ELENA DOESN'T KNOW QUITE WHAT to make of the invitation sitting on the bathroom counter of Hayley's hotel suite. Wonders if she should even touch it in fear it would burn her alive ( but like that would be a terrible thing, really ).

"What the fuck do we do? " Hayley hisses, voice low and quiet like she's afraid someone could be listening in on them. Probably is, actually.

"Read it?" Elena suggests, unsure, eyes tracing over the curve of names scrawled on top of the envelope.

Hayley Marshall & Elena Gilbert

Hayley shoots Elena a withering stare. "Do you not remember what happened two days ago in Rousseau's? I'm still convinced they tried to kill you."

"Yeah, but you didn't really help matters by pissing off Jane-Anne," Elena snips back and buries the flicker of guilt she feels. Doesn't waste time to think about why she's so flippant with her life these days, "In fact, that's probably who this is from. The witches."

Hayley flips her wet hair over her shoulder. After noticing an envelope that definitely wasn't there before she got in the shower, she threw on the nearest clothing she could find and shook Elena out of her mid-day nap and demanded Elena to come to the bathroom where their Problem of the Day was located.

( God, when she left Mystic Falls, she meant to leave all this behind too. )

"And that means we open it?" Hayley questions disbelievingly, "It's probably a trap!"

"And who's fault is that?"

Elena shouldn't be so mean, should blunt her tongue so it doesn't hit so hard, strike so deep, but she has been doing that for years now, chipping away at herself, softening herself so people don't bleed when they hold her even when they make her bleed.

Well, fuck that. If Hayley can't take it, she's more than capable of calling off the deal and going her own way. Elena doesn't have the energy anymore.

( Is struggling to find the energy to get out of bed these days. )

Hayley's pensive silence ends. "Fine. Have it your way."

She scoops up the envelope and there's a tense three-second pause as the pair wait and see if Hayley will suddenly burst into flames, but when the werewolf remains intact and unburnt, she rips open the envelope. She yanks out a thin sheet of paper and reads out the contents:

"To the Occupants of Room 122,

The Witches of the French Quarter extend a formal apology for our harsh treatments of you. In the wake of the harsh political climate, we do not seek to create more enemies. By this sentiment, we invite you to meet with Jane-Anne Deveraux again to repair the bridge between us.

Cordially,

The French Quarter Coven."

Hayley trails off and the two stare at the letter in silence.

"We both know it's bullshit, right?"

ULTIMATELY, THE TWO HAVE NO choice. There are clearly no werewolves to ask, nor does Hayley recommend asking the vampires, as she suspects that they're who ran out her family thirty years ago. As a result, the witches are their only choice.

Elena points out that they could simply leave New Orleans and keep searching the rest of Louisiana, as Klaus did say that ( if his word is to be trusted at all ) but Hayley shakes her head and says she has a feeling that her family is here.

Elena has to bite the urge to tell Hayley exactly where she could stick her feeling.

( Is both relieved and bitter that Hayley brushed away Elena's tears so easily; did not coddle, did not soothe. )

( She does not know how to handle being cared for so carelessly. For so long now, she has been treated as a precious china doll, something fragile and delicate she has to be wrapped in cotton. )

( Is free-falling without her safety net, but lets the wind tear through her hair and spreads her arms out like she might fly. )

Rousseau's is empty today. Hayley goes first, cautious of Sophie and her covetous eyes that can turn women to stone with one mere look. Through the open door—because Hayley refuses to take a step inside until she has properly surveyed their surroundings—Elena scents that fragrance of old spices and home cooked warmth again, but this time it's laden with sea salt. She frowns, but doesn't say anything. Keeps her cards close to her chest.

Hayley finds nothing worrying in her initial observation of the bar, and cautiously steps inside, Elena slithering behind her, nipping at her heels like a loyal dog. Elena stretches her hearing out, catches no heartbeats but two: one is Jane-Anne, manning the bartop and the other is presumably Sophie, tucked away in the back.

