Marcel Gerard did not trust Drake immediately.
Which honestly made him the smartest person Drake had met in New Orleans so far.
Most supernatural creatures reacted to Drake one of two ways.
Fear.
Or fascination.
Marcel, however, reacted like a king protecting territory.
Careful.
Measured.
Calculating.
Which explained why Drake liked him almost instantly.
The vampire descended from the balcony overlooking the street with effortless confidence while several other vampires emerged subtly from nearby alleys.
Not openly aggressive.
But positioned strategically.
Drake noticed all of them immediately.
Ciri noticed him noticing them and leaned slightly closer.
"You're doing the predator thing again."
"I'm assessing threats."
"You assessed six rooftops in under two seconds."
Pause.
"…Old habits."
Marcel stopped several feet away from them and studied Drake openly.
The king of New Orleans looked relaxed on the surface.
Easy smile.
Sharp suit.
Charismatic posture.
But underneath?
Centuries of survival instinct hid behind every movement.
Marcel Gerard hadn't ruled New Orleans by being careless.
"Well," Marcel finally said while glancing toward the shattered street around them, "you certainly know how to make an entrance."
Drake looked around briefly.
"To be fair, the violence started first."
Rebekah laughed immediately.
"Oh, I'm definitely keeping him."
"You are not keeping the dimension traveler, Rebekah," Elijah said tiredly.
"Rude."
Marcel's eyes shifted back toward Drake carefully.
"You caught witchcraft."
"Technically," Ciri added helpfully, "he erased witchcraft."
That changed the atmosphere immediately.
Several nearby vampires tensed instinctively.
Even Marcel's expression sharpened slightly.
Because in New Orleans—
Magic mattered.
Power mattered.
And someone casually undoing powerful witchcraft with bare hands?
That qualified as deeply concerning.
Interesting.
Dangerous.
Potentially catastrophic.
Naturally Marcel became curious.
"You got a name?" he asked.
"Drake."
"Just Drake?"
"Yes."
Marcel waited.
Drake remained completely serious.
"…Right then," Marcel muttered.
Ciri looked delighted watching social interaction confuse people again.
Elijah stepped forward smoothly before things could become awkward.
"Our guests appear unfamiliar with local tensions."
"That's one way to phrase arriving during a supernatural street war," Rebekah said.
Marcel sighed dramatically.
"Fine."
He gestured toward the nearby jazz bar still recovering from shattered windows.
"Since you already interrupted witch business five minutes after arriving in my city…"
A slight grin appeared.
"…you might as well hear the local drama."
"Oh good," Ciri muttered.
"We've been adopted already."
"You say that like it's avoidable," Rebekah answered immediately.
An hour later Drake sat inside one of Marcel's private jazz bars listening to supernatural politics while trying not to compare it to Beacon Hills.
Honestly?
New Orleans somehow felt both more organized and significantly more dysfunctional.
Which was impressive.
Soft jazz drifted through dim lighting while vampires guarded entrances discreetly nearby.
The atmosphere remained relaxed on the surface.
But Drake could feel tension underneath everything.
Old tension.
The kind built over centuries.
"Elijah and Klaus returned to reclaim the city," Marcel explained while pouring bourbon.
"I objected."
"You mean you refused to surrender," Rebekah corrected.
Marcel smirked.
"Tomato, tomahto."
"Klaus responded poorly," Elijah added calmly.
"Klaus responds poorly to breakfast," Rebekah muttered.
Fair point.
Ciri sat beside Drake watching everyone carefully.
The Mikaelsons fascinated her immediately.
Not because of their power.
But because despite being ancient immortal vampires—
They behaved exactly like an aggressively dysfunctional family.
Klaus was apparently paranoid and dramatic.
Rebekah carried centuries of emotional frustration.
Elijah solved problems through elegant violence and emotional repression.
Honestly?
They fit into Drake's life disturbingly well already.
Drake leaned back slightly while listening.
"So the witches attacked Rebekah because…?"
"Power," Marcel answered simply.
"The witches don't trust Klaus. The wolves want territory back. Everyone's waiting for the city to explode."
Drake considered that.
"…And somehow you all still function."
Marcel laughed sharply.
"Barely."
Before anyone could continue—
The bar doors exploded inward.
The entire room reacted instantly.
Vampires blurred into motion.
Chairs overturned.
Magic crackled somewhere outside.
And a massive werewolf crashed through the entrance mid-transformation roaring violently.
The creature slammed into a table hard enough to splinter wood before spinning toward nearby vampires with bared teeth.
Chaos erupted immediately.
