"Technical difficulties, brother?" Elijah’s voice drifted from the shadows, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. He adjusted his cufflinks, the picture of composure despite the fact that their mother was currently systematically dismantling their lives.
Klaus smirked, though there was no humor in it. "The modern world is a nuisance, Elijah. I miss the days when a simple messenger could be decapitated for being too slow. Now, I’m forced to wait for 'buffering' while our brother Kol plays at being a warlock and our mother prepares an altar for our souls."
"Mother always did have a flair for the dramatic," Klaus replied, finally slamming the laptop shut. "Let the internet have its stories. We have a real one to finish. If Esther wants to see S02E08, she can watch it from the front row of her own funeral."
The neon hum of the "L’Echo des Ondes" sign flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked pavement of the French Quarter. Inside the loft, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and dried blood—a smell Klaus Mikaelson had come to associate with the inevitable betrayal of family.