Hayley's eyes flicker to Elena, and Elena nods subtly. Hayley doesn't relax. There's no telling what witches can do—how much magic they possess at their fingertips that can hide them from Elena's eyes and ears.

"Jane-Anne," Hayley says brusquely. She stops inches from the bar-top, doesn't get as close as she did two days ago. Elena follows her example, sliding into position beside Hayley. Let them think her weak and feeble,the lion cowed by the wolf.

( Let them think that it is only Hayley who has the claws, while Elena whets her fangs. )

( This is a well-practised routine now. )

"Hayley," Jane-Anne greets, and there's a little more life to her now— no , that's wrong. It's not life that glints steely-eyed from Jane-Anne, but the crackle and pop of kindle and flame. Of staring death in the eye and saying no, thank you. Those death-defying eyes shift to Elena and the vampire holds back a shiver. "Elena."

( Again, that incessant urge to slide a hand over her belly, when there is nothing but stolen blood and aching bones underneath the folds of flesh. )

Elena clears her throat, reorienting herself to the wooden floorboards beneath her feet, the worms wiggling through the dirt beneath that, and pulls out the letter from her jacket pocket, "We received the letter this morning. Apparently, you want a truce."

Jane-Anne shrugs and does not give the letter much consideration, focusing her energies on cleaning the glasses instead. It prickles at Elena. "Yeah. With everything that's been going on here in New Orleans for the past couple decades, it doesn't really serve us witches well to make any more enemies that we need to, really."

"Why?" Hayley interrupts, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, "Me and Elena are just visitors. We'll probably be gone by next week. We're not someone even worth considering as enemies, never mind making reparations, or whatever this is."

There are secrets folded up and tucked away in the glint of Jane-Anne's eyes, the crash of pots and pans that Sophie sifts through in the kitchen. It gnaws at Elena, but as much as she tries, she cannot uncover what exactly the witches want.

( Witch hearts are fickle things: the cost of playing with magic, of being infected by it. )

Jane-Anne sighs, moving onto the next glass. "What do you want me to say, Hayley? That we're planning a massive conspiracy against you two so we're only making nice so we can get close to you—"

"Yes."

The word escapes Elena before she realises she even said it. Feels her tongue curl in her mouth, ready to voice more of her locked-up thoughts, but she shuts her mouth with a clink of her teeth and watches silently as Jane-Anne shifts her gaze to the vampire.

Elena has been used and abused so much in the span of two years it's almost foreign to her that people do not want to use her, not to plot and conspire and connive.

( What a sad, sad existence she leads. )

( Existence, not life. She has not lived in years. )

Jane-Anne's mouth twitches like she's going to smile, but the witch sighs and shakes her head. "Fine," she says dryly, "We're plotting against you. Happy?"

Rousseau's is unnaturally silent. Sophie goes still in the kitchen, heart threatening to burst out of the prison of her ribcage.

"Why?" Elena demands, "Because I'm the doppelganger? Because of my innate magic ?"

"Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Jane-Anne's words hit Elena like a lightning strike. Because she's right. Because Elena sleeps better knowing there's people out to get her, use her, bleed her dry.

( She no longer knows how to live when she is not hunted. )

( Has forgotten how to be anything but the prey. )

Elena leaves the bar in a whirl of wind and regret.

IN THE DAYTIME, THE STREETS of New Orleans are not as cavernous, but they sing with stories long gone. Elena feels the stones rattle under her feet, phantom shocks of footsteps that tread over them long before she was even imagined of.

Cavorting with Salvatores and Mikaelsons makes it much easier for her to wrap her mind around such a thought.

Hearts thrum and blood roars, and Elena tries to block it out, because she is not ready to deal with her paradoxical nature: that her body has become the predator, but she continues to sink into her mindset of the prey.

Struggles to become the predator when everyone pats her on the head and tells her they'll fix it.

( "You know nothing about being a vampire." )

The memory, the echo of a night that changed everything, that ruined her so deeply she doesn't know left from right, causes Elena to snap.

She slinks down a smoke-laced alleyway, digging into her bag and yanking out a blood bag so aggressively it threatens to burst and decorate her in red and gore.

