A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch

Oh, fair nemesis.

Ridiculous.

Astaroth was still bent over in a dramatic bow, eyes gleaming with mischief as he gazed up at her. He looked too damn good for someone who had spent two days on the road without a shower after sustaining a traumatic brain injury.

She needed to get him a new shirt though. And herself, for that matter. While she had another ratty flannel in the truck somewhere, it would be nice to wear something that wasn’t wrinkled or sweat stained.

Calladia stepped around Astaroth to get to the door. The treehouse was shaped like an octagon around the wide trunk, with floor-to-ceiling windows shielded by moss-green curtains. The front door was large enough to accommodate even a griffin or centaur and had been carved to depict griffins in flight. Brass doorknobs stood at various heights, from the base to the top. Calladia slipped the key fob into a hollow above one knob, and the lock clicked.

Inside was just as charming as Tansy had cawed. The ceiling was angled, with exposed wooden beams, and the live trunk of the tree formed a rough central pillar. Calladia walked clockwise around the trunk, admiring the space as she opened curtains to let the late afternoon light in. A stove sat near the front—magically powered, presumably—along with a mini fridge, a sink, and an adjustable dining table and chairs built to accommodate beings of multiple sizes. Past the kitchen area was a Japanese folding screen painted with a forest scene. When Calladia pulled the screen back, she found a toilet and sink, a full-length mirror, and a massive porcelain bathtub/shower that caused her to let out an involuntary moan. She hadn’t had a good soak in a long time, and boy, could she use one.

She pulled back the folding screen on the other side of the tub to continue her exploration. This seemed like a sitting area, with rustic furniture scattered around. There was a dresser and more eclectically constructed chairs, as well as shelves holding board games. Past that was a plush-looking four-poster bed and a small couch in front of a fireplace in which blue flames flickered. Calladia recognized the spell powering them: the fire would emanate warmth but no smoke, and it was limited to one spot, so there was no danger of burning the tree down.

The room was definitely cute. She’d have to compliment Tansy—

Calladia’s thoughts ground to a halt.

Hang on.

She turned to face the bed.

The only bed.

“This can’t be right,” Calladia said. “I asked Tansy for two twins.”

“Did they confirm there were two beds?” Astaroth asked. “I got lost with all that screeching.”

Calladia thought back to her conversation with Tansy, which, now that she considered it, had seemed odd. When Calladia had requested two twins, the griffin had nodded sagely and said the request seemed redundant, but there were indeed two frames.

Or had the griffin actually said consult the flames?

Calladia hurried to inspect the fireplace. An engraved metal plate was screwed into the front:

For Love or Money

For Family or Fame

Your Heart Has a Want

So Wish on the Flames

This Wish Granter* Bespelled by Britannia the Benevolent, 1956.

Below it were more lines in minuscule type:

*Results may vary. Do not make a wish on an empty stomach. If your wish is followed by acrid green smoke or disembodied cackling, evacuate immediately. If a wished-for erection lasts more than four hours, seek medical attention. No returns on babies or pets. Do not wish for the apocalypse; it won’t work, and you’ll look like a jerk. This statement has not been evaluated by the FDA.

“Oh, Hecate,” Calladia said, slumping onto the couch before the fire. “Tansy thought I was making a wish.”

“For what?” Astaroth asked, bending to peer at the engraving.

Calladia stifled a hysterical shriek, because it was the absolute last thing she would have wished for. “They thought I wanted to be a parent to twins. Two of them.” She groaned. “No wonder Tansy thought my wish was redundant.”

Astaroth straightened. “They thought you wanted to be in possession of infants?”

He sounded so horrified by the prospect that Calladia cracked and started laughing. “Right? And why would I ask for that at a hotel, of all places?” She mimed making a phone call. “Hello, I would like to book a room and also to be mystically impregnated. Do you provide room service?”

Astaroth gave a full-body shudder. “Imagine being responsible for two tiny, fragile, squalling organisms who need constant supervision to prevent them from accidental death.”

“Exactly!” Calladia sat up straight and slapped her thigh. “My friends don’t get it. They all want kids someday. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; it just isn’t for me.”

Calladia had been waiting for some kind of biological clock to kick in and make the thought of being a parent more palatable. Sure, she had plenty of childbearing years left, but by their late twenties, most of her friends had already started speculating about when they’d have kids. They’d all seemed excited about it, too.

