Chapter Text
High Magistrate Emmet Clemont is in his latter years. Tall, broad shouldered, with salt and pepper hair, and dark critical eyes. Mostly retired, he still likes to dabble on occasion should a case spark his personal interest, or in offering his years of extensive experience on more delicate matters of law. A just and pious family man, trusted and respected by the city's peers. He's not someone you have ever had the privilege of meeting before now, though given how little interest you used to pay those who attended the soirées you performed at, it's hardly surprising. Now you watch him, the glass flute of champagne held delicately in his hand, the expression of fatherly patience on his face as he listens to the woes of a member of the merchants guild. It's lies. All of it. You can see the black corruption that crawls under his skin and festers in his heart. There's a tightness in his posture and right at the back of his eyes. It makes you wonder how dearly he would like to unleash his true opinion on the fool who talks at him ceaselessly. Verbally, physically, murderously. High Magistrate Clemont is a man who is at ease with the power of life and death in his hand, of justice. If you can pay his price.
The grand dining room of his manor is more than large enough to accommodate those that have been invited to this evening of fine food and conversation. It also ticks off every stereotype of a lord's manor that you can be bothered to bring to mind. The tall arched windows with views out onto the rear grounds, the extensive use of marble and gilt mouldings, crystal glass chandeliers, and of course, the grand portraits that clearly depict him upholding the statutes of law. If you choose to be brutally honest, you don't know why you're here, why he invited Astarion and yourself. Neither of you have been sort out for conversation by tonight's host and you're beginning to give the thought of quietly slipping away serious consideration.
You turn at the subtle disturbance of air close behind you, offering Astarion a smile as he hands you a fresh glass of lightly sparkling wine. He insists he's fully recovered from whatever spectral force it was that blocked him from raising Antoinette's soul, that he's well fed and to stop fussing. There's still a slight hollowness to his cheeks, a smudge of bruising under his red eyes.
“I'm told it's a remarkable vintage from Amn. Honestly, it all tastes like week old bath water to me,” he grumbles under his breath, expression sour.
You take an experimental sip, feeling the bubbles pop on your tongue and tasting gooseberries. Fresh and dry, a little tart. “Was it like this when you were a magistrate? Backroom deals, the quiet diversion of money to charitable causes?”
He sniffs, looking down his nose at those gathered. “It would depend on the people involved. Everyone pleads, makes promises and insists on their innocence. Sometimes the Watch or Fist might push for a plea-bargain if they think it'll get them a higher profile criminal, but it's rare. Believe it or not, but the thieves guild pay-off the Watch when it comes to looking the other way with petty crime. What happens in the higher echelons though, that's a very different and far more deadly game. Justice is served for the most part, so long as a patriar or wealthy merchant doesn't have a stake in matters,” he explains with a level of tiredness that's telling in its own way. It makes you wonder if he once naïvely believed in the judicial system he wanted to uphold.
“How bored are you right now?” You ask with a ghost of a smile.
“Unbelievably,” he laments with a theatrical roll of his eyes. “Now, if something interesting were to happen.”
“Such as?” You watch as the complaining merchants wife finally manages to pry her husband away from Clemont, her expression flushed and deeply apologetic while the magistrate assures her it's of no imposition to him. And into the void his retreating form leaves slips a graceful lady of middle years, copper hair glowing, cheeks daubed in a light blush. The high magistrate kisses the hand Marta de Lazlo offers.
“An attempted assassination could be entertaining,” Astarion muses. “Though I'd also settle for one of those oh so polite arguments and all the ingenious ways you can insult someone without directly doing so.” The slight curve of his lips carries a deviousness that reflects in his eyes.
“How gauche,” you tut. “I feel like something with a little more subtlety.”
He sighs, disappointed. “So long as the subtlety ends in a fine mist of claret through the air.”
“Feeling a little peckish, are you?” You've put the increase in appetite down to what happened in the mausoleum, and you have no idea how long it could take a vampire spawn to recover from such a debilitating attack. He can complain all he likes about your fussing, you're still going to keep an eye on him.
“Positively ravenous, darling,” he smiles benignly even as his eyes reflect his dark hunger in them.
“Then I'll be sure to keep my meddling short.” It's not like you want to endure this much longer yourself.
