A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch

Is that it?” Astaroth asked skeptically. A red door was positioned between two trees a short distance away, but no accompanying structure could be seen. “Bit dodgy.”

“Probably a concealment spell.” Next to him, Calladia was winding yarn around her knuckles, setting a base pattern for whatever defensive or offensive spell she wanted to be ready to use. There were shadows beneath her eyes—a night of marathon sex would do that—but she had been smiling and relaxed all morning, and Astaroth had been staring at her like a besotted swain since she’d woken up.

Since before that, actually. He’d woken early and spent long, drowsy moments admiring her. She’d been curled up facing him, fists balled under her chin and lips parted around soft breaths. An unbearably tender feeling had swelled beneath his rib cage, yet more evidence of what he’d acknowledged the night before.

He had fallen in love with Calladia.

It was a seismic shift in his worldview, and he wondered if he would have been open to the possibility if he hadn’t had his brains scrambled and his memory erased. His past was still jumbled, but the present felt so vividly intense that Astaroth couldn’t comprehend how he’d hidden his human emotions for so long.

He was starting to wonder why he’d hidden them for so long.

There were practical reasons, of course. If he didn’t remember joining the demon high council, he at least remembered the bite of unbridled ambition in his youth. Lilith, too, had encouraged him to mask his feelings to avoid being punished for his genetics while he sought power. He’d attained heights few demons dared aspire to, and he’d done all that despite the human tendencies that might make him a less ruthless competitor.

But the memories Astaroth had now, scattered as they were, were largely limited to his time with humans. If ambition had been the sum of his existence, why couldn’t he remember serving on the demon council?

Maybe living on Earth had given him an outlet to explore humanity. And Calladia, with all her fire and foibles, was humanity in its most tantalizing form.

“So,” she said, squaring her shoulders as she faced the door. “What now?”

“I advise knocking for the initial approach,” he said. “Unless you’re desperate to kick it in.”

She gave him a faux-chiding look. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

To his delight, she looked flustered at the reminder. “I suppose you have your moments,” she said, eyes flicking to his crotch. Then she marched up to the door and rapped on it.

Astaroth followed, adjusting his grip on a branch he’d picked up during the hike. It was sword-length and fairly straight, and it was better than nothing should the witch prove dangerous.

The door creaked open, revealing . . . darkness. “Who goes there?” a female voice called.

“My name’s Calladia, and this here is Astaroth,” Calladia said. “We’re looking for Isobel.”

“I’m Isobel. And did you say Astaroth? As in the demon?” A hand curved around the door, pulling it wider, and a witch stepped into view. She wore a long blue dress belted with a silver chain and had straight black hair, pointed ears that indicated mixed heritage, and dark, fathomless eyes. Her silver necklace held an odd pendant: a filigree cage with something blue inside.

Astaroth felt a strange sense of déjà vu. “One and the same,” he said. “Have we met?”

The witch looked him up and down. “You’re quite the notorious figure.” Her lilting accent was unidentifiable in the way many immortal accents were, heavy with the weight of varied places and times. If what Alzapraz claimed was true, Isobel had mastered life magic to the point of extending her life span indefinitely.

“Alzapraz sent us in your direction,” Calladia said. “He says you can help with memory issues and possibly restoring immortality.”

“That old warlock is still causing mischief, hmm?” Isobel pulled the door all the way open and beckoned them inside. “Come, have a cup of tea and tell me what you seek.”

She waved a hand and whispered something, and torches flared to life, revealing stone walls and a flagstone floor topped with woven rugs. The furniture was heavy and Gothic-looking, herbs hung in bunches from the rafters, and a cauldron bubbled in the fireplace. At the back of the room were several closed doors, and a wrought-iron staircase wound up to the next story. A wall-mounted television was the only modern touch—it was paused on a scene that showed a group of people in yellow, red, and blue shirts pointing odd-looking guns at someone in a poorly constructed dragon costume.

“This place is great,” Calladia said, looking around. “My friend Themmie would say it has ‘vibes for days.’ ”

“Please, sit.” Isobel gestured toward a red velvet couch with carved lion heads protruding from the armrests. She retrieved two mugs from a shelf above the fireplace that held tableware and occult-looking figurines. Astaroth squinted at one of the figurines, whose head had started bobbling when Isobel’s sleeve brushed it. Its base was inscribed with the odd word Spock, and the black hair, pointed ears, and blue shirt were vaguely familiar—perhaps an elven deity?

