A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch

Cheers, bitches!”

Calladia raised the tequila shot, spilling some of the alcohol on her wrist. It was her fourth—or maybe fifth?—shot since arriving at Le Chapeau Magique to celebrate Mariel and Oz’s victory over Astaroth of the Nine, demonic dickhead. The dive bar was full of their friends chatting, singing, and swaying to the music pouring from a battered jukebox. Christmas lights were strung around the ceiling, and the wood-paneled room had taken on a hazy, pleasant glow.

Calladia licked salt from the hand holding the glass, tossed the shot back, then sucked the quarter of lime she held in her other hand. Sharp citrus sang along her taste buds, and the alcohol burned just the right amount going down. She did a full body shudder. “Whew!”

Calladia wasn’t normally a big drinker—she despised hangovers and tried to eat and drink relatively healthily—but her best friend defeating an agent of evil was a big fucking deal. Calladia getting to punch said agent of evil had been pretty cool, too.

Calladia closed her eyes, remembering Astaroth’s shocked expression after she’d punched him. That snooty motherfucker hadn’t known who he was messing with.

“I love everyone in this bar!”

Calladia opened her eyes at the slurred exclamation and smiled at Themmie. The Filipino American pixie was “in her cups,” as some might say, her brown eyes half closed, her mouth tilted in a goofy smile. Themmie slammed her own shot of tequila, iridescent wings twitching as she gasped.

“I’m going to regret this in the morning,” Calladia said, bracing herself against the bar as her head spun. She belched, then thumped her chest with her fist. “I haven’t done a shot since college.”

“Really?” Themmie wrinkled her nose. “The so-called ‘real world’ sounds terrible.”

Five years younger than Calladia and Mariel, Themmie was a senior in college studying anthropology and business, with a goal of going to law school to become an advocate for the disenfranchised, as she said when sober or going to interviews. To fuck the man! was what she was more likely to say when drunk or in private.

“Which man?” Mariel had slurred once at happy hour, to which Themmie had wrinkled her nose, looked at the ceiling, and responded, “The one with a capital M.”

Calladia agreed wholeheartedly. Every day, she felt worse and worse about . . . well, most things. Her dating prospects, her mother’s reign of terror as the mayor of Glimmer Falls, and all the ways life had gradually ground her down until she was more sharp edges than anything else.

“The real world is terrible,” Calladia said. “But there’s no homework, so that’s good.”

Themmie shook her head. “Not for me. Practicing law is like weaponized homework.” She blinked at Calladia. “You really don’t do shots anymore?”

Calladia eyed the empty shot glass. The hazy contentment she’d been feeling all night was a welcome change from her normal agitated state. Why had she stopped doing shots, again?

Her temples started throbbing. Oh, right.

“My sweet summer child,” Calladia said with what she imagined to be great dignity, “there’s something you’re going to get well acquainted with over the coming years. It’s called a hangover. I hear that by the time we’re thirty, we’ll get one just from prolonged eye contact with alcohol.”

“Boo.” Themmie’s eyes wandered over the selection of bottles behind the bar. “We’re not thirty yet. Want another one?”

The tequila already consumed said yes, but the shred of rational thought remaining said absolutely not. Calladia made eye contact with the bartender, a nonbinary centaur named Hylo who had a buzz cut, a labrum piercing, and hooves adorned with neon nail polish. “Water?” she said hopefully.

Hylo trotted over with an enormous glass. “Want to add an anti-hangover supplement? We’re trying out a new elven manufacturer.”

“Absolutely.” Calladia eyed Themmie, who had her phone out for a selfie and was making alarming faces at the camera. “One for her, too.”

The roan-patterned centaur snorted as they pulled a bottle of glittering green powder out and began stirring it into the water. “Themmie, you better not be posting those.”

Themmie hiccupped. “My followers love slices of real life.”

“So do mine, but there’s something to be said for a prudent amount of editing.”

“You’re a Pixtagram influencer, too?” Calladia asked. Themmie made a tidy profit from endorsements for her colorful photos and videos, and though Calladia itched at the thought of receiving that much attention from strangers, she had to admire the pixie’s hustle.

“Not Pixtagram,” Hylo said. “ClipClop.”