You spied the piano during the dinner. Not in any position of prominence in the room, which makes you immediately wonder if it's seen any practical use or been kept well-turned. At least the instrument hasn't suffered the indignity of being used as a table for flower arrangements or other trinkets. You'll grudgingly give Clemont a point for that if nothing else. As for whether it's suitably turned, everyone in the room is about to find out.
A few curious eyes follow you as you quietly ease the bench out from under the keyboard and sit yourself down. The hinges of the cover give easily, the tension of the foot peddle a little soft. You play a little flourish, nothing obnoxiously loud or ostentatious, just enough to see how well it's tuned. The notes are as soft as the peddle, muddy and they buzz a little instead of humming. You take back the point you granted a moment ago. Nothing irks you more than when a beautiful instrument is used for decoration rather than its intended purpose. You can make this work though, this isn't a classical recital and the room isn't a concert hall designed to carry and amplify sound.
The melody you play is light and unobtrusive, intended to act as pleasant background noise to accompany conversation. Not the most interesting way to play, but you doubt the piano could take anything more complex. You also aren't intending on making yourself the centre of attention. A quick glance up from the keys assures you most of those who were curious over your antics have gone back to their conversations. You smile inwardly, that's something you could change in an instant, the slightest pull on their minds, a suggestion woven through the notes. It's so very tempting.
Gaze cast back down to keys you don't need to look at, you catch movement in the periphery of your vision. Maybe a member of the household staff sent to politely ask you to stop, or maybe someone more interesting entirely.
“I had heard rumours claiming you'd retired from public performances,” Clemont says, his voice stern yet polite, his dark gaze steady and confident. “I am glad to see that is not the case. I had the misfortune to miss your performance at Lady de Lazlo's mid-summer ball all those years ago, but I heard many laud it. Even to this day.”
Strange that he doesn't mention Wyll's inauguration ball, not that you were privy to the guest list. You offer him a deferent nod of your head, a small smile. “Thank you, Lord Clemont. I will admit there's a strong temptation to step back up on the stage.” His answering smile is cool, and you know he's an individual sharp enough to pick up on the insinuated double meaning.
“I'm sure you are used to playing much finer instruments than this,” he replies after a moments consideration.
It doesn't matter how fine the instrument is if it's not correctly cared for and tuned, you choose not to point out. Instead, you gracefully roll one shoulder, unconcerned. “It's nothing a good piano technician can't fix. I can recommend an excellent one.”
“I don't doubt it,” Clemont chuckles, then those dark and hard eyes turn considering, business-like. “Forgive me for what no doubt will come over as an impertinent question, but I'm curious beyond the bounds of proper etiquette.”
Oh? This should be interesting. “Ask away.”
“Years past, I heard it said that you freely associated with devils. That this city owes its thanks, in part, to the deal you made to help in striking down the Absolute.” Polite as the question is asked, you can tell he doesn't put much credence in those stories. The fact he asks something so taboo in a room full of people who will be eavesdropping or lip-reading says a lot.
Your countenance doesn't show the slightest ruffle, instead, you lean a little closer like it's a secret and whisper. “All true.” While everyone will have an opinion on the sanity or morality of a person such as yourself, there's no law forbidding an individual privately petitioning a devil.
Clemont knows you're not lying, he's spent a lifetime honing the skill as a law lord. Of course, whether he personally chooses to acknowledge it is a different matter altogether. “Why would a devil care?”
You laugh lightly. “They don't, or not in the way you might be thinking. It's business. Souls. Mind flayers don't have them, you see. Toril losing its mortal population, well.” You don't elaborate. The illithids would have kept mortal chattel for sustenance, but you don't know how deeply Clemont has considered this curiosity of his.
“A deeply disturbing thought for a pleasant evening,” he admits, though nothing changes about his demeanour. “You are a very forthright individual.”
“I don't see the point in being coy, not when there are so many different tales sung of my exploits by bards. People will believe whichever version gives them the most hope, or draws in the biggest crowd.” To your mind, the truth is often more useful than lies or fantasy. Those, people expect. You smile apologetically. “I fear I have distracted you from more important matters.”
