Marcel's face lit up with a genuine smile as Klaus entered the dimly lit bar, the shadowy ambiance a stark contrast to the wild energy of the previous night's party. He hadn't been sure Klaus would accept the invitation, but he hoped in a more casual environment, his sire might finally let his guard down and fill Marcel in on what had really drawn him back to New Orleans after a hundred years. Maybe Klaus would even allow him to help resolve whatever the issue was.
Klaus surveyed the bar with a hint of disdain, his gaze sweeping over the weathered wood and muted tones of the establishment.
"Well, this is a far cry from last night's festivities," he remarked dryly, his attention quickly diverting as his eyes landed on a familiar figure. A sly smile crept across his face. "Ah, in pursuit of the bartender from Rousseau's, I see."
Marcel followed Klaus's gaze to where Camille was sat reading her textbook and making notes, he wondered what she was studying so intently.
"She's a work in progress," he admitted, though the words carried more weight than he let on.
Klaus chuckled, the sound low and dark, tinged with both amusement and derision.
"And yet here you are, pining over her when you should be devouring her for lunch. Oh, she must be special indeed."
Marcel shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but his eyes betrayed a deeper conflict.
"Business first," he said, redirecting the conversation with practiced ease. "The coroner called. He's got my number in case any dead tourists show up."
Klaus's interest piqued, his gaze sharpening.
"Let me guess—dead tourists with a stamp on their hand and vampire blood in their veins?"
Marcel nodded, a grim expression settling over his features.
"It happens. Someone takes a drunken tumble off a balcony, or into the Mississippi... And today I've got two of them to deal with. You're welcome to join me."
Klaus considered the offer, his expression inscrutable.
"Why not?" he said finally, a casual shrug masking his underlying tension. "I have nothing better to do until I can find this Jane-Anne Deveraux."
The mention of the name caused Marcel's brows to knit together in a frown, his easy demeanour momentarily slipping. There was a tension in the air now, a subtle shift that spoke of deeper undercurrents.
"I've got my guys out looking," Marcel said, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of concern. "When they find her, you'll be the first person I call."
Klaus inclined his head, a silent acknowledgment of the promise.
"Shall we, then?" he prompted, the faintest hint of impatience threading through his words.
Marcel drained the last of his drink, the glass clinking softly as he set it down on the table. Rising to his feet, he threw a quick glance at Camille, her golden hair catching the light as she worked, oblivious to the dark world lurking just beyond her perception. Marcel's jaw tightened, but he pushed the thought aside. There would be time to worry about her later. For now, there were dead bodies to attend to and a sire to get answers from.
"Let's go," Marcel said, leading the way out of the bar, the day waiting beyond the door with all its secrets and dangers. Klaus followed; his eyes gleaming with the promise of whatever the day might bring.
Maya made her move after lunch, seizing the fleeting opportunity that presented itself as she was escorted to the bathroom. The house was eerily quiet, enveloped in a silence so profound that it seemed to throb in her ears, making every creak of the floorboards beneath her feet echo ominously through the narrow, dimly lit hallway. Her pulse quickened, thudding in her chest like a war drum, but she forced herself to remain calm, focusing intently on the plan she had rehearsed over and over in her mind.
The bathroom itself was a small, grimy space, with cracked, yellowed tiles clinging to the walls like old scars. A faint musty odour hung in the air, the scent of mildew and decay. The toilet was another relic from a past era, an old-fashioned model. Maya had noticed it during her first trip to this dingy room, the loose lid on the tank catching her eye. It was a heavy ceramic piece, solid and substantial, the kind of thing that could knock someone out cold with a single well-aimed blow. The weight of it in her hands had given her a flicker of hope then, and now it was her lifeline.
Originally, they had planned to wait until nightfall, hoping that the cover of darkness would give them the advantage they desperately needed. But the events at lunch had changed everything. When their meal was brought in, it was Jane-Anne and one of the men who delivered it. As the two had entered, Maya's sharp ears caught the distant growl of a car engine starting up. The sound grew louder, reverberating through the walls, then gradually faded away as the vehicle drove off. The timing was too perfect to ignore—this was the moment they had been waiting for, handed to them on a silver platter.
As she was escorted down the hallway, Maya strained her ears, her senses hyper-alert. The house was deathly still, an unsettling quiet that seemed to amplify the beating of her heart. No footsteps echoed from other rooms, no muffled conversations, nothing. It was as if the house had been emptied, leaving only the guard and herself. This was it—their chance to seize control of their fate.
