A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch
: Chapter 15

I’m—excuse me?” Astaroth asked, staring dazedly at the phone.

Demon-human hybrids were rare. Some took after their mortal parent and lived on Earth, but others lived on the demon plane. They weren’t respected by fundamentalist demons though, and none had ever gained political power.

If Astaroth knew anything about himself, it was that he’d always sought power. There was no way he was anything other than a full-blooded demon.

Right?

“Are you even listening?” The woman who was apparently his mother sounded annoyed. And Lucifer, how could he not remember his mother? Sure, his memory was spotty even for events long past, but a parent was a fairly pivotal part of one’s life. “You know your power rests on your reputation,” she said. “You didn’t have an emotional outburst, did you? You were doing so well at masking your human traits.”

Human traits. Emotional outbursts.

Astaroth started to sweat. He wanted to shout that he was a pure-blooded demon, with horns and the immortal life span to prove it, but that meant little. While many hybrids had small horns or none at all, others had normal horns. And though some had finite life spans, immortal hybrids existed as well. The quirks of genetics had created an array of possibilities should a demon procreate outside the species.

His temples throbbed. He wanted to scream denials, maybe throw something. Tear the whole bloody room apart if that would somehow prove his full-blooded status.

But that would be an emotional outburst, wouldn’t it?

He met Calladia’s wide brown eyes. She looked as shocked as he felt. That was comforting, at least—but then again, a proper demon wouldn’t crave comfort, would they?

Half human.

Maybe the knock on the head wasn’t to blame for his volatility, after all. But if he was a hybrid . . . Lucifer, what a nightmare.

The most traditional demons considered humans a prey species, essential for maintaining the demon ecosystem but not worthy of respect. Astaroth had always supported hybrid rights on the demon plane, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? It was practical to encourage genetic diversification. And if mortals were interesting enough to convince him to live mostly on Earth, that had been a tactic to better learn how to manipulate them, right?

Or had it been a lie to cover up the real reason: that Astaroth felt a kinship with humans?

The trouble with truth was that once it got bold enough to punch you in the face, it was impossible to ignore. He could throw out countless arguments, but when Astaroth took stock of his tumultuous inner landscape, this revelation felt true. And although he gleefully lied to others, he didn’t want to lie to himself.

His reality shifted on its axis.

“So?” His mother’s voice burst from the speakers. “Did the high council find out what you are?”

Fresh revelations aside, there was still a conversation to navigate, and Astaroth didn’t want to admit his amnesia yet. “I don’t think so,” he said. Technically true, since it was impossible to speculate without any evidence. He cleared his throat. “What have you heard?”

“That they removed you from the high council and banished you to Earth, the soon-to-be-eviscerated wretches, but that’s a minor setback, so long as they don’t know the rest of it. We’ll get you back in power in no time. No one treats me and mine like this, and if Moloch has forgotten the name Lilith, I will happily remind him.” She cackled. “I’ll carve it into his skin over and over again until my name echoes in his bones.”

Lilith.

The name unlocked a memory of a woman’s face bent over him while sunshine cascaded through her red hair. Astaroth had been small then, seated in her lap and looking in awe at her black horns while she regaled him with stories of her conquests. Someday, she’d said, stroking his hair, your horns will grow bigger even than mine and you’ll have enemies of your own to destroy.

He’d wanted nothing more.

The memories spilled out from there, like tiles tumbling into an artist’s hand, bright pieces that, once assembled in the correct order, would form the mosaic of his past. He envisioned Lilith bundled in furs with a sword strapped to her back, hair gleaming like fire against a snow-capped peak. Lilith playing cards and stabbing a knife through her opponent’s hand, then telling Astaroth—over the man’s screams—that if cheating failed to prosper, violence was always an option. Lilith scribbling in a leather-bound book, her hair in wild tangles as she giggled to herself about tentacle jousting and something called AO3.

Lilith cupping his cheeks, pale blue eyes glinting with love and an edge of madness. They must never find out what you are, or you won’t be able to seize your legacy as my son.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Calladia whispered across the table. “Lilith, like super-duper old and scary demon Lilith?”

Lilith was famous, he now recalled. Feared and respected across the planes, notorious for her great age, insanity, and unpredictable, often violent behavior. To be her son was a legacy, indeed.

“Who was that?” Lilith asked. “Are you with someone?”

