Chapter Text
Mirtul 1269
Boredom. The disease of the eternal. Manifesting in routines and repetitions, eating through days and dulling the mind. There was a reason many of the ancients tended to be just this side of sane. Luckily, Raphael had discovered the cure long ago. The ordinary. If you spent your existence being larger than life, there was nothing more thrilling than observing lesser beings. Them and their insignificant little perils. It was the main reason Raphael got into the whole contract business in the first place. He revelled in the countless different ways those little worms on the material plane created their problems, all with their own creative approach to suffering. It was a delight to get distressed pleas for things so entirely irrelevant that they had Raphael marvel at mortals' priorities. If only they knew how vanishingly inconsequential their lives were, much less a single worry in it. But luckily, they didn't. Luckily, they kept Raphael busy enough to keep from succumbing to boredom.
Or at least, they used to.
Lately, he’d been getting this strange sense of dissatisfaction. When he returned to Avernus with a new contract in hand and the knowledge that before long, he’d be adding another soul to his collection, there was a little sting he felt, a little something…
It all went the same way, in the end. Raphael always got what Raphael wanted. Almost like a routine. The thrill was wearing off. And worse, the fun was wearing off.
He stared down at the contract. Give me more power and influence so the nobles won't look down upon me anymore, had been the prompt. The same one Raphael had heard more times than he could count. Humans were so fucking dull. At least dwarves asked for amusing things, like finding the hottest flame to create the strongest weapons. It had been one of his better contracts, Raphael thought. The look on the dwarf’s face when Raphael had told him the strongest flame had been inside of him all along had been priceless. Fragments of that soul had been put to good use in the heating system of the boudoir. But that contract was ages ago, and had been followed by mostly the same old run-of-the-mill idiocy.
“What’s the matter?”
Raphael glanced over his shoulder towards the bed. Haarlep stretched languidly and propped himself up on an elbow. “You still look tense. Am I losing my edge? Or is something bothering you?”
Raphael stifled a sigh. Haarlep. He, too, had become dull. And he was so terribly overt about his probing. Even if Raphael weren't aware that the incubus had been sent as Mephistopheles' spy, he wouldn't have bought his atrocious act. Luckily, Haarlep was a narcissistic bastard - takes one to know one - who thought he had Raphael all figured out. And so the information forwarded to his dear father was well curated.
“There is a lot bothering me.” Raphael drawled.
“Oh?” Haarlep elegantly rolled off the bed, making a show of every small movement, and strolled leisurely towards the desk. Raphael did not appreciate him leaving the bed; he preferred the incubus limited to a single space, and even that was too much sometimes. But since he was in a particular mood, he overlooked the audacity.
“What’s the matter? Maybe I can help?”
Raphael regarded him. A perfect mirror and yet not, pleasurable to look at but lacking any and all substance. He almost regretted having the incubus take on his face. He wore it with such dilettantism. But it contributed to the image of harmless hedonist Raphael wanted to convey: if Mephistopheles didn't consider him a threat, he was left in peace. Haarlep leaned back when he noticed Raphael’s gaze, displaying the body he was given. It was a very good body. A very good face, one Raphael looked forward to ripping off of his undeserving skin one day, when the time was right. Which was, unfortunately, not yet. Toying with Haarlep had been fun in the beginning; Raphael had even enjoyed the sex the first time around. There was something oddly satisfying about sleeping with yourself. But things got very boring very fast. Routines dull the mind, indeed, and Raphael was in the mood for change.
“You can.” He turned back to the contract, added the name of the contractee and rolled up the parchment. Then he slowly got up. As he turned around, he manifested his clothes. Haarlep put on a pout.
“If I am to help, then this seems counterproductive.”
Raphael smiled sweetness and poison and cradled Haarlep’s cheek in his hand, pressing their lips together in a deceptively gentle kiss. “You can stay here like a good boy and be ready for whenever I return.”
Haarlep chuckled. “Oh, now I’m the good boy?”
