Chapter Text
Chapter One
“Stop! Thief!” The barmaid’s high-pitched voice was like a dagger in Astarion’s long ears.
A small boy ran past the table where he sat, shoving into his chair in a desperate frenzy, nearly spilling the untouched mug of ale in front of him. Astarion grimaced as he watched the child slip out the tavern’s door, a loaf of bread clutched between his grimy little fingers. Men and women alike followed in chase.
Sloppy. Was he even trying?
The boy had a lot to learn if he was going to make it on the streets as a thief.
But what did Astarion care? It certainly wasn’t his problem.
And now, thanks to that sloppy young thief, Astarion had half the crowd to choose from for tonight’s mark. Lucky enough for the kid, Cazador hadn’t ordered a child tonight. Though, it might not be an unwelcome surprise.
Astarion pushed the thought from his mind as quickly as it had come. Brushing his pale fingers through short white curls, he cradled his head between his palms. Gods, he was evil. Targeting children on his own accord. Just how deep had Cazador’s influence taken hold? Perhaps his siblings were right, he truly was their master’s perfect little puppet. One that no longer needed strings.
He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath before letting it loose again.
He needed to get his shit together. Pull on the familiar mask of seductive charm and approach someone at the bar— anyone—it didn’t matter who. Anything with a pulse would suffice for Cazador. Astarion just needed to finish the job... as he had done so many times before. Then he would be free to rest, to slip into the dreamless abyss that was the closest to death he was allowed to go.
He steepled his temple and cast a glance around the room as the patrons within seemed to fall back into their cups. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of roasted meat. It was also tinged with vomit and rot, but the humans didn’t seem to notice, limited as their senses were. They crammed themselves into the tiny, low-ceiling tavern, with its soot-stained hearth and rotting floorboards like it was a temple of worship.
A hulking bard with gray in his beard began to play the lute near the warmth of the fire, casting the thief into distant memory. Patrons hooted their approval, drunkenly sloshing their ale onto the wooden planks below their feet. Astarion sneered in disgust. This particular tavern was hardly his first choice in a hunting ground, but he did not survive two centuries prowling the city for prey by remaining in one place. No, he was too smart for that. And so he suffered the fruit of his wits at a dingy tavern in the lower city, where no one would recognize his face. It would be the same tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. He would wallow in filth and piss with a smile until he could pass as a fresh face in the upper city again.
He watched a couple stumble out of the bar, arms wrapped around each other in drunken adoration, likely looking for a fresh pile of hay to roll in. It was getting late, and Cazador was anything but a patient master. If he didn’t bring fresh blood back to the castle soon, he’d be spending the next year inside a coffin. The thought caused a fresh wave of fear to wash over Astarion. And yet . . . The mask still didn’t click into place. He felt consumed by his self-pity. Pathetic, wretched thing that he was.
He didn’t deserve pity. Not from himself. Not from anyone.
He was a monster.
A dark figure took shape in his peripheral. He turned to—“What the bloody hells are you doing there?” Astarion nearly toppled back in his chair as he took in the dark mass sitting beside him.
The figure wore dark robes with a low-hanging hood obscuring their face. They made no move to reply as they swished the cup held between their leather clad fingers. The liquid inside was a deep red. It reminded Astarion of blood. Pain shot through his extremities in hunger and helplessness. There would be time to pick off a rat or two once Cazador had his meal. In the meantime . . .
Astarion felt the mask click into place as he regarded the cloaked stranger beside him. It seemed their appearance was just the motivation he needed to get his head on straight. His sulking had distracted him, it had allowed them to approach unnoticed, despite his preternatural senses. Cazador would have him screaming in pain if he knew. But Cazador wasn’t here, and he didn’t need to know. The prey had come to him on their own. Astarion would have thought the gods were smiling upon him were he not certain they’d abandoned him long ago.
“Well,” he clasped his hands together and grinned at the shadows beneath the hood. “You certainly surprised me, but I can’t say I’m not pleased to have company. I’m Astarion.”
The hooded figure remained silent, reminding Astarion of a death omen. He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed the strange guest, but there were no eyes focused on them. “Not much for conversation, are we?” He kept his voice light and playful. “And here I thought it was you that approached me.” He pouted, feigning offense.
The figure looked at him, or he assumed they looked at him, its face was a dark abyss, completely hidden by shadow, despite his darkvision.
