#web designers in albuquerque

[reputor-systems]

ENTER the BEST New Mexico Web Design Giveaway and WIN a $5000 RepuSite and benefit from our FREE Web Design New Mexico service to grow local small businesses. Our comprehensive business management and digital marketing automation systems, designed to empower small businesses and maximize their online presence. As a digital marketing systems provider, we believe that every business deserves a strong online foundation, and we're thrilled to offer you a free website when you sign up for our cutting-edge services.

[websitesabqnm]

The aim of SEO is to raise your website’s position in search engines like Google and Bing because while its easy to get added to the results of Google or Bing, research says that only those results that make it to the top are really getting any attention.

[marketingservicesok]

Elevate Your Hair Salon’s Online Reputation with SEO

Attract new clients and build a stellar online reputation for your hair salon with SEO services from WSI Web Enhancers. Call us today to enhance your salon's online presence!

[promarketingworldnm]

Website Design & Logos Design Services in Albuquerque New Mexico

g a professional impression with your clients is crucial for the survival of your business in addition to providing a clear understanding of your business services.  A better educated client becomes a higher paying client.  Therefore having a streamlined website and marketing materials is key to any companies business development and sales development.

Best Ways to Start Your Logo Design

There is no perfect way to began with your logo design. However, it usually begins with a simple idea, concept art or inspection from a logo from another business in your industry.  Along with a brief description of your logo vision.  Your logo design should always match the branding of your existing website and marketing materials. Get experts for Logo Design Services New Mexico

Frequently Asked Questions

Will my website be mobile-friendly and responsive?

Every website we design and manage is adjusted for mobile readiness.  The website user interface and user experience must be applicable to all devices.

Why do I need a professional website?

In today’s day and age website design is the standard.  A professional website should also be a problem solver.  The key features for requesting a quote, career application forms, online payments, blogs writing about local and industry news, client reviews, proof of work completed.

These are just a few reasons why a professional website is necessary.  However, to learn more book a presentation with our team to learn all the benefits of having a Website Design Services Albuquerque New Mexico built with us.

How long will it take to see results from my marketing campaigns?

Results will take place in 24 to 48 hours.  We have over 15 services related to sales, marketing & design.  Therefore each service has specific timelines.  However, getting traffic, phone calls and warm leads is something we work on immediately for each client.  

What is your approach to customer service and communication throughout the project?

Our team has a maniacal focus,  while moving with expediency for every client.  Oftentimes we move a lot faster than clients expect.  Sometimes clients get a little frustrated with our speedy delivery.  However, no one gets frustrated with the leads and sales they acquire from our hard work an effort.  

What is the cost of your services and what is included in the pricing?

Our repeat monthly marketing plans on a low end range from $350 to $500 a month.  While our enterprise level clients invest $1500 to $2500 a month in marketing.

How do you handle website hosting, security, and backups?

All of our website Design Company New Mexico come with hosting, security and backup support free of charge.

We are proud GoDaddy resellers and strong supporters of C-panel hosting.   GoDaddy is the 2nd largest marketing company in the world just under Google.  While C-panel is the number one hosting company in the world. 

How can website and marketing services help my small business grow?

Every small business should have a clean professional website no matter how small.  This is a great way to separate yourself apart from the competition.of local startups.  

This is also a great way to prove to your clients that you are vested in your industry and that you manager your money well.  Asking a client to spend hundreds of dollars with you when you haven’t spend just a few hundred in your website + marketing eventually will be the one thing that cost you a sale.

Can you help me with content creation for my website and marketing materials?

Yes, We specialize in content creation in all marketing aspects.  Website content, brand identity content, blog writing, recruitment marketing and job ads. Pro Marketing World is one of the leading web design company in albuquerque.

[reputor-systems]

reputorsystems.come/giveaway

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 5: Dealing with the Devil

The rain is a drizzle when they reach Elijah’s car, an SUV with sleek, black angles and pristine leather seats that cost more than she made in two years of waiting tables in Albuquerque’s South Valley. 

Lucie presses a borrowed handkerchief against the side of her neck and listens to the erratic cadence of water droplets hitting the windshield. 

Tap. Tap. Taptap. Tap.

The world beyond the rain-streaked windows is an oil painting of damp brick and shiny streets. She shifts in the heated seat, pulling the cloth away from her neck. It comes away red, but less saturated than when she’d first accepted it from Elijah after rejecting his offer of his blood. It tells her that the bleeding is slowing, the mess on her neck coagulating as she repositions the handkerchief and reapplies pressure. 

