Chapter Text
It's rare that the reality exceeds expectation, but New Orleans has done just that for Bonnie Bennett. From the moment she set foot in the city, she knew that this vibrant intersection of the magical and the mundane wasn’t merely a place to visit.
This was a city to be experienced.
It was a piece of earth that seemed to have developed a kind of sentient life through generations of blood and birth; its consciousness imbuing terra firma. It inhaled a bit of the essence of each soul that entered and exhaled a culture that couldn’t readily be defined…to the visitor. A symphony of opposites, centering and transcending with each movement. New Orleans was a heady brew of sight, sound and sensation. A place Life and Death might go for a quiet candlelit dinner.
Bonnie made her way easily through streets crowded with locals and tourists alike. Back in Mystic Falls, a night like this would feel miserably oppressive; the combination of high humidity and summer heat usually resulted in sweat-sticky bodies splayed lazily. Even the barely-there twang of the contemporary Virginian accent felt the effect; becoming drawn out and downright Antebellum.
A night like this would be hell in Mystic Falls.
But then Mystic Falls is a sleepy little town that shuts down at 10 pm while the French Quarter dares you to ignore creature comforts to draw just a little closer to spy the details. Every sense was titillated; seduced into discovering the source of its attraction.
Humans drinking themselves stupid was understandable; the sensory overload of such a place too much for a sober mind, especially at night. If things were different, Bonnie would throw caution to the wind and get lost within the stimulating expanse.
But things weren't different.
And she hadn't been in the French Quarter an hour before the Regent of the Nine Covens sniffed her out. Walked right up to the bar where she sat and plopped himself down on the stool beside her.
She wasn’t surprised; she’d been waiting for him.
The funny thing about witches is that not only can they sense one another's power, they can sense the nature of it; how its use has molded and shaped its effectiveness. How well it's been cared for; how many wounds it’s received and recovered from. How dirty its hands have gotten. They can sense the difference between a witch whose best trick is an aneurysm and one whose best is dropping the veil to The Other Side. A quick perusal of the magic emanating from him and Bonnie knows this Regent naturally fits into the latter category.
He was tall, slender and looked as though he had been crudely carved out of a tree trunk. All sharp angles, uneven lines and splinters covered by walnut brown skin. But where a well-cared for goatee tended to give off an air of mystery and perhaps danger, on this man it made him seem tender. More approachable. There was kindness in his face. Too much kindness, Bonnie surmised.
So while he may know his shit, he wasn't a salty dog.
He wouldn't be of use to her in the end.
"Let me guess...Vincent Griffith?" Her tone was light as she nursed the drink in front of her.
She didn’t face him as she spoke, Vincent could feel her magic prickle against his skin. Hell he'd felt it in the air an hour ago while dining at Rousseau's. Elbows deep in a piping hot bowl of gumbo, enjoying a brief reprieve from the supernatural clusterfuck that was French Quarter politics and he'd felt that power. Felt it so strongly that he half expected its owner to materialize at the table in front of him. That the source was nowhere around, worried him.
With gumbo and peace of mind forgotten, he’d left Rousseau's and took to the streets, leveling up his senses to track down the witch broadcasting her presence to anyone with enough witchblood in their veins to catch it.
After everything that had gone down in the Quarter over the years, he half expected to find a resurrected Esther Mikaelson, or perhaps her sister Dahlia or even—god forbid—his wife Eva. The thought of any of those women back in the Quarter and he felt a migraine coming on.
When he finally stopped in front of Joe's Sippin Whiskey, the power wafting out the front door was so thick it was nearly tangible.
He’d entered warily; quickly absorbing the fact that he didn't know who the hell this witch was. And the closer he got to her, the more intrigue and apprehension battled for dominance.
She was tiny...maybe a sneeze over 5 feet with fine bones and soft curves all covered in caramel skin that clearly enjoyed the Louisiana climate--if its moistened glow was any indication. She sat there, seemingly unaware of the effect her presence was having on the patrons of this small dive. The humans could only interpret it as the magnetism of a beautiful woman and found themselves turning away from their conversations to discreetly glance in her direction at irregular intervals. The two werewolves and the vampire present were a different story, for they knew exactly what she was. And while the wolves were curious, wary and more than a little bit aroused, the vampire—one of Marcel Gerard's own—was practically channeling Pavlov's dog.
