Первородные: Восхождение

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE CEMETERY WAS darker than Elijah remembered. Clouds concealed the moon and stars, and it seemed there were fewer lit candles than during his previous visit. A cool wind blew in from the sea, picking up the murky scent of the bayou as it came.

Elijah weaved his way through the tombs on foot, careful not to disturb any of the stones. A mournful howl drifted toward him on the wind. The covered moon wouldn’t be full for a few more weeks, but the skin on his arms and neck still prickled at the sound. There was something happening in the cemetery, some kind of magic, and it was clear that outsiders would not be welcomed.

He’d rather be anywhere else, but he’d made a vow to Ysabelle Dalliencourt to prove her wrong. With Hugo’s will and the deed to his house, Elijah intended to show the witch that she had underestimated him. Hopefully, she would be impressed enough by his resourcefulness to reconsider her position on granting favors to his family. The service he needed now was much smaller than a gift of land.

Ysabelle wasn’t home when he’d gone to look for her, so Elijah had guessed that the only other place she’d be was the witches’ graveyard. After searching through the enchanted maze for the better part of an hour, Elijah’s sharp eyes finally found Ysabelle in the center of a ring of candles. She was dressed in a lilac shift with her reddish hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, but she did not look at peace. If anything, she looked angry.

Elijah hung back and watched as she muttered to herself then opened her eyes and began to furiously mix some substance in the copper bowl that lay at her feet. She straightened again, closing her eyes and looking as though every part of her body strained against some invisible force. He wasn’t sure what she was trying to do, but he could see the moment when she failed. Based on the slump of her shoulders, it looked like she’d been attempting the spell for a while without much success. Her frustration was just another asset to him.

“Good evening, Ysabelle,” he called, rather more cheerfully than was appropriate for a cemetery, especially in the middle of the night.

From the way she turned and glared at him, he was lucky that her magic wasn’t cooperating at the moment. Yet another point in his favor, he thought, approaching confidently. She knew he was not intimidated by her power, and she hated it.

“And a good evening to you, sir. Can I ask why you’ve come to bother me in this sacred place?”

“I’ve come to ask a favor,” he said, reaching the ring of candles that surrounded her. Their flames were so steady in the still night air that they didn’t quite seem real.

“I see, Monsieur Mikaelson. But I feel like we’ve had this conversation before,” she said, sounding interested in spite of herself.

“Elijah, please,” he countered. “That other night, I wanted your help in securing a home. Now I have one.” He pulled the folded papers from his breast pocket, holding them at a careful distance from the flames.

Ysabelle stood, and her deep-set brown eyes widened. “And which of my neighbors did you murder for that?” she demanded.

Elijah started to explain how the house had come to be his, but even before he spoke he realized that the story would only confirm her suspicions. A complete stranger had promised his land to a vampire who wanted a home, and then had died that same night. Even if Elijah were to repeat every single word the two of them had exchanged, the tale would still sound exactly like a self-serving lie.

“None,” he replied shortly, rather than making things worse by trying to defend himself. “It was left to me in a proper will by a man who died of old age and nothing else.”

“Strange that you seemed to know nothing of this will when you came to me the other night begging for aid.” Was her tone thick with just suspicion, or could he also detect pride? It seemed like she was offended that he had resolved this problem so quickly and without her help.

“I believe I told you, Madame Ysabelle,” he chided, “that I would prove to you that mine is not the losing side.”

She considered this, glancing at one of the gravestones so briefly that he almost missed it. “You did,” she agreed, “but doing so by murder was no way to secure my allegiance.”

Elijah stared through the haze of light to read the names on the stones within her circle of candles. He saw at least three marked DALLIENCOURT—Ysabelle was trying to contact her ancestors. He didn’t know why, but if he could help her communicate with them, he was sure he could leverage that to gain her trust. He did, after all, know a thing or two about witches.

