WHEN ELENA WAKES UP, IT'S dark. Shadows cling to the walls of the room—the cell—she has somehow wound up in, and she's slumped against cold, smooth stone. The ground beneath is chilling to the bone and ghosts whisper in her ear that she's not welcome here.
( She's not welcome anywhere. )
She groans, tastes something metallic in her mouth, and pulls and tugs at the blackness of her memory to uncover some jewel of awareness—and remembers how Jane-Anne drugged her.
Elena comes to the conclusion that she's being used in some fucked-up witches' plot to reclaim their power or whatever.
She is not surprised.
She sighs, lets her head rest against the wall behind her as her eyes slide shut once more and daydreams that whatever they want to do to her will be quick and painless.
And makes a mental note to never eat gumbo again.
Her stomach growls in protest.
She soothes a hand over it, eyes flickering around the cell she's locked in. Her gaze runs over the flecks of light seeping through the door that stands at the opposite of the cell. She can't see much in the dark, but Elena notes the dented metal, rusted at the corners. If she were anywhere but what is undoubtedly witch territory, she'd try her hand at ripping it apart, but Elena knows better. It was likely reinforced by magic long before she arrived in New Orleans.
She has no chance.
Especially when she notices the chain clamped to her ankle, cold and unforgiving. Elena groans and throws her head back against the wall, the pain of it bleeding away under the weight of her disappointment.
Of being used and abused just like she suspected and yet not being able to see it coming.
( She should know better by now. )
Elena doesn't bother to move, knowing that the witches would just catch her anyway, curling up in a ball to stave off the cold that suffuses the air despite it being the middle of May. Her eyes close, but she remains intensely aware of the wind howling outside, the light murmur of heartbeats and chatter and the loud drip drip drip of water in the opposite corner.
They got the best of her once, but not twice.
It feels like hours crawl by before anyone comes anywhere near Elena's cell. Her muscles tense when she catches the heavy thud of footsteps outside, coming closer and closer, their heartbeat hammering in their chest, the shallow breaths that denote either their fear or . . . their excitement.
Elena uncoils from her ball as the scraping of metal against metal resounds as a lock clicks. Her blood rushes and limbs tremble and she tenses, prepared to pounce at the first available moment.
( What a monster she has become: before, she never would have thought to attack. )
She hisses as light spills into her dark little pit, eyes burning as the door swings open. She catches the scent of salt and sweat—the odour of life—and blinks her eyes open, forcing herself to acclimate.
There's a dark silhouette standing in the doorway.
"Who are you?" Elena demands. She has had enough of being the prey.
The silhouette struts into the room, and Elena realises it's a man who peers at her. "None of your business."
"Fine. Don't tell me. But what the fuck am I doing here?"
The witch bends down, keys clinking together like wind chimes on his belt. His hands run over the chains, his lips silently moving as his fingers move like water. Instantly, Elena feels what little strength she had left melt out of her.
"I get it: I'm the doppelganger," Elena spits out between gritted teeth, slumping against the wall behind because she doesn't have the energy to hold herself up anymore because of that fucking witch, "But, I'm a vampire now. I'm useless. You can't use me in any rituals anymore, nor can anyone else. So can you please just let me go?"
The witch snorts, shaking his head like he's talking to a child. Elena wants to gouge his eyes out.
"I can't. Not with what you've got cooking inside of you."
"What?" Elena snaps, wishing she could lean forward and channel some Katherine Pierce to get his witch to fold like paper and get the answers she wants, "What's inside me? My innate magic ?"
The witch's lips twist in amusement. "Well, yes, but also, no."
"Just tell me! What harm can I do? You've got me chained up and obviously weakened!"
The witch meets her stare dead-on. "You're pregnant."
THE MOON GLISTENS MENACINGLY IN the night sky as Elena is dragged into over stones and between graves, the chains clamped around her wrists and ankles unnaturally cold as they nip at her skin.
Her limbs are heavy, and fatigue crawls through her veins like sludge. That awful sense of deja vu crawls over her as witches line the path like the Red Sea, candles decorating gravestones and tombs like baubles. Elena does not smile, or weep, or sneer. She does not do anything. She only stares. Walks her death-march for a second time.
The witch guiding her down the path drags Elena into a small clearing, ringed by more graves, more names, more ghosts. Jane-Anne stands at the forefront, Agnes hiding the shadows behind her, the elder's fathomless piercing Elena's skin and soul like needles.
Further away, outside the conviction and self-righteousness that binds these bitches together, stands Sophie. Her eyes pierce the darkness too, but this time with something like sorrow. Sorrow for Elena.
