Secrets of Selene- N.M.

The Quarter was honoring Father Kieran in the only way New Orleans knew how—loudly, passionately, and with enough bourbon to make the ghosts feel welcome. Music spilled out into the street, the raucous notes of fiddles and whistles dancing over the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter.

Inside Rousseau's, every inch of the bar was packed. Locals, vampires, witches, and the occasional brave tourist came together in bittersweet celebration. Stories were shared, drinks were raised, and memories floated in the air like incense—warm and heavy.

Selene sat in a corner booth with Marcel, a half-full glass in her hand, legs crossed, back elegantly straight despite the noise and energy around her. Her smile came easily, the kind that others mistook as genuine, but her eyes kept straying.

Marcel, glass in hand, leaned back, laughing at his own memory. "You should've seen him try to break up a fight at this bar once—three drunk vampires tearing into each other, and Kieran just walked in like it was Sunday mass. Didn't even flinch. Said one word—'Enough'—and it was like someone pulled the plug. Instant silence."

Selene smirked faintly, the rim of her glass brushing her lips. "He always did have a talent for being heard."

Marcel didn't seem to notice her distant tone, or if he did, he chose not to call her out on it. He continued talking, his voice warm with nostalgia, but Selene's attention was elsewhere.

Across the bar, Klaus sat alone at a small table, a glass of scotch in his hand and a storm cloud over his head. He looked like he was miles away from the noise—sulking, as usual. But to Selene, it wasn't the usual brooding expression he wore like armor. There was something softer in his features today. Something tired. Something human.

Her thoughts kept circling back to the night before. To the dim barlight, the bourbon between them, and the moment she'd let her walls down long enough to speak of Elias. Of grief. Of truth. And to Klaus—not mocking, not manipulating—but listening. Kind, even.

It disturbed her more than it should have.

Because that wasn't the Klaus she had built in her mind. He wasn't supposed to be capable of quiet mercy, of giving someone like Marcel a chance to return for someone else's sake. He wasn't supposed to understand grief the way she did.

He was layered.

And it was those layers that made her uneasy.

What else had she been wrong about?

"What's got you so quiet tonight?" Marcel asked, noticing her silence now.

Selene turned back to him with a practiced smile. "Just thinking."

Marcel's smile faltered just slightly. "Thinking about Kieran?"

Selene's gaze flicked back to him, lips curling into a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes," she said smoothly, the lie sliding off her tongue like honey.

But as Marcel launched into another story about Kieran sneaking whiskey into a church fundraiser, Selene's gaze drifted once more—drawn like a tide to the man sitting alone across the bar.

Her gaze sharpened as movement caught her eye. Cami had crossed the room and slid into the seat across from Klaus as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if she belonged there.

Selene barely registered the hum of Marcel's voice beside her anymore. His words—once warm recollections of Father Kieran—now blurred into the background like distant music. Her drink sat untouched in her hand, condensation beading along the glass and dripping onto her fingers unnoticed.