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“Deliriously,” she confirmed, ignoring the sarcastic edge in his tone completely. “Thank you for your well-wishes.”
“I would have offered them more promptly, had you mentioned your situation when we met,” he said. Not that he actually cared, but he trusted her to understand his real meaning—that she had deliberately kept the news from him as long as she could. A woman who avoided mentioning her betrothal usually had a motive, and it was typically one that her fiancé would disapprove of. Vivia
“I thought you knew!” she said smoothly, raising an eyebrow. “You were attending the engagement party after all.”
“I gate-crashed the engagement party,” he corrected. “I was simply in search of decent champagne.”
It bothered Klaus that the entire city seemed to know of her engagement before he did. Once he started listening, there was nowhere he could go without hearing about the beautiful girl who had ended the war between the witches and the werewolves of New Orleans. Under the circumstances, getting so very drunk for the past few days had definitely been the best course of action.
Vivia
It was a very minor slip of the tongue, but it gave him hope. “You know,” he offered impulsively, “I could escort you on your errands today, and save you all that trouble of trying to run into me again by chance. These streets are not always the safest for a lady alone anyway.”
A real smile touched her red lips, and he felt his pulse quicken in triumph. But she wasn’t looking at him. “Armand,” she answered, a little more loudly than he had expected.
She lifted one gloved arm to wave to someone farther along the cobblestoned street behind him.
Armand, most likely.
Klaus resigned himself and turned around. Indeed, the lanky werewolf was making his way toward them with amusing haste. His foot slipped on the cobblestones and slid into a muddy puddle, but he was so eager to interrupt them that he did not even appear to notice his wet shoe.
“Vivia
“Armand,” Klaus repeated heartily, holding out his hand so that the werewolf could not reach Vivia
“I’m sorry to leave you alone for so long, Viv,” Armand continued, as if Klaus’s greeting had never interrupted him at all. “But I saw this and simply had to have it for you.” He sidestepped his rival and held out a lavishly wrapped box, and Klaus rolled his eyes without the slightest attempt at discretion. There was a distinction, after all, between thoughtful and pathetic.
Vivia
Armand smiled down at her, and Klaus fantasized about splintering his neck into dozens of tiny shards of bone. If he struck now, the tall werewolf would never even see the blow coming.
“We should really be going,” Armand said smugly to no one in particular. “Lingering where you’ve no business does nothing but invite trouble.”
Vivia
“Of course,” Vivia
For a moment, Klaus played out what would happen if he broke Armand’s arrogant, undefended spine. Vivia
Then he noticed the way Vivia
CHAPTER FIVE
ELIJAH MIKAELSON WAS a survivor. It didn’t hurt that he was invincible, of course, but on top of that he had a real gift for adaptation, for getting along.
Since he and his siblings had arrived on the muddy shores of the crime-ridden outpost known as Nouvelle-Orléans, those talents had served him well. After Klaus’s initial rampage, they’d eventually made peace with the local witches and werewolves. They’d had to swear not to sire any new vampires, but the cost of making a home was worth it. The balance was fragile, but the truce had held for nearly a decade. After years of being chased by their murderous father across Europe, they’d finally landed on their feet.
But times were changing, and it was time for the Originals to change with them.
As Elijah headed out of the city, the close-packed buildings began to grow sparse, and the noise of the city center faded as his horse plodded forward. Humans rode and so he did, too, to maintain his facade, but mortal creatures moved at an achingly slow pace.
His path would be shortest if he cut through the private cemetery on the outskirts of town, and after the slightest of hesitations, he urged the horse beneath the high iron gate.
It was deserted, as any graveyard was likely to be with night falling, but Elijah did not feel alone. Unlike the public burial grounds, this small one teemed with the magic of its deceased inhabitants. No one but witches was buried here, and the concentration of their remains was potent. Incense burned beside many of the curiously inscribed stones, and the light from dripping candles distorted the shadows into fantastical shapes. There was no doubt that the place was thoroughly haunted.
Elijah’s horse shied and pranced, liking this place no better than he did. But the curve of the bayou would take him miles out of his way if he didn’t cut through the cemetery. It could be considered a test of resolve for Ysabelle’s potential visitors: Would they brave the unholy ground? Or take the longer path and lose an hour to their cowardice? Or, as she probably preferred, would the mortals stay away entirely, whispering tales about the witch who lived on the far side of the cemetery?
This place of magic reminded Elijah briefly, powerfully, of another witch who’d surrounded herself with this sort of beautiful ritual: his mother, Esther. A thousand years ago, he had considered her the strongest, most perfect and elegant woman in the world. Then she had cursed him in a desperate bid to save her family from rampaging werewolves, never admitting that she’d had more to do with those wolves than any of them would have guessed.