Ruined Kings and Their Queens

Deviation

Chapter Eight

The scent of old dust and burnt incense hits me the moment I reach the witch hunter's apartment building. A large moving truck is parked haphazardly at the curb, its engine still humming like it's impatient to leave. I narrow my eyes, the metallic tang of iron mixing faintly with the distinct, sharp undercurrent of magic. Something's happening.

I vamp-speed up the crumbling staircase, my footsteps soundless against the creaking floorboards. The apartment door is slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light cutting into the dusty hallway like a wound. I slip inside without hesitation—I've already been invited, after all. No need for politeness when my curiosity outweighs courtesy.

The air inside is thick, like it's been holding its breath. Maddox—the warlock from earlier—enters just as I do, his expression bored, but there's tension in the way his shoulders are set. He knows I'm here. He probably scented me the moment I crossed the threshold, but he doesn't acknowledge me. Typical.

Klaus, still wearing Alaric's face, stands by the window, impatience radiating off him in waves. His eyes snap to Maddox like daggers. "Maddox, what took you so long?"

Maddox shrugs lazily, dropping a duffel bag onto the floor with a dull thud. "You've got a lot of luggage."

Before Klaus can retort, two men enter, lugging several heavy bags. Their footsteps echo too loudly in the cramped space. But it's the girl trailing behind them that steals my attention.

Brown-skinned, sharp-eyed, moving with a grace that speaks of arrogance earned, not given.

Greta.

My stomach knots, a slow, burning fury twisting in my gut. What the actual fuck? This is Greta? The girl Jonas and Luka died trying to save? She's here willingly, her eyes practically glowing with devotion as she smiles at Klaus like he's a god draped in flesh.

Klaus's lips curl into a grin as he approaches her, his tone dripping with smug affection. "Greta. Finally."

"Hello, love," she purrs, her voice smooth as silk. "Nice body. You ready to get out of it?"

My mind reels. Her father and brother are rotting in the ground because of her. They died for her. And she's standing here like it means nothing—like they meant nothing. The way she looks at Klaus, with unfiltered adoration, makes me sick. She traded family for power, and she doesn't even have the decency to pretend she regrets it.

The door bursts open again. Two more men stagger in, straining under the weight of a massive crate—an ominous, coffin-like box reinforced with iron clasps. Katherine's eyes lock onto it, her sharp gaze flickering with calculation. She's plotting something. Of course she is.

Greta and Maddox move with synchronized precision, placing ten pristine white candles in a perfect semi-circle on the dusty floor. The flames catch instantly, flickering unnervingly despite the absence of a draft. Their combined magic saturates the room, thick and oppressive, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

They kneel in front of the crate, chanting in a language older than anything written. The words crawl over my skin like invisible fingers, sending a ripple of unease down my spine. Klaus—still in Alaric's body—stands beside them, his usually smug demeanor replaced by something more brittle. Anticipation? Anxiety? Maybe even fear. It's unsettling to see that expression on his face.

Katherine and I exchange a glance from across the room. For once, there's no venom between us. Just mutual dread.

The chanting stops abruptly. The silence is deafening.

Klaus's—no, Alaric's—eyes flutter open. They're not the sharp, calculating eyes of the Original hybrid anymore. They're clouded, confused.

"Elena?" he whispers, his voice fragile and raw, as if speaking through shattered glass.