Page 81 of Astarion

He yanked the spear free.

“Gaaaaah!” Den Suriel sat bolt upright, turned gray, and collapsed back against the wall. Astarion clamped his hands over the wound in the man’s thigh, trying desperately to stop the bleeding.

“Fuck,” he said to himself in a little singsong. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK, fuck. Also, fuck.”

He was crimson to the wrist, as if he’d been feeding straight from the pig without a napkin. His hair had fallen into his face. He tossed his head to try to get it out of the way, to no effect. He was afraid that if he lifted either hand to push it back, the wound would reopen, and there would be no more hope at all.

Gauntleted fingers lifted, trembling slightly, and moved the wayward curl aside.

Astarion looked up into pain-glazed white eyes. “You’re alive,” he whispered. Beneath his hands, he felt the hot pulse of blood slow, then the skin began knitting together, the ragged edges of the wound pulling closed and growing smooth.

“Looks that way,” den Suriel croaked, and, without thinking, Astarion leaned in and kissed him.

—

It was a gentle kiss at first. Having just saved the man’s life, Astarion felt it would be in poor taste to knock him unconscious. He brushed his lips across den Suriel’s, then pulled back, already imagining the aasimar’s protests.

Instead, an armored hand cupped the back of his head and pulled him back down.

Triumph and desire tangled in Astarion’s heart. If he chose to deliver den Suriel to Cazador, things had just gotten a great deal easier. And if he took a little pleasure along the way, who could blame him?

The kiss deepened. The aasimar’s tongue flicked across his lips, and Astarion responded in kind. He had enough presence of mind to keep his fangs retracted even though the scent of blood was filling his nostrils, but the blood was also part of the desire, a torment that promised untold ecstasies, if only he were allowed to touch them.

Gods have mercy, he could have let den Suriel take him right there, on the red-slicked ground, and it would probably have been the best sex of his life.

He drew back, breathing hard. Den Suriel was grinning, though weakly. “I should be dragged back from the brink of death more often.”

“Thank you, no,” Astarion said testily. “Once was stressful enough. In fact—”

“If you’re quite finished,” the priest said from behind him, “I believe we still have some business to attend to.”

—

Den Suriel, being a paladin, immediately tried to shove himself in front of Astarion. This would have worked much better if he could stand up. The healing potion had clearly not been able to replace all that lost blood, which meant that den Suriel made it to his knees, swayed, and would have pitched over backward if Astarion hadn’t braced him up.

“Just give me my sword,” the aasimar gasped.

“If I do that, you’ll probably fall over on it. Perhaps we should consider diplomacy?”

“You’ve killed several of my lieutenants, stolen a relic of my god, and destabilized half my cavern,” said the priest. As if for emphasis, dust fell from the remains of the bridge over his head. “I fear that I’m not feeling very diplomatic. In fact, I’m planning on killing both of you.” He tapped a finger against his mask. “Although the big one would make an excellent mummy. That might be some recompense for the trouble I’ve suffered.”

“I see the problem,” Astarion said, eyes darting frantically as he tried to spot something that would give him an edge. Three soap mummies loomed behind the priest, and a milling line of skeletons was assembling behind them. They wouldn’t have been able to fight their way out even if den Suriel weren’t out of the action. “What relic of your god?”

“Please don’t play stupid.”

“No, no,” Astarion lied. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. What did it look like?” A plan had come to him. It was, even by his standards, remarkably foolish. He shifted his grip on den Suriel, one hand sliding down the man’s arm while the one hidden from the priest’s sight scrabbled across the floor.

“Get ready to throw,” he said under his breath. “I’ll help.”

The priest was shaking his head. “I can literally sense the god’s blood on your person.”

“Oh, that relic.” Astarion’s fingers closed over cool ivory. “Sorry, I didn’t think blood really counted as a relic. But come now, I’ve stolen the blood from under your nose. It was an extraordinary heist. I had to be turned into a bat and learn to fly. Don’t you think Mask would approve of that?”

He wasn’t really expecting the priest to listen. He was just letting his mouth run while his hands did the important work. But the undead priest actually stopped, and the green light in his eyes pulsed slowly. “That is actually an interesting theological question. Normally, an epic act of thievery would earn you induction into the Gray Ribbon. But these are hardly normal times…”

“Now,” Astarion breathed, pressing the ivory figurine into den Suriel’s fingers.

The paladin was almost too weak to throw, but Astarion gripped his hand and flung his arm upward. The figurine made a beautiful arc overhead, and den Suriel croaked a word in a language so old that even dragons had forgotten it.