A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch

Calladia stood with hands on her hips and toe tapping, gazing down the main drag of Fable Farms. And by main drag, she meant the only drag.

“Bit underwhelming,” Astaroth commented. He stood beside her on the sidewalk next to Clifford the Little Red Truck.

Calladia grunted in agreement. She was used to life in a reasonably small town, but this was something else. Unpaved roads wound into the trees, where a few buildings were visible, but the one paved street housed a general store, a gas station, a few unidentifiable structures, what looked like some kind of hunting lodge, and an antiques market/clothing boutique/ice-cream parlor/sports equipment store with a sign declaring kai’s korner. Other than the gas station, the buildings were built from timber, giving the impression of an Oregon Trail settlement that had survived to modern times.

“Presumably the red deer is in the forest somewhere,” Calladia said. “I guess we start hiking?”

Astaroth’s stomach chose that moment to grumble.

“After we eat something,” Calladia said. She was peckish herself, and lunch with a demon wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had.

No, rescuing the demon in the first place had definitely been the worst idea.

A blue convertible was parked outside the general store, and a large man in a green shirt stood by it, guzzling a sports drink. Maybe he could direct them where to eat.

Calladia waved and jogged over. “Hello,” she called out.

The man wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and she realized he was wearing a rugby kit. Fable Farms Furies was emblazoned in an arc across his chest. His reddish-brown skin had a damp post-workout glow. “Well, hello to you,” he said in a New Zealand accent. “We don’t get many tourists here. Where are you coming from?”

He was handsome, with dark eyes, a roguish smile, and a bold nose that had clearly been broken several times. His massively muscled build, combined with the shaggy quality of his black hair, led Calladia to suspect he was a werewolf. Once she was close enough to feel the animalistic energy radiating off him, she was sure of it.

“Glimmer Falls,” Calladia said.

“Sweet as.” He shook her hand, and Calladia noticed an intricate tattoo extending from the sleeve of his jersey to his right elbow. “My name’s Kai. Auckland by origin, but I’ve made my home in these woods for a decade. What brings you to Fable Farms?”

“I’m Calladia,” she said, “and I’m on a quest.”

“A quest to Fable Farms, population 203?” Kai laughed. “What an exciting life you lead.”

Calladia huffed in shared amusement. “I’m trying to find a red deer. Any idea where it might be?”

“Who sent you on this quest? Welp?” Kai asked, referencing the mobile app that posted crowd-sourced reviews of budget food options. The app’s tagline was Good enough, I guess, and Calladia had found some great dive bars using it. Kai grinned and pointed down the street. “The best food in miles is at the Red Deer, end of the road.”

Calladia looked at the building he’d pointed out—the one resembling a hunting lodge. “Oh! I hadn’t considered it might be a place, not an actual animal. We’ll check it out.”

“We?” Kai asked, cocking a brow. He looked over her shoulder, and his eyes widened. “Sweet Remus and Romulus, that fucker has horns.”

Calladia bit her cheek. “He does indeed.”

Kai returned his startled gaze to her. “What is he?”

“Demon.”

Kai whistled. “Never seen one of those before. Are you, you know, with him?” He gave the last two words heavy emphasis.

“We’re traveling together, yes.”

Kai clicked his tongue. “No, I meant like . . . with him, with him.”

It took Calladia a moment to understand the implication. “Oh!” She frantically slashed her hands in a no gesture. “Absolutely not. We hate each other. Two sworn enemies on a quest, that’s all.” Totally normal. Everyone ended up on a road trip with their disgustingly attractive nemesis at some point, right?

“Ah.” Kai relaxed and gave her another charming grin. “Well, in that case, may I offer my phone number to a very lovely tourist in case she needs directions, assistance, or a nice dinner sometime?”

Was he hitting on her? The few advances she’d received were more along the lines of that lout whose face she’d slammed into the bartop. But here was a charming werewolf offering to take her to dinner, and he’d nailed Asking a Woman Out 101 by offering her his number, rather than requesting hers, allowing her to choose whether or not to contact him.

“I, uh, sure?” Calladia said, feeling flustered. Themmie would have known exactly how to proceed, but this was not a situation rough-and-tumble Calladia was equipped to handle. Was she supposed to flirt back? Did she even want to? Men were more trouble than they were worth, as she’d learned the hard way.

