Chapter 8: Mirrors and Misdirection
Klaus's private study smelled like aged bourbon and leather-bound books that had witnessed centuries of supernatural politics. He stood at the room's center, practicing sword forms with the kind of fluid precision that came from having literally forever to perfect one's technique. Sunlight streaming through tall windows caught the blade's edge, turning each movement into a study of light and shadow.
"Again," he said without pausing in his routine. "Your footwork is improving, but your guard drops when you transition from offense to defense."
I adjusted my stance, gripping the practice sword with sweaty palms. Training with Klaus was like learning to dance with a hurricane—educational, terrifying, and likely to leave marks that would take weeks to heal.
"Better," he allowed, launching into a sequence that would have been beautiful if it weren't specifically designed to separate my head from my shoulders. "But you're still thinking too much. Combat is instinct, not—"
That's when I activated the illusion.
The change was subtle at first—Klaus's sword seemed to shimmer slightly, as if the light were hitting it from an impossible angle. Then the blade began to fade, growing more translucent with each passing second until Klaus was slashing at empty air with what appeared to be an invisible weapon.
[SYSTEM: Making Klaus look foolish? I'm almost proud.]
Klaus paused mid-strike, staring at his apparently empty hand with the expression of a man questioning his own sanity. He flexed his fingers, and I made the sword flicker back into visibility for just a moment before rendering it invisible again.
"What in blazes—" Klaus spun toward me, his eyes narrowing as he processed what was happening. "You."
"Me," I agreed cheerfully, maintaining the illusion while trying to look appropriately innocent. "Is something wrong?"
From the study's corner, Kol burst into delighted laughter. "Oh, this is brilliant! Nik, you look like you're conducting an invisible orchestra!"
Klaus's expression cycled through several emotions in rapid succession—confusion, realization, fury, and finally, something that might have been grudging admiration. He looked down at his hand, where the sword continued its translucent dance between visibility and nothingness.
"Illusion magic," he said, his voice carrying the kind of calm that preceded either violence or applause. "During training. You absolute—"
Before he could finish the thought, his arm snaked around my throat in a chokehold that cut off both my air supply and my concentration. The illusion collapsed, returning his sword to full visibility as black spots began dancing at the edges of my vision.
"Lesson one," Klaus said, his bourbon-scented breath hot against my ear. "Never prank someone who could snap your neck before you finish laughing."
The pressure increased, and I felt my knees beginning to buckle. This wasn't playful retaliation—Klaus's hybrid strength could crush my windpipe like paper if he chose to. The Hollow stirred in the back of my mind, offering its own violent solutions, but I pushed it away. The last thing this situation needed was ancient evil getting involved.
"Dad, enough."
Hope's voice cut through the study like a blade, carrying an authority that made Klaus pause mid-squeeze. She stood in the doorway, her expression caught between amusement and concern.
"He's just being an idiot," she continued, moving into the room with the kind of careful grace that suggested she was ready to intervene if necessary. "A charming idiot, but an idiot nonetheless."
Klaus held the chokehold for another moment, then released me with enough force to send me stumbling forward. I caught myself against his desk, gasping and rubbing my throat.
"Charming?" Klaus asked, raising an eyebrow at his daughter.
Hope's cheeks colored slightly, but she didn't back down. "Well, the sword thing was pretty funny. You should have seen your face."
"My face was perfectly composed," Klaus replied with wounded dignity.
"You looked like someone had stolen your favorite toy," Kol added helpfully from his corner perch. "Which, technically, Alex did."
I finally caught my breath enough to speak. "In my defense, your sword work is so intimidating that I figured leveling the playing field might be educational."
Klaus turned his attention back to me, and I caught something unexpected in his expression. Not anger, but evaluation—the look of someone reassessing a chess opponent who'd just revealed a hidden queen.
"Educational," he repeated slowly. "And what exactly did you learn?"
"That you have excellent reflexes and a really strong grip?"
"And?"
I considered the question seriously, thinking back over the brief confrontation. "That you were testing my ability to maintain magical concentration under pressure. Which I failed, spectacularly."
Klaus's smile was sharp but not entirely unfriendly. "Better. Your illusion work is improving, but it's useless if a simple chokehold can disrupt it. In a real fight, your enemies won't wait for you to regain your composure."
He moved to the study's window, gazing out at the courtyard where Hope and I had been training earlier. "Your vampire friends left something behind."
"Not my friends," I said. "And yes, we found their little love note. Freya's working on translating it."
"Hmm." Klaus's fingers drummed against the window sill. "These attacks are becoming more coordinated. More informed. Someone is providing intelligence about our routines, our vulnerabilities."
The observation sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with supernatural powers. "You think there's a spy?"
"I think there are forces at work that view my family as obstacles to their larger plans. And now, it seems, they view you as either an asset to be acquired or a threat to be eliminated."
Hope moved to stand beside her father, her reflection ghosting across the window glass beside his. "The message might tell us more about what they want."
