36 #2
The smell was subtle, and yet there was something familiar about it.
Astarion inhaled, trying to place it. It reminded him of something…
someone…a perfume, perhaps? No, don’t be absurd.
Who wears blood as a perfume? Although if someone managed it, I suspect I’d take a second look.
Probably a third, too. Though you’d also have carrion flies landing on you, and that would quite ruin the effect.
“Oh, what a lovely figure, shame about the plague of insects.”
“Oh, this is marvelous.” Cazador sipped from the vial and closed his eyes in pleasure. “Full-bodied, vibrant, just a hint of acid. Dragon, is it? But what color?”
Aurelia bowed. “Copper, my lord.”
Astarion bit back the exclamation he might have made.
There were many copper dragons in the world.
There was no reason for him to think it might be the one he’d known, or to care if it was.
Bajia had lied to him and then abandoned him.
In more than a century, she’d never come back to see how he was doing.
It would serve her right if she’d run into Aurelia in a dark alley.
He wondered where the hell Aurelia had gotten the dragon’s blood, and whether she would tell him if he asked.
“And that leaves you, Astarion. Last, and, it seems, least.” Cazador lifted the final vial and sat back in his chair. Oily blackness trembled in the bottom of the vial when he tapped the glass. “What have you brought me…or failed to bring me, as the case may be?”
“The living blood of a dying god,” Astarion said. “But it was full when I gave it to Dufay. Your daughter Dalyria stole it from your ritual room for her experiments.”
“I see.” Cazador’s gaze lingered on Dalyria, who flinched as if in expectation of a blow. “Daughter, is this true?”
She muttered something inaudible. Cazador’s eyes hardened.
The silence in the room thickened until it was almost visible, like smoke. The other spawn drifted away from Dalyria. Yousen flattened himself against the wall until he almost disappeared. Everyone knew what would happen next.
When the creak of the door broke the silence, it came as a painful relief, like a joint cracked back into the socket. Godey came in, bones rattling with every step, and executed a short bow to Cazador.
“See that our daughter understands why she does not steal from her father.”
“Of course, Master.” Godey started toward Violet, who skittered out of the way.
“Not me! Dalyria did it. Tell him, Father!”
“Huh,” Godey said when Cazador nodded. “Well, that’s a turn up for the books, and no mistake.” He closed skeletal fingers over Dalyria’s shoulder. “Come now, child, and let’s see what makes you sing, shall we?”
Dalyria’s eyes sought Astarion’s, so he turned away and studied the vial in Cazador’s hand until the door shut and the rattle of the torturer’s bones could no longer be heard.
“A pity,” murmured Cazador. “Hardly anything left worth tasting, is there? Still…” He unstoppered the vial and let three drops fall onto his tongue, the last drops of the blood shed by the dying god of shadows.
Astarion’s nails cut into his palms as he waited. Cazador had closed his eyes, but he made no sound, no pronouncements, as he had for the others. He did not so much as move.
Gods above, have I accidentally poisoned him?
Idle fantasies about exploding aside, Astarion had never considered that the blood might harm Cazador in some way.
He didn’t know whether that would be a good thing.
If their master died, they would all be trapped forever as spawn, but their minds would be their own.
“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.
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