Author's note: Special thanks to TigerArrowgirl for all of your wonderful reviews and your phenomenal support of my original writing! To answer your question, the Ghost Stories prompt from Chapter 58 is now a multichap called Ghostly Secrets.

Also, the KC Awards are happening on tumblr (kcawards), and I hope you guys consider nominating my writing!

This is a sequel to Chapter 96: Artful Dodger. Former art thief Caroline should be enjoying her hard-earned 'retirement' after she successfully pulled off the Mikaelson job. Instead, she keeps thinking about him. And dreaming about him. Surely it was just a guilty conscience...

Warning: A little angst with this one...


"Some people just needed to be stolen from."
― Eoin Colfer, The Opal Deception


She was rooting for the witches. With a small grin, Caroline carefully removed dust from Banquo and the Witches, one of Francesco Zuccarelli's most celebrated paintings. With a final sweep of the soft brush, she set down her tray, massaging the small knot that had formed in her lower back as she'd sat for several hours performing the restoration. Thanks to the Mikaelson job, she never had to work again. But as she flitted from place to place, she realized she missed the structure of a routine. And the art. She missed being surrounded by beautiful things.

But she absolutely did not miss Klaus Mikaelson. He was a mark. With dimples and a sexy smirk. That was it. And yet, those stupid memories stubbornly lingered. Every fast-paced street corner, or decadent gourmet bite, or quaint village, or artwork that takes her breath away — there he was. It had been a relief when her application to the work study program in Tuscany had been accepted. She was certain restoring the classic artwork at the Palazzo Orsini would provide a much-needed distraction from those annoying, far-too-vivid dreams.

"It's astounding how little Pitigliano has changed," Klaus told her with a knowing grin, leaning against the crumbling stone wall that bordered the small village. The last time I was here, Cosimo Medici commissioned the aqueduct in the town center and kept blathering on about restoring his family's power. Such a tedious man, always boasting of sending his ships east to gather ancient manuscripts. There's nothing worse than a self-proclaimed bibliophile."

Caroline rolled her eyes, irritated that he was invading yet another one of her dreams. "You're not real. I've no idea why I'm dreaming about you." Her tone grew sharp as she told him, "I haven't thought about you since I left you on your floor all those months ago."

"Liar," he whispered, that devilish smirk on display as he brushed his lips across her knuckles.

It seemed her subconscious knew more about 17th century Italian history than she realized. Obviously, Medici history was well-known around Tuscany; she must've inadvertently retained some of that knowledge. Shaking her head in irritation, she returned to her work, noting that she'd need to find the right solvent mixture to remove the discolored varnish layers. And then send a report to the foundation sponsoring her work study program — which meant she'd undoubtedly get a lengthy, mildly-critical-bordering-on-insulting response from Nils A. Klemkousa, the head coordinator. From his abrupt emails, she kept picturing a surly, balding German guy who probably named all of his cats after Medieval artistic periods.

She frowned when she realized a perfectly blended marocchino was perched on the antique server table, cheerfully waiting on her. Probably from one of the gardeners. Or the fountain technicians. Or the security staff. In fact, ever since she'd started two weeks ago, everyone had been extraordinarily friendly. It wasn't that she was opposed to free espresso — in fact, it had been her favorite drink since she'd arrived — but the constant smiles and cheerful chatter made her skin itch.

An experienced grifter could read people instantly — understand their motivations and sense shifts in mood. It had saved her life on more than one occasion, and she always trusted her instincts. Something felt wrong here. An experienced grifter also knew when it was time to bail. Which is why she was emailing her last report to the foundation and then hopping a bus to the nearest train station.

She sipped her drink, accidentally hitting the keyboard with her elbow. She scowled at the screen as she went to delete the typos she'd introduced into Nils' name. Wait. She squinted, moving the cursor as she nudged the letters together. Nils A. Klemkousa was an anagram for Klaus Mikaelson. Fuck.

How did he find her? She shed her identity every time she traveled and her forged IDs were expertly crafted. He must have powerful friends. Heart racing, she realized she couldn't risk going back to the cottage she'd been renting. She forced herself to calmly walk to the enormous mirror with the heavily gilded frame. Sliding her hand behind it, she carefully unhooked the plastic envelope she stashed there when she first arrived. Her go bag. Every experienced grifter had them stashed in various places for when things went sideways. There should be enough euros and passports to get her across the continent before Klaus realized she was gone.

"What a resourceful creature you are, sweetheart."

She froze at the amused tone. Clutching her go bag, Caroline let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Klaus was leaning back in her chair, the spindly legs creaking in protest as he plopped his boots on the table. Despite her growing fear, she couldn't help but blurt out, "Seriously?! That's 17th century hand-scraped oak — get your ugly hipster boots off!"

"There's that fire I've missed. You've surprised me love, I thought I'd find you leisurely enjoying my riches." He mockingly removed his feet from the table, picking up one of her sable brushes to casually twirl in his fingers. "And yet here you are, toiling away in a thankless work study program."

