## Santorini, Greece
**6:30 AM Local Time**
The villa clung to the cliffside like a jewel against the Aegean morning—white stone gleaming against an endless stretch of cobalt water, infinity pools spilling so cleanly into the horizon that even gods would struggle to tell where decadence ended and the sea began.
Rebekah Mikaelson never settled for anything less.
She stood on the main terrace in a champagne-colored silk robe that probably cost more than a small country's GDP, her blonde hair loose and catching the sunrise like spun gold. The coffee cup in her manicured hands was hand-painted Florentine porcelain—because why drink from anything pedestrian when you could sip from art itself? The morning was perfect, crystalline, holy even. Behind her, through floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see Marcus still tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets, his archaeological thesis scattered across her mahogany desk where he'd abandoned it sometime around when she'd decided his mouth had better uses than discussing ancient pottery shards.
Yes, this was exactly how mornings should begin.
The shrill buzz of a phone shattered that peace like a hammer through crystal.
Not her regular phone—the rose gold iPhone that buzzed constantly with invitations to galas, offers from art dealers, and messages from various lovers across three continents. Not even the burner she used for charming bureaucrats into overlooking certain forged documents. No, this was *that* phone.
The one Klaus had insisted each sibling carry. Burgundy leather, silver accents, entirely too dramatic—because of course Niklaus couldn't simply give them normal emergency contacts. This was the phone meant strictly for family emergencies. In the fifty years since she'd been given it, it had rung exactly twice. Both times had ended with daggers, fire, blood, and someone dramatically impaled on something sharp.
She sighed, set down her cup with the delicate precision of someone who'd learned centuries ago that throwing things in anger only led to replacing priceless objects, and answered.
"This had better be apocalyptically important, Niklaus," she purred, dangerous sweetness coating her tone like honey over a blade. "Because if I miss out on morning sex and this turns out to be you feeling lonely again, I will personally fly to whatever corner of the world you're sulking in and kill you. Slowly. With a butter knife."
On the other end, Klaus's voice drawled through the speaker, deceptively warm in that way he wielded like a perfectly balanced dagger—silk wrapped around steel. She could hear the tension underneath though, like the faint hum of a bowstring pulled taut and ready to snap.
"Good morning to you too, little sister," he said, and she could practically see him smirking, probably swirling bourbon in a crystal tumbler despite the early hour. "How delightfully... colorful your threats have become. Tell me, is this Marcus fellow still breathing, or have you already disposed of him?"
"Don't you dare 'good morning' me, you dramatic git," Rebekah snapped, though there was affection threading through her irritation. "Marcus is perfectly fine—better than fine, actually, considering I haven't killed him yet, which is more than I can say for most of my recent companions. Now what is it? Has Hope discovered boys? Wait, don't tell me—she's discovered boys and they're supernatural. Or worse, they're *mortal* and you're having a crisis of overprotective fatherhood?"
Klaus's laughter was dark and rich. "Oh, you'll want to sit for this one, Bekah."
"I'm standing on a cliff in Santorini, Nik. The view already looks like Olympus had a baby with a postcard. Dramatic news delivery loses some of its effect when you're already living in paradise. Get on with it before I lose interest and go back to bed."
"It's Elijah."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Rebekah froze, coffee cup halfway to her lips, every muscle in her body going rigid. The morning breeze suddenly felt cold against her silk robe.
"What about Elijah?" Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed.
"He's back."
She blinked, processing the words like they were in a foreign language. "Define 'back,' darling brother. Because last I checked, our noble Elijah was wandering around the world in his expensive suits playing the part of a stranger, pretending he didn't know us from Adam. You're not calling to tell me he's started another jazz band in New Orleans, are you? Because honestly, one musical phase per century is quite enough."
"No, Rebekah." Klaus's tone softened in that rare, vulnerable way that immediately made her chest tighten with something dangerously close to hope. "He remembers. Everything. Us. Hope. Why he left. What we mean to each other."
