White Blood | Klaus Mikaelson

Chapter Thirteen

1872 — Annecy, France

   Eleanor Fraser was sure she could see ghosts, for her bedroom at the Château d'Annecy was haunted. In the short nights she laid in bed with Klaus somewhere in the castle, the young vampire had been woken by groans and whimpers and the gentle caress of an unseen figure. She would feel the caress of a gentle hand run through her hair, almost as if it were pushing a few strands back. It was then when she would wake, when she would call out for whoever as she looked around to the room to see no one.

   Eleanor pushed her hair back into careless locks, long strands of golden hair entwining between her fingers. She watched herself in the mirror, the one right across from the bed she had claimed more as hers than the person she shared it with. Her eyes drifted to the said bed. She made a face at the thought of sharing it with Klaus and decided to head downstairs to the parlour where she could share tea with other vampires who were also staying at the grand castle. 

   As soon as she entered the parlour, she felt the heat of the fire in the fireplace caress her face. It felt warm, unlike her touch or when she touched Klaus' hand. There were a few seats in front of the fire, a wooden table in front that was covered in books and half empty tea cups. For such a big place, there was barely any dust. Even the smallest crevices were deeply cleaned.

   There were paintings of lords and ladies, scenes of spring and colour on the stone walls, yet they looked dull to the young vampire. Tapestries of knights and jousting, of bloody fights and commemorations of lords visiting, of small angels with flying around naked women. Their eyes seemed to follow Eleanor as she moved to the further end of the room

   She took a seat in a comfortable looking chair, picked up one of the books on the table, and ran her hand through the cover. It was a deep velvet coloured cover with a gold title and gold at the corner of the pages. For a moment, she thought it was the bible. When she opened it, she realised that the book was not in English, or in French, or the languages she had managed to learn with the help of Elijah. That book was in Latin, a language she did not know as much as the rest. As she passed the pages, she read just a few words that she had memorised from the lessons Sister Silvia would give. 

   Slowly, Eleanor read as much as she could. Latin wasn't a language she felt comfortable learning, even though she could probably learn it fast. She did enjoy the sound of the words, but it reminded her a lot of the time she spend in an orphanage, all alone with the sense of ghosts, How strange was it that she felt the same way now as she did then, with ghosts.

   "C'est lá mon livre," a male said. This is my book. Oh, how she suddenly felt foolish.

   Eleanor looked up from the book, her blue eyes colliding with another form of blue. These eyes were softer, filled with much more caring than she had ever seen in blue. Gentle, like the blue on a sunny morning by the beach. That kind blue belonged to a man with dark hair pushed back, little ringlets at the back of his head. The man had a soft stubble on his chin, lighter than his hair. For a single moment, Eleanor Fraser was entranced by the man.

   She shook her head and glanced down at the book, letting out a soft chuckle. "Pardon," she told him as she closed the book. "Il semblait intéressant."

   The man let out a soft chuckle. "I presume French is not your first language."

   "Is it that noticeable?" she smiled.

   "Only if you listen intently," the man said. He took a seat on the wooden table in front and looked at her, as if he were studying her. He sat straight, regal, reminding her a lot of Elijah. "Thomas Cummings," he said, reaching out a hand to her.