Calladia was thrilled for them and would be delighted to be an aunt figure in their children’s lives, but whenever she considered having kids of her own, she had three immediate thoughts. One: expensive! Two: time-consuming! Three: don’t wanna!

She’d started to wonder if something was wrong with her, given how enthusiastic everyone else seemed. You’ll want them with the right person, Mariel had told her once, even before she’d met Oz and gotten all disgustingly cute and gooey. Mariel was undoubtedly dreaming about babies with freckles and adorable little horns, but Calladia’s vision of a rosy future had always involved just her and someone she loved, the community they built around themselves, and a lifetime of adventure.

She wondered how Astaroth felt about the topic. He might be a pain in her ass, but he was an interesting one, and she wanted to know how his brain worked. “Do you want kids?” she asked. “I don’t know how most demons feel about it, and you’re—” She cut herself off, but not quickly enough.

“And I’m not a real demon, right?” Astaroth glowered at her, then switched his ire to the fireplace. “No,” he said in the direction of the blue flames, “I’ve never wanted kids. Or at least, I don’t think so.” He grimaced and rapped the knuckles of his clenched fist against the mantel. “But who knows what I think about anything, since I didn’t even know I was a hybrid until this afternoon.”

“I guess you have to trust your instincts.”

Astaroth ran his hand through his hair, making the strands stick up haphazardly. In a sexily disheveled way, of course, since he was incapable of looking bad. Calladia was single-handedly holding down the dirty gremlin role for the team.

“Amnesia is a dashed inconvenience,” Astaroth grumbled.

He sounded like an aggrieved duke in a Jane Austen adaptation, and Calladia bit her lip on a smile. “What strong language,” she said. “I’m scandalized.”

Astaroth huffed. “If I haven’t managed to scandalize you yet, I doubt anything could.”

“Have you been trying to?” Calladia asked, genuinely curious.

“No, but it tends to happen anyway.” He walked to the bed and stared at it with hands on his hips. “So we only have one bed. That shouldn’t be a problem. The couch is big enough for you to curl up on, and we can add pillows.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Calladia said distractedly. Her gaze had slipped to his butt, which filled out those ridiculous pants nicely. Then she replayed what he’d said and felt a flare of outrage. “Wait, why am I curling up on the couch and not you?”

“You’re smaller, so you’ll be more comfortable.”

Calladia guffawed. She pushed to her feet and went toe-to-toe with Astaroth. He didn’t retreat, despite her standing uncomfortably close, but did he ever? “I’m not that much smaller than you,” she said.

His eyes dipped to her mouth. “Small enough.” The rough edge to his voice sent a shiver down her spine.

Calladia licked her lips, feeling the electric thrill of a challenge. “What about chivalry?”

“Fuck chivalry,” Astaroth rebutted instantly. “I have amnesia.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Calladia said with exaggerated concern. “I didn’t realize you’d forgotten how to sleep on a couch.”

“Well, I have.” Astaroth sighed heavily. “It’s a tragedy, but alas, there’s nothing to be done for it. I shall make do with the bed.”

Calladia tried not to laugh. “A gentleman would offer the bed to the lady.”

“Do you see a gentleman here? Or a lady, for that matter?”

Calladia gasped. “Rude!”

Astaroth slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged one shoulder, eyes gleaming with mischief. “If you want me to treat you like a lady, I will, but I’ve got to warn you, proper ladies don’t get in fistfights.”

Good point. “Then I’ll fistfight you for the bed,” she said, switching tactics.

“You’d try to take advantage of a wounded man?” he asked, clapping a hand to his chest.

She was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes at the dramatics. “I don’t know why you chose to be a bargainer when you clearly had a bright future on the stage.”

“What makes you think I don’t have time for both? I could have just finished a starring run on the West End for all we know.” His grin was sharp and wicked. He was enjoying this banter.

Calladia was, too. Her breath came fast, and excitement buzzed under her skin. Sparring with the demon held the same out-of-control thrill as dancing at the edge of a cliff or standing outside in a thunderstorm, and Calladia was enough of an adrenaline junkie to crave more. She’d always been drawn to danger.