Several vampires attacked on instinct.
The werewolf tore through two of them effortlessly.
Fast.
Strong.
Desperate.
But Drake noticed something important instantly.
The werewolf wasn't hunting.
He was terrified.
Worse—
There were wolfsbane darts embedded deep in his side.
Hexed wolfsbane.
The smell hit Drake immediately.
Poison.
Dark magic.
Pain stretched unnaturally long.
Someone designed this suffering intentionally.
The werewolf lunged again before stumbling violently into another table breathing raggedly.
His transformation flickered unstable beneath the curse.
Marcel frowned sharply.
"That's not one of mine."
Elijah crouched near one discarded dart with immediate concern.
"Hexed."
Rebekah's expression darkened.
"The witches."
Drake stood slowly.
The room shifted subtly the moment he moved.
The wounded werewolf's eyes snapped toward him immediately.
Then froze.
Instinct recognized something ancient instantly.
Not alpha.
Not predator.
Something beyond natural hierarchy entirely.
Drake approached carefully.
The werewolf growled weakly but didn't attack.
Interesting.
"You're dying," Drake observed quietly.
The werewolf barked out a painful laugh.
"Yeah."
Heavy breathing.
"Bit obvious."
Ciri tilted her head slightly.
"…British."
The werewolf blinked once.
"Wrong thing to focus on."
"Sorry," Ciri admitted.
"Near death experience."
Despite the situation, the werewolf actually laughed weakly again.
Drake crouched beside him slowly.
The curse embedded in the wolfsbane fascinated him immediately.
Not the structure.
The intent.
Cruelty saturated the magic.
Designed not merely to kill—
But to prolong suffering first.
Something cold stirred inside Drake instinctively.
Very old instincts.
He hated cruelty.
Always had.
The room temperature dropped subtly.
Elijah noticed immediately.
So did Marcel.
Power curled invisibly around Drake while he carefully touched one of the darts.
Black-red energy flickered faintly across his fingertips.
The room went completely silent.
Even the jazz music outside suddenly felt distant.
The curse fought back instantly.
Dark magic twisted violently around Drake's hand trying to spread.
Then reality bent slightly.
And the curse shattered.
Not broken.
Erased.
Like it never existed at all.
The wolfsbane dissolved into harmless ash.
The werewolf gasped sharply as black veins beneath his skin faded immediately.
His breathing stabilized.
Transformation settled.
Pain vanished.
Several vampires stared openly now.
Because healing magic existed.
But this?
This felt different.
Too absolute.
Too effortless.
The werewolf looked up at Drake in stunned disbelief.
"…What the hell are you?"
Marcel asked the question first.
Drake ignored it completely.
Instead helping the werewolf sit upright carefully.
"You have a name?"
The man hesitated briefly before answering.
"Oliver."
"Alright, Oliver."
Drake glanced toward Marcel calmly.
"Someone hunted him intentionally."
Marcel's expression hardened instantly.
Because this changed things.
Attacking random wolves was politics.
Torturing one publicly and sending him into vampire territory?
That was a message.
Provocation.
A declaration.
Elijah stood slowly while studying the ruined darts.
"The witches are escalating."
Rebekah folded her arms.
"Wonderful. Because this family wasn't chaotic enough already."
Meanwhile Oliver continued staring at Drake like his brain physically couldn't process what happened.
"You just… removed it."
Drake looked mildly uncomfortable with attention already.
"Yes."
"That curse killed six wolves."
Silence.
Ciri noticed the subtle shift in Drake immediately.
Guilt.
Tiny.
Hidden.
But there.
Because Drake hated arriving too late.
Hated suffering he couldn't prevent.
Oliver swallowed once before speaking quieter.
"…Why help me?"
Simple question.
Important question.
The room actually waited for the answer.
Drake looked genuinely confused by it.
"Because you were hurting."
The simplicity of the response hit harder than expected.
No manipulation.
No politics.
No expectation.
Just truth.
Oliver stared at him silently afterward.
And Elijah—
Elijah watched Drake differently after that moment.
Because power without compassion was common.
Especially among immortals.
Centuries eroded empathy eventually.
Most ancient beings became detached from suffering over time.
Yet Drake hadn't.
Despite carrying enough power to terrify Originals—
He still reacted to pain like it mattered.
Interesting.
Dangerous in an entirely different way.
Marcel leaned back slowly while reassessing everything.
Drake wasn't just powerful.
He cared.
Which somehow made him even more unpredictable.
Outside the bar thunder rolled faintly across New Orleans.
And deep beneath the city—
Magic shifted uneasily.