Page 5 of Astarion

“My help?” Astarion smiled at her, letting just a little too much canine show. “My help doesn’t come cheap, my darling.”

She gestured over her shoulder with her free hand. “There’s a human named Boris who drinks at the Green Eel. He fancies himself a sailor, but he’s the son of a merchant captain. Won’t have him on the ships anymore. He’s a drunk and a bastard.”

“Sounds delightful.”

The woman’s eyes bored into his; she was clearly unconcerned about their red sheen. “He doesn’t pay enough to be as rough as he is, and he’s getting rougher. He broke Sheena’s arm last tenday, and the magistrates won’t even hear the case.”

“They wouldn’t,” Astarion said. He wouldn’t have, when he was a magistrate. If a rich brothel owner had brought a suit, that would be another matter entirely, but a street prostitute’s word against a merchant’s son? You’d need a signed eyewitness statement from the head of the Temple of Tyr to even get in the courtroom door. “What do you want me to do about it?”

The woman from Waterdeep smiled beatifically at him. “I want you to make him disappear, too.”

—

Astarion loitered outside the Green Eel, feeling a mix of annoyance and admiration. The woman had sewn him up neatly, that was for certain. For over a hundred and fifty years, if anyone had actually paid attention, they’d have been bound to notice a pale, red-eyed, very well-dressed elf whose company seemed curiously fatal. He’d relied on the fact that nobody ever paid attention. It was extremely irritating to discover that someone actually had.

And how many other annoyances am I going to have to dispose of, now that the local streetwalkers have my description? They didn’t necessarily know he was a vampire spawn, but they certainly knew he was a predator.

Nine Hells, I might actually have to tell the old bastard I’ve been spotted and need to lie low. A shudder went up Astarion’s spine at the thought. Cazador kept his spawn confined to Szarr Palace unless they were out hunting. When you were kept on a leash like a dog, even a few extra inches felt like freedom.

The door of the Eel swung open, and two men staggered out, laughing. Astarion, crouched just outside the circle of light, swept his gaze across them. Neither matched the description the woman had given him. Big, dark hair to his shoulders, patchy beard. Has a gold earring in the shape of a dolphin and a strawberry birthmark on his right wrist. Stinks of beer and onions.

That last probably applied to everyone in the Green Eel. Astarion settled back down on his haunches to wait.

Three more people came out and two went in before Astarion laid eyes on his quarry. Boris came stumbling out, turned, and shouted something incoherent into the bar. The light briefly caught on a gold earring in the shape of a dolphin. He was probably six inches taller than Astarion and a foot wider in the shoulders, and his clothes were a crime against nature.

None of these things—except possibly the clothes—was a problem. All men were the same height when they were face down on the pavement. But as tempting as coshing him over the head was, Astarion would have to drag the bastard back to one of the collection points—in this case, the small park with the passage behind the unicorn statue—and that was a long way to drag a limp body without being spotted, even in the fog.

Ideally, Boris would follow him on his own two feet.

Astarion stepped out of the fog and raked his eyes over the merchant’s son. “Well,” he said. “Hello.”

—

Although women were Boris’s usual choice, he had no objection to having a pretty boy suck his cock. He told Astarion so, several times.

“Yes,” Astarion said, holding on to his patience with great effort, “but not in the middle of the street.”

“Why not? Anybody wants to watch, let ’em.” Boris leered and made a grab for him. The man was drunk enough that Astarion barely had to step aside, and Boris ran shoulder-first into a wall.

He grunted, though it was unlikely that any pain could get through the haze of alcohol clouding his system. After a moment, he refocused on Astarion. “Why…why’ve you got red eyes?”

“Allergies. It happens every year about this time, I’m afraid. Something blooming, the healers tell me.” Astarion forced a delicate cough. “But enough about me.” He trailed his fingers down the man’s arm. Under the thick coat of hair, Boris’s skin was clammy with sweat. “Come now,” the vampire spawn purred, “let’s find somewhere a little more private, shall we?”

Boris allowed himself to be steered for another block or so before he started to get stubborn. “Want it now,” he said like a frustrated toddler, and grabbed for Astarion again.

This time, he caught a handful of white hair and pulled. Astarion clamped down on a hiss of pain and said, “Oh, so you like it rough?”

Boris’s leer turned into a yelp as Astarion dug a thumbnail into his wrist and forced his fingers open. Before he could swing, the vampire spawn hooked a foot behind his knee and spilled him to the ground.

“Would you prefer I was on top?” Astarion asked, one knee on the drunken man’s chest. “Hmm?”

Boris stared up at him, utterly flummoxed.

Astarion ran his hand over the man’s groin and clucked his tongue. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that. Poor little fellow’s as limp as a banana skin.”

He sprang up and waited as his prey staggered to his feet. It took two tries.

“Oh no,” Astarion said, dancing backward. “I’m getting away, look.”