Her spell had made her husband, Mikael, and her children immortal, invulnerable, and murderers a thousand times over. She had done what she thought was best, but had come to regret it. She had died believing that all her children—those fathered by Mikael: Rebekah, Finn, Kol, and Elijah himself, as well as her bastard son, the half werewolf Niklaus—were abominations. She had died believing that it would have been best to let the werewolves kill them all.

Their father, the first vampire hunter, had made it his mission to eradicate the scourge of Esther’s children. Elijah and his siblings had run for centuries and crossed oceans to escape their father’s wrath. Whenever the thought of his mother crept up on Elijah, it hurt him to his core—the belief that his parents would never love him and wanted him dead.

There was nothing to be done except to focus on the witch at hand. Ysabelle Dalliencourt wasn’t half the witch that Esther had been, of course, but that could work to his advantage now. She was known to be ambitious: Her desire for power far outstripped her natural talents for magic or leadership. She might be inclined to do favors for other powerful beings in exchange for alliances and gratitude, and Elijah found himself in need of a rather simple favor.

The pact with the witches had not only cost the Mikaelsons the ability to make new vampires; the Originals had soon found that their attempts to buy or barter for land within the city limits, no matter how enticing—or menacing—were refused. The message was clear: They could stay, but they shouldn’t get too comfortable.

As a result, Elijah and his siblings had spent the last nine years living in inns, boardinghouses, and eventually hotels. Their accommodations had admittedly grown more comfortable as the city’s population swelled and prospered, but even the most lavish hotel room wasn’t a home. It couldn’t be owned; it couldn’t be defended. It certainly was no place for Kol and Finn, his two brothers who slept in their coffins after Klaus had daggered them in anger. Elijah could see the winds of change blowing into their city, and he had no intention of being swept away by them. It was time for the Mikaelsons to own a slice of New Orleans, and all he needed was one amenable witch to allow him to claim it.

The smell of incense faded as he left the graveyard, and the forest rose up ahead of him. His horse pranced sideways a little, objecting to the gloom. Elijah patted its neck reassuringly and kicked it forward, his sharp eyes scanning the edge of the trees for a shadow that was different from the others.

Just as he spotted the little house, a flickering light appeared in its window, and the horse shied again. Elijah sighed and dismounted; it had been overly optimistic to attempt to travel on the beast. Animals had never been as naturally suspicious of him as they tended to be of his siblings, but it was clear that a vampire was not the sort of companion this creature preferred.

Elijah couldn’t really blame it for that.

He tied the reins to a hardy sapling and covered the remaining distance to the house on foot. There was no one around to notice him being more than human, but by force of habit he walked, trying to look unremarkable. By the time he reached the house, more candles had been lit, and through a window he spied the shadow of the witch. Yet, when he knocked firmly on the door, there was not even the slightest rustle from inside.

He knocked again and waited: nothing. “Madame Ysabelle,” he called, trying to sound as polite as possible while shouting through a closed door, “I have come on business that I believe might interest you.”

“Every stranger comes on business,” a voice warned from behind him, “but it’s rarely any business of mine.”

She spoke in a singsong, otherworldly lilt, so when Elijah spun around he was surprised. The woman who stood behind him on the whitewashed veranda was tall and slim, dressed smartly in a striped pink dress that might have come directly from Paris. Her auburn hair was piled neatly on her head, and gleamed softly in the moonlight.

He realized with a start that he had seen her before: She had been at the ill-fated engagement party. Somehow he had never connected the murmurs about the odd and reclusive Ysabelle Dalliencourt with the stylish, even elegant woman before him. Youthful, as well: Vivianne Lescheres was her niece, but Vivianne’s mother must be a considerably older woman.

“Madame,” Elijah said formally, recovering himself enough to bow politely. “Thank you for speaking with a stranger.”

Ysabelle’s full lips twitched. “Vampire,” she said, “I’m sure you can understand why I do not intend to invite you into my house.”

“Of course,” Elijah said. “And your reasonable concern highlights the intention of my visit—even though I mean no harm.”

She smiled. “You’ll do me no harm,” she promised him, reaching out to take his arm and steering him away from the door. Together they strolled around the perimeter of the tiny house, toward the looming forest. Ysabelle’s sure feet found a path that Elijah had not noticed before, and she led him beneath the sweeping oak trees that dripped with Spanish moss.

“My family has lived here a long time, Madame,” he began as the clearing faded behind them. “Nine years. And yet we are not truly a part of this city; we do not belong the way that you and your kin do.”

“Whose fault is that?” Ysabelle asked tartly, gathering her skirt to step across some sprawling roots. “Your family hunted the werewolves on your arrival, and even after the truce was struck, you are still a threat to my kind. I can’t trust you, but that’s not your fault,” she went on thoughtfully. “You live by killing. You can’t help it if that’s your nature.”

Elijah gritted his teeth, but with the discipline of experience he kept his voice mild. “My family is very close, and we’ve learned to keep to ourselves”—he paused—“as I’m sure the other citizens prefer. But, Madame, by the decree of your family we have nowhere to keep ourselves, and so we remain homeless in this city nearly ten years after making it our residence.”

He felt her hold on his arm tighten. “That is not my decision,” she replied after the briefest of hesitations. Did that mean she agreed with him?

“We would like to own land here,” he pressed, not daring to look at her. “We think that, perhaps, if you could influence your brethren—”

“I have no influence,” Ysabelle interrupted, her tone sharp. “Certainly not to do what you mean.”

“Madame, I have heard nothing but praise for your wisdom and judgment.” It was a lie, but not an egregious one—he hadn’t heard the opposite. “And consider as well that you would have our undying gratitude. Gratitude that might be worth its weight in influence someday. It would not be the first time the Mikaelsons had taken an interest in local politics.”

Ysabelle gave a small laugh. “You think the favor of the vampires will give me a real voice in the affairs of this city?” she asked. “And all you require is some of our ancestral land?”

Elijah didn’t reply as Ysabelle steered him along the uneven path.

“For what it’s worth,” she continued, “I agree with my people in this. I don’t think it was wise to tolerate such an abomination as your family in the first place, and we certainly should not broaden the invitation. Especially now—”

“Because of the werewolves,” he finished for her. Elijah bristled at yet another witch calling him unnatural and denying him sanctuary. He was tired of being rejected by those who revered the magic that created the “abomination” in the first place.

“Oh, so you are aware that we are in the process of allying with your enemies? I thought you must have forgotten in order to ask such a thing. If I went before the witches and argued that we should play both sides, when the wolves are a legion and you are three, they would laugh at me.”