Page 20 of Astarion

The guest was a tall wizard wearing crimson robes, which might have meant that he was a Red Wizard of Thay or wanted people to think he was. Alternatively, of course, he could have been one of those wizards who styled himself “So-and-So the Red” or “the Scarlet” or whatever color hadn’t already been taken. Most of the good colors had been. Astarion had met a wizard once who called himself “Arroz the Ecru,” and he had nodded politely, asked him how he was enjoying the party, then excused himself, gone to the back room, and laughed like a werehyena on a bender.

Unlike the unfortunate ecru wizard, this one looked the part. He was lean and ascetic, head shaven, fingers folded inside his sleeves. His eyes were dark and flat as river stones. The candles on the table woke no reflection in them. If Astarion had encountered him on the street, he would have suddenly remembered a pressing errand on the other side of the city.

The spawn took their places as Cazador directed. Five sat down to the table. Petras, in his pale hound mask, was to kneel beside Cazador’s throne. This put his head below the level of the table, which Astarion found hilarious. “Perhaps the master will throw you some bones?” he murmured, just loud enough for the other man to hear.

“Don’t start.”

“Or what? You’ll be a bad dog and widdle on my shoe?”

Whatever Petras would have done was lost as Cazador took Astarion’s wrist in a grip that looked delicate but could easily have crushed bone. “And you, Astarion, my dear child…you will wait on our guest particularly. See to his every need, won’t you?”

Astarion knew full well what that would entail. The wizard was already watching, his air of asceticism marred by the expectant tongue against his lips. He turned his head to meet Astarion’s gaze, and the flat gray stones of his eyes suddenly reflected a narrow flash of gold, pupil as vertical as a snake’s.

Whatever the wizard was, they were only playing at being human.

Before Astarion could even speak, he felt Cazador’s will close over his, just a taste of pressure, enough for him to know that even a hint of disobedience would cost him dearly.

Very well. It was just as it always was. Avoid pain and feel as little as possible. It was astonishing the things you would do of your own free will simply to avoid being forced to do them.

His lips curved into a smile honed by a century of practice. “Of course,” he purred, stepping forward. “It would be my pleasure.”

The red-robed wizard might have been a master of magic, but he had all the subtlety of a rutting boar. They had barely made it through the soup course before Astarion found himself bent over the table while Cazador made conversation over his head.

The cups and plates weren’t silver, of course, but they had been polished to a mirror shine. He set his elbows on the table, watching the reflection of the white fox mask as the wizard thrusted and grunted behind him. The mask’s eyes were cool and aloof, and behind them was nothing, nothing at all.

—

After dinner, and a reviving cup of blood, Astarion was waved away with the rest of the spawn. The creature pretending to be a wizard lifted a cup in salute in Astarion’s direction. He wondered if it was a demon or something more exotic.

If it was a demon—and one powerful enough that Cazador was willing to play host to it—was it a connection worth pursuing? It had enjoyed his body, and this would hardly be the first time Astarion had traded sex for something he wanted.

He thought about it, absently rubbing the spots on his hips where the creature had gripped him. Its touch had been cold, and the skin burned now, awakening memories of stamping his feet when he came in from the snow.

No, it probably wasn’t worth it. Devils were dangerous, and their bargains were rarely straightforward. The last thing Astarion wanted was to be in thrall to two masters. Even if he could negotiate for something like “Force Cazador to make me a true vampire,” would it be worth it if he was then chained somewhere in the Nine Hells, dancing to the whims of a truly immortal master?

He came to a corner in the hallway, still deep in thought, and heard Violet’s voice saying, “But we could have so much to talk about.”

Astarion immediately froze, then backed away. Judging by the footsteps, Violet was coming this way, along with…

“And what would that be, my dear?” The thin, sinuous voice could have come only from the faux wizard.

Astarion lost Violet’s reply as he slipped down the hall to an alcove with an ornamental urn. Ridiculous things, urns, but this one was large enough that a slim elf could slide down into the space between the urn and the wall and be largely hidden.

Of course, he’d look completely ridiculous if Violet happened to spot him, but he was betting that Violet was focused entirely on her quarry.

“Surely your…father…would have something to say? I am much older than you,” came the thin voice. By the sudden increase in volume, they must have turned the corner.

“I’m over a hundred years old,” Violet said. Even though he couldn’t see her, Astarion would have bet diamonds to dog turds that she had just tossed her head.

“Ahh…” purred the thin voice, like a snakeskin being dragged over gravel. “So young. I can no longer recall my first century. They pile up, you know. You forget things…places…people…”

“I bet you’ll never forget me.”

Their footsteps were right on top of him. Astarion leaned to one side in time to see Violet with her hands on the faux wizard’s arm. The creature turned slightly, looking over her head, and its gaze speared into the shadows of the alcove, directly into Astarion’s face.

It winked at him, and then Violet, still prattling, led it past.

If it had been one of the other spawn, Astarion might have considered causing a distraction or at least warning them that they were playing an incredibly dangerous game. But it was Violet, and Violet, frankly, deserved everything she got.