BK
Fridays were for cards, and Bonnie was the undisputed champion.
The women of the house spent Friday evenings together with dinner and a round of the game outside in the courtyard, weather permitting. Her maman, Aimeé, Josephine, and sometimes, Julianne Moreaux, her mother's boarder from Lake Charles, laughed and talked over Josephine's meals while Bonnie robbed them blind.
It was new. The card playing. Aimee had introduced them to it, said she learned from the girls at the Tango Rose, and it quickly became a hit in their home; bringing levity to their gathering. Even Christophe's empty chair didn't bother Bonnie, who found herself laughing with her family as if he were still there.
Her maman and Aimeé had more than once playfully called her a cheat, 'it's that face of yours; no one would believe it,' they groaned when they had to part with their money on the table.
Just last week, she had won a whole dollar out of them, and her maman had kissed the top of her head and told her to keep it this time.
Bonnie entered the darkened entry to her home's back gate, having walked home from tutoring girls all day, books in hand tied together in a battered leather strap, and she saw Josephine in the courtyard sweeping out the leaves from around the tall hurricane lamps nestled within the paradise plants and banana trees.
Bonnie's polished black boots clicked softly on the bricked portico, her white dress swishing over her black stockinged shins. She was all grins weaving around the trickling fountain at the heart of the courtyard, avoiding fumbling over the many ceramic planters, her grin dropping at the missing dinner and stack of cards on the patio table.
Josephine frowned, "I been waiting on you to get home." She said with her hand on her hip, the other hand holding the broom.
Bonnie felt heavy, suddenly weighed down by Josephine's frown as Friday night began around them. The sky, holding on to the soft blue, was yielding to black. The neighborhood was coming alive: the rumble of carriages on the cobbled streets out front, the laughter of kids playing in nearby yards, the men greeting each other, walking home from work, and the distant sounds of a nearby bar setting up with the faint practicing notes of a brass band let Bonnie know the weekend was here, it was time to celebrate, but in the back of the Toussaint-Bennett house, it was anything but.
"They were at it again?" Bonnie asked, her mossy green eyes looking behind Josephine, checking to see if her Maman was at the kitchen window.
The copper-skinned old woman shook her head, pulling a handkerchief from her pockets to wave about in case tears came. Bonnie knew it must have been bad for Josephine to get to that point.
"I'm glad you missed the show they had." She said, stuffing the red cotton square back into her skirt, "They fussed so much, they made my nerves bad. I had to come out here. And Aimeé slammed through the house saying she leaving ain't coming back."
It was making a year after her brother's passing and, in that year, every woman who lived on St. Ann had had time to get used to their new situation, loss of life and loss of lifestyle, every woman taking their part and doing what they could to make sure they kept what was left to keep.
Out of the Toussaint-Bennett trio, Bonnie had taken the change in stride, she mustered up the heart while carrying the pain of Christophe. Work helped. She got down to it with the sisters at St. Martin's catholic school, tutoring their girls all day, and every other weekend, typing for Mr. DuBois at DuBois Pharmacy in the Treme. The pay was paltry, but every hard-earned cent she made found its way back to the house, and having her mind occupied with all the student's questions, and translating Mr. DuBois' illegible handwriting for his patients' files provided a welcome distraction.
However, her mother and Aimeé were a different story.
Anger propelled them. And they argued constantly, as they had started the day Abigail told them that the money was gone.
Frustrated, Abigail would vent in fast French to Bonnie, "Aimeé could have paid the tax collector months ago; we could have had him off our backs if she did not come home every other day with a package from the dressmaker or her hair coiffed in a different style."
Bonnie could sense her mother's jealousy, maybe not so much at her daughter for purchasing costly items for herself that were out of reach for the rest of them, but because she wanted to be able to do the same.
"She has a right to her own money, maman. And don't forget, it is mostly her income keeping the house warm and the lights on." Bonnie would counter.
