"Ripper," Niklaus greets, spreading his hands at their new companion.
Stefan obviously feels uncomfortable, but not because of the role he's been forced to play. If anything, he's too comfortable in that role. Caroline can see how he now holds himself with the poise of a predator, and that makes him uneasy. He wants to be that good guy.
"I'm here," he says, pursing his lips and letting his arms fall to his sides. "What do you want?"
"We're going to figure out where the Hel we're going to go next," Caroline says. "Since Niklaus is being mysterious about it."
"Half the fun is the mystery, love," Niklaus says, all quick and brisk movements of the head, his hands held behind his back. He's happy.
"Oh, but I much prefer you exposed," she replies, the double-entendre clear.
Stefan clears his throat loudly. "Are you guys going to do this flirt thing all the time?"
"Well, we have been married for a thousand years, it's to be expected," Niklaus says cheerfully, shamelessly looking her over. "Now, we're trying to locate some supernatural locations, so if you can of any use at all, feel free to point them out."
"So," Caroline says, rolling out a map. "Werewolf packs. We've already located a few, but what I want to know is why?"
"We can turn them," he says, as if it were obvious.
"But you were a vampire first," she points out. "Why would you turn werewolves?"
"Do I get to hear the background to this story?" Stefan pipes up.
"No," Caroline says harshly, not even looking at him. She turns back to her husband. "Tell me."
"It's a theory," her husband admits.
"The siring theory? Again? Seriously?" Caroline says, leaning back from the table to look at him. The idea that they'd be eternally grateful to be spared the pain of transformation seems ludicrous.
"You actually want them to be sired to you?" Stefan asks, confused, his brow furrowed and gesturing with his fingers.
"I'd like to have some insurance," Niklaus says, making eye contact. "And this seems like the way to go."
"Why?" Stefan says. "I mean, I've seen what siring looks like, and it's not pretty."
"It's different with wolves," Niklaus say, self-assured. "We have different instincts."
"And if it doesn't work?" She says.
"Then we'll make it work," he replies. "We have all the time in the world, love, why not?"
"Will you ever be satisfied, eskelde?" She asks.
"I suppose we'll find out when I am," he says, shrugging his shoulders.
"You are much too single-minded," she says. "We should be turning potential werewolves. We know it works, we've seen it work."
"And if they're not sired to me?" Niklaus challenges. "If they try to attack me? You?"
"You'd give them power. Immortality. Invincibility. Why wouldn't you have their loyalty? Play your cards right, and you won't need them to be sired to you."
"You do provide a good case," Niklaus says pensively, and decides with a slap on the table. "We'll compromise. Do both. We'll see which one is more effective."
Caroline shrugged. "My way, probably."
He lets out a short laugh. "We'll have to see. Where are the biggest packs? We can take the ones they cast aside."
He acts as if it's a matter of convenience, but she knows better. He can see himself in those cast aside, the children beaten by their parents, the ones who know they're unwanted, and he wants to save them, the same way he never was. He did that with Marcel, and he would do that again.
"Well, the biggest ones are in New Orleans," Stefan says nonchalantly. "Last time I checked, that was a supernatural hot spot."
Both of them freeze up. Logically, they know that would be the best place to go, but that place has just as many emotional mines as Mystic Falls. In both places, they had lost children.
New Orleans, 1820
They walk with as much dignity and false sadness as they can plaster on their faces, considering it's a funeral for a man he killed. Rebekah is the only one of them truly grieving. Klaus has to hide a smirk. Her grief is wasted on the fool of a governor's son. The boy hadn't been good enough for her, by any stretch. Good riddance really.
He expected the governor to have a bigger reaction, in all honesty. But that grief comes from losing an asset, not a son. That angers him slightly, but it is only a small upset. Let him deal with the ounce of grief he has, it is no concern of his.
The horse beneath him trots easily, as if it can sense his casualness. The beast is much more perceptive than any human, he notices with satisfaction. He has always liked them. Of course, Mikael had known that. Poor Theo. An animal that noble should not die that way.
There are slaves working in the fields on their way out of the graveyard, their faces shining with sweat. He sees an overseer barking at them, hears him insulting them.
Klaus scoffs. He is no stranger to slaves; they had been a part of life. Prisoners of war to be used however the conquerors pleased. But this was an industry, hardly worth his while. And the excuses they make about an inferior race, laughable.
His ears catch a particularly interesting tidbit. "You think that because you're the governor's bastard you don't have to work? You think your father's going to save you?"
His lips curl. A bastard, like him, beaten for something that was the fault of the parent. He urges the horse forward, interested. He can feel his wife's questioning gaze on his back, but he goes forward anyway, observing the scene as he dismounts.
