5
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.”
* * *