Chapter Text
His dove. His beautiful, perfect dove, flying from him.
Astarion followed her, as he knew he always would. She flitted through the woods ahead of him, white hair appearing a silvery-blue to his vision in the dark as she ran towards the city. Its wall rose ahead of them, but she’d chosen not to approach a gate. There was a flat area by the wall where the woods had long since been cleared away. He’d catch her there, stop her, end this madness. Sending his dove into the lair of a monster? What had he been thinking?
He reached the edge of the trees and put on a burst of speed, knowing she could never outrun him—but she was already gone. A low curse left him. She must have used her damned spells to go over the wall. Panic clawed at his stilled heart. At this rate she would reach the defiled chapel before him.
His fingers pressed into the stonework of the wall, finding the nicks too small to support any weight. The magic infusing his undead body allowed him to scramble up the sheer face at inhuman speeds. He swore he saw white hair at the top of the wall where she looked back at him, then it was gone again.
Baldur’s Gate was crowded tonight. Lamps lit the streets of the Lower City. The smell of cooking food and booze and the filth of humanity pervaded the air. His lip curled with annoyance as he shoved through the merry-makers, ignoring them all. Birds flitted high over the crowds, well above their petty concerns. Rats scurried through the gutters, watching, always watching, waiting to snatch what crumbs they could gather.
The Crimson Palace’s side entrance was just ahead. Tonight it was unguarded, as it always had been when he’d brought his victims here. A white feather lay at the door, a sign of her passing. He didn’t need it to know that she’d been here. Her blood’s divine scent hung in the air, clinging to his mind and wrapping more raw horror into his heart. Cazador would know her scent too. He’d recognize the power in her blood, taste it, glory in the sunny wine of her life force, become as addicted to it as Astarion had—but Cazador wouldn’t let the dove nestle sweetly in his hands like his spawn did. He would break her wings to keep her from flying away.
The vampire tore through the empty palace, feet tracing familiar steps, flying up the stairs to Cazador’s chambers, bursting through the door, forcing open the hidden entry to the elevator he’d kept so cleverly guarded to hide his ritual from his so-called children. The elevator platform was already returning from another use. She was in the chapel.
The stone hallway to the chapel was excruciatingly long, deathly silent, until his sharp ears caught the sound of swallowing ahead of him. The smell of her blood. His blood, it was his—
The chapel had changed. The ritual platform was cut off from the entry. The yawning pit around it had no way to cross over, yet he saw her there, saw him there. The twisted monster had her on her knees, stripped down to a white underdress. A bloodstain from her neck down to her heart left part of the flimsy cloth nearly sheer. Her robes were in tatters on the ritual stones. The black ribbon that held her focus gem was carelessly torn and tossed aside, the gem shattered.
The unnaturally tall figure knelt behind her, gripping her shoulders so tightly she couldn’t move. His long black hair mixed with her grey-white strands as he fed from her neck. Blood dripped, wasted, its heavenly scent wafting to Astarion across the chasm. The panic tore out of his throat in a scream. “Dreya!”
Dreya’s green eyes went to him, and she smiled. Her angelic features were exhausted, wan, but she wasn’t afraid, just… tired. Worshipful. Not towards the beast draining her, towards him. She believed he would save her, she knew he would save her, and he would, he would, but to cross the chasm—
Frustration made him want to tear at anything in his reach, but there was nothing but stone walls. His crimson eyes fixed on hers. “Why did you come back here?!”
“She never left, boy.”
The high-pitched voice split Astarion’s skull with clarity. The beast’s eyes looked up, and no—they weren’t Cazador’s. It wore Cazador’s face and body and voice, a sick joke of the shapeshifter, but the eyes glowed yellow. Its bloodstained lips smiled as Astarion spat its name.
“Corvallis.” Hatred thrummed through Astarion’s veins. He was no spawn, no lesser creature bound to the ground at his feet. He was the Vampire Ascendant, power incarnate. Dreya’s eyes weren’t green, they were the same crimson as his own, the eyes of his consort, his darling, his dove, his most precious treasure—just out of reach.
Nothing would work. Astarion tried to turn to mist, to transform to a bat, but his powers were useless here, useless against the shapeshifter patron clinging to his love. Dreya’s expression flinched with pain as its teeth dug into her again. “Astarion, please…” Its hands tightened on her so harshly that he heard the bones in her shoulders cracking. She sobbed.
Red flooded his mind. Her wings were breaking. The chasm had to be filled. Blood flowed past his feet, the blood of the seven thousand spawn, raining into the pit… but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
The voice again. “How much blood would you spill to save her, boy?”
The rats.
Astarion reached out to the rats in the streets, in the alleys, in the holes and dens and sewers, and they obeyed his will instantly. Screams burned into the sky from Baldur’s Gate as millions of filthy paws scrambled, as millions of sharp teeth chewed, as millions of putrid bodies writhed through the crowds above, tearing flesh from flesh and bone from bone, rending every man, woman, and child without mercy, draining their blood into the gutters. It washed past Astarion in great gouts, the city itself bleeding an ocean, its throat cut with his own hands more thoroughly and efficiently than any Bhaalspawn could ever dream.
The blood drained endlessly into the pit, filling, filling, the sea rising below them. Astarion could see nothing but red, hear nothing but Dreya’s screams, smell nothing but her blood. And finally… it all stilled.
A perfect pool of crimson bridged the chasm. Its surface shone as smooth as a mirror. He stepped onto the surface. The liquid rippled from his foot, sound echoing like it was marble. Triumph bloomed in his beating heart as he strode towards his prize. His darling. His Dreya.
She still knelt; Corvallis let go of her as Astarion approached. The beast slipped back as silent as a whisper, Cazador’s features left in a rictus grin. Astarion ignored him as he bent down to scoop up his love, longing to feel her arms, her gentle hands, her head against his chest—but he froze, seeing her vacant eyes looking past him, horror etched into the beautiful face, tears staining her cheeks.
