IX: Hit Me With Your Best Shot

In the matter of a couple of days, Reese's life had switched from sleeping on an air mattress to a night of intermittent sleep in a run-down motel and sporadic naps in the passenger seat of Damon Salvatore's car. She was fed, showered, and clothed, but somehow the lack of five star hotels made being on-the-go less fun.

What a downgrade.

Other than that, Damon also caught her up on everything she'd missed, from Jenna dying to Elijah being daggered to the trail of bodies Stefan and Klaus had already begun to leave behind. Reese got the sense she'd checked out right at the climax — yeah, it seemed that everything had been pretty intense and angsty, but she would've liked to see how the curse was broken. She also would've liked to gloat to Elijah's face after he failed to kill Nik, exactly how she said he would.

It was a lot of information to re-adapt her plan to, so she made a list of her priorities:

1)  Get calm. Rage would get her nowhere; it never did her any good. If she were to see Nik's face in her present state she'd start off strong but it'd end up useless. She was bound to slip up. And if there was one thing she was sure of right now, it was that nothing was going to ruin her revenge. Not even her own emotions.

2) Keep Damon from hounding her. Her plan was going to take time. She wanted Nik to scour the country for werewolves, find them after a grueling summer, and then watch himself fail to complete the simple task of creating more hybrids. She wanted him to feel hopeless, knowing he'd already ruined his last shot at figuring that shit out.

3) Speaking of werewolves, she needed to get word out fast that Nik was coming for them.

4) Go home!

The fourth was what they were working on right now: Damon was driving her to New Orleans. That would be around 10 hours on the road, listening to his boring voice complain and whine and attempt to insult her.

Strangely, though, Reese wasn't in the mood to complain. She was going home, after all — that storm of dread in her stomach was enough to distract her from bickering with Damon.

And . . . Elijah. That was an interesting part.

She was still wearing Rafe's sunglasses, crouched over her phone as she had a rather interesting text conversation with Elijah. Supposedly. Since he was meant to be unconscious in his fancy coffin.

He claimed to be in Bulgaria with Katerina:

Reese
so, how's Bulgaria?

Elijah
Splendid. So is Katerina. What are you up to?

Reese
kat? in Bulgaria? sounds very unlikely.

Elijah
You know her. She does what she pleases. What are you up to?

Reese
oh, u know. planning revenge on ur bro. hopefully.

Elijah
What do you mean?

Reese
being kidnapped was too boring. also, damon's a pest. so why not.

Elijah
I was under the impression he was making hybrids.

Reese
Yeah...why didn't you come to get me tho?

Elijah
I know you can take care of yourself.

Reese
why r u talking like nik?

Elijah
I'm not.

Reese looked up from her screen and frowned. "Nik's pretending to be Elijah and texting me from his phone."

"Please, for the love of all things undead, don't call him Nik in front of me. It gives me the chills."

"What else am I supposed to call him, then? Mr. Broody McBroodface? That suits Stefan more, if you ask me."

"Speaking of Stefan." Damon glanced at her through his shades. "Do me a favor and ask Klaus for a picture of him."

"Why on earth would I ask him for a picture of Stefan?"

"Proof of life, my dear," he said as if it was obvious. "Haven't you ever dabbled in the art of kidnapping?"

She blinked. She hadn't thought of letting him know that she knew that he was trying to trick her. "I don't get why he'd take Stefan anyway. He's such a—"

"— buzzkill!"

"Right." Reese agreed. "I mean one little murder and he's all —"

"Dear diary, everyone's homicidal tendencies today are ruining my hero complex!" Damon finished with a theatrical sigh.

"I don't even see the need to go looking for him," Reese said, laughing. "Klaus'll probably grow sick of him and ship him right back to Mystic Falls."

"Unfortunately, he's already off the deep end."

Yeah, that guy had more issues than a subscription to a supernatural therapy magazine.

Reese saw the news last night — about bodies found with their heads severed yet placed back on their necks. Nik was a killer, but not that kind. Stefan was a ripper . . . at first, Reese thought that just meant he was unable to control his bloodlust. She didn't expect the term to be taken literally.

"The Ripper of Monterey features a comeback," Damon drawled.

Oh?

"Stefan's the Ripper of Monterey?" Now, that explained it. "Now I see why Klaus took him."

"Why, he's not exactly the pinnacle of subtlety, is he?"

"Klaus once told me that the Ripper of Monterey was a dear old friend of his."