Isobel ladled steaming liquid from the cauldron into the mugs and handed them over.

“Oh,” Calladia said. “Thank you. You brew tea in a cauldron?”

“Cauldrons are useful for many things,” Isobel said.

Astaroth sniffed his tea suspiciously. His eyebrows shot up at the familiar, delicious scent. “This is proper English breakfast tea.”

Calladia sniffed her own mug. “What? It smells like orange and ginger.”

Isobel poured her own tea, then settled into a wooden chair that resembled a throne. “The cauldron produces whatever your favorite blend is. It also works for soup.”

Astaroth looked at Calladia. “Your favorite tea is orange and ginger?” He’d need to stock up on some. He had a tea cabinet in his flat in London, and he liked the idea of her tea leaves nestled next to his.

“I’m amazed someone as precious as you is happy with plain old breakfast tea,” Calladia said. “I expected you to be into oolong seasoned with rose petals and civet poop or something.”

“Excuse you,” he said. “There is nothing plain about a proper breakfast tea. The flavor profile is quite robust.”

Calladia shook her head. “You really leaned into the British thing, didn’t you? You probably have a collection of rare tea bags.”

The horror! “I would never steep tea from a bag. Loose leaf is superior in every way.”

“You probably have a kettle, too.” Calladia smirked over the rim of her mug.

“Of course I do.” Both an electric kettle and an old-fashioned ceramic teapot. His forehead furrowed. “Wait, do you not?”

Calladia raised her mug in a toast. “Microwave, baby.”

“No!” Astaroth was appalled. “That’s a crime against gastronomy.”

“What can I say? I like to live on the edge.” Calladia sipped and made an appreciative noise. “That’s delicious.”

Isobel had been watching the exchange with interest. “How did the two of you become acquainted?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s my nemesis,” Calladia said, raising a challenging brow at him.

“Exactly,” Astaroth said. “Just two sworn enemies on a quest.”

“I see.” Isobel did not look like she, in fact, saw. “And this quest led you to me?”

Astaroth quickly explained the situation, from the amnesia to the witch who had apparently stripped away his immortality.

“Well,” Isobel said when he was done. “That’s a lot.”

“Can you help?” he asked.

“Possibly.” She set the tea aside. “May I examine you?”

Unsure what that would entail, Astaroth agreed. She stood and moved toward him, the hem of her dress whispering over the floor, then placed her fingers at his temples and closed her eyes.

“Is it possible the witch took away my memories, too?” Astaroth asked.

Isobel shushed him. “Let me look.”

Astaroth sat still while she palpated his skull, feeling awkward.

Finally, Isobel opened her eyes and dropped her hands. “Your memory loss is from a blow to the head, not a spell.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Astaroth said. Then he reconsidered. Being mortal meant he didn’t heal quickly anymore. “Or is it?”

“Recovering will come down to time and willpower,” Isobel said. “I cannot force your mind to produce the memories it has lost. They will return once you’ve healed and are ready to seize the life you want.”

“Cryptic.” And unhelpful. “I’m ready to seize that life now though.”

She shook her head. “Memories can be planted, altered, erased. They cannot be pulled forth unwillingly, at least not with my powers. The damage is not irreversible though—you gain more with every hour, and a time will come soon when your will, your reality, and your mind reach an accord. When you are ready, all shall be restored as it once was.”

“Can we hurry that process up?” Calladia asked. “It’s pretty urgent.”

“One cannot rush such things.”

Why was nothing ever straightforward, especially when it came to witch business? Astaroth eyed Isobel, wondering if that had been a final answer or the beginning of negotiations. “What if we pay you a lot of money?”

Isobel pursed her lips, looking between them. “You don’t look rich.”

“We’ve been roughing it,” Calladia said. “And I did recently lose most of my worldly possessions, but I can scrounge up some cash.”

If Isobel was as old as Astaroth suspected, she wouldn’t be inclined to trust fiat currency versus something more tangible. “I have a safe full of gold doubloons,” he offered.

“Doubloons?” Calladia asked incredulously. “Who are you, Blackbeard?”

“No, but I did enjoy a brief stint in piracy.” Talk about a group that understood the importance of branding. From their flags to their wildly original methods of execution, pirates had nailed the creative brief.

Interest flared in Isobel’s eyes. “Where are these coins?”

“London.” He was fairly sure they were still there anyway, though if Lilith had been poking around, who knew? “I can write a promissory note.”