Calladia’s brow furrowed. “ClipClop?” Hecate, there were way too many apps to keep track of these days.

“It’s where centaurs show off their original dances,” Themmie slurred. “Hylo specializes in Irish step dancing.”

Calladia’s drink-fuzzed brain couldn’t imagine a centaur performing Riverdance, but she’d bet it was noisy. “Sounds neat.”

“Thanks.” Hylo handed over the glass.

Calladia took a glug of the green-tinged water. “Ugh,” she said, spitting it out. “Why does that taste like moss?”

“Elves,” Hylo said succinctly. “Just chug it.”

Calladia did, grimacing. Anti-hangover powders were always hit or miss. One species’ hangover didn’t translate to another’s, and quacks loved selling knockoffs of elven potions or minotaur semen that had no actual health benefits. Calladia wasn’t brave enough for the supposed cure-all elixir of minotaur cum, and she despised fake supplements, so she usually just suffered the occasional hangover in peace.

Tonight was a different case. Shots had been had, and her head would hopefully thank her tomorrow. Horrible remedy downed, Calladia wiped her mouth on her forearm and looked at the dance floor. It wasn’t a slow song, but Mariel was wrapped around Oz, the two of them swaying to a beat all their own. The big, normally surly demon was beaming down at Mariel, looking utterly enraptured, and Mariel’s pink cheeks and shining hazel eyes showed she felt the same in return.

Calladia’s chest felt tight. She hadn’t liked Oz at first, but there was no denying the couple were great together. She was delighted for her best friend and fully acknowledged she’d been wrong about Oz—or, at least, that he had vastly improved after spending more time in the mortal realm and embracing his new soul. Still, no matter how happy Calladia was for them, seeing their joy was bittersweet.

Could a perfect match ever happen for Calladia? She wasn’t like Mariel, who was beautiful, sweet, and giving. Calladia was prickly, aggressive, and damaged. If Mariel represented the best of people, Calladia was, though not the worst, at least on the “uh oh” end of the spectrum.

Calladia shook her head and tipped her empty shot glass into her mouth, then grimaced when she realized there was no more tequila to be had.

A voice sounded from her right. “What are you drinking?”

Calladia stiffened. The voice wasn’t familiar, but the tone was. She turned to see a smug-looking white man with styled brown hair, pointed ears, and a square jaw. He looked like a movie star, and Calladia already hated him. “What do you want?” she said, hoping he could hear the warning in her flat tone.

The man eyed her up and down, then licked his lips. “Whatever you’re offering, baby.”

Calladia’s temper was rarely fully banked, especially these days. At those words, the embers flared to life, burning through the haze of alcohol. She straightened, only wobbling a bit, then pinned him with her meanest stare. “I’m no one’s baby,” she said, slow and exaggerated from the tequila. “In fact, I’ve been a grown woman for a while now.”

The man scoffed. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. You wore those pants for a reason. Let’s just have a drink, yeah? Get to know each other?”

“Oh, shit,” Themmie said, backing away. She tripped but righted herself with a sharp flap of her wings.

Calladia didn’t literally see red, but her vision narrowed in on this asshole like a James Bond credit sequence when the gun fired. Her “pants” were workout leggings, and whatever this dude thought, they were designed for ease of movement rather than enticing lovers.

She had a flashback to the way Astaroth had sneered at her during their confrontation earlier that day. When she’d dissed his fedora, he’d said, I don’t take sartorial critiques from people wearing spandex.

At least Astaroth had objected to the spandex rather than ogling her body. Calladia had had no problem ruining the hot demon’s day; she would have no qualms about putting this pathetic bar slime in his place either.

“Do you know why I wear these leggings?” Calladia asked. Her pulse raced with familiar, addicting adrenaline. When the guy smiled, she bared her teeth. “It’s easier to kick assholes.”

To her fury, the man laughed. “You’re a spicy one, aren’t you?”

He reached out, lightly resting his hand on her arm, and Calladia snapped.