The bartender was serving her a drink by the time Vincent sat down. A quick glance to the salivating vampire in the corner and he knew that Marcel hearing of her presence was a forgone conclusion. He knew how this looked. It looked like the Regent of the Nine Covens was meeting up with some mysterious heavy-hitting witch in the middle of the Quarter.
"I feel like I'm at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I don't know who you are," he answered finally.
The mystery witch was striking. Her chocolate brown hair was pulled up into a mess bun; her face on full display. Large feline-shaped eyes that were olive green in color, high cheek bones, a proud nose and full lips that curved at the corners. A story written across more than one continent gave birth to this faery of a woman; the glowing skin he'd spied on entrance, even more lustrous upon closer view. Vincent resisted the urge to find out for himself if it was truly as soft as his brain and his libido promised it was.
And that was from the neck up.
As his gaze drifted lower, he was greeted with a feast of lip-bitingly sensual dips and curves. Her breasts were ample in the oversized white tank top she wore and the small leather pouch tied around her graceful neck lay between them. Her small waist flared out into generous hips encased in skin tight jeans. And he already knew that was definitely an ass she was sitting on.
Constantly navigating a cold war between witches and vampires had apparently caused Vincent to ignore one undeniable fact:
He needed to get laid.
Badly.
By the time he returned to her face, her smile had grown into a full toothed grin as her eyes laughed at him. As if she could hear his silent assessment.
"I'm Bonnie Bennett," she replied.
She almost laughed out loud at the record scratch of recognition on his face. Yes, that Bonnie Bennett, she confirmed silently. Where once he looked like he was minutes away from pouncing on her, now he looked a bit constipated. Constipated and alarmed. She saw him process the magic that rolled off of her and factor it in with the knowledge of who she is and what she's capable of doing. He'd start demanding that she get the hell out of his territory in 3...2...
"Look, I don't know why you're here and I don't care. But we don't need the trouble that you being here will bring," Vincent said, already signaling for a drink.
Bonnie watched him drink his courage and sympathized. She understood the feeling that surrounded him from the moment he entered. This man is a reluctant leader. Likely taking the reins out of fear that no one could or would do the right thing for his people. Driven by a desire to protect them as well as the humans around them from the bloody, entitled machinations of vampires.
She knew that feeling very well, thank you.
He’s locked in conflict with one of the most powerful vampires this side of the Atlantic and now the Bennett Witch has landed on his doorstep. A spark dancing around a powder keg.
A spark that drank bourbon.
Bonnie watched his eyes dart back to the hard-on with fangs watching them from the corner. She knew he'd heard their exchange. She knew that he will tell Marcel and that the king would lash out at this reluctant Regent. She knew that this entire thing was working on poor Vincent's very last nerve.
So, she decided to help him.
Bonnie turned on the barstool stared openly at the vampire and flashed the most inviting smile she could muster.
"What are you doing?" The alarm in Vincent’s voice clear above his whispered query.
"Keep drinking your drink," Bonnie murmured to him as her prey accepted the unspoken invitation. He's a young vampire--a baby really. Turned too recently to be considered anything else. He's cute in a forgettable sort of way, with dark brown hair and eyes to match. She ignored the small voice that pointed out his resemblance to Jeremy.
Vincent tried not to stare as Bonnie swiveled toward the vampire now seated on the other side of her. He watched as she became a picture of coy smiles and soft touches. Her heard the vampire say his name was Donnie and then the sexiest, most promised-filled chuckle rumbled of the Bennett witch. He heard her make an adorably lame joke about how their names rhyme. And then he felt it.
Her magic.
While Bonnie smiled and flirted; shyly regaling young Donnie with a tale about her vampire best friend and a teddy bear, her magic began to uncoil itself like a serpent. Unseen by the naked eye, he felt it lift away from her shoulders and glide down her arms to slither up and around the hapless Donnie. Curious, Vincent concentrated his thoughts on Bonnie and tried to touch her with his mind.
His ears were instantly filled with sound. Bonnie’s voice, murmuring and muffled, floated along the magic that flowed from her and surrounded Donnie. Vincent couldn’t make out the words themselves, but the tone, the structure, the repetitiveness of it left no doubt:
She was chanting.
Whatever spell this was she weaved around the vampire; Vincent hadn’t seen it’s like before. Donnie was completely engrossed, fumbling through an attempt at being charming while recounting how he was turned. Bonnie laughed, her hands never straying far from her target. If she wasn’t touching his forearm, her hand was on his knee or brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder until finally she was simply holding his left hand in hers.