The first time he attempted to kidnap her and wanted to show that he'd be a better ally than Elijah. He'd started listing all the historical figures he'd known . . . it was entertaining, to say the least.

A beat.

"No," Damon said, as if to affirm that he refused to believe her.

"It's entirely possible."

"He would've said so."

"Yeah, it's not like Klaus can compel other vampires."

"If he's such a dear old friend of his, why would he compel him to forget?"

Mikael, obviously. But Reese wasn't willing to spill that secret just yet. She yielded. "A valid point . . . when you think of an explanation, be sure to tell me. I'll rate it based on accuracy."

She then thought for a moment, and typed into the text box: Send me a picture of Stefan.

It was really weird being teamed up with Damon. While they were never on exact opposite sides, Reese always had her own agenda which often strayed from Damon's agenda, that was, saving Elena. Naturally, that meant they were usually at odds with each other since Damon made it clear he only trusted her as far as he could throw her, and Reese made it clear she did not care about that.

But now, things were different.

They were objectively working toward the same goal: destroying Nik.

There wasn't anything to argue over.

"You better be hiding some super-secret hybrid killing weapon in New Orleans," Damon said suddenly, evidently bored of the silence of peace.

"As far as you know, I'm the super-secret hybrid killing weapon," Reese said, pushing back her seat. "And even if I had something else, I wouldn't tell you."

Damon smiled derisively. "Careful, Reese, or I'll find out all your deep dark secrets and spill them."

Reese returned the smile in a particularly Reese-like manner — smug, knowing, and condescending. "There were never any secrets, Damon. You just never asked the right questions."

Like Elena had pointed out — lying by omission was her thing.

"But since I'm feeling generous, I'll tell you the first part of my plan," she went on, excitement fluttering through her stomach as she thought of how good it would feel to execute this part. "We're going to New Orleans because 1, there are no werewolves there, and 2, because they were driven out."

"So it's exactly where Klaus won't be going," Damon said. "Very helpful; thank you, Reese."

"Patience, Damon," Reese admonished, shaking her head. "It's a hub of supernatural activity — that's where we'll get word out that Klaus is looking for werewolves to force into his so-called army. It's like dominoes from there."

"New Orleans is not the nearest hub of supernatural activity. There's something called the internet." He seemed to be proud of his statement, as if Reese hadn't thought of it. "How old are you, again?"

"Go ahead and dump it onto some subreddit then." She paused — sure, it would be way easier to sit at home and let the internet do its magic. But she and Nik shared their sense of paranoia — plotting against him often felt like playing chess against herself. They had their moments of weakness, of course . . . but solely because of this, the internet was a no-go. In the long run. "Then we can wait for Nik's minions to track us down and attempt to kill me, while you actually do get killed."

Damon rolled his eyes. "Again with the Nik. Shouldn't you have broken up by now?"

"I will kick you out of this car."

He then pretended to be deep in thought. "Wonder how Vampire Barbie feels about you not coming straight home . . . god, she's unbearable to be around these days. The guilt reeking off of her . . ."

Reese's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm surprised you noticed. Figured you'd be hounding Elena now that your brother's finally out of the picture."

Damon gave her a look.

Hm. Seemed she hit a sensitive spot.

She shrugged. "Everyone's thinking it, Damon."

"What I'm thinking is this better not be another self-serving errand to help further your weird cultish agenda."

"You're deflecting. Again."

Why was she imploring him to open up? Would that be helpful? Only future endeavors could tell.

"Stefan'll come back; always does." Damon hesitated, though it was difficult to pick up on unless you paid close attention. "I just don't think it's safe for Elena to be around him. She doesn't know it's him killing all those people."

Reese hummed, half amused, half bewildered. "This is why I avoid falling in love."

"I'll just add that to the list of your issues."

"I get it, Damon, you're obsessed with me."

"You know what they say: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

Reese laughed. Genuine and delighted. "You wish I was your enemy."

"For sure," Damon agreed gleefully. "Would've been a hell of a lot easier than having Klaus as an enemy."

"I love it when you underestimate me." She returned the same glee. "This is the kind of thinking that gets you killed. But what else can you expect from a vampire?"

No, really, she did. It was quintessential to her success. They repeatedly underestimated not her capability of executing atrocious tasks, but her knowledge and forethought. It was their one-dimensional thinking: you're either ruthless and impulsive, or cunning and reserved. Keeping their eyes on both aspects of her MO proved to be difficult.

What with the Originals, the curse, and now Klaus — more was to come.

