Hell's Belles - Supernatural/The Vampire Diaries - Part 3/4
Title: Hell's Belles
Author: twisted_slinky
Fandoms: Supernatural/The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Rating: R
Type: Some canon Het, but mostly Gen
Warning: Violence, gore, language, slight sensual imagery-all that you'd expect from a Salvatore-Winchester Zombie-Fest.
Summary: New Orleans, Mardi Gras. Elena and the Salvatores are looking to spend some time away from Mystic Falls. Meanwhile, the Winchesters are looking for sightings of the walking dead. Both groups crash the same elegant costume party, so it should really be no surprise when the mansion ends up surrounded by a horde of flesh eating zombies.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Vampire Diaries or Supernatural. Written for fun, not profit.
Wordcount: ~16k
Artist:
caitriona_3
Link to Art: Masterpost
Link to Story Masterpost: Here
Part 3 - A Fine Southern Belle
NOW
"Not going to work," Damon sing-songed at a near whisper.
Dean huffed but kept his own voice low. "What isn't going to work?"
"This plan isn't going to work."
"You agreed to the plan, dick."
"Oh, I know. I'm just saying it's not going to work."
Dean glared at Damon. "Are you always this way? Seriously?"
Damon didn't reply, instead crouching further down beside the couch he was currently stationed behind and tilting his head at the door, as if to signal Dean forward. The hunter peaked around his own chair and shook his head before duplicating the 'no, you first' gesture.
While most of the undead crowd had moved back after a fresh piece of meat, the zombie now blocking their path, a bloated woman whose eating habits had crossed over into the next unlife with her, had lumbered into the parlor from the over-crowded foyer. And, she was going to find them in seconds, whether one of them moved forward or not. These zombies might have been the dumbed-down, and easier to put down, counterparts to the fleshy revenants the Winchesters had encountered over recent years, but they were highly motivated, if by hunger alone.
Dean had left the rifle with his brother in the display room, but he was suddenly regretting giving up the gun, even if firing meant the zombies would suddenly put all their focus into flooding this smaller room again instead of pounding on the center set of doors.
Damon sighed loudly, catching the corpse's attention, then stood up, drawing up the long body of the cavalry sword at his side. He crossed the room quickly, dispatching the zombie with a flick of his wrists. The woman's severed head thudded against the floor a few seconds before the rest of the body joined it.
Dean blinked at him, too close to the foyer entrance to dare speak at louder than a hiss, but he was pretty sure the other man could read the words on his mind: 'How the hell did you do that so well?' Because, sure, Dean could have managed it that easily, but most civilians would have hacked at the body a few times before cutting the neck enough for the divine referee to call "severed!" Dean filed the move in his growing list of reasons why the Salvatores likely were not human and probably shouldn't be given sharp weapons.
Then, with a barely suppressed grunt, he pushed himself back up off the floor, his back protesting the heavy load strapped over his shoulders-eighty friggin' pounds shouldn't be considered 'portable'-held the muzzle of the weapon under one arm, and toed around the line of bodies the two of them had left since sneaking out of the display room. Damon had already moved to the window, quietly sliding up the wide glass panes.
"Ready for that fun we were talking about?" Damon asked.
Dean took a breath and carefully eased himself and the weapon out. A moment later, Damon joined him on the spacious porch. The stark white paint over the house was stained with smudges of grave dirt and stripes of bloody fingerprints where the dead had roamed around the mansion before finding their way inside.
Careful of the creaking boards beneath him, he side-stepped toward the front of the house, Damon walking beside him, as if on a leisurely stroll.
When they reached their destination, they came to a stop, eyes wide. "Wow. Belle had quite the family," Dean breathed, licking his lips nervously.
Damon's voice was at a whisper again, some of his cockiness slipping. "Something's keeping them from venturing out into the city."
"Yeah, it's called black magic," Dean replied. "The demon just wants this party crashed-destroying the French Quarter would probably be bad for his business."
Damon smirked at him. "You know, you're not as stupid as you look," he said, with some measure of sincerity.
