Maya's eyes fluttered open, and the world slammed into her consciousness with a wave of pain that pounded through her skull, a relentless, throbbing ache that made her wonder for a moment if she was back with the Dursleys. She winced, trying to focus as her surroundings slowly came into view. The room was dark, windowless, and suffocatingly cold, the air heavy with the scent of dampness and decay, like an old cellar long forgotten. A small electric storm lantern flickered weakly in the corner, casting jagged, eerie shadows that danced across the grimy stone walls. The floor beneath her was mercilessly cold and gritty, its rough surface biting into her skin, and as she moved, the harsh clinking of chains echoed ominously through the oppressive stillness.

She glanced down, her heart sinking as she saw the iron manacles clamped tightly around her wrists, the heavy chains connected to them biting into her flesh with every slight movement. Panic flared, but she forced it down, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as she fought to gather her thoughts. The fog in her mind was slowly lifting, and with it came the fragmented memories of what had happened before she lost consciousness, each one bringing with it a fresh wave of fear.

Her eyes darted around the room until they found her friend lying a few feet away, her form barely visible in the dim light. Kamala was stirring slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips, but she was still unconscious, her wrists bound with identical manacles. The sight of her friend, vulnerable and helpless, sent a fresh surge of terror through Maya, but she swallowed it down, focusing on what she needed to do.

Ignoring the protests of her aching body, Maya forced herself to sit up, the chains clinking ominously with every movement. She shuffled across the cold, dirty floor until she reached Kamala's side, her heart pounding in her chest. With trembling fingers, she grabbed Kamala's wrist, pressing two fingers against the pulse point. Relief washed over her as she felt the steady, strong beat of her friend's pulse beneath her fingertips. She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes for a moment as she tried to centre herself.

Maya knew she had to stay calm. Agent LaSalle and Agent Blye had drilled it into her—what to do if she was ever kidnapped. Now, with Kamala caught up in it too, she knew it was doubly important to follow their advice.

First, remain calm and assess the situation.

She repeated the words in her mind like a mantra, grounding herself as she took stock of her surroundings. The room was small and bare, the walls made of large stones, slick with dirt and grime, possibly underground. The air was stale, thick with the taste of damp earth and neglect, suggesting that ventilation was minimal. There was one door, heavy iron or steel, some kind of metal anyway. Maya forced herself to crawl over and test it, but it was locked tight, the handle refusing to budge no matter how hard she pulled. Defeated, she slumped back down next to Kamala and pushed herself to think through everything else.

The manacles binding her wrists were thick, the chains connecting them heavy, but they weren't anchored to anything, nor were they cumbersome enough to completely restrict her movement. That meant they weren't intended to keep them in place but served some other purpose. She pushed past the fog in her head and reached out for her magic. Nothing. It was like slamming into a glass wall, her power just out of reach, taunting her from the other side. Either the chains were enchanted to block her magic, or the powder they had used to knock her out had lingering effects—probably both. Otherwise, why chain them at all, when they weren't enough to keep them from running. Especially as they could even potentially be used as a weapon under the right circumstances.

Her portkey was missing, its familiar weight absent from her wrist. Her holster was gone, along with her wand, and all the jewellery and accessories she'd been wearing had been stripped away, even her headband. Whoever had taken them had planned this carefully. Only a select few knew about her emergency portkey, and fewer still knew the failsafe to remove it. This wasn't a random attack; they knew who she was, what she was capable of, and what protections she had in place. They had figured out how to bypass each one. The only thing she couldn't figure out was why they had taken Kamala as well.

Second, gather information.

They were alone for now, just the two of them in this small, oppressive room. But their captors would have to show up eventually. Maya doubted they had been locked in this cell to die—if their intent was murder, there were far easier ways to accomplish it. Why go through the trouble of kidnapping them and moving them to a secondary location if all they wanted was her death? No, they wanted something—either from her, though that was unlikely, or from her family, which was far more probable.

With no captors present to interrogate, she turned to the next best option. She had already gleaned everything she could from the room, so she closed her eyes and listened. Her hearing wasn't as sharp as a werewolf or a vampire, but it was better than an ordinary human's. She held her breath, straining to pick up anything—a distant footstep, the hum of machinery, anything that could give her a clue. But after several minutes, she heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart. They were likely underground, as she had suspected. Or perhaps their captors hadn't underestimated her and had placed a silencing spell on the room, blocking out any external noise. It wasn't a difficult spell, after all; she had used it herself countless times when she, Sora, and Kamala wanted to talk without being overheard.

