Первородные: Восхождение

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

AFTER TWO FULL days of pouring cloying amber liquid down his throat, Klaus was starting to feel nearly drunk enough. If he could just maintain this inhuman level of intoxication for a few years, he might—might—start to forget the sight of Vivianne turning her back on him. As always, the kind ladies at the Southern Spot had done their best to take his mind off his troubles, and one healthy-looking, bouncy brunette in particular had made it her mission to ease his pain. She had kept him supplied with good whiskey, charming banter, and every ounce of the expertise with which she plied her trade.

Best of all, she didn’t remind him of Viv in the slightest. Except when he noticed how dissimilar the two were, and then he called for more whiskey, and the dance began again.

Sooner or later, he suspected, he would have to step out of this happy haze and return to real life, but there was no rush. He liked it here, and this was a place that could never let him down. His siblings probably needed rescuing by now—they were talentless when it came to staying out of trouble—but surely they would rather have him at his best. He needed a few more days of restoration before he was ready to dust off his trademark swagger.

The brunette refilled his glass, and Klaus caught her around her waist and pulled her, giggling, onto his lap. “I’ve missed you,” he told her lustily, and she snuggled her ample bosom conveniently closer to his mouth. He sampled the whiskey, and then he sampled her. A week would be best, he decided. The world could do without him for a week.

Vivianne Lescheres obviously could.

It had never once occurred to him during their night together that she was saying good-bye. It should have, perhaps, but every clue had had an alternate explanation. A better explanation—one that fit Klaus’s way of looking at the world so that he had ignored the obvious. He hadn’t wanted to see that her relentlessly stubborn streak could work against him as easily as for him.

The brunette had an adorable sprinkling of freckles across her snub nose, and Klaus devoted all of his mental energy to counting them. He had everything he needed right here, and Viv could go to hell for all he cared. She didn’t appreciate him, anyway. He had been willing to reorder his entire life for her, to become a new and better man. If that wasn’t enough for her, then she hadn’t been worth it after all.

The belled curtain across the door chimed merrily, and a few of the whores squealed. Klaus’s girl didn’t so much as flicker her eyes toward the sound, and he made a mental note not to get so drunk that he forgot to pay her handsomely.

“Of course I found you here,” a voice snarled arrogantly, and Klaus furrowed his brow in concentration. It was a familiar voice, and it was attached to a pair of legs in dark leather boots. He followed the boots upward, then continued along a line of gold buttons that edged the waistcoat. There was a long neck above that, with a juicy pulse beating beside a large Adam’s apple. Klaus acknowledged he might be a bit drunker than he’d thought as his eyes finished their lazy trek to rest on Armand Navarro’s smug face.

“A likely story,” Klaus slurred carefully, “claiming you walked into a brothel because you were looking for my company.”

Armand’s answering smile really required a punch in the mouth, but Klaus’s hands were otherwise occupied and his head felt a bit fuzzy. He suspected that his best chance of winning a fight right now was to stay out of one. Perhaps if he sat very still, Armand would get bored and leave him alone with his cheerful brunette friend. Everyone would win in that scenario.

“Stand up and face me like a man,” Armand demanded. “We knew it was only a matter of time before one of you vermin went too far, and I wanted to be the one to ensure that you pay for it personally.” Perhaps a fight was unavoidable, then. Klaus had been ready to empty the city of werewolves once they learned about his affair with Vivianne, but having to do it without her seemed joyless and dull.

The smile had drained from the whore’s face, and Klaus patted her pleasingly rounded thigh reassuringly. “You should go check on our room,” he suggested, feeling considerably more sober already. “I’m sure you remember how I like it.”

She nodded and rose, shrinking away from Armand as she passed by. Klaus watched her shapely rear fondly as she walked away, then returned his attention to the annoying werewolf in front of him. Armand’s breathing was rapid, his pupils dilated. He was keyed up and ready for a fight, and Klaus could only imagine one reason why.