But there was a possibility her favor was tipped to their side this time around. After all, now that she'd escaped from the Ravens, revenge took priority.

(And maybe the unsettling pit of something-coming-soon that she'd felt since talking to Esther would dissipate soon enough . . .)

"The assurance that if you screw this up," Damon said, turning sinister, "I will —"

"Kill me in my sleep?" Reese finished, arching her brow. "Like I said, the more you say it, the less I care. But don't worry, I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

That was true.

New Orleans parties were good.

But there was something she needed to pick up from there too, near her old home. From the Raven encampment . . . she hadn't been there since seven years ago, when she was first on the run. She wanted to revisit her parents' graves in hopes that might motivate her out of the irritatingly persistent guilt she'd felt for what she did to Rafe.

She couldn't afford weakness at a time like this.

Also, if there was one place the Ravens wouldn't follow her, it was New Orleans.

"You know what they say, there's no place like home."

She reached for the stereo, turning up the volume of Damon's old rock classics playlist.

"The prodigal witch returning to her roots."

─────────────

And though Reese had learned not to stay tied down to one place, if she had to choose one, it would be New Orleans. She kept asking herself if one really bad incident was enough to drown out the thousands of happy memories. This was where she'd had a family; a house; friends. Where she went to school for the first time and where she'd wanted to stay forever.

She thought of it as a perfect mix of the ordinary world and the supernatural. Marcel's rules could be brutal, but they worked. There's also a possibility she could've held her witch status with less regard if she'd stayed.

For one, she was only ordinary-witch-level powerful back then, even with her lineage. And she wasn't exactly allowed to do magic, so it wasn't a need. Nor a means of survival.

Basically, she could've been a relatively human girl, making her way through life.

Did she want that life, though?

Magic was too precious to her. The only constant in her life.

What would she have become without it?

Some part of her that craved the mundane wanted to find out the answer, which lay in this day or so she was planning to spend in her hometown. The checklist went: encampment, graves, food, Marcel, party (maybe). Was this considered an inappropriate time for a party? Damon might say so. But he was obliged to go along with what she said since everything depended on her.

The encampment was smack in the Bayou, which soon enough, they neared.

Reese was . . . nervous.

So, as they trudged through the Bayou on foot, she talked.

"From what I've heard through my contacts," she began, "the Crescent pack was driven all the way out here. Vampire work, of course . . . right, so I should preface by saying that most of the factions 'round here don't get along well."

The bayou was how she remembered it: full of trees, and hotter than hell. Ten minutes in and she was already sweating like a pig.

"So when we go into the city, you need to behave yourself."

"Well, that explains why it reeks of wet dog," Damon grumbled, stepping over a suspicious looking pile of brown goo. "What is in the city that drove a whole pack of werewolves to this shithole? Don't tell me it was Klaus."

"It was Marcel Gerard."

"Hm." Damon was starting to act arrogant again. "Never heard of him. Sounds like the name of a villain in a bad soap opera."

"I'm not surprised, considering how extremely involved you are in the supernatural community."

"It's hardly a community."

Reese had to laugh at that. "Exhibit A: you had no idea I knew the Originals when quite literally the whole world knows us to be the closest of allies."

There is life outside of Mystic Falls.

"Don't be smug," Damon held up a hand in disagreement, "I doubt it's even the country."

"John Gilbert knew." And he wasn't even a supernatural being. As annoying as he was, that man knew what he was doing. "I just threatened him to keep quiet."

His sacrifice meant that the Scooby gang lost a valuable asset, while Reese lost a considerable liability. At least something went her way with this curse debacle.

The afternoon sun was high in the sky, beating them down with sweltering heat — the kind that crept into the crevices of your clothing. The bayou consisted of bushes, shrubs, and identical trees. Young Reese had needed a way to get home without spending five hours walking around, so her mom had marked it.

Little Xs carved into tree barks leading every which way from the encampment, a few yards next to their house.

They were barely visible now.

And then the final one: a relatively large tree, right in front of the entrance to the encampment, as if standing guard. Etched onto it was the silhouette of a raven in flight, identical to the one on Reese's wrist.

Her mom didn't need to carve that one out.

They arrived at a clearing. The air rippled, and where there was once empty space, two typical cabin-in-the-woods structures stood opposite each other, the distance of a football field between them.

In the centre, cutting through the short grass blades, was the world map. Beige and blue, as if it were part of the earth itself — a functioning, smaller-sized replica of the Registry.

"So this is the legendary Raven coven, huh?" Damon declared, unabashedly stepping onto the Registry. "Two huts and some dead grass. Riveting."