Raphael’s gaze hardened and his hand slipped from the incubus' cheek to his throat and he squeezed. Hard. Haarlep’s eyes widened when he realised his mistake. Raphael dug his claws into the skin and drew blood. When the time is right, he reminded himself.
“I’m sorry. I- I was still caught up in- It won’t happen again. Not outside of bed,” Haarlep choked out.
For a few heatbeats longer, Raphael did not move. Then his smile returned and he dropped his hand. “Make sure to remember it.”
“Of course. May I- may I ask where you’re going?” Haarlep asked, undoubtedly to have at least some information to give to Mephistopheles.
Raphael strode towards the door, his thoughts already a few rooms further ahead. “I’m going to try out something new.”
Waterdeep was pretentious, Neverwinter dull. Baldur’s Gate, with all its rough edges, splendour here and desperation-steeped streets there, was just right.
-
Raphael knew the Gate well. More so, perhaps, than any other city in the realms, with all the distressed prayers that came to him because the gods were terrible listeners. Before, he had never seen it as anything other than a cramped pigsty to fatten up souls with misery. Now, strolling down a street pretending to belong, his view shifted. Oh, the city was still a pigsty and its residents still foolish beyond compare, but another feeling emerged. Curiosity. Not about the mortals, but about how they would approach him when he was masquerading as one of them. Raphael knew other devils who did this regularly, but he had never seen the allure of it – would a dragon enjoy pretending to be a lizard? – and his interactions had remained as those of debtor and collector. But maybe…maybe the others had been on to something. Instead of fear and respect, the eyes following Raphael were filled with admiration and wonder; unsurprisingly so, considering the human guise could still not mask his air of superiority. Raphael did not waste another glance on any of them, but feeling their interest as he walked past was enjoyable in the same way a pleasant wine was enjoyable.
He passed malnourished beggars and fat nobles, ignorant children and withering elders. He felt unhappiness and the wishes to change it, but for once did not pay them any mind. Today, he was not here to work. He was here to enjoy their suffering purely as a bystander. Maybe make a mental note of those whose pain was most likely to grow and fester until they could not bear it any longer – at least not without help.
The progression of time had always fascinated Raphael. Not just concerning mortal lives, but the things they left behind. The city changed with every visit; grew outward and upward, more buildings, more people, more dissatisfaction. Raphael leaned against a shaded wall as he observed a child arguing with its parents, absentmindedly tapping his foot on the ground. He wondered if it had grown downward as well. It had been some decades since he had last paid the catacombs of the undercity a visit, ever since that upstart vampire had taken over from Vellioth. Raphael pushed away from the wall and continued his tour towards the docks, his mood slightly soured. Vellioth had been – well, not good company, Raphael doubted there was anyone on this plane who could be called that, but he had been tolerable. His endeavours had driven many a soul into Raphael’s caring embrace. Then that little shit Cazador had taken over and allegedly allied with Raphael’s dearest father, of all devils. Raphael had considered actively getting rid of the bloodsucker, but it wasn’t like there was a shortage of family drama already. Just as there wasn’t a shortage of desperation, so he simply let vampires be vampires and turned to other means of getting souls.
Speaking of which…
As the sun was setting behind the city walls, music started to drift through the streets, and the bars and taverns filled with patrons. Inexhaustible wells of dramatics. Fuelled by alcohol and insomnia, rash decisions were made in front of countertops littered with empty glasses. Half of Raphael’s contracts had been signed with the unsteady hand of some fool who didn’t even read the large print, much less the fine.
He smiled to himself, checked his reflection in a dark window – entirely human and yet still the most captivating face in this sea of ordinariness – and entered one of those establishments. Most of the tables were occupied, groups of workers ending their day with a merry get-together, as if that distracted them from the fact their tomorrow would go the exact same way their today had gone. Here and there a couple enjoyed each other’s company, as if they wouldn’t grow tired of it in a matter of months. Raphael approached a small table in a corner and the man sitting there hurriedly got up and left. One of the barmaids came over and brought the exact drink Raphael was in the mood for, put it down, bowed, smiled, and retreated. Ah, the benefits of being in a room full of puppets whose strings lay around waiting for someone with skill to pick them up.