Rebekah's breath hitched, her free hand gripping the marble balustrade hard enough that her knuckles went white. "His memories are returning? All of them?"
"Every last one," Klaus confirmed, and she could hear the wonder in his voice, the disbelief of a man who'd convinced himself this day would never come. "He knows who we are, Bekah. He called me brother. Not just as a courtesy—he *knew* me. He remembered our first hunt together in the caves beneath Mystic Falls. He remembered teaching Hope to paint. He remembered..."
"He remembered us," she whispered, finishing the thought.
"Yes." Klaus's voice was rough now, stripped of its usual theatrical flourish. "And he wants to help. He wants to protect Hope without tearing the family apart. He wants to fix this mess we've made of everything."
For a moment, the sharp, indestructible Rebekah Mikaelson allowed herself stillness. Hope—safe. Elijah—whole. The family—together. The word 'together' felt foreign on her tongue, like a language she'd forgotten how to speak.
She forced her voice steady, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "And these cosmic meddlers who managed what none of us could? Do I need to prepare for afternoon tea with gods, or should I start shopping for virgin sacrifices? Because honestly, my social calendar is already quite full."
"Well..." Klaus hesitated, and that pause—that tiny crack in his usual confidence—sent alarm bells ringing in her head.
"Niklaus," she said slowly, "you're doing that thing where you pause dramatically before delivering news that will make me want to commit murder. Out with it."
"Lucifer Morningstar."
The name hung in the air like a live grenade.
Rebekah stared out at the Aegean, watching a yacht drift across the horizon like a white speck of paint on blue canvas. She blinked once. Twice. Then arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"As in *the* Lucifer?" she asked with the sort of calm that preceded either enlightenment or homicide. "Fallen angel, Prince of Darkness, eternal torment, pitchforks and brimstone—that Lucifer?"
"The very same," Klaus admitted, the words dripping with distaste like he'd bitten into something rotten.
"Right." She took a delicate sip of her coffee, processing this information with the sort of supernatural calm that came from a millennium of impossible situations. "And I suppose this isn't a social call? He didn't just pop by Hell's kitchen to borrow a cup of sugar and accidentally fix our brother's memories while he was at it?"
"There's more."
"Oh, naturally there is. Because why would anything involving our family ever be simple?"
Klaus's voice darkened, taking on that dangerous edge that usually preceded someone being murdered in creative ways. "His son. The Devil's son is Hope's... boyfriend."
Rebekah nearly choked on her coffee. "I'm sorry, could you run that by me again? Because I could have sworn you just said that Hope Mikaelson—our Hope, the tribrid, walking miracle, bane of a thousand prophecies—has a boyfriend. And this boyfriend is the actual Devil's son?"
"That would be the situation, yes," Klaus said grimly, and she could practically hear him pacing, probably wearing a hole in whatever expensive rug he was standing on.
"Oh, this I absolutely *have* to witness," Rebekah said, her voice lighting up with genuine delight. "Does he sparkle? Brood mysteriously in corners? Quote dark poetry? Please tell me he quotes dark poetry, Nik. I do so enjoy watching Hope make questionable romantic decisions—it's like watching myself at her age, only with more cosmic consequences."
"This isn't funny, Rebekah," Klaus snapped, his hybrid control fraying at the edges.
"Of course it's funny!" She laughed, bright and crystalline in the morning air. "You—Niklaus Mikaelson, the great hybrid terror of the supernatural world, reduced to sputtering about your teenage daughter's love life like some suburban father who's just discovered his little princess has been sneaking boys through her bedroom window. The irony is absolutely delicious. I may frame this conversation."
Klaus growled low in his throat, a sound that had sent armies fleeing in terror. "Focus, Rebekah."