Isobel pursed her lips. “If you sign a contract in blood, I’ll accept it.”

She was definitely old. These days, most witches accepted digital signatures in WarlockuSign.

“So you can restore his memories after all?” Calladia asked.

“No, but I can encourage the brain to heal. The moment the memories return will still depend on Astaroth, but a stable foundation will make the rest of the process easier.”

“Let’s do it,” Astaroth said.

Isobel produced a piece of parchment, a quill pen, and a knife, and Astaroth wrote a promise to pay fifty gold doubloons in exchange for her assistance regaining his memories. He signed it, then cut his finger and dabbed blood on the signature.

Isobel inspected it, then folded the contract and set it on the fireplace mantel. “Relax and close your eyes,” she said.

A moment later, her fingers touched his temples. She spoke spells under her breath, and as her fingers fluttered and tapped against his skull, a wave of cool, soothing energy spread through his head before dissipating.

“There,” she said. “The physical damage will heal more quickly.”

He opened his eyes. “That was fast.”

Isobel inclined her head with a small smile. “I have been honing my skills for a long time. Brains are complex, so this will need a period of natural healing as well, but I fixed your superficial injuries while I was at it. Consider it a first-time customer bonus.”

He’d gotten so used to avoiding touching the scab on his head, he hadn’t realized it was gone. When he tentatively prodded his skull, he found unbroken skin, and his black eye felt similarly healed. Even his cut finger was whole again. “Cheers, appreciate it.”

“About the other issue,” Calladia said. “How many witches can reduce an immortal life span?”

“Several that I’m aware of can manipulate human lives,” Isobel said, resuming her seat. “That’s the reason a witch was able to turn you mortal,” she told Astaroth. “The ones I know can’t influence the life spans of other species, but your human half made you an acceptable target.” She tapped her chin, looking thoughtful. “Although I suppose someone out there might be capable of influencing a pure demon. Life magic is a rare discipline, but there are enough practitioners I can’t say who was responsible.” She shrugged. “Alas.”

“Let’s say there’s a purebred demon we want to eliminate,” Astaroth said. “You’re saying you can’t kill him with your magic?”

“With magic? No. With a guillotine? Sure.”

Curses. Isobel was a dead end on the “kill Moloch” front, but maybe the witch could still assist them. “Can you restore my immortality?” Astaroth asked, hoping it would be that easy.

“That is more complicated,” Isobel said. “It isn’t as easy as telling someone to ‘live long and prosper.’ No one can conjure life from nothing; it must be a trade. That is why Alzapraz looks the way he does. To attain eternal life without harvesting it from others, he had to trade away his physical health.” She sighed. “A shame. He was such a virile lover.”

“Why don’t you look old, then?” Calladia asked.

“I trade the lives of others to extend my own,” she said calmly.

“What?” Calladia demanded, sitting up straight. “You kill people?”

Isobel shrugged. “I outsource most of the murder.”

Astaroth was getting the sense Isobel wasn’t an empathetic sort. He considered his options. “So you’re saying if I want to be immortal and not physically decrepit, I need to kill people and harvest their lives?”

“No,” Isobel said. “You’ll need to bring me the people to kill so I can harvest their lives and add them to your life span. Otherwise they’ll just be dead.” She cocked her head, studying Calladia. “We can start with her, if you like. No charge for the first one, as proof of concept.”

Calladia shot to her feet. “What the hell? You are not harvesting my life, you creep.” Her hands fisted at her sides like she was thinking about punching the witch.

Astaroth would punch the witch first if she lifted a finger against Calladia. “She’s off-limits,” he snapped, standing as well.

Calladia shot him a damning look. “So are other people. You do not get to hop off the redemption train just to get on the murder train.”

That seemed unfair. “What if I only kill annoying people?”

“No!”

He made a frustrated noise. “It’s no different than bargaining. Well, a little different.” A lot different, actually, and the more he thought about the concept, the more it nauseated him. For all his flaws, Astaroth didn’t kill indiscriminately.

But if it was between that and becoming so physically frail he could barely function . . .

“The people whose souls you harvest consent to that,” Calladia said. “Not that I approve of soul bargains either.”

“Some people consent to being killed,” Isobel said. “You might try Hagslist.”

Astaroth wasn’t familiar. “Hagslist?”

“It’s an online marketplace,” Isobel explained. “Most often used to find housing, odd items, and unusual sexual encounters.”