It took a promising half an hour for the first theatrics to transpire; two friends accusing each other of stealing money, and Raphael was very tempted indeed to go against his plan of being just an observer. But he held back. He was the tempter, not the tempted. Of course, should there be an opportunity all but throwing itself at his feet, he could be convinced to act, but only if it didn’t require too much effort-
“Is this seat taken, darling?” asked a smooth voice next to him. Raphael looked up, a dismissal already on the tip of his tongue. Where it remained. A vampire spawn stood before him, all false seduction and real nervousness. His physical age looked to be around 40, but the spawn had been turned recently. Very recently. A few months ago, at most. His smile was plastered on, his eyes flickered with constant vigilance, his shoulders were taut. Not even the most imperceptive of mortals would have been fooled by the act. Raphael bit down his sardonic grin and instead showed a friendly one. Spontaneous change of plans due to an opportunity asking for a seat at his table.
“Feel free to claim it.”
The spawn sat like the chair was adorned with nails. He looked so entirely unrelaxed that Raphael couldn’t help but laugh. He was pathetic. He was promising.
“What's so funny?” There was a hint of irritation on the young spawn’s face, one he tried and failed to smooth over.
“Oh, nothing.” Raphael signalled the bar woman for a drink he knew the spawn wouldn’t touch, but it would be fun to see him squirm. “It’s just that you look a little tense, friend. Must have been a stressful day at work. How about a drink to loosen you up?”
“I- why, thank you. Not often that you see such generosity from a stranger,” the spawn said, clearly trying to appear casual. He couldn’t hold eye-contact; each time he met Raphael’s gaze he looked away immediately. The little fool was the exact kind of entertainment Raphael was hoping to get from this night. A vampire spawn in Baldur’s Gate – since Vellioth had been replaced as the city’s token undead lord, it wasn’t difficult to guess who his master was, and that made it all the more amusing.
“No worries, friend. I’m Raphael. A regular here. And I’m sure I would have remembered that face.” He leaned forward and regarded the man closely, mostly to make him even more uncomfortable. He was objectively attractive, pale skin and pale hair offset by red eyes, lean and angular and looking slightly malnourished. No surprise there. From what Raphael had learned from good old Vellioth, may his soul rest in eternal damnation, spawn weren’t exactly thriving on balanced diets. He wondered if this one had ever fed on a humanoid, and in a sudden bout of curiosity wondered how he would react to Raphael’s blood. He knew that devil's blood was a potent and sought after ingredient in both potions and rituals, but ingested by a vampire...might come with interesting effects.
“I’m…new to the city,” the spawn said. Reacted, more like, building his backstory on the foundation Raphael offered him. Quite amusing. “Just arrived a tenday ago. The name’s A-" A brief pause, a flick of his eyes, looking for inspiration for a fake name and finding none, a small cough. "Astarion.”
“Astarion,” Raphael repeated slowly and took a sip from his glass, savouring both the name and the wine. “What a pretty name. And what brought you here? Wait, let me guess. I do love a good puzzle.”
Astarion leaned back in his chair and his smile turned a little more natural as he invited Raphael to guess with a gesture of his hand. Raphael made a show of looking him up and down and pretended to consider. Not that there was anything to consider, really. Astarion might present himself as a complex grimoire, but he was a children’s book at best, easy to read and easier to interpret. His aura oozed desperation, his body insecurity. The look in his eyes was part haunted, part hunted, and the way his fingers couldn’t keep still spoke of constant alertness.
A vampire spawn who was still getting used to his condition, sent on his first mission. Vellioth had told Raphael about the rotation once. Find a victim, seduce it, lure it to the master. Succeed, and nothing happens. Fail, and be punished most severely. From what Raphael knew of Vellioth’s successor, Cazador treated his creations no different. Worse, probably, if those rumours that he was involved with Mephistopheles were to be believed. Which meant the little spawn had chosen Raphael as his chance to avoid suffering. It was hilarious.