"Oh, I am focused," she assured him, still grinning. "I'm focused on the mental image of you giving the Devil's son the shovel talk. 'Now see here, young man, if you hurt my daughter, I'll tear your throat out and dance in your blood.' Does Lucifer's boy have a throat to tear out, do you think? Or is he all fire and brimstone?"
"Rebekah."
The single word carried enough menace to level a city block. She sobered slightly, though the smile never quite left her lips.
"Alright, alright. I'm listening. What does dear old Lucifer want in exchange for our brother's memories? And please don't tell me it involves souls or firstborn children, because Hope is technically a firstborn and I rather like having her around."
Klaus's voice gentled, taking on that careful tone he used when delivering news that would change everything. "He's proposed a ritual. Reality restructuring, apparently. It would rid Hope of the Hollow permanently—no more isolation, no more separation, no more living in fear of what she might do to the people she loves."
Rebekah went very still. The coffee cup trembled slightly in her hands.
"All of us," Klaus continued softly. "Together. The ritual requires all of us, Bekah. The whole family. United. Like we used to be."
"Always and forever," she whispered, the words feeling like a prayer.
"Exactly." His voice was rough with emotion. "This could be it, Bekah. A real chance at peace. At being whole again. At Hope having a normal life—well, as normal as any Mikaelson life can be."
She closed her eyes, letting the possibility wash over her like the Aegean tide. Hope, free to love without fear. Elijah, whole and present and *remembering*. The family, reunited. No more running, no more hiding, no more watching the people they loved suffer because of what they were.
When she opened her eyes, they were bright with unshed tears and fierce determination.
"Where?" she asked, her voice steady as steel.
"The Salvatore School. Virginia."
"Lovely," she muttered, already turning back toward the villa, her mind racing through logistics. "I'll need to explain to Marcus why I'm abandoning him mid-archaeological breakthrough. Poor darling thinks he's discovered something revolutionary about Minoan pottery—I haven't the heart to tell him I was there when they made the bloody things. And I'll need to make some calls, transfer some funds... just in case this goes spectacularly wrong and we need to disappear for another century or two."
"How long do you need?" Klaus asked.
"Give me six hours to make arrangements and say goodbye to paradise," she said, already mentally packing. "Though I have to ask, Nik—will this reality restructuring affect my bank accounts? Because I've spent considerable time and effort building my current financial empire, and I'd rather not start from scratch again."
Klaus's laughter was warm and familiar. "I somehow doubt the Devil is interested in your Swiss investments, little sister."
"One can never be too careful when dealing with cosmic beings," she said primly. "They have such odd priorities." She paused, studying the sunrise painting gold streaks across the water. "Nik... is it real this time? Or are we setting ourselves up for another spectacular fall? Because I'm not sure my heart can take losing Elijah again."
For once, Klaus didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice carried a rawness she hadn't heard in decades—the voice of a brother who'd been hoping and hurting in equal measure.
"I spoke to him, Bekah. Our Elijah. He looked me in the eye and called me brother, and for the first time in years, I believed he meant it. He asked about you. About Kol and Freya. He wants his family back."
Her throat tightened, a tear sliding down her cheek despite her best efforts. "Then I'll be there," she said, firm and unshakable. "Devil's son, reality restructuring, cosmic intervention—whatever it takes. If Elijah's truly back... then always and forever still means something."
There was silence on the line, heavy with the weight of hope and fear and love that had defined them for a thousand years.
Finally, Klaus whispered it back, like an oath: "Always and forever."
Rebekah ended the call and stood for a moment, watching the sun climb higher over the endless blue of the Aegean. Then she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin with characteristic Mikaelson determination, and went to wake Marcus with the sort of goodbye that would give him something to write about in his thesis for years to come.
Some calls changed everything.
Some reunions were worth crossing oceans.
And some risks—yes, even reality-warping ones involving the Devil himself—were worth taking.