“We don’t have to do this,” Klaus offered magnanimously. He certainly wouldn’t mind pummeling Armand into a pulpy corpse, but just this once he should give the werewolf a pass. He had, after all, spent a glorious and extremely thorough night with Armand’s fiancée, and that was probably injury enough. If Armand was willing to walk away, Klaus would let him.

“Stand up,” Armand growled menacingly. “You’ll answer for your brother’s crime whether you want to or not, so meet your fate like a man.”

The intoxicated wheels in Klaus’s head turned slowly around that new piece of information. It seemed possible this wasn’t about Vivianne after all—maybe Armand still didn’t even know about what had happened between them. Maybe Viv had kept their secret. Maybe she cared for him even now....

“What has my dear brother done to you?” Klaus asked, rising to his feet. He was pleased to discover that he did not sway.

Armand’s smirk was tainted by the ugly yellow gleam in his eyes. “He attacked us in the woods,” he explained, sounding both murderous and a little bit triumphant. “On his own, during the full moon. The fool died in the Saint Louis River, and now you’re going to join him.”

Well, good for him, Klaus thought. Elijah had taken on the entire werewolf population of New Orleans. Klaus realized that he must have interrupted the changing celebration, and for whatever reason he’d decided to fight off the wolves. In spite of Armand’s cocky assurance that Elijah had not survived, Klaus knew differently—mere werewolf venom wouldn’t kill an Original. Klaus felt a slow burn of pride for his idiot brother.

Klaus didn’t hesitate. He cocked his fist back and punched Armand squarely in the nose, and the werewolf’s hot blood spurted out in a sudden torrent of red. Armand looked surprised for a moment, and then his eyes went fully yellow and he struck. Klaus heard the sound of wood splintering as Armand knocked him first into a grandfather clock, and then downward through a low table. Klaus would pay for a lot more than the whiskey and his brunette’s time before he would be welcome back in the Southern Spot again, and the thought enraged him even further.

He drove his knee up into Armand’s stomach, pressing his advantage when the wolf gasped. He used the distraction to grab one of the shattered legs of the coffee table, and bashed it into the side of Armand’s head. The blow dazed him for a moment, and Klaus seized the opportunity. Driving his arms and legs upward, he threw Armand off of him and against the wall behind their heads, which made a dry cracking sound when the wolf hit it.

Armand fell heavily to the floor, but somehow managed to pull all of his long, awkward limbs into order and rolled to his feet with improbable grace. Klaus was still half crouched when he was knocked to the floor again, and the two of them struggled for a moment with neither getting the upper hand.

Elijah had struck at the werewolves when they were strongest. Drunk or no, Klaus could certainly do his part. And while Armand might not have realized it yet, he had Vivianne to pay for as well.

Klaus trapped one of Armand’s legs with his own and twisted, putting the tall werewolf flat on his back and rising up to sit on his chest. He lashed out with his fists, hitting Armand again and again. In his mind, Klaus saw Elijah wounded, Vivianne changing. Blood flowed freely until Armand’s face was barely visible through it, and then his eyes returned to their normal, dull blue and rolled back in his head.

Klaus watched him for a moment to make sure he would really stay down, and then staggered inelegantly to his feet. “Ladies,” he offered politely to the few whores who had remained cowering against the walls. “I apologize for any inconvenience this brute has caused you. Rest assured that I will always be available to defend your honor, just as I have today.” He tried to smooth his shirt, and realized that it was soaked with Armand’s blood.

He reached into his pocket and grabbed the hand of the nearest girl to drop in a handful of gold coins, folding her fingers closed around them in case she was too stunned to do so herself. He kissed her on the cheek for good measure, feeling more like his old self than ever. Whiskey, the company of half a dozen good women, and beating a werewolf unconscious: That was the recipe for Niklaus Mikaelson.

With a spring in his step, he left the brothel and turned his feet toward the house Elijah had acquired. He couldn’t wait to hear his brother’s side of this bizarre tale. If it was half as entertaining as Armand had made it sound, it was past time for the Original vampires to catch up.