“Your clothes are well-kept, your hands smooth, skin fair. Not a laborer, then. Your eyes are sharp. There is knowledge there. A scholar, perhaps? Someone who works with either words or numbers.” Raphael dropped his voice to a pleasant drawl and made sure to keep an intrigued expression on his face. It wasn’t as difficult as expected.
Astarion relaxed a little further now that he had his backstory created for him. Harmless little pup. Maybe Raphael would turn him into a hellhound. Or maybe he’d put him in a sack and drown him in the river. He was going to decide that one on a whim.
“Not bad. It’s the numbers. I work down at the Counting House.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, should I ever need financial advice.”
“And what about you, Raphael?” Ah, taking initiative. Raphael saw how Astarion physically braced himself for it. Delightful. “Well-dressed, well-spoken, good-looking. Entirely out of place among the common rabble. If I ventured a guess, I’d say you’re a noble trying out the ways of us simple folk.”
“Oh, my,” Raphael chuckled. “I didn’t think I was this easy to read. Do you have experience? Past conquests, perhaps? Or am I the first you’re complimenting like your life depends on it?”
Were he able to, Raphael was sure Astarion would redden. Like a feral cat used to feeling the boot, whatever small semblance of relaxation he had mustered fell away and he was back to vigilance. His voice was carefully neutral, the slight tone of seduction he tried for forced. “Would it bother you if you weren’t?”
“Not at all,” Raphael said generously. “I don’t care what came before. I do care what comes after. And I’m giving you a fair warning, pretty boy.” He allowed an edge to his smile as he leaned in and gazed straight into Astarion’s red-tinged eyes. “You’ll have difficulties moving on from me.”
To his credit, Astarion didn’t move back. Didn’t even avert his eyes this time. If anything, he clung to Raphael’s gaze as if it was the only thing preventing him from bolting out the door. “Is that an offer?”
Raphael deliberately let his eyes drop to Astarion’s mouth. The last time he'd had this much fun, he had listened to Hope’s screams as he had carved his name into her back. “I thought you were the one making the offers here. Didn’t you come to my table for that exact reason?”
There was a glint in Astarion’s eyes resembling determination. He had come to a decision. Unfortunately for him, every decision he could make here was wrong.
“I did. I must admit that you caught my eye the moment I entered.”
“I tend to have that effect on people. But.” Raphael pulled back and emptied his glass. “I must admit that you’re quite eye-catching yourself.” It wasn’t even a lie, though the most catching thing about Astarion was his heritage. If Cazador really was working with Mephistopheles, then it would be a waste of a good narrative for the devil's son to not take on the vampire's spawn. And Astarion here could be very useful indeed. Vampire spawn were ideal contractees, what with all the suffering they had to endure.
Astarion stood up. It was almost hasty, the prospect of snaring his prey making him excited, like he worried that if he waited too long, Raphael might vanish into thin air. “I have a house in-“
Raphael laughed. “So eager, suddenly? Shouldn’t we get to know each other more?”
The spawn bit his lip, torn between getting this over with as fast as possible and not wanting to scare Raphael away. Were Raphael anything less than a devil thriving on others’ agony, he might have considered taking mercy upon the poor fool. Alas.
“I mean, you sit down at my table, give a few compliments, and expect me to just come with you? Ah, romance is truly dead.” There. A free lesson in courtship for the boy. It went entirely unappreciated.
“If it’s romance you’re seeking, maybe my insight is worse than I thought.” Astarion said. Smart, if he wasn’t too busy being nervous to use this insight of his to determine whether or not his potential prey might be a more experienced hunter.
Raphael raised his hands in surrender and got up as well. “Very well, I see I cannot fool you. But I do insist on inviting you to my place.”
Astarion’s eyes flickered to the side. Clearly this was not according to plan. Raphael smiled and waited. Astarion was like a child learning how to make friends. His parents had told him how to go about it, but he had never actually tried. By now Raphael was certain he was the spawn’s very first conquest. Which made this all the more delicious.