Reese followed, dead grass crunching beneath her boots. Weeds had grown over the Registry, blocking the markings and making it virtually impossible to read. "Well, it's been abandoned for the past century, so I don't think anyone was around gardening."

"That your house?"

Damon's face was tilted upwards, focusing beyond the cabin. Behind a few tall trees peeked out white walls covered in ivy, topped with a rust-red tiled roof. It stood untouched since the fire, all those years ago. No one in, no one out, hidden from prying eyes.

"Yeah," Reese answered, following his gaze.

Things came rushing back.

The party. All that laughing as they trudged through the Bayou in the middle of the night. Hushing each other so mom and dad don't wake up. Clammy hands in hers. The excitement, and then the feeling of her stomach falling to her feet.

They ran, and Reese rushed home.

It was like they'd been waiting to pounce.

And then, the fire.

She blinked. Breathed out. Her head throbbed if she thought about that night for too long.

Tearing her gaze away, Reese made for the cabin in front of her, crossing the familiar distance in record time.

Damon observed Reese's sudden change in mood and couldn't resist making a comment. "Wow, did someone put a hex on you? You're as sunny as Mystic Falls during a hybrid apocalypse."

Reese rolled her eyes, wiping the sweat off her forehead. "Don't flatter yourself, Damon. Your charm isn't potent enough to affect my mood."

Damon grinned, undeterred. "Oh, come on. I can see that brooding expression a mile away. You're practically wearing a neon sign that says 'witch in a funk.'"

She huffed. "Don't get too excited. It's just nostalgia creeping in."

He raised an eyebrow. "Nostalgia? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

Ignoring his comment, Reese continued, "This place used to be my home, Damon. It's where I belonged, where I wanted to stay forever."

Damon smirked. "Ah, the good ol' days of being a relatively normal girl, making your way through high school. Sounds thrilling."

Reese shot him a look. "You know, I could hex that smirk right off your face."

His grin widened. "Careful, Dovey. I'm not the one who needs a mood ring."

The cabin was pretty plain: there were a couple of cupboards with basic witch stuff inside, three sleeping bags rolled into a corner, a kitchen and a bathroom. The walls were wooden and bare, except for the back wall, which had a large picture frame of another world map on it.

Damon opened a cupboard and immediately began to fiddle with the stuff inside.

Too late, Reese admonished, "Don't touch anything. Could be—"

"What's this?" Damon asked, hauling out a wooden knife stand, with most of the knives still in it. "It reeks of blood."

"'cause they're covered in centuries of blood," Reese sighed. "They're cursed objects. Technically."

A pause.

"The New Orleans witches liked to curse the Ravens, like, a lot. It got kind of annoying to have to spend days figuring out the nuances of the curses, so they made these."

She walked over and slid one out. It was covered in dark blood. She could feel the powerful magic radiating from it.

"You take one, stab it into the person who was cursed, and transfer it. And then you can stab someone else to pass the curse on to them. Repeat. It's like a magical game of hot potato."

(The dried blood caked through the centuries was just an added kick of an infection.)

She frowned, inspecting the handle of the knife.  "These are supposed to be labelled."

"Ok, hot potato with a side of ancient blood." Damon went back to one of his two primary displays of emotion — amused. "I'll be taking these."

"I hope you nip yourself with one of them."

"You're so disgustingly sweet."

Whatever.

It's not like Reese had any grounds to contest him taking the knives because vampires could use them just fine. According to history, some really old ex-witch turned vampire had helped the Ravens create them, so. (She was sure they'd been required to learn his name, but she skipped history class most of the time.)

"Do whatever you want with them," Reese said. She pointed to the picture frame on the wall. "Just make yourself useful. I need that back in the car. It's part of the plan."

What was the point of having a vampire around if he couldn't do some heavy lifting, right?

"You're a regular emotional chameleon, Reese."

─────────────

Once they'd managed to haul that frame into the car and entered the city, they went their separate ways. Damon became all secretive about some person he needed to see or whatever. It was just as well since Reese went straight to Lafayette Cemetery no. 2, bouquets of bluebells in hand.

She was happy to be left alone because things were . . . weird. Damon was the last person she imagined she'd be taking to visit her hometown.

Mom and dad's graves were normal. Greystone; generic epitaphs. Their graves in the Lafayette cemetery were their second graves — for the community, they were part of, unaware of their history and status as witches. That's why'd they run off in the first place; to carve out a place for themselves with the humans.