The inside of the vehicle is warm and silent, a refuge from the gathering storm outside. Neither occupant has spoken a word since he deposited her onto the plush upholstery and left the carnage of the Riverwalk behind. 

The engine is a steady hum, the drive smooth as they wind through empty streets.

Her eyelids are heavy as she spares a sidelong glance at the driver. His expression is as enigmatic as it’s been all evening, shadows and light casting over him in alternation as they pass under streetlights and out again. His grip on the steering wheel is loose, with all the surety of an expert. The gold of his ring glints as they round a corner, the blue stone black in the faint light.

She rests her head against the passenger window, the cold glass a balm to her aching head. The vibration is a focal point for her swimming thoughts, a respite for the worst of her lightheadedness. 

If circumstances were different, she might sleep. Even now, the allure is there, a testament to the ordeal she’s just been through. But she won’t allow it. The nature of the danger may have changed, but its presence still lingers. 

Yes, she’d allowed him to steer her away from the river, leaning into him for support as the raindrops washed away the bloody sidewalk until streams of diluted pink carried all evidence into the river. She still doesn’t understand why she’d taken his arm when he’d offered it. Perhaps it had been exhaustion in the wake of all that had transpired. Or maybe she had been tired of making live or death decisions, and the appeal of placing all of it in someone’s hands, just for a little while, was too appealing to turn up. Either way, the expensive fabric of his sleeve had been smooth beneath her fingers as she’d delivered her unwieldy body weight into his care. He had been a steady presence at her side, guiding them through winding, uneven streets. 

She’d been aware of the odd image they cut. Elijah, immaculately dressed and exuding a calm confidence in a designer suit. And Lucie in her tattered, bloody clothes, unsteady on her feet and clinging to him like a foal. Many things can be said about the inhabitants of the French Quarter, but they are skilled at minding their business. And so, they had passed through undisturbed. 

By the time they crossed over Canal Street, he’d been practically carrying her. But if Elijah had any complaints about her inability to literally pull her own weight, he never expressed them. And when she hit her limit, knees buckling and legs refusing to take her another inch, he didn't miss a beat, simply hooked an arm under her legs and swept her against his chest in a single fluid motion and murmured that they would be there soon. There was no energy to protest, and she’d been secretly grateful to be off her feet.

She’d contented herself to listening to the drizzle rap against striped awnings, to the soft whoosh of runoff that turned potholes into dirty puddles, to the clack of his shoes against the wet pavement as he maneuvered them around both until they reached his car, parked on a side street.

Yet despite his helpfulness, his willingness to assist her with a stalwart patience, the truth of the matter is that Elijah is an unknown quantity. An Original vampire who knows too much about her and had appeared at the most opportune of moments to play the savior. The role of avenging angel suited him from the rough dispatching of those who would harm her to the gentleness in which he’d handled her since.

And while Lucie is thankful for the intervention that had saved her life, she isn’t so naïve as to think it was done out of the kindness of his heart. She knows no matter how the rest of the evening unfolds, her actions will determine if she lives to see morning. She’s no longer dealing with fledgling nightwalkers, but a cunning and infinitely powerful being. As someone who's often struggled with curbing a sharp tongue, she needs to be careful.

So she resists the misguided urge to roll out of the moving vehicle and take her chances with the harsh asphalt and allows him to drive her to whatever secondary location is waiting for her.

That destination, much to her surprise, is the La Maison Blanche, her residence during her short-term stay in New Orleans.

The vehicle pulls into a parking space and Elijah’s only just pulled the key from the ignition when he’s opening her door and guiding her out onto the sidewalk. Raindrops dissolve against her hair. He doesn’t lead them into the lobby right away, not until he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around Lucie’s shoulders. 

“To avoid uncomfortable questions,” he explains, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt to hide the stained cuffs. 

The garment dwarfs her, cuffs stretching comically past her fingertips and lapels settling high on her neck, but that seems to be the point. The dark fabric covers the worst of her injuries and disguises her torn clothes as long as she’s mindful of her motions.

A hand settles on her mid-back, guiding her through the entryway as the automatic doors shudder and slide open for them.