Third, subtle resistance and psychological tactics.

Direct confrontation was risky, especially if there was more than one captor. And there was Kamala to consider—she couldn't afford to endanger her friend. That left psychological tactics, which could only come into play once their captors revealed themselves.

Fourth, leave clues.

This was out, at least for now. She hadn't woken up until they were already locked up, leaving her no opportunity to drop breadcrumbs during their transport. She had managed to leave a significant clue when she stabbed Miss Chance in the leg, but Agent Blye already knew about her emergency portkey and who might know how to remove it without her consent. Miss Chance would be a suspect regardless.

Steps five through eight were all out of reach for the moment. Once Kamala was awake, once she knew more about their captors, she could formulate an escape plan—hopefully. But for now, she focused on the final reminder:

Her family would come for her. Agent Blye and Agent LaSalle would come for her. If they couldn't escape on their own, the most important thing she could do was stay alive so they could find and rescue her. She repeated this in her mind, letting it be the anchor that kept her fear at bay, the hope that she clung to as the darkness closed in around them.


Klaus would much prefer to tear the city apart, brick by brick, and leave a trail of bodies for every person who might have had a hand in taking his daughter. The thought of unleashing his wrath on the unsuspecting populace sent a dark thrill through him, but he knew better than to act on it—not until Maya was safely out of her captors' reach. So instead, he found himself walking through Jackson Square, his strides purposeful, every muscle coiled with barely restrained fury. He was heading for a meeting with a witch, someone who might lead him to Jane-Anne Deveraux, the very witch who had summoned him to New Orleans only to vanish before his arrival. While his siblings and their allies scoured the city for any trace of Maya and Kamala, he was forced to play nice with the witches—a task that tested his patience to its limits.

The square was bustling with the midday crowd, tourists mingling with locals, the air filled with the sounds of street performers and the distant murmur of conversation. But Klaus noticed none of it. His focus was singular, his thoughts a storm of anger and fear for his daughter. He approached a small table tucked away from the main thoroughfare, where a witch sat alone, her eyes narrowing as he approached.

"Good afternoon," Klaus said smoothly, taking a seat across from her without waiting for an invitation. He flashed a charming smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Mind if I join you?"

The witch didn't bother with pleasantries. Her gaze was steely, her voice cold.

"I have nothing to say to you."

Klaus's smile widened, a dangerous edge to it.

"Oh, now, that's not very amiable, is it? You don't even know me."

"I know what you are," she hissed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Half vampire, half beast. You're the Hybrid."

Klaus leaned back slightly, feigning nonchalance.

"I'm the Original Hybrid, actually, but that's a long story for another time."

He let the title hang in the air, a reminder of the power he wielded. The witch remained unimpressed her gaze unwavering. Klaus leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone.

"I'm looking for someone. A witch. Perhaps you might be able to help me find her. Jane-Anne Deveraux."

The witch's expression remained impassive, but Klaus could see the flicker of recognition in her eyes.

"Sorry, I don't know her."

Klaus's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory glare. He reached across the table, his hand closing around hers with a grip that was just shy of painful.

"Well now, that's a fib, isn't it?" His voice was a soft, menacing whisper. "You see, I know that you're a true witch among this sea of posers. I also know that you're an Elder of the French Quarter Coven, the very same coven Jane-Anne belongs to. So enough with the fabrications… I've quite a temper."

The witch tried to pull her hand away, but Klaus's grip tightened. There was a flash of fear in her eyes now, and she wrenched her hand back with a sharp intake of breath.

"Witches don't talk out of school in the Quarter," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "The vampire won't allow it. Those are the rules. I don't break Marcel's rules."

The name hit Klaus like a punch to the gut, just as hard now as it had when Katerina and Agent LaSalle had mentioned it earlier. Marcel. His not-so-lost son. The boy he had once raised and loved as his own. The boy who had taken over New Orleans in his absence, who now ruled the city with an iron fist. Klaus felt a surge of conflicting emotions—pain, joy, anger—all crashing together in a chaotic swirl. But he shoved it all down, burying it deep where it wouldn't distract him. Not now. Not when Maya was still in danger. He could deal with his feelings about Marcel later, once his daughter was safe, once his family was whole.

"Marcel's rules," Klaus repeated, his voice a deadly calm. "Where do you suppose I might find Marcel?"


"If their abductors hauled Maya and Kamala down to Louisiana, chances are they ain't keepin' them inside the city," Christopher LaSalle drawled, his voice tight with the gravity of the situation. He leaned over the table, his sharp eyes sweeping across the map spread out in front of them. "Marcel's got eyes everywhere—not just his bloodsuckers, but in the human crowd, too, even some of them witches. Ain't no way they'd risk stayin' that close to his turf. Not when they's plottin' against him."