Kai reached out. “Can I put my number in your phone?” Apparently noting her hesitation, he held his hands up. “No pressure. It was just a thought.”

Calladia was still tongue-tied, but she had to do something, and he was being awfully polite about the whole thing. She fished the phone out of her windbreaker and handed it over, and Kai started typing.

“What’s this?” Astaroth’s voice came from very close by.

Calladia turned to find the demon scowling beside her, hands on his hips. “This is Kai,” she said, cheeks heating. “He’s been very helpful.”

“I’m sure he has.” Astaroth narrowed his eyes at the werewolf. Kai met his gaze, smirked, then kept typing, and Astaroth’s fists clenched.

Wait. Surely he hadn’t just sounded . . . jealous?

There was no way. Astaroth hated her, like she hated him. He probably just wanted to make sure no one distracted his quest-helper.

The tension growing in the air set Calladia’s teeth on edge. Even glowering, Astaroth looked gorgeous, albeit in a different way from the werewolf. Where Kai was bulky, Astaroth was leanly muscular; where Kai’s features were rugged, Astaroth’s seemed to have been carved from marble. Astaroth wasn’t a massive man, certainly nowhere near the size of the werewolf, but when he looked like this, territorial and pissed off, he seemed . . .

Dangerous.

And damn if Calladia didn’t like that.

She felt the urge to beat her head into a wall. Curse her miserable luck to get stuck with a demon who looked like her every fantasy come to life. On paper, a jacked werewolf ought to be exactly Calladia’s type, but her tastes had always run counter to expectation. She liked that she and Astaroth were the same height. She liked his snide comments and aura of elegant menace. She even liked how polished he was, despite how aggravating all that perfection could be, because it made her want to muss him up. Tackle him into a pit of mud, maybe, and watch his sneer turn into sputtering outrage.

Calladia didn’t want to date some burly bruiser.

She wanted to be the burly bruiser.

Kai handed the phone back, breaking her reverie. “I’m glad I met you, fair Calladia.” He winked. “I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.”

Astaroth looked about to say something withering, so Calladia grabbed the demon’s elbow and steered him around. “Thanks for the directions, Kai,” she called over her shoulder.

Kai grinned and waved.

“What was that?” Calladia demanded once they were out of earshot. “You looked ready to strangle him.”

“What was that?” Astaroth retorted. “He was practically drooling over you.”

His appalled tone seemed over-the-top. Sure, Calladia wasn’t the peak of femininity, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that a man might like her. “Turns out some men have taste,” she said. “Just because you think I’m a violent harridan with no fashion sense doesn’t mean other people agree.”

“But you are a violent harridan with no fashion sense.”

Stung, Calladia stopped in her tracks, yanking her hand away from his arm. “Screw you.”

Astaroth looked startled. “What?”

Her cheeks were still hot, but this time it was shame causing the flush. “You may not find me attractive,” she said, “but other people do. You don’t need to be cruel about it.”

He squinted like she’d said something ludicrous. “When did I say you aren’t attractive?”

“Oh, maybe the unfashionable harridan insult?”

“It wasn’t an insult, just a bit of banter.” At Calladia’s disbelieving look, Astaroth winced. “All right, I can see how my comments on fashion could be controversial, but you’ve made it clear you don’t care about that. Why should it bother you?”

Did he even hear half the things that came out of his stupidly pretty mouth? Calladia started marching down the street again, not checking to see if he followed. “I don’t care about fashion,” she said. “But in what world is calling me a harridan a compliment?”

“This world,” he said, catching up to her. “Didn’t we talk about the importance of building a personal brand? You’ve done an excellent job.”

Her glare threatened to flay him on the spot.

Astaroth held up his hands. “Perhaps I also worded that poorly.”

“You think? Apparently that knock on the head took away your social skills—if you had any to begin with.” Her gut churned with humiliation, and anger burned red-hot in her veins. By Hecate, she wanted to grab him by the horns, slam him into the nearest wall, and—

“I’m sorry.”

The soft apology accomplished what nothing else could have. Calladia stopped, her anger warping into confusion. “What?”

Astaroth ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it so the pale gold layers feathered over his black horns. “I forgot that what demons take as compliments, others might not.”

Calladia didn’t understand. “Calling someone a violent harridan would be a compliment for demons?” She could only imagine what Dear Sphinxie—the Glimmer Falls Gazette advice columnist—would say.