The light of the lobby is bright after so much time spent under a cloudy night sky. Her eyes blink against it until she can see the sparkle of quartz beneath her feet that gives the faux marble tiles a golden finish. The air in here is stale, with the distinct damp smell that all structures take on in Louisiana after a decade or two. Built at the height of the roaring 20s, La Maison Blanche is the pinnacle of Jazz Age opulence. From the brassy, fan shapes of the art déco light fixtures, jeweled-toned wallpaper, and heavy discolored curtains, the entire place gives off a distinct out-of-time feel. Even the doorman, Murphy, in his gold-edged, red button-down jacket seems to have stepped right out of a low-budget Great Gatsby.

He greets them as they enter with a smile for Lucie and a wary gaze at the man at her side.

“Good evening, Lucie,” he says, seated behind the concierge counter. There’s no word of welcome for Elijah, only a nod of acknowledgment. Lucie’s heart warms a fraction at his protectiveness. 

The portly older man has shown her nothing but kindness since she checked in, showing her to her room with stories about his childhood spent in the city, lighting up like the Fourth of July upon finding out she had been born in New Orleans as well. He had a daughter her age, off at college somewhere on the East Coast. Studying music, he’d told her, beaming with pride. She’d also learned his wife had passed two years ago and with his daughter so far away, it wasn’t a stretch to guess he was lonely, pouring his heart into his work and the revolving door of hotel customers.

“Hi, Murph,” Lucie replies, jacket sleeve sliding down her arm as she gives him a little wave. “Slow night?”

He hums in consideration, fingers smoothing down the bristly hairs of his salt and pepper (but mostly salt mustache). “You could say that. Not much in the way of guests. You get caught out there in the rain? You look half drowned.” 

The answer is already apparent from the damp strands of hair that cling to her face, a halo of frizz blooming in all its glory. Though the jab is subtle and delivered with all the precision of Southern manners, it’s clear who Murph faults for her bedraggled appearance. 

“We were out on the town when we were swept up in the sudden deluge,” Elijah explains, taking the rebuke in stride.

Murph huffs. “Glad you stayed out of trouble. I don’t know what it is about weather like this that brings out all the miscreants.”

Elijah, who had been moving to usher Lucie toward the elevator, freezes. Turning back to the older (but not really) man, he asks, “Did something happen here?”

Murph leans forward in the rolling desk chair, lacing his fingers together as rests his arms against the counter. “Some out-of-towners, come in here kicking up a fuss and causing a problem,” he shrugs. “Looked like they’d been roughing in the backwoods for a bit.”

Lucie’s breath hitches in her throat. “Did they hurt anyone? Are you alright?”

“There was no one here but me. Gina’s got a sick baby at home,” he says. “You know how young men are: cock-sure and looking for a fight.” He looks pointedly at Elijah. “Wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Besides, I always keep the old twelve gauge on hand.” He pats the underside of the counter. “This is New Orleans, after all.” 

She doesn’t miss the way the vampire beside her goes statue still or the subtle way he positions himself between her and the entrance. “Do you know what they wanted?”

The soft tufts of gray hair around his ears flutters as he shakes his head. “Seemed pretty adamant about getting upstairs, but I can’t say what for. They scattered like roaches when I threatened to call the cops. Strung out on drugs, if you want my guess.” 

"Do you know what they looked like?" Elijah asks evenly. 

The doorman considers, lips pressed together. "Strange. One real tall, dressed like he'd just come from one of those goth club. The other looked like he was trying out for Saturday Night Fever."

Lucie and Elijah exchange a glance, loaded with meaning. 

“It’s safe as can be now. You don’t need to worry, Lucie,” he chimes in, mistaking the meaning behind their silence. 

“I know,” she says with a strained smile. “Thanks for looking out for me, but I…uh��just realized I left my wallet back at the restaurant.” 

She pats her pockets for emphasis. 

“I told you to put it back in your purse,” Elijah replies, feigning a good-natured jab. “We’d better go get it before they close.”

Lucie nods, glancing back to the doorman. “Thanks for looking out, Murph. I’ll see you later.”

“You take care out there. I’ll be off by the time you get back, but Charlie will be here. You just give him a buzz if you need anything.”

Exchanging goodbyes, the pair steps back out onto the street. The storm has ramped up in intensity, rain lashing against the ground and the covered overhang. Elijah opens the car door and ushers her in before rounding the vehicle. Settling into the driver’s seat, wrists resting against the wheel, he turns to face her. “You cannot stay here.”

