Chapter 13: Building Bonds
The bottle of bourbon Elijah brought cost more than my stolen car.
I could tell from the label—something French, aged longer than most vampires I'd met—and the way he handled it, like it was liquid gold instead of just alcohol I didn't technically need.
"A peace offering," he said, setting it on the crate between us. "And an excuse for conversation."
"You need an excuse?"
"Klaus is watching my movements. If I visit regularly without apparent reason, he'll grow more suspicious." Elijah produced two glasses from his jacket pocket. Actual crystal glasses. "But if I'm simply sharing fine spirits with a fellow immortal? That's acceptable behavior."
"Smart."
"Survival tactic." He poured two fingers into each glass, handed me one. "To new alliances."
I clinked my glass against his. The bourbon burned going down—good burn, the kind that reminded you that you were drinking something that could strip paint. "This is incredible."
"1926 vintage. Prohibition era. I've been saving it for a special occasion."
"Meeting the vampire your parents tortured counts as special?"
"Meeting someone I can have an actual conversation with counts as special." Elijah settled back on his crate, somehow making it look dignified. "My siblings are... challenging conversationalists. Klaus is paranoid, Rebekah is emotional, Kol is chaos incarnate. Finn barely speaks. I love them, but intellectual discourse is not their strength."
"And you think I'll be better?"
"You've survived a millennium of isolation with your sanity mostly intact. That suggests either remarkable mental fortitude or fascinating coping mechanisms. Either way, I'm curious."
I laughed. Took another drink. "Fair enough. What do you want to talk about?"
"Ethics." He swirled his bourbon. "Specifically, the ethics of immortal violence. What separates predator from monster?"
Oh. He wanted to have that conversation.
"Control," I said after a moment. "Discipline. Choosing when to kill instead of killing because you can."
"Precisely. Honor, even in violence. Rules that govern behavior despite our nature."
"Or," I countered, "the illusion of nobility while we kill to survive. Dressing up murder in fancy suits and calling it honor doesn't change the body count."
Elijah's eyes sharpened. "You disagree with the concept of honorable violence?"
"I think it's a coping mechanism. We tell ourselves we're civilized, controlled, better than other monsters. But at the end of the day, we're still ripping out throats and draining people dry." I met his gaze. "The suit doesn't make you less of a killer. It just makes you a well-dressed one."
"Cynical."
"Realistic."
"Then you believe all violence is equal? That there's no difference between killing in self-defense and killing for pleasure?"
I considered that. "Intent matters. But outcome is the same—someone dies. We can dress it up, justify it, call it necessary. Doesn't change the fact that we're predators and everyone else is prey."
"And yet you helped Davina. Protected her without expecting anything in return. That's not predatory behavior."
"Sure it is. I just chose different prey—the ones trying to hurt her instead of her."
Elijah smiled slightly. "Semantics."
"Philosophy is just fancy semantics."
We debated for another hour. Kant versus Nietzsche. Whether immortals could claim moral authority when they'd outlived the societies that defined morality. If choosing restraint made us better or just meant we hadn't been pushed far enough yet.
It was... nice. Intellectually stimulating in a way I hadn't experienced since waking up. Elijah didn't pull punches, didn't treat me like I was fragile or dangerous. Just engaged, argued, made me defend positions I wasn't sure I believed.
The warehouse door banged open.
"Are you two having a feelings moment?" Davina stood there, backpack over one shoulder, looking between us with barely contained amusement. "Because I can leave. Come back when the philosophical bromance is done."
Elijah choked on his bourbon. Actually choked. I tried not to laugh and failed.
"Miss Claire," Elijah said once he recovered. "A pleasure to see you."
"Uh-huh." She walked over, eyeing the bottle. "Is that the expensive stuff?"
"Very."
"And you're just drinking it? In a warehouse?"
"Context is irrelevant to good bourbon."
Davina looked at me. "He's weird."
"He's a thousand years old. Weird comes with the territory."
"You're older than me," Elijah pointed out.
"And also weird. Your point?"
Davina sat on the floor between our crates, dumping her backpack. "Since you're both here, maybe Elijah can help with the magic lessons. He's got experience with witch stuff, right?"
"Some," Elijah said carefully. "My mother was the Original Witch. I learned by proximity, though I lack the ability myself."
"Perfect. Roy's being stubborn about ley line theory."
"I'm not being stubborn. I just don't understand why they matter if I can't cast yet."
"Because theory comes before practice!" She pulled out a worn notebook covered in magical diagrams. "You can't just wing magic. You need to understand the why before the how."
For the next two hours, Davina lectured while Elijah and I listened.
She explained ley lines—rivers of magical energy crisscrossing the earth, strongest at intersections. Ancestral magic, which tied witches to their dead relatives' power but also gave those ancestors control. Spell components and why certain herbs mattered, how intention shaped outcome, the difference between channeling and casting.
I absorbed it like a sponge. Every detail, every connection, storing it away for when my tribrid magic finally woke up fully. Because it would wake up. Had to. Klaus's presence had triggered the hybrid side; something would eventually trigger the witch side.
