Chapter Text
RAPHAEL.
Peeling the layers of a debtor's skin apart was a fiddly job that required the utmost concentration. It was not a time for leisurely sips of bloodwine between scalpel changings, nor even to spare moments to admire the work. Flaying was an art form and demanded respect! When one's skin began to protest beyond the usual tickle from drying sweat, that was a problem.
An annoying itch, right under the left wing joint and out of reach. It grew into the sensation of an imp gnawing at the bones, ignorable no more. The devil grunted and dropped the scalpel in favor of snatching a bone saw to scratch. The blunt end was just shy of reaching the offending spot. Of course.
The state of affairs rapidly escalated. Scorched rosemary perfumed the air just before searing pain brought the cambion to a knee. It was as if a ball of hellfire plucked from the deepest pits of roiling souls was being pressed to his flesh. All thought was blasted away. Black spots grew larger and larger at the edge of his vision. Somehow, Raphael, son of the dread Mephistopheles, High Lord of the House of Hope, was burning.
And then it was gone. The swift, concentrated agony blinking in and out of existence punched a gasp out of his diaphragm.
A half-peeled face peered over the lip of the operating table, flaps of skin dangling and dripping blood everywhere.
"Are you all right, my Lord?" asked the abruptly abandoned debtor. Concern, of all things (under the perpetual fear, of course), in the tilt of their mutilated head. "Do I smell brandy?"
Raphael cleared his throat and straightened up to his feet. He felt more vexed than embarrassed (never!). This blasted nonsense always had to happen at the most inconvenient of times!
"Just an old nuisance flaring." The devil's wings shuddered and flapped, dispelling the aftershocks of pain from the muscles.
Raphael cracked his neck and picked the scalpel up. "How very unprofessional of me! My deepest apologies. Shall we continue?"
The debtor gave a doubtful look and then lay back on the table.
"Yes, if you please."
.
Hours later, back in the boudoir, Raphael stood before a mirror in his human form. No matter which way or how far he twisted, it wasn't enough to see more than the start of the new mark scorched into his back. The script was silver, perhaps in flowery calligraphy. He huffed, annoyed once more.
A brief knock at the other end of the room heralded the appearance of his warlock, Korilla. She strode towards him in her brisk, stomping way. The softest leather boots he could find did nothing to dampen the sound of the woman's clipped footfalls.
"Report for you," Korilla said, stopping abruptly at the stairs leading up to the bedroom. He turned his head to look at her disbelieving face properly. "Is that what I think it is?"
Raphael reached behind, touching where the ring of irritated skin started. Experience told him to expect the scabbing to start and itch for a tenday. Molars ground together at the nuisance, and he shifted into devil form.
"Blasted thing disappeared for nearly two hundred years," he grumbled and snapped a doublet onto himself. "Usually takes nearly a millennia for that wheel to turn."
"Hm. Makes sense. From here, it looked elvish." The dwarf refocused and tamped the stack of parchments in her hand. "Anyway. Is now a good time to review this, my lord?"
Raphael waved her on, half listening as he walked away with her trailing close behind. This was not an unremarkable time for his soulmark to return. For it to reappear when the crown was so close at hand…what sort of omen could it be? The rock forming in his gut suggested a bad one. That rock had rarely been wrong before.
Somewhere in the universe was a pot with his name on it. Someone was stirring it. He could smell the cookfire.
The devil stopped, eyes narrow with suspicion. Korilla barrelled past five steps and then doubled back.
"I know that look. I hate that look. It always means more work for me."
Fiery eyes slid towards her. Raphael smiled, slow and mean.
Korilla scowled.
. .
Three years later.
ASTARION.
Black and gold marble rushed up to meet Astarion's face for the seventh time since his ascension. The startling lack of originality was far more insulting than the act of being thrown onto it. Did these idiots have the same decorator, or was there a flooring sale? Astarion groaned and then snarled when a boot pressed between his shoulders.