Dean ignored the jibe and stared out at the front yard. The gardens and front steps had been overtaken by the dead, in all states of decay. Bones barely held together by sinew and dust managed to climb their way up, snapping dry jaws. Fresher bodies walked past the skeletons, looking as if they were stumbling home after a night of drinking. But, it wasn't the sight, but the smell that was overpowering.
Nothing really stunk like a dead human, and the faint hint of sulfur, the mark of a demon's powers at work, hung in the air, sending Dean's mind back to the time he spent down under. Forty years of this scent, as if the torture wasn't bad enough.
"Still liking your plan?" Damon asked, shaking him from the memory.
Dean took a breath, let it out again. "Nope. Let's get to work."
THEN
Three Hours Earlier
Colors took on life and danced in swaying, haunted movements to the belting, hollerin', grunting rendition of "I Wanna Know" from the band set up in the open doors to the porch, spilling their jazzy tunes out into the night. The other partiers moved around the dancers in the foyer, glittering and shining in their bright Mardi Gras costumes. The heavy masks and hats made them seem faceless, otherworldly, and their rushing movements, sharp laughter, and blended voices left Elena feeling disoriented.
She took a shallow breath, turning away from the crowd so quickly that she nearly fell into Damon's awaiting arms.
"My, my, you're all hands tonight," he commented, and she shook her head, keeping the smile off her face as she pulled away. The movement didn't work; he simply held her wrist, twisted around, and swung her to the beat of the music-"I wanna know what you do when you go down there…Tell me, baby. Daddy ain't no square," the vocalist sputtered-until she relented.
"You're incorrigible, you know that?"she said, trying to hold back her grin.
"Told you this would be a great party."
"You're right. Well done, Damon," she admitted, batting her lashes through her mask. "And, I do feel like dancing…"
Which was her cue, and she slipped from under his arm and out of his grasp, ignoring whatever argument was on the tip of the vampire's tongue. Stefan cut through the crowd, holding her fresh drink out, but she simply handed it off to a grumbling Damon and moved in for her dance. Stefan chuckled, letting her lead him past a couple dressed as pair of Venetian cats wearing musical notes and away from his brother.
"Having a good time?" he asked, then glanced over his shoulder.
Elena followed his gaze. Damon had disappeared from view, no doubt off trying to convince the female population that they'd make great "nymphs" for his Pan costume-a tactic he'd already put to work once, no mind control necessary. At least, Elena hoped that's all he was up to, because Stefan's eyes had narrowed in on the double doors leading into the massive display room past the foyer. Elena recognized the intense expression on his face. Stefan was listening in on someone's conversation, or trying to... Elena really hoped none of it had to do with a guest passing out from blood loss.
"Damon was right. This is fun," she said, catching his attention once more. "What about you?"
"I'd be having a better time if I knew what Damon was planning. He's being too reasonable tonight." Stefan grimaced, obviously waging a mental war with himself over the observation. "But enough about him… What do you say we get a breath of fresh air, Ms. Gilbert?"
"Why, Mr. Salvatore, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me alone." Elena chewed her bottom lip, enjoying the lust that lit his eyes.
The tune that had been playing cut off abruptly, and a new one began with a familiar trump.
Stefan raised a brow. "Hmm, 'I Put a Spell on You'-I suppose someone's a Screamin' Jay Hawkins' fan." But the piece of trivia must have struck him wrong because he frowned at something behind Elena.
She paused her lazy dance, turning to see why the foyer had suddenly stilled, despite the rowdy music playing. The space in front of the main entry had cleared to allow for a tall figure to enter the mansion. Elena spotted his black top hat first and followed it down to his handsome, dark-skinned face and bright white smile. A pair of round sunglasses, one side missing its black lens, sat on his wide nose, and he reached up, pulling them off and folding them away. He wore a lavish purple long coat and carried a slick baton in one hand. Something about the way he stepped into the room as if it belonged to him made his flashy costume seem less flamboyant and more debonair.
His deep, rich voice bounced off the fourteen foot ceilings. "Dance, children," he commanded, with a soft chuckle. "Dance, and drink, and eat…" His gaze stopped on Elena, and she felt herself blushing. "And make wild love, for your lives are short," he finished, and gave her a wink.