( Sorrow for the b— )
The witch yanks Elena into a chalk-drawn circle and Elena shudders at the ice that settles over her skin. She falls to her knees, some invisible force pushing her downwards. The witch dumps her chains and strides out of the circle, but Elena doesn't bother to move. Even if she had the strength to, she doubts she'd make it out of the cemetery.
Jane-Anne opens her mouth and for a moment, Elena thinks the witch will address her, but all Jane-Anne does is begin chanting in some mystical, lyrical language. The candles burst into bonfires and the circle beneath her lights up like stars. The moon looms ever closer.
Elena's eyes weigh heavier and heavier as time passes. What must be seconds feel like aeons.
Her vision burns at the edges like an old photograph and her hearing flutters in and out—between complete silence and full-out screaming. She doesn't know where it's coming from.
( Maybe it's from her. Maybe it's from Sophie. Maybe it's from the dead. )
She jolts at the feel of a warm hand curling around her own. The temperature difference between them makes the touch feel like hellfire. Something sharp slices down the skin of her palm and the river of her blood burns like acid.
The last thing Elena sees is the flicker of Jane-Anne's dark eyes.
The last thing Elena feels is a tug in her gut.
LOCKED IN HER TOWER, RAPUNZEL opens her fiery little eyes.
MUCH LIKE THE BAYOU, THE hotel suite is empty. Noon light cascades through the windows, rippling over the white and beige furniture, skipping over the mess of clothes and other products Hayley had left strewn over the space.
Her fingers fly over her phone again. The text thread she shares with Elena remains empty barring Hayley's texts she'd sent this morning asking where Elena was.
Her foray into the bayou last night had originally begun with veins flooded with adrenaline and her heart thrumming like a hummingbird in her chest from the hope of it all, mind whirling with all the possibilities and futures that were sitting in the palm of her hand.
Until, of course, Hayley had actually explored the swampy, muddy expanse of the bayou. All she got out of the excursion was a thoroughly-chilled self, a pissed-off and broken trust in Jane-Anne and any and all witches, and a certain grief of somehow losing her family again when she never found them in the first place.
She'd returned to the hotel long after midnight, refusing to leave until she well and truly could not find any hint of wolf. By that point, Hayley was so bone-dead exhausted from the emotional and physical upheaval of the day, it took all she had to clamber into bed.
When she woke, it was past ten, and she hadn't gotten near enough sleep, but the nightmares that stuck to her mind like glue coaxed her out of bed. She'd taken a shower in hopes that the cold water would somehow sluice off the ghosts that clung to the skin, and if any phantoms remained, she steadfastly ignored them.
It was how Hayley got through most of her life.
She'd knocked on Elena's door afterwards, hoping to do some recon and make plans to move on before the end of the week, but when there was no response, she'd peeked open the door slightly.
Elena was by definition a morning person, and considered getting up at nine 'late'. Hayley preferred to label it 'unhealthy'.
But, Elena's suite was empty of any sign of her. Of course there were her few clothes she kept and others she bought neatly folded into her chest of drawers, the sneakers kicked under the bed because she preferred to wear her boots for now, and the makeup and hair products strewn across the bathroom counter because she used them too much to bother tidying it away.
Hayley had scurried to the money bag under her own bed to find it still there, what must be thousands of dollars stuffed inside, untouched.
For all intents and purposes, it looks like Elena has gone hunting, but the air feels different than it does yesterday and Hayley may have only known Elena for a handful of weeks, but she knows Elena wouldn't have run off without at least a text to explain her absence. Not even 'I'm sorry' before leaving New Orleans.
She'd sent text after text to Elena in slowly decreasing time slots. They remained unanswered, unread. Untouched.
Anxiety blooms like a lead ball in Hayley's gut, seeming to weigh her down as she flopped onto her bed, phone like a fireball in her hand, eyes burning into the screen.
Where are you, Elena? Hayley thinks and hopes and prays vampires have some kind of undisclosed telepathy so the Gilbert can hear from wherever she's disappeared to, What's happened to you?
Hungry, dark eyes ignite in the mind's eyes, kindling into a bonfire, and branding into Hayley's consciousness.
Hayley scrolls up the thread.
You're having gumbo?
Yeah.
Why?
I'm hungry. Sue me.
Horror swells like a storm.
THE ABATTOIR STINKS OF DEATH and grime.
Hayley's lips curl in badly-concealed disgust and her nose crinkles, but she keeps her head held high as she steps into the vampire's lair.
She knew from the moment she conjured up this half-brained plan that she would most likely end up dead, but the witches are plotting something, and now Elena is tangled up in the middle of it.
