Chapter 7: Marcel's Investigation
The blood bag tasted like plastic and disappointment.
I sat in the warehouse basement, draining my third one of the night, and felt my strength tick upward. Forty percent now. Maybe forty-five if I pushed it. Not enough to take on an Original, but enough to handle most problems that walked through my door.
Speaking of which.
I felt them before I heard them. Ten vampires, moving with military precision through the industrial district. They weren't trying to hide. They wanted me to know they were coming.
I crushed the empty blood bag and tossed it in the trash. Then I walked upstairs, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the roof.
If Marcel wanted to talk, we'd do it on my terms.
The rooftop overlooked the French Quarter like a watchtower. I sat on the edge, legs dangling over a four-story drop, and waited.
They arrived in formation. Ten vampires spreading out across the neighboring roofs, cutting off escape routes with the kind of coordination that came from decades of working together. Professional. Efficient. Marcel had trained them well.
Marcel himself stood on the roof behind me, flanked by two vampires I recognized from my surveillance. Thierry—the lieutenant with the jazz musician vibe—and Diego, younger, more aggressive, always itching for a fight.
"You're either very brave or very stupid," Marcel said.
I didn't turn around. "Option three: I don't care."
"You should. This is my city. My people. My rules."
"And yet here I am, breaking exactly none of them."
Footsteps approached. Marcel walked around to face me, standing at the roof's edge with his arms crossed. He wore a leather jacket and jeans, looked like he could be anyone, but his eyes were ancient. Calculating. I'd pegged him at two hundred years old, give or take.
He was studying me the same way I was studying him.
"Sophie Deveraux came to me yesterday," Marcel said. "Scared out of her mind. Said a vampire stopped her from retrieving Davina. Described someone who manipulated blood like a weapon, swatted her magic aside like it was nothing." His eyes narrowed. "That wouldn't be you, would it?"
"Depends. Is Sophie the witch trying to murder a teenager for a ritual?"
"The Harvest isn't murder. It's—"
"Save it." I cut him off. "I don't care about witch politics. I care about kids not getting their throats slit because some ancestors are mad about being dead."
Marcel's jaw tightened. "Davina is under my protection."
"Good. So we're on the same side."
"Are we?" He gestured at his people surrounding us. "Because from where I'm standing, you're an unknown vampire in my territory, powerful enough to scare a witch who's been practicing magic for thirty years, and you've taken an interest in the girl I've been keeping hidden. That doesn't exactly scream 'friendly.'"
Fair point.
I stood slowly, giving them time to see I wasn't attacking. Marcel didn't move, but Thierry and Diego both tensed, hands hovering near weapons I couldn't see but knew were there.
"I'm not here to challenge you," I said. "I'm not interested in your kingdom, your rules, or your vampires. I'm here because..." I paused, considering how much to reveal. "Because I've been used as someone's power source before. I don't like watching it happen to others."
"Used how?"
"Long story. Involves torture, coffins, and a millennium I'd rather not discuss."
Marcel's eyebrows raised. "A millennium."
"Give or take."
"You're saying you're older than the Originals."
"I'm saying I predate them by a thousand years, yes."
Silence. The kind that comes right before violence or negotiation. I couldn't tell which way this was tipping.
"Prove it," Marcel said finally.
"Prove what?"
"That you're that old. That you're that powerful. Because right now, you just look like a skinny white boy who talks a big game."
I smiled. It wasn't friendly. "You sure you want that demonstration?"
"I'm sure I want to know what I'm dealing with."
"Fair enough."
I looked past Marcel at the ten vampires surrounding us. Thierry. Diego. Eight others whose names I didn't know but whose blood I could feel humming through the bloodline connection. They were all descended from the Originals, which meant they were all descended from me.
I reached out with that connection. Gently. Like touching a spider web without breaking it.
Their blood stopped.
All of them. Simultaneously. Ten vampires froze mid-breath, eyes wide with shock and terror as their bodies refused to respond. Not compulsion—compulsion was mental. This was physical. I'd grabbed hold of the blood in their veins and simply... held it still.
