Your Dark Gospel

Chapter One

“Stop! Thief!” The barmaid’s high-pitched voice was like a dagger in Astarion’s long ears.

A small boy ran past the table where he sat, shoving into his chair in a desperate frenzy, nearly spilling the untouched mug of ale in front of him. Astarion grimaced as he watched the child slip out the tavern’s door, a loaf of bread clutched between his grimy little fingers. Men and women alike followed in chase.

Sloppy. Astarion thought to himself. Was he even trying?

The boy had a lot to learn if he was going to make it on the streets as a thief.
But what did Astarion care?
He didn’t.

And now, thanks to that sloppy young thief, Astarion had half the crowd to choose from for tonight’s mark. Lucky enough for the kid, Cazador hadn’t ordered a child tonight. Though, it might not be an unwelcome surprise.

Astarion pushed the thought from his mind as quickly as it had come. He brushed pale fingers through his short white curls and cradled his head between his palms. Gods, he was evil. Targeting children on his own accord. Just how deep had Cazador’s influence taken hold? Perhaps his siblings were right, he truly was their master’s perfect little puppet. One that no longer needs strings.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath before letting it loose again.

He needed to get his shit together. Pull on the familiar mask of seductive charm and approach someone at the bar— anyone—it didn’t matter who. Anything with a pulse would suffice for Cazador. Astarion just needed to finish the job, as he had done so many times before. Then he would be free to rest, to slip into the dreamless abyss that was the closest to death he was allowed to go. He steepled his temple and cast a glance around the room as the patrons within seemed to fall back into their cups. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of roasted meat. It was also tinged with vomit and rot, but the humans didn’t seem to notice, limited as their senses were. They crammed themselves into the tiny, low-ceiling tavern, with its soot-stained hearth and rotting floorboards like it was a temple of worship.

A hulking bard with gray in his beard began to play the lute near the warmth of the fire, casting the thief into distant memory. Patrons hooted their approval as they drunkenly sloshed their ale and coated the wooden planks below their feet. Astarion sneered in disgust. This particular tavern was hardly his first choice in a hunting ground, but he did not survive two centuries prowling the city for prey by remaining in one place. No, he was too smart for that, and so he suffered the fruit of his wits tonight at a dingy tavern in the lower city, where no one would recognize his face. It would be the same tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. He would wallow in filth and piss with a smile until he was a fresh face in the upper city again.

He watched a couple stumble out of the bar, arms wrapped around each other in drunken adoration, likely looking for a fresh pile of hay to roll in. It was getting late, and Cazador was anything but a patient master. If he didn’t bring fresh blood back to the castle soon, he’d be spending the next year inside a coffin. The thought caused a fresh wave of fear to wash over Astarion. And yet . . . The mask still didn’t click into place. He felt consumed by his self-pity. Pathetic, wretched thing that he was.

He didn’t deserve pity. Not from himself. Not from anyone.

He was a monster.

A dark shape huddled nearby in the corner of his peripheral. He turned to—“What the bloody hells are you doing there?” Astarion nearly toppled back in his chair as he took in the dark mass sitting beside him.