“Don’t touch me,” she said loudly, yanking her arm away. That had been one of her kickboxing instructor’s biggest tips: people remembered what they heard, so if she needed to tussle, she should make it clear the other person had instigated it. As the pointy-eared man lurched off-balance, Calladia grabbed his upper arm and used his momentum to slam him ribs-first into the bar. Not hard enough for an assault charge—hopefully—but hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Then she fisted her hand in his hair and gently introduced his face to the bartop.

Okay, not that gently.

The commotion got the attention of everyone in the vicinity. “Not again,” Hylo groaned. The centaur hurried over, black tail flicking agitatedly. “What happened?”

“He touched my arm,” Calladia said, glaring at the man who was currently bent over, wheezing and clutching both his gut and his nose.

“Did you consider using your words before beating him up?”

“Not my fault he doesn’t respect boundaries.”

A dwarven bouncer hurried over, barrel chest straining his Le Chapeau Magique T-shirt. He picked up the harasser by the collar and dragged him out with no trouble, despite being half the man’s height. Then the bouncer returned and pointed at Calladia, hitching a thumb over his shoulder.

“Wait, I have to leave, too?” Calladia asked incredulously.

Hylo sighed. “I get that he crossed a line, but so did you, Calladia. He was already incapacitated when you smashed his head into the bar.”

“But he touched me,” Calladia argued, swaying.

“And he’ll be blacklisted for that, believe me, but the bouncers could have taken care of the issue without you starting a fistfight.”

“Maybe I like fistfights,” Calladia muttered.

“I get it,” Hylo said, “I really do, but you’re practically begging for criminal charges. I know you’re on the blacklist at a few other bars in town because you keep brawling.”

Themmie’s brown eyes went wide, and she turned on Calladia. “You’ve been fighting that much?”

Calladia’s cheeks felt hot. She’d always been a rough-and-tumble sort and had gotten in a variety of scrapes over the course of her life, but she couldn’t deny things had gotten worse over the last few years. Anger simmered in her gut on a frequent basis, an ember that blazed into violence with the slightest encouragement. Yeah, this dude had had it coming, and she didn’t feel bad about it, but could she say the same for last week, when she’d leaped into a shape-shifter brawl that hadn’t remotely involved her, ultimately getting kicked out for smashing a stool over someone’s head?

Dozens of humans and supernatural creatures were gaping at Calladia, which made her feel itchy. Mariel hurried over, Oz at her side. “What happened?” Mariel asked. “Are you okay?”

Fuck. This was Oz and Mariel’s celebration, and Calladia had just messed it up, the way she messed up most things. “Sorry,” Calladia said. “I’m fine. Just . . . yeah.”

“The guy was harassing her,” Themmie said, wings twitching.

“Calladia . . .” Hylo jerked their head at the door. “Out. At least for a few minutes. You need to cool down.”

“Wait,” Mariel said, looking between Hylo and Calladia. “She’s my friend—”

“It’s fine.” Calladia pushed off the bar, managing not to sway. “I need to drink some water and go to sleep anyway.” She mustered up a wink, but considering Oz and Mariel’s expressions, it wasn’t a very good one. “Bye. Happy for you and your domestic bliss and shit.”

Before Mariel could say anything else, Calladia turned and strode out of Le Chapeau Magique, brushing off Themmie’s attempt to follow. She hadn’t paid her tab, but Hylo knew how to find her, and there was no way she was going to stay with all those eyes pinned on her. Her cheeks burned, and her stomach churned with anxiety along with the alcohol.

The autumn air felt crisp against her flushed skin. Calladia took a deep breath, welcoming the icy spear in her lungs. The bar harasser was nowhere to be seen, so she closed her eyes and leaned against the brick exterior of the building. Despite Hylo’s instructions to cool down, the change of venue was doing no such thing for Calladia. Her pulse raced, and she still felt the hot surge of anger and shame.

A pained male cry sounded from nearby. Calladia looked around, trying to pinpoint the source. Another shout was followed by a voice. “Where am I? Who are you? Leave me alone!”

A sweep of déjà vu washed over Calladia at the man’s posh British accent. Astaroth had had an accent just like that.

“Ow! Bloody hell.”

Lots of people had British accents though, and Glimmer Falls was full of tourists who had come for the magical town’s world-renowned Autumn Festival. Whoever the man was, he seemed to be in trouble, so Calladia pushed off the wall, determined to see what was happening and help if need be.

