A/N: Okay, this is only Goldie here, of our writing duo. I really should not be doing this, but I can't help it, because it's been itching at my brain for months upon months. A Kol x OC romance. I know, I know, a lot of them have already been done, but I don't think I'm being too cliche in saying that mine will be different.

For one, it has a heavy "Phantom of the Opera" influence, with a little "Les Mis" sprinkled in there. It takes place in Victorian London, and then France, and the OC will have a little sister who may end up with a different Mikaelson brother.

I'm not sure what else to say, yet, except that the main OC is a prostitute, but it will become evident why she is one, at age sixteen. Please read, review, and enjoy! Thanks so much :).

Warnings: Mild sex scene, virtually no graphic description. Murder at the end, because it's Kol and Kol likes killing people. Oh, and I'm terribly sorry if I butchered the lovely French language. I'm taking French classes in my high school, but still, some of it is courtesy of google translate.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs.

Chapter 1: Sing to Me

Ella's Perspective

I started selling my body when I was thirteen. It hurt, at first, and I would cry the entire time, but it never bothered the men I was with. Why would it? If they had a shred of decency, they wouldn't be having sex with a vulnerable young girl for a pocketful of francs.

It was for my sister. Everything was for my petite soeur. She was my world, and I was hers.

Which is why, only three years later, a greasy, unattractive man was rocking on top of me. He moaned my name in my ear, his hands gripping fistfuls of my hair, and I found myself staring at the painfully slow hands of his old grandfather clock. When I was younger, whoring myself out made me feel pathetic and as low as dirt. Now? I couldn't feel a damned thing.

I faked a few cries here and there, then stifled a sigh of relief as he rolled off me, panting and grinning away. It was good - for him. By now, I was an expert in this field of work. "That was brilliant," he gasped as I reached for my discarded dress. "You deserved that money, sweetheart."

I'm not your sweetheart, I wanted to scream, but it was no use. They were all the same. I fished my well-earned wad of pounds off his nightstand and struggled to pull my shoes on. "You're leaving?"

I sighed as I flung my bag over my shoulder, hardly sparing the man a glance. "My job is done, monsieur." My shoulders were as heavy as ever with the weight of what I was forced to endure. For her, I reminded myself. I had to do this for my soeur. But every day, it became more and more difficult not to resent that. To resent her.

I locked that thought out of my mind as I stepped outside into the icy, winter London air, my short heels crunching against the thin layer of snow. No, I refused to stray down that path. I wasn't going to turn into my mère. My soeur was the only light in my life, my little golden star. She was the single only reason my heart still beat.

I wanted to weep as I had my rare, precious alone time, but my eyes were as dry as sand in the freezing wind. Now, I was a machine, acting out the motions and slowly killing myself in the process. But I still managed to plaster on a smile for my petite soeur. Because she would not feel unwanted or rejected for a damned second.

London wasn't bad, I suppose, but I missed Paris. After my mère abandoned us, we moved in with my tante in the thick of London, who just so happened to run a brothel. Then my aunt died, and I was still entangled in the life.

The nearest food stand was still open, and I used my paycheck to buy a loaf of bread along with a few apples, a block of cheese, and a full can of beans. That was all I could afford for now, but it would have to do. The meat was too expensive. One day, I would give my petite soeur everything her heart desired, but today was not that day.

After stuffing the food into my bag, I sucked in a sharp sigh at the old, abandoned church in the distance that we had taken illegal residence in. Living there and doing what I did for a living felt so sacrilegious. But, at this point in my life, I wasn't so sure if there was a God watching over me or not. If there was, then He didn't give a damn about me.

The short, fuzzy hair on the back of my neck bristled and I paused in my steps. Somebody was watching me. Somebody . . . bad. Remaining as still as I could, I looked around me in every possible direction, but only saw the filthy streets and puddles of rainwater and piss that surrounded this area of town. Perhaps it was nothing, but my instincts were rarely wrong.

