Chapter 11: Moonlight and Magic
Davina's ritual space in the French Quarter smelled like concentrated mysticism—sandalwood incense thick enough to taste, herbs that probably violated several international conservation treaties, and the ozone aftermath of serious spellwork. The converted warehouse space buzzed with contained energy, candles arranged in geometric patterns that made my borrowed supernatural senses itch.
"Focus," Davina said without looking up from the complex circle she was drawing with what appeared to be powdered bone mixed with silver dust. "Your energy signature keeps fluctuating. If you can't maintain stability, this ritual will backfire spectacularly."
I adjusted my position on the uncomfortable meditation cushion she'd provided, trying to find the sweet spot between the Hollow's icy malevolence and the warmer magical currents flowing through the space. The combination felt like trying to tune two radio stations simultaneously while standing in a lightning storm.
[SYSTEM: Playing witch? Don't blow up the city.]
"Sorry," I muttered, reaching for the steady thrum of Davina's spellcasting abilities. Her magic tasted different from Hope's—more structured, less intuitive, like the difference between jazz improvisation and classical composition. "Still getting used to all the different magical... flavors."
Davina paused in her chalk work to study me with the kind of clinical attention that made me feel like a particularly interesting lab specimen. "Your mimicry abilities are fascinating from a theoretical perspective. Terrifying from a practical one."
She resumed drawing, her movements precise and confident. The ritual circle was taking shape—concentric rings of symbols that seemed to shift and writhe when I wasn't looking directly at them. At the center sat a crystal vessel filled with what looked like liquid starlight.
"What exactly are we trying to accomplish here?" I asked, as another wave of incense smoke made my eyes water.
"Hollow stabilization. The entity's presence in both you and Hope is creating magical interference throughout the Quarter. Small stuff mostly—streetlights flickering, electronics glitching, the occasional spontaneous plant growth. But it's escalating."
As if summoned by her words, the warehouse's fluorescent lights flickered once, twice, then settled into a steady hum that sounded slightly off-key.
"Fantastic," I said. "I'm a walking EMF pulse."
"You're a walking miracle that hasn't exploded yet," Davina corrected. "Now stop talking and help me channel this before something actually does explode."
The ritual itself was like trying to conduct an orchestra while blindfolded. Davina's magic flowed through the prepared channels with mathematical precision, and I did my best to supplement her efforts with borrowed power that felt increasingly natural to wield. The Hollow stirred restlessly in its corner of my mind, but it seemed more curious than hostile about the proceedings.
Heat from the burning incense mixed with the cool October air drifting through the warehouse's high windows. The ritual space felt suspended between seasons, between worlds, between the normal rules that governed reality and whatever came next.
"There," Davina said finally, wiping sweat from her forehead. "That should hold for a few weeks, assuming nothing catastrophic happens."
"What are the odds of that?" I asked.
"In New Orleans? With the Mikaelsons involved?" She gave me a look that suggested I'd asked whether water was wet. "Zero."
As we cleaned up the ritual components, my phone buzzed with a text from Hope: Moonlight walk? Meet me at Jackson Square in an hour.
I showed Davina the message, and her expression softened slightly. "Second official date?"
"Apparently. Klaus's trust-building exercise continues."
"Just remember," she said, packing away candles and powdered silver, "Hope's been through a lot. She doesn't let people close easily."
"Noted. Any other relationship advice from the supernatural community?"
"Yeah. Don't screw it up."
Jackson Square at midnight was a study in contrasts—tourists and street performers replaced by shadows and the occasional vampire trying to look inconspicuous near the cathedral. Moonlight painted the cobblestones silver, and the scent of pralines from daytime vendors lingered in the cool air like a sweet memory.
Hope sat on the steps of the cathedral, sketchbook balanced on her knees, pencil moving across the page in steady strokes. She'd traded her usual jeans for a flowing sundress that caught the moonlight, and her hair was loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back in its practical ponytail.
"Hey," I said, settling beside her on the worn stone steps. "Productive evening?"
"Getting there." She turned the sketchbook toward me, revealing a detailed drawing of the square as it appeared now—empty of crowds, full of shadows, peaceful in a way it never was during daylight hours. "I like it better like this. Quieter."
"Fewer tourists asking if you're drawing their portrait?"
"Fewer people in general." She closed the sketchbook and looked at me directly. "How did things go with Davina?"
"Ritual successful, city not exploded, magical interference allegedly reduced. I'm calling it a win."
Hope's laugh was soft, intimate in the way that made my chest tighten. "You know, for someone who keeps insisting he's out of his depth, you're adapting remarkably well."
"Fake it 'til you make it, right?"
We walked the square's perimeter, past the silent statue of Andrew Jackson and the darkened shops that would be bustling again in a few hours. The normal sounds of the French Quarter—distant music, laughter, the occasional police siren—felt muted here, as if the square existed in its own pocket of tranquility.
"Can I ask you something?" Hope said as we paused near the fountain at the square's center.
"Shoot."
"Where did you really come from? And don't give me another deflection about questionable judgment and mysterious circumstances."