Calladia widened her eyes and shook her head.

Astaroth was still reeling from the bombshells Lilith had dropped. “No, just me,” he said, wincing at how unconvincing he sounded.

A squeal and clapping of hands came over the line. “You are! Who is it? Tell me the species, at least. Man, woman, or other? What’s their name? Or their names, if it’s a group situation.”

There would be no wiggling out of this one. Astaroth looked to Calladia and raised a brow, silently asking permission. She winced, then nodded.

“Human,” he said. “A witch named Calladia.” The most aggravating, perfectly vicious harridan of a witch, whose blond hair and brown eyes haunted his dreams. In centuries past, she would have been the literal warrior queen he’d termed her, leading armies into battle.

Now he just wanted her to battle him.

“Calladia.” Lilith repeated the syllables, which sounded heavier in her accent—an accent he could now identify as a unique amalgamation of hundreds of languages learned and abandoned over time. “You’ve always liked fornicating with humans. Obviously you get that from me.” She sighed dreamily. “That traveling minstrel who contributed his sperm had skills, even if he didn’t stick around to see the results.”

Calladia nearly choked on her water. Fornicating? she mouthed.

Yes, please, he thought, head spinning from the influx of information and emotion.

“I hope this witch is as beautiful, conniving, and deadly as you deserve,” Lilith said. She clicked her tongue. “Like that human a few centuries back. Who was she, the one I liked? The poisoner?”

“Lucrezia Borgia,” Astaroth said dazedly, pulling the name from the ether.

Calladia clapped a hand to her mouth and made a muted squealing sound.

Lilith chuckled. “Such a vicious woman. Very feisty. Her brother, too. What was his name?”

“Cesare,” Astaroth said, recalling dim memories of carnal entertainments with corrupt, red-robed cardinals.

“Unbelievable,” Calladia muttered through her fingers. “Your life should be a TV show.”

“I wouldn’t have minded being the meat in the middle of that sandwich myself,” Lilith said. “It’s lovely they didn’t mind sharing you.”

Calladia smacked the table hard enough to rattle the napkin holder. “You hooked up with both Cesare and Lucrezia Borgia?” she whisper-shrieked. “Separately, or . . .”

Astaroth winced. “Now’s not a good time,” he told his mother. “We’re eating lunch.”

Lilith cooed. “A date! Lovely. It’s nice to see you socializing again. Ever since you took in that pup . . . when was it? Eight centuries ago? Twelve? Lucifer knows the years run together.”

Astaroth had no idea what she was talking about. “I’m only six centuries old.”

“You took your duty as a mentor so seriously,” she said. “I always told you even purebred demons are allowed to enjoy themselves sometimes. Especially if you embrace insanity!” Lilith paused. “Or did I only say that to myself?”

Astaroth’s head pulsed with pain. The world spun, and he gripped the edges of the table.

“Astaroth?” Lilith asked. “Are you still there?”

“Astaroth?” Calladia repeated in a gentler tone, looking concerned. She rested her hand on the table near his.

Cold sweat beaded at his brow. It was abruptly too much. The influx of memories, a surprise phone call from his mother, learning he had finally attained a position on the demon high council only to lose it, not to mention that half human revelation . . .

He stifled a whimper and looked at Calladia, silently begging for help.

Calladia grabbed the phone. “Sorry, food is here,” she told Lilith. “Got to go!”

“Oh, all right,” Lilith said. “Enjoy your meal, lovebirds. But don’t worry, I’m going to find out more about Moloch’s aims. We’ll work on a strategy together. You’ll be back at the high table before you know it, and I’ll be drinking Moloch’s blood out of a decorative chalice made from his skull.” She made kissy noises into the phone. “Talk soon!”

The line went dead.

Astaroth stared at the phone. He was breathing too fast, so he pressed a hand to his diaphragm, took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly.

“Here.” Calladia nudged the water toward him. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I would never,” he grumbled before chugging the entire glass. The frantic throb of his headache began to fade, but he still felt dizzy.

Astaroth of the Nine. Astaroth the half human. The two ideas were so opposed, it was difficult to hold them in his mind at the same time.

And Lilith, the ancient and famously unhinged demoness—his mother!

Calladia cleared her throat. “Food’s coming.”

Astaroth sat up straight, determined not to show his inner turmoil. The dryad, Bronwyn, appeared with plates of steaming food, and he murmured thanks.