Marcel remained unfrozen. I hadn't touched him. But he'd felt it—the surge of power, the way his people had just become statues—and his expression shifted from confident king to very, very careful predator.
"I'm older than your entire species," I said quietly. "Every vampire in existence traces back to me through the Originals. That means I can control their blood. Your people. Your army. All of them." I released the hold. "But I have no interest in your kingdom. I just want Davina safe."
The ten vampires gasped simultaneously, stumbling, grabbing onto each other for support. Diego looked like he was about to throw up. Thierry had gone pale—impressive for a vampire.
Marcel hadn't moved. Hadn't flinched. But I could see the gears turning behind his eyes, calculating exactly how fucked he'd be if I decided to become a problem.
"That's not a power I've ever seen," he said slowly. "Or heard of."
"Because I'm the only one who has it."
"And you used it to save Davina from Sophie."
"I used a fraction of it. Blood shield. Stopped her spell. Scared her into running."
"Why?"
"I told you. I don't like seeing kids get sacrificed."
Marcel studied me for a long moment. The tension stretched like a rubber band about to snap.
Then he nodded.
"Alright. Non-aggression pact. You don't interfere with my city, I don't try to run you out. You protect Davina from the witches, I protect her from everything else. We stay out of each other's way unless our interests align."
"Deal."
We didn't shake hands. Didn't need to. This was a treaty between predators who understood that cooperation was safer than war—barely.
"One question," Marcel said as he turned to leave. "What's your name?"
"Roy Stark."
"Well, Roy Stark. Welcome to New Orleans." He started walking toward the fire escape, then paused. "And just so we're clear—if you hurt Davina, protection order, power demonstration, millennium of experience be damned, I will find a way to end you."
"Fair," I said. "But if you let the witches get to her because you're too busy playing king, I'll do the same to you."
Marcel laughed—short, surprised, genuine. "I think I'm starting to like you."
"Don't. I'm terrible company."
He left with his people, and I was alone on the rooftop again. Alone except for the bloodline connection humming in my chest, connecting me to every vampire in the city whether I wanted it or not.
Marcel would report this to his inner circle. Word would spread. Within a week, every supernatural in New Orleans would know about the ancient vampire who could control blood.
Good. Let them know. Let them be careful.
I was done hiding.
Three days later, everything changed.
I felt them arrive like a punch to the sternum.
The bloodline connection screamed. Not pain—just overwhelming presence, three massive points of power entering the city simultaneously. I doubled over in the warehouse, laptop sliding off my lap, and grabbed the edge of the desk to steady myself.
Originals.
I knew that signature. Had felt it underwater when Klaus broke his curse, but this was different. Closer. Real. Three of them, moving through the city like wolves entering a sheep pen.
Klaus. Elijah. Rebekah.
The Mikaelsons had come to New Orleans.
I forced myself upright, breathing hard even though I didn't need air, and staggered to the window. The French Quarter was visible in the distance, lights glowing against the January darkness.
They were there. Somewhere in that mess of tourists and jazz and supernatural politics, the Originals were making their entrance.
And I couldn't decide if I wanted to run or attack.
Because these weren't just the monsters whose parents had tortured me. They were also the characters I'd watched on TV in another life. Klaus with his paranoia and pain. Elijah with his suits and honor. Rebekah desperate for freedom and love.
I'd liked them. Rooted for them. Understood them in a way that was only possible when you'd seen inside their heads through a television screen.
And now they were real. Flesh and blood. Walking, talking, capable of killing me if they decided I was a threat.
This is so fucked up.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. I had to see them. Had to confirm with my own eyes that they were actually here, that this wasn't some fever dream brought on by blood deprivation.
The French Quarter was packed with tourists and locals when I arrived. I kept my hood up, stayed in the shadows, and followed the bloodline connection like a compass pointing north.
It led me to Marcel's compound.