Their actual graves lay somewhere between her house and the encampment, on sacred Raven land. Because if they were buried here, it would be the ancestral witches' land.

Too close to home.

Here lies Nam Duri. Beloved Mother and Wife.

She placed the bluebells on her grave. Took a few steps back. Stood there.

Distracted herself with the scenery of Lafayette Cemetery.

The ageing gray stone tombs, ivy crawling across their surfaces; dark black inscriptions of souls past. She thought if she focused hard enough she could feel the weight of their ancestral plane. It wasn't exactly pleasant for her to be standing on their land — while their magic didn't weaken her like spirit magic did, it still rejected her. More so because their elders hated Ravens.

But it really was a beautiful place. The bright greens of the trees contrasting the dull browns and grays. It was such a depressing place that you could almost not feel the glaring heat of the sun. And that was a quality she could appreciate, because it felt close to familiarity; something her coven would've loved to adopt, purely for aesthetic value.

Why did she want to visit them again?

She couldn't think.

The last time she was here, she'd spoken to them. She clenched her fists, activating her magic. She didn't want anyone to hear her.

Did she have anything to say today? Only that:

"Sometimes, I feel like that fire never ended. Because even though I hate the idea of going back to that place, knowing I've done what I've done, having to fail . . . to give up."

She took a shaky breath.

"This is what they preach, though, isn't it? They killed you and I can't just let them get away with that. I can't just let go of the life we could've had."

Why?

"Because I know half of it was my fault . . . and I won't make mistakes like that again."

She won't let it happen again. 'It' being the cause for the death of someone she loves. 'It' being full to the brim with volatile magic yet not knowing how to use it.

"I guess I just get tired from time to time. Paranoia's a habit but it is exhausting. I miss the years I could go to sleep without triple-checking protective enchantments and keeping my back to the wall."

She missed the person she used to be before all this.

There was so much to do. But she knew she had to be the one to do it. She'd given up too much to stop now.

Was there a five-year plan? She should make one. Something like:

1) Get rid of Esther. For good. And in turn, get rid of the Mikaelsons, at least far away enough for them to stop reigning havoc on her life.

2) Get Azzie back. If she achieved that first one, this would be a piece of cake.

3) Run away and live a peaceful life with Az.

Three small goals, three humongous achievements.

Then, there was the matter of her coven.

She wished dad was here to guide her. While she was aware he wasn't a saint — he'd made some questionable decisions, both for himself and his family, and for the coven — he always preached self-sacrifice.

I bear it so they don't have to.

How much could one person sacrifice for a whole bunch of self-serving, revenge-crazed, power-driven witches with no god and one aim of sitting at the top of the hierarchy?

Maybe the hypocrisy was hereditary.

Maybe the survivor's guilt was hereditary too.

Reese was also a self-serving, revenge-crazed, power-driven witch with no god and one aim of sitting at the top of the hierarchy. Even if it was to achieve security through the maintenance of peace and enjoy life with her girlfriend. That's what they say: the journey matters more than the destination.

But the destination was worth every single drop of blood.

After a few minutes, Reese took a step away from the tombs, a determined look on her face. She had paid her respects and now it was time to move forward. There was still work to be done, and she couldn't afford to dwell on the past any longer.

As she left the cemetery behind, Reese's mind shifted to the next item on her list: finding Marcel Gerard.

─────────────

Having done what they needed to, Reese and Damon met back in the city.

They made their way through the streets of New Orleans, the city pulsating with energy and life. Reese couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity and nostalgia as they walked the streets. The sights, sounds, and scents of the city enveloped her, reminding her of the vibrant culture she had once been a part of.

( Life after the school day ended. She and her two little witch friends tramping around the Quarter as if they owned the place, curious and eager and ready to take on the world. )

As the night deepened, the city's true essence emerged.

The vibrant spirit of New Orleans trembled through every corner. Colorful signs illuminated the bustling bars and jazz clubs that spilled music onto the streets. Laughter and chatter mingled with the sounds of clinking glasses and the occasional distant howl of a streetcar.

"Where to next, o' great Mystic Menace Reese?" Damon asked, walking in stride with her. "You really think finding a witch from your coven is gonna solve all our problems?"

Strange how in one day 'your problem and my problem' turned into 'our problems'.

"I never said it was going to solve all of our problems, Damon," she replied, eyes flitting about, taking in the city. "But it is a step in the right direction."

"A step in the right direction?" Damon parroted. "This is the same coven that wanted you dead, or have I missed a chapter?"