Still, I hurried to the church, where my petite soeur waited for me, alone and vulnerable. It was not a safe time to be wandering about in this area of London. The night sky loomed over me like a blanket, and for once, faint stars were visible through wisps of leftover storm clouds. My heart pounded beneath my ribs, and the weight on my shoulders lessened only slightly as I slipped into the secret back entrance of the church.

A large, indulgent smile spread across my weary features as I observed my petite soeur from the shadows. Obediently, like I told her, she stayed near the altar, where our meager possessions were scattered about. She sat at the church's old piano bench and humming to herself, drummed her fingers over the keys. The little girl never had any lessons or music sheets, but she had a raw talent and a natural ear, which made her playing nonsensical yet pleasant.

My petite soeur was blind. She was only three years old with faulty vision when I escaped with her from my "family," and lost her sight to a sheet of cataracts not two years after. She was six years old now, compared to my sixteen.

Her light, almost white blonde hair gleamed softly in the dull lighting, like an individual beam of moonlight. As she glided her fingers over the keys, her little tongue poked against the corner of her lip, a sign of her fierce concentration. In her once stunning blue eyes, it was as if milk was poured inside of her irises, covering most of the blue with its white surface. It was unsettling at first, but once I grew used to it, it made no difference to me.

"Ella?" she said, not budging from the piano bench. After losing her sight, her other senses sharpened and fine-tuned themselves, so she could always hear me before I even spoke.

"Claire," I replied happily, tossing my sack of food to the side to envelope her into a warm, sisterly embrace, which she gladly returned. "You get better and better at playing every day."

A tiny smirk touched her lips. "You have to say that, you're ma grande soeur." Still, using the stick I found her in the gutter as a makeshift cane, she found her way to the food by fragrance alone. "May I have some bread, Ella?" Even as she was asking, she was tearing off one of the ends and shoving it into her mouth. "Better to ask for forgiveness than permission," she said through the mouthful of food. She learned that from our late aunt at some point or another.

Even though I was as hungry as her, I stood near the altar of the church, and looked upon the rows and rows of dusty, cobwebbed benches. It was once a grand area, that much I knew, but time and forgetfulness had taken its toll. How powerful it must feel to stand in front of people and shape their minds however you wanted to . . . to speak and be listened to, because they believe your words are the truths they have been seeking. . . .

I jumped as a high musical note rang through the air. Claire had returned to her piano bench, ready to play. "Sing, Ella," she murmured. "Do Amazing Grace, so I can play along."

It was a song I'd crooned to my petite soeur enough times that she managed to craft a rough melody for it, all by ear. Her lullaby. Smiling, I nodded in affirmation and faced the empty rows. "People of London!" She giggled from where she sat, and I continued, "I have come to perform for you, so listen closely, parce que je commencerai!" *because I will begin!*

So, I opened my mouth, and sang.

"Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found;

Was blind, but now I see."

Sucking in a breath, and looked over at my blind sister, who sometimes, I swore could see better than anyone what was true and what was false. Her skinny little fingers created a melody that swam around me, a sea of colors and wonder invisible to the naked eye, but so real it was as if I could reach out and touch the tangible beauty.

Little Claire repeated the same verses and offered me a cue to continue, which I gratefully accepted.

"'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,

And grace my fears relieved;

How precious did that grace appear

The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares,

I have already come;

'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home."

For the briefest of moments, a sixth sense spiked within me, as if somebody was watching me. Watching the insignificant French whore sing about concepts much purer than she could ever begin to comprehend, about a grace she wasn't sure existed. But it mattered not, for when I sang, I was free, and as long as the floating music wound me up into its loving embrace, nobody could take that freedom away from me.

"The Lord has promised good to me,

His Word my hope secures;

He will my Shield and Portion be,

As long as life endures."