You let the smile stay on your lips as Marta finally grows impatient with being interrupted by your little performance. She barely offers you a glance as she walks over and draws Clemont's attention back to her. You say nothing, happy to let them go. This isn't about starting a scene, as much as the spawn in the shadows would enjoy the entertainment. All you want is to quietly plant a seed and see where its roots might take hold. You can almost feel the too warm hand that curves against the side of your throat, possessive, eternal. Your smile deepens and as you cast your eyes about the room, Marta's own gaze quickly flicks away from you.
You play for maybe an hour, the occasional guest wandering over to talk to you, all intrigued to ask what it is that's brought you out of retirement. It's all very interesting considering the only person you ever mentioned taking a hiatus from performing to, is Marta. Yes, you've been relatively reclusive in the months you've been back in the city, but it's hardly odd behaviour. There are plenty of nobles who are reclusive themselves or simply introverts. It makes you wonder what the context of Marta's conversations with other peers was, why she was even talking about you to begin with. Some of it could be assumption, though you're not willing to bet on it.
When interest wanes, you let the melody tapper off into the hum of conversation. Quietly closing the lid over the keys and feeling almost sad to know no one else will pay this instrument the care it needs. Such a waste. Hand lingering on the lacquered wood a moment, you stand and ease away from the piano. There's no sign of Astarion and you can only assume he's quietly left to find something far more entertaining, the night is still relatively young after all. You're of a mind to do the same.
You know eyes watch you as you leave, whose and for what reason is all part of the fun. Maybe you could eventually get used to attending an occasional soirée, just enough to keep everyone's curiosity ticking over. Maybe you'll even start to read the letters sent to you rather than seeing them into the care of a certain archdevils agents. Your mind paws tentatively at what feels like ridiculous plans, slightly amused by the notion you're considering doing the one thing you never thought you would. Involving yourself in the machinations of patriars. Well, involved might be too strong of a word, there's no stance or plan, not currently. It's pure mischief. You want to disrupt the expected and see what the reaction is.
It's going to infuriate those of a more fastidious nature, those who covet precision and clear goals. In a way, you feel a poor fit for a devil. Law and obedience have never been of any interest to you. But if there's one thing you've learned over these months, it's that devils are more unique than anyone would willingly believe. All have their interpretations of the law and how to move within it. All are happy to bend the rules to an inch of breaking, or use them to upend the validity of others entirely. Chaos within the confines of law, a secret order, as you once told Raphael.
Beyond the grand dining hall, away from the guests, you wander unchallenged by staff. Not for any nefarious reasons, simply to get away from the noise. Heeled court shoes slip from your feet and you walk barefoot over the thick carpet, feeling your toes sink into the deep pile with each step. A window is open somewhere, the cool nighttime breeze brushing your too warm skin and drawing you further away from the party.
The hallway you turn down is lit by nothing more than the moonlight streaming in through arched windows. A simple blink to your devil sight could paint everything in all its vibrant colours and in turn removed all the beautiful nighttime ambience. Deep shadows, colour bled from everything into shades of grey. The dramatic in you wishes the breeze would stir the fine curtains to billow out into the hallway, that flashes of lightning would light it all up in a moment of stark white before being plunged back into darkness. Alas, you'll have to wait until summer rolls around again.
Soft footfalls finally bring you toward the reason for the cool breeze. Tall glass doors set into one of the arched windows are thrown wide to the night outside. Whimsical as your mood is, you aren't about to give into carelessness. Your heightened senses stretch out into the dark of the paved terrace beyond, water runs in the steady trickle of a fountain, the wind rustling branches that have dropped most of their leaves. Nothing stirs, except....
Devil sharp reflexes are the only reason the crossbow bolt grazes the side of your ribs in a burning line and doesn't puncture right through your heart. There's a muffled tsk that's followed by rapid footsteps deadened by the carpet. Ignoring the leak of hot blood down your side, you whisper a harsh word in Infernal, the firebolt striking the handheld crossbow rather than the person holding it. As it thuds to the carpeted floor, they make a jump for the open doors and terrace beyond, their uninjured hand pulling a knife that catches the moonlight. You don't know if they're going to run or try to finish the job. Both are unacceptable and you want this fool alive.