And as if a gong had been rung, the guest dispersed back to their places, laughing jovially and enjoying a fresh display of appetizers. Elena and Stefan shared a worried glance.
"Uh, are we the only ones who noticed that was a bit… strange?" Elena whispered.
But Stefan quietly stepped in front of her, blocking her from view. She stared over his shoulder, watching the newcomer approach them with an almost comical swagger to his step.
"Hello, boy," the man said, flashing his teeth again. This time, though, they looked less welcoming, and far more predatorial. "I didn't know leeches were coming to the party. Should make things a might bit interesting, though, shouldn't it?"
Elena's eyes widened at the implication.
"I'm sorry. I don't believe we've met," Stefan said.
"Don't you recognize me, do you? Must not be from around these parts then. All things dead and cold in 'Norlins has heard of the Baron before." He smirked. "But enough about me. What's that prize at your back? I've no room for the humble, boy-let me see what you've won tonight."
Stefan held his place, but Elena watched as the man flicked his wrist at the thin air in front of him and her boyfriend fell aside, hitting the floor hard, as if he'd tripped over nothing. Stefan stared up, fixed with panic, and Elena understood why-he couldn't move.
"Stefan!"
"Hope you don't mind if I steal your lady friend for a dance?" The Baron reached out, snatching Elena's hand and pulling her close. He rested his baton at her back, holding her in place against him. "My, my," he said, softly, "you're of an old blood line, aren't you? A soul tied to a soul, tied to a soul… Mighty powerful combination, you know. And, I do so like power, Elena. I like to collect it. Of course, I always give a fair trade."
"Let. Me. Go."
The Baron laughed, a rumbling sound, like thunder. "After a dance, my dear," he promised. "Then we can get to the evening's real entertainment. I think you'll quite enjoy it, considering the type of company you like to keep."
Elena felt her breath catch in her throat when she glowered up at him. It could have been the yellow light bouncing off the colorful costumes flitting about, but she could have sworn that, just for a moment, his eyes flashed to bright, crimson red.
"What are…Who are you?"
"How rude of me not to introduce myself." He leaned forward, his top hat casting an eerie shadow over his face. "Baron La Croix, at your service, m'dear."
"Crawfish boulettes, sir?"
Dean smiled beneath the mask, snatching up a handful of the offered appetizers before the server could take the tray to the refreshments table. He shoved a few of the small, fried meatballs under the pointed chin of his mask, avoiding Sam's glare. Sure, he could only see it though tiny round holes, but Dean knew it was there.
"Eat up, man-I'm not stopping for fourth meal," Dean said, mouth full.
Sam shook his head, his voice rushed and low. "We've been over this place twice, and we keep missing Belle. People are already starting to leave for the evening, and we're lucky we haven't run in to anyone who actually knows the real Mr. Boudreaux and Mr. Fontenot."
"Don't get your panties in a twist." Dean gave the room another sweep. The parlor was quieter than the rest of the house, lined with chairs and couples who'd wished to escape the epicenter of the loud music in favor of conversation. When he was sure no one was listening in, he cleared his throat. "The party's barely begun, alright? Belle's around here somewhere. I got groped by that old lady in the flapper costume just so she could tell me the guy's dressed as a king tonight. But, he's old as limestone, so he's probably taking a nap or something. He'll be back down here when-well, crap-there!"
Sam followed his gaze to the wide doorway leading into the center room, a round-walled display area for the Belle family's weapon collection. Sure enough, a withered looking elderly man was being helped down the staircase, already rambling on to a couple who were unfortunate enough to be standing at the closest case, admiring the grenades inside. White leggings stretched up his knobby legs to fat, colorful breeches and a matching tunic. A plastic crown hid the liver spots on his bald head. The brothers didn't need to see past the gentleman's half-mask over his face to know it had to be Henry Belle.
They moved as one toward the man, intercepting him before he could disappear into the crowd.
"Mr. Belle, that's a fine flamethrower you've got," Dean began, gently pulling him aside.
"Ah, yes, one of my recent purchases… A Flammenwerfer 35. WWII era, of course, the common German design for the one-man operated flamethrower. You know…" Belle's rich accent teetered out, and he looked up, his frown heavy and doubling his chin. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, son."
