Chapter 9: The Mikaelson Arrival (Part 2)
The pain started at midnight.
I was in the basement, trying to sleep, when my bones began to crack. Not breaking—that would've been cleaner. They were reshaping, grinding against each other like tectonic plates, and my body didn't know how to process it.
I bit down on my forearm to keep from screaming. Tasted blood. My blood, which was wrong because my teeth were too long, too sharp, pushing through gums that burned like they were on fire.
Not now. Not like this.
But the wolf didn't care what I wanted. It had been patient for four days, letting me try meditation and control and all that useless bullshit. Now it was done waiting.
My spine arched. Vertebrae popped one by one, and I felt my ribcage expanding, muscles tearing and reforming around new bone structure. My hands were changing—fingers elongating, nails becoming claws that scraped against the concrete floor.
I managed to crawl to the corner before my legs gave out. Collapsed there, shaking, trying to breathe through the agony.
The door at the top of the stairs banged open.
"Roy?" Davina's voice, sharp with worry. Footsteps on the stairs, fast. "Roy, where are you—oh my God."
She found me curled in the corner, halfway between human and something else. My jaw had elongated, fangs fully extended, and my eyes—I could feel them glowing gold even with them squeezed shut.
"Don't," I managed to rasp out. "Get out. Not safe."
"Shut up." She knelt beside me, hands already moving in the patterns I recognized as spellwork. "You're transforming. Fighting it is making it worse."
"Can't—" Another crack. My shoulder blades were shifting, making room for muscles that didn't exist five minutes ago. "Can't control it."
"Then don't try." Her hands pressed against my temples, and warmth flooded through my skull. Pain-dampening spell. Not perfect, but enough to take the edge off. "Let it happen. Your body knows what to do."
"Easy for you to say."
"I know." Her voice was steady, grounding. "But I'm right here. You're not doing this alone."
I wanted to argue. Tell her to run before I lost control completely and hurt her. But the wolf was already taking over, drowning out thought with pure instinct.
Let go.
I did.
The transformation accelerated. My spine curved, forcing me onto all fours. My face pushed forward, nose and mouth merging into a muzzle. Fur erupted across my skin—black, thick, darker than midnight. My clothes tore, fabric giving way to a body that was no longer remotely human.
The pain peaked, white-hot and absolute.
Then it was over.
I stood on four legs in the basement, panting, and the world looked different. Sharper. Every scent was distinct—Davina's fear-sweat, the concrete's mineral tang, old blood from the bags I'd drained upstairs. Colors were muted, but movement was everything. I could see her heartbeat through her skin.
Prey.
No. Not prey. Ally.
The wolf didn't care about that distinction. It only knew that she was small, breakable, and right there.
I took a step toward her.
Davina backed up slowly, hands raised but not casting. "Roy? You in there?"
Another step. My muscles bunched, ready to pounce. The predator instinct was overwhelming—hunt, kill, feed.
But underneath it, buried deep, was the part of me that remembered: This is Davina. She helped you. She trusts you. Don't you fucking dare.
I stopped. Sat. The movement was awkward—wolf body didn't respond the same way—but I managed it.
Davina's eyes widened. "Holy shit. You're still conscious."
I couldn't respond. No vocal cords for speech, and the wolf's brain wasn't wired for language anyway. But I tilted my head, trying to convey: Yes. I'm here. I won't hurt you.
She laughed. High-pitched, nervous. "Good boy?"
The absurdity of it broke through the predator haze. Me—ancient vampire, Proto-Original, source of every bloodline—reduced to "good boy" by a teenage witch.
I would've laughed if I could. Instead, I lay down, resting my head on my paws in what I hoped was a non-threatening pose.
Davina approached slowly, hand outstretched. "Can I...?"
I didn't move. Barely breathed.
Her hand touched the top of my head. Scratched between my ears like I was a goddamn golden retriever.
And despite everything—the pain, the loss of control, the humiliation—it felt good. Grounding. Human touch that didn't hurt.
"You're huge," she said quietly. "Like, abnormally huge. Regular wolves aren't this big."
I'm not a regular wolf, I wanted to say. But I just sat there and let her pet me.
We stayed like that for maybe ten minutes. Her hand in my fur, me fighting the instinct to either run or attack. Slowly, the wolf's aggression faded. Not gone—never gone—but manageable.
Eventually, I felt the shift beginning again. My body contracting, bones reforming, fur receding into skin. It hurt less than the first transformation but still left me gasping on the floor, naked and covered in sweat.
Davina had the decency to turn around. A blanket landed on my head a moment later.
"So that's new," she said.
I wrapped the blanket around myself and slumped against the wall. "New. Uncontrollable. Potentially lethal. Yeah, that about sums it up."
"You didn't hurt me."
"I wanted to."
"But you didn't." She glanced back, saw I was decent, and turned fully around. "That's what matters. You had control where it counted."