The guard shoved her into the bathroom once more, the door closing behind her with a soft click, though not completely shut. If this went as before, he would stand with his back to the door, waiting for her to finish. Maya's heart raced as she approached the toilet, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. With trembling hands, she lifted the cistern lid, feeling the reassuring weight in her grasp. Doubt flickered in her mind for a brief, agonizing second, but she crushed it ruthlessly. There was no room for hesitation, not now.
She hooked her foot around the door, pulling it open just enough to give her the angle she needed. With all the strength she could muster, Maya swung the heavy ceramic lid, aiming for the back of the guard's head. He had already begun to turn, sensing something was amiss, but he was too late. The lid connected with a sickening thud, the impact jarring through her arms. The guard crumpled to the floor without a sound.
Maya stood over him, breathless, waiting for the dreaded sensation Tyler had warned her about, the one that would signal she had triggered her curse. But nothing came – no pain, no feel of fire flashing through her veins, no sensitivity behind her eyes. He was just unconscious, not dead. Relief washed over her, but she knew there was no time to waste. Gently setting the now-cracked lid down, she bent over the guard, her hands quickly searching his pockets. She found a phone, but it was locked with a passcode, useless for the moment, and a ring of keys. She pocketed both before dragging his limp body into the bathroom.
Outside, the house was still silent, a tomb-like quiet that made her skin crawl. She turned the key in the lock, securing the guard inside the bathroom. There was no reason to make things easier for them. The next stop was the kitchen, where she quickly scanned the counter before grabbing a large knife, its cold steel reassuring in her hand. She was just about to leave when she saw another bunch of keys sitting on the side, grabbing those as well and sticking them in her pocket with the others, she went back out into the hallway.
Retracing her steps to the room where they had been imprisoned, Maya paused outside the door, her heart pounding. She took a deep breath, running through the plan in her mind one last time. Originally, she had intended to choke the other guard unconscious with the chain connecting the manacles on her wrists. But now, armed with a knife and facing Jane-Anne instead of the other man, things had shifted in her favour.
She pushed the door open, her eyes immediately locking onto Jane-Anne. Without hesitation, Maya raced forward, slamming her against the wall and pressing the knife to her throat. Jane-Anne's eyes widened, her body trembling with a mix of fear and anger.
"Kamala, go wait in the hallway," Maya ordered, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Kamala scrambled up, her eyes wide with shock, and bolted out of the room. Maya kept her gaze fixed on Jane-Anne, who was trying and failing to mask her fear.
"Don't be stupid, Maya," Jane-Anne hissed, her voice wavering. "Just give me the knife and give up. There's nowhere for you to go."
"Giving you the knife would be the stupid thing to do," Maya retorted, her grip on the handle tightening.
"You're in the middle of the Bayou," Jane-Anne sneered, though her voice was tinged with desperation. "You leave this house without someone who knows where they're going, and you're dead. You'll be nothing but gator-bait out there."
"You really should have done better research on me," Maya said, her voice cold. Without warning, she slammed Jane-Anne's head into the wall, stunning her. The knife left her throat and found its mark in her leg with a quick, brutal jab.
"Put pressure on it, and you'll be fine," Maya advised, her voice icy. "You just won't be walking for a while."
She backed out of the room swiftly, slamming the door shut and locking it behind her. Turning to Kamala, who was waiting anxiously in the hallway, she spoke quickly,
"We need to get out of here. I don't know how long we have until the other guy gets back."
With one last glance at the locked door, Maya led Kamala down the hallway, the weight of the knife heavy in her fist, a small comfort, the echo of her footsteps the only sound in the oppressive silence. They were not out of the woods yet, but they had a fighting chance, and Maya wasn't about to waste it.
"I demand a lawyer. I have a right to legal representation," Francesca Correa's voice was sharp, defiant, as she glared across the cold, steel table in the dimly lit interrogation room.
Agent Callen, with a composed demeanour, pulled out a chair and took a seat opposite her, the faint hum of the overhead fluorescent light the only sound for a brief moment. He leaned back slightly, a calm yet calculating look in his eyes.
"You've been detained in relation to an ongoing terrorism investigation, Ms. Correa," he stated, his tone steady, yet carrying an undercurrent of authority, "which means it may take a while to cut through all the red tape and get that lawyer for you."
"Terrorism?" Her eyebrows shot up in genuine disbelief, or perhaps it was merely a well-rehearsed act. She shook her head, letting out a bitter laugh. "This is ridiculous."