“And you can find consensual murder victims on there?” How intriguing. Humans were such a strange species. “I wonder if the platform can be leveraged for soul bargains.”

“We are not having this conversation,” Calladia said. She pointed sternly at Astaroth. “No Hagslist. No murder!”

Astaroth had a burst of inspiration. He turned to Isobel. “What if I bring you an immortal? Would it be possible to harvest their life, and then we only need to do it once?”

“Only if they’re half human.”

He could probably rustle up another immortal demon-human hybrid, but the idea of trading their life for his didn’t sit well. “Otherwise I’ve got to bring you a mortal every few decades to top off.” That didn’t sit well either.

“That’s the unfortunate thing about humans,” Isobel said. “Like Snickers bars, they’re good for brief bursts of energy, but they’re not filling.”

Calladia looked appalled. “Why do you talk about people like that?” she asked Isobel. “You used to be human—or at least part human.”

Isobel fingered the pointed tips of her ears. “After you’ve lived many life spans, the kinship with other mortals falls away.”

“Maybe if you weren’t murdering them, you would still feel a kinship.” Calladia’s voice was growing louder. “Witches aren’t supposed to use their powers to prey on other people.”

Isobel sipped her tea, looking unbothered. “The youth are always full of moral outrage.”

Calladia looked like she was about to start punching, so Astaroth stepped between them. “Excuse us a moment, Isobel.”

Astaroth took Calladia’s elbow and guided her out of earshot. “She’s not going to stop killing people because you’re upset with her,” he whispered. “And frankly, if she’s that murder-happy, we probably shouldn’t antagonize her.”

Calladia glared at him. “I’m more worried about her convincing you to murder people to regain your stupid immortality.”

“What if they consent to be killed? And it isn’t stupid,” Astaroth said. “I need to regain my position on the high council. I can’t do that as a mortal.”

“Why not? Who says you have to be a pure-blooded demon or even an immortal to serve on the council?”

He scoffed. “Because that’s how it’s always been.”

“Things can change.”

“Not this thing.” Council appointments were for life unless someone retired, was removed by group consensus, or was executed. Debates could last for decades. How could a mortal accomplish anything in such a brief span of years?

Calladia thumped his shoulder, brown eyes burning with fury. “How many people will have to die to keep you in power? One every century? Every fifty years? Every twenty? For how long? Indefinitely?”

Astaroth felt sick at the thought. He didn’t want to kill mortals for the sake of extending his life span, but if they consented, as Isobel said they sometimes did, would that absolve him of blame?

He knew what Calladia would say.

As much as Astaroth wanted an instant solution to his mortality problem, he wanted Calladia’s good opinion more. “It might not come to that,” he said, backing down from the argument. “Isobel doesn’t know every life witch—there might be one who can restore my immortality without any murder.” Calladia still looked pissed, so Astaroth grabbed her hand and kissed it. “This is only one option. We’ll find another.”

“You’re damn right we will,” she snapped. She looked toward Isobel, then sighed. “So what do we do now, if she can’t kill Moloch and you can’t regain your immortality or your memories here?”

It was a setback, but the solution to his amnesia was somewhere inside his head. He just had to figure out how to trigger the return of his memories now that Isobel had healed some of the damage. “She said the memories will return when I’m ready to seize the life I want, right?”

“Not the most helpful instructions,” Calladia said.

“Still, my amnesia isn’t permanent.” It was a massive relief. He’d been afraid he would stay broken forever. “So we’ll carry on, and maybe Lilith will have some answers the next time we talk. Or who knows, maybe I can meditate or see a hypnotist or something.”

Calladia bit her lip. When she looked back at him, her expression was still wary but slightly softer. “Where do we carry on to?” she asked. “This was the end point of the quest.”

What? No. “We’ll go back to Glimmer Falls,” Astaroth said, fighting a wave of panic at the thought of his time with her ending. “We can consult Alzapraz again. And I’ll call Lilith as soon as we’re done here to see if she found anything in my den.” A brilliant idea came to him, a way to extend the trip even farther. “We can go to London and search my flat! Have you ever been to London?”

“No.”

“Oh, you must. You’ll love it.” He’d take her to see all the sights, walk with her along the Thames, share the wonders of a full English breakfast or a Sunday roast. She’d look lovely in a wool peacoat, and he had to take her to his haberdasher, of course; everyone deserved a favorite hat—

“Astaroth.” Calladia interrupted his fantasies. “How long do we keep doing this? What if the ideal moment for your memories to come back is in eighty years or something?”