Her voice came out in a soft, hoarse whisper. “Astarion… what have you done?”
The screams he’d heard… she’d been screaming for him to stop.
Hastily, Astarion crouched down, taking her head in his hands, desperately wiping away the tears. “Pet—my darling—it had to be done. You freed me, my love, and I had to free you! He’ll never touch you again!”
“How many did you kill?” she asked dully, her eyes still fixed on the pool of blood.
Anger and panic touched him, his expression twisting to a snarl. “It doesn’t matter! Our future, your future, is greater than any number of them!”
Corvallis, still using the voice of Cazador, spoke. “How many oceans of blood will he spill to keep you, pup?”
Dreya’s breath hitched in a sob. “Endless…”
Astarion couldn’t breathe. “No! No, darling, never again! I swear.” She stood, and he felt relief. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, pressing her to his body, clinging to her like she might disappear. “You’re free now, pet, free to be mine, only mine. You’ll never see him again.”
Another sob, another whisper. “Endless deaths… endless oceans…”
Corvallis spread his arms. The voice was comforting. Calm. Soothing. “He’s a monster. Come to me, muse. Let me be your refuge from him.”
Dreya tried to pull away. Another surge of anger and panic, and Astarion tightened his arms. “He’ll hurt you!”
Another whisper, another sob. “You hurt me, Astarion…”
His hands were cupped together. A weak fluttering beat against them. A dove, his beautiful, perfect dove lay in his palms… her body crushed. Its wings still moved, its head still twitched. Its white feathers were stained with the red bleeding from its own body.
Corvallis—Cazador—laughed. Dreya lay in his arms in a bridal carry, her broken body curled against his chest. “Goodbye. And thank you—she would never have come to me willingly without you, boy.” Darkness enveloped them, and they were gone, leaving the vampire alone.
Astarion stood rooted on the stone platform. His powerful hands shook, holding the destruction he’d wrought. The fragile body began to melt, dripping impossible amounts of gore. It covered the platform, filled the pit above its brim, rose ever higher, covering his mouth, his nose, his eyes—
The sound of light footsteps forced Astarion’s eyes open. They shifted to the tall clock near the open double doors leading onto the high balcony, where the footsteps came from. Gossamer white curtains ruffled in the wind. Her shadow was behind them for only a moment longer before she emerged. No doubt she’d climbed the palace’s wall again to come straight back to their room, all to avoid being seen on her return. His dove, his beautiful, perfect dove… sort of. He huffed and gave his hand a slight wave. “Burn those rags quickly, pet, they don’t suit you.”
Dreya gave him a smile as she pushed back her cheaply made hood. Her red eyes looked over him as he relaxed back in a plush chair, his powerful body half-sprawled in its breadth. He wore a red and silver robe left unfastened down to his waist. Not an hour earlier he’d put this on and admired himself in the dressing room mirror, thinking about how she would look at him when she returned. But after his dream…
His half-elf unfastened the brown cloak around her shoulders as she strolled over to the fireplace that currently glowed with the only internal light in the room. The smell of blood wafted behind her from the brown-red stains on her plain dress and pants. Her boots, her belt, her spell focus, and her knives had been left on the balcony. Tomorrow she would clean them, but the rest of what she wore for her wet-work was easier to replace than to hide. She tore the bloody cloak in two and fed half of it into the fireplace.
Astarion glanced at the clock again. “You’re late,” he complained coldly. “I fell asleep waiting for you, my darling. And I smell other scents on you. Who else did you kill?”
“Two thieves,” she admitted. “They beat a shopkeeper near death a couple of weeks ago. I recognized their smell when I was coming home.”
“And they couldn’t wait?” he snapped. “What about the bodies?”
“The sewers.” She tugged off the dress and bundled it up before feeding it into the fireplace. “If the Flaming Fist find them down there when they’re still recognizable, they’ll assume it was business gone wrong. Just knives, no fangs or magic.”
The Flaming Fist would never find them; the rats would make sure of that. Far, far below them, tiny paws raced at his will, hunting for the corpses. Astarion huffed, watching her pull off her pants, her underwear, and the strips of cloth she bound her breasts with while on a hunt. They went into the fire too. Normally he would’ve already had his hands on her, but after the dream…
Dreya loosed the tight bun she’d put her hair in, allowing the long white strands to flow down her bare back. The dark red streaks mixed in with the white stabbed at him, eerily reminding him of the crushed body in his hands. Her pale skin was painted with the brown of the dried blood that had soaked through her clothes. She turned back to him and walked to his chair, her expression slightly quizzical. “Astarion, this isn’t the first time I’ve been late, but it’s the first time you’ve been upset about it. What’s wrong?”
He pressed his lips together tightly. Normally when she came back from her little bouts of vigilantism, she was more than eager to give herself to him, practically crawling into his lap to be devoured by him. He was tempted to pry into her mind, to see exactly why she was reticent tonight. The dream made it feel imperative to know. It hardly took effort to reach into her, to feel—
Concern. For him. He should’ve known she would curb herself when he seemed upset, even after these years had passed. Her eyes stayed on his face, not venturing down to his body as she willed herself not to give in to her desire. The feeling of her bloodlust’s giddy ardor brought him a brief, satisfied smile. His dove… she was still his, and she always would be. In a dream it was difficult not to crush the fragile, adoring creature in his hands, but in reality? In reality, she was easy enough to please. If an ocean of blood could be shed for her affections, he would do it, but she didn’t even want such grand destruction in her name. In his mind’s eye he could see a future, the future he’d described to her once—him on a throne, ruling with an iron fist, and her, the benevolent queen beloved by her subjects for curbing their king’s worst impulses. Perhaps someday she would come around to such a beautiful vision, but for now all he had to do to keep her love was to kill the right people and control the rest more… quietly.
But then, that hadn’t been what the dream was about. It had been about the beast that still owned her. Her freedom.
Dreya lightly touched his hand. Astarion roused himself and rose to his feet, standing taller than his lovely little consort. “I simply realized what day tomorrow is, pet.”