A Lord I didn't know if I believed in. No good was promised to me, nor any manner of protection against the harsh realities of the world. My soul was tainted and blackened as I sinned my way through life, and if the Lord was real, then He did not love me as He loved his other creations. If no higher power cared about me, and I could no longer be saved, then all the grace in the universe I would craft into a Shield for Claire, because if she was a blind spot in the Lord's eternal eye, then I would protect her instead. That is what such grace meant to me.

"Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

And mortal life shall cease,

I shall possess, within the veil,

A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,

The sun forbear to shine;

But God, who called me here below,

Will be forever mine.

When we've been there ten thousand years,

Bright shining as the sun,

We've no less days to sing God's praise

Than when we'd first begun."

As the final note cascaded from my mouth, a single tear rolled down my cheek, dropping onto the dusty floorboards to never be seen again. It was as if my heart and spirit was put on display for the world, and in that moment, I'd never felt so vulnerable.

I numbly walked to one of the nearest benches and sat down, hating myself for the sobs that racked my entire body. Someone like me did not deserve to sing a poem so lovely and beautiful, as if I had any right to claim the lyrics and apply them to myself.

I was a whore. A dirty, filthy whore whose only purpose in life was to spread open her legs for greedy men with greedy eyes and greedy hands and greedy souls. . . . A stain on the fabric of everything good and holy.

A gentle touch glided over my hand, and Claire sat quietly beside me, choosing then to lean her head against my shoulder. She was the one entity I'd done right by in my life, and thus, she was my saving grace. "Je suis là, et je t'aime," she murmured, and weeping silently, I cradled her slender form to my chest, thanking every deity I did not believe in that she was here with me today. *I am here, and I love you.*

Something prickled into my skin, like rays of harsh sunlight, and I looked up. For the quickest of seconds, I met the brown-eyed, unfathomably intense gaze of a man who was standing still as a stone in the back entrance. In a flash of intuition, I knew that he was not there for benevolent purposes, but he did not move. His fierce stare bore straight into me, as if he could see past all of my walls right into my soul, but I was not afraid. Somehow, I knew he was dangerous and perhaps even deadly, but I could not find it in me to fear him.

Then I blinked, and he was gone.

Kol's Perspective

It wasn't the first time Kol had a serial killer persona crafted for him, as silly little humans scrambled to find answers to their unimportant questions. But "Jack the Ripper" was painfully uncreative, in his opinion. For one, did he even look like a Jack?

And what was that rubbish about the anonymous murderer donning himself in shabby, inconspicuous clothing? Kol Mikaelson might have been a psychotic maniac, but nobody could say he wasn't a stickler for good fashion.

Elijah would surely trace it back to him. Kill one or two or twenty prostitutes for fun (the stupid humans only noticed five), maybe get a little colorful with it, and bam, it had to be Kol. It was offensive and incredibly uncalled for. Sure, Kol was the murderer, but Elijah didn't need to assume the worst even if the worst was true.

Always and forever indeed.

Around seventy years ago, give or take, his bastard brother plucked a dagger out of his heart because he got bored, and Kol awakened only to see that Niklaus had apparently accepted a dull little boy into the Mikaelson midst that all of them already loved more than Kol. So, he escaped by the skin of his teeth, before he could wind up in a coffin again.

He enjoyed his freedom, and also enjoyed the fact that he hadn't interacted with any of his rotten siblings for decades. Well, he enjoyed it for the most part. Sometimes he missed Nik's penchant for glorious murder, and teasing Bekah since she was so delightfully easy to rile up, and even Elijah's mind-numbingly stale lectures that Kol disobeyed the next day.

Oh, bother, he would find them again in the next century. Maybe gift them with a souvenir or two. Or not, depending on his mood.

Whistling to himself, he strutted along the gloomy streets of London as fog swirled around him. It had been a good day. Sex, a lovely breakfast made of French pastries, sex, heavy midday drinking, sex, a ravishing view of the city while he ate a magnificent dinner of lamb chops and blood, sex, and a nice, old-fashioned murder spree. A bit of a slow day, but a pleasant one nonetheless.