“But my place is very discreet.”
“Oh, don’t worry your pretty head about that. I have no need for discretion.” Raphael stepped forward and took Astarion’s hand, giving it a reassuring pat. It was icy. He wondered if his own skin burned in turn. “And I promise you a night worth remembering if you come with me.”
Astarion looked from their hands up into Raphael’s eyes. Did he realise that he had become prey, or was he still convincing himself that he was the hunter in this scenario?
-
“Welcome to my humble abode.” Raphael pulled open the door to a random noble’s villa and revealed beyond the entrance hall of his House of Hope. A spontaneous little portal, worth it for the show. “I’m inviting you inside.”
Astarion halted for a fraction of a heartbeat, but his persisting nervousness let him dismiss the pointed remark as coincidence. He stepped inside, the little cat, not realising the sparrow he was stalking was a vulture. The glamered windows showed the nightly scenery of Baldur’s Gate and the room was illuminated by yellow candlelight. The trapped souls had been confined to the prison and the devilish imagery hidden behind illusions. Like this, the House of Hope could almost pass as just another comfortable mansion.
“I knew you must be wealthy, but this seems…excessive,” Astarion said and turned to Raphael with something akin to a challenge in his eyes. Some reservations had fallen away from him now that his plan was progressing; clearly he expected he would sooner or later get Raphael to the place his master had chosen.
“You haven’t seen half of it,” Raphael replied. “Excess is my normality.”
Astarion huffed. “You’re proud of that, huh? Sitting on a throne in your palace while others toil beneath you?” It was the most genuine he'd been all evening, and Raphael was keen to coax more from him, to shatter his poorly fitting mask and tattered composure and fully expose the pitiful creature beneath.
“Oh, it’s not quite a throne I’m sitting on, yet,” Raphael smirked.
“Yet?”
“Doesn’t every man have his aspirations? His desires? What about you, Astarion? What do you desire?” Raphael raised his hand and counted on his fingers. “Wealth, power, influence?”
“Freedom,” Astarion said, and immediately clamped his mouth shut as if the word had escaped without permission.
“Power, then. That is something I could give you.”
A small frown appeared between Astarion’s brows and his eyes flickered between Raphael’s in search of deception or ridicule. “What?”
“But we haven’t come here to discuss the future.” With one hand on the small of Astarion’s back, Raphael guided him to the chaise lounge and made him sit down. Astarion followed easily if a little stiffly. His desperation to succeed in his first task made him careless. “We’re here to enjoy the present. Can I offer you anything? Wine, water? Something else entirely?”
Raphael’s reminder of the present let the mask reappear and Astarion smiled up at him. “I think there’s been enough drinking for now, don’t you? How about we do…something else?”
Raphael sat down next to him. It was oh-so-easy to play along with Astarion’s game; a game whose rules the little spawn didn’t even understand while Raphael had already mastered them.
“I can tell you have plans.” Raphael leaned back and deliberately tipped his head to the side, exposing his throat. He glanced at Astarion, whose hands were curled in fists atop his knees. Surely his master had explicitly forbidden him from sampling the prey. Raphael scratched his neck, extending a claw to draw blood. “I’m open to whatever you’re suggesting.”
Astarion’s eyes were transfixed on Raphael’s throat. His lips were parted, teeth glinting in the candlelight. He looked so wanting, so needy, that Raphael suddenly realised he needed no contract to bind this starving spawn to him. He was one of Cazador’s. Certainly he despised his master; hatred that played right into Raphael’s agenda. Weighing the benefits and considering the consequences, Raphael came to a spontaneous decision. Usually, those didn’t make him feel much – their every outcome was certain, ending without fail to Raphael’s advantage. But this decision. This decision made him feel something almost akin to excitement.
Slowly, he lifted the hand from his neck and put it against Astarion’s cheek, painting white with red. Then trailed it further back into soft curls. He gently pulled him forward, closer to where blood was seeping into his collar. Astarion’s breath caught and Raphael felt slight tremors running through him.