"Barely."
"Still counts." She sat across from me, pulling her knees to her chest. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck, dragged for ten miles, then hit by another truck." I rubbed my face. Everything ached. "And exhausted. Is that normal?"
"How would I know? You're the only hybrid I've ever met." She paused. "Well, except Klaus. But I'm guessing you two don't have the same experience."
Klaus.
The reminder hit like cold water. Klaus was here. In the city. And his presence had triggered this whole nightmare.
"He's investigating," I said quietly. "Isn't he?"
"How did you—"
"I can feel him. Through the bloodline. He's curious. Paranoid. Trying to figure out what the hell is happening in his city." I met her eyes. "How long until he finds me?"
Davina bit her lip. "Marcel's been deflecting. Saying you're just an old vampire passing through. But Klaus doesn't believe him. And he sent Rebekah to investigate."
"Great."
"You need to get stronger. Fast."
"Working on it."
She stood, dusting off her jeans. "I should go. Marcel will notice I left the church."
"Davina."
She stopped at the stairs.
"Thank you," I said. "For helping. For staying. You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah, well." She shrugged, trying for casual and missing by a mile. "You helped me first. We're even."
She left before I could argue.
I sat in the basement, wrapped in a blanket, and tried to process what had just happened. I'd transformed. Become a wolf. Lost control but not completely—I'd recognized Davina, stopped myself from attacking.
The wolf was part of me now. Whether I wanted it or not.
And Klaus—the son of my torturers, the hybrid whose curse-breaking had given me this power—was actively looking for me.
The irony tastes like blood and vengeance.
I laughed. It came out broken, half-mad, echoing in the empty basement.
Soon. Soon I'd be strong enough to face them.
Just had to survive until then.
Marcel's Compound - Klaus's POV
Klaus Mikaelson was not a patient man.
He stood in Marcel's courtyard, drink in hand, and watched his protégé handle his little kingdom with admirable efficiency. Vampires came and went, reporting on patrols, territorial disputes, the usual tedious business of running a city.
But something was off.
Marcel was hiding something. Klaus could see it in the way he deflected certain questions, changed subjects when Klaus asked about local power players, kept his inner circle just slightly too close.
"Marcellus," Klaus said, interrupting a conversation between Marcel and Thierry. "Tell me about this mysterious vampire who's been protecting witches."
Marcel's expression didn't change. "Just a drifter. Old, powerful, keeps to himself. Nothing to worry about."
"And yet you haven't run him out of your city. Curious."
"He's not causing problems."
"Not yet." Klaus set down his glass. "But you know as well as I do, old vampires don't just show up in New Orleans for the jazz and the beignets. They have reasons. Agendas."
"So do you."
Klaus grinned. "Touché. But I'm family. He's not."
"He's not interested in your family business."
"How do you know?"
Marcel met his eyes. "Because he told me. And I believe him."
Interesting. Marcel didn't trust easily. For him to believe this stranger meant either the vampire was very good at lying, or he'd proven himself somehow.
"What's his name?" Klaus asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Humor me."
Marcel sighed. "Roy something. Didn't catch the last name."
Roy. Klaus rolled the name around in his mind, searching his memory for any reference. Nothing. No ancient vampire named Roy in any of the old family stories or grimoires.
Which meant he was either very good at hiding, or he wasn't as old as Marcel claimed.
"I want to meet him," Klaus decided.
"No."
"That wasn't a request, Marcellus."
"And that wasn't me asking permission." Marcel's voice hardened. "He's not a threat to you. Leave him alone."
Klaus raised an eyebrow. Marcel was protecting this Roy. Why? What had the vampire done to earn that loyalty?
"Fine," Klaus said, though he had no intention of dropping it. "I'll respect your wishes. For now."
He walked away, already planning. Marcel wouldn't tell him more, which meant he'd have to investigate himself.
He found Rebekah on the balcony, watching the street below.
"Sister," he said. "I have a task for you."
She turned, suspicious. "What kind of task?"
"There's an old vampire in the city. Marcel's protecting him, which means he's either an ally or a threat we haven't identified yet. I need you to find him."
"Why me?"
"Because you're charming, non-threatening, and much better at subtle investigation than I am." He smiled. "And because if I send Elijah, he'll turn it into a diplomatic nightmare."
Rebekah considered. "What do I get if I find him?"
"My gratitude?"
"Not good enough."
"A new dress. Expensive. Your choice."
"Two dresses."
"Done."
She pushed off the railing. "Fine. But if this vampire kills me, I'm haunting you."
"You're already haunting me, sister. Have been for centuries."
She left with a middle finger thrown over her shoulder. Klaus watched her go, then returned to the courtyard.
Marcel was watching him. Wary. Protective.
What are you hiding, Marcellus?
Klaus would find out. He always did.
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