niklaus to do the unthinkable once and for all.
"Fit for a queen." She hums again, seemingly more than happy to keep at his game. "Your gift was truly exquisite." Without meaning to, he looks down at the dagger between them again. "But my favorite was Nik's. Do you remember it?"
The glint in her eye has alarm bells going in his head. That is why she's come, though he can't imagine why whatever trinket Niklaus bestowed upon her would carry her here over a hundred years later. She waits, patient, unblinking. He's never been in the receiving end of that look, though he has witnessed it plenty. It never fails.
He clears his throat, lowering himself on the chair across from her.
"Was it the Friesian mare?" He asks, nonchalant.
"No. No, that was the prior year." Her eyes come alight at the memory. "Come on, have another guess."
And maybe it's the fact that the smile she's fighting is genuine, or the familiarity of that playful tone, but Elijah finds himself humoring her.
"A replica of a 14th century broadsword?"
"That was me to you," she corrects. "For Christmas that same year."
Their eyes meet, the words hanging in the air with a heaviness that is palpable. For the first time since he arrived, she's the first to break eye contact, turning her head away from him completely. His hands curl into fists, squeezing once, before he forces himself to relax.
"Is there a point to this conversation?" Elijah enquires, no longer interested in reminiscing a past she herself ruined.
She hums again. The sound makes him grind his teeth so hard his jaw threatens to pop.
"Indeed, for you see, Nik's present to me was a portrait, after my favorite art style. The baroque," she provides when he fails to ask which is it. "A thing of absolute beauty, a true masterpiece. So much so that I still have it."
His stomach tugs, some deeply ingrained instinct snapping to attention, warning him to listen and start gathering ammunition.
"I'm afraid I don't remember it; I might have to visit sometime to see it." He tilts his head, the picture of calm. "If it's as fine a piece as you claim."
The smile Cassandra throws at him is serpentine as she, with all the grace of history, reaches under her seat to procure a black folder.
"Oh, no need for visits." She coolly dismisses with a wave of a hand. She opens the folder with the other, revealing a stack of heavy A3 papers. "I've got a picture right here. Seems familiar?"
She places the photograph on the half-moon accent table between their chairs, sliding it across with a flick of fingers. He catches it before it can slide off the table, the pads of his fingers catching on that distinct stickiness of photographic paper.
The portrait is a masterpiece. One of the best work Niklaus has produced, not that he believes that to be the real reason Cassandra has kept it. He takes in the combination of color, the swirls of the brush—so precise they're near undetectable—how the lace neckline is so detailed it looks real, the careful combination of reds, red-oranges, and gold that culminate in a perfect rendition of Cassandra's hair, brought alive by the flame of candlelight. There's no denying his brother's talent, but there's something to be said about the art's intent when the piece's subject is the object of Niklaus' affections.
"Yes, I do remember it." He nods, discarding the photo back onto the table like it's no big thing. "You posed for weeks."
"I did. That's not what I meant, though. This is what I meant."
At that, she procures another picture, sliding it his way much like she did before. This photograph, however, doesn't have him reminiscing. No, it has his throat drying. His heart tripping against his ribcage. He knows why she's here.
"Explain." Cassandra orders, gaze polished steel.
He scoffs, pushing both photographs back toward her in one fluid motion. "You have some nerve in thinking I owe you anything after what you did to Kol, to Rebekah."
Cassandra blinks, that queenly mask slipping a fraction, "Rebekah?"
"And Marcel." He adds. "I assume you'll feign innocence in that respect, too?"
She and Rebekah had always had a frayed relationship, as likely to braid each other's hair as they were to rip out the other's throat, but that had been primarily when Cassandra was human. After, they'd been closer, allies, maybe even friends. Elijah never had to worry for Cassandra if Rebekah was there, never had to keep an eye closer on his last remaining sister if Cassandra was part of the same scheme.
His dearest sister, lost to the sea forever.
And Marcel—Marcel, who had been nothing but welcoming, eager for their family to grow, butchered like some martyr all because she swore allegiance to the wrong vampiress.
"I did nothing to Marcel. Or Rebekah." Cassandra scoffs, side-eyeing him like she worries for his sanity. "If anything, I gave them my blessing."