Tension thrummed between them like a plucked string. What would happen if she seized that thread and made something out of it, the way she wove magic from twine?

The cliff edge—and madness—beckoned.

Calladia dropped her gaze to the demon’s lips and leaned in.

A shrill, jaunty melody started blaring from Calladia’s backpack. She jumped, heart jolting into overdrive. “Guess I left my ringer on,” she said with an awkward laugh, not sure whether she should curse or thank the phone for interrupting her ill-considered impulse.

Astaroth also looked startled. “What is that?” He listened for a moment, then started humming along. “Taylor Swift?”

Calladia hurried to her backpack and dug through it until she found her cell phone. The screen showed an incoming call from Cynthia Cunnington.

Calladia’s stomach soured, and the playful energy drained out of her. She hesitated with her thumb over the screen, then rejected the call.

Silence fell over the room.

Calladia didn’t look up right away, nervous about what she might see on Astaroth’s face. Now that the phone had jolted her back to reality, she couldn’t fathom what she’d been thinking.

Had she really almost kissed the demon? Again?

A mixture of arousal and guilt heated her skin and made her stomach clench. An almost-kiss was close to an almost-headbutt, right? She’d just gotten her wires crossed.

Sure, an inner voice mocked. Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better.

“Who was that?” Astaroth asked.

The phone buzzed with a text message.

Cynthia Cunnington: Rude not to answer the phone. Diantha says there’s a rumor you left town to join the circus. I told her you’re on a mindfulness retreat. Circus not good for optics. Be back for dinner tomorrow. Cocktail attire. Donors for reelection will be there.

A second text came swiftly after.

Cynthia Cunnington: Don’t disappoint me again.

Calladia silenced the phone and shoved it in her bag. “Just my mother,” she said. Her mother, the mayor of Glimmer Falls, scion of the community, whose expectations for Calladia were so high not even King Kong could climb them. How was she already thinking about reelection?

The excitement had been sucked out of Calladia so quickly, she felt dizzy and exhausted. She stood and stretched. “I need a bath.”

She grabbed her backpack and brushed past Astaroth, hoping he wouldn’t follow. She needed a good, long soak to wash off the dust of the road and regain her composure.

Behind the folding screen, Calladia pulled toiletries and pajamas out of the backpack. The blue onesie covered with a rubber duck pattern had been a gift from Themmie, and since it was warm but too ridiculous to wear in normal life, Calladia had put it in her camping supplies. The previous night she’d fallen asleep in her clothes, but it would be nice to wear something clean and comfortable after her bath.

Astaroth would probably give her shit for it, but whatever. She could put him in his place even in baby pajamas with a butt flap.

Calladia stripped and undid her braid, wincing as her fingers met tangles. She did a set of push-ups, crunches, squats, and lunges before rinsing the sweat off in a quick shower. She missed her morning workout routine at the gym. Her brain was restless even at the best of times, and tiring herself out first thing in the morning was the best way to maintain an even keel the rest of the day. Not that her version of an even keel was particularly balanced, but at least the exercise took the edge off her temper and anxieties.

Once the top layer of dirt was washed off, Calladia plugged the tub and let it fill. She dipped her feet in, hissing at the hot sting. Her feet and ankles turned cherry red, and she whimpered when she plunked the rest of her body down in the water. Pain was fleeting though, and besides, she deserved it after nearly hooking up with the demon who had tried to hurt her best friend, so she sat and endured the burn, waiting for her skin to acclimate.

“Everything all right?” Astaroth asked.

“Stop lurking,” she called back.

“Where am I supposed to go? We’re practically in the stratosphere.”

She shook her head at his absurdity and started slopping water over her arms and shoulders. Then she ducked underwater, holding her breath while the heat sank into her scalp. Her hair drifted like seaweed, and her racing thoughts began to slow.

Calladia unfortunately didn’t have gills to stay under indefinitely, so she surfaced and set about shampooing and soaping. Once her hair was slick with conditioner, she grabbed a combat magic textbook from her backpack and settled in to refresh her memory on spells that could be useful in the days ahead.

She read for a while, but the excitement of the last few days was catching up with her, and as warmth relaxed her muscles, Calladia’s eyelids drooped. When she nearly dunked the book in the water, she gave up on reading and tossed it aside.