"Your hospitality is lacking, Emeric," the Vampire Ascendant sneered. "Reputation is everything, you know."
The pale man sitting on a gold throne (always a throne, though this one was relatively modest) threw back his blond head and laughed. Several stilted voices joined, primarily out of fear. Astarion could smell them, the Vampire Lord's spawn, shuffling nervously at their posts, flanking their Lord. Four to the left, four to the right, and the fool pinning him to the marble.
"Big words for a man who has none of his own." Emeric Walestone leaned forward and nudged Astarion's chin with the toe of his boot. "All I know of you is your pretty face and impertinence. Ah, and the not-insignificant insult of walking into my territory without seeking permission or introduction. Tsk tsk! Your name, vampire."
Astarion shifted his shoulders as much as possible and casually grabbed the long iron bar his manacles attached to, grinding his teeth together as the metal gave no quarter against the back of his neck. The manacles themselves were not as tight as they should be. There was enough room to rotate his wrists.
"Astarion Ancunin," he said, all grace and no concern for the compromising position. “Adventurer Extraordinaire, Hero of Baldurs Gate, and Vampire Ascendant. At your service."
The Vampire Lord scoffed. The boot at the Ascendant's chin pushed and pushed until his neck was fully extended.
"Baldurs Gate…are you one of Szarr's sad little things?" Emeric's nails clicked against the throne's armrest. "What is this 'Ascendant' nonsense?"
"Oh, for –" Astarion huffed and glared at the bastard. "I didn't expect Cormyr to be quite so tedious as this. Then again, you are the most backwater bastard I've paid a visit to so far, Emeric."
The boot at his back stomped down just as the one at his chin kicked sideways.
"Watch your mouth!" The voice above growled. It was almost threatening enough to be heeded.
"You really ought to read your mail at the very least. The others had heard of me through the grapevine." Astarion spat a glob of blood on the marble and laughed. He slipped a hand out of its manacle, wiped his mouth, and slipped back in. A few of the spawn's bodies jerked, but they said nothing. They were incapable. What Vampire Lord wanted their slaves to speak without being spoken to?
"Turns out isolation is the biggest threat to a vampire these days."
"Hm. Seems this one has lost his mind. How else to explain such…disregard for his unlife?" Emeric motioned at his spawn. The pressure keeping Astarion down disappeared. The world tilted, and suddenly, Astarion was on his (admittedly wobbly) legs.
"Before I kill you, I would like to know one thing." Emeric left the throne and approached slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
Astarion rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go. More tedium. Let me guess, you want to know how I walk in the sun."
The sudden crushing grip on Astarion's jaw made him hiss and bare fangs. His patience was about to run out. The anger burning in Emeric's red eyes promised so much, and yet they were still in the dancing phase.
"Less sass, little one. More answering. My attention is needed elsewhere."
A nail caught on Astarion's swollen bottom lip, making his blood sing for Emeric's. That nail paused. Darn. Had he given the game away already?
"I sacrificed seven thousand and seven souls to Mephistopheles, Cazodor first amongst them."
The Vampire Ascendant smiled the same smile that had shaken greater vampires than Emeric. Of course, he typically slaughtered the covens first, but the tedium ! Still, the first flicker of uncertainty was always delicious.
Emeric tried to hide his with a sneer. "Impossible. Nonsense!"
Mmm, yes! A vampire's fear was the perfect appetizer.
"Improbable," Astarion corrected. "Not impossible."
Emeric snatched his hand back. "My spawn captured you with nary a scratch on them!"
"Yes, curiously easy! To think I was merely passing through." Astarion's high laugh made the crystal chandeliers tinkle. "I would have left you alone had you extended me the same courtesy. Or, I don't know, been even remotely polite? Remember, Emeric Walestone, former Vampire Lord of Marsember: you brought this on yourself."
