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A rumbling — worse than hunger, worse than thirst — simmered in his throat, his bones, his very being. Every single one of them, disgustingly pungent and close, hearts beating so selfishly. The boar had been more than he'd fed on in years, yet his hunger couldn't be abated sleeping next to thinking creatures, their blood singing to him, blood that had been withheld from him for so long by Cazador.
He shouldn’t. Revealing his true nature, much less by feeding on one of them, was dangerous and stupid. As much as he wanted to slink away alone, this band of misfits may be the only thing between him and becoming a mindflayer. And, hells, if he played his cards right, they may become allies against Cazador. Surely his own existence may be bad, but he didn't choose it— the same way he didn't choose to carefully roll from his bedroll, silent as he crouched—but even a naive, goodhearted soul like Ilona would see the evil in Cazador's existence in Baldur's Gate.
But there she was, laying on her bedroll, unprotected, and there he was, legs bringing him almost unwillingly towards her supine form. But amongst the group, she was easiest—weakest. She was crying earlier, and hadn't even had the decency to hide it from complete strangers. What kind of idiot would show weakness so easily? Like prey, baring her throat to the predators that may well lay in their midst, inviting them to take advantage of her. If he cried in front of Cazador, he'd be begging for the vampire to humiliate him.
And there she was, tear trails dry but naked in her frailty, so trusting, so assured of her safety, putting him on watch duty. Blue veins under pale, freckled skin, blush tinged and perfectly alive. Out of all the others, she was the best choice. Gale was hiding something, and Shadowheart…well, he wouldn't be going near her frosty attitude, or her armor and mace.
But Ilona—Ilona, a wizard too feeble to move the rock they found for that cache of potions. Ilona, frustrated at her inability to access her usual spells—foolhearted enough to welcome an obvious monster back to her camp—was a laughably easy target. It's like she was practically begging to be drained.
Plus, he inhaled greedily as he slipped closer, something about her smelled so sweet. Maybe it was the fresh dew grass they’d trodden down for camp, or her insistence on cleaning in the river. But her blood sang to him, brought him over her, legs straddling her hips, hand crushing the fabric next to her red hair—her body a siren that lulled him to her neck, her jugular pulsing under his lips—
She jumped under him—he flinched in kind to see her hazel eyes widen in confusion, hear her inhale primed to exhale a scream, and he covered her mouth.
“Shit,” he said and pressed down as she tried to move her head away from his grip. “Stop, stop it—”
He saw her hand reach up— no, not up, but out—and flick, the same he had to when he was casting—
“None of that,” he hissed, and pinned her arm down, and her lips part in a scream against his palm. “If you just hold still, will you just listen—”
The tadpole behind his eyes squirmed and Ilona convulsed in his grasp and he fell, the camp gone, his consciousness thrown into flashes of thoughts, memories—a massive library, his thin, freckled hand browsing the spines. A class full of students discussing homework, arcane sigils of rituals. Then the full moon above him in a dark meadow, and when he looked down he found his white dress—no, Ilona’s white dress covered in blood, a gory dagger in their hands, a body in front of them.
The scene blurred in double vision as the memories slipped through his grasp until he was gasping back into his own body, his own mind, staring back down at Ilona again.
“So you were born in blood, too,” he murmured. If he saw that, then what did she see?
Her bow furrowed, no longer screaming, and what looked like understanding relaxed the panic in her eyes. Yet he could still feel her heart race, their chests pressed together. She was so warm, her pulse so strong in the wrist he held down, and saliva pooled on his tongue. He wanted have her buck under him like caught prey, feel her death throes through his teeth in her neck, through the panicked beat of her heart, filling him so wholly and completely—
And was snapped out of it as a rough hand snatched his hair and tugged him onto his knees, forcing his head back to see Shadowheart’s ferocious glare above him. “What in the hells is wrong with you?!”
“Not the hair!”
She tugged on it harder. “Explain.” Shadowheart brought a dagger to his exposed neck. “Now.”