Now, all he had to do was find a sharp-tongued little snack for dessert, and he would have a nice end to a nice day. He couldn't understand why those little humans lived in such slums. Conditions weren't so obviously desolate before industrialization, although the Black Death seemed to kill off a lot of them and all those various useless wars in their desperate struggle for power. But they did not know true power, not like Kol did. They could never understand.

A large, predatory smile spread across Kol's face as his eyes landed on his next victim. Oh, this was a pretty one. Just the way he liked them. Long, wild curls of fiery red hair, glowing embers in the moonlight, to accompany pale, almost translucent skin. Her dress was shorter than most, tight, and revealing; she must've been a whore. She and Bekah had a lot in common, then. It was also perfect, because he could continue on his Jack the Ripper streak.

Ah, he could hear the blood pounding from her heart, see it beneath that paper-thin skin. She knew something was wrong, and her pace slowed to a stop. This was it, the perfect opportunity to whoosh in, and rip into the girl's throat.

And then she turned around, and he paused for the slightest of moments. Her eyes were the most vibrant, piercing, aggressive shade of blue he'd ever before seen. As if men would fall to her feet on the dozen and she could slaughter them all with nothing but a glance their way. Her eyes were two sharpened sapphire blades, and for a split second, Kol could have sworn she noticed him as the weapons pierced his torso.

He blinked, and then she was hurrying over to an abandoned building of sorts - it was a church that must've been left alone for decades. Her hair bounced behind her in a tangled waterfall of fire - holy hell, a waterfall of fire? It was bloody hair. The bloody hair of his dessert for the night, not some poetic rubbish. Disgusting; it sounded like a phrase Nik would vomit up in one of his love sonnets. In fact, Kol was almost certain his brother had used the exact same words to describe Aurora de Martel's hair once. Ugh.

Ridding his head of all horrendously stupid thoughts, he followed her to the back of the church, quick as a flash but silent as a shadow. He smiled again at the thought of sinking his fangs into her delicate neck, and hearing her scream into the cold, empty night. His mouth watered at the mere thought of it.

The girl entered the back of the church, and he nearly slipped in after to finish her off when he saw another human inside. A miniature human, who fumbled along the keys of a piano. His brow furrowed. It was a soft, sweet melody, and it reminded him of when Elijah used to play, although Elijah was much, much better with centuries of practice.

Kol was about to make a lunge for the red-haired girl when the miniature human turned around, and surprised him. Her irises were almost as white as the area surrounding them, and her pupils were near nonexistent. The child was blind. "Ella?" she asked as the red-haired girl rushed forward.

"Claire!" The two girls embraced and Kol suppressed a groan; he didn't particularly fancy killing children, so somehow, he would have to lure out the redhead when she was not fussing over the miniature human. "You get better and better at playing every day."

Humph. Then the bar must've been set very low. But there was a small, strange detail about the both of them that Kol easily observed; they both had thick French accents, as if they'd just arrived from the heart of Paris.

Rolling his eyes, Kol tuned the girls out as they conversed with one another, waiting for an opportunity to strike. He frowned in confusion when the smaller human returned to the piano seat and the older one stood in front of the rows of empty benches. The miniature human said something that Kol dutifully ignored; he was too hyper-focused on his prey.

"People of London!" the red-haired girl cried out into nothing, her skinny shoulders heaving as she spoke louder. "I have come to perform for you, so listen closely, parce que je commencerai!" She slipped into French at the end, but Kol had a decent grasp of the language, so he roughly understood what she said.

Fine, he would brutally murder her after she did whatever she was planning to do. Inconveniencing Kol, to be specific. Then, she started to sing, and he found himself frozen stiff in the back doorway, unable to move nor avert his eyes from the girl.

"Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found;

Was blind, but now I see."

The unseeing little human kept playing along with a remarkable surety and grace, but the red-haired girl stopped singing, and Kol almost found himself yelling for her to continue, before he caught and ridiculed himself for the near lapse in judgement and control. Stop being a twat and kill her already, you could already be on to your next victim by now!