The question I'd been dreading since our first conversation. I could lie, create an elaborate backstory about amnesia or witness protection. But Hope had been honest with me about the Hollow, about her fears and vulnerabilities. She deserved better than fiction.
"I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."
"Try me. My threshold for weird is pretty high these days."
Before I could answer, the temperature in the square dropped fifteen degrees in the space of a heartbeat. The shadows between the buildings deepened, and the fountain's gentle splash became the only sound in a world gone suddenly quiet.
They emerged from the darkness like smoke given form—five figures in dark robes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Witches, according to my borrowed supernatural senses, but wrong somehow. Their magic tasted like burnt ozone and copper pennies.
"Hope Mikaelson," the leader said in a voice that carried a distinctly local accent. "How convenient to find you here."
[SYSTEM: Sticky fingers? Not the best date vibe.]
The punishment kicked in immediately. My hands became impossibly sticky, as if I'd dipped them in industrial-strength honey. When I tried to reach for Klaus's hybrid strength, my fingers stuck to my jacket, then to the fountain's stone edge, then to Hope's arm when she moved to stand beside me.
"Sorry," I muttered, trying unsuccessfully to unstick myself from her sleeve. "New side effect."
Hope bit her lip to keep from laughing, but her eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth. "Are you... adhered to me?"
"Temporarily. Very romantically." I managed to peel my hand away from her dress, leaving behind what I hoped were temporary impressions. "Give me a minute to work through this."
The lead witch watched our exchange with obvious confusion. "Are you... having difficulties?"
"Technical malfunction," I said, still struggling with my impossibly sticky fingers. "Please continue with your ominous threats. I'll catch up."
Hope lost the battle against her laughter, covering her mouth with both hands as giggles escaped despite the danger we were facing. "You're ridiculous," she managed between laughs.
"I'm adhesive," I corrected. "There's a difference."
The witches exchanged glances, their dramatic entrance somewhat undermined by our comedy routine. Finally, the leader cleared her throat and tried again.
"We represent the French Quarter Coven," she announced. "Your family's dominance over this city ends tonight."
That's when Hope's amusement faded, replaced by the focused alertness that marked her as Klaus Mikaelson's daughter. Magic began crackling around her fingers—not the chaotic energy of the Hollow, but something controlled and purposeful.
"My family's dominance," she said pleasantly, "is what keeps this city from burning down every other Tuesday. Maybe you should reconsider your career choices."
I finally managed to get my hands unstuck enough to reach for vampire speed. The borrowed power flooded through me like liquid lightning, making the world slow to honey-thick frames. The lead witch was already moving, dark magic coiling around her hands like living shadow.
What followed was less a battle than a supernatural dance. Hope's magic met the witches' dark spells in brilliant flashes that lit up Jackson Square like the world's most dangerous fireworks show. I used the borrowed speed to stay mobile, my still-sticky hands making conventional fighting impossible but allowing me to grab weapons and magical components from the witches with comedic efficiency.
"This is the weirdest fight I've ever been in," I called out, accidentally sticking to a lamp post mid-maneuver.
"Welcome to my life," Hope replied, incinerating another witch with casual efficiency.
The battle was over almost before it began. These weren't the trained killers who'd been stalking us lately—just local witches drunk on revolutionary fervor and seriously outclassed by a tribrid with centuries of supernatural politics in her bloodline.
When the smoke cleared, three witches were unconscious, one had fled, and one was a small pile of ash near the cathedral steps. Hope stood in the center of the square, magic still crackling around her like a personal aurora, looking every inch her father's daughter.
"Well," she said, brushing dust from her dress, "that was invigorating."
My hands were finally returning to normal stickiness levels, though I was pretty sure I'd left fingerprints on half the square's architecture. "How often does this happen?"
"The random witch attacks? Maybe once a month. The adhesive boyfriend situation?" She grinned. "That's new."
Boyfriend. The word hit me with unexpected force. When had we crossed that line? When had this arrangement stopped being political necessity and started being something real?
As we made our way back toward the compound, Hope slipped her hand into mine. The contact was warm, electric in a way that had nothing to do with supernatural powers, and absolutely worth every embarrassing side effect the system could throw at me.
"So," she said as we walked through the moonlit streets, "you were about to tell me where you really came from."
"Rain check?" I asked. "I feel like revelations about interdimensional travel might be too much for one date."
Hope's smile was soft, understanding. "Rain check. But Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever your story is, wherever you came from—I'm glad you ended up here."
The simple statement hit me like a physical blow. When had protecting Hope stopped being about survival and started being about something I couldn't quite name? When had this impossible supernatural family started feeling like home?
Behind us, Jackson Square returned to its usual midnight quiet, the only evidence of our battle a few scorch marks on the cobblestones and the lingering scent of ozone in the air. Somewhere in the shadows, I caught a glimpse of movement that didn't belong—watchers cataloging our every move.
The Triad's interest in our activities was escalating, but for once, I found myself caring less about mysterious enemies and more about the girl whose hand was warm in mine and whose laughter made even supernatural combat seem manageable.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new threats, new questions about my origins and abilities. But tonight, walking through the moonlit French Quarter with Hope's fingers intertwined with mine, even my sticky hands seemed like a small price to pay for moments like this.
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