Hurricane / The Originals

Chapter 1

              Working at the local bar was not for the weak, especially not in New Orleans the liquor was always flowing and the food just kept coming. Those were the wise words of Marcel anyways and to Cleo she thought it was always a distraction for the other issues this city may face. For Cleo though it kept her busy and her mind from wandering and kept her out of trouble. After her parents' past that seemed like a necessity for her. 

Truly the only reason why she knew of the supernatural was due to her parents. They strongly believed that if she was to grow up here then she must be made aware. 

Her curly brown hair was pulled back in a tight slick bun, a simple way to tame her hair from the humidity of New Orleans. With a quick look at her you can tell that she is of Italian descent.The telltale signs of her Italian heritage—olive skin that seemed to glow under the dim bar lights, and bright green eyes that held a quiet intensity—marked her as a native daughter of New Orleans, a city where every face told a story, and every lineage carried weight. Most women hated her and most men wanted her and that was decided in one quick glance.

It seemed like Rousseau's thought was nothing but ordinary. Marcel seemed to always make his appearance which for Camilie was nothing more than another flirty customer but to Cleo it was an issue. An issue because if the so-called king of the city keeps appearing then so does his henchmen. With that said safety was out of the question. 

Marcel took a liking to Cleo off of the bat. Marcel enjoyed the challenge Cleo presented, her refusal to be intimidated or swayed by his influence. In a city where allegiances shifted like the tide and trust was a rare commodity, he found himself drawn to her resilience and independence. He knew immediately that she knew what he was. He claimed it was by the way she chose not to look in his eye or the quick distince she would put between them. But with all that said he enjoyed how she put up a fight and did not let her façade crack. T

hat's why he liked playing with her. They both knew but they both didn't want to be the first one to speak about it. In an odd way he wanted to protect her.

—-

Cami darted between tables with practiced efficiency, her energy a stark contrast to the lingering quiet that had settled over the Bar. I watched her for a moment, a mixture of admiration and concern welling up inside me. Since she'd arrived in New Orleans, she'd worked like a dog, taking on every shift and staying late to help clean up. We'd grown close quickly, bonded by our shared experiences and the camaraderie of the bar.

"Cami, why don't you take a break? Looks like it's slowing down," I offered, my voice soft against the backdrop of distant jazz music and muted conversation.

She looked at me, relief spreading across her face. "Are you sure? There's still dishes to do."

"I'm positive. Go take a breather," I insisted with a reassuring smile, knowing she'd likely retreat to the back to lose herself in her psychology textbook. Understanding people seemed to be her way of making sense of the world around her—a trait I admired and sometimes envied.

As Cami disappeared into the depths of the bar, I turned my attention to a man sitting in the corner booth. He was a stranger, a new face in a city where familiarity was both a comfort and a warning. There was something about him—his demeanor, perhaps, or the way his eyes flickered with a mix of weariness and determination—that caught my attention.

"So, what brings you to the Big Easy?" I asked, leaning casually on the counter across from him.

He glanced up, meeting my gaze with a faint smile. "I used to live here," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia.

"Well, well," I chuckled softly, intrigued by his admission. "It's a wonderful place, isn't it? Been my home for 22 years, and yet I don't recall seeing you around."

"It feels like it's been a hundred years since I was last here," he mused, his tone wistful yet tinged with an edge of uncertainty.

"What brings you back, then?" I inquired, genuinely curious now.

"Would you believe me if I said I missed it?" he countered with a half-smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Nope," I teased gently. "Once you leave this place, most folks don't exactly rush back."

He chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to ease the tension between us. "Well, my brother's here somewhere," he admitted, his expression growing more serious. "I'm afraid he might have gotten himself into a bit of a bind."

I raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "You say that like it's a common occurrence."

"He's... complicated," the man explained, hesitating slightly as if searching for the right words. "Defiant, ill-mannered, and a little temperamental. We don't share the same father, and it's always bothered him. He's never felt like he belongs. And he has a knack for finding trouble."

"And I'm guessing you have a knack for getting him out of it," I replied knowingly, a hint of admiration in my voice.

He nodded ruefully. "What kind of bind is your brother in?" I prodded gently, sensing there was more to the story.

"He believes there are people in this town conspiring against him," the man confessed, his gaze flickering around the bar as if searching for unseen threats.

"He sounds like a real charmer," I quipped sarcastically, though concern crept into my voice.

His eyes met mine, and I felt a shiver of unease ripple through me. "Listen, Cleo," he began, his use of my name catching me off guard. "I'm looking for someone who might shed some light on his current predicament. Jane-Anne Deveraux. Any idea where I might find her?"

I couldn't help but laugh, though it was tinged with nervousness. "Of course, I know her. But good luck. She's a pain in the arse she's ether making gumbo or fighting for world domination," I replied, trying to maintain a casual demeanor while internally bracing for the storm I feared was coming. The arrival of a stranger asking about Jane-Anne in our little bar was a sure sign that trouble was brewing.

His expression darkened slightly, a flicker of concern passing through his eyes. "I appreciate the warning," he said quietly, his tone turning serious.

With that, he rose from the booth, leaving behind a sense of uncertainty that hung in the air like smoke and as he got up and left he placed a 50 dollar bill down but what strikes my mind is that he never ordered anything.