Sam looked for witnesses before he helped his brother lead the man out of the display room and past the set of doors across from them, into the relative quiet of the dining hall.
"I…I don't believe we've met…" Belle sputtered.
"Listen, Henry." Dean pulled the mask down off his face, despite his brother's frenzied gesture for him to stop. "I think your weapon collection is great and all-hell, if I had your dough, I'd probably think about putting a few of those pieces behind glass myself. But, I'd really rather talk to you about your family."
Belle blinked up at him, confused. "M-my family?"
"I'm gonna level with you." Dean shook his head, as if amused by what was about to come out of his mouth. "Dude, we know you know that your family crypt is emptying out. Dead people are showing up around the city, and the local bokor seems to think you're at the center of the mess."
"Dead people? You're crazy, son." Belle took a step back, eyes narrowed in suspicion instead of confusion. "You weren't invited to this party, were you?" His nostrils flared in anger. "I won't stand for this kind of nonsense in my house! You'll get out now, or I'll… I'll…"
"Or you'll what?" Sam asked. "See, I don't think you'll do much of anything, Henry, because I recognize that expression on your face. It's guilt. Now, why don't you do us all a favor and tell us what you did, before things get out of hand."
"Henry, if any of these people get hurt. It's on you," Dean added.
"I didn't-" The old man's voice broke, and, with it, his will. "I'm not long for this world, you have to understand."
"Tell us," Sam snapped, grabbing hold of his bony shoulder.
Belle shrunk in on himself. "All this money, all this wealth, and I don't have a single soul to leave it to...not a single heir. Used to be a quarter of the city was related to the Belle family, by blood or marriage… But the cousins, the ones who still still have a place in society, have been dropping like flies, and I'm the last of a long line. I had a son once, but, when he left school he… We found out he was funny, you know, fooling around with other boys. And, in public, in front of my associates. So, of course, I disowned the ungrateful little queer... I couldn't have that kind of scandal connected to the Belle family name. I just always assumed my next wife would give me another child, but…" He shook his head, enraged by the mere thought. "But nothing. The doctors say I'm dying, and I have no legacy."
Dean blinked, confused. "Okay-I'm going to work past the part where that ignorant asshattery is fucked up as hell, and why it's ironic that you invited Mr. Boudreaux and Mr. Fontenot... Henry, the next words out of your mouth better not be 'so I made a deal.'"
Belle's eyes widened. "How did you know?"
Dean tossed his hat across the room, groaning in aggravation. "God damn it."
"Shit," Sam breathed, but kept himself on topic. "Henry, what were the terms?"
"I...I don't understand. Who are you people? Why do... Oh, God, you're with the Church, aren't you?" And, the old man shuddered at the mention, as if he'd somehow forgotten the possibility. "I should have known better than to trust that hoodoo heathen to keep his mouth shut..."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Henry, the terms? Now."
Belle shook his head. "I wanted a family worthy of my legacy. A family worthy of the Belle family name. The Baron La Croix said he'd give me one, and all I had to do was throw him a grand party. One single ball for him, and he'd come and give me my reward. Said the entertainment paid for itself."
Dean cocked his head. "Hold on-this guy you made a deal with didn't ask for your soul?"
"Heavens no! Nothing like that. Just this party."
"Baron La Croix, as in the loa from..." Sam did a double take, his voice trailing off. He pulled down his own mask, staring at Dean before turning back to the old man. "Wait. This party, Henry?"
Dean rubbed a hand across his face. "Why do I get the feeling this night is about to get a lot more bloody?"
"Ah, Henry…"
Sam and Dean shot to attention, but the guest who stepped through the doors didn't seem alarmed by the fact that the two men had the mansion's owner cornered. Instead the guy only tilted his head in curiosity, his smile tight and bitter beneath his black, horned mask.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," he chided the old man.
"Do I know you?" Belle asked.
"No, you don't. Damon Salvatore, here. And, you're Henry Belle. Introductions complete. Now, an old friend of mine told me there were a few questions you'd be able to answer for me, about a young woman who stayed in this mansion with you a few decades ago."