Her face tightened. She knew better than he did what he meant. Dreya forced a smile, affectionately pulling his hand to her lips, kissing his fingers lightly. “I’ll only be gone an hour.” In Corvallis’s domain, time moved differently. An hour for Astarion, but how long for her?
This was the price in her warlock pact, part of what had been arranged when they negotiated with Corvallis to allow Dreya to stay with Astarion. Every month, at midnight on the full moon, she went to her patron’s domain. For two moons, it would be… acceptable. The bizarre patron simply talked to her, stole one kiss, and let her leave with the end of Faerûn’s hour. But every third moon… every third moon he took her to his bed again. Tomorrow was the third moon.
Every third moon, she was returned to Astarion. He always waited for her. She could only ever remember flashes of the shapeshifter taking her. Sometimes she came back panicked and shaking in horror, her mind half-rent by eldritch whispers. Sometimes she just cried in his arms. Sometimes she practically tore her lord’s clothes off and lavished him with her attentions until her exhaustion dragged her to sleep. Every third moon, Astarion was there, doing whatever his dove desired after the monster that owned her pact broke her wings again.
Astarion forced his temper down. Impotent fury beat at his mind, rage that he couldn’t protect her, that he couldn’t stop his own treasure from being violated. And here she was trying to comfort him when she was the one being hurt. How typical of her. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper and take his hatred out on her. He couldn’t frighten her tonight.
“I’m sorry I still haven’t found our solution, my love.”
Dreya shook her head, allowing the forced smile to fade. “I know you’ll find a way, eventually, but pacts are hard to break, and it’s only been a couple of years. It’s not so bad, Astarion. One night of him, and the rest of the time I’m yours.”
Astarion studied her eyes, indulged himself in her mind again. She truly believed that he would free her from her patron, just as she’d freed him from Cazador. The worshipful belief in his dream was real, but so was the rest. If spilling an ocean of blood could break her pact, his only hesitation would be from his fear of breaking her. He didn’t know if he could bear seeing her love for him die in trade for her never having to touch her patron again. A selfish, greedy notion, he knew, but he told himself that it was for her. She couldn’t bear to have her heart broken by his cruelty.
If only ridding her of her patron was such a simple equation of power.
Dreya knew the cold, helpless disgust in his eyes. She began to kneel, her hands touching the fastening of his robe, not undoing it yet, silently asking for permission. He watched her, his adoration swelling at the sight of her giving herself to him so sweetly. Her hands were gentle, always so gentle with him. They always had been.
A fervent hunger drove through his mind. Astarion seized her wrists and pulled her back to her feet just long enough to sweep her up in a bridal carry, holding her against his body like Corvallis had in the dream. That was a nightmare, this was real. She was his. A few steps took him to their bed. He tossed her down on the deep red bedspread and jerked his own robe off, carelessly dropping it on the floor as he crawled over her. A single kiss, then he dove to her neck and bit her.
Her blissful moan filled his mind; her heavenly blood filled his mouth. She was his blood, his consort, his dove, his weakness. No nightmare about a shapeshifter would change that. Astarion pressed his middle finger into her mouth, cutting it on her fang intentionally, allowing a few drops of his own precious blood to drip onto her tongue. The sensation of her full lips closing around him, the suggestive sound of her sucking the blood from his finger, it all spoke of who she truly belonged to. Corvallis had made Dreya his before she’d ever met a vampire, but Astarion was who Dreya had chosen.
Even after ascension, her powerful blood revitalized him. He felt stronger, sharper, more level after drinking her, but it was never enough to satisfy his appetites. Her tongue licked around his finger deliciously, begging him for more as her hunger strengthened. Normally he kept her blood-thirst mostly stifled with his will, but tonight he couldn’t resist the urge to control her even more, to remind her of the depths of their bond.
Dreya gave a short, pained gasp as his grip on her hunger eased away, leaving her ravenous. She’d never had to learn how to control herself without him, and she never would. Her teeth almost closed on his finger sharply; he was impressed that she managed to hold back her urge to bite him. His mouth was still occupied with leisurely savoring her, but she heard his voice in her mind, felt his approval. “Good girl.” He cut his finger on her fang again, deeper this time. She sucked on him more fervently, low whimpers of lust breaking from her throat. His other hand went between her legs to feel the arousal he could smell on her skin. Her lips were slick and warm with desire, deliciously prepared for him.
Astarion made himself release her neck, but he left the bite open for now. He pulled his finger from her mouth, ignoring her murmur of protest. Her body was his, just like her blood. A smile touched him again, his hand tracing her throat, tempting her with his bleeding finger. She closed her eyes to focus on pushing away the instinct to bite him and feed. So sweet, not to lunge for the one thing she couldn’t help but desire. No wonder he could never allow her to become a lord. He would lose all of this. But the night had been clear—she could gorge herself on his blood, he could allow her to feed on him endlessly, drink enough of him to fill the Chionthar, but she would never become a true vampire unless he intended for it to happen.
Dreya seized his hand, her own hands trembling as she pulled it up to her mouth, kissing his reddened fingers again as she begged. “Please—I’m so hungry, Astarion. Help me.” She knew it was a game, she knew he was allowing her to feel this starvation, but still she played and didn’t lick his blood from him without his permission. How darling she was, to give him the satisfaction he craved from her.
“My lovely little dove…” Astarion considered, fantasizing about the myriad of things he could do to her, the way she would moan his name. His name… he hadn’t insisted on something more fitting in private for months now. Tomorrow she had to return to a nightmare, but tonight he would remind her of how he adored her.
He wrapped his arm under her and pulled her against him, a short command to her mind making her hook her legs around his waist briefly so he could reposition her. She felt as light as a feather to him since the Ascension. It only took a moment to pull her up the bed with him, laying her head back on the pillows. Some soft black ropes remained tied to the headboard from their previous games. Another compelled command; she didn’t even try to resist putting her wrists above her head. He tied each of them separately.