( In the truth of her nature and self she has spent so long denying. )

There is no phone to avoid, to ignore. She left it behind in the bottom drawer of her nightstand, burning with read but unanswered messages and scorching with the tell-tale buzz of more messages, more pleas, more words Elena doesn't respond to.

Because they still do not understand that she has nothing left to say.

Used her up the last of them on that scribbled note that she wasted a whole notebook trying to write.

( She burnt the remains of that notebook in the bonfire of her exit. )

She leans against a wall, trying to lessen the weight on her shoulders, the force crushing her lungs and heart and organs. She drinks and the blood tastes like fine wine.

"Who are you?"

Elena startles, mouth ripping from the blood bag, liquid spilling down her chin. She doesn't pay it heed, attention flying to the man—no, vampire —standing only inches away from her, shadows clinging to him like a second skin.

"I-I—" Tries to speak, tries to find a way out of this situation, these lion jaws snapping shut on her.

The vampire flies forward, stopping only a hair's breadth away from her. Elena isn't short by any stretch of the imagination, yet the vampire before is tall enough that she to tip her head back to meet his blazing, prying gaze.

"What is your business here in the French Quarter?" He demands again and his eyes are so intense, that if she knew all the Originals on one hand, she'd worry that he'd be able to compel the truth from her. That intrusive gaze ducks to the half-empty blood bag she still clutches in her hands. "And why aren't you feeding from people?"

Reminded of the blood drying on her chin, Elena hurriedly scrapes it away on the back of her hand as her cheeks tint scarlet from embarrassment and she stumbles through an answer.

( The day has been so tiring; she has forgotten how to dance on the line between half-truths and lies. )

She reminds herself she daggered two Originals and killed another while human. Surely a normal vampire shouldn't be so terrifying?

( But he is, because she knows how to kill gods and seduce monsters, but she doesn't know how to barter with men. )

( And somehow, they are all the more dreadful. )

"I-I don't mean any trouble. I'm just here to help my friend find something. And I, uh, don't have enough control yet to feed from people so my s-sire recommended that I eat from blood bags until I'm ready."

She trips over 'sire' because all she can see is blue eyes that burn and hands so greedy they never cared about what she wanted.

The vampire cocks his head, listening to the steady rate of her heartbeat before he steps back and Elena feels like she can breathe. He nods to her blood bag.

"I'd keep practising. It's not a good idea to become dependent on those things."

"Thanks," Elena says and wonders what she should do next, "I'm Elena."

As soon as it's out of her mouth, she regrets it. Thinks she should've given him a fake name, any name, but the one that could lead people right to her and her blood.

"Diego," the vampire returns, "Marcel's right-hand man."

Recognition flows through her veins like sugar water. She plays it safe. "Who's Marcel?"

Diego looses a startled laugh and gazes at Elena incredulously, "You seriously don't know who Marcel is?"

"I'm not from around here, and I was turned only a couple months ago. I'm still getting a hang of all things.

Diego scoffs, shakes his head, and Elena tries not to bristle. "He's the King of New Orleans. All vampires and witches here defer to him. Including you."

Elena's never been one to care about powerful men. "What about werewolves?"

Diego startles, face scrunching in obvious surprise. His "What?" bursts out of him before he can stop it.

"You said all vampires and witches defer to him. What about werewolves? I mean, there's gotta be at least one werewolf around here."

"No." Diego's voice is cold and sharp like steel. Elena has the feeling she's treading on dangerous territory. "No, there's no werewolves here. Look, the whole reason I'm talking to you right now is to brief you on the rules. You don't have to swear loyalty to Marcel, but don't break any of his rules, alright? Don't cause trouble, only feed from tourists, and don't kill anyone. And if you hear anything about the witches, tell one of us. Got it?"

She thinks of Hayley ensconced in Rousseau's, two witches cleaning glasses and speaking of treason and anarchy, of Agnes' cold brand of hand clamped down on her wrist.

She nods. "Got it."

"I'll see you around, Elena."

Diego disappears before Elena can say anything else.