She knows that, of course. And she agrees, but the command needles at her already frayed nerves. “Any chance you know of some super secret, vampire-proof hideout we can go to?”

The words come out sharper than she intends, and she sighs, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

There's no immediate response. It tells her he doesn't have an answer

Then it comes to her, crashing into her lap, and she winces, not wanting to put a voice to the idea.

She sighs, resigned. “I know a place.”

____

Elijah follows Lucie’s directions to the Lower Garden District. Keen ears catch her pulse. It seems to race harder with each turn signal, each mile passing under the tires. It forces him to wonder where it is that she’s taking them.

By the time they turn off of St. Charles and onto the tree-lined tunnel of a sleepy residential street, her heart is hammering like a hummingbird. The car slows, a mix of Creole Cottages, Double Shotguns, and Victorian Townhomes slipping by in his periphery. 

He remembers this neighborhood, back when it had been little more than a ramshackle cluster of shacks in the shadow of the palatial Greek revival mansions only a few blocks over. The entire Garden District had cropped up around one central point, the handful of square city blocks that made up Lafayette Cemetery. They pass by the high gates as they wind deeper into the neighborhood. It’s the second time he’s been by it tonight and this time, he’s thankful to let it slip into the review mirror without stopping. He wonders for only a moment if the witches are still there, keeping vigil over their fallen sister. Then the cemetery vanishes from sight and he allows the thought to disappear along with it. 

His attention turns to the girl fidgeting in the passenger’s seat. He glances at her, but Lucie's gaze remains fixed forward, her eyes unseeing even as she murmurs that he should take a right. Her face is blank, but he does not miss the way her fingers pull and twist at the fabric of his jacket. 

“Are you alright?” Elijah asks. She takes a moment to answer, lost in whatever thoughts are whirling around in her head. He breaks his gaze from the road to look at her more fully. He sees the instant where the question lands. Her head pivots towards the sound of his voice, eyes wide and distant. 

Her heartbeat stutters, then evens out, though still fast. She must not be able to trust her voice, for she nods, knowing he’ll catch it. And he does, answering with one of his own. He asks no more questions, doesn’t pry, even as she points to a home on the right side and he pulls the vehicle to a stop against the curb out front.

There’s no light on when Elijah helps her out of the car. Her constitution has improved steadily since they left the River Walk. She wavers only for a second when she steps out, but he imagines that has much more to do with whatever trepidation is plaguing her than any physical side effect. Her skin is less peaked, the flush returning to her cheeks. Elijah has to admit to a small amount of relief, spending the first half of their time together debating whether to take her to a hospital, which would have been undoubtedly complicated. The set of her jaw is determined and her fingers are only trembling a little when she takes his proferred hand.

They make the quick journey across the tiny front lawn and up the steps of the elevated Central Hall cottage in relative darkness. The sensor trips when they reach the top landing and the flood light illuminates the deep-set porch.

He releases her hand, allowing her to lead the way. It’s clear that whatever her connection is to this place, she’s battling a maelstrom of emotions. He’s determined to let her engage with it on her own terms. 

Near one of the tan pillars, be watches her as she lifts the welcome mat, slides the plate back on the wall scone. She finds what she’s looking for underneath a terracotta flower pot with a huff of triumph. He spots the glint of a key and feels a flicker of doubt about whether he can trust her determination of safe places if hiding a key on the porch is her idea of security. But he lets the matter rest for now because she pauses in before the front door, peeling and forest green. 

He recognizes the posture, the slow inhale and even release of breath, knows she’s steeling herself as the key turns in the lock. She jiggles it, leveraging her weight against it. He’s halfway through an offer to help when the door swings wide and she takes her first tentative step beyond the darkened threshold.

He crosses the porch in two strides, halting just before the doorframe, an invisible barrier preventing him from entering.

She turns around with a quizzical look and then understanding dawning on her delicate features. “Oh right, vampire.”

Yet she hesitates, assessing him from head to toe and then fixing her gaze on his eyes, searching the depths as if trying to discern the nature of his soul. He does not fault her for it. She seems to have good instincts, from all he's seen so far.

Her teeth worry at her bottom lip and finally, as if against her better judgment, she says, “Please, come in.”

There's a shift, the release of that particular magical energy, and follows her into the house. She closes the door behind him, the lock sliding into place with a click of finality. He almost reminds her that a piece of metal won’t do much to protect her from the supernatural, but he holds his tongue. The girl has been through enough for one night. To deprive her of something that might bring her some peace of mind -no matter how small- would be needlessly cruel.