Astarion sat up on his knees between her legs, looking down at her, his desire making him throb with hunger he could only sate with her touch. He was the Vampire Ascendant, yet he was nigh controlled by the sorceress in his bed and his appetite for her worship. His arousal had to be tightly contained, just for a few more minutes. It would be worth waiting. “Tell me what I am to you, pet.”
She swallowed hard. He could feel her trying not to squirm from the hunger and lust. “My master.” A good answer, but not what he was looking for tonight.
“Try again, my darling.”
“My lord.”
“Again.”
Dreya had to search for a moment before finding another name to use. He’d never insisted on this one. “My love,” she murmured, watching his eyes. Perfection. He could feel her heart melting in her chest, a swell of affection from him mixing the emotion with the control he so badly craved.
His thumb brushed over her lips. “Good girl, dove. I shouldn’t be depriving my darling when she loves me so terribly, should I?” He used his own fang to make a cut on his wrist, then pressed it to her mouth and gave her another compelled command. Her eyes glowed red as he spoke, another beautiful sign of their bond, how she’d trusted him enough to give her mind over to his orders. “Drink me, slowly. Let euphoria drive you to your ruin.”
Dreya’s fangs touched his skin as she wrapped her lips over him, but she managed not to sink them into his flesh. His blood drew a moan of relief from her. He eased her hunger back down, letting it be more manageable. A moment later his other command caught up to her body, forcing her to cum without a single touch, without him building the sensation. Her whole body tightened in sudden ecstasy, her wrists twisting at the ropes to free herself. Her love bled through their connection. Astarion stifled his own gasp, staring, yearning for her as he watched her climax in his bed. Her lips glistened, practically begging for him.
No, she wasn’t done. Tonight she would sleep so soundly that no nightmares of Corvallis would intrude on her, only dreams of her lord. “Again,” he compelled sharply, leaning in between her breasts and sinking his fangs into her over her heart. Another helpless, immodest moan, her body shivering beneath him, her sex dripping. The thought of how wet she was could drive him mad if he allowed it, but his control of himself remained. Tonight wasn’t the time for wild, unabated passion.
Her blood was streaked down his chin from her body pulling against his teeth while he’d drunk. Astarion kissed down to her stomach, breathing her in, brushing his fingers over her vulva. He couldn’t resist tasting his fingertips, looking up her body. His wrist in her mouth blocked her from seeing him for a moment, so he pulled himself away from her, licking over his self-inflicted wound once to close it. “Enough, pet.”
His blood stained her lips. She was breathtaking like this, panting in the aftermath of her ecstasy, watching him use her. Astarion trailed his fingers down her lower abdomen. He’d never used their bond to force her to climax more than once, always preferring to stimulate her directly to coax more out of her body. Tonight, he could think of nothing more lovely than the reminder that he could provide her more pleasure than anyone else in the world. A nip to the thigh only drew a soft whimper. She knew that he would taste her now, and he would, but not quite as she expected. He fixed his eyes on her, allowing her another charming smile as he compelled her. “Again. As hard as you can.” A soothing tone as the command took hold, driving a gasp from her lungs. “Let me hear you, little dove.”
Astarion kissed into her lips deeply, working himself into her, fucking her with his tongue as she quivered and her cunt wrapped around him eagerly. She was suddenly flush with wetness, almost gushing around his tongue. He drank her sex as greedily as he drank her blood, his attention latched onto her mind. It was filled with confused bliss, her worry for the next day stuffed away in a corner as Astarion crowded it out. She practically sobbed out her ecstasy, overwhelmed by the sensation coming so quickly. “Gods—Astarion—!”
He loved it when she cried for him like that, exactly as she’d done it their first night together. She probably didn’t even realize the significance. A deep sense of satisfaction coiled in him with his lust as she calmed. Tasting her was always so gratifying.
Dreya’s body was trembling slightly as Astarion moved back over her, allowing his rock-hard shaft settle between her legs. He caressed her cheek, studying her eyes, connecting the exhaustion he saw with the love he felt. There was concern in her mind too, concern that he was giving her too much sensation to handle, that she would be too worn by it to please him. She leaned into his hand, tugging at the rope on her wrist lightly. A hope against hope that it would be loose, he knew, wanting to hold his hand against her sweating body.
“You called me ‘Astarion,’ pet,” he complained coolly, hiding his enjoyment of it behind mild annoyance. “Try something else next time.”
She almost flinched from the effort of thinking through the cloud left by the unnaturally close-together orgasms, seeming to mentally struggle for a moment. “Astario—Master. I might need a minute to recover.”
“Anything for you, my darling,” he purred, leaning in close to her and kissing her. He could taste his blood on her, just as she could taste her blood and her wetness on him. “I will have to insist on ‘my love,’ pet.” A teasing, predatory grin crossed his face as he moved over to her ear, his teeth finding the lobe for a moment. “When you say it, I may not be able to resist demanding that you cum a fourth time. Choose your moment.”
A small amount of control returned to her hands, a treat for his treasure.
Astarion finally moved his hips closer and pressed his sensitive cock’s head into her, feeling how impossibly warm she was, how wet, how willingly she parted her legs wider for him. He laid his hand on her neck lightly to frame her face, once again struck by the sight of his consort closing her eyes in bliss, her lips parting with a moan as he filled her, lacking the initial, tantalizing trace of pain she so often experienced when she tried to accommodate his girth. This time she was so wet her body needed no time to adapt to him again, instead welcoming him hungrily. The yearning he felt for her pleasure forced his own lips apart, allowed an immodest groan of his own. Perhaps the sight of his consort’s ecstasy would eventually lose its spark if he were still only an elf, but he trusted the night’s whispers, the promises that their bond tied their lusts together so strongly that he would never lose his fervor for her.
