-5 Years Later
Le Dernier Refuge wasn't a place you stumbled upon by accident.
Nestled beneath the streets of Paris, hidden behind a patisserie's false wall and down three flights of worn stone steps, the ancient tavern had served hunters for centuries.
Iron fixtures adorned the low ceiling, protective sigils carved into wooden beams darkened by centuries of smoke.
Weapons from every era lined the walls - from medieval flails to modern tactical gear - each with its own story of monsters vanquished.
Emmett Hawkins ran a calloused finger along the rim of his whiskey glass, his weathered face illuminated by the amber liquid catching the light. At seventy-five, he was a rarity in hunting - one who had lived long enough to grow old.
"Seen it before," he muttered, tapping a newspaper clipping with his three-fingered hand. "Moscow '87. Anchorage '92. Same pattern, different decade."
Across the table, Marion Dupree - known in hunting circles as "Rattlesnake" for both her Louisiana roots and her strike speed with a blade - clicked her tongue against her teeth.
Her gray-streaked braid hung over one shoulder, the ritual scars on her face catching the light as she leaned forward.
"This ain't like before, sugar," she drawled, taking a sip of absinthe. "Patterns are too clean. Too methodical." She gestured toward the world map pinned to the wall, dotted with colored markers. "Look at Prague. Then Buenos Aires. Then Tokyo. All within two weeks."
"Hmph." Emmett's grunt conveyed volumes of skepticism. "No hunter covers that much ground that fast. Not without leaving traces."
A French hunter at the next table - Christophe, if Marion remembered correctly - leaned toward their conversation.
"Perhaps it is not one hunter, non?" he suggested, his accent thick. "Perhaps it is... how you say... organization?"
Emmett shook his head. "Organizations leave paper trails. Money transfers. Equipment purchases." He dropped his voice lower. "This one leaves nothing. Just monsters suddenly going feral before they disappear."
"The Gavel," Marion said, the name hanging in the air like smoke.
Silence fell over the nearby tables. Even in this gathering of hardened hunters, that name carried weight.
"Three psychics tried tracking The Gavel," said a German hunter from across the room, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet. "All said the same - one person, impossible speed."
"Impossible for a normal human," Emmett corrected, emphasizing the word before the last.
Marion's fingers played with the protective amulets around her neck. "That witch in Lyon - Claudette - she tried a locator spell. Said it was like trying to pin down lightning. One moment in Moscow, next in Cape Town."
"Teleportation artifact," suggested an elderly Japanese hunter, his English precise despite his age. "There are legends of boots that let you step between continents."
"Or a crossroads deal," Christophe added. "Ten years of supernatural speed, then straight to hell."
Emmett drained his glass, setting it down with finality. "Whatever it is, it's disrupting the balance. The things beyond the Ice Wall are noticing."
This statement drew concerned murmurs.
Most civilians believed the world ended at the Arctic and Antarctic circles - that beyond them lay only more ice. Some Hunters knew better.
The Ice Wall marked the boundary of human territory, the edge of the livestock pen. Beyond it dwelled things that made vampires and werewolves seem like household pets.
"You think The Gavel knows?" asked a younger hunter, her face scarred from what appeared to be claw marks.
"Doesn't matter if they know," Emmett replied. "What matters is they're killing too many, too fast. The quota system kept us safe for centuries. Monsters take just enough humans to stay fed, hunters kill just enough monsters to keep them cautious. Balance."
Marion's expression darkened. She stared into her glass, suddenly silent.
"The treaty's held since 1742," Emmett continued. "The old gods, the ancient vampires, the other twisted fucks - they've all respected the boundaries. But if their food supply keeps diminishing..." He let the implication hang.
The tavern had gone completely silent, every hunter listening.
"And what exactly are you suggesting?" Marion finally asked, her voice dangerously soft. "That we protect monsters? That we become their damn gatekeepers?"
Emmett met her gaze steadily. "I'm suggesting we survive. The moment those things beyond the Wall decide humans are becoming too arrogant-"
"Listen to yourself," Marion interrupted, disgust evident in her tone. She pushed her glass away. "How many years have we been hunting, Emmett? Forty? Fifty? And now we're worried about killing too many monsters?"