During her mother's frequent venting sessions, Bonnie could hear Sister Marie, the intense middle-aged nun who was persistently in her ear, trying to recruit her, pleading with her to consider joining the religious order. Sister Marie insisted that Bonnie was well-suited for God's work and could embrace a life of piety, poverty, and sisterhood.
Sometimes, Bonnie felt that if she squinted just right, looking on at her family, her own life, she thought it seemed remarkably similar to the one Sister Marie envisioned for her within the convent.
Josephine shooed Bonnie to the house, "See what you can do, cheri."
BK
The kerosene lamp was turned up high and bright in the sitting room, revealing wallpaper that had once proudly declared her family's wealth was now peeling and faded.
Abigail sat in an armchair hovering over a sewing machine, with its metallic parts gleaming, surrounded by sewing supplies and piles of clothes in various states of disrepair, waiting for Abigail's resentful hands to mend their wear and tear.
"I was wondering when you were coming," Abigail said, her voice light at the sight of her baby as she diligently pulled out stitches along the seam of a skirt.
Bonnie settled onto the doily-covered couch opposite a coffee table decorated with a matching doily and fresh flowers. A silver coffee service sat on its surface—cherished items her mother hadn't been able to bring herself to pawn to cover their bills.
Bonnie looked at the used two cups; one indeed had been her sister's, the other her mother's.
As much as they fought, they were so much alike, drawn to each other. Their exchange must have gone too far, causing Aimee to shoot off to her job.
Her mother liked to have coffee with both of them, her time to connect with them individually, but the conversations, and Bonnie was sure of this, were very different for each daughter.
Abigail called out to Josephine for a fresh pot, but Bonnie stopped her, "Josephine's outside upset, Maman. What happen with Aimeé?"
Abigail pursed her lips, gracefully descending onto the couch with Bonnie, "What always happens, mon coeur. Your sister took something I said the wrong way, and with that hot head of hers, she screamed and flew out of here." Her mother explained, causing Bonnie to snort with a small smile that Abigail returned.
"Your maman is not a good liar," Abigail added, her hands reaching to hold Bonnie's, trying to calm down the worry in her youngest.
"Yes, you are," Bonnie corrected without malice, earning a soft laugh from her mother, "Josephine said she said she was not going to come back, "Bonnie recapped, "What did you say to her?"
Waving her hand, her mother said, 'She left without packing a single stitch of clothing; she has just gone to work. Now, mon coeur, we have much to discuss. Your birthday will be upon us soon, and we must plan. I was thinking of inviting Joseph to your birthday dinner. What do you think?'"
What she thought was that she was not going to get a straight answer out of her mother.
Bonnie fiddled with the doily on the armrest, "I already invited his sisters; I don't mind if he comes too."
Her mother scoffed, "Bonnie, you are to be eighteen. If we invite him, it must be because you are considering him not because you do not mind having him at the dinner."
Bonnie furrowed the space between her brows, "Are you planning my birthday or my wedding?"
"Both," Abigail responded honestly, "He is a fine young man from a respected Creole family. They have a beautiful home on Esplanade, and I'm sure they'll assist in acquiring land to build one for him and his future wife on the same boulevard. It's not the Quarter," She said smugly, "But I'm hopeful it will be lovely. And he will inherit that pharmacy; you won't have to want for anything," she added, her dark brown eyes sparkling at Bonnie.
Her mother listed off the young man's prospects the same way Sister Marie listed off the prospects of being a bride to Jesus.
And much like the son of God, Joseph Dubois would be a real catch. Tall, good-looking with thick wavy hair and a rich brown complexion, he was the eldest son of Daniel and Alice DuBois, owners of the popular pharmacy where she worked, and currently finishing his senior year in pharmacology at Thurstall College.
Abigail continued promoting Joseph, "How many times has he asked you to walk with him to Nicaud's after church? And I always notice him making eyes at you at every party, Aimeé notices it too."
The invites and the lingering stares meant a great deal to her.
She liked Joseph.
