Page 94 of Astarion

Unfortunately, Violet arrived before he could make much of a dent in the alcohol supply, and his sense of self-preservation kicked in to stop him from going further while she was there. She was clad in a dress with little puffed sleeves and bows that made her look much younger than she was. It made him want to kick her out a third-story window, but so did everything else about her.

“Awww. Are you pouting, ’Starion?”

“Sister dear, I would not dream of it. Your failure more than makes up for my mere lack of success.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “I should have shot you in the groin, like I planned.”

“Who’s getting shot in the groin?” Petras asked from the doorway.

“Don’t worry, Petras, you’re perfectly safe. Violet can’t hit that small a target.”

“You think you’re so amusing.” Petras rolled his eyes and picked up his own goblet of blood. “How much longer do we have to wait?”

“As long as he wants us to wait,” Aurelia said, folding her hands in her lap.

“I was afraid of that.”

Fortunately, for all their sanity, Cazador arrived ten minutes later. Dalyria came in behind him. When she saw Astarion, she straightened her back and tried to snap her usual cool, imperious expression back into place.

So that’s how you’re going to play this. I see. Astarion, for his part, simply pretended she wasn’t there. If I am successful, you will pay, dear sister. And if I’m not successful because of you, you will pay even more.

“My children.” Cazador was in an expansive mood tonight, his hooded eyes bright in anticipation of the feast. “I do so look forward to your gifts. It will be interesting to see what you think that I would like…and what you are capable of acquiring.”

Dalyria hid her flinch well, but Astarion saw it and was pleased.

Dufay entered the room holding the small velvet-lined box and presented the vials to his master. There were five of them now, shining like jewels, except for the nearly empty one in the middle. Dalyria hadn’t even thought to smash the other vials when she stole his. Damn the woman.

Cazador stroked his fingers across the glass. “Lovely. Such colors…mostly.” He tapped the nearly empty vial and frowned.

“If you will leave mine for last, Father, I will explain all.” The words flowed smooth as honey off Astarion’s tongue. It was possible he might still pull this off—if three drops were enough, if no one else had stumbled across an even better offering, if the old man was in a good mood, if, if, if.

“A mystery,” Cazador said. “How…intriguing.”

Astarion bowed slightly and prayed hard. Since he had given up on the gods, it was more of a nonspecific cry into the void. Please, please, let this work!

“Very well. You shall be last, then.” The vampire lord picked up the first vial. It was an intense oily green, and when he broke the seal, the smell of rotting garbage flooded the hall. “Gaah! What is this?”

“Otyugh?” Yousen said hopefully.

“Why in the Nine Hells would you bring me the blood of a creature that feeds on filth?”

“I…erm…thought it might be interesting…? I couldn’t try it because they’re sort of intelligent, you know…”

“It smells foul.”

“So do some very good cheeses? Sir?”

Cazador put his hand to his forehead in clear despair. “Only because you are my beloved son, Yousen, would I do this.” He touched his fingertip to the open vial, then, very tentatively, licked it.

His expression said more than words. Yousen faded into the wall. Cazador resealed the vial and held it out. “Take this somewhere and burn it, Dufay. And fetch me something to kill the taste.”

Dufay shuffled out of the room and returned a moment later bearing a golden tray with a single jeweled goblet on it. “The blood of an elven child, my lord, mixed with some of the Ironfell Eighty-Four.”

Cazador took a long drink and sighed with pleasure. “That’s more like it. I trust that none of the rest of you have any such surprises in store?”

The other spawn murmured denials. It occurred to Astarion, very belatedly, to worry about the taste of Mask’s blood.

The next vial was an ordinary crimson. Cazador sniffed, rolled the blood around his tongue, then drank it down. “Ah,” he said. “Winged kenku, yes?”