After Bronwyn had left, Calladia speared her side salad with a fork. She chewed, eyeing Astaroth with a clinical eye that indicated an interrogation was imminent. Astaroth braced himself, poking half-heartedly at the salmon.

“So,” Calladia finally said. “Your mom is Lilith. Like . . . the Lilith.”

“It would seem so.” He took a bite of salmon and made an appreciative noise. “This is quite good. I wonder if they’d be willing to share the recipe for this marinade?”

Calladia ignored his attempt at deflection. “In college we spent an entire class period talking about Lilith. It was a gen ed class, Interplanar History 101: Sex, Violence, and Batshittery. They called her the Mother of All Demons.”

The nickname was familiar, and it provoked a surge of corresponding disdain. He’d heard that a lot, he realized. “She would have needed to be very busy to accomplish that. And she’s old, but not that old.” Lilith had been wreaking havoc for thousands of years, but no one even had an estimate for when Lucifer had founded the demon plane.

“Apparently she’s the mother of at least one demon though,” Calladia said.

Astaroth squeezed the fork tightly enough to hurt. “I remember a bit of her now,” he said. “Her voice . . . she was the one warning me away from hospitals. She said they couldn’t learn what I was.” His throat bobbed. “A hybrid, apparently.” The word was sour on his tongue.

How had every meaningful memory been knocked out of his head, and only random snippets remained? What good did it do him to remember dining, fighting, and fornicating across Europe if he had no clue what he actually was?

“Maybe that’s why you eat and sleep so much,” Calladia said around a mouthful of food. “It’s the human half.”

He didn’t want to talk about his genetics, especially not with the human who vexed and fascinated him in equal measure, so Astaroth decided to pick a fight instead. “Your table manners are atrocious.”

Calladia narrowed her eyes, then reached across the table and dipped her finger in the ramekin holding the sauce for Astaroth’s salmon. She loudly sucked the sauce off her finger while making unblinking eye contact.

Astaroth gaped, horrified and aroused. As an expression of dominance, it was unorthodox but effective. He’d thrown the gauntlet, and she’d picked it up. “Appalling behavior,” he said, eyes dropping to where her pink lips were wrapped around her finger. “Truly distressing.”

Calladia popped her finger out of her mouth. “Enough about my table manners,” she said. “Let’s talk about the fact that your mom is Lilith, you’re half human, and you had a thing with the Borgias, which you apparently remember clearly.”

“When she mentioned them, I remembered.” His appetite had vanished, but he started cutting his salmon into small pieces for lack of anything better to do. “I was young then, less than a century old, and I was studying human behavior across the Papal States.” More hazy memories unfurled, and he closed his eyes to focus on them past the residual echoes of his headache. “Mum sent me there. She said I needed to see what humans were capable of, and the Church was the best place to see the absolute worst behavior.”

“That’s very interesting,” Calladia said, “but I can’t get past the Borgia bit. Did you really date both of them?” She leaned in, practically salivating.

“I don’t know if I would classify it as dating . . .” He envisioned red satin sheets and bare skin, but when he tried to focus on the person beneath him in that memory, he only saw Calladia’s face.

Lucifer, this wasn’t good. Carnal thirst was a slippery slope. Soon, he might find himself—horror of horrors—pining for the witch.

Astaroth shifted in his chair, trying to push the image of a nude Calladia out of his mind. “We had a bit of fun, that’s all.”

She scoffed. “That’s what you call hooking up with two of history’s most notorious schemers and murderers? Come on, drama queen. Give me the dirty details. Was it separately? Or like . . . at the same time?”

Astaroth might not know much these days, but he had a suspicion Calladia’s moral scruples wouldn’t stretch far enough to condone incestuous threesomes. “A gentleman doesn’t shag and tell,” he said in a dignified tone.

Calladia clapped a hand to her mouth. She was making a stuttering, high-pitched sound it took Astaroth a moment to identify as laughter. Her shoulders shook, and her eyes were bright with hilarity.

Astaroth was torn between fascination and annoyance. She laughed so infrequently, and never in these bubbly giggles, as light and intoxicating as champagne. But what was there to laugh about? His life was in shambles, and he’d just been clobbered upside the head—metaphorically this time—with details of his existence he didn’t know how to process.

“This isn’t funny,” he snapped.