And so he turns his attention to his new surroundings, brought into sharper clarity as she flips a light switch somewhere just beyond his shoulder.

The home opens on a main hallway that gives the architectural style its name. Its passage is narrow without feeling cramped, rich eggplant walls rising on either side of the pine floors. His shoes echo against the wood which is light in places from centuries of foot traffic, but the planks remain a deep, lovely brown. 

She turns to him, arms folding protectively over her chest. Whether in an act of self-consciousness or at his intrusion upon a sacred space, he isn’t sure. They both hover near the front door, locked in an awkward sort of impasse.

Elijah is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat. “Perhaps there’s a first aid kit?” he ventures, gesturing towards her neck when she seems confused.

“Oh, yeah. In the kitchen, I think.” She inclines her head, a wordless message to follow. And he obeys, careful to keep a few paces behind and his footfall loud enough for her to hear. 

They progress down the hall and his gaze slides from one side to the other, taking in the decor. A smattering of hangings cover both walls. Framed paintings selected by someone with a discerning eye for quality, dried flowers, and hanging crystals he imagines capture the light and cast the walls in rainbows in the late afternoon. But it’s the photographs that catch his eyes, that add the touch of the personal. 

The first one he passes is a small print, color washed out from sunlight within the wooden frame. Four children stand in front of a fountain in Audubon Park, arms wrapped around each other in a chain of broad smiles. The two girls on the end are mirror images, identical from their freckles to the long copper braids that hang over their overalls. Next to them is another girl, smaller than the first two. Dark eyes crinkle around the corners and her front teeth were missing. On her other side is a boy, lanky and taller than the other children by at least a head. 

Elijah wonders at the people in the photo, frozen in this vignette as perpetual children, but now surely adults with lives and aspirations. 

He moves on, following the photos like a visual narrative of someone else’s life. Graduation photos and birthday parties, mostly of the dark-haired boy and girl, but the twins as well. And a woman with thick auburn hair and stern green eyes set in an oval face. Pausing there, he scans the features of her thin mouth, and her high cheekbones with a dull sort of recognition. He’s still trying to make sense of it when Lucie’s head pops from a doorway at the end of the hall and he realizes he’s fallen behind. 

Leaving the hall behind, he follows her into the kitchen.

Lucie LeMarche as she flits about the room, a contrast to the stationary position he's taken up against the far wall. Pale yellow cupboards open and close with a dull thud as she searches for a first aid kit. Despite her unease and her radiating anxiety, she seems to belong here. As natural a fixture in the home as the latticed window above the sink or the beams holding up the roof. 

Something akin to alienation wells up in him, a profound sensation of being out of place. It’s as if the house itself is reacting to his presence, resenting his intrusion upon it. 

“Found it,” Lucie proclaims, straining to reach a red tin box nestled on the highest shelf. 

Elijah stamps down the unsettled feeling and moves  to assist. “Allow me.”

____

Lucie winces against the sting of the antiseptic as Elijah wipes the cotton pad against the sensitive skin on her neck. His jaw is tight, dark eyes narrowed in focus as he attends to the wound with the precision of a trauma ward surgeon. He tends to it with the same care he’d used to address the cuts and gashes on her arms, her leg. 

She watches from her perch on the counter as he sets the soiled pad on the table behind him, his makeshift triage center. It joins the other red smudged cotton discards.

“It doesn’t bother you?” she plucks up the courage to ask, curiosity overcoming shyness at his proximity. When he quirks a brow, she adds, “All the blood, I mean.”

“No, not anymore. I might have struggled once, as all new vampires. But I’ve had centuries to perfect the art of controlling my hunger.”

Lucie half-nods, unsure sure what to say to that. Content to leave at that, Elijah returns to the wound at her neck with a fresh pad, and they fall into silence. 

The pressure is gentle beneath the familiar sting. The side of his hand ghosts against her skin and she responds with an involuntary shiver. He is unperturbed as a consummate professional, even as his breath fans against her collarbones. 

The silence is oppressive and the questions that have only been building since they met bubbling over the surface. 

“You said we had a lot to talk about,” she prompts, struggling to find the right approach. 

He doesn’t answer until the work is through, cleaning up the mess and washing his hands before sinking into a metal-framed kitchen chair. 