Callen didn't flinch, his expression remaining unreadable. He glanced at his temporary partner, Agent Pride, who stood by the door, arms crossed, watching the exchange with an equally stern look.
"I don't think it's ridiculous," Callen remarked, turning his gaze back to Correa. "Do you think it's ridiculous, Agent Pride?"
Pride shook his head slowly, his lips curling into a slight smirk.
"I don't think it's ridiculous at all," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of disdain.
Francesca's eyes narrowed, her posture rigid with tension.
"I am a businesswoman and a philanthropist," she said firmly, her voice tinged with indignation. "I love America. I'm no terrorist."
"Right," Callen leaned forward, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "a businesswoman and a philanthropist. And the drug empire? That's just a side hobby?"
She scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically.
"Vicious rumours, spread by my competitors who hate seeing a woman succeed in a typically male-oriented field. There's never been any proof because they are simply not true."
Callen nodded slowly, as if considering her words.
"Well, you're right there, Ms. Correa. We can't currently prove that you run a drug empire." He paused, letting the tension hang in the air like a guillotine blade. "But we're working on it, and given time, I'm sure we'll find all the proof we need."
Her defiant expression faltered slightly, a flicker of unease crossing her eyes. She quickly masked it with a haughty lift of her chin.
"Do you want to know what we do have proof of, though, right now?" Callen asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper, drawing her in like a predator toying with its prey.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then, regaining her composure, responded coolly,
"Enlighten me."
Callen's gaze bore into hers, unblinking, as he leaned forward, the space between them shrinking.
"We can link you to the abduction of two teenage girls from the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History yesterday."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she refuted calmly, her voice steady as she casually straightened the cuffs on her tailored suit jacket, the subtle action belying the intensity of the situation.
Callen leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Your people are very good, Ms. Correa, I'll give you that," he conceded with a slight nod. "But mine are better. We traced a payment made to a security guard at the museum—one of your payments. The same guard who conveniently turned off the cameras in the exhibit hall right before the girls were taken."
Her expression remained impassive, but there was a subtle tension in her posture now, like a taut string ready to snap.
"That computer virus you gave him," Callen continued, his voice steady and unyielding, "he didn't use it. Turns out, he had plans to sell it on the black market instead. And let's not forget that private jet you own—the one you thought no one could trace back to you. Well, we traced it. We also traced the flight it made to D.C. yesterday. It landed at Hyde Field—the same Hyde Field that's just a mile away from where the vehicle used to move the girls from the museum was conveniently abandoned."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she maintained her calm demeanour.
"That's all you have?" she asked, her tone dismissive. "A payment to some rogue security guard and a flight? That plane was sent to pick up my younger brother. He'd spent the past week in D.C. As for the payment, unless you can link it directly to my personal accounts, you can't prove I had any knowledge of it."
Callen smiled, a cold, calculating expression.
"That's all we have so far, Ms. Correa. But my people are going to keep digging, and they will find more. Like I said, they're very good at what they do."
For a brief moment, a flicker of doubt passed through her eyes, a flash of fear as she mentally calculated how much they had already uncovered—and how much more they might yet discover.
She leaned back, her expression thoughtful.
"Hypothetically," she began, her voice low and measured, "if I were to offer you some information I happened to learn, what would I get in return?"
"This isn't a negotiation," Callen replied, his voice hardening as he leaned forward, closing the space between them. "We will find those girls with or without you. And we will prove that you were involved. We won't stop digging into every little secret you've ever tried to hide. And when we do, we'll charge you for every crime we can uncover."
Her eyes locked onto his, the weight of his words sinking in.
"Now," Callen continued, his tone unyielding, "you can choose to cooperate. We'll let the judge know, and maybe—just maybe—he'll go lenient on you. Or you can refuse, and you'll be spending the rest of your life in a maximum-security federal prison."
Silence fell over the room, thick with tension as Francesca Correa weighed her options. She was trapped, and she knew it. The only question now was how much she was willing to give up, to save herself.
Marcel had spent the entire ride over subtly probing Klaus for answers, but his sire remained a locked vault. Every question Marcel posed was met with a deflecting smirk or a change of subject, and the silence that filled the gaps only heightened Marcel's concern. There was a storm brewing behind Klaus's eyes—a mix of fear and fury that Marcel had only ever seen in relation to Mikael, who was dead. Whatever had driven Klaus back to New Orleans, it was something powerful enough to rattle him, and that unsettled Marcel more than he cared to admit. The thought of watching his city burn for a third time gnawed at him, but Klaus remained tight-lipped, the tension between them growing with each evasive response.