“Have you ever fed on a human, little spawn?”
Astarion didn’t react to the remark, already too mindless, enthralled. His nose brushed against Raphael’s neck and when he licked his lips, his tongue caught a droplet of blood.
And then he was gone.
Raphael felt teeth pierce the skin and heard Astarion’s low moan as he got his first proper taste of blood. He carded soothing fingers through Astarion’s hair as the young spawn clawed at his shoulders and all but climbed into his lap for better access to his neck. Raphael allowed it all, even moved his head to make things easier. Never say Raphael wasn’t a caring devil. He wondered how much of an effect his blood would have on the spawn’s physiology. He was certain it would have one on his psyche. The first taste of food after starvation. Astarion would never forget it. He would crave it. The very second he had tasted it, he had sealed his fate with something more binding than any contract. Given time and appropriate treatment, Raphael believed he could make Astarion genuinely loyal, no, devoted to him. And nothing was as useful as a being that bound itself to a devil through willingness rather than desperation.
But that had to wait.
First, there were the more bothersome things to deal with. Best to get it all out of the way at once. With his hunger subsiding and senses returning, Astarion slowly realised what he was doing. Gasping, he flinched back, stumbling and almost falling to the ground. With horror he stared at Raphael like he was seeing the devil himself. Well. Raphael crossed his legs and draped an arm over the backrest, the part that wasn’t yet occupied with the bulk of his wings.
“You-” Astarion’s face was a mess; mouth and chin covered in blood, red eyes almost turned black by his dilated pupils. He subconsciously licked hips lips, catching errant droplets of blood and he seemed to be, as they said, entirely out of it.
“What?” Raphael raised an eyebrow. “Is my true form not to your taste? I’m hurt. And after I fed you so generously. A hot meal, at that.”
Astarion blinked, licked his lips again, then resolutely wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and accomplished nothing except for now also smearing blood across his cheeks. “And what do you want for that?” His voice was hoarse, like there was something stuck in his throat. "Or did I already give something away the second I- Fuck!"
“Given away?” Raphael pretended confusion. “We didn’t make a contract, did we? I helped you out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Your kind does nothing for free.”
Raphael’s eyes flashed. “My kind? I don’t have a kind, little spawn. I’m one of a kind. One you really don’t want to make an enemy of.” Ah. Maybe that had been too much. Patience had never been one of his virtues, numerous as they were. Astarion was backing away and Raphael forced an amused little smile.
“I’m merely jesting, Astarion. No need for such wariness after the intimate moment we just shared, hm?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, making himself take up less space. “It is true that I do not expect anything in return for this little treat. However, should you want another taste in the future, I might ask for a little something…”
He looked up at Astarion from beneath his lashes and gave a little wink. Astarion’s distrust softened into suspicion. “I don’t want anything else from you. So. Can I go?”
“Of course! You’re free to go whenever you please. However…” Raphael slowly got up. He let his wings droop, the tips hanging on the floor in an attempt to look his least menacing. Astarion still took a measured step backward. Wary, calculating. Cautious while trying to not appear frightened. Sharp instincts and heightened senses that had been lacking before. It seemed his blood was already affecting the hungry little spawn. “I think it would be a great pity if we ended this potential partnership before it had a chance to even begin.”
“Partnership?” Astarion laughed disbelievingly. Finally, there was no trace of a mask left on him. He stood there in his full glory, red eyes narrowed, teeth exposed, and the hand behind his back undoubtedly around the handle of a dagger. Cute.
“To prove my honesty, I’ll be upfront. No talking around things. I-”
“Upfront,” Astarion scoffed. Raphael raised an eyebrow. Had the little spawn just interrupted him? “A devil, upfront? As if your kind doesn’t talk in fine print all the time.”
Your kind again. He was either incredibly brave, or suicidal. Both qualities Raphael could make use of.
“I know who your master is, Astarion. Cazador Szarr, the backstabbing bastard. I know he treats you less than favourably. Has he ever allowed you to feed? On something other than vermin, I mean.”
