Page 89 of Astarion

Violet hissed like a teakettle. “Bastard! I should have killed that pet aasimar of yours when I had the chance!”

Astarion’s heart most definitely did not twinge. Certainly not. Anything resembling a twinge was simply the stress of having a loaded crossbow held on him by the person who hated him most in the world. He shrugged. “Since I have the blood I wanted and don’t need his as backup, I can’t say it would have mattered.”

“I could still go kill him right now.”

“Feel free. He’s on the second floor of the Rat’s Run, or he was as of a few hours ago. Do you need me to draw you a map?”

“You’re bluffing,” Violet said, though a note of doubt had crept into her voice.

Astarion stifled a yawn with his free hand. He highly doubted that den Suriel had stayed at the seedy tavern after discovering Astarion’s departure, but even if he had, the staff knew better than to let Violet wander around the premises with a loaded crossbow.

The crossbow in question wavered, probably because Violet was trembling with rage. Astarion eyed it warily. Violet’s impatience was the only advantage he currently had, but if she accidentally put a bolt through his heart, he wouldn’t be around to take pleasure in what Cazador would do to punish her. Still, if he could goad her into acting rashly, she did only have one shot, after which her crossbow became a very expensive club.

“I hate you,” Violet said conversationally. “I really, truly hate you.”

“How odd, dear sister. I do my best not to think of you at all.”

“I can’t understand why you’re his favorite.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “Because you’re too easy, Violet. You want his approval so desperately.” He tensed, knowing that the next words might send her over the edge. “You’re almost as pathetic as Yousen.”

She inhaled sharply. He saw her eyes glitter in the starlight. Then she said, in a voice like cracking ice, “I suppose neither of us is going to be made a vampire, then,” and shot him in the hand.

—

One of the vials exploded. Astarion snarled in pain as the bolt embedded itself in his hand, accompanied by shards of glass. Black blood ran down his fingers, mixing with his own. He tried to keep hold of the intact vial, but the damaged tendons no longer worked, and the vial slipped free and fell toward the waiting sea.

Gone. The blood he’d worked so hard for, the chance at becoming a vampire…gone.

He rounded on Violet, ready to murder her one-handed if that’s what it took. His sister smiled sweetly at him. “Bet you’re thinking of me now, huh?”

Astarion lunged. She danced out of range, laughing, then took to her heels. He might have caught her, but she went up the side of a building like a squirrel. Astarion couldn’t have matched her speed even if there wasn’t a bolt sticking through his good hand.

He clutched his wrist and slumped against the wall, the sound of her mocking laughter still echoing in his ears. He couldn’t think of a curse brutal enough for the situation.

One day left. One day to find something comparable to the blood of a god.

First things first. There’s not a great deal I can do with a bolt stuck through my hand.

The point was fitted against the shaft, so at least it wouldn’t cause any more damage on the way out. Even closing his fingers over the bolt made the shattered bones in his hand grate together. Astarion took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pulled.

He didn’t scream, but only because he didn’t want to give Violet the satisfaction. He fell against the wall, nauseated with pain. He needed blood to heal, but he wasn’t sure he could catch even a rat in his current state.

Maybe one of the bats, or owls, or whatever they are. How do you attract a bat? I bet that druid would know. He tried to remember being a bat. Unfortunately, he didn’t usually carry live moths on his person.

He should probably go back to Szarr Palace. There was always blood there. Go back, heal up, think of what to do next. But there was so little time left, and what was he going to do about the competition?

Den Suriel.

He could pick up a fresh vial, find the paladin again, perhaps drug him, and open a vein. Pity I didn’t have the forethought to do that while he was bleeding all over me. I suppose I could wound him and get the same effect, but…He shied away from the logical extension of that thought—that it would be far easier to drain blood from a dying aasimar than figure out a way to drug him. There were undoubtedly good, solid, self-centered reasons not to kill the man. He could probably think of them if his hand didn’t hurt so much.

He pushed himself up with his good hand. Blood first, definitely.

Air ruffled across feathers as one of the winged shapes settled on the wall next to him. Astarion froze, his fangs already sliding into place. If he could just catch the creature unawares—

“ ’Ere,” said Rooftop Henry, setting a familiar vial on the wall. “Mister Zombie, in’it? Looks like you dropped this.”

—