The psychic assault stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The three spectral figures of Monique, Abigail, and Cassie dissolved back into the night, their message delivered. The cemetery was silent once more, save for the ragged, pained gasps coming from Damon.
He lay on the damp grass, twitching, blood dripping from his nose and ears. The mental violation had been absolute, leaving his mind feeling scraped raw and his body uncoordinated. He was conscious, but barely, trapped in a haze of agony.
Agnes and Sophie approached him cautiously, their faces a mixture of fear and grim resolution. The other witches lingered at a distance, unsure.
"Is he… dead?" Sophie whispered, her voice trembling.
Agnes nudged Damon's side with her foot. He didn't respond. A low, pained groan was the only sign of life. "Not yet. But he will be. We can't leave him here for the Mikaelsons to find."
"Agnes, what have we done?" Sophie's eyes were wide with dawning horror. "The Originals… they handed Davina to us. They allowed the ritual. They upheld their end. If they find out we've killed one of their men…"
"We haven't killed anyone yet," Agnes snapped, her voice brittle with a forced confidence. She gestured toward the empty space where the Harvest witches had stood. "But look at what we have! The power of the ancestors is restored! The Harvest is complete! We are stronger than we have been in a century. The Mikaelsons are not a problem anymore. We can handle them."
Sophie stared at her, aghast. "Handle them? Agnes, listen to yourself! Do you remember the stories? Our grandmothers whispered about them. Most of the magic we know, the dangerous, old magic, was taught to our ancestors by Kol Mikaelson. He taught it to them for fun. What do you think will happen if Viktor finds out? The Tribrid. The one even Klaus answers to. What happens when he learns we attacked his lieutenant after he gave us what we wanted?"
Agnes opened her mouth to retort, but a new voice cut through the cold air, low and rasping, but laced with an undeniable, chilling amusement.
"He will kill you," the voice slurred. "And you will never know how you die."
Both witches froze, their blood running cold. They looked down.
Damon's eyes were open. They were bloodshot, but clear, and filled with a dark, predatory light. He pushed himself up onto his elbows with a visible effort, his body still trembling from the attack.
Sophie stumbled back with a gasp. "I thought he was dead!"
"You can't kill me," Damon coughed, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. A terrible, wolfish smile spread across his pale face. "Not without the white oak stake. And that… is long gone."
He moved.
It wasn't the effortless, graceful blur he was known for. This was something raw, pained, and fueled by pure, venomous rage. It was all the more terrifying for its ragged edge. One moment he was on the ground. The next, he was behind Agnes.
She had time for a single, sharp intake of breath.
His arms wrapped around her from behind, one hand snapping her head to the side. His fangs sank deep into her neck. There was no romance in it, no seduction. It was a brutal, draining. A execution. Her struggles were feeble, her magic useless at this intimate range against his wrath. Within seconds, her body went limp, her life's blood draining into him, healing the worst of the psychic damage, fueling his vengeance.
He let her desiccated body drop to the ground with a dull thud.
Sophie could only stare, paralyzed, her hands clamped over her mouth to stifle a scream.
Damon turned to her, his lips stained red, his eyes glowing in the torchlight. He looked more monster than man, a predator finally unleashed. The playful facade was gone, burned away by ancestral magic and replaced with centuries-old coldness.
"Get ready," he said, his voice now steady and deathly quiet. The words weren't a shout; they were a promise, carried on the graveyard wind. "You witches have chosen to pick a fight with us."
He took a step toward her, and Sophie flinched, expecting the same fate.
But he stopped. He looked at the empty tomb where Davina still lay, at the dust of the other Harvest girls, and finally back at Sophie's terrified face.
"Guess extermination is in order."
He didn't touch her. He simply turned and vanished into the shadows between the tombs, leaving her alone with the corpse of her leader and the chilling certainty that she had just witnessed the beginning of the end.
The war for New Orleans was no longer about territory. It was about survival. And the witches had just signed their own death warrant.
A/N
Check out this Fanfic
Multishop System In Another World
Please add to your collections
I need the money 💰 💰
And I need a woman 👠 👠
Single Author 😔
I at least need to laugh to a woman's jokes 😂