"A ploy so we wouldn't suspect your real intentions," he says with such bite Cassandra is momentarily taken aback. It's not obvious, but he catches it. Her neck tenses, eyes widen a smidge. "And when that didn't work, causing us to lose Marcel—"
"What are you—?"
"—you orchestrated Chicago." He finishes, ignoring her protests.
If she'd succeeded, if Mikael had taken Rebekah and Klaus—how long would it have taken her to find him and ruin him, too?
"Don't talk about Chicago." She warns. Her face has gone a shade darker. "Don't you talk about what you don't know."
"Klaus told me enough." He reveals. "About your involvement."
Elijah is taken aback by the visceral reaction that gets him. The ragged intake of breath she takes when she leans forward, like his words are a punch to her stomach. Her eyes are alive with emotion.
"My involvement?" Cassandra repeats in barely contained rage. He can almost see it vibrating under her skin, can almost scent it in the air. "And I imagine this included what happened in New Orleans."
It's not a question. He answers it regardless.
"Like I said, he told me everything."
It's what led him to decide to take her down, too. Niklaus may have shot his family to the ground, but she loaded the gun and cocked it. She deserves to pay as much as he does. He'll bite off her head with his very teeth right before ripping his brother's heart out. Or maybe he'll kill his brother first, lest seeing her suffer bring him some sort of twisted satisfaction.
"He lied."
She is resolute. So much so he actually finds himself pausing, his mind stilling for a fraction of a second. Cassandra sighs, leaning back on her seat, thinking, considering.
"I'd never heard of the Hunter until he attacked us in New Orleans." She begins before levelling him with a dry look. "An attack I barely survived, if you don't remember."
"You didn't know he'd been after us for centuries."
He doesn't hide his uncertainty. He never spoke of it, he knew Niklaus had never told her the truth of his heritage, but he figured Klaus had trusted her with Mikael, which is how she knew how to get them.
"If I had, I would have taken precautions." She deadpans. "I tried! I know hunters and I know running. Chicago wasn't far away enough. I wanted us to leave the country, but Rebekah liked Gloria and her music, and Nik loved the general debauchery of the city. I think it reminded him of home, of the life we had."
He swallows, leaning back on his chair until his back hits the backrest. She's not lying. He can't remember the last time Cassandra explained herself, yet here she is, speaking with a fierceness that hits him straight in the chest.
"I tried tracking the hunter's movements, but he was cloaked. No matter what I did, how many spells I attempted, they all said the same thing. His last known location was New Orleans." Cassandra continues, taking his silence for skepticism. "It was particularly difficult when I didn't have anything of his or know who he was. Rebekah was happy pretending the whole ordeal hadn't happened. Niklaus refused to talk about it."
His brother and sister were never ones to face the truth of their father head on. Especially if Klaus found himself another board to play king on.
"Chicago must have felt safe and far enough for them," he says what he suspects Cassandra already knows.
She snorts, looking at him with an expression that conveys her definition of 'far' differs. "Not quite as safe and far as Portland."
"No one wishes to go to Portland." They share a smile. "What happened then?"
The smile slips from Cassandra's face. She traces the outline of her dress on the portrait's photograph, still laying between them like the unescapable ghost of a memory.
"They met Stefan. Rebekah fell head over heels. Nik was certain he'd found a long-lost brother."
She doesn't sound convinced of the fact. Elijah is inclined to agree.
"He was truthful about that." He breathes, leaning on the armrest, shifting closer to her despite the table separating them. "I admit I was a tad disappointed when I met Stefan."
"Believe me, sanctimonious Stefan is preferable to ripper Stefan," Cassandra says, nose scrunched up. "It was impossible to even broach the topic of leaving the city then. For weeks, I tried. The scent was too fresh for us to set down roots so quickly. Nik didn't like my insistence. At first, he blamed it on me not wanting my two lives to collide, but then—" Cassandra presses her lips into a tight line, breathes in deep. "One night, Gloria's was raided by Chicago PD, except they had wooden bullets."
His blood chills at the words, at the shadow that dims her eyes.
"He'd found you again," he comments unnecessarily, an attempt to stop himself from reaching out to her.
"Nik compelled Stefan to forget it all."
