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He will be angry later.
No, not angry — enraged, not only by the mortals’ treachery, but also his own naivety. Raphael had no one but himself to blame for this disaster: despite centuries of experience in dealing with their kind, despite knowing full well their rotten, faulty nature he still trusted that these pests would be reasonable. That if he treated them well, they would behave.
Of course, their feeble, worm-addled minds couldn’t even comprehend what an honor it was to receive an offer as generous as he had made. The contract he had drafted for them was perfect and fair, with no hidden hooks or tricks or loopholes. It was a sign of respect, but they took his candor for weakness and thought that they could barge into his House and steal from him. Raphael couldn’t even say that they paid for this suicidal audacity: no amount of suffering they endured and were to endure very soon would ever be enough.
His plan was crumbling, and the Crown was slipping out of his grasp again. And to add insult to the injury, his pet orthon was dead, Hope, his favorite toy, broken, and his marble floors stained with tthe blood of mortals.
Fury was a storm on the horizon: Raphael heard muffled thunder but didn’t yet feel its full power. Ascended form drained him and left nothing but exhaustion and memory of scorching pain.
He will be angry later, but now he needed to rest.
“Haarlep!” Raphael called upon entering the Boudoir. The debtor by the door grabbed his wing and tried to say something, but a lash of his tail shut her up.
He hadn’t yet decided what he wanted from the incubus — to order them to comfort him or to send the unruly creature away, so he would wallow in his misery alone. It had become a thoughtless reflex, to call for them every time he returned. And they’d always come, fluttering their — his? — eyelashes and looking at him with the most fake expression of adoration they were capable of.
Not this time, though. The water of the fountain trickled, and the winds of Avernus howled outside, yet he didn’t hear Haarlep’s light steps and the jingle of the chains on their harness.
The thunder drew closer. Raphael forgave Haarlep a lot, but this was not the time to act up.
“Haarlep! Come to your master at once!”
As he approached the bed, Raphael unbuttoned his doublet and threw it away in disgust— it was soaked in blood and carried the stench of mortal flesh. He would not even bother to have it washed, he would burn it himself with the rest of his clothes. The annoyed devil opened his mouth to threaten to send the incubus back to Cania in a box and finally saw the body.
Haarlep was sprawled on the floor near the balcony, staring at the ceiling with a strange, helpless expression of distress and surprise — like a victim of a nasty prank. There were no visible injuries, but weak, barely visible silvery light pulsed between the ribs and inside the veins on their chest and arms. The Selunite had invoked the divine powers of her mistress to burn the incubus from the inside. The gust of wind scattered small piles of ash around them — must’ve been Haarlep’s pet imps.
Raphael came closer and looked at their face — his face, changed by magic to be recognizable but different. He loved and hated these features, the fuller lips and straightened nose, a flattery, a mockery, a constant reminder of his own imperfections.
The incubus was a spoiled and utterly useless brat that had stopped feigning any respect for Raphael centuries ago. Despite their obvious contempt towards their master, they had never tried to backstab him and thus had earned some degree of trust — but Raphael never allowed himself to forget that their “loyalty” grew from sheer laziness and a force of habit. After all, what’s better that the devil you don’t know? The devil you do, with all of his quirks and demands as annoying as they can be.
Raphael thought of Korrilla and reached for the invisible connection between them, fueled by their pact. She arrived quickly and stopped a few steps away, her eyes darting between Raphael and the body at his feet.
“You called?”
“A pointless cruelty, don’t you think? To kill an unarmed incubus.”
“Irrational, yes. Like this whole… situation.”
Raphael sighed and pinched his nose. He was tired.
“Have you taken care of our guests?”
“Nubaldin scrapes Astarion off the floor. I don’t think we will retrieve enough to resurrect him. Karlach is unconscious, we locked her in the dungeon. Shadowheart and Tav are dead, but in reasonably good condition.”
The priestess had likely flown away under her goddess’s wing — a shame, she was the one who had delivered the final blow. But Tav was at his full disposal, trapped in the House of Hope by the contract they had so foolishly signed and then even more foolishly tried to steal. Raphael will mend the body, put the soul back inside, and then he will explain very, very thoroughly to his stupid little mouse how terribly they had disappointed him.
“What should we do with the body?” Korrilla nodded at Haarlep.
“I… I don’t know.”
Raphael didn’t like how his voice sounded.
“You ordered to incinerate Dagmar. We could burn them together.”
Dagmar. Korrilla never called Hope like that. Raphael thought that he never learned Haarlep’s true name and couldn’t remember their real face.
Not that it mattered.
“Yes, this is a good idea.”