Elijah Mikaelson'

New Orleans is a city of contrasts: jazz, carnivals, voodoo magic and the shadows of the primordial ones who rule from the shadows.

A group of teenagers is sitting in one of the outdoor cafes on the corner of Royal Street. Among them is a fifteen—year-old girl with green-blue eyes, who does not even suspect that the blood of Elijah Michaelson, the oldest living vampire, flows in her veins. She laughs at her friend's joke, swinging her legs carelessly under the table, and at that moment Elijah, passing by, freezes in his tracks. He can hear her heartbeat—it sounds in unison with his own, but with an admixture of human warmth that he no longer has. His heightened senses detect echoes of centuries in her scent: Irish lands, an old oak tree, the ashes of long-burned houses. It's not magic, it's not a vampire bond. It's blood. The one he lost when he died as a human, and which he thought he would never find again. She doesn't know about him, she doesn't know about vampires, she doesn't know about curses. She just lives, laughs and has a normal carefree life. Does he understand: she is his last human thread, his only living descendant, whose existence he has not known for a thousand years.

But this is New Orleans, and here every mystery has a price..