The night stretched deep and quiet as Sam stepped out of the mausoleum, his boots crunching against the damp earth. Behind him, the sound of flesh tearing and bones snapping filled the air as Mikael fed, the newly turned vampire's screams already fading into weak, wet gasps. Sam barely spared a glance over his shoulder. He had done what he came to do. Mikael was awake, hungry, and exactly as dangerous as he remembered. The hunter in him told him he should have killed him the second he was freed, but Sam needed Mikael—for now.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he landed on the one he needed. Madeline Atohi. A witch. A contact from the Valdivian coastal reserve, a friend.
The phone rang twice before she answered. "Gilbert."
"Madeline." Sam leaned against his car, keeping his eyes on the mausoleum entrance. "I need a locator spell. A strong one."
Silence. Then, "I assume this isn't for a missing person report?"
"I'm looking for someone," Sam said. "A Mikaelson."
Madeline sucked in a breath. "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time."
""I'm in a situation and would love some help?" Sam said flatly. "You know someone who can find her?"
A pause. Then, "Maybe."
Sam's grip tightened on his phone. "I need more than 'maybe,' Maddie."
Madeline sighed. "I have a friend. Or had one. She left Valdivian years ago, married a Native American wizard from a reservation in Texas. We kept in touch—letters, phone calls. From what she told me, the tribe she married into has an elder witch, powerful enough that when she does a spell, the weather changes."
That caught Sam's attention. "Witches with that high level of a connection to nature aren't common."
"Exactly. And if she has that kind of power, she might have enough to track your Mikealson."
"Where?"
Madeline hesitated, then finally said, "Redwood Creek Reservation, just outside Lubbock."
Sam was already sliding into the driver's seat. "Appreciate it."
"Sam," Madeline said, voice cautious, "they're not going to like you showing up there. And they'll know exactly who you are."
"They always do," Sam said, and hung up.
—
The drive took hours, cutting through the lonely highways of Texas until the land opened up into wide stretches of rolling hills and towering trees. The Redwood Creek Reservation wasn't just a place—it was a world of its own. A massive reserve, self-sustaining, hidden away from the eyes of the world. As Sam drove in, he saw children running barefoot through the fields, wild horses galloping across the open plains, men and women chopping wood, cooking over open fires, and moving with the quiet efficiency of a people who had been here long before cities and roads.
As he pulled up to the main village, he felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him. The people knew him—not as Sam Gilbert, but as Red Hood.
A legend.. A hunter who walked the line between man and monster.
He cut the engine and stepped out, letting them see him for who he was. No pretense. No masks. His weapons were hidden, but they knew he was armed.
A man stepped forward, older, his face lined with years of wisdom and war. He wore traditional robes, his hair pulled back, dark eyes unreadable.
"You came far, hunter."
Sam nodded. "I need to speak to your elder."
The man studied him, then nodded once. "Follow me."
Sam walked through the village, feeling the weight of their gazes. Some watched with curiosity. Others with wariness. He passed a group of younger men—warriors, by the way they held themselves—muttering among themselves.
One of them, tall and broad-shouldered, said, "You shouldn't be here, hunter."
Sam didn't break stride. "I hear that a lot."
The warrior narrowed his eyes but said nothing else as Sam was led into the chief's tent.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning sage and earth. At the far end of the tent, sitting cross-legged among an array of bones, totems, and feathers, was the elder.
She was old, but not frail. Her long silver hair was braided over one shoulder, her eyes dark and knowing. She glanced at Sam once, then looked past him, as if seeing something deeper.
"You carry the weight of many lives," she said.
Sam met her gaze. "I need your help."
The elder gestured for him to sit. "Speak."
Sam didn't waste time. "I'm looking for someone. A witch named Freya Mikaelson." He reached into his pocket, pulling out the flask of Mikael's blood. "I have this to use as a connection."
The elder studied the flask, then reached out, taking it in her wrinkled hands. "A Mikaelson I haven't heard of. But I will not ask questions. Just know the Mikealson family, especially the brothers, Nicklaus and Elijah are powerful."
"I'll pay," Sam said. "However you want. Money, oaths, favors. Whatever it takes."
The elder's lips curled slightly, not quite a smile. "You know the ways of our kind."
"I know enough," Sam said.
The elder placed the flask beside her, then reached for a leather pouch. She pulled out several totems—carved animals, each one delicate and worn from use. A wolf. A hawk. A bear. She laid them out carefully, then drew a dagger from her belt.
"Blood calls to blood," she murmured, pressing the blade to her palm. Dark red welled up, dripping onto the totems.
The air in the tent shifted. A breeze stirred, despite the enclosed space. The firelight flickered, stretching shadows unnaturally long. The elder's voice deepened, layered with something older.
"Show me," she whispered.
The totems moved.
Sam watched as the carved hawk twitched, its wooden wings trembling. Then—suddenly—it flew, hovering midair before diving into the bowl of blood. The liquid rippled, dark tendrils swirling into shapes.
A place formed. A house, old and worn, surrounded by trees. The name drifted through the air like a whisper.
Dowager Fauline Cottage.
Sam's breath caught. He had forgotten parts of the show, but the name rang in his memory like a warning bell.
The elder exhaled, her hand trembling slightly as she withdrew from the spell. She met Sam's gaze. "She is there. But she is not alone."
Sam's jaw clenched. "Who's with her?"
The elder hesitated. "Something… dark."
Sam nodded once. "Then I'd better get moving."
He stood, but the elder caught his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.
"You walk a dangerous path, hunter." Her voice was quiet, but heavy with meaning. "Be careful."
Sam met her gaze. Held it.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the tent.
The hunt was on, Dahila.