"Form–"
Said Vampire Lord was swept off his feet. Manacles were slipped, and the iron bar was thrust through the unbeating heart of Emeric Walestone and deep into the deplorable marble floor. His roar of fury and pain spurred the spawn into action, their eyes flaring to life with the prime directive of every spawn: defend the Master.
Astarion shook out his wrists and grinned, blood humming through his body with sweet adrenaline and lust for a fight. The spawn would tear apart like wet paper; he couldn't wait to sink his trembling fingers in and stir.
"Be a dear and stay there, won't you Em?" Astarion chuckled fully at the expense of the paralyzed vampire. "I'm not quite finished with you."
He went for the bastard that had been so enthusiastic in his duty to fetch and manacle him for his pathetic Master. One well-placed hit to the chest had the spawn on his back with the wind knocked out. Astarion's fingertips sunk into the muscle, cracked the sternum, and pulled it away as easily as breathing. The small cavern left behind showed the shriveled heart they all possessed - except the Vampire Ascendant. The organ in his chest beat strong and loud, pushing and pulling blood as if it were truly alive, and it felt so good .
The piece of sternum was shoved into the mouth of the next spawn that dared to touch him. The crunch of bone against fangs sent a pleasurable tingle up Astarion's neck and over his scalp. A throat was crushed to a bubbly pulp, pink froth running down his arm. Someone's arm tore away; he used it to beat another spawn to true death. One by one, they fell. Most of the hideous floor was soon covered in a thin layer of beautiful blood, shiny and deep crimson in the candlelight.
Regarding fights, this did not make the top twenty in effort spent. Certainly not in the top fifty of satisfaction. The itch for more buzzed under his skin.
"You know…Cazador always said my screams sounded the sweetest." Astarion knelt over the impaled Vampire Lord. The fabric of his trousers soaked up the precious liquid pooled around them.
Tearing off that spawn's arm had felt good. Would ripping off Emeric's prove a challenge? He tried it and sighed at the sound of the shoulder joint popping first and then the shredding of the tendons, muscles, skin, and doublet seam. Simple. Smooth. Astarion switched to the leg on the opposite side. An effortless task once more. He admired the way Emeric's body twitched and leaked.
His bloodied fingers left a dark trail over the cold, pale cheek of the creature at his mercy. Astarion tilted his head and smiled fondly at the memory of the Black Mass. "The sounds that came from my Master when I carved the runes into his back left such a cloying taste on the back of my tongue, I can recall it even to this day."
The iron rod was slippery. No matter. Astarion simply wrenched Emeric up and off. The screams of agony were robust but barely more than that. They were the screams of someone unused to pain, nothing like those of poor souls who knew how to endure. For all the suffering the Lords lay on their children, they could barely tolerate the idea of a wound. Very few of them had borne their beatings at Astarion's hands with grace. Such a disappointing weakness!
"Your screams, however, leave much to be desired. Pity. Let us hope your flavor is unique enough to make this worth my time, hm?"
Like so many lovers embraced in the past, Astarion held Emeric in his arms, pressing the vampire's broken back to his chest. Unusual that blood loss had made his prey so docile. Although the nonsensical threats slurring out pointed more to him being insensate. Perhaps the quick rate of loss had something to do with it. Astarion shoved the blond head aside and breathed deep of the potent blood still left. The lingering accents of terror and gore surrounding them added a lovely atmosphere to this meal.
The corridor outside echoed with a flurry of footsteps and shouts. Astarion's lips pursed.
"The household doesn't seem to be on its toes. Did they not take your summons seriously?" he murmured. "For shame, Lord Walestone! You should have spent more time training your thralls. Not that it would have helped in the end anyway, but it's the principle of the thing."
Astarion let out a sharp whistle. Two wolves appeared from the dark corners of the desecrated throne room: a gray male and a flaxen female with a scarred snout.
"Would you distract the insects, my darlings?" Astarion's attention returned to the neck pulled taught in his grip. "No one is to disturb my meal."