"It's not that simple-"
"It is that simple." Marion's hand slammed on the table, rattling glasses. "We hunt monsters because they kill people. That's the job. And now you're telling me this Gavel character is doing it too well? That we should, what - establish quotas? Make sure enough innocent folks die each year to keep the big bads satisfied?"
Silence fell again, heavier this time. Several hunters looked away, uncomfortable.
"You know what I think?" Marion continued, rising slowly to her feet. "I think we've been in this game so long we've forgotten which side we're on."
She tossed several euros onto the table. "The day I start worrying about monsters' feelings is the day I put my own gun in my mouth."
She adjusted her cane and limped toward the exit, pausing only to add: "Maybe this Gavel's got the right idea. Maybe it's time someone remembered what hunting's actually about."
The door closed behind her with a heavy thud, leaving only silence and the weight of her words.
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The streets of Lyon were wet with recent rain, cobblestones gleaming under the sparse streetlights. Most of the city slept, unaware of the hunt unfolding in its narrow alleys.
An Arachne raced across rooftops, eight spindly legs finding purchase on slick tiles. In this form - half-woman, half-spider - Vanessa Webb moved with unnatural speed, chitinous body glistening in the moonlight. Fear drove her forward, instinct screaming danger.
Behind her, a soft whistling echoed. A simple tune, almost cheerful, completely at odds with what was happening.
The whistling grew closer despite her frantic pace.
Vanessa's heart hammered against her exoskeleton.
She'd felt it earlier that evening - the strange compulsion that had overtaken her, the sudden hunger that drove her to hunt recklessly.
For eight years she'd been careful, selecting victims who wouldn't be missed, disposing of bodies properly. But tonight, she'd nearly attacked a tourist in plain view of security cameras.
Something had triggered her base instincts, stripped away her normal control.
Something was hunting her.
Reaching the edge of a building, she transformed in mid-leap - her spider form melting away to reveal a naked young woman with wavy black hair.
The transformation would buy her seconds at most, but perhaps enough to escape notice.
Vanessa dropped into a narrow alley, bare feet slapping against wet stone as she ran toward a sewer entrance. Her fingers clawed at the heavy iron cover, supernatural strength allowing her to shift it enough to slip through.
The whistling stopped.
For one heartbeat, she thought she'd escaped.
Then a hand clamped over her mouth from behind, fingers like iron. Before she could struggle, another hand gripped her head and twisted with force.
Her neck snapped with an audible crack.
Darkness.
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Awareness returned.
Vanessa's eyes fluttered open to blinding light.
She was still naked, now chained to a cold metal table with links that glowed with engraved sigils.
The room around her was meticulously arranged - plastic sheeting covering the floor and walls, tools laid out on a small table nearby.
A figure moved at the edge of her vision.
Male, young - perhaps eighteen - with brown hair that reached his neck. When he turned, she saw a distinctive vertical scar beside his right eye. He wore a butcher's coat, pristine white.
"You're awake," he said, voice casual, almost friendly. His smile revealed too many teeth. "Good. I was beginning to think I'd miscalculated your regeneration."
Vanessa tested her restraints, supernatural strength straining against the chains. They didn't budge.
"Please," she began, voice shifting to the vulnerable college student persona that had served her so well with victims. "I don't know what's happening. I think you've made a mistake-"
Her words cut off as she realized what he was doing. Above her head, he was hanging photographs - dozens of them - just within her field of vision.
"What are those?" she whispered, though something in her already knew.
The young man reached for a switch, and the lights brightened to painful intensity. Vanessa squinted, eyes adjusting slowly.
When she could see clearly again, she found herself staring at images of carnage.
Torn bodies, mutilated corpses - men, women, children - their lower halves discarded like garbage. Beside each gruesome photo was another - the same people alive, smiling, unaware of their fate.
"Martin Dubois, 32," the young man began, voice clinical as he arranged his tools. "Father of two. You took him three months ago outside Club Neon. You kept his upper torso for four days before discarding it in the Rhône."
He selected a butcher knife, examining its edge.
"Sophia Clement, 19. Exchange student from Belgium. You kept her alive for nearly a week, feeding on her slowly."
Vanessa's breath came in short gasps. "I don't- I don't know what you're talking about. Please, I'm just a student-"
The young man moved with blinding speed, his hand shooting forward to grip her jaw, fingers digging into her cheeks. He leaned close, his face hovering inches above hers.
"Shh," he whispered, his breath cool against her skin. "I don't like too much noise."