"HEY!" HAYLEY'S BARK IS ECHOED by the slam of the hotel door, "Elena!"

Elena doesn't deign to answer her, buried under the covers of her queen-sized bed, the flat-screen TV hooked on the wall blaring an episode of Gossip Girl, empty blood bags strewn across the sheets. She's munching on some room service she ordered after the blood failed to fill up her endless stomach and she's never felt more satisfied as she swallows another strip of chicken.

( She's started craving human food again. Thinks about calling Bonnie up to check if immortality really did take hold. )

Gossip Girl is a series Elena used to watch religiously until the supernatural barreled into her life, but now with all this free time on her hands and cut loose from all of her old responsibilities, it's been nice catching up.

It doesn't take Hayley long to find Elena tucked away in bed as the werewolf storms into the room. Her jaw unhinges in what is probably a thorough scolding much like Caroline would give before Hayley finally realises what Elena's doing.

She actually takes a little step back when sees Gossip Girl on the screen.

"Why?" Is all Hayley can say.

Elena shrugs, swallowing down another piece of chicken. "I was bored."

Hayley's lips twitch in something of a smile before she shakes her head and pins Elena in place with her shrewd hazel gaze. "What the hell was that in Rousseau's? You left me alone! I could've been killed. "

"Obviously, you weren't." Elena's quip feels flat and dull, not quite right.

( Sounds too much like Damon. )

"We had a deal," Hayley says with a steely tone of voice Elena is jealous of. It seems whenever she tries to be tough and demanding, tries to voice what she needs, she's reduced to a puddle of tears and emotions. Somehow, it softens the blows. Makes it easier to shake off. With Hayley, it hits true and deep. "Look, I don't know you—I get that. I don't know what sort of shit you've been through, but I can probably guess, and how much it's fucked you up, but if you need to run, take me with you.

"You can shout and scream and do whatever you want, but you can't leave me behind. That's not what we agreed on."

In truth, they never really agreed on keeping Hayley alive. All Elena has to do is find her family.

But . . .

( Could she bear the sound of another neck snapping? Could she bear another death on her soul? )

( Could she do it all over again? )

Elena holds her plate up of rapidly-disappearing food. "Chicken?"

Hayley blinks, eyes running over Elena and digging deep, deep enough that Elena can't hide. It goes against everything Elena's learnt these past two years, but she allows Hayley deep enough that she can see the truth, but no further.

( Her heart has not yet recovered enough to be handled by another pair of hands. )

Hayley plucks a strip of the plate and hums at the taste. "It's good."

Elena opens the covers and with minor hesitation, Hayley slips in beside her. They don't touch, but the simple act of being in bed together is somehow so much more vulnerable.

Elena wipes a hand down her cheek to ensure that there are no tears pouring down them.

( She has cried enough.

No more. )

"Yeah, it is."

DESPITE THE VULNERABLE MOMENT THEY shared, it doesn't deter Hayley from finding her family. The pair watch another handful of Gossip Girl episodes before Hayley brings up the matter of Jane-Anne.

"I talked to Jane-Anne after you left, by the way."

Elena flicks startled eyes to the werewolf. "Why?"

Hayley returns a deadpan stare. "I didn't have much of a choice."

Elena clenches her jaw, but doesn't say anything else. Hayley takes it as her cue to continue. "She said that she might have a contact that could give me more information about where my family is. On whether they're alive or not."

"Again: why? "

Hayley's shoulders roll in defensiveness. Elena knows the sight well ( hidden under black shirts and clenched fists, the sheen of fangs concealed behind smirking lips ) but does not back down.

( Foolish girl. )

"Sign of goodwill," Hayley says sharply, "Y'know, the whole reason we even met up with Jane-Anne. They want to put it behind us."

Elena's lips press thin. "This doesn't sit right with me. I mean—we're probably gonna be gone by next week. We're not special —"

"You're the doppelganger."

Elena goes cold. Feels something die inside her. "Ah. Yeah. Right."

( Thought she'd run far enough away from that title. Thought it didn't apply to her anymore. At least not in this moment, in this space. )

( She didn't realise how much she treasured Hayley's indifference till now. )

"Whatever you want, Hayley."