"Things change, don't they?" Reese said coyly, a small smile growing across her mouth. "Besides, I have a strategy. I told you: It's all a game of dominoes."

"I fail to see the connection."

"Oh, Damon, you were always a bit slow," Reese tutted, shaking her head. "If Klaus turns the werewolves into hybrids, it disrupts the balance. My coven hates those hairy creatures, and they'd do everything in their power to keep them hidden."

It was true. Especially with the Viper murders and their depleting powers. Now that so many of them were vampires and still on the Registry, their enemies were targeting them and taking them out one by one. Werewolves were at the top of that list since their bites were fatal to vampires.

The point is, they were a big problem for the coven.

Especially in this country.

The last they'd want is for them to turn into hybrids.

"And how exactly are you planning on conveying this message to them?" Damon asked, "They're not really your biggest fans."

"We have a complicated history, sure," Reese admitted, crossing her arms. "But I have my ways."

"Complicated history," Damon smirked, "that's girl code for 'they tried to kill me, but I managed to run away, screaming like a little girl'."

"More like, they tried to kill me, so I retaliated by giving them the fight of their lives," she corrected. The details mattered. "Ergo, they're not trying to kill me anymore; just kidnap me."

"Right, right," Damon said mockingly. "And by 'fight', you mean waving your hand around like a deranged fairy godmother."

In response, Reese waved her hand around like a deranged fairy godmother and tugged at his hair. A short second later, she made sure to deliver a nice electric shock to his body.

Damon scowled, bug eyes growing wide. She was certain he wanted to compel her. To do whatever. He would've if he could've. "Careful, Dovey. Let's not forget all the witch necks I've snapped over the centuries."

"You really want to play that game, Damon?" Reese asked, tone deadly serious. She managed to sound as disconcerting as possible — confident that there was nothing in the world Damon could do to her that she couldn't deter off with a snap of her fingers. "Let's be honest: I could snap my fingers and you'd be toast. Be grateful I've deemed you useful enough to live. For now."

Damon stared at her. A beat as he analyzed her, as if considering his next move. To fight or not to fight?

He raised his hands in mock surrender, decidedly not willing to push Reese too far.

"Alright, alright, no need to get your witchy powers all worked up." He then said sincerely, for the first time in the day: "Look, if finding this witch is going to take time, I'm not in. My priority is still finding Stefan, not playing house with witches."

Playing house? Interesting choice of words. "Don't worry, Damon. I'm not going to keep you from your brother. After all, blood is thicker than magic."

His eyes narrowed, sensing her hidden agenda, as usual. "What are you not telling me, Reese?"

"Where's the fun in revealing all my secrets? Just trust that it's dangerous, so the less you know, the safer you are . . . and therefore, the safer Elena is."

She was not interested in revealing her piece of magical, nature-changing, plot-twisting knowledge just yet.

"Yeah, because I trust your judgment on what's dangerous and what's not."

"Well, my judgment is backed by centuries of magical wisdom."

"Really? You don't look a day over a hundred."

Haha. So funny. "Charming as ever, Damon."

She'd been leading their path, twisting through the streets to the French Quarter. For one, she was hungry, and she wanted to go to Rousseau's, and for another, if that meant accidentally running into Marcel  . . . an added bonus if nothing else.

Finally, they reached the bar. Jazz music putting up a backdrop for this journey. Reese was excited at the prospect of seeing Marcel again. He was always cooking up something new and dangerous.

But she'd rather he spot her first than she him.

"Time for step two," she told Damon, "be nice, or you'll get yourself killed."

"And if this doesn't work?"

"We're in New Orleans, Damon. If this doesn't work, just crash a party and enjoy your life."

But it would work.

He'd been trailing them.

Not through a single spy, but through eyes posted all across the city.

The King of New Orleans.

Reese turned in circles, sweeping her gaze across the corners of the street. Once, twice. The third time's the charm — where once was empty space under the streetlight, now stood Marcel Gerard, looking exactly the same as had fourteen years ago. Exuding an air of authority; chiselled features, deep brown skin, and mirthful eyes.

"Way to make an entrance," Reese said, addressing him.

"Reese," Marcel greeted with a mixture of warmth and surprise. "My little lost witch, gracing New Orleans with her presence once again."

Reese's lips curled into an equally friendly smile. "Well, I assumed the city would've missed me a little. And you've still got every vampire here wrapped around your finger."

