Coming into town was a mistake. As if all of the issues with a portal were not mistakes, Astarion thought riley, but if he was going to survive, he needed to be in an area where he wouldn’t have to be worried about being found. And with the number of men in the ton for the marriage market, and their sheer unwillingness to be anywhere other than in the middle of the street at night, he hadn’t been able to truly hunt since his first night in the house. Two nights was acceptable, but he was nearing his fourth now, and he was starting to feel the nearly inescapable draw toward servants' necks whenever they came too close. And he couldn’t do that - so far, the servants here had been incredibly loyal to him - they didn’t question his need to not have sunlight in the house, nor his being up at all hours of the day or even the fact that he never ate the meals that they still dutifully prepared. And it seemed that they didn’t even mention it around town, which was a luxury that even Cazador didn’t always have with his loyal servants. If he started killing them, surely he’d have to hire new staff, and he couldn’t guarantee their silence.

But he needed something. He had tried to go out and hunt, but he had run into members of the ton each night. He was fairly certain that he’d run into more than one couple who would be pressured into very quick engagements based on the activities they were doing, but he was so focused on the hunt that he hardly took care to note which couples were which.

But, he had thought each time as he ran off in search of a deer or the like, he had still been somewhat aware of them. After all, if he were going to bet on the marriage market, he might as well use his powers to his advantage. Not that he wasn’t plenty rich already, but one could always use more gold. After all, in an absolute emergency, he might be able to buy gold from a butcher, if he could ever find one that was open so late at night. Or send one of his servants to go get some, if they could be trusted. And, if there was one thing he’d learned during his time scavenging on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, it was that anyone could be trusted if there was a big enough payday in line for them.

Astarion paced in his room, kicking the discarded bodies of two rats to the side where someone would ultimately find them and clean them up, just as they had the last few days. At least it was something, and it was better than the occasional bug he’d gotten when he was locked up by Cazador. But now that he’d tasted the blood of thinking creatures, it was hard to even want to go back to the deer in the woods. His brain felt fuzzy and slow, and what he wanted more than anything was a human to feed on.

And he’d tried too. One of the days, when he had gotten sick of running into couples in the woods breaking their purity vows, he had taken to the city in search of an easy victim. There were poor areas of London outside of the ton, after all, just like there had been in Baldur’s Gate. But, he found when he went into the city, his clothes were too expensive to go unnoticed, and even after he had switched garments, there seemed to be something that simply drove the citizens of the town to look at him. Perhaps they were simply unused to seeing a new face skulking in the dead of night.

He was going to have to flee, he thought to himself. This was considered to be his “summer home” after all, and if this world was truly built around him, then it stood to reason that his other homes would be in a more remote place. And, if a similar reaction was had in different towns and he was forced to continue feeding off animal blood, at least he hoped that he would have an easier time hunting.

As Astarion paced, deep in his thoughts, he heard light footsteps along the hall and then a slight wrap on his door. Clearly, a terrified servant - they had been more and more skittish with him the thirstier he got, and he could hardly blame them. “Yes?” he asked, trying to sound as pleasant as possible, despite the hard edge to his voice.

“My Lord,” Clara said. That surprised Astarion - thus far, Clara had been the only one to not act timid around him, but perhaps she had finally reached her limit as well. “You have a visitor.”

Astarion sighed. “Today is not a good day for visitors, Clara.”

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“I told him as much, my lord,” Clara responded. “But Lord Remmington insisted I try anyway. Would you like me to tell him you are out for the day?”

Lord Remmington, Astarion questioned to himself. True, the two of them had had a good time chatting at the ball, but he certainly hadn’t expected him to visit. Especially, he thought ruefully, when he was in this condition. Seeing him would be dangerous. But without thinking, Astarion found himself answering, “Yes, of course. Seat him in the drawing room and tell him I’ll be right down.”