Dean gestured between himself and Belle. "We're kind of in the middle of something here, Damon."
"And I do so hate to interrupt," Damon said, sounding anything but apologetic, "but I've got urgent business with Henry here. So-how can I put this?-scurry on, party crashers."
Dean was about to go from zero to pissed when the old man teetered forward, into Sam's arm, as if he'd suddenly remembered he left the stove on.
"He's here-the Baron La Croix is here," he hissed. Then the fear dropped from his face, a giddy smile replacing it. "He's coming to give me what's mine! He's coming to give me my legacy!"
Damon opened his mouth to comment, and closed it again, staring over his shoulder, his brow wrinkled in concentration. Dean and Sam watched the doorway, wondering what it was the other man had heard.
"That can't be good," Damon muttered, and disappeared back into the other room.
"Stay here," Dean growled at Belle before leading his brother into the display room. Damon was already out the center double doors, in the foyer. "So, when Henry said the Baron La Croix was here…?"
"Yeah, I think he was talking about the demon he made a deal with," Sam agreed.
"Did you bring the-"
"-I've got it," Sam picked up. He reached to his side, pulling up the flap of material over the waist of his robe and yanking Ruby's demon killing knife free from the makeshift sheath. "This is going to get messy in a hurry."
"No kidding."
But, Dean pushed past the other guests, jerking his cape free from around his neck and ditching it in the crowd. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to see, but the party-goers were simply enjoying themselves, as if unaware of the young man in a white suit laying on the floor as if he'd lost the ability to use his legs or… Dean raised a brow at the dick he'd met earlier, Damon, who was currently standing with his back against the wall by the doors, hands outstretched beside him, as if he were being held back with invisible restraints. He strained to lift his head off the wall, a pained grimace on his face.
It didn't take a hunter to see where the problem lay. Or, as it were, danced.
At the center of the foyer, a man in a top hat ground and shimmed his way around the standing, prone form of a dark haired girl in a long green gown. She seemed to sense the new eyes on her and turned her head, her gaze pleading for help as it ran over the guy in white and Damon's frozen forms.
The Baron La Croix ran the head of his baton against the side of her thigh in a suggestive show, chuckling against her neck at something she'd said, before he took a step back. "Ah, uninvited guests," he said, louder. He sounded disappointed. "It seems our dance is at its end, my dear Elena. Unless, you'd like to offer me a reason to stay? Something worth my time?"
At her glare, he shrugged, turning his attention back to the hunters.
Even over the band, his voice was clear. Sam took a step forward, knife hidden in his sleeve. The Baron gave him a long look before grinning. His eyes flashed to red. "Why, I do believe I know you two-not the famous Sam and Dean Winchester, surely? What an honor it is to have you fine gentlemen at my masquerade."
The guests continued to move about, talking amongst themselves, as if they couldn't hear the exchange.
"Oh, it's really not," Dean assured. "What's with the outfit? Personifying voodoo characters-that's a new low for your kind, isn't it? Or is a loa spirit an upgrade for a crossroads demon?"
The Baron's thick lips tightened into a line, but he didn't lash out at the hunters. Instead, he managed to force his mouth into a grin. "What can I say? I've been enjoying my role as the Baron for a long, long time, boys, and my friends on the other side, helpin' me out, they don't seem to mind, either. People like the show, and I like not having to report back to a boss. Even got myself a few followers-you might have met one of them, a bokor by the name of Facilier?" He chuckled at their less than amused expressions. "Thought so. See? Fun times all around, gentlemen."
"A boss." Sam's cheek twitched, and he worked his way closer. "You mean like Crowley and the other crossroads demons? I wonder what he'd say about you getting souls on the side for all these years without following the rule book."
"Oh, I think the old boy has his own management problems right now, don't you? What, with Lucifer on the loose and all." Now the Baron let his anger show. "Children, I sincerely hope you enjoy the rest of my party. I'm afraid you won't make it to the next one."
Sam lunged forward with the knife but stabbed thin air instead of flesh. In the blink of an eye, the Baron had disappeared, leaving in his wake a chorus of screams from outside.
And, so it began.
Read PART 4