Marcel chuckled, his expression laced with amusement. "Some things never change. You're looking well, Reese. Surviving and thriving, from what I've heard."

He would've heard more than she deemed safe.

"Surviving, yes," she replied curtly. "Thriving, I'd hope."

"I have to admit, Reese, I'm delighted to see you again."

And then, the everlasting pest that he was, Damon interjected, deciding he had been quiet for two minutes too long. "Delighted might be an overstatement. More like moderately pleased."

One could always count on Damon Salvatore to ruin a perfectly good reunion.

She sighed exaggeratedly, gesturing between the two vampires. "Damon, meet Marcel. Marcel, meet Damon Salvatore — he's currently working for me."

"It's more of an egalitarian partnership." Damon extended a hand, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Nice to meet you, King Marcel. Reese here has told me quite a lot about your work."

Marcel shook Damon's hand firmly. "I hope she hasn't filled your head with too many stories."

"Oh, just enough to pique my interest," Damon replied.

Wow.

So, he did know how to play nice. Only moderately nice, but still.

"Well, running into you has been great, Marcel," Reese started, body language implying that she was minutes from getting the fuck out of this city. She glanced at Damon, frowning, "and although partnership would be a generous term . . . we were only here for some work. And we didn't exactly plan to stay the night, so."

"Oh, come on," Marcel said, as if she was being silly and stupid, "it's been fourteen years, Reese. You're old enough now for me to not have to kick you and your little friends out of all those parties you'd manage to crash."

Everything was going to plan.

"I doubt they're that fun if you're allowed to be there."

"Now that is just downright offensive."

"We just have a few more tasks to complete," Damon said, playing along with Reese's act, "and then we'll be out of your hair."

Marcel paused, considering their words. Of course, his priority would be the safety of his city. And if he'd heard of even half of what Reese had been up to, he'd be wary of her. Past history be damned. He only knew her when she was a kid. Things changed.

Slyly, he proposed to them an offer they couldn't (wouldn't) refuse: "Now, you can't leave without experiencing the true spirit of New Orleans. How about you two stay for a little party? A night of revelry," he said, glancing pointedly at her, "reconnecting with old friends. Maybe making a few new enemies."

There we go.

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Marcel Gerard's legendary vampire-human parties were renowned throughout the supernatural community of New Orleans, and this one was no exception.

Reese should know — like Marcel had reminded her earlier, she and her friends were always trying to come up with new ways to sneak into the Abattoir whenever they celebrated. A desire to get drunk and party like the adults was all the motivation they needed to cook up the most outlandish plans to get inside. Marcel caught them nine out of ten times, but the thrill was unimaginable.

As they arrived, they were greeted by the intoxicating scent of fresh flowers. The air was thick with anticipation as vampires and humans mingled effortlessly, losing themselves in the rhythm of the music.

Soon enough, the party was in full swing with ear-shaking music, flashing lights, and an energetic crowd. Damon effortlessly integrated into the party, a drink in hand, a grin on his face. It was a vampire free-for-all.

He swayed in the crowd. Said to a passing vampire, handing him his drink, "another one, and make it stronger this time."

Reese opted to observe the chaos from a distance, leaning against the balcony railing. She spotted the familiar snaked M, which she now knew to be the symbol of the Mikaelsons. Sipping on a mocktail, she scanned the party with a hint of amusement.

God, how she used to yearn to be part of that crowd.

"Reese Yung, the last time I saw you, you were just a scared little girl." Marcel appeared next to her, a wine cup of blood in hand, seemingly out of thin air. "Now look at you, all grown up and causing trouble wherever you go."

Reese tilted her head. "I prefer to think of it as leaving a trail of chaos in my wake. You know, just to make sure nobody forgets me."

He laughed, tipping his head. "Certainly from what I've heard. What have you been up to for the past fourteen years?"

"I'm sure you already have a pretty good idea about that," she answered.

"Yeah, yeah. Rumors are circulating — something about being a serial witch killer, Original entanglements, the works," he admitted. She assumed he kept a close eye on the Ravens as it is. Their machinations knew no bounds, and he didn't want anything bleeding back to his city. "But rumors are rumors. Last I checked, you were smart enough not to get involved with the Mikaelsons. Not after what they caused your mother."

"You really aren't in a position to judge me, Marcel." Reese felt their dynamics with the Mikaelsons were somewhat similar — they were close to family, but never close enough. "Considering this empire you've built — what would've happened if Klaus knew you weren't dead?"