Vincent couldn’t help but look around the bar. The two witches and clueless vampire remained unnoticed. The wolves were already closing out their tab and leaving; having no desire to be around for whatever they sensed happening. He couldn’t blame them. Hell he wanted to go with them, if he was being honest.
The humans remained as oblivious as ever.
Bonnie continued to chant; her spell winding tighter and tighter around the vampire at her side. The density of the magic surrounding her and her mark began to set Vincent’s teeth on edge. What was she doing? When would she pull taut the trap she was clearly laying?
“Donnie, do you understand what I’m saying?” She gently stroked the back of his hand with her thumb.
“Yes.” He seemed mildly confused. That, plus the now dilated pupils and faraway voice, only ever meant one thing:
She was compelling him.
“That’s good,” she continued. Her voice was velvety smooth, with a huskiness that drew the vampire in until he leaned so far over their foreheads touched. Bonnie reached up and stroked his cheek.
“I need you to do something for me, Donnie. Do you want to do something for me?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” the vampire exhaled.
“Good. Now when you walk out of this bar, you are going to forget you were ever here. You’re going to forget you ever saw me or the Regent. You’re going to forget even knowing my name. Do you understand?”
“How on earth could I forget you?” He was doubtful, almost child-like beneath her caress. His face even fell into an adorable pout.
Bonnie rewarded him with a 100-watt smile as she wound her magic more tightly around him.
“Oh, I’m sure you could if you put your mind to it. Right?” The volume of her internal chanting spiked briefly as she pushed more of her will into the spell.
“Right,” he agreed, suddenly firm in his ability to please her. He grinned widely as she lightly patted his cheek.
“Good boy. Now go home and get some rest and forget all about me.” And with a sharp tug, she pulled her magic back to herself leaving behind a completely disoriented vampire in its wake.
“Whaa…?”
“Oh I completely understand if you have to go, given the short notice,” Bonnie assured him, completely shifting gears.
“Um…yeah…you know how that goes…” Donnie’s mind fought valiantly to find the threads of their conversation that he must have somehow lost along the way.
“I sure do, so I won’t keep you,” Bonnie smiled. “Have great night.”
“Yeah,” Donnie echoed as he slid off his bar stool “You too.” He then laid two twenties on the bar and made a bee-line for the door.
Bonnie watched until he left and then turned her attention back to a now openly gaping Vincent.
She frowned. “What?”
“What do you mean ‘what’? You just compelled him!” Vincent was all tension and harsh whispers.
“And you’re glad that I did, aren’t you?”
The witch sighed; his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. “Look, I know you don’t give a shit about what’s going on here, but I do.” He massaged his temples. “We’re in a standoff. The vampires are spoiling for a reason to pop off and so are the witches. If Marcel finds out that a Bennett witch is here…”
“I get it,” Bonnie offered. “But I’m looking for something. I know it’s here and I’m not leaving until I find it. So, unless you want to help me…”
“No. No way and absolutely not--”
“—then the longer I stay here the more likely I am to be discovered.” Her jaw was set. The warmth in her eyes, manufactured for Donnie, gone.
“What are you looking for?” he asked quietly, unable to keep the worry at bay.
“Treasure,” Bonnie replied, mildly.
Worry instantly apprehension. "What kind of treasure?" Magical objects, dark and otherwise, were plentiful in New Orleans. But only a few would draw the attention of a Bennett witch.
"Oh, nothing big," she said. "It's about this long," holding her hands a foot apart "it's made of bone and it comes with some really funky side effects."
Apprehension became dread. "What do you want with Tunde's Blade?"
"I don't want it. I need it."
"Why?"
"Because my daddy always told me that to catch big fish, you need big bait. Terrible fisherman, but the logic’s sound."
She looked at him pointedly and waited for him to put two and two together. When he finally did, she felt him relax slightly. “You really think you can do something about that?”
Bonnie nodded.
Vincent nodded in return, absorbing the fact that she wasn’t there to turn the Quarter upside down and shake everything and everyone loose.
"Ok...Ok...I know where it is...but you can't have it."
"And why is that?” She'd really developed a distaste for the word can't when it related to her. She'd been told she couldn’t do something so many times and yet the reasoning had never been good enough to stop her. She doubted that it would be good enough now.
"Because it’s been inside the chest of Klaus Mikelson for the past 7 years."
Bonnie blinked. Hard.
Vincent was nodding again; each movement of his head cementing both the truth of the matter and the theme park of problems it presented.
Bonnie pinched the bridge of her noise and shook her head in disbelief.
"No....fucking...way..."