“Right away, my lord,” Clara said, and he waited until her footsteps were slightly farther down the hall before he collected a few bugs that were now feasting on the dead rats and crunched them between his teeth. They weren’t much, but he knew from all his years living with Cazador that they might just be enough to keep him sane.

****

“Ah, my good fellow!” Astarion said, strolling into the drawing room 15 minutes later. The bugs had done little to stave off his cravings, but at least he was unlikely to pounce on the man the minute he saw him. “So kind of you to come visit!”

“Of course!” the man said, spinning his wheelchair around as best as he could. Astarion stepped in front of him to make it a bit easier, although he could admit that he enjoyed watching the movement. The accelerated rate of his heart mixed with the man’s rather pleasing features was quite a sight for him. “After all, we discussed our bets, but I regrettably forgot to mention when we were going to be meeting.” Astarion nodded, half listening to the man, and half watching the vein in his neck swell to the chorus of his heartbeat. “I say, my friend, are you feeling quite well?”

“What?” Astarion answered eloquently, broken from his mild trance.

“I hope you take no offense to my question, my lord. It’s just that you look rather pale today.”

“I’m always pale,” Astarion added, an edge returning to his voice.

“Paler than normal. And a tad shaky, too,” he said, gesturing to Astarion’s hands. They were, in fact, shaky, but that was less a result of his being thirsty and more a result of his trying not to drain the man in front of him dry. It would be so easy, he realized - no one was in the room with him, and if there was someone who was to suddenly die without asking any questions, it would be Lord Remmington. But, he told himself, he could completely drain him and then he’d still be in this same position in a few days. While he thought about murdering him, Lord Remmington stared at him in question, but suddenly, just as Astarion was about to open his mouth to again insist that he was fine, Lord Remmington’s eyes widened, just barely far enough to be perceptible. “I say,” he said quietly, “I don’t mean to intrude, but as you probably assumed, I have seen quite a variety of people with odd diseases,” he gestured to his wheelchair as though in explanation. “You look just like another fellow I was in hospital with - he had what they called a familial hemorrhagic disorder. If he started bleeding, he couldn’t stop.”

Astarion nodded. While it wasn’t exactly like his condition, he supposed it was the closest he could get without revealing his true nature. Sir Remmington gasped. “My lord, have you been injured? Is there anything that can be done to cure you?”

Astarion shrugged. “Right now, the only thing that could cure me is magic,” he said with a half smile. And then, he thought, fuck it, he might as well try - “Well, it can also be fixed temporarily by drinking blood.”

He expected the man across from him to pale with fear. He expected him to try to leave the room, to wheel away as best as he could and never look back. But instead, the man just nodded. “That makes sense,” he said after a moment. “I have heard they are working on a method to take blood from one person and give it to another, so that must work in much the same way.” Astarion nodded, mostly just curious about how far his lie could take him. “I assume, then, you have a blood-letter amongst your staff?”

Astarion shook his head. “They are all too fearful of me, and assume that eventually, I’ll get over it on my own.”

Lord Remmington started, his eyes wide. “They can’t!” he insisted. Then, he moved suddenly, and Astarion readied a fighting stance, assuming the man had finally figured him out - not that it would be hard to win against him, but he would surely call for assistance. But instead, the man just hastily pulled up his sleeve, exposing the pale white flesh of his arm. “Then slice my arm if you need,” he nearly panted, his face switching to a determined nature. “It may not be the healthiest blood you’ve had access to, but I assure you that it does indeed clot.”

Astarion stared at his flesh, and at the pale blue line that was just visible on his wrist. His mouth began to water. “You’re sure?” he asked, barely able to help himself from taking a step forward. Drinking from someone’s wrist was not his favorite, but considering his position now, it was like heaven.

The man nodded. “Do it, my friend. I do not wish to befriend someone just to lose them so suddenly, so drink for my sake at least.”

Astarion needed no more prompting than that. He walked over to the man, took hold of his wrist, and instantly felt his sanity begin to return.