Astarion’s fangs returned to her neck. Her scent clouded him like a perfume, clear and rich from the drying trickles of her blood left from his bites. He began to thrust, slowly, sensually, savoring every drop he drank, every quiver of his dove, every note she sang in his ear. She consumed his senses, crowding out every thought of anything but her. Her own mind suffered the same sweet affliction, drowning in her lover’s touch, in his hands moving over her body tenderly, in the moans against her neck as he swallowed her, in the glow of bliss he’d demanded her body give her before taking his own pleasure. He could feel it all in their bond.
It was almost enough to keep Astarion from noticing the near-silent footstep behind them.
He whipped around and caught an arm descending with a wooden stake in hand, meeting the red eyes of a suddenly terrified human man. An enraged snarl ripped from Astarion’s throat. He flung the man away effortlessly and rose to his feet, stepping off the bed and striding towards the intruder.
It wasn’t just a normal human, though. The red eyes, the lack of heartbeat, the pale complexion? “Spawn,” he spat, disgust dripping from his tone. “How dare you.” A terrifying aura flooded the air, a presence released by the Vampire Ascendant, a small taste of his fury. He left a pocket free of the utter horror being struck in the minds of those around him, a small pocket to protect his dove. The temperature plummeted abruptly, letting his own warm breath steam the air slightly. It was only by his grace that he didn’t simply allow the room to utterly freeze, to let ice coat every surface around him. That grace was only driven by his darling, knowing she wouldn’t enjoy their room being filled with water. Besides… she hadn’t seen most of the powers the night had given him, not yet. There was no need to use anything past his presence.
The spawn was dressed in tattered workman’s clothes. He scrambled back, stammering, visibly trying not to panic from the aura’s influence. “I-I can explain!”
Astarion smiled viciously. As if any explanation could be good enough to excuse attacking him at all, much less attacking him with his consort in his arms. “I don’t care.”
A second spawn, an elf woman, darted through the curtain of the balcony, shakily aiming a hand crossbow at him. He easily darted away when she fired; the bolt didn’t even come close to him. The man was back on his feet and tried to use the stake again, but as fast as a vampire spawn was, it was nothing compared to the prowess of the Ascendant. Astarion snatched his wrist and broke it with a swift jerk, then caught the stake when it fell from his grasp and drove it into the human’s heart. He turned back to the woman, only to find her distracted. Her eyes had fallen on Dreya. There was ravenous hunger on her face, smelling the intoxicating fragrance of his darling from the open bite on her neck.
A sudden flash came to his mind, a memory of the night they’d been attacked at the Elfsong, when his siblings had come to drag him back to Cazador. Dalyria had slashed Dreya with her claws, spilling the same blood Astarion couldn’t help but crave, and the scent had nearly dazed her. He’d heard the thirst in her voice as she’d attacked to immobilize his lover, changing from her attempt to kill. “No—the master will want you.” And Dalyria had been right. Cazador had caught the scent through Dalyria’s mind as clearly as if he’d bled her himself. As Astarion had been suspended in the ritual circle, he’d heard Cazador command his minions. “Bring me the sorceress. Kill the rest.”
Blinding rage at the thought of another vampire possessing Dreya destroyed his better judgment. The woman’s face looked like Dalyria’s to him. Who knew what vampire lord had just caught Dreya’s scent, again, through the eyes of an attacking spawn? He kicked the woman through the white curtain. It tore free with her as she was thrown off the balcony, a scream ripping from her. No! He should have questioned her. Someone had sent them.
Another opportunity was granted. He heard a whispered, “Now!” Two other spawn dropped onto the wide balcony, nearly simultaneously, and charged him. He couldn’t hold down a derisive laugh, comparing the sight to some clowns he’d seen once. And clowns they were, if they thought only two of them had a chance to kill him. They’d both brought stakes, but Astarion knew he would end the night without being touched by so much as a splinter. He smiled dangerously, plucking the stake out of his first kill and tossing it up in a twirl as they advanced on him. It had been a while since he’d had the pleasure of a fight.
Two more clambered up onto the balcony and ran in, directly for the bed. The blinding rage came again. Dreya was there, he’d left her tied—
An enraged kick shattered the leg of the first to come near him. A swift strike broke the arm of the next. A single stab killed the second, but the first threw himself down and seized Astarion’s ankle. “Hurry!”
There was a struggle at the bed. The woman spawn was kicked back, an incantation in Dreya’s voice rose in the air, then a scream from the male attacker. Astarion snarled and turned to mist, feeling and ignoring the impotent grab of the broken-legged spawn as he flew to his darling’s side. He emerged to his full form again over her, seizing the throat of the man by her head.
Dreya had cut one hand loose with her own claws, it seemed; she gripped the wrist of the blue-skinned tiefling man by her head as he spasmed from her shocking grasp. The creature had some bits of her flesh in its teeth. Its lips were messily covered in her blood. His blood, Astarion thought angrily, his grip tightening. The tell-tale burns of sunlight were etched on his panicked face. Deserved, Astarion thought contemptuously.
That sunny blood of hers did more than just smell tantalizing. It allowed her to channel true, pure, radiant sunlight without burning to death like any others would if they didn’t first swear fealty to the sun god Lathander and receive his blessing. Her ‘blessing’ was artificial, but just as effective, and it made her so, so much sweeter to the very monsters such a blessing made her equipped to hunt. Every piece of magic that came from her blood now was infused with burning radiance—and it was glorious to him, another beautiful mark of their love.
After all—her heavenly blood had come from consuming a gift of never-before-seen magic from her patron, all to protect Astarion, all when he was nothing but a lowly, pathetic creature that could never be her equal. When Astarion referred to his spawn self so derisively Dreya was angry, of course—she truly loved him before he’d had any power to give her. She’d risked her life on experimental magic just to be able to burn his master and free him. And now, he would burn the world for her if she only asked. But first… he would burn the spawn that had dared to bite the consort of the Vampire Ascendant.