Vanessa froze, terror paralyzing her more effectively than the chains.
He continued his methodical work, arranging tools while listing victims. "Thomas and Elise Moreau, aged 8 and 6. Their parents were away for the weekend. You told investigators you were babysitting as a favor to family friends."
Vanessa's mind raced. How could he know? She'd been so careful.
"Please," she tried again, voice trembling. "I can make this worth your while. I know people - powerful people. They'd pay for someone with your... talents."
He ignored her, continuing preparations.
"I'm scared," she whispered, voice shifting to something smaller, more childlike. "I don't want to die. It's what I am- I can't help it. It's just food. It's natural."
The young man paused, turning to look at her directly for the first time. His expression was contemplative, almost curious.
Then, with movement too fast to track, his hand shot out. Fingers forced their way into her mouth, found a fang, and ripped it out.
Vanessa screamed, blood filling her mouth.
"I'm on a schedule," he said calmly, examining the fang before placing it in a small container. "My big brother and little sister are waiting for me to finish up."
He wiped his fingers methodically on a cloth. "No matter how much you talk, no matter what you offer, there is one thing that won't change - you will pay."
He raised the butcher knife, the light catching its edge.
"An eye for an eye," he intoned, "A tooth for a tooth."
The knife came down with terrible precision, severing her leg at the knee.
"A life for a life."
Her screams echoed through the abandoned building.
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Outside, the night air had cleared, stars visible between scattered clouds.
Lucien Winchester adjusted his tie - midnight blue against a crisp white shirt - and meticulously cleaned his hands with a monogrammed handkerchief. His immaculate suit showed no signs of the work he'd just completed.
"Finally," came a voice from the shadows. Stefan Salvatore leaned against a sleek black Bentley, arms crossed over his chest.
His own tailored suit - charcoal gray - complemented his eternally youthful features. "Did you get lost in there?"
"Justice takes time," Lucien replied, folding the handkerchief with precise movements.
"Did you remember to use your Jedi mind tricks?" A female voice called from the other side of the car.
Elena Gilbert emerged into the streetlight, resplendent in a midnight blue gown that matched Lucien's tie.
At eighteen, she'd grown into a striking young woman, her dark hair elegantly styled. "We all know how you like to monologue."
Lucien placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "You wound me, sister dear. Of course I did. The soul has forgotten everything - no physical appearance, no voice, nothing personal."
Stefan pushed himself off the car, checking his watch. "Good, because we need to get back. Elijah was quite adamant that we don't miss this party - keeping up appearances and all that."
Lucien sighed, shoulders dropping slightly. "I really don't like these high society parties. Why do I even have to attend?"
Elena locked her arm through his, her smile mischievous. "Because Dad likes to dress his beloved son and daughter up." She looked up at him through her lashes. "You wouldn't want to upset him, would you?"
Lucien's expression softened. He bent slightly, placing a gentle kiss on Elena's forehead. "No, I wouldn't. Leo and Klaus have gotten quite close, and I'd rather not have my own pet lion sicced on me by my adoptive dad."
Stefan opened the car door, his expression a mixture of exasperation and affection. "If you two are done, we have a schedule to keep."
Arm in arm, Lucien and Elena approached the car.
The streetlight caught the vertical scar beside Lucien's right eye - a permanent reminder of his battle with Damon years ago.
He helped Elena into the backseat with practiced grace before sliding in beside her.
"How many does that make this month?" she asked quietly, as she reached over to straighten Lucien's already perfect tie.
"Seventeen," Lucien replied, gazing out the window at the passing city. "But there are always more."
Elena squeezed his hand, understanding in her touch. "You can't save everyone."
"I can try."
With those final words said, Stefan having taken the driver's seat, started the engine and they pulled away from the abandoned building.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all liked the chapter.
So yeah- finally, time skip, Lucien is an adult now.
For those who wish to understand his moniker, "The Gavel" and why he got it, well it's like this: They call him The Gavel, because it is like a judge banging the hammer. When he finds a monster, it's their verdict, and it's final.
Since that is what a Gavel is.
I know the time skip may seem abrupt from where we last left off, but well... I didn't want to do two emotional chapters back to back, and I think it is more fun if you guys try to piece together all that happened.
Do tell me actually what you think happened, I'm interested in your theories.
Well, I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)