The night air in New Orleans was thick with the scent of old whiskey, burning tobacco, and something deeper—something old, supernatural, and humming just beneath the city's surface. The French Quarter pulsed with life, music spilling from bars and clubs, laughter and conversation mixing with the ever-present tension that came from a city run by vampires.
Sam stood at the edge of it all, leaning against the hood of his car, his phone pressed to his ear.
"Tell me you're in the mood for a little chaos," he said.
Enzo's voice came through the line, smooth and amused. "When am I not?"
"New Orleans," Sam said. "I need a second pair of hands. Preferably ones that don't hesitate when things get messy."
There was a brief silence, then a chuckle. "I assume this isn't just a vacation."
"Far from it."
Enzo sighed, but Sam could hear the curiosity beneath the exasperation. "Alright, mate. I'll be there by morning."
Sam hung up. He had a meeting to attend.
——
The Abattoir.
Once the Mikaelsons' home, now Marcel Gerard's kingdom. A fortress of old stone, blood-soaked history, and a throne built on the bones of those who had dared to challenge its ruler.
Sam walked in like he belonged there. He wasn't stupid—Marcel's people had eyes on him the moment he stepped through the doors, but they didn't move to stop him. Not yet.
Marcel was exactly where Sam expected him to be, sitting in a leather chair in the center of the room, a glass of bourbon in hand, watching the room with the easy confidence of a man who knew he was untouchable.
"Sam Gilbert," Marcel drawled, swirling his drink. "Back in my city. And still breathing. I'm impressed."
Sam smirked. "It's a talent."
Marcel leaned back. "Last time you were here, you cost me a lot of men and gave me a pretty bruise near my eye."
"You were slaughtering werewolves," Sam said flatly. "Plus, It was a job."
Marcel sighed dramatically. "You really know how to kill a party, man." He took a sip of his drink, then set it down. "So, what do you want?"
"I'm looking for someone."
Marcel raised a brow. "And you think I know where they are?"
"I think you know everything that happens in this city."
That made Marcel smile. "Flattery won't buy you much, Gilbert."
Sam wasn't in the mood to play games. "A witch."
Marcel stilled.
"Why do you think I will let you take my subjects after you killed my men," Marcel said, his tone lighter than his expression. "Who is so important for you to be risking your life, walking alone into my castle "
"Let's just say it's family business."
Marcel considered him, then shook his head. "You've got balls, I'll give you that. But I don't do charity work. You want my help? You owe me two, one for this and another for the bruise that ruined my handsome face. You get one day."
Sam exhaled through his nose.
"And after that?"
Marcel grinned. "After that, my people hunt you down. And they don't miss."
Sam smirked. "Wouldn't expect anything less."
——
By the time Enzo arrived, Sam was already at the edge of the city, waiting beside a worn-out road sign leading toward a stretch of forgotten land.
Enzo stepped out of his car, stretching like he had just come from a nap. "I don't suppose this is a simple break-in job?"
Sam tossed him a flask. Enzo caught it, unscrewed the cap, sniffed, and raised a brow.
"Bourbon?"
"Virgin blood," Sam corrected. "We're not dealing with just vampires this time."
Enzo gave a weird look, then shrugged. "Alright. Where are we going?"
Sam turned his gaze toward the trees, where an old, crumbling house sat just beyond the reach of streetlights.
"The Dowager Fauline Cottage."
Enzo exhaled. "You do pick the loveliest places."
——
The house had been abandoned for decades, but it was far from empty.
Sam felt the magic the second he stepped onto the property. It was old, woven into the very foundation of the house like a curse.
"The whole place is a tomb," Enzo muttered. "A spell locked it up tight—traps the ones inside. No way in. No way out."
Sam reached into his coat and pulled out a small, weathered book bound in cracked leather.
The Lemegeton.
"The Lesser Key of Solomon," Enzo murmured. "Where in hell did you get that?"
"Jerusalem," Sam said, flipping through the pages. "A job. Nasty business. Ended with me prying this out of a dead man's hands."
Enzo's lips curled. "And you think a demon's going to help us break a spell?"
"I think demons hate witches," Sam said. "And I think hate is a good enough motivator, also they really love virgin blood for some old reason."
He found the page he needed and poured the vial of blood on the symbols on the page.
The air around them grew thick, heavy with something unseen. The edges of the world seemed to flicker, like a candle on the verge of being snuffed out.
Then—a whisper.
Not one voice. Many. Layered over each other, crawling into their ears like echoes from somewhere far, far away.
The shadows twisted, curling into the shape of something not human.
"You dare call upon me?" the voice rasped, shifting between tones—male, female, something else entirely.
Sam didn't flinch. "I need a door opened."
The entity tilted its head. "Magic locks are not my concern."
Sam reached into his pocket, pulling out a bucket with three hearts in it. "What about this?"
The shadows stilled.
"Virgin Hearts," the entity murmured. "Old ones"
"Although they are old, took them from a morgue on my way," Sam confirmed. "A trade."
The entity laughed—a sound that made the bones in his body feel colder than they should. "We have a deal"
The shadows shifted, reaching toward the house. The ground trembled. The walls of the cottage groaned as if the very foundation was resisting.
Then—a snap.
The air rushed back into place, and the lock was gone.
Sam didn't hesitate. He pushed the door open, stepping inside.
Enzo followed, muttering, "I really hope you know what you're doing."
Sam didn't answer. Because deep inside the house, in the quiet of an untouched century, something was waking up.