The male rubbed against his master's side with affection as he trailed after the larger female. Shouts of alarm and growling soon followed.
"Gold and silver wolves? Gods above and below, it can't be!"
Astarion grinned as the screaming started anew, his parted lips searching for his favorite spot to ravage.
"At least someone around here knows of me."
. . .
Belly full and belongings recovered, Astarion left the impromptu dining room. Lord Walestone's castle was vast and likely filled with shiny things ripe for plucking. The road to Cormyr had been tiring even without his person being so rudely abducted; a few nights between clean silk sheets would be nearly as restorative as the fresh blood in his veins. Or a bath and new clothes.
He left the wolves to their bloody feast in the corridor, their happy chomping and bone cracking filling his chest with fondness. What the beasts lacked in conversational skills, they more than made up for in companionship. And cozy pelts for a tired bat to ride.
*Follow?*
"And take you away from your well-earned kill?" Astarion gave the male a pat on the head. "No. Enjoy yourself, Flit. That leg won't chew itself."
Each oriel window passed had its thick curtains ripped down. The sunlight was giving way to evening, hints of pink and orange staining the edges of the sky. The long shadows did nothing to hide the accumulated dust and neglected blood stains marring the long out-of-fashion rugs. Astarion tutted in disgust. If the servants had been allowed to neglect their duties in the common areas, those clean sheets would be a disappointment. The vampire sighed and admired the view; that, at least, was not lacking. Forest hid all but the spired tips of Marsember's rooftops and the coast was a slice of shimmering blue. Halsin, the old delicious mountain of elf, had done an admirable job of pounding an appreciation of nature's gifts into him.
A warm mitt of a hand ran up and down his sweaty skin, from hip to ribs, with deceptive gentleness.
"Where will you go?"
The question rumbled through his chest along with the druid's tired voice. It sat momentarily and dissipated to nothing before Astarion had an answer.
"Everywhere."
Halsin's smile, wide and approving, disappeared into Astarion's curls. "Just as I am of a mind to settle, you wander on." He inhaled deep, likely savoring the vampire's scent as was his habit, and pressed a kiss into the mussed silver. "So it goes."
Astarion sighed, turning away from the windows and the memory. He missed Halsin, their trysts, and the druid's terrible sense of humor. Their short time together had been fun. And…safe. The sage advice had been nice, too. Fucking new people would have proven tumultuous without the bear's guidance in those early days. Hells, getting out of his own head was still frustrating at times.
The sun's rays bounced off something small and shiny in the corner. Astarion's fingers pressed against the soft leather of the bag of holding at his hip. Right. Trinkets. He was looking for them.
The best items would likely be lower, in the heart and belly of the castle, but sometimes - especially when dealing with a particularly cocky noble - something interesting would be on display. Mortals were so easily impressed. Taking advantage of that kept Astarion in good gear, well-stocked, and flush with gold. Someday, he would figure out what he would do with it all.
Smells of old parchment and ink attracted Astarion to a heavy set of oak doors. Most likely a library. Even without magic scrolls or ancient tomes to steal, libraries often hid secrets. Emeric seemed like the type to have hidden rooms or passageways. The doors opened with only a small protest from their iron hinges, giving way to a smaller room than expected, made far smaller by the winged being caught stretching his wings before the fireplace.
Astarion froze, his heart flying into his throat. Raphael. The name bounced around his brain with excitement. Faint notes of sulfur and cherries brushed his nose.
The devil's wings shuddered and snapped shut. His dark eyebrows were raised in surprise. Good. They were both on the back foot, at least.
"My, my! Astarion Ancunin, the Vampire Ascendant himself. Isn't this an unexpected delight?" Raphael smiled as he raked glowing eyes over the vampire. "I knew there was something different in the air tonight."