"Perhaps. But in the meantime, we should assume they're watching. Learning. Planning."
As if summoned by his words, a shadow flickered across the courtyard below—too deliberate to be natural, too aware to be coincidence. I blinked, and it was gone, leaving behind only empty flagstones and dancing oak leaves.
Klaus must have seen it too, because his posture shifted slightly, taking on the predatory stillness that marked him as an apex predator. "Kol."
"Already on it, brother," Kol said, flowing toward the window with liquid grace. "Shall I invite our observer in for tea?"
"Observe only. For now."
Kol melted out of the study with the kind of supernatural stealth that reminded me these people were functional immortals who'd survived centuries of supernatural politics. Whatever was watching us would find him watching back.
Hope moved closer to me, close enough that her floral scent mixed with the study's leather and bourbon atmosphere. "Are you okay? The chokehold looked pretty intense."
"I'll live. Probably." I rubbed my throat again, noting how Klaus's eyes tracked the movement with clinical interest. "Though I'm thinking my pranking career might be shorter than expected."
"Don't be ridiculous," Hope said, her smile carrying a warmth that made my chest tighten. "Dad loves a good challenge. Don't you, Dad?"
Klaus turned from the window, his expression unreadable. "Your friend shows promise. Reckless, undisciplined promise, but promise nonetheless."
"He's not reckless," Hope protested. "He's creative."
"He's standing right here," I pointed out.
"And he just proved he can maintain a complex illusion under combat stress," Klaus continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Until, of course, his breathing was compromised. Which suggests his abilities are tied to conscious control rather than instinctive response."
The clinical assessment was both flattering and unsettling. Being studied like a particularly interesting specimen by someone who'd had centuries to perfect the art of reading people was not comfortable.
"I'm still learning," I said. "The whole magical powers thing is pretty new to me."
"Indeed." Klaus moved to his desk, retrieving a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. "Which raises interesting questions about their origin. Powers don't simply manifest randomly—they require catalyst, training, or..."
"Or?" Hope prompted.
"Or external influence. Something that fundamentally altered his nature." Klaus poured three glasses of what was probably bourbon expensive enough to fund a small country. "The question is whether that influence was intentional or accidental."
He offered glasses to Hope and me. The bourbon was smooth enough to justify its probable price tag, but it did nothing to ease the growing tension in the room.
"Does it matter?" I asked. "I mean, the powers are here, they're useful, and they're helping Hope. Isn't that what counts?"
Klaus and Hope exchanged a look—one of those wordless communications that families develop over time. Something passed between them that I couldn't read, but it made Hope's expression soften.
"It matters," she said quietly, "because we care about you. And if someone or something is using you, we want to know about it."
The simple statement hit me like a physical blow. When had I stopped being an outsider to be tolerated and become someone they cared about? When had this supernatural family started feeling like... family?
Before I could process that revelation, Kol reappeared in the study's doorway with the kind of theatrical timing that suggested he'd been waiting for a dramatic moment.
"Well," he said, his grin sharp enough to cut glass, "our mysterious observer has vanished. But they left behind something interesting."
He tossed a small object onto Klaus's desk—another piece of folded paper, but this one was different. Newer. The paper was modern, high-quality, and when Klaus unfolded it, the writing inside was in perfectly ordinary English.
Klaus read it twice, his expression growing darker with each word. Finally, he handed it to Hope, who scanned it quickly before passing it to me.
The message was brief and to the point:
Mr. Thorne,
Your recent activities have attracted the attention of parties who prefer to remain anonymous. We represent individuals with significant resources and longer perspectives than the current residents of New Orleans.
A meeting would be mutually beneficial. Tomorrow night, Café du Monde, midnight. Come alone, or Miss Mikaelson's family will begin experiencing unfortunate accidents.
Consider this invitation carefully.
The paper felt cold in my hands, and the Triad insignia in my pocket had gone from warm to burning.
"Well," I said, attempting lightness I didn't feel. "At least they have good penmanship."
Hope's expression had gone deadly serious. "You're not seriously considering meeting them."
"I'm considering it very seriously," I replied. "They know about my abilities, they know about our training routine, and they just threatened your family. That makes them my problem."
Klaus took the message back, studying it with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserved for battle plans. "No. This reeks of trap. They want to separate you from potential allies."
"Maybe. But they also want something from me, which means they need me alive long enough to get it. That gives me leverage."
"It gives you a death sentence," Hope said firmly. "There has to be another way."
Outside the study's windows, afternoon shadows were lengthening across the courtyard. Somewhere in the city, anonymous enemies were making plans that involved me, Hope, and threats to the only family I'd found since arriving in this impossible world.
The bourbon burned warm in my stomach, but it did nothing to ease the cold certainty settling in my chest. Tomorrow night, one way or another, I'd finally learn what the Triad wanted.
And whether I'd survive the conversation.
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