Your Dark Gospel (Complete)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Astarion

Astarion drank.

He drank from tieflings, infernal elves, cambions, and even beings whose identities were a complete mystery to him.

Anything he could sink his fangs into—it hardly mattered as long as they had a pulse. And yet, he felt anything but satisfied. A chasm had reopened in his chest, one he hadn’t realized was closed until he was thrown off its ledge once more. He found himself plummeting back to the depths of his despair, which was a familiar place. He had spent two hundred years hiding in that dark abyss.

So it was much like coming home.

He’d hope to fill the empty space with blood, to float upon a crimson sea. But the emptiness matched him sip for sip.

Elira would marry the devil, Raphael, all to spite him. 

It was amazing the speed at which his wonderful plans had fallen apart. Perhaps he had been stupid to rely on someone else. To think that he could have both power and love. He was no better than the fools he had led to Cazador, night after night, heads filled with false promises.

It was time to face the facts. He didn’t need love. What was it but a distraction from what really mattered?

Power.

With power came respect… fear… control.

No one would dare deny him when he was an almighty Vampire Lord.

And he had it, or, well, almost had it. All was within reach, secrets revealed upon the pages of that ancient book. Once he figured the damn thing out. He wished he could ask Elira for help. Her expertise would have been useful in understanding the complexities of necromantic tomes.

Except they weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

Besides, he thought as he drunkenly made his way through the gilded halls of the House of Hope, she was with him.

He had pretended not to notice her watching him. Letting the dinner guests ravish him as he drank their blood. In truth, he hadn’t yet found a way not to notice her. Even with their broken bond. Her blood-red hair and piercing glacier eyes had a way of seeping through his defenses, through his very skin. He was defenseless. Useless.

Of course, his feelings of inadequacy had led to a charade—a mask of carelessness. He’d goaded her, but she’d held the winning hand.

Because, despite everything at stake, he still yearned for her to be the one to pull him out of the chasm once more.

Watching her take her leave with Raphael, her soon-to-be husband had infuriated him. He’d nearly killed the poor soul he’d been drinking from. It took several fiends to pull him off and then promptly extricate him from the ballroom. He had protection as an esteemed guest of the master of the house; they didn’t dare risk injury or insult, despite his behavior. Instead, they simply instructed the servants to take him to his rooms so that he could sleep it off. He was drunk off wine and blood, and alone in his bed was the last place he wanted to be.

He lost the servant rather quickly, using his relations with the soon-to-be lady of the house to threaten them until they let him be. The servants didn’t need to know that he had no real sway with the authority.