She stops speaking abruptly. Her eyebrows furrow; her index finger and thumb twirl the ring on her finger at intervals of three, over and over. He doesn't quite understand what about that sentence sits wrong with her, or if perhaps it's the retelling of it all that has her uneasy. It might very well be, since the whole thing has a knot twisting his vocal cords. It's the same story Klaus told him what feels like forever ago. The same but different, and those varying details change everything.
"You included." He encourages with a clear of his throat after a moment of silence too long.
"I didn't ask for it, though. I thought that meant—I don't know what I thought." Cassandra huffs out a laugh, sharp and bitter. "Stefan has no recollection of what happened, all those missing chunks of time he blames on the bloodlust. Rebekah wanted to wait for him, and when Niklaus told her to choose, she didn't choose us. So, Nik daggered her and I let him—I let him." Cassandra admits.
Her shoulders rise in a small shrug, blasé. A complete contrast to the red that's started to rim her eyes.
"We needed to leave, I could undagger her once we were far and safe. Klaus had other ideas. He thought it a funny coincidence that the hunter showed up on the same week I'd insisted we moved on." She swipes her tongue across her upper teeth, like she's trying to scrape the bitterness off the muscle. "He said Kol was right about me."
That's the slight that hurts the most, Elijah realizes, not that Klaus doubted her allegiance, but that he agreed with Kol.
"He ended things between us, and ensured I knew that if I saw him again, it likely wouldn't end well. He then proceeded to cloak himself from me so I couldn't find him. I've never told anyone about that night." She adds in a small voice that is so uncharacteristic of her Elijah is robbed of speech. She meets his gaze, inclining her head in concession, "I take it Klaus spun you quite a different story."
"Indeed," says Elijah and, because she just stripped herself bare, begins his own tale.
He does not tell her of the Curse, keeps that card up his sleeve for a little longer.
He does tell her, however, of the story Klaus gave him when they reunited in Europe. How Klaus had discovered Cassandra had led Mikael to New Orleans, knowing after gaining their trust and having so much power over the city herself that it was the perfect moment to strike. When they'd managed to escape, to her chagrin, they'd gone to Chicago, where she'd proceeded to immerse herself into the witch community, form ties even Gloria was dubious of. How her strange behavior had all made sense when the bar they'd been at had been ambushed by Mikael on the very same night Cassandra had been skittish and late, arriving at Gloria's only twenty minutes before it'd all gone to hell. The reveal that it'd all been a ploy between Katerina and Cassandra, and that they'd fallen for it all over again.
He does not tell her how legitimately distressed Klaus had been while retelling the story, making it all the easier to believe she'd betrayed them.
He does tell her how Klaus, in a blind rage, had thrown their daggered family into the ocean, losing them forever.
"You believed him?"
It's not a genuine question, more of a stern reprimand.
"He was convincing." He finds himself defending. "I know how you are with your enemies."
"Which is why you should have known that if I wanted you dead, you would be, Original or not." She points out, pursing her lips. He dips his chin, as much power as he's willing to relinquish. "Marcel is alive, by the way. Not that you have any reason to believe me."
Cassandra lets out a sigh, rubbing at her forehead with one hand. For the span of a heartbeat, she looks exhausted, like all her years have finally caught up to her. It's gone within the next blink as she straightens, spine stacked up and chin uptilted.
"I believe you." Elijah admits, blown away by her.
By the fierce look in her eye that lets him know she'll go down swinging before taking the blame for something she didn't do. By her poise, how she's still as much the queen he knew she could be five centuries ago, that she was a century ago. By the fondness that slips into her tone when she speaks Marcel's name, and Rebekah's.
"After all these years, after all the lies, this does not surprise me in the slightest," he continues. "Niklaus has always had a way of twisting the truth to his convenience."
Her eyes shutter for a fraction of a second, an uncontrollable reaction as some emotion takes over her features before she can bury it deep, too deep and fast for Elijah to know what it is that his words stir within her. Anger? Betrayal? Grief? He's hoping for the first one, knowing it'll blind her long enough to get her on his side.
"I'll take that drink now," she says.
It's a demand he's happy to oblige, especially considering he could do with some liquor himself.
Rising to his feet, he strides to the small kitchen, keeping one eye on her and the other on the dagger still laying abandoned on the rug. She doesn't look half as bothered as he feels by giving him her back. Not that she ever was; even in that half-derelict house she'd remained unflinching as he circled her.