“There was no murder,” he reminded her firmly. The idea continued to take shape in his mind as he spoke. “If you want, we can speak with the shade of the man himself, and he will confirm that he died naturally. Assuming, of course, that such a spell is not beyond your abilities.”

Ysabelle’s eyebrows drew together, and her mouth tightened. She obviously didn’t want to admit that Elijah was right.

“I see that you are interested in ancestry, Madame Ysabelle,” he went on before she could invent a reason to refuse and save her pride. “How much do you know of mine?”

The question seemed to catch her off guard, and she hesitated again before choosing an answer. “I have heard of your family,” she admitted cautiously. “Your mother is a legend.”

We are legends, too, he wanted to retort. Esther’s reputation was the one that mattered for his purposes, but the existence of vampires was her most impressive achievement. “She worked the immortality spell on me, and here I stand before you, as alive as I was that day.”

Ysabelle’s lip curled in disgust. “It is not usual for a witch to fear death so,” she said.

To his surprise, the criticism stung. Ysabelle was still fairly young, and didn’t have a husband or children of her own yet. How could she know what a mother would do to protect her family? Esther had fled a plague only to find her family surrounded by werewolves. She had done what she believed necessary to keep the Mikaelsons together.

“Yes, but her answer to her fears provides us with a rather neat solution to both of our problems,” he compromised.

“I doubt that a vampire has much to offer when it comes to my particular concerns,” Ysabelle said. “If it’s your tainted blood you’re offering, go peddle that nonsense elsewhere. It is clean, pure magic I wish to do here, nothing mingled with the stuff that keeps you in this world.”

“My blood is not available for purchase or trade,” Elijah answered stiffly. And you couldn’t afford it if it were. “The legacy of which I speak is a set of books containing all of the spells my mother ever worked or learned. ‘Clean, pure magic,’ as you say...for the most part, at least. Have you heard of a grimoire? I never knew if they were common among witches, or just a habit of my mother’s own.”

Ysabelle’s mouth hung open in speechless surprise. “A grimoire—Esther’s grimoire? It was lost centuries ago; it’s nothing but a myth.”

“It’s a family heirloom,” Elijah corrected. “It has remained with her family. Although I’m sure you can imagine why we thought it better to let the world believe it was gone.”

“If we had known...the things she could have taught us...” Ysabelle twined a long lock of auburn hair around her fingers pensively. Elijah could almost see the calculation taking place in her mind. “I understand you did not want to be hunted for them, but the books are no use to you.”

“They are family heirlooms,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a stern rumble. She shook her hair back behind her shoulders and folded her hands together, an oddly girlish demonstration that she was listening. “What I offer you now is the use of them only, not possession. They could help you with whatever you are trying to accomplish here tonight. There is a spell that will allow you to speak with the dead; it will reach both your ancestors and Hugo Rey, who gave his house to me last night. You will speak with him to confirm the story I have told you, and then, in exchange for the gift of this spell, you will cast another one for me.”

Ysabelle’s face was rapt as she listened to his terms, but at the final condition he saw doubt creep into the set of her jaw. “Which spell?” she breathed, as if she were afraid to hear the answer. “The bargain you offer seems tempting, but I must know what you want in return. I cannot betray my people or my principles, no matter what gifts you promise in exchange.” In spite of her decisive words, she licked her lips, and Elijah smiled confidently.

“It is a simple matter,” he assured her. “There is another spell in the grimoire—a protection spell. It is meant for a dwelling, to defend a home and those within it from surprise or attack.”

“And you have a home now,” Ysabelle finished, looking somewhat relieved. Elijah could tell that she had feared he would name some terrible price. In her eagerness, she had already conceded that the house was rightfully his.

The candles between them suddenly, inexplicably extinguished themselves. Ysabelle stepped forward and held out her hand to shake his, confidently as any man would have. “Come at dawn with the spell book. I’ll be waiting for you.” For a moment she reminded Elijah of her bold, lovely niece, Vivianne. But he hoped, for Klaus’s sake, that Vivianne was not so eager to compromise her values.