"We should have teams checking into it, just in case," Callen replied, his voice steady but laced with urgency. He stood beside LaSalle, studying the map with a furrowed brow, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.

"Patton, Sebastian, and a hand-picked team from the FBI are already scouring potential spots in the city," Dwayne Pride replied, his voice firm and no-nonsense. He stepped forward, the weight of his presence drawing everyone's attention. "That leaves us with the bayou."

"That's a lot of territory to cover," Sam commented, his deep voice rumbling as he studied the sprawling, green expanse marked on the map. His expression was grim, the sheer size of the area they needed to search weighing heavily on him.

"We know they ain't goin' too deep," LaSalle said, snatching up a marker and slashing through big chunks of the map with quick, sure strokes. "Ain't no way they're hidin' out in these spots."

"How certain can you be?" Callen asked, scepticism in his voice as he glanced up at LaSalle.

LaSalle paused; his gaze distant for a moment as he recalled the stories he'd heard over the years.

"'Bout twenty years ago, the local werewolf pack got hit with a curse," he started, his voice low. "They're stuck as wolves most the month, only turnin' back human when the full moon's out. Word is, it was a Deveraux witch who did the deed. Now, I can't say for sure if that's true, but I'll tell you this—ain't no witch from the French Quarter who's wandered into their territory since ever come back out alive."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of LaSalle's words hanging heavy in the air. The map in front of them seemed to grow larger, the uncharted areas of the bayou like a dark, ominous void waiting to swallow anyone who ventured too far.

"Still leaves a lot of ground to cover." Sam said, breaking the silence, his voice grim as he traced the remaining untouched areas with his finger. The vastness of the bayou loomed before them, a daunting, treacherous landscape that could easily conceal their enemies—and Maya and Kamala—within its murky depths.

"It narrows it down some," Pride replied, his voice firm as he straightened up. "We'll start on the outer edges and work our way in, keepin' a close eye on the spots where they can hide without wanderin' into Rougarou territory. Our best shot at gettin' those girls back alive and unharmed is if we find 'em first. The covens in N'awlins, especially the French Quarter Coven, they don't play by the usual rules. Ain't no guarantee they'll give those girls back, even if they get what they want from Klaus Mikaelson."

"Okay, so what's the plan?"

"We'll split into teams. I know y'all are used to workin' together, but it'd be smarter to break y'all up and pair each of you with a local. The bayou's a whole different world compared to LA."

Sam and Callen exchanged looks and nodded.

"Agreed, you know the territory, we'll follow your lead."


Klaus lingered at the edge of the crowd, his eyes locked on the figure of his son as Marcel leaped off the stage, laughing and celebrating with his friends. Marcel looked good—too good. He was happy, relaxed, every bit the king of his world. A flicker of pride sparked in Klaus's chest, seeing Marcel alive and thriving. But that pride was quickly overshadowed by a burning fury, a resentment that Marcel had never once tried to find them since Mikael had torched the city a century ago. Yet, the most dominant emotion roiling within him was a relentless drive, a singular focus on finding Maya. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to march over, grab Marcel by the collar, and demand the answers he needed.

Before he could act on the impulse, Marcel turned, his eyes meeting Klaus's across the distance. Surprise flashed in those dark eyes, quickly followed by recognition. The crowd around them seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them.

"Klaus," Marcel called, his voice filled with a mix of emotions—shock, curiosity, perhaps even a hint of wariness.

"Marcel," Klaus replied, his tone measured, almost casual, though a storm brewed beneath the surface.

"Must be a hundred years since that nasty business with your papa," Marcel remarked, closing the gap between them with a few easy strides.

Klaus shrugged, taking a leisurely step forward himself, masking the tension coiled in his muscles.

"Has it been that long?"

Marcel moved closer, each step deliberate, until there was barely a breath of space between them.

"Way, I recall, he ran you outta town. Left a trail of dead vampires in his wake."

"And yet," Klaus murmured, continuing to close the distance, his voice low and dangerous, "how fortunate for you, you managed to survive." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "My father, I'm afraid, was recently incinerated into dust."

At that, roughly twenty vampires who had been lounging behind Marcel rose to their feet, their eyes narrowing as they sensed the undercurrent of threat in Klaus's tone. They were young, inexperienced, bristling with misplaced confidence. They had no idea who they were up against—no understanding that even their numbers meant nothing against him. Marcel, however, knew better. He understood all too well the power standing before him, and the faint tension in his posture told Klaus that Marcel was aware of just how outmatched his young followers were.