She’d just rest for a few moments. Astaroth and her mother and the stresses of the outside world could wait.

Calladia must have drifted off, because the next thing she knew, she was sneezing and coughing up soapy bathwater. Her eyes watered as she shoved herself upright, and water slopped onto the floor. She swiped the hair out of her eyes, cursing up a storm. So much for a relaxing bath.

A cleared throat came from the other side of the bathing screen. “Battling the Spanish Armada in there?” Astaroth asked.

Calladia glared at the screen. “Are you still eavesdropping?”

“It’s hardly eavesdropping when you’re that loud.”

“Ugh. Go take a long walk off a short branch.” She started untangling her conditioner-slick hair with her fingers, grimacing at the pull on her scalp.

“As delightful as plummeting to grievous injury sounds, I prefer to stay here.” There was a long pause, during which Calladia scrubbed and stewed over her ruined bath. “Do you need anything?” Astaroth asked.

“Sure,” Calladia said sarcastically. “A stiff drink, a quesadilla, and a new set of lungs.” She coughed again, spitting out the last of the water.

Astaroth didn’t respond, so Calladia dedicated herself to finishing off the bath. Near-drowning or not, exhaustion or not, aggravating text from her mother or not, she was going to squeeze whatever small amount of relaxation she could from this situation. She grabbed a loofah and scrubbed militantly until her skin stung.

All right, maybe she wasn’t the best at relaxing. But by the time she was done, her skin was squeaky clean, her hair was wound in a wet bun on top of her head, and she smelled like sweet orange and lavender essential oils. Her self-care techniques might be aggressive, but the results were what mattered.

Calladia drained the tub and toweled off thoroughly. Through the window, the ruddy light of a dying afternoon had melted into the purple hues of twilight, and Calladia felt the urge to curl up under a blanket and let the lingering heat of the bath lull her to sleep. She put on clean underwear and shimmied into the onesie, buttoning up the front and that ridiculous butt flap.

When she looked at herself in the mirror, she hardly recognized the woman looking back at her. The duck pajamas were part of the effect, sure, but there was something else she couldn’t put her finger on. An extra rosiness to her cheeks, maybe, or a luminosity to her eyes. It was as if some invisible tension had been lifted from her skin by the hot water. She looked . . . soft.

Calladia had never been soft. Yet she kept staring, enraptured by this vision of a woman who might have existed, had she not had to erect so many walls to protect herself.

Calladia shook her head and shoved the nonsensical thought aside. It was probably heatstroke combined with the text from her mother making her emotional. Thinking about her mother punctured that hazy bubble of contentment, which proved it hadn’t been meant to last. “Your turn,” she said as she stepped into the main room. “Unless you like reveling in filth.”

“Depends on the filth,” Astaroth said. He turned from where he’d been leaning over the table, then recoiled. “Dear Lucifer, what are you wearing?”

Calladia was distracted by what he’d been leaning over: two take-out containers, a bowl of limes, and bottles of tequila, triple sec, and simple syrup. She rushed over. “Where did you get this?” she demanded. She inhaled deeply, then moaned at the spicy scent of Mexican food.

Astaroth crossed his arms, looking as smug as if he’d single-handedly taken down a mammoth with a spear and dragged it to his cave. “I found a take-out menu in the kitchen, and Tansy provides delivery service.” He gestured to the spread. “Voila, quesadillas.”

The fight had cut lunch short, and Calladia hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She wanted to cry looking at the crisp tortillas overflowing with melted cheese. “Thank you.”

“It’s being charged to your card,” Astaroth said.

Calladia laughed and swiped at her eye. Trust the demon to spike his own guns with a sardonic comment. She was getting to know his tells though, and she recognized he used snark to deflect attention whenever he did something heroic. And yes, the retrieval of Mexican food did count as heroism.

She dug in with a fork and knife from the kitchen, groaning when she realized the cheese was still hot and gooey. Peppers and rich chunks of pulled pork were dotted throughout.

When the sharp edge of her hunger had been dulled, she thought of something. “How did you order takeout if you can’t unlock your phone?”

“I tried a few combinations of numbers,” he said. He’d been eating slowly and neatly, cutting the quesadilla into small bites. “1 2 3 4 5 6 worked.”

“Seriously?” She chuckled. “That’s, like, the least secure passcode in history. So much for being a master strategist.”

