8
When he had finished sewing up his jacket to his satisfaction, he pulled it back on and rolled his shoulders a few times.
He hadn’t had the right color to match the embroidery perfectly, but it was close enough that no one would notice unless they had their nose mashed against his hip.
Which, life—or, in this case, death—being what it was, he couldn’t rule out, but at least it would be unusual.
He slipped out of the laboratory and made his way toward the great hall.
It was not quite midnight; while the spawn were expected to present themselves there for the master’s pleasure, there was always a chance that Cazador would have retired to his bedchamber early.
Failing that, the old man might be tormenting someone else, and Astarion could slip into the hall and take up a position in one of the various nooks.
If you kept the proper expression of servile interest on your face, Cazador’s gaze sometimes slid right over you.
If Astarion was lucky, Cazador wouldn’t notice him at all.
His luck was out. His luck was always out.
He was starting to think that he’d somehow offended the goddess Tymora.
Cazador was in the corridor that led to the great hall, wearing an abstracted expression and a truly fine pair of boots.
Astarion weighed the options. A compliment might sweeten the vampire lord’s mood, or it might simply draw his attention.
Though even that might be worthwhile if it meant that he bored of tormenting Astarion early and focused on someone else for the later part of the evening.
Cazador was rarely truly inventive until well after midnight.
“Those are most excellent boots, Father,” Astarion said, letting genuine admiration color his voice. Cazador looked up and smiled.
“Are they not?” He extended one foot, showing where the black leather of the calf had been cut as delicately as lace, revealing gray suede underneath.
A hundred and fifty years earlier, Astarion would have been wild to know the name of the maker.
Now he was careful not to ask, for fear that Cazador would display one of his peculiar fits of jealousy and send Astarion out to collect them.
And to sacrifice an artisan of that skill to sate a temporary hunger would be very nearly criminal.
Cazador admired his footwear for a moment, then said, “You may polish them, if you like.”
Astarion suppressed a sigh. He had thrown the dice, and as usual, it had come up snake eyes. “Of course, Father,” he said, going to his knees.
The slick leather was sour on his tongue.
It was tanned in the new fashion, thank all the gods, soaked with oak leaves and bark until the tannins penetrated the leather.
Cheap leather was still done the old way, with salt and urine and treated with fish oil.
Licking those boots had been an experience that Astarion wasn’t eager to repeat.
The problem, of course, was that if you refused or even didn’t seem sufficiently enthusiastic, Cazador’s will would tighten around you like a gloved fist.
And then you would want to do it. You’d be eager.
You’d beg him for the privilege and weep with gratitude when he granted it, even as the taste of rancid fish and old piss made you gag.
And meanwhile, somewhere deep inside, the real you would scream and scream and scream…
Astarion had learned long ago not to give his master an excuse to break his will. All you could do was avoid pain and feel as little as possible.
The irony, of course, is that the boots are a lot less polished by the time we’re done slobbering on them. Not that he cares. He may live in a mansion, but he’s only pretending to have good taste. Someone else must have suggested the boots.
Astarion’s mouth was as dry as sandpaper by the time he’d dragged his tongue thoroughly across both boots.
He sat back with an appropriately servile expression on his face, wishing for water or wine, anything to wash the taste out.
Not blood, though. It would be a crime to taint good blood with that aftertaste.
“Very good, Astarion,” Cazador said, leaning on his staff. “What an obedient child you are becoming.”
The words made him angry, as they were supposed to. Astarion throttled the feeling ruthlessly, his eyes heavy-lidded to hide any spark of defiance. Go somewhere else for your entertainment, old man. I won’t play into your hands tonight.
After a moment, Cazador smiled and turned away. Astarion fell into step behind him, the taste of leather burning on his tongue.
* * *
—
A glass of wine cleared the taste of boot leather, if not the anger. Really, it was a shame to waste a good Lathander’s Red that way. Astarion knew that it should be rich and full-bodied, with a hint of black currant and clove, but he couldn’t really enjoy it until the sourness had left his tongue.
I wonder if there’s a wine that goes well with boot leather. Perhaps I could convince the old man to lay in a stock of it.
The usual array of foods were laid out on the banquet table—meat and cheese and whatever fruits were in season.
There were plums today, but also strawberries, which probably meant that the old man had had a craving.
The strawberries were perfectly ripe but had the almost infinitesimal stiffness that indicated they’d been in stasis.
Food wasn’t actually essential to vampires or vampire spawn, but it was something of a habit by now.
Astarion liked to dip the strawberries in blood occasionally.
Astarion ate quickly, then took up position on a couch in one of the nooks, partly hidden behind a decorative column.
Cazador took it into his head to redecorate the hall every thirty or forty years, and while the current incarnation was as tastelessly overdone as all the rest—all faux sandstone and lapis velvet,
in a cheap imitation of the Mulhorand style—it at least had a number of ornamental columns that provided cover.
Even if they were painted with giant lotuses.
