The humid air of the French Quarter felt different now. The pride Klaus had felt mere hours ago was now a cold, hard knot in his stomach. Marcel. Alive. The word echoed in his skull, each repetition fueling a fresh wave of fury and betrayal. His sentimental moment was over. Now, it was time to work.
He needed his family. Elijah's calm strategy, Rebekah's fierce loyalty. They were the only ones he could trust in a city that had forgotten its true king. His feet carried him back toward the witch quarters, his purpose shifted. Jane-Anne could wait. This was bigger.
But the atmosphere in the narrow alley had changed. Before, it had hummed with latent power. Now, it was silent. Oppressively so. The herbs hanging in the windows looked wilted. The doors were shut tight. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a prison.
He didn't bother with subtlety this time. He picked a door at random and shoved it open. Inside, a young witch with wide, fearful eyes was hastily trying to hide a grimoire.
"You," Klaus said, his voice cutting through the small space. "I require a locator spell. To find my siblings."
The witch flinched, clutching the book to her chest. "I can't."
Klaus's eyes narrowed. "Can't? Or won't? Do not test my patience, child. I am in a particularly foul mood."
"It's not that," she whispered, her gaze darting toward the door as if expecting someone. "We're not permitted. Magic is forbidden."
The words landed with the force of a physical blow. Forbidden. In New Orleans. A city built on a nexus of magical power. It was an obscenity.
"What did you say?" Klaus's voice was dangerously soft.
"It's the law," she stammered. "Marcel's law. No magic in the Quarter. Not without his permission."
Marcel. His name was a curse on everyone's lips. The stray had not only taken his city, he had broken its very spirit. Rage, hot and immediate, flushed through him. He took a step toward the cowering witch.
"Listen to me very carefully," he growled, his hybrid glare starting to bleed through his human facade. "You will perform that spell. Or I will show you what happens when someone who actually understands power is denied."
He never got his answer.
The door burst open. Marcel stood there, flanked by half a dozen of his vampires. His expression was cold, official. His eyes swept past Klaus as if he were furniture and landed on the witch.
"Sophie," Marcel said, his tone flat. "We got a tip. You were practicing magic."
"I wasn't!" the girl cried, her voice cracking with terror. "I swear!"
"We'll see." Marcel gestured, and two of his men moved into the room. They didn't even look at Klaus. The disrespect was a calculated move, and they all knew it.
But then another figure was shoved into the room. An older woman, her hands bound, her face a mask of defiance. It was the woman from before. The one who had given him Marcel's name.
"Jane-Anne," Klaus said, a dark smile touching his lips. "We meet at last. You and I have much to discuss."
Marcel ignored him. "Jane-Anne. You broke the one rule. The big one. You used a summoning ritual to bring an Original into my city."
"Your city?" Klaus laughed, but the sound had no humor.
Jane-Anne lifted her chin. "I did what was necessary. For my people."
"Your people are safe because of my rules," Marcel shot back, his calm demeanor finally showing a crack. "You think he's your savior?" He jerked a thumb at Klaus. "He's a hurricane. He doesn't save things; he destroys them. You just doomed everyone."
Klaus took a step forward, his business with the witch far from over. "Marcel, this is between her and me–"
But Marcel was done talking. In a move too fast for the human eye, he lunged. There was a sickening crack. Jane-Anne's eyes went wide with shock, then empty. She crumpled to the floor, a broken doll.
The room was dead silent.
Klaus stared at the body, then at Marcel. The fury was so absolute it was cold. Marcel had known. He had known Klaus needed information from her, that she was the key to something. And he had snuffed her out anyway. Not just as punishment. But as a message. I am in control here. I decide who lives, who dies, and who gets answers.
"You…" Klaus's voice was a low, venomous whisper. "You insolent little–"
He moved to confront Marcel, but the six vampires instantly formed a wall between them. They were young, strong, confident in their numbers. They looked at Klaus not with fear, but with the blank obedience of soldiers.
Klaus stopped. He looked at each of their faces, one by one. A slow, terrifying smile spread across his lips.
"Really?" he said, almost amused.
Then he changed.
It wasn't just his face. It was the aura around him. The air grew heavy. His true hybrid form emerged—a nightmare of protruding veins, golden eyes, and fangs that promised a uniquely horrific death. The vampires' confidence wavered, replaced by a primal, gut-level fear.
He moved like a blur.
The first vampire went down with a gurgle, Klaus's fangs buried in his neck. He didn't just drink; he tore. He tossed the convulsing body aside and was on the next one before it hit the ground. It wasn't a fight; it was a slaughter. A brutal, efficient demonstration of what an Original truly was. The bites weren't fatal, not immediately. They were a sentence. The werewolf venom would burn through their vampire healing, a slow, agonizing poison.
In seconds, all six were on the ground, writhing in agony, their skin already graying.
Klaus stood in the center of the carnage, his clothes splattered with dark blood. His face smoothed back to human, but his eyes were still those of a predator. He looked at Marcel, who stood rigid, his own composure shattered by the swift, brutal display.
"You should have stayed dead," Marcel breathed, his fists clenched.
"It seems you have a problem, Marcel," Klaus said, wiping a drop of blood from his lip. "My bite has no cure. Or, it didn't." He kicked one of the moaning vampires at his feet. "These men of yours have minutes, maybe an hour. They will beg for a death that won't come."
He walked toward the door, pausing right beside Marcel. He didn't look at him; he stared straight ahead at the terrified witch, Sophie, who was trembling in the corner.
"You wanted to know why Jane-Anne had the guts to summon me?" Klaus said, his voice low and conversational. "Find out. Look into it. You might just discover something that could save your little soldiers. A cure, perhaps."
He finally turned his head, his eyes locking with Marcel's. The promise in them was absolute.
"And while you're doing that," Klaus whispered, the words meant for him alone, "get ready. You've had your fun playing king. But the game is over."
He stepped out into the alley, the sounds of suffering fading behind him. He took a deep breath of the tainted New Orleans air.
"The Originals are coming home."