And yet, something about her sweet vocals compelled him to stay in perfect stillness.

"'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,

And grace my fears relieved;

How precious did that grace appear

The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares,

I have already come;

'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home."

Her lilting, angelic voice struck a chord in him that had been long hidden for centuries, a part of him he assumed had long rotted away into darkness. The high soprano soared through the church and beyond, filling the grim London skies with strokes of bright, colorful wildness.

Kol swallowed hard as she continued to sing, and allowed himself to close his eyes, and immerse himself into the music. He bathed in the melody as if it were made of liquid stars.

Oh bloody hell, he had to leave before he thought anything else unbearably sappy and repulsive. He needed to break his own neck to snap him out of his pathetic stupor. In fact, he would've welcomed a dagger in his heart, courtesy of Nik, if only to free himself.

But . . . he did not move.

"The Lord has promised good to me,

His Word my hope secures;

He will my Shield and Portion be,

As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

And mortal life shall cease,

I shall possess, within the veil,

A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,

The sun forbear to shine;

But God, who called me here below,

Will be forever mine.

When we've been there ten thousand years,

Bright shining as the sun,

We've no less days to sing God's praise

Than when we'd first begun."

Something deep within the shriveled, blackened cockles of Kol's cold, dead heart ached when he realized the song was over. And when the red-haired girl began to cry, he found himself actually understanding. Normally, he would have chocked up the silly human emotion to the all-around weakness of the lesser species, but after hearing the raw feelings she poured into each and every word, he understood.

The day you empathize with a human is the day you are truly lost. Kol had reminded himself of that for centuries, so he convinced himself that no, he did not feel empathy for the red-haired girl, but merely comprehended the logic behind her meltdown. Oh, fuck me.

The red-haired girl lowered herself onto one of the grimy benches, and for the first time, he garnered a decent look at her face. Despite its blotchy redness from her relentless tears, she was quite attractive with sharp, almost elvish features and an endearing splash of freckles on her nose and cheeks.

Kol, snap out of it! You did not just use the word "endearing" unironically in an actual sentence. Still, Kol observed closely as the blonde, almost white-haired miniature human climbed up beside the red-haired girl and displayed sisterly physical affection. Upon seeing both of their faces, they had to be sisters, despite the contrast of pigments.

"Je suis là," the miniature human whispered, so quietly Kol almost had to strain to hear it, "et je t'aime." *I am here, and I love you.* This is what family was supposed to look like, not the hateful, dysfunctional mess he left behind in New Orleans. In fact, all they ever did was exclude him from their ridiculous vow, so the lot of them barely constituted as his family at all.

Kol stiffened when the red-haired girl looked up at him with tearful, red-rimmed, vehemently blue eyes. Well, you have to kill her now, you idiot. But, for some reason, he found himself wanting to leave her alive. Only because removing that voice from this earth would be a tragedy, and Kol was cruel and ruthless, but perhaps the tiniest sliver of mercy was in order when he had enjoyed himself.

The red-haired girl, Ella, did not avert her steady gaze. It was as if she was waiting for him to make a move, waiting him to fulfill the malicious purpose behind the true reason he was standing behind the back doorway. Kol was the predator, and she was the prey.

Detesting himself for it, Kol merely removed himself from the situation, running as fast as he could from the horrid slums of the city, away from the church, away from her enchanting voice, away from her.

Had he gone soft? No, he was Kol bloody Mikaelson, the wildest vampire of all time. Not that he needed to prove himself, but he found himself cornering a drunken happy couple into an alley, smirking as wickedly as he pleased. "Darlings, this is not your lucky night."

But still, even as he murdered them, even as he ripped them limb from limb, even as he drained every single drop of blood from their mutilated corpses, that voice still crooned its haunting melody in his ears.

A/N: So, Originals/TVD fam? What'd ya think? Like it, love it, hate it? How do you feel about the concept, and how do you think Kol will find the sisters again? Please review, I love feedback! :D