Nick Christian’s own fucked-up bombshell of patricide don’t really unnerve me, but it don’t line up with what he told me in the past. “I thought your old man killed you?” He nods. “Broke my head open. Claims that was an accident, but Edmond sure wasn’t. My sire was all for vengeance…” His eyes grow pained and distant. “I thought it would end with him. It wasn’t even entirely about revenge. I was trying to help them, free them… I should have never taken charge.” “‘Saint Christian was pulled from the river, and the good woman wept, for the boy was surely dead,” I quote our scriptures. “She laid him out in the chapel to rest, and miraculously – he awoke: a vessel of the divine itself, returned to spread His message.’” “Do desist with the hackneyed verse,” he groans, burying his face in the pillow. “That legend is entirely embellished nonsense.” “Why’d they think an undead demon was a saint?” “Because Renata, one of my former followers from that commune… She kept raving that I was,”
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