"You learn fast," Davina observed, watching me sketch out a spell circle from memory after she'd shown it once. "Like, scary fast. Did they make you smart too?"
I grinned. "Just motivated. Thousand years of having nothing to do but think. You get good at memorization."
"That's not memorization. That's..." She gestured at my notebook. "You're making connections I didn't teach you. Seeing patterns."
"Is that bad?"
"No. Just weird." She glanced at Elijah. "Does his weirdness concern you?"
"Everything concerns me," Elijah said dryly. "But Roy's aptitude for learning is more asset than liability. The more he understands, the less likely he is to accidentally blow up the city when his magic manifests."
"Comforting," I muttered.
"I aim to reassure."
Davina packed up as the sun started setting. "I should get back before Marcel sends a search party. Again."
"Be careful," I said.
"Always am." She paused at the door. "Thanks. For the lesson. And for not being creepy about the whole ancient vampire thing."
"I'm trying."
She left with a wave.
Elijah finished his bourbon, set the glass down carefully. "She's remarkable."
"Yeah."
"You care about her."
"She's a kid being hunted by her own people. Of course I care."
"It's more than that." Elijah studied me. "You're protective in a way that suggests personal investment. She reminds you of yourself."
I didn't answer. Didn't need to.
"Just be careful," Elijah said quietly. "Attachment is dangerous in our world. People die. Especially the ones we care about."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Always." He stood, straightening his jacket. "I should return before Klaus comes looking. But Roy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the conversation. It's been... too long since I've had an intellectual equal to debate with."
"Anytime. Bring more of that bourbon and I'll argue philosophy until dawn."
He smiled—genuine, not the diplomatic mask—and left.
I sat alone in the warehouse, staring at the empty glasses, and tried to process how weird my life had become.
I was befriending Elijah Mikaelson. The son of my torturers. The noble Original I'd watched on TV and admired from a distance. And instead of planning his death, I was drinking expensive bourbon and debating Kant.
Davina was teaching me magic. A seventeen-year-old witch showing the ancient vampire how spells worked, and I was learning because she had knowledge I needed.
And Marcel—Marcel was watching everything with wary calculation, trying to figure out if I was asset or threat.
This wasn't what I'd imagined revenge would look like.
It was messier. More human. Complicated by actual relationships instead of clean lines between ally and enemy.
Is that good or dangerous?
Both, probably. But I was committed now. Had allies. Had people who depended on me to not go full monster.
That had to count for something.
Marcel found me three nights later.
I was on the warehouse roof, practicing partial shifts—letting my eyes go gold, fangs extend, claws emerge from fingertips without losing control. The hybrid was getting easier to manage. Still not perfect, but functional.
"Impressive," Marcel said, climbing up through the window I'd left open. "Most hybrids take years to control their shifts. You're doing it in weeks."
I retracted the claws. "Motivated learning."
"Seems to be your specialty." He walked to the edge, looked out over the industrial district. "We need to talk."
"About?"
"Elijah. His visits. What you're building with the Mikaelsons."
Here we go.
"I'm not building anything," I said carefully. "Elijah and I have an understanding. That's all."
"An understanding that has him visiting your warehouse three times a week, bringing bourbon, having long conversations about God knows what." Marcel turned to face me. "You're making yourself part of their world. And when Mikaelsons are involved, everything gets complicated and violent."
"I'm not trying to complicate your city."
"Maybe not. But it'll happen anyway. It always does with them." His voice was firm, controlled anger underneath. "I built something here, Roy. A kingdom, yeah, but more than that—a balance. Vampires, witches, werewolves, all coexisting without constant warfare. The Mikaelsons destroy that wherever they go."
"I'm not a Mikaelson."
"No. But you're getting close to them. And when Klaus inevitably turns on you—because he will, it's what he does—where does that leave the rest of us? Do I pick sides? Do I watch my city burn because you and Klaus are having a pissing contest?"
Valid concerns. All of them.
"I'm not here to ruin your kingdom," I said, meeting his eyes. "I'm here to protect Davina and make the people who tortured me pay. Those are my only goals. Stay out of my way on those two things and we're fine."
"And if Klaus gets in your way?"
"Then Klaus and I have a problem. But that's between us. Not you. Not your city."
Marcel studied me. "You really think you can take him?"
"Eventually. Not yet. But I'm getting stronger every day."
"And if he finds out about you before you're ready?"
"Then I improvise. Run if I have to. Fight if I can't." I shrugged. "But I'm not dragging New Orleans into it. This is personal."
"Everything's personal with the Mikaelsons. That's the problem."
He left without another word, disappearing back through the window.
I stayed on the roof, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.
Marcel was right to be worried. The Mikaelsons were chaos wrapped in designer clothes. Wherever they went, destruction followed—not because they wanted it, but because that's what happened when immortals with trust issues tried to build families.
And I was walking straight into that chaos. Befriending Elijah. Learning magic from Davina. Building connections that could be weaponized against me.
This is dangerous. You know this is dangerous.
But the alternative was staying alone. Hidden. Waiting for revenge that might never satisfy me.
And I'd already spent a millennium alone.
I'd take the risk.
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