He should’ve known not to go for Ilona, not with how protective Shadowheart had already been they'd first found him. “I’m trying to, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, if you’d just calm down—”
“Really? Please, enlighten me, Astarion,” she said his name like a curse, her green eyes burning with hatred. "Because it's not looking very good."
He stretched his eyes to see Ilona sit up on her elbows, hair mussed and cheeks blushed, and hells, it must look like…like he’d been forcing himself on her. He had to tell Shadowheart—somehow, needing her blood was better than that.
“I’m a vampire,” he blurted out, and watched Shadowheart’s eyes grow wide. “Alright? I’m a vampire, and I was thirsty. Now will you let go of my hair?”
“No. A vampire? Really? That’s your excuse?”
“Shadowheart, it’s—it’s okay,” Ilona said shakily underneath him, and he felt her crawl back from where his legs still straddled her.
“No, it’s not. He’s lying.”
“It’s true,” she said, and carefully stood up, until she could meet Astarion’s eyes. “I saw it.”
He exhaled in defeat. This was it. He was dead, and he had only been free from Cazador for a matter of hours.
Shadowheart’s knife kept its point against his skin. “You saw it?”
“The tadpole,” she explained, gesturing between herself and Astarion. “The same way it showed us on the Nautiloid. I saw him…I saw what he did.”
Ilona blinked at him, and he found himself looking away, something unknown and hot turning his stomach.
“Then all the more reason to be rid of him.” Shadowheart turned back to Astarion, something like disgust in her frown. “We don’t need a monster in this camp.”
“It’s alright,” Ilona said quietly, and wrapped her arms around herself. “Put him down, Shadowheart.”
She didn’t move.
“Did you hear her?” he asked. “Put him down now, please.”
Shadowheart kept her attention on Ilona. “Are you positive?”
“He’s as much of a victim as us,” she said carefully, and he saw tears pool in her eyes. Panic gripped his own heart. Dear gods above, what had she seen? “We’re in this together.”
The sound of toads chirps and cricket song filled the silence.
“...Fine.” She relaxed her grip to release him.
He quickly sprung to his feet, stepping away from them both. He resisted the urge to crouch into a defensive stance, and angrily smoothed his hair instead. “Really? That’s it? You’re just going to…to leave me alone?"
“Yes,” Ilona answered, before Shadowheart could. “Just…please…don’t do that again.”
He stared down at her, angry curiosity itching his throat almost more than the thirst, his fingers pausing in his locks. “What did you see?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and rubbed her own shoulders against the cold. “I won’t say anything.”
“Aren’t you worried about what I saw?”
“No,” she said quietly. “Unless there’s something that worries you about it.”
“And you’re not worried about what you saw? About me?” he asked, incredulous. If it was enough to know he was a vampire, what was wrong with this woman?
“You sound like you want to be kicked out, Astarion,” she said, a soft frown painting her lips down. “Unless you want to leave…I won’t do that.”
“Why— why in the hells wouldn’t you?!” He sputtered, flinging his arms in the air, gesturing at Shadowheart, who was equally confused. “I’m dangerous. I’m a killer.”
Ilona met his eye, severe. He could almost feel it in their tadpole connection, could still see the blood on her hands. So am I.
What was wrong with her? She could have let Shadowheart kill him, could have burst him into flame the second she had a voice. She could’ve done both much earlier after he had held a knife to her throat when they first met her. And she didn’t, and here he was, alive.
He looked into those hazel eyes, now kind with pity. Understanding. And again his stomach turned, this time disgustingly familiar. Shame.
It wasn’t weakness that made her invite him back to her camp.
It was mercy.
He looked away from her gaze.
Dawn peeked over the treeline. He was no longer a creature of the night, but day. And his consequences would follow him—not come from Cazador, but from other people. People, he could not, at the moment, run away from. People he currently needed.
“Fine,” he conceded, and waved away the interaction. “Thank you,” he said, the words disgusting on his lips. “I suppose.”
Ilona watched him for a moment. “You’re welcome,” she said, and smiled sadly. “I suppose.”