As they stepped out onto the cold, echoing expanse of the parking structure, Klaus took in their surroundings with a sarcastic glance.
"You take me to the nicest places," he remarked dryly, his tone laced with a biting humour that did little to mask his underlying agitation.
As Marcel and Klaus approached, Thierry and Diego moved in unison, pulling open the van's back doors with a practiced efficiency. Inside were two half-open body bags, each containing a young adult—a man and a woman—both sitting up, their eyes wide with confusion and fear.
"Welcome to the land of the newly dead," Marcel began, his voice steady, though his mind was racing. He turned to Thierry, expecting a status report. "I trust you filled them in."
Thierry shrugged, a hint of indifference in his stance.
"To be honest, not much in the way of potential there."
Marcel sighed, casting a brief, thoughtful glance at the two frightened faces before him.
"Yeah, well, everyone deserves a chance." He shifted his attention back to the newly turned vampires. "I'll keep this quick. That itch you feel? That's the need to feed coming on strong—a hunger for human blood. Drink it, and you're a vampire. Don't, and you die. Again. This time for good, right here in a body bag."
He turned to Klaus, who was watching the proceedings with detached amusement.
"Hey, what do you think? Cute dorky girl or gay best friend?"
Klaus raised an eyebrow, his smile as sharp as a blade.
"Dealer's choice."
Marcel nodded, pulling a coin from his pocket and holding it up for the pair to see.
"Dealer's choice it is. Whoever picks up this coin gets to live forever. The other one dies."
He placed the coin down between them with a cold finality, the metallic clink echoing in the stillness of the garage.
"Go."
For a moment, the van was silent as the two potential vampires stared at the coin, the gravity of Marcel's words sinking in. The young man, Josh, hesitated, his eyes darting to the girl, silently pleading for mercy. But the girl's hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second before she lunged forward, snatching the coin from the cold steel floor.
Marcel let out a low whistle, a mix of surprise and dark admiration.
"Damn, girl! I said, damn!"
Josh's face twisted with betrayal, his voice trembling as he demanded,
"How could you?"
The girl didn't flinch, her survival instinct overriding any lingering humanity.
"Get over it, Josh. It's not like I had a choice. You would've done the same thing, but you're such a little—"
Before she could finish, Marcel moved with lightning speed, his hand snapping her neck with a sickening crack. The girl's body slumped forward, and Marcel zipped her back into the body bag with a swift, practiced motion. The action was almost mechanical, a testament to the brutality that had become second nature to him in this unforgiving world.
He jumped out of the van, his face hardening as he addressed Thierry and Diego.
"Let her die in cold storage. I've got a thing about people who betray their own friends."
Turning back to Josh, whose face was now a mask of shock and fear, Marcel's expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained cold.
"C'mon, let's go for a ride."
Josh looked up at Marcel, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and gratitude, though he barely had the strength to nod. Marcel guided him out of the van, his hand firm on the young man's shoulder as they moved towards Klaus, who watched with a gleam of approval in his eyes.
As they walked away, the weight of what had just transpired hung heavy in the air. Marcel's mind was already churning with plans, strategies, and a deepening worry about what Klaus wasn't saying. But for now, there was one less body to bury, one less vampire to manage, and perhaps, just a sliver of hope that he could keep the city from burning down around him.
They had been walking for about fifteen minutes, their footsteps crunching softly on the uneven, marshy ground, the oppressive humidity of the bayou clinging to their skin. The thick canopy of cypress trees overhead filtered the sunlight into a muted, hazy glow, making it hard to tell how much time had passed. The sounds of the swamp surrounded them—distant bird calls, the occasional rustle of leaves, and the ominous splash of something slipping into the murky water nearby. Maya's breath was steady, but her mind raced, calculating their next move.
Suddenly, she tugged Kamala to a stop, the urgency in her movement catching her friend's attention immediately. Without a word, Maya reached into her pocket and pulled out the set of keys she had managed to snatch from the unconscious guard. They jingled softly in the stillness, a tiny sound that felt impossibly loud in their precarious situation.
"Hopefully one of these will open the manacles," Maya muttered, her fingers deftly sifting through the keys, the cold metal slick with the sweat of her palms.