The overseer raises his arm to strike, but the boy, dark-skinned with aristocratic features like Rebekah's lover, picks up an apple and throws it with all his might.
The overseer staggers backwards with shock, but regains his footing. His face screwed up with anger, he raises his whip to strike. It is then that Klaus intervenes.
Picking up an apple, he throws with all his might, which is considerately more than the boy's, and strikes the overseer in the head. The apple gives a loud crack as it impacts with the man's skull, the fruit exploding with juice against his face. He can hear the heartbeat stutter and then stop, the body falling to the ground.
The boy spins to look at him, not in fear, but in awe.
"What is your name?" He does not bend down to meet the boy's eyes, but in him he feels a gentleness he has not felt for eons.
"Don't have one," the boy says. "My mother said she'd give me one when I turned ten, to make sure I'd live. But she died of the fever."
Well, they'd have to fix that, them.
"What about Marcellus," he says. "It means 'little warrior.'" And that is what this boy will be.
He lets the boy ride the horse and walks beside him, raising eyebrows. Caroline looks at him in confusion, and Rebekah looks outraged. Elijah looks resigned, and is ready to make amends with the governor.
"I want to buy him," Klaus says clearly.
"He's not for sale," The governor says shortly.
"Don't want to lose another son?" he asks lightly.
Caroline's face clears and she turns to face the man as he splutters denials.
"I understand this is a difficult time for you," she says, false sweetness dripping from her words. "But taking a rebellious slave off of your hands is the least we can do."
The governor cannot admit to having a bastard, as affluent as he is, so he relents, accepting the money.
"Why are you doing this?" Marcellus asks, stunned, as they walk him away from the big white house of the plantation.
"He has a soft spot for bastards," Caroline says, shrugging. "Come along, Marcellus, let's take you home."
Mystic Falls, 2010
"Did something happen in New Orleans?" Stefan asks probingly. He wants to know more information, which sets of red flags.
"For us, something happened everywhere," Niklaus says brusquely. He braces his hands against the table, crumpling the map. "It's settled, we'll go to New Orleans."
He blurs away.
"Okay, then," Stefan says, holding up his hands and turning away. "I'm going to go and get a snack.
"Niklaus," she calls after him, and finds him easily.
"We haven't been to New Orleans since 1919," he comments lightly, brushing his hand lightly over Rebekah's coffin, but not opening it. "We had such fun last time."
He turns, a brittle smile sent her way. An acknowledgement of their pain, a rare thing.
"Then we went to Chicago to have more fun," she says, standing next to him. "What are we going to do about Stefan?"
"The Ripper?" He asks, surprised.
"He's not like last time," she says.
"Well, we did just kill the supposed love of his life," Niklaus says, returning from his brooding. She always hated it when he was brooding.
"He's certainly not acting like we did," she responds. "How would you react if I died?"
He responds by brushing her face lightly. "I have no idea," he says quietly, "How much destruction I would be able to unleash."
She holds his hand to her face, and they have a brief moment where they acknowledge that the sentiment goes both ways.
"He's not acting that way," she says. "It's off."
"People have different ways of grieving," he says. "Perhaps he's one of those people who puts it all behind him, I wouldn't be surprised, considering his nature."
"You haven't been near him in eighty years," she reminds him. "He's changed."
"Perhaps he's trying to catch us off our guard," he says teasingly, "And he'll kill us in our sleep to avenge his lost love."
"If he tries to kill you out for revenge, I will rip him apart," she says in reply, and they grin at each other, that smile that spoke of love even if they didn't say it.
"If that's supposed to be funny, then I'm afraid you are sorely failing," he says, putting his forehead against hers.
"You're supposed to be the 'big bad Original Hybrid,'" she says, "If we're going to go to New Orleans you're going to need to fit that persona, you know."
"I'll be my customary amount of evil," he says, dodging around her, laughing. "Are you? Or are we going to have you be the underestimated one?"
"This is New Orleans, eskelde," she says, smirking, "No one underestimates us there." She strokes a hand over the varnished wood. "We're going to need to transport these; I'll call the same company as last time."
"You do that," he replies. "I'll go join the Ripper. Want me to bring you someone back?"
"I'll take a blood bag," she says. While she has no qualms about drinking from humans, since the invention of those things she has always preferred them. Less fuss that way.
He blurs away again, in a much better mood than before, and she calls the trucking company. She'll think of a good reason they're transporting five coffins around.
They compel themselves first-class seats on a plane to New Orleans, and the coffins are carried in a truck with a compelled driver. They don't tell Stefan about them. Neither Klaus nor Caroline have any idea how long they'll stay in the city, and it's always good to be prepared.