“Oh, come on,” she said through her fingers. “You had a threesome with the Borgias!”

All right, maybe her morals did stretch that far. A good thing if she was going to spend more time around him, since more memories of hedonism would certainly follow.

Not that she was going to spend more time with him. This was a brief quest she had reluctantly embarked on due to some foolish notion of responsibility. Once her duty was carried out, she’d return to her life and leave him behind.

His chest ached at the thought. He rubbed his sternum, wondering if he’d cracked a rib somehow.

“Sorry,” Calladia said when Astaroth didn’t reply. She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I shouldn’t have laughed. I just can’t believe I’m hanging out with the sixteenth century’s most gutsy lothario.”

He scowled. “How did I not remember being a hybrid?” he blurted out. “Or being a member of the high council? I craved that bloody position for centuries, and now I can’t remember getting it?” His temple throbbed again, and he stabbed his plate with the fork, eliciting a loud metallic screech. “Lucifer, this is a disaster.”

“How is it a disaster? You’re remembering more and more every day.”

Astaroth made a frustrated sound and jabbed the plate again. “There aren’t many demon hybrids, and feelings about them have always been . . . complicated. Some of the most influential demons don’t consider them true demons at all, and there’s never been one in power before.”

“Until you,” Calladia said. “That has to be gratifying.”

It should be, but it wasn’t. “How, when I can’t remember gaining power? When I have no idea how or why I lost it? When I know if my secret gets out, I’ll never hold a position of influence again?” A thought seized him, accompanied by tendrils of icy dread that wrapped around his ribs. “What if they did find out, and that’s why I’m here?”

Saying half demons were controversial was just the start. While there were those who lived and thrived in the demon plane, albeit without much institutional support, others had been sent to live off-plane or disowned entirely. The ones who did remain tended to have more demonic traits, such as horns and immortality.

Hybrid minds are weak, someone had once told him, the sneering words echoing through history. How can we allow human frailty to shape demon society? Only the strong can lead the strong.

Who had said that? Moloch? Another demon?

Astaroth scraped his fork over the plate again, then jabbed the tines into the salmon repeatedly, wishing he had a sword and could murder something for real. Curse his rumbling stomach and his aching head. Curse his feeble brain, curse his human heritage and whatever weakness it had imparted to him, curse Moloch and the demon high council and the great, yawning expanse of the past that no doubt hid countless other nasty surprises. Curse the whole bloody universe!

“If they booted you out for that,” Calladia said, “then the high council needs to get with the times. They’re begging for a wrongful termination lawsuit on the basis of discrimination.”

“Americans and your lawsuits,” Astaroth groused. “Swords are more effective at conflict resolution.”

“Oh, yes, let’s promote a new era of tolerance by skewering people. Excellent choice.”

Astaroth stabbed the salmon extra hard, eliciting a horrendous screech of metal.

Calladia grabbed his wrist, stilling his agitated motions. “Eat the food. Don’t poke at it.”

Astaroth stilled, looking at where her finger covered his pulse. She hadn’t touched him like this before. There had been incidental brushes from being trapped in close proximity, but it had all been practical and impersonal.

This though.

This was new.

Her skin was cool against his demon heat, a balm that soothed his agitation. Her nails were filed short, and the rasp of calluses against his skin spoke of her strength.

There was a softness to her, too, echoed in the gentle slope of her jawline and the curve of her parted lips. He shivered, imagined those lips trailing kisses over his torso, each one an autumn raindrop to cool the angry fire burning in his chest. He would drink that sweet relief down like a dying man, but he suspected it would never be enough.

Calladia snatched her hand back and cleared her throat. “Plotting is better done on a full stomach, right?” she asked as she grabbed her sandwich. Her cheeks were pinker than they had been a minute before. “Overhauling demon society can wait until we’ve found Isobel and recovered your memories.”

Astaroth nodded dumbly as she took a hearty bite of the panini. He’d never been envious of bread before. “Plotting,” he repeated. “Right.” When she licked her lips, he mirrored the action reflexively.

Calladia paused midchew. Her eyes dropped to his mouth.

The main door swung open, and a chorus of male voices echoed through the main lobby, shattering the moment. Astaroth looked over to see who had intruded, then scowled.