“I’ve been called a diabolical, ruthless, remorseless monster,” he said. “And many other things, of course.” He shrugged. “That means I’ve cultivated a reputation that makes people fear me. If they say it to my face, it means they respect me enough to admit that fear.”

Calladia blinked. “That’s—wow.” Fucked up was what came to mind. “So by insulting me, you meant to tell me you fear me?”

“It’s not fear,” he said. “I just have a healthy respect for your anger and your right hook. Would you rather I pretend you’re some delicate flower?”

Calladia had never been a delicate flower, and she never would be. She stared at him, recalculating their hostile encounters through this upside-down demon lens. He engaged in their arguments eagerly, which she’d considered a mark of dislike. Everything she gave, he dished right back.

Had he actually been telling her he respected her and saw her as an equal in their sparring matches?

She shook her head. If Sam had taught her anything, it was that men twisted words to keep themselves in the right and their partners at a perpetual disadvantage. You need to lose weight could be explained away as I’m only looking out for your health. You’re too loud and argumentative twisted into You’re embarrassing yourself, and I want to make sure my friends respect you the way I do.

Astaroth’s expression held no trace of Sam’s trademark disappointment though. And while Sam had tried to reshape Calladia into his ideal woman—a delicate flower, indeed—Astaroth seemed to want her to be herself, no matter how rude or aggressive that was.

This was too much to process at the moment. Her head was spinning, and she was still on edge from being asked out, nice as Kai had seemed. “Well, here’s a tip,” she said. “In the human plane, we don’t insult people we like.” She paused, recalling how she twitted Mariel for her flights of fancy and how Themmie sometimes called Calladia “Rocky Balboa.” “Or at least, we say it like a joke.” She replayed her words, then hurried to clarify. “Not that you like me, of course. But there are better ways to express respect for your enemies. Or whatever.”

“Noted.” Astaroth fell in beside her. A few awkward moments passed before he spoke again. “So, my warrior queen, where are we going?”

Calladia nearly tripped over her feet. A laugh burst from her. “What did you just call me?”

Astaroth gave her a crooked smile. “I was aiming for a new spin on violent harridan that would express the respect element more.”

Oh, dear. She liked that far better than she ought to. “We’ll keep workshopping it,” she said lightly, despite the racing of her pulse. “And we’re going to the Red Deer, which is that building at the end. Apparently they serve the best lunch in town, in addition to dispensing clues.” Foolish or not, she couldn’t resist poking at him again. “I told you Kai was helpful.”

“Hmm.” Astaroth’s jaw worked. “We’ll see how helpful. I dread to learn what a werewolf considers fine dining.”

Such a snob. With the immediate conflict past and their conversation back in banter mode, Calladia felt better. “I hope whatever you order is vile,” she said.

He gasped. “Your hostility wounds me.”

Calladia bit her lip, fighting the urge to laugh. “Good. You could use some wounding.”

“Is brain damage not enough for you?”

“You’re still speaking, so clearly not.”

Astaroth slapped a hand against his chest. “The warrior queen delivers a mortal blow.”

This time Calladia hid her smile in her hand, pretending to scratch her nose.

The Red Deer turned out to be a hotel/restaurant, with a sign advertising free Wi-Fi and a continental breakfast. A neon red vacancy sign shone in the window. The two-story building had log walls and a pitched roof, and the front door was framed by racks of antlers.

The rustic look continued inside. The lobby was filled with heavy, hand-carved wooden furniture, and tapestries mingled with more antlers on the walls. The stuffed head of a wolf was mounted over the fireplace.

“Are you kidding me?” Calladia asked, staring at the head in outrage. “Themmie would go apeshit if she were here.” Calladia might, too. She’d met Themmie in the Glimmer Falls Environmental Club, and they shared a passion for protecting the local ecosystem. “Maybe wolf poachers would think twice if someone poached their asses,” she grumbled.

A voice sounded from the front desk. “It’s not real, I promise. The antlers are fake, too.”

Calladia didn’t see anyone at first. Then a woman’s figure emerged from the wall, a process like melting in reverse. Her skin was nearly the same shade as the logs, and bark lined her hairline. A dryad—a tree nymph who could merge with wood. She wore a black uniform shirt, and her dark green eyes were wide and extravagantly lashed.

“That’s good to hear,” Calladia said, approaching the desk. “I was about to post something salty on Welp.”