The other spawn by the bed, an elf woman, was raising a stake. Dreya snarled another incantation, angling her bound hand to direct her eldritch blast directly into the woman’s chest. Astarion darted off the bed again, dragging the tiefling by the throat still as it flailed. The elf woman hadn’t had time to regain her feet before Astarion appeared over her. One powerful stomp came down on her head, crushing her skull. A fitting end for someone that had attacked his beloved. The broken-legged one was next, this time with a stake to the heart. And then there was the blue tiefling…
Without a word, Astarion dragged him over to the fireplace, kicked him onto his stomach, and shoved his head into the flames, holding him in place with a foot on his back. The Ascendant’s ears were filled by his own anger and the agonized screaming that sated it. His face was rigid with cold hatred. This monstrous, filthy beast had touched his angel.
Her hands seized his shoulder, and suddenly he could hear her again. “Astarion, stop!”
Astarion looked down at Dreya. She’d finished cutting herself free, obviously. The soft black rope fragments still hung from her wrists. She was still naked, and at least to his eyes, delicate. Astarion couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Even tied to their bed without her focus at hand, she’d defended herself well without her lord. Her cantrips alone had been enough for a spawn. His eyes went to the side of her neck. The tiefling must have had his teeth buried in her when she’d shocked him. He’d torn a brutal rip through her skin and flesh. Blood ran down her shoulder and chest, over her heart, a bizarre mirror of his nightmare. He concealed it from his face, but the sight of her injury made his own blood run cold. She’d defended herself from spawn, but if a lord had appeared… no. She could never face a lord, not without him. It couldn’t be risked. “You’re hurt, pet. Go back to bed, I’ll join you in a moment.”
“No! Let him up!” It was hard to notice through the frigid rage, but her eyes were frightened. “Please.”
Astarion growled, looking down at the creature struggling under his foot. The temptation to crush his spine was overwhelming. But for her…
He reached down and hauled the tiefling back by his shirt. The man kept screaming, sobbing through blinded eyes, left in too much agony to bear. Dreya seemed sickened, but she bowed her head to Astarion gratefully, letting her hand move from his shoulder to clamp over the wound on her neck. “Thank you. We, ah. We need to question him.”
A good excuse for stopping him, but Astarion knew she simply didn’t have the stomach for burning a random attacker alive, slowly, in a fireplace. Her lightning boiled people, her radiance burned people, but she only relished their screams when they were truly vile. And this spawn? Astarion saw him as vile, but he could feel a sense of haunting from Dreya when she looked at it. She saw Astarion in the pathetic creature, or what could have been if he’d been compelled into an attack like this under Cazador.
Grudgingly, and only in his own mind, Astarion had to slightly agree. If the spawn was acting under orders to attack, it wasn’t necessarily responsible. But somehow Astarion didn’t believe that it feeding on Dreya had been on a command, it had just been hunger. Unacceptable hunger.
Astarion scooped Dreya up again and set her back on the bed. He strode out onto the balcony and looked down. The white curtain that had torn free with the first elf woman lay on the ground far below, and while it was bloodied, there was no sign of the spawn. He scowled and returned to the tiefling. Another burst of fury, another stomp, and the burned creature’s skull also lay in a pulp, silencing his sobs forever. “Don’t worry, pet, we don’t need him. The other one survived her fall. My rats will track her, and I’ll retrieve her in the morning. We’ll find out who did this.”
The Vampire Ascendant stood in front of his bride, naked, bloodied, flush with power, surrounded by the dead as his fearsome, chilled aura receded. He lightly pushed her head to the side as he looked her over, noting the claw marks gashed into her stomach—probably the tiefling’s work as well. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Dreya shook her head, keeping her hand clapped tightly over her neck. “I’m fine, Astarion. I can’t bleed to death, remember?”
Nonsense. As much as she claimed to be ‘fine,’ as well as she wore a mask of calm, he could hear the heart he allowed to beat racing with terror. She swallowed the pain, she hadn’t screamed when she was ripped by ravenous teeth, but he could feel how badly she was suffering from the wounds. Her instincts told her to cry, but she bit them back—for him, trying not to upset him. And there was something else, too—shame for how she felt. She thought he would deride her for being afraid, for being hurt, for wanting to cry, as if he would expect her to be as strong as he was.
Astarion wouldn’t insist on her healing yet. With their bond he could induce her healing as long as she’d fed somewhat recently, but that didn’t mean he would walk away from her now and leave her to deal with the shock she was experiencing. He was angry that they’d been attacked, yes, but she was frightened. Even with her years of adventuring, there was something uniquely vulnerable about being violently assaulted in her own room, in her own bed, in the throes of passion with her lord and master. And compared to him, she was so young… so fragile. A mere thirty-four years to his centuries. No wonder she was afraid.
He wiped his bloody hands on the bedspread solely to not dirty her with the filth of the spawn, then he pulled her hand away from her neck. The tear was too deep to be healed by his tongue alone; his saliva was to heal fang marks, not things like this. Still, he could stop the bleeding. Astarion wrapped his hand behind her head, running his fingers into her hair, and tilted her head away just far enough to let him easily wrap his lips over the wound. His other hand slipped down to her shoulder, her arm, holding her close to him as he carefully licked at the bleeding tear. She tensed from the sensation, stifling a yelp from him touching the exposed tissue.
“You’re afraid, my darling. You’re in pain. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Dreya huffed, trying to use her annoyance to push away the terror. “Sometimes I hate that you can just look at my mind to see what I’m feeling.”
“I wouldn’t have to look if you didn’t force me to guess. Let me comfort you, pet.”
His honeyed words didn’t convince her, only pushed her to clamp down harder to prevent showing her pain and tears. “Astarion, we’ve been through worse than this. Compared to the Absolute, to Cazador, to facing actual gods? Compared to everything you’ve gone through? This is nothing.”
“This is your home,” he snapped, pulling back from the staunched wound and grasping her chin to make her meet his eyes. “You were fed on by a stranger in your own bed, my darling. If I were the one bleeding from the neck, would you pretend to be so unaffected?” She drew in a breath to answer; he pressed on her chin harder for a long moment, keeping her mouth closed as he hissed the answer for her, struggling to contain the rage he felt at the sight of her injuries. “Don’t lie to yourself either, pet. You’d be beside yourself with worry again. Remember the Apostle?”