“We do,” he concedes with a nod. He weighs his words before asking, “What do you know of my family?”

That they were the root of all evil. That Klaus terrorized this town while his siblings watched on before fleeing as Royal Street burned. 

Instead, she says, “I know you’re the first vampires, created by a powerful witch, and that you helped build New Orleans before disappearing.”

“Tactfully put,” he says. Lucie isn’t sure what inflection she hears under the even delivery. “As you know, it’s been a century since my family left this place and I had never intended to return. That is until a witch lured my wayward brother here.”

The revelation of Klaus’ presence in town and how he got there land like twin blows.

Dread makes a home in her belly as she asks, breathlessly, “What witch?”

But she knows the answer, knows what he’s going to say even as he tells her, “Jane-Anne Deveraux.”

Her head swims, the implications rippling out like a stone dropped off a pier. 

A few pieces fall into place at once. Monique’s death and her mother’s desperate gambit to cast a spell. Marcel’s brutal retaliation. All of it is inextricably linked to Klaus’ arrival in town-

“But why?” 

“Witches brought Niklaus back to town in hopes that he might topple the supernatural hierarchy that’s allowed Marcel to keep the covens in subjugation.”

“That explains why he killed her,” Lucie says. “But not how she was able to convince your brother to come here in the first place.”

Something akin to surprise flashes in his dark eyes, like he’s seeing her for the first time. “No, it does not. During the duration of my stay, I have learned that the witches have gained some kind of leverage over Niklaus. But there are still questions that need answering.”

“You mean like how Marcel Gerard went from vampire mob boss to supreme overlord of the French Quarter overnight?”

His head tilts a fraction to the right, considering, and she’s struck by what a strange sight he is in the kitchen of her childhood home. What’s stranger still is that he doesn’t seem that out of place. 

“Precisely. As well as what events precipitated this whole sorry situation. I find myself curious as to what could prompt such rash actions from the witch faction.”

Lucie knows the answer, knows deep in her gut that the Harvest Ritual started this whole affair and that the answer to Marcel’s secret weapon are connected somehow. 

It’s a revelation she isn’t ready to share, not until she knows what it means and what the man across from her wants. She shutters her expression but not quick enough it seems, for Elijah rights himself in his chair, keen as a bloodhound at the scent. 

“You know something,” he states, gaze burning into her. “What is it?”

She goes still, caught in his sights. Resentment flares. She doesn’t appreciate feeling cornered. “I’ve answered plenty of your questions. I think it’s only fair that you answer mine.”

He hasn’t released the thread of conversation, she knows that, but he shifts in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee, and says, “Very well. What would you ask of me?”

“You knew my name,” she starts, not missing the sharpness behind his pretense of forbearance or the renewed crackle of danger around him. “You’ve been following me. I want to know why.”

His hands rest against the boomerang pattern of the table, long elegant fingers folding over each other. “You were not the only one hiding in the shadows when Marcel Gerard took Jane-Anne’s body. I heard your heartbeat, knew Marcel allowed you to escape. I wanted to know why.”

Her fingers wrap around the edge of the countertop, scarcely daring to breathe. “And what did you find out?”

His eyes lock on hers as he leans in, the motion almost imperceptible. 

“Very little,” he admits, and she exhales. “I know your name is Lucretia LeMarche. Your parents were both professors at Tulane until their death. At which point your great-aunt, a prominent member of the Garden District coven, took custody of you. And that her death brought you back here, despite your apparent disconnect from the witch community in New Orleans.”

“So it was you,” she says. It chafes, listening to the broadest strokes of her life repeated back to her as if read from a textbook. “Watching me.”

“Yes. I thought it best to keep tabs on you until I could determine your level of involvement in all this.”

“And?” 

“And,” he stretches the word out. “I’ve decided to offer you a deal.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off. “Please, allow me the courtesy of hearing me out.”

Her lips press closed. She nods at him to continue.

“You are a witch with intimate knowledge of this city and the inner workings of the nine covens. However, you lack any of the protection the witch community affords to its members, putting you in a rather vulnerable position.”

“Is that a threat, Elijah?”

“It is a fact, Miss LeMarche,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just as it is a fact that had I not intervened earlier this evening you would be dead.” 

Her cheeks flush and she has to admit the truth in his statement.

“So, what are you suggesting?”

“Your position, however precarious, also offers a unique opportunity. You can move through the circles of the city’s supernatural factions without the burden of any particular loyalties.”