She had known him most of her life, had seen him at every mass, his family sitting a pew apart from hers at St. Martins; his two sisters were her playmates as a child, running to make the other 'it' in his mother's garden, and he had hugged her at Christophe's wake when she stood numbly by the open casket.
It had been recently when she found herself restless in church, her eyes roving and settling on him and seeing he was doing the same. They both had shyly smiled and returned to the sermon. Afterward, he asked her mother if she could walk with him for coffee, and her mother allowed it.
Then he asked after each church service, both strolling along the sidewalk, discussing their families, studies, and aspirations. The time together progressing how she felt, stirring up her grown woman's heart.
She began to find herself braiding her hair and saying her prayers before bedtime, only to awaken in the middle of the night, sweaty and bothered. She would creep down to the kitchen and gulp down a glass of ice-cold water, but it did little to quench the craving that was keeping her from sleep.
And as much as she loved the nuns and the father and their commitment to her spiritual instruction, there was a part of her that could not view relations between lovers as a sin; she figured physical expressions of love had to be natural, despite what they had taught her.
She felt this way even though she was clueless of what all went on between a man and a woman in the bedroom, she imagined her body would know what to do when that time came.
She wasn't like her girlfriends, giggling and peeking through their fingers at a risqué ad of men's underwear, or frightened by their elders' account that the act was just a necessary suffering for a woman to get through to have the gift of babies.
She owned her desire.
And what she wanted was for Joseph DuBois to kiss her.
And after a string of Sundays of coffee, the time came when she thought he would. Standing on her front porch, he rubbed her arms and beamed, looked down at her and finally did what she had been dreaming about. He kissed her. On the cheek. A kiss fit for a grandmother.
Bonnie bit the corner of her mouth, "How are you so sure Joseph has any intention to court me?," She asked, revisiting the anxiety she felt on Monday when she went to collect her earnings from the weekend, stepping behind the register with Mr. DuBois, glimpsing a row of girls all googley- eyed for Joseph, who was manning the soda counter, as the girls sucked down their floats and shakes, vying for his attention.
Her mother narrowed her confused eyes, and Bonnie could sense that the idea of a daughter of hers being confused about a man did not register. Abigail muffled her laughter at Bonnie behind her palm before continuing, "He wants to court you, silly. And I will invite him to settle this matter of you thinking otherwise."
Bonnie sighed from somewhere deep in her soul. "The person I'm concerned with being there is my sister. Now will you please tell me what you said to her to make her leave, Maman?" Bonnie asked gently, imploring Abigail to tell her.
Her mother took a breath and seemed to soften, and just when Bonnie thought she might tell her the truth of what happened, Josephine came rushing into the sitting room, wildly waving Aimee's embroidered clutch, "She left this."
Abigail shook her head, exasperated, "That girl. Now do you believe me she did not run away?" She opened her palm for Josephine to hand her the purse, "She was so mad she forgot her purse, "Abigail lifted from the couch right away, "I will have to bring it to her job before the drunks and fools come out," her mother proclaimed.
Bonnie grabbed the bag from her mother, "I will take it," Bonnie said, brushing off her dress, "Besides she won't come to the door if she knows it's you," She stated plainly, and her mother grudgingly agreed.
Walking briskly into the hallway where they kept their hats and umbrellas, Abigail trailed behind her, watching Bonnie ready herself to leave, fashioning a hat on her head.
Abigail stepped between her child and the front door, and untied the bow at Bonnie's chin, taking the hat, looking at her as if she was seeing her for the first time. It took Bonnie aback, made her smooth her hands over her hair and question her mother if something was wrong.
Her mother lifted her chin, and awed, "A face like yours," She remarked in her lilting accent, sucking air through her lips staring at Bonnie, "You my beautiful, beautiful girl were meant to be seen."
BK
Kol joked, swearing it was he and his brother's first time to The Mahogany Hall, leaning on the door frame of the Orient Room, chatting lightheartedly with Madam Lucy, with her withered lips and thick putty wrinkles. "We will take the sisters for the entire evening; no need to line up any more callers, Ms. Lucy. And there will be no need for you to come back up until the morning," He said, a glint of teeth, a warning behind the smile.