Dreya visibly flinched. She knew he was right. She’d nearly lost her head when she thought the Apostle of Myrkul had killed him. Astarion continued, his voice turning to a crooning lull. “And that was during a battle, my love, not somewhere we expected to be safe. Let yourself feel as deeply for your own pain as you have for mine. I want all of you, every last drop, including that soft heart you seem ashamed to use for yourself.”
He could feel her resolve cracking, her pain grow. Tears finally welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. She reached up and pushed his curls back into place, struggling to find something to do with her hands, to find something to say. “I-I—I know you’d prefer if I were different, Astarion. Being even weaker than usual— about myself, no less—won’t make you respect me more. Sometimes I wonder why you fell for me at all, I’m not quite the killer you’d prefer.”
“Who else should we show ourselves to if not each other, pet?” he purred. “And you may be more discriminate about killing than myself, but it keeps me in the good graces of the city, doesn’t it? You’re just what I need to balance what few parts of myself aren’t quite, ah—socially acceptable.”
He could feel her about to break, teetering on the edge. After the shock of tonight she needed to cry, to let it all out, to bind herself even closer to him with her tears. Perhaps it would even teach her to comfort herself a bit more instead of focusing solely on mollifying him. As gratifying as it was that she was so fixed on him, it frustrated him that she only seemed capable of feeling her own pain without deflection when her mind had been torn by Corvallis. Just a bit more…
Astarion wrapped his arms around her and laid on his side, carefully pulling her down with him, caressing her bloodied hair as he murmured to her. “You’re perfect to me, my love, however ‘weak’ you seem to think you are. You’ve given me your body, your mind, your very heartbeat. Now give me your pain.”
Dreya wavered; he could feel her worry that he would think less of her, but his coaxing had driven her too far to stop herself now. She rested her head against his muscular chest, squeezing her eyes shut, curling her fingers against his skin as she let out a sharp sob. “I’m—scared,” she forced out, almost choking on the admission. “No one else has ever bitten me. I hated it. I should’ve f-fought harder. He shouldn’t have gotten close to me at all.”
“That’s my fault, my love,” Astarion purred again, stroking her hair comfortingly. “I should’ve been faster. You didn’t even have your hands free or your focus. What else could you have done?”
It was strangely exciting, having her cry in his arms—not in some sexual way, but it was intimate, like she was actually letting him see into her soul again. It reminded him of the night she’d agreed to become his, when she’d allowed him to delve so deeply into her memories and finally, truly know her.
“No, I should’ve done better—pushed him away faster,” she insisted. He felt her tears on his skin. “And it’s b-been so long since we were attacked—I wasn’t ready! I wasn’t ready.”
Astarion stayed silent, feeling her emotion swell further just from the small admission, pushing her into deeper despair. She sobbed brokenly, pressing herself against him more tightly, huddling into him for comfort. “I’m not r-ready, I’m not—I’m so scared, Astarion, I-I don’t want to go back to him tomorrow! I can’t r-remember anything, and I want to, but that might be worse! Twelve years, twelve fucking years, every week, and it wasn’t enough for him?! And when I see him now, it’s worse than when it happened more often, like—like he’s hurting me more now! He’s n-never gonna let me go, he’s never going to stop no matter what we do, is he?! I’m a filthy, disgusting—you deserve better than a consort that whores herself to a fucking patron. I’m already broken, aren’t I? And n-now, if it’s a vampire lord—”
She swallowed audibly, shuddering against his body, her voice beginning to turn hoarse from strain. “I remember Cazador ordering them to bring me to him. I’ve had nightmares—lots of them. Then tonight—Astarion—the elf woman? She d-didn’t bring out the stake ‘til you were on the bed. There’s rope on their belts. They came to take me away. I understand Cazador doing it, he was a sadist, he wanted to hurt you, b-but why would any other lord give a shit about me? It doesn’t make sense! It must be just to hurt you, right?”
Astarion bit his tongue while she cried, knowing better than to interrupt her, but his anger only burned hotter. It was at himself, in some sense; he did his best to only look at the surface of her mind unless it was necessary, priding himself on giving her some amount of privacy, but how deeply had she been burying these thoughts to avoid his notice? Clever, to put them beneath her concern for him—but he knew that wasn’t an intentional manipulation on her part, just a way to hide her shame that he should’ve pushed through more deeply. He’d reassured her before her turning, after the incubus, after renegotiating her pact that he didn’t see her as filthy or broken, but… those thoughts. He knew all too well that they didn’t disappear so easily. Her adoration was the most potent potion she could mix for him, and it had been a powerful cure, but even so—even as the Ascendant—those horrible thoughts crept back in.
But her cure wouldn’t be quite the same as his, would it?
Astarion let her sob, stroking her hair. The clock kept ticking away the minutes, minutes she needed, minutes he waited, until he felt her tears beginning to slow. Now, she could focus. He clicked his tongue once, pulling her head back a little to look up at him. His expression became cold, severe, on the verge of disgust, and his voice matched.
“How often have you thought of me as—what was it?—‘filthy, disgusting, and broken?’”
Dreya was visibly repulsed at the thought, but he saw a spark of new fear, fear that he believed she saw him that way. “What? I’ve never thought of you like that!”
Astarion allowed his fingers to tighten in her beautiful white hair, trying not to imagine the crushed white feathers of his nightmare. “Then tell me—pet—why not? I’ve been on my back thousands of times for thousands of people.” He felt his lip curl into a snarl; it felt unnatural to direct it at her. “If you’re disgusting for laying with Corvallis, I must be positively vile.”