"Well, if I'd known you were comin' back to town, if I'd had a heads up—" Marcel began, his tone attempting to lighten the mood.

"What, Marcel?" Klaus interrupted, stepping forward until there was no space left between them, his voice a deadly whisper. "What would you have done?"

Marcel chuckled, the sound a little too forced.

"I'd have thrown you a damn parade." He laughed again, and this time Klaus joined in, though his laughter was more a release of tension than genuine amusement. Then, in an unexpected but strangely familiar gesture, Marcel embraced him—their first real contact in a hundred years. Klaus returned the embrace, but the ever-present gnawing worry for Maya kept him from fully savouring the moment. He had regained one child, but the fear that he might lose another gnawed at him relentlessly.

"Niklaus Mikaelson. My mentor, my saviour, my sire. Let's get you a drink," Marcel said, his voice tinged with both affection and the undercurrent of old loyalties.

Marcel led him into a small, dimly lit back room, leaving his vampires to stand guard at the doorway. The room was lined with aged wood and filled with the scent of whiskey and old leather. Marcel poured them both a glass of the amber liquid, handing one to Klaus with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"It's good to see you," Marcel said, raising his glass.

"It's good to be home," Klaus replied, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. It wasn't home, not really—not until Maya was safe. But he could pretend, for now, until he got what he needed. He took a sip, letting the whiskey burn a path down his throat. "Though, please tell me the current state of Bourbon Street isn't your doing."

Marcel laughed the sound more genuine this time.

"Something's gotta draw in the out-of-towners, otherwise we'd all go hungry."

Klaus glanced over his shoulder at the vampire guarding the door, his eyes narrowing as he noted the ring on the man's finger.

"I see your friends are daywalkers."

"Yeah, yeah. I shared the secret of your daylight ring with a few buddies. Just the inner circle, though. The family."

"Tell me… how did you find a witch willing to make daylight rings?" Klaus's tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp, watching for any telltale signs in Marcel's expression.

Marcel leaned back; his posture relaxed.

"I got the witches here wrapped around my finger."

"Is that so?" Klaus's voice was soft, almost a purr. "Then perhaps you might be able to point me in the direction of one in particular—Jane-Anne Deveraux. She has some business with me."

"You're lookin' for Jane-Anne?" Marcel's brow furrowed slightly. "She hasn't been seen in a few days, but I've got all my guys out lookin' for her."

"You're looking for her?" Klaus's interest piqued.

"Jane-Anne broke my rules. Gotta find her and nip that in the bud."

Klaus was about to press Marcel further, to dig into these so-called rules, when he felt the phone in his pocket buzz. Katerina's phone—their only link to Jane-Anne Deveraux, though the witch hadn't answered any of the calls Klaus had made to her original number. He'd suspected it might be a dead end, just another one of Katerina's contacts checking in, but he had to check.

He pulled out the phone, his eyes flicking to the screen. A text message had come through: Lafayette Cemetery, come alone. Jane-Anne.

"Ah," Klaus murmured, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "It seems we'll have to cut this reunion short. It was good to see you, Marcel. I'll find you later, and you can tell me more about these rules of yours."

Before Marcel could respond, Klaus was gone, moving faster than any of Marcel's vampires could track. The weight of his mission pressed on him as he sped through the city, his mind already racing ahead to what awaited him at the cemetery. There was no time to waste—Maya's safety depended on it.


Klaus vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving Marcel standing in the middle of the room, surprise flickering across his face. The group of vampires behind him stood frozen, wide-eyed and stunned, none of them having even seen Klaus move.

Marcel's eyes narrowed as he processed what had just happened.

"Find Jane-Anne and Sophie," he ordered, his tone sharp as he turned to Thierry, his most trusted lieutenant. "Talk to Katie. I want to know exactly what business the Deveraux's have with Klaus. And while you're at it, find out where he's staying and how many of his siblings came back to town with him."

Thierry nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation, and turned to leave. But Marcel's voice stopped him just as he reached the door.

"Thierry," Marcel called, his tone carrying a note of warning. "Tell the guys to steer clear of the Mikaelsons. We're not equipped to take them on right now—it's a fight we can't win."

Thierry nodded again, more solemnly this time, before heading out to relay the orders. The tension in the room was palpable, each vampire understanding the weight of the command. Klaus Mikaelson was back in New Orleans, and that meant the game had just changed.