With nothing to defend yourself with other than claws and a few low-level spells you know you can control, you try for something else. An intoned command that should drop them to their knees. As they rush you, it does nothing more than cause them to stumble and see them clumsily careen straight into you. Making a grab for the knife hand, you try to twist the blade out of their grip. They can't kill you, but the knowledge feels a whole lot less reassuring when you're panicking and grappling with a would-be killer. The pain from your bleeding side is enough to tell you you won't be spared the sensations even if it isn't fatal.
Their grip on the wickedly sharp blade is iron tight, their other hand closing around your throat. You stamp on their foot, wishing you'd kept your heels on and make a grab for the scarf that covers the lower half of their face. The fact they don't even try to stop you is proof enough they're completely sure of completing the job. You don't want to kill them with errant magic, but if that's what it's going to take. The moment you try to take a breath to unleash a thunderwave, their hand drops from your throat to dig fingers hard into your wounded side. It tears an agonising scream from you, every nerve lighting on fire as they gouge deep. It's their mistake too. Your Internal blood burns them, charring through leather and the skin underneath, fusing them together. It breaks the hold you both have and you draw an agonised breath to do a whole lot worse than knock them away from you.
The killer suddenly goes stiff, the blade clattering to the paving stones. Your senses register their panic, the thud of their heart, its beat suddenly erratic and quickly weakening. You watch as they slump to the ground, Astarion going with them, the hilt of the hunting knife the only thing stopping the spawn from burying it deeper into the killers failing heart.
You blink, vision distorted by bright sparks of pain and blackened around the edges. You can feel the warm flow of blood down your side, your dress clinging wetly to your legs as crimson begins to paint the stone below you. You laugh, astonished and full of droll humour, you knew something like this would happen eventually. It was bound to. The shaking hand you lift from your side is dark and thick with your blood. Guess it's worse than I thought. You hear voices, blinking your splotchy vision to register Andaris helping you to lay down. You didn't even know he was here.
“Why are....” You blink, your thoughts drifting disjointedly as you lift a hand to smear blood over the fresh puncture marks peeking just above his loosened cravat. Another blink. And then nothing.
~~*-*~~
The first thing you're conscious of is how warm it is, the next, that you lay on something soft and comfortable rather than the hard ground. No cool breeze, no raise voices in the distance, no alarm. There's a dull ache across your ribs, the soothing crackle of a nearby fire and the flowing scratch of a quill against parchment. You take an experimental breath, allowing your ribs to expand and wince. It's not pain, just very tender and uncomfortable. The breath also brings with it an arid dryness and the scent of sulphur and ash. You're in the Hells. Much as you know there's no need to panic, that a devil can't be truly killed on the material plane. You still worry that the assassin completed their task before Astarion killed them in turn, that the damage they did was far greater than you realised in the adrenaline fuelled moment. A tussle that must have only lasted a few minutes at most. You lie still on the sumptuous bed, eyes closed, honing your senses in on your body. You can't feel the tightness of stitches or bandages. It only aches.
“Did I die?” The quill stops, a chair moves. You open your eyes as the bed dips next to you, staring up into the unreadable expression and magma bright eyes of Avernus' archduke.
Raphael's hand brushes your cheek. “No. But your injuries will heal much faster on this plane.” Behind the calmly spoken words and stoic composure, anger burns, bright and livid.
“How long have I....” You trail off, turning your head to kiss his palm and catching the faint scent of the blood-based ink he'd been writing with.
“Nine hours, give or take. A day more on the mortal plane.” His thumb brushes your lips. “Quite the reintroduction to Baldur's Gates high society, it need not have been so dramatic.”
You know the clipped anger of his tone isn't aimed at you. “I had been aiming for subtle.” You close your eyes momentarily and take a breath to try and order your thoughts.
“Astarion dragged the fools soul back, but it seems that even in death a geas lingered strong enough to stop up their tongue. That's quite a feat and very curious,” he says, his tight smile all white and very sharp teeth. “It wouldn't be an understatement to say the patriars are up in arms over such audacity, High Magistrate Clemont determined to bring those responsible to justice. It's quite the opening act to play with. I really should thank them, after I've torn their souls from their flayed corpses.”
Of course he's only going to see what happened in terms of an advantage. You reach a hand up to snake around the back of his neck, drawing him down to your waiting lips. “I want to be there when you do.”