She snorted, gesturing to the frescoed stateroom. "It's a 14th century fortress filled with historical artifacts from the past six centuries — it's grifter Disneyland." Pausing, she added, "Actually, high school reunions are grifter Disneyland, but this is nice too."

Pointing at him, she said defensively, "And it's your former riches." Caroline carefully eased open the flap of the plastic envelope while Klaus seemed distracted by the elaborate ceiling murals. Almost there. She felt a surge of relief flood her body as her fingers brushed against her stun ring weapon.

"It won't work. Much like that sleeping pill you slipped in my champagne," Klaus smugly told her, rising to his feet to stand close.

Too close. She could see a muscle twitch in his jaw. Strong jawline. Perfect for nibbling. "I felt bad about ruining that expensive rosé, but it's not like I could tell you to serve the cheap-shit champagne." Asshat. Of course her stun ring would work on him. She stubbornly held onto her weapon, hoping she could distract him long enough to use it.

He chuckled, "You could make amends by joining me for a drink — perhaps some champagne without the sleeping pill this time?"

"No thanks — I've got places to be that aren't here."

Klaus leaned forward, and she prepared herself for whatever nasty threat he was there to deliver. Fuck. Cedar cologne with a hint of lemon. Apparently, it was possible to be afraid and aroused at the same time. "Is King Cove one of those places you need to be?"

Caroline sucked in a breath, thinking rapidly. Motherfucking son of a bitch. How did he know about the tiny Alaskan village where she'd stashed the art from the Mikaelson job she couldn't bear to part with? "It would've been — two weeks ago. I cleaned out that storage unit to fund this little Italian adventure." Except she kept the Matisse, the Bellini, the Dali, and of course, Maclise's Alfred the Saxon King, the gleaming, exquisite painting that they bonded over. Did he steal them back?!

He winked, clearly not the least bit offended by her dismissive tone. "Over the centuries, I've had the pleasure of encountering humans who could bend words to their will until the most exquisite lie was more honest than the plainest truth. You may be the most skilled of them all, sweetheart."

Condescending asshat. Smug, spoiled bastard. Who just casually talked about centuries. The fear was back. The button on her stun ring was so close; just press it and end this madness long enough to escape.

"I enjoyed our brief discussion about the Medici aqueduct."

Heart pounding, Caroline quickly replied, "That didn't happen. I dreamed that, for fuck's sake! And you acted like you'd been there when it was being built. In the 17th century."

She didn't know what she expected, but when his face changed, she understood everything. And nothing. Klaus had fangs. Fangs. Dropping her weapon in surprise, she thought back to every TV show and movie she'd seen, but all they seemed to have taught her was that vampires had an affinity for leather and for some reason gravitated toward detective work. So, not much help.

Caroline began to sway on her feet, a slow, half-turn that allowed her to collapse perfectly beside the antique chair. Klaus knelt beside her, the dark veins underneath his eyes weirdly making his gaze even more soulful and enigmatic. He was a beautiful monster. Who likely would kill her after he was done playing with her. She was no one's toy.

She grimaced at the sharp crack of centuries'-old wood as she swiftly broke off a chair leg and rammed the splintered wood into Klaus' chest. Leaping away as though she'd been burned, Caroline watched as Klaus curled into himself and lay still. The shock on his handsome face — the acceptance — it made her heart hurt more than she cared to admit.

Klaus was dead. She'd never actually killed a mark before. Years ago, when she was still green, she came close to killing a man — her second mark. It was before she knew that a mark could nurse a flame as well as a grudge long after the fantasy she crafted had unraveled.

She resisted the foolish urge to kiss Klaus' cheek and breathe him in once more. Don't dwell. Move on.


The ferry ride was uneventful, but did little to calm Caroline's nerves. The brisk cold reminded her she was alive. And Klaus was not. Whatever he was, whatever he'd planned for her, she'd saved herself.

The tiny, unassuming storage unit stood in the shadow of the salmon cannery, and her hands shook as she turned the key in the padlock. The moment of truth — had Klaus stolen back the artwork before he found her in Italy? Impatiently huffing as she breathed in the sour smell of dust, she was relieved to see the covered canvases still sitting on the shelves.

Removing the cloth, she basked in the rosy glow of Maclise's Alfred the Saxon King. She once stood in Klaus' home and together they shared their admiration for this vibrant, soulful work.

Certain pieces just resonate, she'd told him.

He'd flashed that knowing grin as he replied, "What extraordinary passion you have, sweetheart. You breathe new life into my collection and it feels as though I'm experiencing them for the first time."

"I knew you still had it, love." His accented voice was just as smug as it was the last time he found her. Before she staked him. Apparently, her charming stalker liked to play dead.

With a sigh of resignation, Caroline slowly turned to face Klaus.

Maybe she had time for one drink.