Elena slips out of the bed, enters her bathroom, locks the door behind her, and throws up her lunch into the toilet.

THE NEXT WEEK IS SPENT sightseeing New Orleans, learning their surroundings, dodging vampire patrols, and absorbing any and every piece of information about New Orleans' political climate.

Hayley insists on visiting Rousseau's everyday, just for a few minutes, to check up on Jane-Anne's progress in finding her contact. Elena resolutely refuses to enter the establishment and instead waits outside, eyes fluttering over the street.

She checks her phone in those pockets of privacy. Bonnie and Stefan's messages have tapered off into nothingness now. She hopes they're well. Caroline is less persistent than she used to be, but she still sends one text a day. Sometimes, they only consist of R u ok? And others are full-blown essays begging Elena to come home, to talk, to stop being such a raging bitch and just answer their calls. It is Caroline Forbes pressed and printed onto a screen in her vibrant entirety.

Damon is as persistent as Caroline. He messages every day, and Elena knows he spends hours of his day glaring at their text thread that used to be full of heartfelt messages from the both of them, but is now dominated by his own threats and pleas.

Bonnie is likely doing the same: hunched over her phone, eyes burning from the phone screen. She sends no messages, but Elena feels her love from here.

She is too exhausted to imagine whether or not Stefan is locked up in his room, bearing the weight of her departure when it was never his to carry at all.

Elena never replies.

In the moments when Hayley isn't feverishly begging Jane-Anne for more information, they scope out the rest of New Orleans. Mainly witch territory, but Elena never likes to stay for long. She caught sight of Agnes once, tending to a customer, but her fathomless eyes burning into the doppelganger like a brand.

Elena took to hiding in alleyways after that.

Hayley purchases a couple herbs from apothecaries. Things like sage, or ginger for its medicinal properties. Things that are magical, but can be handled by clumsy, unfeeling hands.

( Hayley got garlic once and couldn't stop cackling at Elena's face at the stench of it. It didn't burn, but it reeked . )

As night falls, Elena and Hayley sometimes observe vampires lurking in the shadows, greedy eyes seeking out the weak one in the herd. They never stay long for fear of Hayley getting caught in the crossfire.

Elena sees Diego again in the middle of the week, strolling about in the daylight. It's then that she sees the daylight ring gleaming on his finger.

It chills her to the bone.

Elena shakes off the chill by breaking into a local hospital and stealing another haul of blood bags. She seems to be running out of them faster these days, her hunger persistent like it hasn't been since she first turned. So hungry, even, she seems to be craving human food.

Not that it's a pain, really, having the opportunity to have pizza and Chinese and ice cream without still feeling empty afterwards.

The political climate still remains a mystery to them, however. Whichever witch they ask remains tight-lipped and the fear is as clear as diamonds in their eyes. Vampires are a no-go and there are no werewolves prowling around to ask.

It's easy to deduce though: vampires rule all here, topped by Marcel, the King of New Orleans. Elena thinks he's as pretentious as he sounds.

It is also clear to see that witches don't use magic anymore. They can still use magical objects, such as amulets and pendants and whatever else they use that Elena has never bothered to learn, and can continue selling their herbs and enchantments in their apothecaries, though Elena thinks that's mainly because it's good for New Orleans' tourism.

Then Elena wonders what exactly Marcel has over the witches that he could stop the witches practising something that is so vital to their way of life.

"Elena!"

Jane-Anne's voice jars the vampire sharply out of her musings and she stands up straight, taking a step back as she faces the witch.

"Sorry. Did I scare you? I didn't mean to—I just wanted to invite you in."

The scent of grief still clings to Jane-Anne like a second skin, and hidden just behind the surface, Elena can glean of that fiery determination, but outwardly, Jane-Anne is all smiles and friendliness. It sends shivers running down the notches of her spine.

"No, thank you," Elena says politely, because by God did Miranda Gilbert drill manners into her children by the time they were five, "It's too stuffy in there for me. Vampire nose, and all."