He gave her a dark look. “It got you quesadillas, didn’t it?”

She lifted her fork. “Touché. I rescind my mockery.”

Astaroth picked up the tequila bottle and peered at the label. “How does one make a margarita anyway?”

Calladia was more than happy to teach him. She found a cocktail shaker and glasses in the kitchen and shook up two margaritas.

When Astaroth sipped, his face relaxed into a smile. “That’s delicious.”

Calladia felt a swell of pride, which was ridiculous. Making a margarita for a demon she despised wasn’t exactly a life accomplishment.

Looking at his clever, compelling face though, she was forced to admit a truth that had been building for some time. She didn’t despise him, no matter what she said. No matter how much she should.

She hadn’t spent much time with him before he’d lost his memory, but this version of him was far more appealing than the sneering villain who’d insulted her after trying to hurt her friends. Sure, he was a snarky ass, but he was also generous and willing to back her up in a fight or order takeout if she was hungry.

Was this the true Astaroth? Or was the villain the real version?

As Calladia watched the skin beside Astaroth’s eyes crinkle with a smile, she found herself wishing he’d never gain back his memories if it meant he’d stay like this.

“I do this spell at home,” Calladia slurred, pointing at the fireplace. The third margarita had been a mistake, but she was so full and relaxed she couldn’t regret it. The sky was dark outside, and wind whistled through the treetops.

“Yeah?” Astaroth sounded buzzed, too. He reclined at the other end of the couch, a half-empty glass dangling from his fingertips. “How do you do it?”

Calladia fumbled in her pocket for a piece of yarn. She tried to knot it a few times, ultimately giving up when she realized she was tying a knot for explosion rather than ignition. This was why doing magic while drinking was a bad idea.

“There’s more than one way to do it,” she said, “but ultimately, it’s a mix of action and words. You tie a few knots or scribble some runes to define what you want.” She stared into the fire, thinking about what spells she might do if she weren’t intoxicated. “I could tie one knot for fire, one for safety, one to contain it to the fireplace.” She waved a hand. “Some other stuff to be thorough. And then you have to pick which spell words to speak.”

“The language of magic is far too complicated,” Astaroth said. “I don’t know how witches and warlocks manage.”

“You get used to it eventually.” With a lot of memorization, since the rules of conjugation and grammar were haphazard. It was impossible to know every word of the language of magic, since people were always inventing new ones or jamming words together, so witches learned what was most helpful for the kind of magic they wanted to do and discarded the rest.

“Are your fires blue, too?” Astaroth asked.

“Yeah. You can pick what color you want, but I think blue looks nice with all the white and yellow in my house.”

Except her house didn’t exist anymore. Calladia rubbed her chest against the ache that swelled at the reminder.

Her beautiful house was gone, burned to ashes. In all the chaos of the last two days, it had been easier to ignore what she was leaving behind and focus on the next steps of the quest, but the loss still throbbed beneath, an unacknowledged wound.

That house hadn’t gotten the opportunity to hold many memories, but damn it, the memories it did hold had been hers. She didn’t care about the clothes that had gone up in smoke or the flimsy LYKEA furniture that had been blasted to smithereens. A structure could be rebuilt, and the things inside it were replaceable.

No, Calladia didn’t mourn stuff. She missed cooking breakfast for Mariel after a night out or seeing Themmie curled up on a beanbag watching TV. She missed dinner parties and nights reading alone on her couch and the warm feeling of having a place that welcomed her exactly as she was.

“You look maudlin,” Astaroth said. His head lolled on the sofa as he looked at her.

It wasn’t a question, but Calladia answered anyway. “Just remembering that my house isn’t there anymore.”

“Ah.” Astaroth lifted the glass to his lips. “Losing things gets easier with time.”

He sounded a shade melancholy, but Calladia didn’t want to be preached at. “Like your memory?” she asked waspishly.

Astaroth winced. “Touché.”

Calladia sighed. She didn’t need to jump down his throat because she was a grumpy woman with mommy issues and nowhere to live. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m still on edge from my mother calling.”

“Yeah?” Astaroth shifted to face her, bracing his head on his hand. He looked drowsy and flushed, and his hair was still damp from his own bath. He’d donned a white robe they’d found in the dresser, and it was odd to see the demon looking so cuddly and domestic.