No—allowing an enemy to hover behind has always been Elijah's personal pet peeve more than it ever was hers. An instinct carried over from his human years. Nine hundred years or so later and he still fights the urge to squirm whenever he's forced to expose his back, despite knowing he has the upper hand in nearly every fight.
He'd fight the urge to flinch each time Cassandra'd dismiss a reprobate werewolf or defiant witch and promptly turn her back on them, the action giving her a power almost as strong as that slumbering magic rolling through her veins. Even now, when they are not allies—though enemies doesn't quite sound right anymore, either—he has to bite his tongue to keep from reprimanding her.
She tilts her head in thanks when he hands her the glass and waits until he's once again seated before taking a sip of the twenty-five-year-old Scotch. She doesn't sniff it for poison, not that the one poison that could actually kill her has any smell to it, and simply meets his gaze over the rim of the glass. The look in her eyes is both a challenge and quiet defiance.
"Will you explain, then?" Cassandra asks at last, placing the glass on the table.
"What makes you think there's anything to explain?" he retorts, crossing his legs.
The calmness in his voice is put on, but she doesn't need to know that.
"Elijah—"
"So you found a depiction of the Curse that matches Klaus' art." He cuts in before she can really start protesting. "That scarcely suggests something untoward."
"How's this for untoward?"
Cassandra lets out a little snarl, nostrils flaring at the same time as her temper. It's a highly amusing sight, especially since Elijah knows she's already figured out some of the truth and merely wants him to confirm it. Well, he wants her to squirm a little.
With a flick of her wrist, she opens the folder again.
"Nine different versions of The Sun and The Moon Curse scattered across the globe and interwoven into vastly different cultures. Say what you will about this world's tendency to share certain folkloric aspects, but this is unprecedented."
Unfazed, he watches her slam picture after picture of each version of the Curse there is down on that table between them. He's got to admit she's done one hell of a research job. Some of the pictures are versions he himself has forgotten they released into the world.
"And I do not think that this—" she lifts the pictures of her portrait and the curse up in the air—"is a coincidence, you know why? Because in my five hundred and thirty years of life, I have never encountered anyone quite as desperate to break the Curse as your family."
He eyes the curse she's holding aloft, uncapable of denying the resemblance between her portrait and it is uncanny. There's no sentence he can utter that would believably deny Klaus painted both.
It is the last version he ever did, depicting every step of it in such a clever way that it told the origin story as well. Except in it, a huntress as clever as she was beautiful had tricked both parties into the curse before she took her last breath. Elijah hadn't bothered to tell Klaus he was being obvious, hadn't attempted to broach the fact that despite the hundred-and-then-some years that had passed Klaus had still not forgotten his Lady Death. His brother had known.
"Explain!" Cassandra insists after a contemplating moment on his part that lasts a little too long for her liking.
"Very well—but first, answer me something." He bargains.
"What?" She urges through gritted teeth.
"Your friends are so protective of you," he says like it confounds him.
Secretly, it doesn't. She always elicited one of two reactions from others. Either a dislike strong enough to border on despising, judgement beyond redemption, or a fascination so fierce it is akin to idolatry, unwavering loyalty. She'd had as many people willing to die or kill for her in New Orleans as she had eager to kill her. It didn't surprise him the same occurred in this tiny town.
He's fishing for something else.
"Are you, by chance, hiding the extent of your power?" Elijah finishes.
"I'm not." She shakes her head, exasperated with the previous insinuation. "Katherine ran her mouth about what being a hybrid means, more or less at least, and then she used me as a target before snapping my neck in front of Stefan and Damon."
She levels him with a look. A silent you can imagine how that went.
"Ah." He chuckles. "So, they think you're weak."
"Am I not, in a way?" Cassandra retorts, sipping idly at her whiskey.
He supposes she's right. True hybrids are something other. Not just witch, but not quite full vampire, either, and while she'll never age, never die unless she is given a vampire's death or ingests a deadly amount of that pesky poison that's almost claimed her once already… she'll always take just a little longer to heal, to reanimate. She'll always crave water and food as keenly as she does blood. Though to every downside, there's a perk.
Cassandra Maudeleyn Woodhouse is everything but weak. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.
"And yet," he muses, enjoying the tilt of her eyebrow. "I always thought the only reason you never truly killed Kol was because of how much you love the thrill of the chase."