---
## Haiti
**11:30 PM Local Time**
The magical shop sat on a narrow street in Port-au-Prince like a secret whispered between buildings. From the outside, it looked charmingly eccentric—dusty windows displaying carved masks, crystals that caught streetlight and threw it back in rainbow fragments, and hand-painted signs in French and Kreyòl advertising everything from love potions to protective wards. What the casual observer couldn't see were the layers upon layers of magical protection woven into every brick and beam. The walls practically hummed with power, wards written in languages that predated most civilizations, the kind of magic that said very clearly: *witches have been practicing here since before your great-great-grandmother was born, and we're not going anywhere.*
Inside, the shop was organized chaos. Herbs hung in neat bundles from the ceiling, their scents mixing in a symphony of rosemary, sage, and things that didn't have names in English. Glass jars lined every available shelf, filled with ingredients that ranged from the mundane to the mythical. Candles flickered in corners, their flames dancing to rhythms that had nothing to do with air currents.
In the workroom behind the main shop, Davina Mikaelson stood with her sleeves rolled up and her dark hair pulled into a practical ponytail, completely absorbed in her work. The bench before her looked like an alchemist's dream—crystals arranged in precise geometric patterns, hand-carved talismans still warm from their blessing, bowls of powdered herbs measured to the gram. She was perfecting a spell designed to help young witches manage power surges, something she understood better than most. The air around her hands shimmered with controlled magic as she adjusted a piece of quartz by millimeters, her lips pressed in concentration.
"Darling," came Kol's voice from the front of the shop, lazy and amused and carrying just enough mischief to make her look up in alarm, "I do believe we're about to receive visitors of the dramatic family-crisis variety."
Davina didn't pause in her work, though her hands automatically moved to stabilize the delicate magical framework she'd been building. After three years of marriage to Kol Mikaelson, she'd learned to recognize the particular tone he used when chaos was about to rain down on their carefully constructed peace.
"Define 'visitors,'" she called back, making minute adjustments to the crystal array. "Do you mean actual paying customers? The kind who want simple protection charms and don't require us to risk our lives? Or do you mean one of your brothers with a new apocalypse and a distinct lack of boundaries when it comes to our personal time?"
Kol appeared in the doorway, grinning like a cat who'd found a particularly interesting mouse to play with. His shirt was half-unbuttoned because he'd been born allergic to proper decorum, his hair was artfully tousled in that way that suggested either a romantic interlude or a magical experiment had gone slightly wrong, and he was holding the ridiculous burgundy phone Klaus had insisted they all carry.
"Family," he announced with theatrical flair, spinning the phone on his finger like a gunslinger. "Niklaus, specifically. And he's ringing the emergency line, which, you'll recall, he swore was reserved for 'world-ending catastrophes and occasions requiring immediate vengeance.'"
Davina straightened, wiping her hands on a cloth embroidered with protective sigils. The emergency phone was ridiculous—burgundy leather, silver accents, entirely too ostentatious for something that was supposed to be practical. But Klaus had insisted, and when Klaus insisted on something related to family safety, it was generally easier to humor him than to argue.
The phone chimed a third time, its tone somehow managing to sound both urgent and pretentious.
Kol answered with his usual theatrical flair, holding the device like he was addressing a particularly amusing audience: "Kol Mikaelson speaking—consultant of the impossible, breaker of magical records, devoted husband to the most powerful witch this side of the Atlantic, and part-time purveyor of mystical goods to the discerning supernatural community of Haiti. What calamity compels you to interrupt what was shaping up to be a perfectly lovely evening of magical experimentation and marital bliss?"
On the other end, Klaus's voice came through clear and sharp, velvet wrapped around steel in that way he'd perfected over a thousand years of intimidating people into submission: "Kol. How absolutely delightful to hear your insufferable tone. Tell me, have you managed to restrain your natural penchant for creating magical catastrophes, or should I already be pouring whiskey in preparation for whatever disaster you're about to confess to?"