“You have an aura of blood . . . broken dreams . . . and murder.” The voice was as sheathed in shadow as its speaker.
Astarion cocked an eyebrow. Fresh hells. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. “Don’t we all?” He asked impishly. “I believe I detect a similar aura around you, although with a delightful touch of jasmine. Takes the edge off all the murder, I suppose.”
The figure’s hood bobbed as they tittered at Astarion’s words. He let his eyes travel past the small frame of their shoulders and the subtle curve of their chest. Perhaps they weren’t hiding quite as well as they hoped.
“You should leave, elfling.” The words were spoken at full volume and sounded distinctly female, not that it mattered to Astarion. He tried not to wince at the loud thud that rang through his ears as the figure set their mug on the table next to Astarion’s untouched ale and peered around the room. The sound reminded him of Godey's staff as he prowled the corridors of Cazadors castle. Astarion had lost count of how many times he laid in bed, praying to God's that never listened, fearing the sound would stop outside his door.
He pressed the palm of his hand against his chest. “Just when we were getting so comfortable? Why don’t you show me what it is you’re hiding under that hood, kitten. I assure you, there’s no need to hide from me.”
“Kitten?” Her voice was venom-soaked as the black hood snapped back in his direction. “Can’t you smell it? There is death in the air.”
Of course, he could smell it. Death always clung to the humans, even more so now that there was sickness about. It amazed him how they carried on with life when they had so little of it promised to them.
“It always smells like death in a place like this. It’s part of the allure.” Astarion gestured vaguely. “Now, show me what you’ve got hiding under that hood of yours, and I promise not to excuse myself to the toilet if you turn out to be a goblin.”
The figure sat still for a moment. Considering Astarion’s words, or so he hoped, then pulled back the hood to reveal thick locks of red hair and icy blue eyes against skin painted black as night. To his surprise, two long, pointed ears protruded past the mass of hair.
“Gods,” Astarion said low and seductively. “Look at you.”
She blinked, her face expressionless. The black makeup leaking from her eyes was a stark contrast to the white of her cheeks.
He could work with that. He got her to take off the hood, didn’t he? Things were going swimmingly as far as he was concerned. Another hour and he’d have her eating out of his pretty, polished fingers. He just needed to work fast and lay it on thick, too much time had already been wasted on his self-pity.
“Two elves in a decidedly human establishment,” Astarion clicked his tongue. “What are the odds?”
The female nodded. “We do not belong.”
“I disagree.” Astarion answered. “See, I rather like humans. Despite their short life span and lack of hygiene habits, they’re quite entertaining.”
“Oh?” She tilted her head and batted long auburn lashes as she leaned forward and rested her chin on the leather of a gloved fist. If she wasn’t so damned weird, Astarion might have thought she was flirting back.
He smiled and leaned in conspiratorially. “See those two over there?” He pointed to a nearby table where a bald man scowled down at a smaller, wiry man in deeply stained rags. “Any minute now they’ll be beating each other to bloody pulps on the carpets. My money’s on the little one.”
“Why is that?”
Astarion shrugged and rested an arm around her shoulders. He could feel her petite frame tense under his grasp. This was going marvelously well. “I like an underdog story.”
“Not all human drama ends in violence.”
Astarion laughed. “But isn’t it wonderful when it does?”
The female's lips twisted as though she were chewing on the inside of her cheek. “So you come here to watch mortals beat each other? That is what you do for entertainment?” Judgment seeped from her voice.
“No,” Astarion answered defensively. “I mean— not just that. Weren’t you the one going on about murder and death? I’d have thought you’d like to see them have at it.”
“Perhaps I would but I needn’t come to a tavern to find such entertainment.”
“Fine,” Astarion countered. “See the bard in the corner?” He gestured to a young woman tuning a violin, waiting for the older man with the graying beard to finish his set. “While her vocal cords may not have the range and depth our Elven ears are accustomed to, human songs speak of pain and suffering unlike any other. They live such short . . . tragic lives. It’s a visceral experience."
“I should have liked to hear it.”
“Yes, it’s— wait. You’re not staying?” Panic streaked Astarion’s voice as he turned to find his companion making her way across the room, head already bobbing through the exit. How did she do that?
He hurried through the tavern in a blur of panic and confusion. He mustn’t let her get away. Cazador will kill him if he doesn’t bring home dinner. No, he wouldn’t kill him, Astarion reminded himself.
