“This way!” came a whispering hiss from his left, and Klaus’s senses adjusted to the soft footfalls behind him. He counted three of them: young male werewolves who had formed their own little resistance on the spot.

Klaus smiled to himself and stood perfectly still, waiting for them to get close. He couldn’t tell if they recognized him or not, but it was obvious that they had no idea what he was capable of. He felt their breath on the back of his neck just before two of them grabbed him by the arms, and then, at last, he moved.

Klaus wrenched his shoulders into motion and forced his hands toward each other, smashing the wolves’ heads together with a sickening crack. The third one threw an arm around Klaus’s neck, trying to strangle him or just hold on, but Klaus flipped him forward onto the cobblestones and then kicked him viciously in his side. The young man coughed and spat up blood, but one of the first two attackers staggered back up to his feet.

“I didn’t come to kill tonight,” Klaus told him, relaxing into a ready stance. “There’s no reason you can’t still walk away.”

The werewolf hesitated, glancing down at his two fallen friends, then back along the empty street as if he hoped to see reinforcements. A scream rose from a nearby house, before cutting off abruptly. “You attacked us in our beds, monster,” the werewolf reminded Klaus through gritted teeth. “If you didn’t come to kill, then I hope you came prepared to die.”

He took a powerful jump off the ground, leaping through the air so forcefully that he could have been in his wolf form. But when his blow landed, Klaus could feel just how badly his strength fell short. He was more than an ordinary human, perhaps, but he wasn’t even close to a match for a Mikaelson.

Klaus caught the werewolf’s arm and snapped it like a reed, and the young man howled in pain. But he lashed out with his good arm, ready to fight to the last, and in spite of himself Klaus had to admire that in an opponent. “I told you I didn’t come to kill tonight,” he repeated, parrying the blow and throwing the youth against a timbered wall. “But I’ll be back another night. It’s your choice whether you want to live for now.”

The werewolf dropped into a crouch, winded from the impact, but struggling not to show weakness. His deep-set eyes glowed yellow out of a thin, clever face, and his shoulders were wiry and strong. He had been bred to attack Klaus’s kind on sight, but he seemed to have a bit of common sense floating around in his instinct-addled brain as well.

The werewolf looked around, registering the sounds of violence and fear that were everywhere. Klaus waited for the young wolf to realize there was nothing to be gained by dying in an empty alleyway.

“I won’t forget this, vampire,” the young man said at last, as ominously as he could manage under the circumstances. A faint gurgling sound came from the unconscious wolf whose ribs Klaus had cracked, while the other lay motionless.

“You’ll remember that I let you live?” Klaus asked, raising one eyebrow in mock surprise. “Gratitude isn’t what your kind is known for, but I suppose there are exceptions to every rule.”

The werewolf snarled, his eyes burning an even deeper yellow, but he was beaten and he knew it. He turned and fled, disappearing down the twisting streets and back into the chaos of the Werewolves’ quarter.

- The Originals: The Resurrection, Chapter 4