Page 96 of Astarion

“Father?” he finally asked.

Cazador turned his head only a fraction, but it was enough to set the torchlight glittering across his cheeks.

Cazador Szarr, ancient vampire lord, servant of Mephistopheles, infernalist and ruler of the night, was weeping.

“Oh shit,” Petras said under his breath. For once, he and Astarion were in total agreement. None of the spawn had ever seen such a thing. The others retreated as far as they could, sinking into the few available shadows, each one of them trying to make themself into as small a target as possible.

Astarion stood alone in the center of the room, clasping his hands together to hide their trembling.

If he looks like he’s going to kill me, run for the door. If he looks like he’s dying, run for him and open a vein. If he says something, apologize and beg for mercy. No, apologize and say Dalyria must have done something to it. Then beg for mercy. None of the plans were good, but that didn’t matter, because a good plan wasn’t possible at the moment. All Astarion could do was stand there and wait for the explosion.

“To die…” Cazador pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. “To die and lose all that…that magnificent life. To be so much, and then to know that it was ending…” He wiped unashamedly at his tears. “Oh, my boy. My sweet Astarion. What a gift you’ve given me.”

Astarion’s mouth was so dry that he had to swallow before he could answer. “Of course, Father. It was my pleasure.”

Cazador held out his hand. Astarion approached the chair and sank down onto his knees, turning his cheek to fit into the ancient vampire’s hand. He couldn’t believe that this was happening. Had it worked? Had he won?

Miserable gods, am I finally going to be a vampire?

He knew better than to hope, but he could feel it rising in his chest nonetheless, a crazy, wild joy that felt as if it might explode outward and take his rib cage with it.

“Dear Astarion.” Cazador gazed deeply into his eyes, and Astarion did not have to fake his shiver of anticipation.

Now? Is he going to do it now? Let me drink his blood and finally, finally, be free?

The old man leaned forward. Astarion closed his eyes.

Dry lips brushed his forehead. “For a full vial, I would have turned you this very night. But when I finally do make a vampire,” Cazador whispered against his skin, “you will be the first, my boy.”

Oh.

I see.

Of course it would be something like that. I knew better than to hope, but I did it anyway.

But he knew his role, and he knew better than to ever show weakness. Astarion said, “Thank you, Father,” and bowed his head, still kneeling at Cazador’s feet, with the wreckage of all his recent dreams around him.

—

“I knew it was just another mind game,” Petras said. “I knew it.”

“You did not,” Violet said crossly.

Astarion took another slug of blood-mixed wine.

“I damn well did, you little—”

Aurelia set her cup down with a sound like a judge’s gavel. “Enough,” she said. “Truce. For tonight, anyway.”

Everyone, even Violet, was a little frightened of Aurelia. “Truce,” the other spawn muttered. Astarion grunted into his wine.

Cazador had left to see how Dalyria was faring in Godey’s skeletal hands. The remaining spawn huddled around one end of the table in a little knot.

“We all knew it was probably a mind game,” Aurelia continued, “but can any of you say you weren’t hoping?”

No one met her eyes, which was admission enough.

“Where did you get the blood of a dragon, anyway?” Petras asked.