“Bloody hell, I hope not.” Although he suspected they could get up to a great deal of fun in eighty years. And that led to another possibility: maybe he could convince her to seek immortality with him. “Have you ever wanted to live forever?” he asked.

She grimaced. “You sound like an informercial spokesperson. Interested in eternal life?” she said in a mockery of his accent. “Look no further than our range of weaponry you can use to murder innocents and steal their lives!”

Apparently Astaroth’s potential murder spree was still a sensitive subject. “Well, ah, like I said, there may be another way—”

Calladia stiffened and clapped her hand to his mouth. He tried to protest, but she shook her head. “Listen.”

He strained his ears, wondering what had gotten her attention. The fire crackled softly; the cauldron bubbled. Through the shuttered windows, he heard wind whipping through the trees.

Leaves crunched, and a man’s voice murmured outside. The words were too indistinct to make out, but the tone was familiar.

He met Calladia’s wide eyes. Moloch, he mouthed.

They moved in unison, preparing for battle. Astaroth rushed to retrieve his branch, while Calladia pulled some yarn from her pocket. Isobel was now standing beside the front door, slipping a cell phone into the pocket of her dress. Firelight flickered across her face, and déjà vu spun Astaroth’s head again.

He’d seen the witch before, illuminated by fire as she was now. Her black eyes had stared deep into him, and her mouth had opened around a spell. Astaroth had tried to get away, but something had held him in place . . .

Shock rattled him to his bones. “You!” He pointed a damning finger at Isobel. “You’re the witch who cursed me.”

“What?” Calladia’s head whipped around. “Wait, the one who took your immortality?”

“The very one. I just remembered.” He was seething. How could she have lied to their faces?

“Well, this is awkward,” Isobel said, stifling a yawn. “It was nothing personal, you understand. Just business.”

“Give me my immortality back,” Astaroth ordered, advancing on her.

“I can’t. It’s already been applied to my own life.” Her lips curved in a mean smile. “A half-human immortal is a rare find. Thanks to you, I won’t need to harvest shorter mortal lives ever again.”

Outrage burned through him. The witch had been working with Moloch all along. She’d cursed him with mortality and stolen his eternal life, and now she’d alerted the demon to their location. “How much is he paying you?” he demanded.

“More than fifty gold doubloons,” Isobel said coolly. “Which you still owe me, by the way.”

“Did you even heal him?” Calladia asked. “Or was that a trick?”

“I do not accept money and then fail to deliver on my promises,” Isobel said. “I applied magic to heal his brain. The rest of what I told you about recovering his memories is true as well.”

Calladia was practically snarling. “How are we supposed to believe a filthy liar?”

“I didn’t lie. I omitted the truth.”

Blast, this was a trick Astaroth ought to have seen coming. His instincts were growing dull. “We need to get out of here,” he told Calladia. “Now, before Moloch sends some fireballs in and roasts us alive.”

Isobel looked startled at that. She whipped out her phone and started typing, presumably a text along the lines of NO FIREBALLS. “It’s been a tepid experience doing business with you,” she said, gesturing at the door. “There’s the exit.”

Calladia looked murderous. She wore bloodthirstiness well, but attacking Isobel would only delay them. “She’s not worth it,” he told Calladia. “We need to get out of here.”

Calladia sneered at Isobel. “I hope you choke on those gold doubloons, bitch.”

“Blame capitalism,” Isobel said. “Good luck with everything.”

Astaroth stood at the front door, ready to burst out with metaphorical guns blazing. And by metaphorical guns he meant a big stick and a pissed-off witch. He could think of worse weapons. “Come on,” he told Calladia. “Your arse-kicking skills are needed.”

Calladia nodded, then strode past Isobel. Then she pivoted and booted the witch in the chest with a side kick, sending Isobel crashing into her cauldron. Isobel shrieked as boiling tea splashed on her.

“Nice,” Astaroth said.

“I would have done worse if we had time.” Calladia joined him at the door, thread stretched taut between her fingers. “Let’s Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid this shit.”

Astaroth had a vague recollection that perhaps that story hadn’t worked out so well. “Which one are you?” he asked. “And wait, didn’t they die?”

Calladia grabbed the knob and ripped the door open. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!” she yelled as she sprinted outside.

Astaroth followed hot on her heels . . .

Straight into a wall of fire.