Fear, a feeling Astarion thought had been stomped down and buried for good, clawed its way to the surface and yanked at his gut. No doubt the devil could smell it, judging by how his smile and gaze sharpened. Dents appeared in the brass doorknob in Astarion's grip.
Pull yourself together. You just decimated a whole coven. Nothing and no one has been able to best you in a fight in three years! This is the opportunity you've been waiting for. Don't waste it.
The internal pep talk banked the panic. Astarion unlocked his muscles and glided into the small library - more of an office - to stand as close as he dared to the devil eyeing him up like a tasty meal. Truthfully, this moment had played through his mind more than a few times. Sans the fear. It may serve as a helpful appetizer.
"I would say thank Lord Walestone, but he is no longer with us." Astarion gave his own sharp smile.
"Yes, I gathered that by the blood." Raphael sighed as if he were put out. "While this does free up my evening, it also throws an inconvenient wrench in some things."
"I do apologize, but he did bring it on himself - brought me on himself." He grinned, unable to help it. The blood was still buzzing. "Having dealt with him before, I presume you understand."
The devil hummed, gaze shifting to the fire in the hearth. "Unfortunately." Red knuckles rapped against the stone mantle. "Contingencies, while useful, are not preferable."
Astarion convinced himself the annoyance in that low voice was not with him. Feigning innocence only went as far as someone would let it; charm, whether innate or magical in means, could push it further. Persuasion, or distraction, would serve better against a devil of Raphael's caliber.
Astarion toed a fraying velvet wingback closer to the fire and sat down, willing his limbs into relaxation. He had to look up at Raphael when he spoke. Though it rankled, ceding a position of authority or challenge to another predator, it made their exchange amenable. Or opportunistic if one was an overconfident Vampire Lord like Emeric Walestone.
"Perhaps I could offer something to sink your teeth into," Astarion said, exhaling through the nose and propping his head up in one hand. "Soften the loss, so to speak."
Those fiery eyes slid back to him. They gleamed, a hint of interest making a thrill go through the vampire. "Oh?"
"I'm not interested in an official contract. Not yet ," he hurried to add and fished a square of much-worried parchment from an inner pocket. "We'll try this on for size first, hm?"
Raphael accepted the parchment, glanced at it, and then held it with both clawed hands closer to the light of the fire as if his vision might be playing tricks without the aid. The blood buzzed not with lust in Astarion now but excitement. He knew this would snare the devil's interest. He knew it.
"Always the infernal with you, isn't it?" Raphael's casualty leeched out of his spine more and more with each passing second.
"I've been to four different diabolists," Astarion said, thumbs rubbing against velvet. "Not one of them has seen anything like this before. One thought it might be a contract. A whole one this time."
He folded the parchment but did not give it back. Astarion could see the gears turning and turning inside that handsome head.
"And what are you offering in return if I find out what this is?"
Interesting . Raphael didn't know either, or at least not the whole picture. The satisfaction of infernal knowledge should have been payment enough, but that was not true with Astarion's scars. Luckily, he had not only the perfect payment but the perfect bait to keep this specific devil on retainer. Keeping the smugness out of his grin took every ounce of strength.
Astarion hooked a finger inside his collar and tugged out a platinum chain. A twisted piece of black metal thumped onto his chest. A red netherstone, faintly glowing, was set into the base. The vampire paused, briefly alarmed and bolstered by the flare of heat rolling off the stunned devil. The hook had found its fish. Hunger had Raphael in its grip. Astarion just had to start reeling him in.
The feeling of having all of that undivided attention to direct where he wished was powerful. Astarion breathed, savoring the infernal sulfur and burning cedar in the hearth.
"Funny," he said, fingers brushing against the stone and feeling a soft buzz of energy. "What people will leave to rot in rivers these days."
Raphael said nothing. His throat bobbed. Astarion wanted to crow in victory over him. How much rage was rushing through that cambion body? How much envy?
How much planning?