Davina, not missing a beat, raised her voice loud enough for Klaus to hear: "We're working on harmless magic these days, Klaus! Community service. Helping kids control their power. Nothing remotely catastrophic."
"Ah, children," Klaus mused, and there was something in his tone—a warmth, an odd sort of satisfaction. "How oddly relevant, actually."
Kol raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from playful to intrigued. After centuries of dealing with his brothers, he could read the subtle shifts in Klaus's voice like a musical score. "Oh, do go on, brother dearest. You've got that tone—the one you use when you're about to deliver news that will either delight us or send us running for the hills."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Klaus had always known how to stage his dramatic moments, even over a phone connection.
Then: "It's about Hope."
Davina felt the world shift slightly on its axis. She set down the crystal she'd been holding with careful precision, her full attention snapping to the phone in Kol's hand.
"Our niece?" Kol prompted, his voice still light but his eyes sharp and focused now. "What's happened to her? Because if someone has hurt that child—"
"Not what you think," Klaus interrupted, and for once there was unmistakable warmth in his voice, fragile and cautious like something precious that might break if handled too roughly. "Elijah is... back. Properly back. His memories are returning."
The statement hit the room like a lightning strike. Davina's breath caught in her throat, and the talismans on her workbench gave a soft harmonic hum, responding to her sudden emotional spike.
"Wait," she said, stepping closer to the phone, "you mean he remembers? Everything? Us?"
"Everything," Klaus confirmed, and she could hear the wonder in his voice, the disbelief of someone who'd given up hope and suddenly found it thrust back into his hands. "The family. Hope. Why he left. What it cost us. All of it."
Davina pressed a hand flat against the workbench, grounding herself through the smooth wood and the steady thrum of protective magic that permeated the entire building. Elijah—noble, self-sacrificing, impossible Elijah—whole again?
Kol, meanwhile, was grinning like he'd just been invited to the world's most entertaining party. "And I take it, dear brother, that this miraculous restoration wasn't achieved through the power of positive thinking and brotherly love alone?"
"You assume correctly," Klaus said, his voice taking on that particular edge that meant complications were coming. "He's been working with... Lucifer Morningstar."
The name hung in the air like a live wire.
Kol let out a bark of delighted laughter. "You mean *the* Devil? Actual Prince of Darkness, fallen angel, ruler of Hell—that Lucifer?"
"The very one," Klaus muttered, sounding like he was speaking through gritted teeth.
Davina's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "Wait. Lucifer? As in biblical Lucifer? Morning Star, Light-Bearer, Cast-Out-of-Heaven Lucifer?"
"And his son," Klaus added, with a grimace audible through the phone connection. "Who happens to be Hope's... boyfriend."
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Kol clutched his chest with his free hand, staggering backward dramatically. "Our sweet little Hope Mikaelson has a boyfriend? Our precious tribrid niece is dating the actual spawn of Hell? Oh, this is absolutely glorious! This is better than Christmas and my birthday combined!"
"Kol," Klaus growled in warning.
"No, no, hear me out," Kol continued, waving his hand with flourish. "This is perfect! A bit of forbidden romance never hurt anyone—except, of course, when it ends in apocalyptic cataclysm, which, let's be entirely honest, in this family is practically a rite of passage. I approve completely! The boy's got excellent breeding—you can't get more exclusive bloodlines than the Morningstar family. Though I do hope he's house-trained. Does he sparkle? Please tell me he doesn't sparkle, because that would be terribly disappointing."
Davina gave him a look that could have melted steel. "Kol."
"What?" He spread his hands innocently. "I'm simply saying that our Hope has exquisite taste in impossible romantic situations. It's genetic, clearly. Look at us—I married a harvest girl who could level city blocks, and you..." he gestured vaguely in Klaus's direction through the phone, "well, you've had romantic entanglements with everything from werewolves to witches to vampires to at least one particularly memorable doppelganger situation that I'm still not entirely clear on."