As much as any predator would when faced with a mighty contender, a challenge at long last.
The mention of Kol has whatever amusement had begun to brew within her evaporating. Her mouth tightens as she brings the whiskey to it. This time, her swallow is more controlled than leisured.
"I'm not that strong."
"Kol didn't have magic."
"I can't kill an Original." Cassandra asserts. "And you know how I feel about my magic."
She's warning him not to press the issue or else he won't like what comes next. He bites back a smile rich with satisfaction.
She's never used the full extent of her magic, is secretly terrified of the devastating destruction she could wreak if she did. Yet seeing her wield even a half of that raging ocean of power within her is a mesmerizing and breath-taking sight, as terrifying as it is beautiful. And a little over half of that power is all he needs for his plan. Especially considering Klaus will be weakened and spent, vulnerable as he's ever been.
"I reckon you could kill Klaus without any help, especially if he's already weak."
"I am not killing Niklaus."
"No, I didn't think you would." He chuckles lightly. Cassandra's chin lifts in defiance. A telling gesture that occurs before she can control it. "You loved him."
It's not a question. It carries all the gravitas of a verdict. Cassandra stares at him, quiet. A little too impassive for Elijah to believe it is anything but a well-worn mask.
"You still do. You want to know how I know that?" her eyes shutter, lips tighten only just. She's the perfect expression of 'well, if you insist.' He carries on, "you still have that painting. I wondered how inconvenient that love would be for my plans, but after observing you and your friends, I have realized it's only a matter of which man you love most."
They stare at each other for a moment, weighing each breath the other takes, each shift in their features like it's the ten-count leading to the probable end of a boxing match. Elijah is uncertain as to who is the one standing, and who hit the mat.
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing." She drawls, utterly bored. "I answered your bloody question, and then some, now get to it."
There's no denying she plays the game well.
"Very well."
With a final incline of his head, he begins to tell his tale once again. One that arguably should have reached her ears from Klaus' mouth, but he'll at least ensure she's getting the somewhat unabridged version.
He explains, while being careful to not divulge his family's most sensitive details, how the Curse is not placed on vampires and werewolves as she's been led to believe but on Klaus himself. How the nature of his true parentage had been revealed when, by taking his first life as a vampire, the dormant werewolf gene had been triggered. Hybrids being an abomination of nature—he doesn't miss the flinch she tries to hold back at the word—a witch cursed Klaus so he may never reach that part of him, never shift during the full moon again. Unless the Curse of The Sun and The Moon is broken.
He pauses, examining her reaction. He can't recall the last time she looked so… stunned. Leaning back on her chair, lips parted and unseeing eyes stuck to the photographs on the table, Elijah isn't sure Cassandra is even breathing.
Moments pass before she moves again, lifting her eyes to his in a slow motion.
"Niklaus is… he's like me?"
The question is a breathy rasp past her lips, eyes so wide and glossy Elijah can discern every different shade of green in her irises.
"He's worse." He corrects. "A vampire-werewolf hybrid would be feral beyond reckoning. Nature's most apex predators in one. What's worst is he'd be able to create more, or so he believes."
"Niklaus is a hybrid." She repeats.
He confirms it again, knowing it's quite the news.
She still doesn't seem to be realizing the gravity of the situation. The destructive power Klaus would have as a hybrid, as the alpha of a hybrid pack.
"This isn't good news, Cassandra."
"I know that." She bites back. "Give me some time to process, alright?"
He grants her the time, taking the opportunity to sip at his whiskey. She just stares at him all the while.
"So, he made up all those versions of the curse, spread them out across the globe in the hopes that…" Cassandra trails off, eyebrows flattening. "That the doppelgänger would be found as soon as possible, right? Right." She answers her own question before he can open his mouth. "It's the one ingredient that's the most difficult to locate; no one's quite sure exactly why they surface."
She was always so clever, a little too smart for her own good. He's glad to see that hasn't changed with time.
"Werewolves and nightwalkers alike would crawl over each other in attempt over desperate attempt to find all the ingredients and be freed of the worst parts of their very being, all the while not knowing that the curse had nothing to do with them in the first place." He elaborates, finishing his own whiskey in one long swallow. "It made our job easier."
"That's inspired," she is reluctant to admit.
"Niklaus always had vision." He agrees. "And he'll stop anyone who gets in his way."