She’d thought of him as a wild animal when she’d first let him stay with her. Dangerous and unpredictable, an exotic intrusion into Calladia’s boring life. His deadly edges seemed dulled, but how much of that was real, and how much a product of his amnesia?

And were they really dulled? Or had he blunted his edges for her alone?

Calladia liked that idea a bit too much, so she shrugged it off. What had they been talking about?

Oh. Right. Her mother.

Not great, but if she couldn’t talk about her mom with the enemy-turned-road-trip-buddy she’d never see again after this trip, who could she talk to about the situation? At least if Calladia was truly in the wrong, he wouldn’t pull his punches to tell her so.

“My mom’s demanding,” Calladia said. The word was woefully inadequate, so she tried again. “More than that. She knows exactly how the world should be, and if anything or anyone around her doesn’t fit that vision, she either changes them or destroys them.”

“Metaphorical destruction?” Astaroth asked. “Or is she as murderous as my own dear mother?”

There were books dedicated to Lilith’s exploits over the centuries: the good, the bad, and the chaotic. Cynthia Cunnington would undoubtedly love to be memorialized to that extent, but so far she was only small-town famous, her printed legacy limited to op-eds and gossip pieces in the Glimmer Falls Gazette.

“She doesn’t murder people,” Calladia said. Although who could say what would happen should society devolve and public execution come into vogue again? “She does get people who disagree with her fired though. And she’s good at gossip. Misinformation and all that.”

Not that her mom would call it misinformation. She’d term it a strategic communication choice.

“Do you know why she called you?” Astaroth asked.

Blue reflections from the fire danced over his glossy black horns. Calladia watched the flickers, wondering if the aurora borealis looked something like that on a grander scale. “She wants me to come to dinner tomorrow.”

Astaroth sat up straight, sending the margarita splashing over the rim of his glass. “You can’t. We’ve got to see Isobel, and even if it only takes a few hours, there’s the drive back to consider—”

“Don’t work yourself into a tizzy,” Calladia said. “I’m not going.”

“Oh.” Astaroth sagged back into the couch. “Good.”

“She’s going to be pissed though. More pissed than she already was anyway. I guess she’s dealing with the rumor mill about me skipping town. But yeah, this will be bad.” Calladia made a face. “She’s meeting donors for her reelection campaign.”

“Reelection for what?” Astaroth asked.

Calladia was taken aback. Everyone in her life knew Cynthia Cunnington, so she’d taken her mom’s notoriety as fact. But Astaroth wasn’t from Glimmer Falls and didn’t care who was small-town famous. Even pre-amnesia, he likely wouldn’t have known a thing about her mother.

The thought was oddly comforting. Calladia’s life might have been shaped by one powerful, destructive force, like a sandstone cliff at the mercy of a raging river, but there were oodles of beings out there who didn’t give a damn about Cynthia Cunnington and her machinations. The world—the universe—was far bigger than the petty politics of Glimmer Falls.

“She’s the mayor,” Calladia said. “Two years now, and years of campaigning before that.”

If she had to pinpoint when her mother’s expectations had grown toxic, versus simply overbearing, it had been the moment Cynthia had decided to run for office. Suddenly, Calladia’s existence had become part of a political narrative—one that didn’t allow for foul-mouthed daughters who didn’t fit high society’s expectations.

“Is she any good at it?” Astaroth asked.

Calladia was startled into a laugh. No one had ever asked her that. “I mean . . . no? Not in my opinion, at least. She doesn’t think highly of nonwitches or working-class people, and she definitely takes bribes.” Calladia had been disgusted when she’d realized how quickly her mother, the so-called “pillar of the community,” had embraced being a crooked politician. “Did you know she supported bulldozing some of the forest to build a resort and spa for rich people? Like, she fully didn’t care if the forest died or the fire salamanders went extinct, so long as her bank account stayed healthy.”

Suddenly, Calladia remembered who she was talking to. Astaroth had been poisoning the woods, too—not to make way for a resort, but in an effort to force nature-loving Mariel into a soul bargain. He had been as devious as Cynthia in pursuit of his goals, with little care about who was hurt in the process.