Too heavy with lies and secrets and plots.

Jane-Anne frowns. "I'm sorry. I could open up a couple windows for you if you'd like."

"No, I wouldn't want to put you out," Elena replies, "I'm fine standing out here. Really."

Jane-Anne pierces Elena with a kind of look only mothers have. Elena can't help but swallow harshly. "It's been a week, Elena. I'm sorry about what happened, but can we please move forward?"

No, no we can't , Elena wants to say, scream, because this is all so suspicious and I can't trust you for the life of me.

Because I know better.

"Aren't you hungry?" Jane-Anne persists at Elena's stubborn silence, "Sophie can make some gumbo for you."

Elena opens her mouth to say no, again, but her stomach rumbles at the mention of gumbo. She'd only smelt when she went to Rousseau's the first time, but it'd been good enough to have her mouth watering and craving it a week later.

Jane-Anne's eyebrows jump her and her mouth twists into a sly curve at the sound. "C'mon, Elena. It's on the house. You can have it out here if you want."

Elena's teeth descend into her bottom lip, digging so hard it bleeds white.

She really shouldn't, but she's so hungry . . .

"Okay. I'll have it out here."

Jane-Anne brightens instantly. It looks strange on her. "Great! I'll bring it out now."

Elena has a sickening feeling she's going to regret this, but sits down at a rickety table anyway. Her phone buzzes in her pocket and her heart drops a little bit as she pulls it out, but relaxes as she's it's only Hayley.

You're having gumbo?

Yeah.

Why?

I'm hungry. Sue me.

Hayley doesn't respond after that, and Elena hears why as she catches the sound of voices murmuring in the bar before the screech of a chair sliding across the wooden floor and the pounding of feet as Hayley bursts out of Rousseau's.

"Hayley?" Elena yells after her.

Hayley turns around and Elena has to lean back in her chair at the sheer joy on Hayley's face, her map clutched tightly in her hand like everything she has is poured into that sheet of paper. "My family! Jane-Anne's contact got back to her and they think they'll be in the bayou!"

Elena leaps to her feet. "I'll come with you, then."

"Elena?" Jane-Anne says from the doorway, clutching a steaming bowl of gumbo.

Hayley shakes her head. "No, no, it's fine. Sit here and eat. I won't be in danger and you should eat. I know how hungry you've been."

"You sure?" Elena questions and buries the urge to beg Hayley to take Elena with her. Does not quite trust witches and their nimble fingers.

"Yes," Hayley repeats, "I'll be fine. Stay. Eat. Enjoy."

Elena can't get a word in edgewise as Hayley rushes off, bolting for the car, the scent of her adrenaline clouding the air around the patio.

Elena flinches as the clink of the gumbo set on the table echoes in the air. Jane-Anne rolls her eyes. "It's not poisoned, I promise. Eat, Elena. You need it."

Elena hesitates, as she's doing so much of these days, but sits down. Jane-Anne disappears inside and Elena shifts her gaze to her meal. It does look delicious, she has to admit, and the smell of it makes her mouth water and stomach cramp from desire.

Her fingers curl around the fork, and she decides to stop being the prey. She spears a piece of chorizo and nearly moans at the taste. She gobbles down the chicken too, and switches to a spoon halfway through to devour the broth too.

There's a moment just before it happens: a pause, the held breath of waiting and watching what will happen. It's this more than anything that warns Elena what's going to happen next.

She spits out her mouthful into the bowl, but it's already too late.

It was too late the moment she agreed to sit down.

Ice lances through her veins like a flood, freezing her from the inside out. Darkness crawls at the edges of her vision, and her heartbeat pounds like a drum in her ears, cut with an undercurrent of her stolen, roaring blood.

She tumbles out of her seat, trying to force her too-heavy limbs to move for the love of God. Her vision is reduced to two bright spots and it's through these that Elena sees Jane-Anne leaning over her, dark hair a curtain around her steely-set jaw.

She whispers in Elena's ear, "You'll understand one day. It's for the best."

You bitch, Elena seethes and falls unconscious.