"Are you quite finished?" Klaus asked with deadly politeness.
"For now," Kol said cheerfully. "Please, continue. I'm riveted."
Davina stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Kol's arm. "Klaus, what exactly does this mean? Hope's dating Lucifer's son, and they're working together to help Elijah?"
"They've devised a ritual," Klaus said, his voice growing serious. "Reality restructuring, they call it. A way to permanently separate Hope from the Hollow without requiring continued isolation from the family."
Kol whistled low, his playful demeanor shifting into something more focused. "Reality restructuring. Now that sounds like my sort of magical challenge. Complex, dangerous, potentially catastrophic if it goes wrong—right up our alley."
"Or our death warrant," Davina muttered, though she was already running through the theoretical implications in her mind. Reality-level magic required massive amounts of power, perfect precision, and the kind of cosmic connections that most witches only dreamed of accessing.
"What would it require?" she asked Klaus directly. "A ritual that powerful—the components alone must be staggering."
"All of us," Klaus said simply. "The entire family. Together. United in purpose."
The words hit like a physical blow. Davina felt tears prick at her eyes before she could stop them. The Mikaelson family, whole again. No more separation, no more careful distance, no more watching Hope grow up in isolation from the people who loved her most.
Kol's expression softened, his natural theatrical bent giving way to genuine emotion. "Together. All of us. Like it used to be."
"Like it should be," Klaus said quietly.
Davina cleared her throat, steadying her voice. "Klaus... if this is real—if it could mean Hope doesn't have to live cut off from everyone who loves her—then yes. Of course we'll come. Whatever you need."
"Excellent," Klaus said, warmth creeping back into his tone. "We're meeting at the Salvatore School in Virginia. And Kol?"
"Yes, brother mine?"
Klaus's voice dropped into that menacing softness that had terrified supernatural beings across centuries: "This isn't a game. One wrong move, one moment of your characteristic reckless enthusiasm, and you won't just be endangering Hope—you'll be tampering with the very fabric of reality itself. Try, for once in your wretched existence, not to make everything exponentially worse."
Kol's grin was pure mischief and affection in equal measure. "Oh, Nik. Where's your faith in me? I promise to be the very picture of restraint and responsibility. Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout," Klaus pointed out dryly.
"Minor details," Kol waved dismissively. "Besides, Davina will keep me in line. She's had years of practice."
Davina rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "I'll do my best. Though managing Kol Mikaelson's impulse control in the face of reality-altering magic is probably beyond even my considerable abilities."
"Have faith, darling," Kol said, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I'll be absolutely angelic. Well, relatively speaking."
Klaus groaned audibly through the phone. "Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"
"Because you know us too well," Kol said cheerfully. "But think of it this way—if we accidentally unravel existence, at least we'll all be together when the universe ends. Very romantic, really."
"Goodbye, Kol," Klaus said firmly.
"Wait!" Davina called out before he could hang up. "Klaus... thank you. For including us. For making this about the whole family. It means everything."
Klaus's voice gentled. "Always and forever, Davina."
"Always and forever," she replied, meaning every word.
Kol echoed it with characteristic flourish: "Always and forever—and occasionally until the end of time, if I have anything to say about it!"
The line clicked dead.
For a moment, silence filled the workroom, thick with possibility and terror and hope in equal measure.
Then Davina immediately began pulling supplies into her traveling bag with practiced efficiency. "We'll need amplification crystals, portable ward stones, protection amulets, binding materials, and at least three different backup plans in case the primary ritual goes sideways..."
"And matching outfits," Kol interrupted cheerfully, already moving to help her pack. "If we're attending a cosmic family reunion featuring the Devil himself, we absolutely must look our best. First impressions matter, you know, especially when dealing with fallen angels and their offspring."
Davina paused to give him a look that was equal parts exasperation and deep, abiding affection. "Sometimes I wonder how I ended up married to you."