Madame Lucy, a famously shrewd and astute woman, smiled dumbly at the youngest Mikaelson and bobbed her head in agreement, even though behind her glazed-over eyes, there was a spark of concern, a fuzzy recollection of the handsome men and the last time she came to this room and found five of her best girls, cold and blue.
The scantily clad Mystic Sisters, who, as Elijah predicted, were not sisters at all but best friends originally from the same one-horse town in Virginia. They had whored their way from Baltimore to Atlanta to make it to New Orleans by train; they said they had heard a girl could make a fortune for herself in Storyville.
The halls outside the Orient were quiet, the walls holding their peace, but in another hour or so, there would be quick footsteps to the other pay-by-the-hour rooms, all with exotic names to tantalize the senses. And inside the gaudy Orient room, decorated in chintzy red brocade and paisley satin scarfs over the lamps and seating, Klaus remembered he did appreciate the room had a balcony overlooking Cornish; the street ran horizontally to the district, providing a clear view of the action on each street vertical to Cornish, allowing him to spot trouble as it came and went and discerning where to find them.
Klaus held the bottle of the pricey champagne he and Kol pilfered from the Hotel Louis and he presented it with flourish to the blonde, saying, "For you, love."
The blonde accepted the gift, feigning an effervescence she has never possessed. She introduced herself as Sarah, and the other, a husky-voiced brunette, appearing eager for an opium pipe, mumbled a name that Klaus didn't bother to retain.
They wouldn't last long.
Giggling together, they sauntered over to the bar cart, making a show of popping the cork.
Kol's enthusiasm lit up the room as he rubbed his hands together, "We need music," he declared, shooting a grin at his brother while the girls were occupied making their drinks. In the corner stood a gramophone, and Kol selected a record and cranked up the volume, a ragtime tune filling the room. As more patrons trickled in, using the rooms nearby, the music would drown out any screams—whether of pleasure or fear.
Leisurely stretched on the satin-covered divan, Klaus engaged with the girls behind his languid smile. He made small talk, mirrored them when they asked a question, taking in their nods and conspiratorial whispers. Klaus observed their calculated glances over their shoulders at him—the gold ring and pocket watch, the Savile Row suit with the emerald lapel pin, the Italian leather derbies—all the while he pretended not to notice them slipping a white powder into the coupe glasses meant for him and Kol.
"Enjoying yourselves, I see," Klaus remarked, his voice a velvety growl, as the girls each took a sip from their glasses, offering nervous smiles.
The brunette nudged Sarah, and she kicked into action, sashaying over to him, her long legs exposed up to there in her satin red robe. She swallowed her drink, handing him his glass, and Klaus lifted a brow.
While they raided the rare bottles in the locked wine room behind the kitchen of the Hotel Louis, a dead sommelier at their feet, Klaus had studied the years, holding up the bottles to the single Edison light swinging in the dark vault, "Do you think Elijah wants to stay? "He questioned in the middle of his thought process, trapped in a circular concern over his and his brothers' well-being and future.
Kol snorted, "For her? Doubtedly, he barely knows the bird."
"That has not stopped one of us before," Klaus had reminded gravely, thinking of Cuba and of Rebekah, her blonde hair flowing over his arm as he held her neck with the blade in her heart.
Kol's usually impish face became solemn. He had been told by Elijah what Klaus had done to their sister. And he shrugged, "Always and forever."
Klaus resumed his theft while considering their stint in New Orleans and planning to stuff the sommelier in a sack, pushing him down the trash chute. He pressed on, "Elijah's right. Carrying on in such a manner has surely brought attention, even if it has not made the papers, and I would rather leave here on my own accord and not run be out of town.
Kol didn't offer much; it was not up for debate; he understood this was Niklaus's way of saying they were to leave as soon as possible. "It's been fun, but summers here are dreadful."