"Do not condescend to me," Cassandra says slowly. "I know exactly who is at stake."
They both know she's not thinking about Elena. Damon Salvatore. Caroline Forbes. Both perfect contenders for the Sacrifice, both likely just as dead for being desperate to save Elena, for being loved by her, who has now sided with yet another Doppelgänger. An insult Klaus won't see past.
"I won't stop you." She unfurls from the chair with the same grace as a cat's, taking the two steps necessary to reach the dagger on the floor. "I won't promise the others will drop it, or accept it, but Elena has considerable sway. She trusts you and, much like Stefan, derives wicked satisfaction from martyrizing herself."
With the same cold precision with which she spoke, she reaches into a pocket sown into the seam of her skirt, the kind of hidden pocket that was altered into the fabric rather than part of its original design. He watches her procure a single white handkerchief. He doesn't release a breath until she's wiped the blade clean of his blood.
"I also will keep what I learnt to myself," she tells him, offering him the handkerchief. "The odds might just tip in your favor."
He takes the handkerchief, pocketing it in one fluid motion. This is his chance, his one chance to recruit her while the shock of all she's exposed and learnt is still addling her mind.
"It'd be better if I had a powerful enough witch to—"
"No." She cuts in. "I am compromised."
He supposes she is in quite the situation. Loyal to one side, yet unwilling to be the one to end Niklaus' life. He's about to verbally accept her refusal when the front door opens and a young man falls through, collapsing on the rug before her.
"Sorry to interrupt." Jonas calls from the door, stepping inside and pushing the door closed with his boot. "But it appears your guest had a tail."
With that, he gestures toward the man sprawled on their rug. A werewolf, Elijah realizes. He must be, considering Cassandra's late-night activities.
He cocks an eyebrow at the redhead. "That's unlike you."
"He's been trailing me all day." Cassandra shrugs, unbothered. "I wanted to see how long it would take him to strike."
"Shall I dispose of him for you?" Jonas offers.
Cassandra's answer is to send him a withering look, nose scrunched up. Jonas' top lip curls, but that's as far as he is willing to show his displeasure. Elijah leans back on his seat, lifts his glass to his mouth, and watches.
"Why is it that I kill most of your filthy brethren in the quarter of an hour," Cassandra lowers herself to a crouch by the werewolf's face. "And your alpha only sends you?"
"That's a good point." Elijah hums.
The werewolf pushes onto his elbows, dark eyes darting around and landing on each of them for only a moment before settling on Cassandra. The trepidation that clouds his gaze isn't born just out of the fact she's the only one seemingly armed. He probably witnessed her little display last night, how she felled so many of them with so little effort and without even using her magic.
Elijah has to admit that, here, half-shrouded in shadows, the dimmed light around them casting off her long copper hair in what's almost an unnatural glow, eyes glinting with the promise of death, Cassandra does look more dangerous than any of them.
The werewolf isn't deterred.
"I wasn't sent to kill you, just make sure you didn't leave town." He glowers.
Cassandra's face twists into a perfect mask: eyebrows high, eyes widened only just, lips parted.
"Oh?"
Jonas clears his throat, eyeing her like she's dense, "I assume they'll be waiting to ambush you at home."
Cassandra shoots Jonas a look that's all thanks for pointing out the obvious. It's so dry, Elijah thinks he would laugh under different circumstances.
"We're not going to kill you, not yet." The werewolf almost looks like he's boasting.
"No? Then, what is the grand plan?" Cassandra gasps in feigned interest.
"I'm not talking to you," the werewolf snarls, tacking on a, "bitch," for good measure.
"You wolves need to brush up on your insults," Cassandra laughs, amused, before lifting the dagger still in her hand. "Am I going to have to get violent?"
The point of the blade digs into the werewolf's sternum just enough for the fabric of his shirt to dent, lines and folds stretching to every side at the pressure. It reinforces the quiet threat under her sweet tone. Though the werewolf squirms, he still does nothing but glare at her.
"Do you know," Cassandra starts with a disappointed sigh, like a headmistress finding out an unruly yet promising pupil has found his way into her office yet again. "That if I am very, very, careful—" her blade flattens against the werewolf's chest, trailing down with the same slowness of her words. "And patient, I can cut you open and actually show you your own heart before you die?"