You feel the cruel curve of his lips against yours. “My girl.”
The kiss is hard in exactly the way you want it to be, prying your lips apart, his tongue sliding against yours. Moaning sweetly, your stomach fluttering as you feel his weight press you further into the bed. One of his hands draws back the silken cover from your naked body, before it settles against the tender and damaged skin along your ribs. You don't need to ask if he's incensed that this happened, that someone was of a mind to kill you. It's in every nuance of body language and it makes you shiver.
Reaching for his body, you feel the pinpricks of embers as they touch your skin and burnout, the frustrating barrier of clothes dissolved in an instant. His lips slip from yours, trailing down the front of your throat as you tilt your head back to expose more of it to him. Sharp teeth graze your skin, the slick warmth of his tongue following, tasting the scent you know stirs him so deeply. You sigh, relaxing back, giving yourself over to sensation, content to forget the events that lead you here for the next few hours.
The warmth of his hand helps to ease the deep ache in your side, the other curls around the base of your throat, squeezing enough to hitch your heart rate. Then fingers and claws press deep as they travel down over ridges of cartilage, between your breasts to cup and squeeze one, rolling it firmly. You arch slightly, hissing and ignoring the sting of tender skin not wanting to be stretched so soon.
“Hush,” Raphael coos in that dark and deeply amused tone of his. “I'm sure you can behave just this once and allow me the pleasure of satisfying you.”
Who are you to pass up such a genteel offer? And maybe there's a little more behind it too. Whatever the reason, you're happy to bask in the feeling of possessive anger that cloaks him, just as you're happy to let him exact whatever revenge he wishes on those responsible. You relax, difficult as it is when he can touch your body in exactly the way you want most, how easy it is for him to illicit a reaction. You want nothing more than to feel him sink deep into you, to feel that heated and possessive passion. You shift, letting out a tight breath as his knees nudge your legs further apart, as his hand leaves your breast to slip between your legs and through your wetness.
“Raphael,” you groan his name, hips tilting as his fingers slid deep, you feel the scratch of claws along internal walls. “Please.”
He chuckles. “And you have the nerve to call me impatient.”
You let him see the wicked grin before your tail curves up to rub against the hardness of his erection.
“That is not behaving,” Raphael chastises with a deep rumble, but nor does he make any attempt to stop your antics beyond splaying his fingers and making you moan.
Instead, his lips follow his hands. Agitated grumbling coming from him as his lips move over the sensitive and tender skin across your ribs. Then he moves down, fingers slipping from you that he takes a moment to lick before letting that tongue sink as deep into you as it can. Your hips buck before a firm hand grasps your thigh and hooks it over his shoulder, tilting your pelvis. You gasp, hands reaching down and pulling at his hair, curling around his horns. He grumbles, the bubbling sound vibrating deliciously along your vulva.
It's pleasure and torture at the same time. The deep intimacy, how sinful he's making you feel, but twinned with the desperate want for him to take you, to feel each deep and powerful thrust of his hips. You pull harder at his hair, earning yourself another louder growl and you feel his grip on you tighten.
“You are being very poorly behaved,” he warns, biting at the inside of your thigh.
It's all bluster, as you look down at him you can see dark desire in his eyes, that barely held in check control he so vaunts. You smile, flashing teeth and sliding your tail up his chest, curling it loosely around his neck.
“I don't want to behave, and neither do you.”
Rumbling, his own teeth bared, he moves so fast it draws a gasp of shock from you as sharp claws dig into your shoulders, his mouth clashing against yours hard enough to draw blood. You meet the savagery of the kiss, legs and tail wrapping around him, your cry of pleasure swallowed as he drives his hardness deep into your slick heat. You pull him down, not caring about the pain in your side, claws scratching down his back as wings flex. It's everything and not enough. Blood in your mouth, sulphur and musk filling your lungs.
You hold on, urging him to drive harder and deeper. His lips moving to your throat because you know his ego is basking in the sound of you chanting his name over and over. To be like this forever, for the passion to never burnout. Maybe it's romantic fantasy, one you're more than willing to sink into. Closing your eyes, you give yourself over to the devil you love and the boiling heat inside.