“But as you just pointed out, I’m a sitting duck,” she interjects, following the path he’s laying out. 

“Yes, though not quite in those terms.” his mouth twitches at the corner. “That is where my offer comes into play. What I propose is this: you be my eyes and ears in the Quarter and, in turn, I will not only extend to you my protection but also any resources at my disposal to help you figure out who sent the men who came after you this evening.”

She says nothing, just watches him from her place on the counter. A part of her wants to say yes, that small foolish fraction of her heart that tells her to trust, that begs her to not be alone. 

She stamps it down, remembering the long line of witches that had been collateral damage in the game of vampire politics. He’s not a savior, not an unlikely ally. He’s a jailer, another person holding the key to a cage she’s fought tooth and claw to be rid of.

Anger crashes over her, a sudden and unexpected tidal wave of resentment. At Violette for all her secrets, for dying and robbing her of her guidance. At Arabella for withholding the truth and pulling her into all of this at the same time. And at Elijah for sparing her life and darkening her doorstep, for hiding his motives behind heroics and deals.

She hops off the counter, standing in front of him with hard eyes. 

But she feels it still -beneath the anger- that small thread of safety, of trust, even as she tells him, “No.” 

“No?” he repeats, a hint of surprise as he wraps his lips around the syllable. 

“No,” she says again, firmer this time like she can make the both of them believe it.

“Might I ask why?” 

She bats the delicate thread between them away like a cobweb. “What guarantee do I have that you’ll keep your word or that I'm safe from you? You’ve already admitted to following me.”

He blinks, arching a sharp brow as if he’d misheard her. “Need I remind you I just saved your life?”

“You did,” she acknowledges. “And I’m grateful.”

“And that isn’t enough to prove my good intentions?” 

“No,” she says, and the chair protests as he rises to his full height before her. He towers overhead, grave and cold like marble. She wonders if she’s made a terrible miscalculation. 

“I see.” His posture straightens in resolution, a picture of cold professionalism. “And what is your plan, if I may ask? To hole up in this cottage as you did at the hotel and hope that no one comes to carry you off in the night or that Marcel doesn't kill you for the magic you used earlier this evening?”

Her temper flares, rising to meet his. Her jaw clenches hard enough that it feels as if her teeth might break.

The judgment smarts, both in how close it comes to the truth and also from the delivery. Original or not, this man doesn’t know her, doesn’t understand the agony or the joy between the neat facts he’s learned of her life. She knows she should keep her mouth shut, that's she toeing a very treacherous line, but she won’t let him shame her, not here. 

She squares her shoulders, tipping her head back to look him in the eye. “It’s late. And unless you have any more glaring flaws of mine that you’d like to point out, I think you should go.”

It’s a challenge. They both know it. She’s testing the waters to see if he’ll comply with her request or force her hand and prove himself unworthy of trust. She isn’t sure how long they stay locked in their tense tableau, but he relents first. His posture eases and he steps back, allowing air into the room once more.

“Then I suppose that leaves me only one option,” he says with finality. He’s angry at her. She can tell by the rigidity of his shoulders, the tick in his jaw. Yet, he doesn’t allow it to carry him away.

“And that is?”

“I’m afraid I have no choice but to honor your decision — misguided though I believe it to be.” He turns his back to her then, and she follows his retreat down the hall. Hand on the doorknob, he pauses. “I will respect your wishes, Miss LeMarche. But as someone who saved your life, I’m asking you one last time to tell me what you know. For my family’s safety.”

“Is this the part where you compel me to do it, anyway?” she asks, trying to hold on to her anger with both hands. 

“I think you and I both know that won’t work,” he smiles, or maybe it’s a grimace. “I recommend you don’t return to your hotel. Someone will be along tomorrow with your things. Consider it a parting gift.”

She’s stunned into silence, unable to do anything but watch as he opens the door. He’s through the threshold before she calls out, “Elijah, wait.”

He meets her eyes over his shoulder in a wordless question. 

She steels herself for what she’s about to say, for the act of treason it feels like she's going to commit. “The Harvest Ritual,” she says, voice clipped. “Start there and I’m sure you’ll find your answers.”

He searches her face, and her eyes for a long moment and then inclines his head. “Thank you. Take care of yourself, Miss LeMarche.”

Then, the door clicks shut behind him, leaving Lucie alone in the empty house. 

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