"Exactly how long are we planning on staying there?" Stefan asks, his fingers tapping restlessly on the armrest.
"As long as we have to," Caroline snaps.
"You're very goal-oriented, aren't you?" Stefan asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Probably why I achieve those goals." Caroline says loftily. "Perhaps you could talk to your brother about it."
If only he had his memories back, Niklaus thought with amusement, and he would probably not antagonize Caroline the way he does. Though this snappy behavior is most likely because of his thirst. However much he enjoys the Ripper, he is quite high maintenance.
"As long as you don't eat the pilot," he says dismissively.
Stefan looks relieved. He compels a stewardess not to scream and bites into their wrist, drinking deeply. The woman pales quickly from the blood loss, growing limp. Stefan continues to drink, completely uncaring of the pain he causes her.
The girl dies. No one bats an eyelash. But Klaus can see how Stefan's conscious is fighting against him, demanding for him to stop. He hasn't turned off his emotions yet, and he won't force him to. All part of the fun.
Caroline takes a blood bag and takes a long sip. He has no idea how she tolerates the plastic things, much less prefer them. He's never enjoyed the feeling of stagnant blood being dragged into his month, nor the absence of adrenaline in the liquid. But she has always liked feeling human.
Stefan continues to drink, consumed by blood-lust. They'll have to come up with a good cover story when they land.
Caroline is still planning, every facet of this venture having an exact place in her mind. "Who's the current leadership?" she asks him, ignoring the corpses on the ground. "We haven't exactly been keeping tabs on the place since we left."
He shrugs. "You know what I know."
"So you don't know anything," Stefan says, licking the blood off his lips. "At all."
"Whoever it is, we can beat them," Klaus says dismissively. "We're the Originals, we always have."
Stefan scowls at the reminder of his failure to save the doppelganger. Caroline was right, he seems off. Stefan should have had a bigger reaction. But he pushes the thought to the side. The Ripper has always been unpredictable. An immortal lifespan means finding some way to fight off the ennui. And Stefan has always been an excellent source of entertainment. Even a friend. And for him, those are few and far between.
New Orleans, 1825
"People are always going to expect certain things from you," Caroline says, straightening a fifteen-year-old Marcel's clothes. "They will always pounce on any imperfection you show."
"That is true," Klaus says. "But, seeing as we are in the privacy of our own home, you can muss up your clothes when sword fighting. After all, you're only human." Caroline sends him a look, and he smiles cheekily in response. Marcel had already been asking them to turn him, and reminders of the teenager's humanity was not helping matters.
"Don't get hurt," Caroline tells Marcel. She gives a warning glare to Klaus.
"I won't," Marcel says cockily. The pair of them roll their eyes at the typical boisterousness of youth, but caught themselves. More and more, they were acting as parents to this boy. They had even woken up Kol to meet him. But Caroline had put her foot down when Kol went on a particularly bloody feeding frenzy and daggered him.
The courtyard is empty, cleared for this purpose. They have to do this here because most of the people in this city would not take so kindly to the sight of his sister and his foster-son fencing.
Rebekah pulls a mask over her face and flourishes her sword. She always did want to use one. Marcel mimics her, his body turned and his left arm held out as a counterbalance.
The swords they use are flimsy, thin things, nothing like the broadswords he had used for so long. But he's had time to get used to them, seeing as they need to keep up appearances.
"Left, right," he calls out the moves, and they follow. "Up, lunge, keep your guard up, Marcel."
Marcel is young and full of vigor, and he takes to combat much better then he takes to music for plays, though Elijah has taken great care that he has a healthy appreciation for both. Still, he is careless and reckless, and he is fighting vampires.
Rebekah scores a touch, but her strength is too much and the sword digs into the protective gear. Marcel lets out a low groan as the blade digs into his flesh.
His sister gasps and pulls out the sword, which only provokes another yell of pain.
"I guess that's enough practice for today." He says, getting up. "You're getting better, Marcel."
Caroline is already there in a flash, her blood in a cup and handed to her foster-son. Marcel takes a sip, breathing in relief as the wound heals itself. She examines the shirt, where red blossoms on the white cloth.
"This is going to be hard to fix," she says, smacking Marcel lightly on the back of the head.
"Careful, love, you might take off his head," Klaus calls from the staircase.
"Careful, eskelde, or I might take off yours," she calls back.
"If you turned me-" Marcel starts.
"We are not turning you at fifteen," she says sternly. "Not until you're ready."
"I'm ready now," he insists.
"Being a vampire means everything is heightened," Caroline says. "And being young doesn't help that. We'll know when you're ready." She places a hand to Marcel's cheek and traces it down to his shoulder, and in these wonderful scattered moments she feels like a mother.