( Her survival instincts—her oldest friends—are screaming at her to run away and never look back, but the child inside that never really died clings tightly to the memory of shared tears and shared grief and a brief shared moment of understanding. )
( Of the hope and possibility of companionship, of the loss of loneliness. )
House music nearly deafens Hayley, so she wonders how the vampires are coping with it, and it pulses under her feet like a pulse and there's blood splattered on the floor and fangs flash in the strobe lights and she's getting light-headed from the mix of colognes and perfumes and blood and she thinks maybe this is what it is to be one of the undead: of both worlds and yet neither.
Then a vampire—and it must be because no one has skin that flawless—spots her and goes still as a statue. Like dominoes falling, the vampires around her go still, the effect spreading like a virus until the music cuts out and the lights fade.
It all happens in less than three seconds.
( She has never been a lamb, but when a wolf is surrounded by lions, it just might be. )
"Werewolf!" A cheerful voice echoes throughout the courtyard, and Hayley's eyes desperately seek the source, the satiated amongst the starving, " This is new."
And he appears in a gust of silence and wind. He is tall and his skin shimmers like onyx gems in the candlelight. His teeth are white and gleaming, his eyes deep and clear. He gives a good impression of humanity.
Hayley swallows and ignores the rapid beating of her heart. "I'm here to make a deal."
Only seconds after her declaration, snickers and titters echo throughout the vampires. Their meals remain silent and glazed-eyed. Marcel brows jump upwards and for a brief moment, Hayley observes shock settle over his features before it's whisked away and replaced by that same bravado she has seen a hundred times over.
"A deal ? And what could you offer me, werewolf?"
"Information. About the witches." The Abattoir goes dead silent. No one moves. No one breathes. "They're plotting something, and my friend's being used by them. You get her out of there, and I'll help you stop it."
Marcel goes blank-faced. His gaze is piercing and calculating and it feels like centuries are lumped into seconds before he throws his head back and guffaws into the night sky, laughter spilling from his throat like a lion's roar.
His vampires follow his lead.
Hayley beats back the flush racing to her cheeks.
"Cute, really," Marcel says around his laughter, "But, the thing is, I already know the witches are plotting something. They're witches. They never stop plotting something. I've got it handled, so don't you worry your pretty little head about it. Sorry about your friend, though. Seems like she'll have to find her own way out of there."
Then, the smile fades from Marcel's face, and Hayley is confronted by a man who has seen wars and brothers and mothers die in his arms. "Now, since you've amused me and I'm quite a merciful king, you can go. But leave New Orleans— tonight . Because if I catch you in my city again, you'll regret it."
Marcel turns around, his shoulders broad and muscled under his t-shirt and Hayley feels her chance slipping through her fingers alongside Elena's life. Panic blooms like wildfire and her mouth is moving before her mind can catch up.
"If you help me, I'll stop looking for my family."
An unnatural silence settles over the Abattoir. Marcel turns around quicker than Hayley can blink, speeding up to her until there's only inches between them.
"What did you say?" He demands quietly, dangerously.
Hayley tilts her head back just so to meet his gaze, back straight, feet sure over the stones. "I know my family is cursed. I know they're somewhere here in Louisiana, and I know you don't want me finding them. So . . ."
She swallows, takes a breath, tries to accept what exactly she is giving up. A life for a life.
( "They're looking for Silas and his cure. They're on some kind of island." )
"So, I'll stop looking. They'll stay cursed and you can keep your throne. But only if you help me. She dies, and I swear to God, not even Klaus Mikaelson could stop me from finding them, breaking the curse, and taking your throne."
Even the wind goes still.
Marcel pulls back, lips pinched and eyes considering—weighing. Hayley stands tall. Let him be afraid. Let him think and second guess. Let him feel the doubt and indecision that has plagued her since the moment she figured out the truth of her heritage.
The King of New Orleans sighs. "I think we have a deal, Marshall."
ELENA IS CURLED UP IN a ball in her cell. It's morning outside, but she doesn't know it. For the past few hours, all she's known is darkness. She fears darkness will be all she knows for the rest of her life.
She rests her head on her knees, wraps her arms around the sticks of her legs, thumbs rubbing over the skin in a self-soothing gesture her mother used to do when the stress of exams became all too much.
God, Elena would kill to have stress of exams back, the taste of normality she once took for granted but now would treasure with more fervence than a priest to the Lord.
( She is still young, still naive and gullible in ways that she has not discovered yet. She is not ready, not capable, not prepared. )
( She is scared. )
Something flutters like a butterfly's wings and Elena's head sprouts up, eyes examining the crooks and crannies of her cell, but finds nothing folded between the shadows. But she can still hear it, quiet but persistent.
She closes her eyes, tries to pinpoint the source. It's not in the hallway outside the cell, but inside, but it's not in that corner or that corner of that corner, so . . .
Elena swallows and looks down. The butterfly wings flutter in her belly.
In the silence and darkness, all by her lonesome, Elena cries.