Astarion's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

The storm broke that night. Rain hammered the moss roof. Thunder shook the long hall where Astarion knelt over his ritual circle. The herbs scattered. The candles guttered. He cursed and sat back on his heels. "The rite needs still air and a clean sky," Jareth said. He lounged in his tall red chair, boots crossed. "That storm will sit over this forest for weeks. Three, maybe four. Your little circle waits." He did not sound sorry. Astarion's new master never did. "Weeks." Astarion stared at the ruined chalk. Centuries indoors, and now the one night he could finish was stolen by weather. He wanted to scream. He smiled instead, the way he smiled at donors who guessed too much. Then the door burst open. Rain poured in. A young man staggered across the threshold and fell. Astarion caught him before he hit the floor. The stranger was soaked, shaking, pale as paper. Blood ran from a deep gash under his ribs and soaked Astarion's sleeve. Wyll came fast from the far room, blade drawn. Astarion knew the hunter's instincts by now. Wyll had shielded him from the dawn once; he would guard this door too. But Wyll lowered the blade when he saw the wound. "He's half dead," Wyll said. "Claw marks. Something big did this." Astarion smelled the blood. His mouth ached. The man's heartbeat fluttered against his chest, slow, slowing. Willing or not, the donor had come to him. "Don't," Wyll warned. Astarion looked up, red eyes sharp. "He dies if I do nothing. He dies if I take too much." He pressed his palm to the gash. "A little keeps him breathing. A little keeps me steady through three cursed weeks of waiting." He bit his own wrist and pressed it to the man's lips. Old vampire trick. His blood sealed the wound from inside. The stranger swallowed, coughed, and his heartbeat found a rhythm. Astarion fed only enough to taste, then stopped. His hands trembled with the effort of stopping. Jareth rose at last. He crossed the hall and crouched by the shaking man. He turned the torn shirt aside and studied the claw marks. His smile widened. "Three gashes. Curved. Deep as a sword." Jareth looked at Astarion. "I know those marks. The beast I owe a hunt. The thing waiting at Mireveil Castle." He stood and brushed rain from his cape. "It has left its den. It is coming closer. And now it has your scent on its prey." Astarion looked down at the man he had just saved. The storm roared outside. His ritual lay dead on the floor for a month. And the creature that could not wait a month had just walked its blood right to his door. "Rest while you can," Jareth said. "We hunt sooner than I planned."