"Impeccable taste and a weakness for dangerous men with charming accents," he said promptly, waggling his eyebrows. "Plus, you love me."
"I do," she admitted, softening. "Even when you're being impossible."
"Especially when I'm being impossible," he corrected, pulling her close for a quick, fierce kiss. "Now come on, darling. Let's go save the world. Again."
Because some phone calls changed everything.
Some family reunions were worth crossing oceans.
And some chances at happiness were worth risking cosmic intervention—even if it meant dealing with the Devil, his son, and Kol Mikaelson's eternal talent for turning complex situations into elaborate disasters.
Always and forever.
---
## The French Quarter, New Orleans
**12:45 AM Local Time**
The bedroom reeked of magic and satisfaction in equal measure—sandalwood smoke still curling from extinguished candles, chalk runes smeared half-erased across the polished wooden floor where they'd been drawn for a protection spell and then thoroughly ignored in favor of more immediate concerns. Silk sheets twisted in abstract patterns that would have made modern artists weep with envy, the aftermath of a battle far more satisfying than any magic had ever promised to be.
Freya Mikaelson lay sprawled across Egyptian cotton that cost more per yard than most people made in a month, her chest still heaving slightly, every muscle in her body humming with the kind of contentment that came from being thoroughly and expertly demolished by someone who knew exactly which buttons to push. For someone who had once mastered cosmic alignments, bound primordial forces, and negotiated with entities older than recorded history, she had never quite figured out how to defend herself against a werewolf with wandering hands, a wicked smile, and an unfortunate tendency to interrupt spellwork at precisely the right moments.
Beside her, Keelin stretched with feline grace, every line of her body speaking of smug satisfaction and the particular glow of a woman who'd just won a very enjoyable argument. She smirked at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles overhead, its gentle whir the only sound in the otherwise perfectly appointed bedroom.
"You know," Keelin murmured, her voice still slightly breathless, "for someone who scowls every time I interrupt your magical research, you didn't exactly put up much resistance tonight."
Freya turned her head on the silk pillowcase, lips curving in a faint smile that held secrets. "That's because you fight dirty, Dr. Malraux. Extremely dirty."
"Oh, I absolutely do," Keelin agreed, propping herself up on one elbow to trace absent patterns across Freya's collarbone. "Medical school teaches you all sorts of useful techniques for... relieving tension. Besides, you needed the distraction. You've been walking around for days like the apocalypse sent out formal invitations again."
Freya let out a soft laugh, short and rueful. "With this family? The apocalypse doesn't bother with invitations. It just shows up unannounced, usually during dinner or some other inconvenient moment, and proceeds to make itself at home."
"Mmm," Keelin hummed against her shoulder, pressing a lazy kiss there. "Well, for the record, I much prefer this version of stress relief to your usual method of staying up all night brewing increasingly dangerous potions and muttering in ancient languages."
Before Freya could form a suitably witty response, the sharp trill of *that* phone cut through the dim quiet like a blade through silk. The sound seemed to vibrate through the floorboards of the centuries-old townhouse, an intrusion so jarring that both women immediately went rigid.
Keelin groaned and threw an arm over her face dramatically. "You have got to be kidding me. The universe has absolutely terrible timing. I mean, truly spectacular in its awfulness."
Freya was already reaching for the nightstand drawer where she kept the ridiculous device Klaus had pressed into her hand six months ago with his characteristic blend of dramatic insistence and genuine concern. The phone itself was a work of art—sleek black glass inlaid with silver runes that pulsed faintly with protective magic, because of course Klaus couldn't simply give them normal emergency contacts. This was for family emergencies only, he'd said, which in Mikaelson-speak typically translated to "every catastrophe you've ever dreaded, but worse and with more blood."
"Don't answer it," Keelin said, flopping back against the pillows with theatrical despair. "Please. If you answer that phone, I'm starting a petition: 'No Family Crises After Midnight.' It'll be beautifully formatted, professionally printed, and I'll present it to Klaus personally. With charts."