A group of very tall, very muscular men in sweat-darkened green rugby uniforms were laughing and slapping one another on the back. Given how hirsute they were, they must be werewolves, a notion borne out by the appearance of that Kai fellow in the midst of them. Astaroth narrowed his eyes, full of abrupt loathing.

Curse werewolves, along with everything else. Did they need to be so bloody big?

“Guess it’s the local pack,” Calladia said.

Astaroth made a disgruntled sound as someone whooped. “Noisy, aren’t they?”

Calladia snickered. “This just in: old curmudgeon finds the youths too noisy. Story at six.”

Astaroth switched his glare to her. “I’m not a curmudgeon. And they are making an indecent amount of noise.” As if to prove his point, the werewolves gathered in a circle and started chanting, swaying back and forth with their arms around one another.

“Sure, Father Time,” Calladia said. “It’s not that you’re a six-hundred-year-old grump who wants the kids to get off your lawn.”

“I don’t have a lawn. London flat, remember?”

The werewolves culminated with a shout and began making their noisy way toward the dining room, following Bronwyn.

“This round’s on me,” Kai said. He stopped in his tracks when he spotted Calladia. “A vision!” he proclaimed, clapping a hand to his chest. “Fair Calladia, I knew our paths would cross again.”

“Because you told her to eat lunch here, you git,” Astaroth muttered under his breath. He gripped his fork, envisioning how it would look embedded in Kai’s neck.

If Kai heard him—and he certainly did, with heightened werewolf senses—he gave no sign. He swept an extravagant bow toward Calladia while his teammates snickered. “I apologize for these hoodlums. They’re not used to polite company.”

“Oh, shut up,” a werewolf with brown hair said. “This clown scores two tries and thinks he’s Lycaon’s gift to womankind.”

Kai scoffed. “Oh, please, Avram. I’m the best number eight this side of the international date line.”

The other werewolf slapped Kai upside the head. “The best? Maybe in the peewee league.”

“Exactly.” Kai winked at Calladia, which nearly earned him a fork through the eye. “Those little fuckers don’t stand a chance.”

“Stop flirting with customers,” Bronwyn said, bumping him with her hip. The dryad only came up to Kai’s shoulder, but she carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew she could snap her fingers and the whole pack would come running. “These two are looking for Isobel.”

“Two?” Kai asked. “I only have eyes for the lovely lady.”

Astaroth scoffed. “Oh, please.”

Calladia looked like she was biting back a smile. “Nice to meet you all,” she said to the team at large. “I’m Calladia.”

Why was Calladia entertaining the crude advances of this oaf? Anyone could see she was out of his league.

Kai scooped up her hand, bent over, and kissed it. “The pleasure is all ours.” He glanced up with his lips still pressed against her skin and winked again. “Especially mine.”

Astaroth’s hold on his temper snapped. He shot to his feet, sending silverware flying. “Get your hands off her.”

Calladia jolted in her chair, pulling her hand back. She blinked at Astaroth owlishly. “Astaroth, it’s fine.”

“Is it, though?” It had been a piss-poor few days, and after everything that had happened with his mother, he wasn’t in the mood to watch a bloody werewolf flirt with his witch.

“Easy, mate,” Kai said. His eyes were fixed on Astaroth’s horns, and his jovial expression had vanished, replaced with the calculating look of a man sizing up an opponent. “Don’t you think that’s a bit possessive for someone not dating her?”

Astaroth crossed his arms, scowling.

“You aren’t dating, right?” Kai’s tone said he wasn’t asking. “Just two sworn enemies on a quest, she said.”

“And she’s my sworn enemy, not yours,” Astaroth snapped.

The other werewolves muttered and shifted as Kai looked Astaroth up and down. The air thrummed with tension. Werewolves were notorious for fighting at the slightest provocation, and although Astaroth wasn’t keen to collect another head injury, he wished the werewolf would start something. Astaroth might be smaller, but he had speed, a pissy mood, and centuries of experience on his side, not to mention a fork that would look very festive in a werewolf’s eyeball.

Calladia’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and she licked her lips as she looked between the two males. Her hand curled into a fist.

After an interminable moment, Kai threw back his head and let out a hearty laugh. “Good luck with that, mate. I’d rather make an ally of a pretty woman than an enemy, but you do you.” His smile sharpened, and he snapped his teeth. A werewolf threat. “I suggest you operate carefully though. We take care of our own out here, and if you try to steal any souls or hurt the locals, there’s going to be trouble.” He turned to Calladia, his demeanor melting back into cocky flirtatiousness. “Should you crave better company, our table’s by the window.”