And fight if need be, right? her mind whispered, but she brushed it off. Sometimes violence was necessary. If it was in this case, she’d be doing a good deed, right?

She turned into an alleyway. A man with curly brown hair stood over a body on the ground, a knife in his hand. He kicked the body, eliciting a groan of pain. “I thought I’d kill you right away,” he said in an accent eerily similar to Oz’s, “but I like the idea of carving up that pretty face. Let you live with it for a while.”

“Who are you?” the man on the ground repeated. He was curled up with his arms over his head, so Calladia couldn’t see much of him, but there were bloodstains on his light-colored coat.

The other man tipped his head back and laughed, and Calladia stiffened as moonlight glanced off light brown horns. Another demon!

“What is this, an infestation?” she muttered as she strode forward. She’d lived her entire life in Glimmer Falls without seeing a demon, and now this was the third in a single month. She pulled a hank of thread from her pocket. Magic needed to be grounded in words and action, and while some witches preferred chalking runes or performing elaborate ritual dances, Calladia liked the intricacy and portability of thread for casting. “Get away from him,” she said loudly.

The demon’s head whipped around. He was weirdly sweet-looking, with brown hair, blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. He looked her up and down, then returned his attention to his victim. “Shall I cut your nose off first?” the demon asked the man. “Maybe an ear?”

Calladia didn’t like being ignored. She wound the thread around her fingers and began tying the elaborate knots that would ground her spell in physical action. “Defienez el daemon,” she said, tying the final knot.

The demon flew backward, hitting the brick wall. Calladia’s spell kept him pinned there like an insect. She sauntered up to him, smirking at his outraged expression. “What, you don’t like humans interrupting your demonic crimes?” she asked with only a slight slur.

He sneered at her. “Out of my way, witch.”

“You’re not going to offer me a bargain?” Astaroth had tried that earlier, offering her money, fame, love . . . whatever she wanted in exchange for her soul and her magic.

She knew better than to believe in such empty promises. Like anything else worth having, love was earned, not seized.

The demon scoffed. “You’re dealing with Moloch of the Nine, witch.” At Calladia’s uncomprehending stare, he clarified. “I’m a warrior, not a bargainer.” His muscles strained as he fought against the spell, and Calladia felt the magical bonds weakening. Hecate, he was strong.

“Not much of a warrior right now,” she said, brazening it out as she started tying a new string of knots. “You aren’t welcome here.”

She wove a circle of protection around herself and the unfortunate man in the gutter, who she hadn’t had a chance to look at yet. Better safe than sorry. It turned out to be an excellent impulse, as Moloch broke free of her original spell and lunged at her. He ricocheted off the shield, and Calladia laughed.

Moloch’s face twisted in an expression of rage so potent it made Calladia retreat a step. “This isn’t over,” he said. Then he made a circular gesture with his fingers, and a flame-edged oval the size of a door appeared in the air. A portal. With a final glower at the man on the ground, Moloch stepped through, and the portal sealed behind him.

Calladia blew out a heavy breath. “Wow. What a dick.”

A pained groan sounded from behind her. “You can say that again,” the British man said. “Bloody hell.”

Calladia dropped to her knees to examine the man for injuries. “Are you hurt—” She broke off as the man straightened from the fetal position and rolled to face her, revealing black horns and a familiar face. “Oh, hell no,” she said, scrambling away.

Had she seriously just rescued her enemy?

Astaroth looked like shit, at least. His white suit was stained with dirt and blood, his chiseled face was wan, and the skin around his eye was rapidly purpling. “Thank you,” he said weakly, pushing to a seated position.

“Nuh uh,” Calladia said, standing and backing away. She started tying new knots, trying to decide if she should forcibly fling him to Oregon or turn him into a newt. “You aren’t welcome here either.”

Astaroth’s forehead furrowed. “Sorry, have we met?”

Calladia laughed disbelievingly. “Forgotten me so quickly? Maybe my fist in your face will help you remember.”

He winced and prodded the swelling skin around his eye. “Forgotten . . .” His eyes widened with what looked like panic. “Wait, where am I? And who are you?”