A drop of blood blooms under the dagger right above the werewolf's heart, seeping into the fabric of his shirt and growing with every breath. Jonas' attempt at hiding the shiver that runs through him at her words is poor at best. Elijah straightens.
"I won't tell you anything." The werewolf manages through a ragged breath, tensing and relaxing his body. "You might as well kill me now."
"I think you're underestimating how painful it is to have someone slice through skin, muscle, and bone, while you are awake," Cassandra says, pressing forward. More blood spurts, running down his front now. This time, the werewolf cannot hide his groaning. "I will kill you. That's not up for negotiation—what is, is whether it happens quickly, or so painfully slow, so creatively your alpha doesn't recognize you when I drop off your body."
Subtly, Elijah meets Jonas' eyes and tilts his head, a warning to get back. He knows that tone of voice well—Cassandra isn't bluffing, and he doesn't want his only available witch to somehow wind up dead because he thought it'd be wise to intervene. Judging by Jonas' grimace, Elijah has a feeling intervening was exactly what he thought would be best.
The werewolf is still not talking. Cassandra grabs him by the short hair at the back of his head, bringing his face closer at the same time she lifts her dagger and strikes. The wolf cries out in alarm, kicking at the floor and trying to wrestle himself loose. The point of the blade freezes just as it touches the werewolf's eyelid, nestled in that crevice between the brow bone and his eye.
"Okay, okay!" He blurts out, pawing at her wrist with desperate hands. Cassandra does not budge. "We know you want to break the curse. We just wanted to do it first, while getting back at you for yesterday."
"Elena." Elijah mutters.
"Yes, we sent some people to get her." The werewolf goes to nod, only to realize the action would have unpleasant consequences. "Please, please don't take my eye."
"Leave it to me." Jonas only waits for Elijah's approving nod to exit.
"Please, don't take my eyes. Please—I'll—I'll tell you the rest, just, please, please—"
A blind werewolf is helpless. The very bottom of the pack. He'd require more care than a deaf one, and not many packs are virtuous enough to protect their wounded—that is where werewolves differ from their animal brothers. Where a wolf pack might care and nurse their sick or wounded back to health, werewolves adopt humanity's ruthlessness.
"Start talking." Cassandra orders, removing the dagger from the werewolf's face.
He slumps in relief and would have likely hit the floor again if it weren't for Cassandra's hold on his head. The werewolf doesn't seem to understand this doesn't mean he's safe, though knowing he still has his vision manages to loosen his tongue.
"Jules wants revenge. We assumed going for the blonde again would have been too obvious, so—" he stutters, face losing some of its color as he looks up at Cassandra with newly found fear. It's not long until Elijah understands why. "I was supposed to lure you to the other guy's house, you know, the one that got angry at you for walking into gunfire?"
"I know the one." Cassandra muses. Her light tone doesn't match the stillness to her body, to the very air around her. "How many?"
"Eight."
Eight werewolves against one vampire. Even without the moon full in the sky, with the element of surprise, chances are Damon is already dead. He wonders if she knows that, or if she's holding on to false hope that he may still be alive.
One thing's for sure, though, now that Damon is dead, Cassandra might be blinded enough with grief that she finds a way to blame Klaus for it. She may join him, after all.
"Anything else we should know?" Elijah asks.
"You vampires think you're so much better than us, but the truth is you're monsters all the same." The werewolf seethes, going so far as to actually spit at them. Cassandra merely leans out of the blob of saliva's way, looking inconvenienced at most. "At least we are one with—"
His voice gets cut off by a sudden squelch as Cassandra drives her dagger through his chin up into his brain, so swiftly the werewolf doesn't get a chance to make much noise. She twists it into his brain, one, twice, ensuring the werewolf is beyond healing, before yanking back on the weapon. It slides out of the werewolf's head with another squelch and an added crunch.
Meeting Elijah's eyes, she upturns her palm. He hands her the handkerchief without preamble, walking toward the door.
"I don't need your help," she tells him.
The hasty way in which she cleans the dagger is the only betraying sign of the fear and rage that courses through her.
"I know you don't. I'm still offering," he says.
Their gazes lock for a beat before she's striding past him, throwing an "alright, then" over her shoulder. Elijah follows, abandoning the werewolf's corpse to rot, his blood staining the rug beyond repair.