The dryad laughed. “I would be the first to raze this place to the ground if that was real. The local werewolf pack just has an odd sense of humor.” She cocked her head, and a hank of thick black hair slid over her shoulder, brushing the name tag that said bronwyn. “Looking for a room?”

“Lunch, actually.” Calladia tapped her fingers against her thigh, already feeling restless to continue the quest. “And we’re following directions to get to Isobel the life witch. Do you know where she is?”

Bronwyn groaned. “She’s still refusing to give out her address?” She stepped out from behind the desk, gesturing for Calladia and Astaroth to follow. “Let’s get you settled, and I’ll check our notes to see what your next step is supposed to be.”

Another stuffed wolf head presided over the dining room. This one’s glass eyes were crossed, giving it a comedic air, and a red felt tongue stuck out one side of its mouth. A trestle table sat beneath it, and there was a pool table in the corner near a fireplace. A roaring fire cast a cheery glow over the scratched wooden floorboards.

Bronwyn led them to a table and handed them menus. Calladia ordered a panini, while Astaroth settled on the salmon, which was what she should have expected from his pretentious ass.

After Bronwyn left, Calladia propped her elbows on the table and leaned in. “Salmon, huh? On my dime?”

“I promised I’d pay you back.” Astaroth looked utterly unruffled—and utterly gorgeous—and Calladia despised him for both, almost as much as she’d hated letting him share her toothbrush that morning. While she was a scruffy, smelly mess with tangled hair, Astaroth looked like he’d stepped off the cover of a magazine. Being a demon, he had no stubble, and his blond hair came across as stylishly tousled. Worse, he still managed to smell good, the tang of sweat merging with his apparently natural scent of pine trees and exotic spices. Calladia had wiped her pits down at the stream and was still worried about raising her arms too high.

She really should find a mud pit to toss him in.

She wasn’t actually concerned about him paying her back. Insurance would cover the loss of the house, and as a Cunnington, she had a trust fund. A trust fund she’d adamantly refused to dip into, not wanting to become more like her entitled mother, but it was a hell of a safety net, and she knew she was privileged to have it.

It was an uncomfortable balance, hating what she’d been raised to be while still profiting off her family’s wealth. Was she a hypocrite? Probably. But as she’d told Astaroth, she wasn’t a good person, just a fair-to-middling one.

A loud ringing split the air, and they both jumped. Astaroth fished in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “What in all the planes?” he asked, squinting at it. “Why is it making that infernal noise?”

Calladia snatched the phone and looked at the screen, then promptly gasped. “It says Mum!”

She wasn’t sure what was more startling: that Astaroth had a mother, versus having emerged fully formed from a lava pit, or that he had her listed as Mum in his contacts. Calladia had switched her mom’s contact info to Cynthia Cunnington a decade ago.

Astaroth looked freaked out. “I don’t remember.”

Calladia wasn’t going to let this opportunity slide. She tapped the screen to answer, hit the speaker button, then handed it to Astaroth. “Roll with it,” she whispered. “We might get some answers.”

Astaroth took the phone gingerly. “Um, yes, hello?” he said, holding the phone to his ear.

“ASTAROTH!”

Astaroth recoiled at the loud exclamation, and Calladia stifled a laugh. “It’s on speaker,” she murmured. “Put it on the table.”

He did, shooting her a chiding look. “This is he,” he said.

“Obviously it’s you,” Astaroth’s mother said in an unidentifiable accent. “What’s this I’m hearing about you getting ejected from the council? I don’t know who they think they are—well, scratch that, I know exactly who they think they are, pretentious little worms—but you’re worth a thousand of them. Why did they banish you?”

Astaroth eyed the phone like it might leap off the table and bite him. “Erm . . . the demon high council?” he said tentatively.

“I heard Moloch is to blame,” the woman continued. “I will wear his intestines like a feather boa, I swear to you. They didn’t find out, did they?”

Astaroth looked thoroughly freaked out, and Calladia didn’t blame him. “Find out what?”

His mother scoffed. “Playing dumb? Really?”

Astaroth rubbed his temples, and Calladia wondered if his headache was troubling him again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been an eventful few days. Humor me?”

“You know how Moloch feels about hybrids,” she said. “He didn’t find out you’re half human, did he?”

Calladia’s jaw dropped. Astaroth was what?