Of course it did. Klaus had sired Marcel back in the day—the show had covered that in flashbacks—and if Klaus was in New Orleans, his first stop would be checking on his "son."
I climbed to a rooftop across the street and settled in to watch.
The courtyard below was lit with string lights and filled with vampires. Marcel's people, plus three newcomers who commanded attention just by existing.
Klaus stood in the center, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Even from this distance, I could hear his accent—British, theatrical, every word chosen for maximum impact. He looked exactly like he had on TV: blond curls, sharp cheekbones, eyes that missed nothing.
Elijah stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. Calm. Controlled. The diplomat trying to keep his brother from starting a war.
Rebekah leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, looking bored but watchful. She was smaller than I'd expected. More human. But the way she held herself screamed danger.
Marcel was talking now, smiling, playing the gracious host. But there was tension underneath. He hadn't expected them. Didn't want them here.
"...and you've done well for yourself, Marcellus," Klaus was saying, loud enough for me to hear. "King of New Orleans. I'm impressed."
"Thanks," Marcel said dryly. "You here to take it back?"
"Would you give it back if I asked?"
"No."
Klaus laughed. "Good! Spine. I like that. We raised you right."
We. As if Marcel hadn't earned everything himself. As if Klaus owned him.
I felt my jaw clench. The instinct to defend Marcel—who I barely knew—was surprising. But watching Klaus waltz back into the city like he owned it, treating Marcel like a pet who'd been keeping his kingdom warm...
Yeah. I understood why Marcel hated him.
Then Klaus's head turned.
Not toward me. Just... scanning the area. His eyes swept over the rooftops, the windows, the shadows. Paranoid. Always looking for threats.
I froze. Held my breath. Klaus couldn't sense me specifically—the bloodline connection didn't work that way—but he was old enough to know when someone was watching.
His gaze passed over my rooftop without stopping.
I exhaled slowly.
This was a mistake. I wasn't ready to face them. Not yet. Not when my power was still climbing back from nothing and my control was shaky at best.
I turned to leave—
And pain exploded through my body.
It started in my chest, right where the bloodline connection lived, and radiated outward like fire through my veins. My vision blurred. My teeth ached. Something inside me was changing, responding to Klaus's presence, and I couldn't stop it.
I collapsed on the rooftop, biting down on my sleeve to keep from screaming.
My bones were shifting. Not breaking—shifting. Elongating. My jaw felt wrong, too long, teeth pushing through gums that hadn't existed a second ago. My vision flickered between normal and something else—sharper, clearer, tinted gold.
Wolf.
The hybrid curse. Klaus had broken it, awakened his wolf side, and now mine was waking up too through the same bloodline connection that tied us together.
I was becoming a hybrid.
And it hurt like nothing I'd ever felt.
The transformation lasted maybe five minutes. Felt like hours. By the time it stopped, I was lying on the rooftop in a pool of sweat, shaking, my clothes torn where my body had tried to shift forms and only partially succeeded.
My vision had stabilized. Still sharper than before, but not full wolf. My teeth felt wrong—longer canines, not quite fangs but not human either. And there was something new in my chest, alongside the bloodline connection.
Instinct. Territorial. Predatory.
The wolf was awake. And it was furious.
I forced myself to sit up. My hands were shaking. Blood dripped from where I'd bitten through my sleeve into my arm, and even that hurt differently now—more immediate, more wild.
Klaus was still in the courtyard below, laughing at something Rebekah said. He had no idea he'd just triggered my transformation. No idea I existed.
Yet.
I stood on shaking legs and left before I did something stupid. Like jumping down there and challenging him to a fight I'd lose.
The walk back to the warehouse was a blur. Every sound was too loud. Every smell was too sharp. My body felt foreign—still mine, but different. Wrong. Changed.
By the time I reached the warehouse, my vision was flickering gold again. I stumbled down to the basement, collapsed against the wall, and let the pain wash over me.
Klaus's freedom had given me power. But it had also made me unstable.
I needed to master this. Fast.
Before the next time I saw him, and the wolf decided to do the thinking for me.
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