Kamala glanced around her eyes wide with worry.
"Then what?" she asked, her voice a whisper, though there was no one in sight.
"First, we find a phone we can actually use," Maya replied, her tone resolute. "Then, we call LaSalle. We call Kensi. We call my dad. We call your parents. In that order. Now, hold out your wrists."
Kamala obeyed, extending her wrists, still bound by the heavy iron manacles that dug into her skin.
"And if we can't find a phone?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Maya looked up, meeting Kamala's gaze with determination.
"Then we keep going until we do," she said firmly.
"And if they find us first…?" Kamala's eyes searched hers, fear and hope warring on her face.
"You run," Maya said without hesitation, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "You run while I hold them off."
Kamala managed a shaky smile.
"Shame you haven't learned to Apparate yet."
Maya let out a short, breathless laugh, a brief moment of levity in the tension-filled air. She tossed aside the first bunch of keys with a grimace of frustration and pulled out the second set. They clinked together as she sifted through them, her hands moving faster now.
"Even if I did know how, I can't concentrate enough right now. I'd splinch both of us. Whatever they were putting in our food… even with these manacles off, I don't think either of us will be doing any magic for a while."
Finally, she found the right key. The lock clicked open, and Kamala's manacles fell to the ground with a dull thud. Relief washed over Kamala's face as she rubbed her sore wrists, red and raw from the restraints. Maya worked quickly to free herself, fumbling with the keys but managing to unlock her own manacles after a couple of tries. The heavy iron dropped to the ground, and Maya discarded the keys with them, the sound of metal-on-metal echoing faintly in the stillness.
Reaching into her pocket one last time, she pulled out the guard's phone, the sleek device now a potential liability. Without a second thought, she dropped it onto the ground, kicking it into the underbrush.
"Just in case they can track it," she muttered.
Kamala looked around the endless stretch of swamp.
"So, how do we find our way to a phone?"
"Jane-Anne said we're in the middle of the bayou," Maya replied, her eyes scanning the dense foliage.
"Really? Never would have guessed," Kamala quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she swatted at a mosquito that buzzed too close. Despite the tension, the corner of Maya's lips curved into a smile.
But the levity was short-lived. Maya's expression turned serious as she crouched down, her gaze sharpening.
"Kamala… that means there are snakes."
Kamala's eyes widened, not with fear, but with dawning comprehension. Maya took a deep breath, focusing her mind on the task at hand. She began to speak in Parseltongue, her words slithered out of her mouth, soft and sibilant, echoing through the swamp like a hidden whisper in the wind. When Mr Crowley had taught all the Parselmouth's at the school, one of the first things he'd shown them was how to call all the nearby snakes.
The response was almost immediate. From the underbrush, the first snakes emerged, sliding through the damp leaves and mud with sinuous grace. Their scales glinted in the muted light, eyes gleaming as they gathered around Maya and Kamala in a tightening circle. The bayou seemed to hold its breath, as if the entire swamp was watching. Among the throng, an alligator surfaced from a nearby pool, its yellow eyes peering curiously in Maya's direction, also drawn by the ancient call.
Maya was just about to ask if one of the serpents could guide them to civilization when the mood suddenly shifted. The snakes around her began to hiss, their sleek bodies coiling defensively, heads rearing up as if something more powerful had drawn their attention. The tension in the air thickened, the swamp growing eerily silent except for the soft, reverberating hisses.
"The old one issss waking," one of the snakes hissed, its tone dripping with reverence and awe.
Maya's breath caught in her throat. The words sent a shiver down her spine, but before she could ask what they meant, Kamala grabbed her arm with a trembling hand.
"Umm… M…M…Maya," Kamala's voice was tight with fear, the kind that turns blood cold.
Maya turned her head slightly, still careful not to step on any of the smaller snakes that were slithering around her feet.
"What?"
"I think you need to turn around," Kamala said, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide with terror.
Maya moved slowly, her heart thudding in her chest like a drum. She turned to see what had caught Kamala's attention—and instantly understood her friend's fear. Emerging from a tangled mass of thorny vines nearby was a head, but not just any head. It was the head of a colossal snake, larger than any creature Maya had ever imagined. The sheer size of it was overwhelming—easily bigger than a car and that was just the head itself, with scales that shimmered darkly, and eyes that gleamed like twin orbs of molten gold. The snake's massive body was coiled somewhere in the dense undergrowth, but its head was right there, only a few feet away, staring directly at them.
