33
The smuggler’s tunnel came out at a cove west of the city. Astarion waited there until night had fallen, then made his way up the steep hillside and began the long slog back to Szarr Palace.
No one bothered him. He knew that a few people saw him, but they were presumably smugglers and had their own reasons for keeping hidden. One or two footpads drifted after him, but they were smart enough to recognize a bigger predator and eventually went off in search of easier marks.
He chose less traveled paths, even though they took him somewhat out of the way. The fog was beginning to creep in, cutting down visibility, and by the time he reached Bloomridge, the streets were quiet. The cafes had closed, and the district was too genteel to host taverns like the Rat’s Run.
He made his way along the staircases on the lowest terrace, with only a stone wall between himself and the sea. Not much farther to Szarr Palace now. He almost felt like whistling, except that he was skulking, and obviously you couldn’t whistle during a skulk.
Possibly that was why the throwing knife that hit the cobblestones in front of him came as such a shock.
Astarion wasted a precious second looking down. There were so many things it could have been—the contents of a chamber pot, a rock falling off a roof, an owl pellet—that it wasn’t until he saw the glint of steel that he knew he should have been diving for cover.
“Turn around, brother,” Violet said from behind him. “Very, very slowly.”
* * *
—
Astarion turned around.
Violet always looked a bit feral when she wasn’t doing her little-girl act for Cazador’s benefit.
At the moment, however, she appeared one step up from a stray cat stalking rats in an alley.
Her bloodstained clothes looked as if she’d been sleeping in them for days.
Gray wisps of hair darkened by moisture glued themselves to her forehead, and her eyes glittered feverishly underneath.
The crossbow she had slung from her shoulder, however, was in perfect shape, and the steel point—gods, please let it be steel—was aimed directly at him.
“Violet,” Astarion said, in much the same tone as one might say ringworm. “What are you doing here?”
“Following you. Obviously.” She gestured with the tip of the crossbow, and Astarion controlled a flinch. “Give me your vials.”
“Vials? Whatever do you—”
“Don’t play coy with me, brother. I know Dalyria gave you hers.”
“Or what?” Astarion put his hands on his hips, a gesture that allowed him to drop a dagger from his forearm sheath. “You know you can’t kill me outright. The old man forbids it.”
“A bolt through the crotch won’t be fatal, though, now, will it, brother?” Violet’s smile was as thin and pointed as a cactus spine. “And once you’re down and screaming, I can cut off anything I like and toss it to the fishes. Good luck growing that back.” Her eyes gleamed. “Now give me your vials.”
Astarion knew Violet well enough to know that she wasn’t bluffing. He also knew that he would risk a bolt rather than give up the prize he’d worked so hard to earn. Fortunately, there were still options.
He sighed heavily and moved toward the stone wall overlooking the bay. Violet’s crossbow followed him there. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“They’re in my boot,” he lied, leaning against the stone. “I don’t think you want me to fall over and break them.”
He reached down with his left hand, letting his right brush casually against his jacket. Violet was still watching his left hand when he turned slightly and thrust his arm out over the water.
“And now,” he said pleasantly, showing her the vials, “if you shoot me, I’ll drop them, and no one will get any blood.” He glanced over the edge of the wall and saw dark winged shapes, presumably bats, swirling above the river. “My, what a lot of running water.”
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.”
* * *