More tears sprang to her eyes, another hoarse sob as she shook her head fervently, putting her hands on his face, half-reassuring, half-afraid she would never touch him again. “No, you’re not! That was—it was different. Corvallis—you’ve seen the memory where I made my pact. He laid out the conditions. I knew I had to ‘fulfill his carnal desires,’ and I took it anyway. I-I’m not even sure I can blame him for doing what he likes with me, I agreed! I agreed.”
His grip in her hair softened; he allowed his tone to become slightly less stern. “I seem to recall something else in that memory, my darling… another man trying to take you away. You were desperate, caught between two creatures that would use your body. Who could blame you for choosing the one that would give you power and let you walk freely part of the time?”
She wavered, seeming slightly relieved now that she was certain he’d only accused her of thinking such disgusting things about him to illuminate her own thoughts, but she shook her head again. “I-I—try—to tell myself that. But it’s harder to believe it. I still feel filthy.”
His own breath caught slightly. Feeling her own despair, the worthlessness… he was surprised by how badly it hurt him. The Ascendant should be beyond these things, but it was another facet of how he could never truly protect his treasure, not until he’d wrested her from Corvallis entirely and kept her wrapped in devotion for years. He brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek, wiping away the tears, and let his voice grow softer.
“My darling—how could I ever see you as filthy for being violated by a monster?”
Dreya closed her eyes, letting out another sob. He’d said something similar about the incubus Haarlep, a creature Astarion intended to locate and murder when he had the chance. There really was so much blood to be spilled in her name, and tonight a new target had presented itself. The pangs in Dreya’s mind eased a bit. One little talk with her wasn’t enough to fix her, but he hoped she could use it for comfort later when such dark thoughts returned.
Astarion allowed his darker presence to grow, filling the air with an oppressive sense of power and the frigid chill of winter. It forced her eyes open again to find him staring at her possessively. He lightly wrapped his fingers around her throat, his charming, dangerous smile returning. “Oh, and, remember, pet—when you insult yourself, you’re insulting the Vampire Ascendant’s exquisite taste. I won’t have it, not even in your mind. Use your devotion to me to convince yourself to stop being so cruel, if you can’t manage to give yourself some compassion. Now—here’s what will happen.”
He pulled her to sit up, releasing her hair but using his hold on her neck to turn her head back to the main part of the room where the dead spawn still lay. “You’re right. They all have rope. I think the elf may even have a sleeping potion for you. Whoever sent them hoped that they could take me by surprise, kill me, and make off with you, but these wretches were really nothing but a scouting party. No one who’s heard of me thought that six spawn had a chance to overpower me, much less abscond with the Hero of Baldur’s Gate cleanly. If they were ever intended to succeed they would’ve tried to snatch you out in the city when you were alone. When the sun has risen, I’ll find the one that escaped, I’ll question her, I’ll question the bodies that still have heads, and I’ll find out who’s threatening us. And when we know?”
Astarion’s smile turned vicious as he pulled her back to look at him, drinking in the mixed fear and devotion in her eyes. She was never truly afraid of him hurting her, but she basked in the terror the Ascendant inspired as much as she’d basked in him being a predator even when he was a spawn. He couldn’t save her from Corvallis, but they both knew what he could do to a physical creature in front of him.
“When we know, I’ll tear him limb from limb for daring to touch you, even if it was through a spawn. I’ll bathe you in his blood, dove, until all thoughts of his servant’s fangs have been washed away. We’ll make love on his throne and burn everything he has that we don’t take for ourselves. And, my darling—”
Astarion could feel the possessive urge clawing in his chest, and he let it rise, wrapping around his throat. His eyes glowed an intense red in the darkness, fueled by the thoughts of his vengeance. “My darling, when we’re done, no vampire lord will ever dare to try to take you from me again. You’re mine—you’re not Corvallis’s warlock, you’re mine, my consort, and you always will be.”
Dreya was shaking, but their bond was strong, clear. She was so tired, her face was still stained with tears, but his promises of being safe from any other vampire lord pulled more than devotion from her. He could claim her body again, now, and he would, because she desired it just as much as him. Not a single night of pleasure would be stolen from them by their attackers.
Roughly, Astarion pushed her down on her back and gashed his own wrist again, putting it back to her lips. “Drink for healing now, pet, those spawn won’t leave a single mark on your body, either.” Her thirst being quenched by his veins was a joy, almost matched by the sight of her body rapidly repairing her injuries at his will. He positioned himself between her legs, allowing her to bend them up and wrap them around his hips. Without another word, he thrust himself into her. She wasn’t as maddeningly aroused as she had been during their game, but her desire was more than enough to let him use her.
It didn’t take long to finish himself, not when Astarion’s mind was so fixated on his power, his possession. The Ascendant let himself lick where her wound had been as he came inside her body, taking the blood that had been spilled on her. She was healed now, so he took his wrist back, reclaiming the blood on her lips and tongue with a rough kiss. A single lick sealed his own skin again as he pulled back from her and stood, satisfied at the sight of the mess he left behind on her thighs. He reached into the table by the bed and produced the amulet he’d once given her, allowing him to cast restoration on himself. Tonight he would stay awake, on guard, at full strength. The unpleasant bone ache of the restoration was worth it—how many times had she used the spell for him?
Dreya breathed slowly, still spread on their bed for him. His angel deserved more still. Astarion smiled, leaning over her to catch her attention again. “What should you be saying to me now, my darling?”
She giggled headily, a sound he reveled in after so many of her sobs. “Fine… thank you, my love.” Her eyes glowed red; his eyes filled with satisfaction from her permission to compel her one last time for the evening. A silent command this time, but it had the same effect, drawing more helpless, breathy moans from her lips, forcing her to wish he was filling her as she orgasmed, mussing her thighs with herself along with his cum. All for him. His lovely little dove, ruining herself for him.
Astarion pulled her up just long enough to tug the bedspread aside, then slipped into bed with her. She cuddled into his arms, nearly asleep already. He’d be awake with her like this, all night, never leaving her for a moment.
His beautiful, perfect dove, nestled sweetly in his arms as he dreamed of who he would kill for her next.