Kol downed his drink, licking his lips, staring at the bottom of his glass, and briefly looked over at Klaus before the brunette kissed him. Excited, she told him how hot she was for him, massaging his chest and over his crotch. She opened her robe, displaying her naked body, because sex was definitely on the menu; sex was the distraction.
"See ya' later, "She chimed their goodbyes between their frantic kisses, kicking open the double doors to the bedroom and closing them behind them.
Sarah laughed and curled up next to him, her body warm and smelling of vanilla and cigarette smoke. Her skinny limbs found their way around his neck and in his lap, her hand rubbing the length of his pants, "This your first time in New Orleans?"
Klaus scrutinized her face. She was old-enough and not bad looking, almost pretty. She had nice legs and wide-set eyes, but unlike his brother, he wasn't interested in sleeping with this woman.
He uncrossed his leg from his knee and settled in, letting the back of his hand brush her rouged cheek, "I used to live here, had a house right on Royal."
She picked up his drink where he had sat it on the coffee table, "They can't be the only ones having a party," She flirted, "When were you here last?" She asked, her painted nails skimming his pants zipper.
When he did the math, almost six decades had passed since he and his siblings last graced the city. The majority of their former friends and companions would have succumbed to death or senility by now. If, by chance, someone who had known them in their earlier days spotted them, they likely dismissed them as ghosts or a fleeting play of their memories.
Klaus gulped down the champagne from his glass and he answered, "It has been decades and decades."
Turning into what they were didn't take much.
A spatter of words from their mother. Some would have called it a spell. But what is a spell, really? Words? An intention? And their mother intended for them to live forever, outliving her and his deranged stepfather. She had fed them human blood, the blood of their enemies, baked into their bread, swirled into their stew, and then when they went down for the night to sleep, she slit their throats. They died. And they rose the next day, the next day after, and ever since for the last thousand years, craving human blood and outlasting the millennia.
Few beings like them existed, and those encountered were solitary creatures, private and mad. They did not have a mother who had fashioned them as a collective of blood drinkers, preternatural siblings, and, therefore, did not have the comfort and understanding of each other. But because of this privacy, not much was written about them. A mention in a Babylonian text, a hieroglyph here or there, a legend about a Roman emperor who outlived a fire while playing the fiddle.
However, where accurate observation and scientific thought on their condition were lacking, human imagination filled the gaps and truly took flight when an Irish man named Stoker penned a book about a Carpathian blood drinker, giving rise to a plethora of myths and new volumes on vampires. Sunlight killed them. Garlic irritated them. Crosses kept them away and holy water scarred them. They slept in coffins. And they could only drink blood. All of that was nonsense. He and his siblings walked the day, ate what they liked, and never slept a night in a coffin. Crosses weren't a part of their religion when they were human, so they held no significance for them, nor holy water.
Blood was the truth. The delicious and life-giving truth. Their beginning was not some hellish origin story, no deal with the devil, no possession of a demon. But a prayer from an overprotective mother that her children would never die.
The blonde forced a hollow laugh. "Couldn't been that long since you been here? You can't be more than thirty?" She mused aloud, masking her alarm about him.
He looked all of twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? His last human age was twenty, but life was brutal in his time. Even with the mature lines in his face, he was striking. Particularly to most women and some men, with his muscular build, rugged charm, and tumultuous grey-blue eyes, reminiscent of the cold sea of his childhood before his family left to explore the new world.
There was a distinct thud from the bedroom, and unfazed, Klaus stepped onto the balcony.
The night was young, but Cornish street was filling with revelers, sailors temporarily ashore looking for a fight, and fraternity brothers looking to lose their virginity.
Sarah turned her head towards the thud, but Klaus beckoned her out to the landing as he listened to her drumming heartbeat, her arteries pulsating.
He was hungry.
"What's got your mind wanderin' tonight?" she asked, joining him on the balcony, her agreeable disposition fading as worry crept in. Was the thud his brother finally passing out? When would he fall too?
"I like to people watch," He admitted, gesturing to the carousing along the block.