Freya arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, though her fingers were already moving to accept the call. "You can take it up with Niklaus directly. I'm sure he'll appreciate your administrative expertise and your... formatting skills."
"I'll send him a Google calendar invite labeled 'Stop Ruining Our Sex Life,'" Keelin muttered. "With recurring reminders. Daily."
Despite everything, Freya's lips twitched with genuine amusement. She pressed accept and lifted the phone, her voice immediately sharpening into the cool, professional tone she'd perfected over centuries of dealing with supernatural crises.
"Niklaus," she said without preamble, "this had better not be about one of your impulsive vendettas or some perceived slight that requires the immediate and violent death of everyone tangentially involved."
On the other end, Klaus's voice slithered through the speaker like expensive whiskey—smooth, warm, and potentially lethal: "Freya, darling sister. How absolutely lovely to hear that your tongue remains as sharp as ever. Tell me, did I interrupt something... important?"
Heat crept up Freya's throat despite her best efforts at maintaining dignity. Klaus had always been unnaturally perceptive about the worst possible moments to call.
"Get to the point, Niklaus," she said crisply.
Beside her, Keelin was mouthing exaggerated words: *He knows. He totally knows.*
Klaus let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable, savoring his moment like a fine wine. Then his voice dropped, low and deliberate. "It's Elijah."
Freya's grip tightened on the phone. "What about Elijah?"
"He's back," Klaus said simply. "Properly back. His memories—all of them. He remembers us. He remembers Hope. And he wishes to help."
Freya's throat went dry. Elijah. Her brother. Her anchor. Maddeningly noble, unbearably self-sacrificing Elijah—whole again? She barely let herself believe it. "How?" she whispered.
Klaus exhaled like a man savoring his own theatrics. "That's where the tale grows complicated. He's been visited by… Lucifer Morningstar."
There was a beat of silence. Then Keelin sat bolt upright, clutching the sheets around her chest. "I'm sorry—*what*?"
Freya blinked, voice flat. "Lucifer. As in *Lucifer Lucifer*?"
"The Devil himself," Klaus confirmed grimly. "And his son. Who, apparently, is Hope's boyfriend."
For a moment, the line carried only silence. Then Keelin snorted so hard she nearly choked. "Oh my God. That's perfect. Your family's chaos gene really is hereditary."
Freya shot her a look, but the corner of her lips twitched. "Nik, you're telling me my niece—the tribrid—is dating the literal spawn of Hell?"
"Yes," Klaus snapped, his veneer cracking. "And before you launch into your usual cross-examination, know this: they've devised a ritual. A restructuring of reality itself. It would rid Hope of the Hollow permanently. But it requires all of us. Together."
Freya went still. The Hollow—the curse that had haunted their every breath—gone? Her magic shivered in recognition of what that could mean. What it would cost.
Keelin reached over, laid her hand over Freya's. "Babe. If this is real…"
Freya drew a long breath, already cataloguing risks, rituals, cosmic balances, debts owed to beings even gods feared. Then, soft but unshakable, she said: "Always and forever."
Klaus's voice gentled, almost reverent. "Always and forever."
Keelin leaned toward the phone, voice raised. "Niklaus, if you drag her into another apocalyptic death march, I swear—"
"Lovely to hear your voice as well, Keelin," Klaus cut in smoothly, menace wrapped in velvet. "Do take care of her. She'll need her strength."
The line clicked dead.
For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room, thick with dread and possibility.
Then Keelin muttered, "Lucifer. Hope's boyfriend. Cosmic rituals. Why can't your family ever just… play charades? Or go to brunch like normal people?"
Freya let out a low, weary laugh. "Because, love… we're Mikaelsons."
She rose from the bed, reached for her satchel, and began packing with precise, practiced movements. Her voice was calm, but it carried iron.
"Pack light. We're going to Virginia."
---
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