Astarion was very still, his eyes hard, his jaw clenched. Raphael took a casual step towards him. “When he turned you, did he help you out of the grave? Did he explain to you what happened, what your new life would entail? Did he give you time to adjust?”
Astarion’s hand slowly sank to his side.
“I know how his own master treated Cazador back then, who he took inspiration from. And I know that whatever you’re experiencing now is merely the beginning.” Raphael took another step. He was much taller than Astarion, and not just because of the horns. Astarion started stubbornly ahead, eyes fixated on Raphael’s chin. “This is your first time on the hunt, isn’t it? Eventually, you’re going to fail. And then you’ll learn that hell-” Raphael gestured to the windows that now showed the red vista of Avernus. “-is not necessarily on another plane.”
Astarion’s eyes flickered to the side briefly. He tried to conceal his insecurity, his wavering, but Raphael’s proficiency in reading people was unparalleled. He gently placed a finger under Astarion’s chin and tilted it up. For a moment, Astarion allowed it. Then he jerked his head to the side and snarled.
“Are you done? If you think I’ll put on your leash together with Cazador’s so you can both jerk me in different directions, you’re a fool. If I wanted help, a devil is the last being I’d ask.”
Raphael nodded. “I see. Well, feel free to try the gods, I’ve heard some people get lucky with those. Or maybe the city watch, surely they’ll be happy to stand up for a vampire spawn.”
Astarion hissed. “You said I was free to go. I would like to do that now.”
“Go ahead. There’s the portal to Baldur’s Gate. But, Astarion.”
Raphael’s voice turned serious. Astarion, already half turned around, paused. He glanced back over his shoulder. Raphael wasn’t smiling anymore. He took Astarion’s wrist and turned his palm up.
“If you change your mind, I’ll wait for you one tenday.” Raising his other hand, he manifested an inconspicuous coin between two fingers. It had been a long, long time since he’d last wasted a thought on it. So long he had almost forgotten. It was a rather personal little bother, this coin. And Raphael didn’t do personal. But maybe, it had finally found its purpose. “Feel free to call on me. A touch and a whispered name, and I shall come to your side.” He let the coin fall on Astarion’s palm, feeling a strange jolt of excitement. Nothing like a good old calculated risk.
“I won’t,” Astarion said, but let the coin almost subconsciously slide into his pocket. Then he turned around and marched towards the door.
“A tenday, Astarion. Be it hunger or help, I offer my services.” Raphael called, then the door slammed shut. He chuckled to himself.
The seed had fallen on fertile soil. Cazador’s actions would provide ample water and sunlight for it to grow. Raphael gave him two days, the little spawn.
In the meantime, he would send his agents to find out more about what kind of deal, if any, Cazador had struck with his dearest father. And if everything else failed, there was still one final card he could play.
-
Raphael was frustrated. He had fired (literally) three useless informants, and confined another to prison for delivering news that only added to his frustration. They had found out nothing about the deal. And, even more annoyingly, it had been six days, and there was nothing. Neither plea for help nor food. Maybe Cazador had killed his spawn after Astarion had failed to deliver prey, or maybe he had been locked up and stripped of all possessions. Raphael clicked his tongue. Not being in total control of a situation was not quite as enjoyable as he’d thought. That he, as one of the most powerful and cunning devils in the nine hells, was left wondering what a little vampire spawn might be up to was entirely disproportionate. But… The opportunities that came with Astarion were simply too good to pass up, and Raphael hated nothing more than wasted opportunities.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and finished the final paragraph of an especially wordy contract that would ensure not only the signer's, but five subsequent generations' eternal doom. It did nothing to lift his spirits.
“Master Raphael.”
He slowly raised his head. Korrilla had wisely avoided him these days, but judging from her eager tone she had spent her time productively.
“I have found the spawn’s grave.”
“Have you now?” Raphael asked, all boredom tinged with mild interest. Fucking finally. “And?”