Determined, she moved his head to look at her and when she detected his pupils dilating, she relaxed, "How can you look at other people when you got me right here, "She said pressing her body against his and giving him a swift kiss.
When she pulled her face away, he could see the sadness in her blue eyes.
Most of them were sad. If he paid attention.
"Maybe I'm not doing enough to get you going," She purred, still attempting at seduction, pushing her robe open, revealing a pink nipple.
He was bordering on ravenous.
He would take her, and take twenty more before packing his suitcases. Maybe he would come to understand why he made them got off the ship once they were settled in San Francisco, or maybe not. It didn't matter anymore. What mattered was they were alive and he would say goodbye to New Orleans.
"Sarah," he said, her name as gently as a caress. He held her to him, his finger traveling up to her neck, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over her veins, "The drugs don't work on me, love," He murmured, savoring how her skin immediately prickled and how her response hitched in her throat as his face contorted to his true nature.
She squirmed in his grip, begging with tears, her body releasing adrenaline and cortisol, arousing his fangs to bore down. He dug his fingers into her bony arms, and commanded into her ear, "Come now, Sarah. Be still for me."
The girl tensed, suppressing the scream he compelled not to come, assuring herself it was her nerves, convincing herself she had faced worse situations, struggling to find the words to describe the creature before her —a creature for which she didn't even have a name for, like 'vampire.'
Klaus lowered his head where her wavy bob met her neck and he bit down.
It wasn't personal; he wasn't upset with her for drugging him and trying to take him for all he had. He understood a girl had to eat, and he reasoned that, although she might currently protest, she understood that he had to as well.
He closed his eyes, hot blood rolling over his gums as he slurped iron and ash, holding her thin waist up when she grew too weak to stand. He moaned, opening his eyes; his vision temporarily blurred from the blood lust, the indecipherable becoming decipherable under the streetlights just in time for him to notice a figure crossing street.
It was a young woman with a burnished complexion, adorned in an all-white dress buttoned up to her chin, her dark hair in a messy French braid flung over her shoulder, resting near her breast where the dress tugged too tight.
She cut through the throng on Cornish, the street partying around her. A few inebriated sailors turned to get a glimpse of her, but most kept on with their business for the night and didn't take notice of her. Klaus presumed she was one of those 'Good-Newsers' who came to preach on a soapbox, calling for repentance to their crucified god among the pimps, the whores, the grifters, and the sinners.
A little lamb.
As she crossed the street, he drank the blood and stayed with her, following her heart-shaped face until she glanced up. What he must have looked like to her, with black lines etched from his cheekbones to his golden glowing eyes. Most likely undetected by her human eyes, but the act of him half buried in a passionate embrace with a woman would be clear.
He imagined her hot embarrassment, blushing before she reached the other side of the street.
But she startled him, a rarity for a vampire who has lived as long as he has.
She smiled.
And then she disappeared under the landing of the balcony he stood on, holding the dead girl in his arms.
BK
Klaus dropped a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the table and laid Sarah's lifeless body on the couch for Kol. It was his turn to clean up. He yelled out to his brother, who was still playing with his food, that he was taking the Packard to meet with Elijah. "Come over when you're done."
When he reached the exit, the air was balmier on the street; summer arriving at any moment, its heavy hand on everyone's brow.
He cranked up his mirror-polished black convertible, sleek and glittering under the street lamp in front of the brothel, and roared down Cornish, passing up several blocks to get to Liberty Street.
Navigating through the hustle of pedestrians, he skillfully parked his car at the Tango Rose entrance. Standing tall amidst its more modest neighbors, the venue dazzled the block with vibrant lights, a red carpet, and a marble-like facade.
In his rearview mirror, he caught three ladies outside a nearby bar clamoring over themselves to get a look at him and the car, with his senses heightened by Sarah's blood, he heard them tease if he might give a ride as good as his car.
Sarah took the edge off, but he was far from sated.