He’d just make him wish that he had.
Outside, the air was damp and cool, a light fog had settled upon the streets in the hours since he’d entered the tavern. He breathed deeply taking in all the scents, searching for any hint of jasmine that would lead him to his mark.
He shot left into a moonlit alley, powered by predatory instinct as his nose detected the faint odor, and hurried after her quickly disappearing figure. He didn’t want to chase her. Didn’t want things to end like that for her— by force. He hated using force. It was so much easier to let them believe they were choosing the destination. That they were in control of where the night would lead. When all he had to do was step away . . . let Cazador be the last face they see. Not Astarion.
He slowed his steps to a familiar, casual saunter as he neared the female. The scent of jasmine was stronger than before.
“Can I at least have your name?” He called into the shadows. She slowed, her footsteps on the cobbled street the only sound before she turned back to face him.
“And ruin all the fun, Little Star?”
Hurt and confusion pulsed through him as a voice echoed through his mind. My little star. Was that his mother’s voice? He couldn’t remember, nor could he think about that right now. It was just the meaning of his name. Many people knew that. He’d probably been called that by another mark at some point. They all seemed to blend together after a while. He reached out to the pretty face in front of him, running a long finger along the edge of her jaw.
“Well, darling, I can promise you I’m anything but . . .” He pulled her against his chest until he felt her heart pounding against him. Her pulse was hypnotic, like a lullaby urging him to drink. His body stiffened, and he hardened against her.
Bloodlust.
It was the worst part of it all. When he got so close, close enough to taste yet unable to act. Of course, he could kiss them, even fuck them, but his teeth did not pierce their skin. His master had commanded it so, and it was impossible to act against Cazador’s orders.
He felt her lips press against his, light at first but then harder. Everything was back on track. The night was going as it had so many times before and would so many times again. He tried not to think about what would happen next as he learned further into the kiss and pretended that it was the embrace of two lovers in the night. No false pretenses.
She tasted of dark magic and— iron. Sweet, sugary iron.
He gasped as he sucked in the warm liquid dripping from her mouth to his. It was intoxicating and— A burning sensation began at his feet and quickly traveled up his body, breaking them apart. Astarion fell to the ground in a daze of ecstasy and pain. A blue wall of flame separated them.
“Blood . . .” Astarion stammered as it dribbled down his lips and fell onto his pale hands. He could hardly see straight, hardly think straight. Every part of him wanted to dive through the fire and take more, but his master’s orders kept him grounded. Cazador had commanded that he live off the rats within the castle walls, and Astarion was compelled to follow the order. He could not disobey, no matter how hard he tried. His master’s word was an unbreakable law.
“Such a tight leash your master has on you, Astarion.” He could hear the laughter in her voice. “Still, one can never be too careful.” She turned on her heels and began walking down the alley, in no hurry.
“Do not return to the tavern, spawn of Cazador. You will not find what you need there.” Her body morphed into a frenzy of black particles, an inky mass pulling and fighting against itself until dissipating into the night sky. She was gone. The wall of flame that had separated them disappeared with her, as though it had never been. Yet the smell of smoke and fire clung to the air. He could feel the heat on his skin as he lifted himself from the ground. Embers streaked past his cheek as he turned and beheld the sight before him.
The tavern, a worthless hole in the wall, was engulfed in flames.
Despite the distance, he could see, and smell, the blood that dripped, dripped, dripped down the wooden door. A strange symbol was painted across its surface, and the flames licked the blood as hungrily as Astarion might were he able.
It was the symbol of Bhaal.
Well, that was an interesting turn of events. What were servants of Bhaal doing burning down a tavern in the lower city?
Astarion didn’t have a clue as to what they might be up to. He had more pressing matters on his mind, like the fact that he’d have to spend what was left of the night hunting the streets like a common criminal, hoping against hope to come across someone drunk enough to lean on him for assistance. If he wasn’t lucky, which damn it all to hell, he never was, he’d have to find some poor soul and drag them there.
He licked his lips, desperate for another taste of the sweet blood he had unwillingly been given. It appeared there was a loophole in Cazador’s orders. He could not take blood from any being, but he could drink it when given willingly. This was a gift. Something given by someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
But why? He couldn’t say. She had known who he was, what he was, and she had spared him.
What a strange, murderous little kitten.