“Astarion Ancunín, died aged 39 late last year, was turned shortly after. Allegedly killed by Gurs, but who knows. Parents were of the middling sort, he used to be a magistrate, presumably by their demand.”
Raphael didn’t care about his backstory, but knowledge was power. Who knew what it might be good for? His mood, as frigid as Stygia, warmed up a bit.
“Ancunín, hm?”
“Do you want me to find out more about his past?”
Raphael waved impatiently. “Find out if his parents yet live. If he had anyone important to him. That would be all.”
Korrilla remained, clearly preparing to use the service she’d just done to ask for something in return. She was learning his ways. As endearing as it was annoying.
“Master, did Hope…did she-”
“Your sister is still her stubborn old self,” Raphael said. Torturing her had been his only means of venting frustration, and unfortunately Hope had a tendency to make things worse. “If you want another talk with her, be my guest.”
Korrilla exhaled. “Thank you, master Raphael.”
“I do not need to repeat what might happen should your conscience and sisterly love suddenly get the better of you, do I?”
“Of course not.” She bowed deeply and vanished. She was firm in her loyalty, even though it was founded on fear. If at all possible, Raphael would rather avoid that with Astarion. For what he had planned for the young spawn, devotion would be a lot more useful.
And in the end, Raphael always got what Raphael wanted.
-
The sun had set on the eighth day when Raphael felt a rare sensation. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to get directly summoned. It was insistent, like a child tugging on its parent’s hand. But rather than getting annoyed, Raphael allowed himself a smile. He savoured the feeling of satisfaction, of having won. He was no stranger to victories, but this one tasted especially sweet. He waited a little longer. Wondered what dire situation little Astarion had found himself in that had driven him to this last resort. Hoped it was something dreadful. Agonising. Something that would make him oh-so-grateful for Raphael’s appearance. In that case, it was best to let him suffer a little more. Raphael stretched, dismissed his cambion form, straightened his clothes. He ran a hand through his hair, as always briefly startled by the lack of horns, then prepared to planeshift.
He emerged in a dark alley, surrounded by the stench of blood. So far, so promising. The ground was littered with corpses - no humanoid ones, disappointingly. And there, among the dead pets and pests, stood pressed against the wall Astarion, face and hands bloody, chest heaving with laboured breaths. Raphael had been prepared to gloat, but he reminded himself that he didn’t want Astarion’s fear, nor his reluctant cooperation for a lack of alternatives. He wanted devotion.
“Astarion?” he asked gently and took a step forwards. Astarion stared at him wide-eyed. He was muttering something, and only when Raphael got closer did he hear that it was his name. In Astarion’s fist clutched was the coin.
“I’m here. Quite surprised to get summoned after all. What is it you need? Help?” He looked around. “Food?”
All Astarion managed was a nod. He held himself strangely, possibly from torture-induced injuries, and was trembling. Looked like Cazador had made a good job of it. Raphael thanked him in silence and reached out for Astarion like he had seen humans reach out for feral cats they want to tame. Astarion kept still, but followed Raphael’s every movement with his eyes.
“Do you want to feed right here, or do you want me to take you to my house?”
Giving him the illusion of choice was a good approach, considering choice had been all but ripped away from him. In the end, all roads led to the House of Hope anyway.
“Here,” Astarion managed.
Raphael nodded compassionately - or as compassionately as he could manage, it had been a while since he’d needed to make use of that particular social construct. He could offer Astarion his wrist, but where would be the fun in that? Where the hint of intimacy that encouraged trust? When he reached for Astarion's shoulders and pulled him in, the spawn sagged bodily against him, as if his own weight was too much to carry. His head fell on Raphael’s shoulder, who felt Astarion’s heavy breaths against the side of his neck but not the sting of his fangs.
“What’s the matter little spawn?”
“I have nothing,” Astarion murmured. “I’m not even sure I have a soul to offer. Whatever you demand in return, I can't give you.”
Raphael smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. But it was a real one. “Don’t worry about that. Just take what you need. Strengthen up. Everything else comes later.”