Strahd probably doesn’t have giant lotuses everywhere. I was clearly born on the wrong plane of existence. Then again, all anyone ever heard about the legendary vampire lord were increasingly tall tales, so he might not even exist. Or if he does, for all I know, he loves lotuses.
The trick was to find a spot where it didn’t look like you were trying to hide.
Anything that looked like stealth would draw the old man’s attention like a hawk spotting a mouse.
You sat somewhere that just happened to be slightly out of his line of sight, and you did something boring to watch, like reading a book, and didn’t make any large gestures.
You spoke quietly but didn’t whisper. If you got up to fetch more wine, you didn’t skulk, and you moved deliberately, not quickly. And you never, ever laughed out loud.
Astarion found a novel on a shelf carved with what were either vultures done well or hawks done badly, and he settled in.
He’d enjoyed reading when he was alive. As a child, his mother had been proud of how precocious his reading skills were, and his father had been irritated that he was reading instead of working.
When he began studying the law, he’d been buried in books on legal theory and had stopped reading for pleasure.
Being immortal had finally allowed him to catch up on the backlog.
It was just a shame that Cazador’s taste in fiction was as terrible as his taste in décor.
It was, thankfully, a fairly dull night.
Cazador was reading a book of his own, winding a dark lock of hair around his finger.
Petras sat on the floor beside the throne, receiving the occasional pat, as if he were a favored hunting dog.
Dalyria was still in her laboratory, presumably continuing to crush beetles.
Yousen sat on a couch opposite Astarion, head in his hands, looking either exhausted or bereaved or both.
Aurelia occupied a corner, drawing in a sketchbook, and simply ignored Violet’s attempts to goad her.
By the time the pillar candles had burned down an inch, Violet had had enough. She stalked over to Cazador, draped herself over the arm of the throne, and said, in a childish whine, “Father, I’m bored.”
As a tactic, it was revolting but effective. Cazador claimed to think of his spawn as his children, and he could often be cajoled by Violet’s little-girl act. Tonight, however, his book was clearly holding his interest, so all he said was, “Only boring people are bored, dear.”
She pouted. “Astarion stabbed me earlier.”
“Did he, now?” Cazador turned a page. “I’m sure you deserved it.”
She stuck out her lower lip. Astarion rolled his eyes. Cazador didn’t glance up. “Petras, play with your sister.”
Petras looked at Violet with distaste. “Yes, sir.”
Violet clapped her hands together with girlish glee. “Let’s see how much flesh I can carve off you before you faint from blood loss!”
“Or we could play dragonchess.”
“Dragonchess is boring. Father—”
“Yes, yes,” said Petras hastily. “Why don’t we play dragonchess, and if you win, you get to stab me?”
Violet paused, clearly torn. “What if you win?”
“I get to stab you.”
Violet scowled. “If I win, I want to stab you and Yousen.”
The gnome looked up, hearing his name. “What?”
“Fine by me,” Petras said. He extracted a board and pieces from a nearby bookcase.
“You can’t just decide that Violet gets to stab me!”
“Don’t worry your little gnome head,” Petras said, shuffling. “I don’t plan to lose.”
Aurelia turned slightly so that she could sketch the players. Astarion abandoned his book and drifted closer to watch the game. Violet was arguably cleverer than Petras—not a difficult feat—but she was also more impulsive. The human was an arrogant sod, but he was good at dragonchess.
I suppose everyone’s good at something. The gods know that it isn’t sex.
Astarion had bedded Petras once, not long after he’d been turned, and once had been more than enough.
He’d been one of those sorts who assumed that he was doing you a favor by allowing you to warm his bed.
Astarion had been mildly surprised Petras hadn’t shouted his own name when he came.
“When I win, I think I’ll put out one of your eyes,” Violet said cheerfully.
“When I win, I think I’ll cut your hair.”
Violet’s eyes narrowed to ruby slits. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Then I suggest you pay closer attention to the board.”
Halfway through the game, Cazador abruptly got to his feet, book still in hand, and left the room. The spawn stared after him, then at one another. Astarion could practically hear his siblings thinking—Is that it? Is he gone for the night?
Two or three minutes dragged by during which no one spoke. Then Aurelia got to her feet and said, to no one in particular, “I’ll check.”
She left the hall. Yousen drummed his fingers nervously on the edge of the couch until Astarion wanted to stab the gnome himself.
When Aurelia returned, Dalyria was with her. The elf went straight for the meal laid out on the table. “He’s gone to his ritual room,” she said around bites of cheese.
“He has,” Aurelia confirmed from the doorway.
The tension visibly went out of the room. Cazador never spent less than six hours in his ritual room, and by that time, it would be dawn. Yousen and Astarion both headed for the door. Petras shoved the chess board away and got to his feet.
“Hey!” Violet said. “You can’t stop now.”
“Watch me.”
She folded her arms and pouted. “If you’re forfeiting, I get to stab you.”
“Father’s not watching,” Petras said. “You can stop pretending to be twelve.” He joined the general exodus, and Astarion didn’t bother to hide his snicker.
* * *