New Orleans, 2010
The city is the same as it had been eighty years before, light and color and music. Fun. But they're here for business, not pleasure.
Stefan looks about the place hungrily, and Klaus knows he is looking for targets. Food.
"Not now, Ripper," he says. "There's a time and a place." Stefan still looks, but he is less obvious about his nature.
Klaus sees it through a completely different lens as he walks. The cobblestone is the same, the buildings are the same, the people are the same. This place, this place they built, is timeless.
Caroline is just as familiar with New Orleans as he is. She walks through the streets like she owns them. It attracts attention, which is a happy side effect. They need to draw the leader out. Engage in a little power struggle they'd eventually win. Find out some werewolf bloodlines and turn them.
The French Quarter. Once their home, it is a hub of supernatural life for witches, vampires, and werewolves.
The latter is what he came here for. Unfortunately, werewolves are hard to find, but he's willing to wait. Even work with New Orleans witches, which is tricky, considering they all hated him, back in the day. Hopefully, some of that attitude has changed.
He strolls into the square, where hundreds of witches have their stalls set up. Tourists mill around them, laughing, most of them here for fun. The vendors are here to exploit that, make money. Some of them are fakes, but some are the real deal.
He surveys the crowd and finds one, a black woman who looks at him with instant suspicion. He can see the vervain flowers in a vase on her stall and the amulets ringing it. Strangely enough, he doesn't see any grimoires, but he supposes that they don't want to do any real magic so obviously.
"What do you want?" The witch asks warily.
"Why, you've only just met me," he says, sitting across from her. Caroline flanks him, placing a hand on the back of the chair. Stefan stays behind.
"I know who you are," the witch says, but she doesn't attack with a magical aneurysm, which seems to be the customary reaction of witches. Curious.
"Then tell us exactly who we are," Caroline says.
"You're the Hybrid," The witch says. "Half man, half beast."
"I'm the Original Hybrid, actually," he corrects, proud of that title. "But that's a long story. You see-" he leans forward. "I would like a favor from you."
"I don't give favors to vampires," she replies scathingly.
"It's more than that," Caroline says, not enjoying being ignored. "Yeah. I'm here." She wiggles her fingers in greeting. "You're not using magic. No one in this town is, don't think I haven't noticed. So what I'm wondering is why."
"You're the other Original," the witch says, stunned.
"Oh, there are more of us out there," Caroline says, her voice silk covering steel. "But I do think you're avoiding our question." The both of them smile viciously. Stefan watches them, bored, from behind.
"Witches aren't allowed to do magic in the Quarter," the witch says reluctantly.
Now that is a new development. Whoever was in charge around here had a way to keep the witches under control. A talent to be envied.
"Well, that's all we need from you," Klaus says, getting up. Caroline straightens up.
"Did you get what you wanted?" Stefan asks, picking under his fingernails.
"Not exactly," he answers. "But there's a new question that I want answered."
Klaus and Stefan go off to get drinks- whether that means blood or alcohol or both is irrelevant. She has more snooping to do.
That the witches are being stopped from using magic is intriguing. But what's more interesting is that she's been followed since she's entered the Quarter. There's a community of vampires here, and it looks like they're on top.
Caroline turns a corner and sees two vampires cornering a young girl, only a teenager.
"We don't like your kind here," they growl, smiling predatorily.
"I haven't even triggered the curse yet," the girl says, shaking her head.
"You're still a wolf," The tattooed vampire replies, letting her vampire features drop.
Caroline cocks her head, calculating, and decides to move. She speeds ahead and sticks either hand into their back, pulling out their hearts. The vampires' bodies drop to the ground, graying, and she drops the hearts nonchalantly.
The girl backs away from her, stunned. "Thanks."
"It never gets easier, being targeted," Caroline says, wiping her hands. She remembers that this girl is a werewolf potential. "If you never want to feel that way again, call this number." She takes out a pen and writes her number down on the girl's hand. "What's your name?"
"Cyrielle," the girl answers, looking down at the phone number.
"Well, Cyrielle, I hope to see you again." She smiles at the girl and blurs out of the alley.
Hello, guys! *Waves enthusiastically* I'm glad that you guys are enjoying this so far. Please continue to review and tell me what you hiked, and give whatever criticisms you like. However, if so, please make it constructive. Fanfiction is my writing practice.
I'll try to respond to some reviews, but it will only be for the chapter immediately previous. But I will read all of them. They're motivation to write more.
One of you guys complained that this is the same thing as TVD. I promise that a lot of stuff changes. So sit tight, I do have a plan.
-PhoenixCycle