"Good thing he doesn't," Marcel said. Waiting for reassurance that she hadn't spilled to Klaus. "But I assure you, I only bring order to this city. It's thriving under my rule. I doubt Klaus would have achieved that."

"Order?" Reese raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you call vampire fight club?"

"I did what I had to do to survive." Marcel's tone was still light, but there was an undercurrent of sternness. Reverting back to when he'd visit their house and scare her with stories about the Originals. Talk with her parents. They developed a strange alliance-turned-friendship with him. "And now I've built something stronger; something that benefits us without turning into full-blown war every other decade."

"Sounds like a lofty goal." Reese wasn't deeply interested in the power dynamics of the city, though. She was here for more important things. "But tell me, Marcel, do you know what Klaus is up to these days?"

"Who doesn't know what he's up to?" Marcel retorted, scoffing. "He broke the curse in Mystic Falls. Became the one and only Hybrid. But as far as I care, Mikael's still out there, so Klaus is out of the picture."

"He's never out of the picture," she said bluntly. Teetering on the sidelines, waiting to pounce and steal the spotlight. "He wants to build his own hybrid army."

The revelation caught him off guard. His expression darkened, and Reese could sense a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Klaus and hybrid minions . . . I'll admit, that's a dangerous combination. But I'm willing to take my chances. Why are you really here, Reese?"

"I told you, I'm running some errands." She paused. Talking to Marcel about stuff couldn't hurt . . . she hoped. "Picked up a couple of things from the old grounds, visited the cemetery . . ."

"And?"

"And, I know you have connections. I just want to get word out there that Klaus is looking for werewolves to turn into hybrids. Preferably anonymously."

"You wanna get out a warning . . . why? Thought you guys were allies."

She hummed, a smile tugging at her lips. "He felt betrayed that I didn't want to spend the rest of my life accompanying him on his little revenge missions and got me kidnapped by the coven."

"So, this is one of your little revenge plans," Marcel concluded. He nodded knowingly. "Sounds like him. I'll tell you what — I'll help you get out the word. But I want something in return — favor for a favor."

Oh, well.

That's the supernatural world. She didn't expect him to help out without asking for something in return.

"Sure," she conceded. How bad could it be? "I owe you one."

"Perfect." He offered her a hand. "Join the celebrations and have some fun, Reese."

Reese hesitated. "Sorry, I'm not one for excessive indulgence. I'm a disciplined soul, you know."

"Disciplined?" He arched his eyebrows. "Now that's a word I never thought I'd hear associated with you."

Truth was, she planned never to get drunk again. Not until she had complete and utter control over her mind and magic, because if she didn't, losing her senses would have dire repercussions.

"You don't need to get drunk to have fun," Marcel added, as reading her mind. "Everyone needs a break from the stress — that's the point of these parties."

"I'm not stressed," she insisted.

"Not when the night ends, you won't be."

As the night progressed, the boundaries between species blurred. Everything boiled down to the throbbing music, the vibrant lights and the laughter thick in the air.

It was sensory overload: ten minutes in, Reese forgot about Lafayette Cemetery; twenty minutes later, with Bon Jovi songs blasting in her ear, she only recalled fun times in high school; thirty minutes and Nik was the last thing on her mind.

In no time, she joined the crowd, blending in seamlessly.

She wasn't sure how or when, but Damon found her, and couldn't help himself from commenting. "Look at Dovey go. Who knew you had it in you?"

"Shut up, Damon," Reese said dismissively, not bothered enough to find some proper comeback. "At least I can let loose without drowning my sorrows in alcohol."

"Who needs to let loose when you have a drink in hand? Cheers to that."

Where did the next few hours go?

At some point, she found herself climbing onto a nearby tabletop, screaming out the lyrics of whatever song was blasting the speakers.

The crowd cheered and spurred her on.

Reese screamed. Twirled around in the dancing crowd. Jumped up and down. Switching between dancing with strangers and dancing with Damon. She moved with reckless abandon, drinking in that glimpse of her younger self and letting it inhibit her body.

Author's Note:

This is unedited as usual. We die like Reese's parents in that fire 🙏

Trust that once I get to writing, I get to writing. I have mixed feelings about this chapter, but I wanted to build a connection b/w Reese and NOLA that didn't have the Mikaelsons TOO heavily in the forefront. Also wanted to explore the friendship part of Reese Damon frenemyship. Don't worry it won't last too long tho 😬

Also Reese deserves a fun summer break bc the things I have planned... let's say it'll be a long time before Reese bounces back from THIS season finale. Hehe.