He shouldn't have left so fast; blood was a given, but maybe what he needed was a woman. He could have easily picked someone nice from the girls on the first floor, one who didn't want to fleece him.
He had a few tumbles since being back. Cute faces who entertained him during his run of the city. But no repeats, not even if he thoroughly enjoyed them.
He thought of Isabel, the Verastigue witch he kept company with back in Havana. With her long sheets of brown hair and dark almond eyes, Isabel wanted him to turn her. She wanted to go with him, but when it came down to it, he thought it best to cut his ties. And then, when his sister's betrayal was discovered, he was glad not to have been as foolish as Rebekah, as Elijah had encouraged him to let her be.
After burying his sister, Klaus seethed to Elijah, "These attachments are a weakness. And we are not weak, Elijah. We do not feel, and we do not care."
Elijah, upset, had expressed, "We did once."
Men were gathered outside the club, whistling or throwing jealous remarks at his pretty automobile. The burly bouncer, donning a bowler's hat and sporting a thick red beard, yelled at them to form a single-file line on the sidewalk while seemingly involved in a back-and-forth with some woman.
"No women allowed in the main hall who don't work for the club, lass. Those are the rules."
"I am not here to solicit your patrons, sir. I'm here to see my sister." The female voice countered.
Klaus slammed the car door and strode straight up to the entrance steps.
"Good to see ya' tonight, Mr. Mikaelson; your brother is inside," greeted the bouncer, who quickly unhooked the velvet rope, transitioning from a brash demeanor to deference upon Klaus's arrival.
Klaus acknowledged the bouncer with a nod, covering a few steps before pausing to collect himself. Retrieving a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket, he leisurely lit a cigarette, anticipating his discussion with Elijah.
He smoked and, out of ingrained habit, surveyed the street, memorizing those who passed by. He cataloged the irritated men in the line, scanning through them until he reached the woman causing the delay.
It was the girl in all-white. Still looking out of place and holding up the line with her pleas to the bouncer.
"Can one of your staff ask her to come out here and meet me?" She asked kindly.
The bouncer threw up his hands, a gesture to show he couldn't help, "My men are busy. You can try using the back door." He advised, and then turned his attention to the person next in line.
Klaus watched her square her shoulders and mutter in French as she walked past him and the club, heading to the end of the block so she could use the alleyway.
The gnaw was back. And he figured he could meet her in that alley. She would never know what happened; the criminals committing their own crimes wouldn't either. 'It was like she was lifted in the air,' they would tell anyone who asked about her.
Klaus flicked his cigarette to the sidewalk and called out to her, "Hey you! He stopped her, saving her. From murderers and from him. "Yes, you, in the white dress. I'm speaking to you," Klaus asserted when she turned her head to look to see if someone else would turn around to his call.
She hurried back to the steps, staring at him, curious why he wanted her attention. Her eyes were big and clear - a brilliant green with flecks of gold and brown. And though she was human, her eyes were not sad like the rest but radiated a kind of joy. And he just knew if he had met her in that alley, she would have tasted sweet.
"Those back streets are not for you," he schooled, "Let me escort you into the club so that you may see your sister," he offered, decided he would do a good deed, use it to remind Elijah when he brought up his lack of humanity.
He expected her to hesitate. To show caution. But she grinned, her face lighting up, "Really?"
Klaus snorted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 'Tommy let the girl by. I'll take responsibility for her in your boss's establishment,' he ordered.
The bouncer glanced at the girl in white and then up at Klaus, shook his head, and raised the velvet rope again, "Enjoy your evening, Miss." He said, tipping his hat to her.
She hopped up the stairs and stuck out her hand, "Bonnie." She gushed, "Thank you so much for doing this."
"Nik," He responded, wondering if she recognized him, the man with the blonde in his arms. He shook her soft and slender hand, "My pleasure, Bonnie. Shall we?" He swung the glass door open and let Bonnie go in first.
Author's Note
I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Because this story is AU, I had to get though the set-up to get to them being in the same room. Next chapter is them together in the club.