Astarion pulled the chain over his head. With a shrug that surely drove Rapheal closer to madness, he leaned forward and held out the small piece of Karsus' Crown to take.
"Here. Payment first, answers later."
A twitch in one of those red hands. One was enough to close around Astarions entire neck and crush it completely. Nothing was stopping Raphael from doing so. Except that bit of parchment. Maybe. If that wasn't enough, then the unsaid promise of more certainly did.
Raphael's eyes and lips narrowed, seeing the boundaries of the trap. But he would step into it. They both knew he would.
"And if I can't satisfy your curiosity?"
"Call it a gift of good faith."
Raphael hummed again, displeasure at the predicament clear, and then chuckled. The chuckle grew into an all-out laugh, filling the room. It was not an unpleasant sound.
"The vampling has found his fangs," he purred, taking the chained crown and watching the netherstone shimmer. "I look forward to playing with them."
Astarion could still feel the ghostly pricks of claws in his palm, tingling. "I have no doubt you will. Any initial thoughts on the sigil?"
"It will require a deeper dive into my archives than those lovely scars." Raphael's thumb ran over the piece of the crown, over and over again. "Where did it come from? I assume you've picked it up thirdhand, at least. Still, information is information is information. I can have my many ears and eyes run down the origin."
"Ah, if only I could say something useful. I'm sure you'll enjoy the irony." Astarion sighed. "That mark appeared shortly after I completed the ritual. Perhaps even during it, I'm not sure. I didn't notice until later. But I know for certain it wasn't there before."
"Appeared on your body?" There was a deep curve of amusement to that devilish mouth when Astarionn nodded. "Indeed? How intriguing!"
Infuriating was the word the vampire would have chosen. He had overcome the destiny carved into his flesh only to be claimed by another. Probably. That was what he needed Raphael to figure out.
"I don't suppose this could be as innocuous as Mephistopheles leaving a maker's mark on me?"
"No, that would be too heavy-handed, even for him." The devil turned the parchment upside down and then ninety degrees. "This has binding agents. That much I can say for sure. Where did you say this was located?"
"I didn't." Astarion wished he had ransacked the wine collection first. "That hardly seems relevant."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I could find out for myself."
"You won't."
Raphael chuckled again, posture far too relaxed for such an uncomfortable direction in the conversation. "Not yet."
What would the blood of a devil taste like? Would it be possible to drain him in one sitting? Then again, the fight would bleed them both enough to make up the difference. Now that would be an exhilarating battle! Too bad the bastard needed to be alive.
Patience. Astarion breathed deep and exhaled slowly.
"Has anyone ever told you how expressive that face of yours is?" Raphael tucked the parchment and necklace into a pocket. "The murderous thoughts are quite obvious."
"Oh yes. That was always my greatest sin."
Fucking Cazador.
Raphael tugged delicately at the lace trim of his cuffs; the juxtaposition with such menacing black claws was stark. They could snag and snap a loop so easily. Yet the devil maneuvered them around the precious material with practiced ease. Astarion wondered if Raphael's finery, even in his hellish form, was his preference or merely one of the calculations made when meeting with a client.
"I'll dedicate a few days to this," Raphael said, inspecting those tantalizing claws. "You'll be skulking about here still, yes?"
Astarion blinked and sat up straighter. "Don't pretend I haven't dropped a blessing in your lap, darling. Give this the time it deserves. I've waited three years. I can wait a little longer."
Two rows of sharp, white teeth flashed. Whether it was a smile or a snarl, he wasn't sure. Laughter filled the room as much as the red cinders and smoke of Raphael's parting. The muscles along the vampire's spine untensed all at once. Astarion slumped into the chair with a sigh. Such a reaction was unbecoming of an Ascendant; the cold sweat and twinge of queasiness in his stomach would not be repeated, damn it!
Next time would be easier. Astarion grabbed an iron poker and stoked the crumbling wood in the hearth. Next time, they would start on even footing. Next time, there would be answers.