Astaroth had also been the reason the resort was scrapped though. Mariel had eventually made a bargain, and in return, Astaroth had cured the woods and made it so no one could build on that protected land again. Even after Oz’s magical UNO Reverse play to return Mariel’s soul to her, nothing could cancel Astaroth’s magic.

He’d saved the forest, but did that matter when his intentions were rotten?

“Why are you glowering at me all of a sudden?” Astaroth asked. He blinked slowly, his long, pale lashes sweeping his cheekbones. “Makes you look very fearsome. Duck onesie aside.”

He’d made a few sly digs at her attire, but it wasn’t like he could talk, since he was wearing a fluffy bathrobe. And after discussing her mother, Calladia was no longer in the mood to be twitted. “I was thinking about when we met,” she said. “You were trying to kill the forest, too.”

“So you’ve said.” He drained his glass, then held it in his lap, turning it over. “Was I in cahoots with your mother, or did you decide it was easier to be pissed at me again, rather than her?”

Calladia set her own glass down on the floor. “I can be mad at two people at once.”

“I am well aware.” He stared into the empty glass like it held the answer to an unspoken question. “It does feel a bit like being punished for someone else’s crimes though.”

Oh, please. “I said I could be mad at both of you—”

“I’m not talking about your mother,” Astaroth interrupted. “I’m talking about whatever version of me you met in the woods. You hate him, and for all I know you’re right to, but since I can’t remember a bloody thing, it seems unfair to keep being punished for it.”

Calladia stood and retrieved both glasses, taking them to the kitchen. “Just because you can’t remember doesn’t mean you didn’t do it,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Astaroth made a frustrated sound. “And is my entire worth and identity boiled down to one incident? Will you always look at me and see the demon who hurt your friends, no matter what else I do or say?”

She was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. Maybe the alcohol had broken his composure, the way being contacted by her mother had broken hers. Maybe both of them had learned too well how to shield themselves from the world.

Calladia wasn’t sure how to respond, or even if she should. Was this an argument? It had an edge to it their usual banter didn’t, like the uneven sharpness of broken glass. She didn’t like it.

Was Astaroth looking to be comforted, absolved of his crimes? He didn’t deserve such softness, any more than Calladia did.

Their eyes remained locked for long moments. Then Astaroth stood. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced. He looked between her and the bed, then plopped back down on the couch. He lay on his side facing the fire, legs tucked up and head pillowed on his bicep.

Calladia stared at him. What happened to fuck chivalry?

He had been right though; the couch was too small for him to sleep on. His knees hung over the edge, his legs were jammed toward his chest, and if he shifted more than a few inches, he’d topple off.

Calladia sighed. Maybe it was the tequila speaking, but she didn’t like seeing him uncomfortable. She didn’t like fighting with him either—at least not like this.

She moved around the space, dousing lights before casting a quick spell to bank the flames to a subtle glow. Then she grabbed all the spare pillows she could find and made her way to the bed.

“What’re you doing?” Astaroth’s sullen voice came from behind her, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw him peering over the back of the couch.

“Making a pillow wall, obviously.” She’d constructed a soft barricade down the center of the bed. “I get the left side.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said I get the left side. You get the right.” He seemed befuddled, so she shrugged. “If you want to sleep on the couch, I won’t stop you, but the bed would be more comfortable.”

Calladia went to brush her teeth, then left the brush and toothpaste on the counter for Astaroth to use if he wanted. She took her bun down and shook it out, finger-combing the damp strands. She’d brush it in the morning once it was dry.

When she returned to the bed, there was a demon-shaped lump under the covers on the right side. Calladia felt a twinge of something alarmingly close to fondness when she noticed the tips of his horns peeking out. Mariel had told her Oz slept bundled up like a burrito, his demon physiology demanding heat. Astaroth was apparently the same.

Calladia slid into the side of the bed closest to the window, where the air was cooler. Even with the pillow wall between them, she was far too aware of the demon’s presence. His soft breathing was audible in the stillness, and the mattress dipped slightly in favor of his weight.

Rain began tapping against the roof and windows, and Calladia yawned. “Good night, dramatic demon,” she mumbled as she curled up on her side.

Sleep reached for her with soft, dark fingers. She had nearly succumbed when Astaroth murmured a reply.

“Good night, grumpy witch.”

Calladia smiled.