The werewolves trooped to a long trestle table, resuming their shouts and banter. Bronwyn looked at Astaroth and shook her head. “Pissing off a pack of werewolves never ends the way you think it will.” She headed toward the bar and started pulling pints.

Calladia blew out a shuddering breath. “Damn. That would have been a good one.”

“A good what?” Astaroth asked, distracted by the sight of Kai regaling his team with some story that involved copious hand-waving.

“A good fight.” She tipped her head to each shoulder, cracking her neck. “I have to limit my brawling in Glimmer Falls so I don’t get banned from my favorite spots, and a woman has needs.”

Astaroth forgot all about the werewolves. The rest of the sentence faded away, too, irrelevant compared to those last four words: a woman has needs.

He plunked into his seat and leaned in, lacing his hands together on the table. “Needs, is it? Care to elaborate?”

Her needs would be extensive, he guessed. All that temper and fire needed an outlet. In bed, she’d be rough and demanding, expecting her partner to match her energy. It would be a fight for supremacy, no easy conquest, and she’d want the upper hand more often than not.

His pulse accelerated at the thought. He’d happily cede the upper hand if she wanted. Being pinned down and ridden until he couldn’t see straight would be as much a victory as doing the pinning.

Calladia sighed and traced the rim of her glass with her finger. “I miss punching people.”

Astaroth’s fantasies smacked into the harsh wall of reality. She’d mentioned brawling, not shagging. Right. Except—

“Wait, you want to fight a pack of werewolves?” he asked incredulously.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Calladia looked at the wolves as if sizing them up.

No, Astaroth thought. Look at me, not them. “They’re twice your size.”

“Exactly.” Calladia turned back to him. “It’s a challenge, and they’re very egalitarian. Lots of guys refuse to fight a woman, but werewolves respect anyone who steps up. It’s actually safer than a lot of brawling, since they do it so much. No killing or maiming when it’s recreational. They’ll go from punching to buying each other drinks in a matter of minutes.”

Astaroth couldn’t believe this. “You’ve fought werewolves before,” he said slowly. “And you think it’s admirable they’re willing to punch you?”

She shrugged. “Think of it like sparring in martial arts. If your opponent is capable, why not treat them that way?”

And yes, all right, Astaroth understood that line of thinking and had dueled a few lady pirates back in the day, but this was different. This was Calladia, and no matter how strong she was, all mortals were breakable. “They could hurt you.”

“A little pain spices things up, don’t you think?” As if that sentence wasn’t enough to play havoc with the pleasure centers of Astaroth’s brain, Calladia followed it up with a wink.

“Guh,” was all he managed to say.

Fresh cacophony sounded from the entrance to the Red Deer.

“What now?” Astaroth asked, resenting this interruption even more than the first. To his horror, a second rugby team was jumping and shouting and smacking one another’s bums in the lobby, these ones dressed in blue jerseys proclaiming Soundview Shifters. “More werewolves?”

Bronwyn passed by the table, menus in hand. “They’re a mix of shifters, not werewolves.” She pointed at the tallest man, who had a bushy brown beard and a bun. “The captain is Ranulf, a bear-shifter, and his second, Cooper, is a corgi-shifter.”

Astaroth eyed the shorter man next to Ranulf. He looked buff, but still. “A corgi-shifter?” he asked skeptically.

“Have you ever seen a corgi at the dog park?” Bronwyn asked. “They give zero fucks.” She smiled, then hurried away to greet the newcomers.

“This is exciting,” Calladia said. “A rival team?”

He did not like the way she was ogling those shifters. “So, about the quest,” he said in an attempt to distract her. “Should we—”

“Ranulf!” Kai shouted the name and launched out of his chair. “I’m amazed you have the courage to show up here after the beating we just delivered on the pitch. Eager for more?”

“Yes,” Calladia hissed, doing a fist pump. “Rivals!”

Astaroth had no idea what she was excited about. All he knew was that there were thirty very large and very attractive wolves and shifters in the dining room, which was about thirty too many. In normal times he would have welcomed an overabundance of attractive people, but his thoughts had become obsessively fixed on one specific attractive person, and he urgently needed to hustle her out of here before any of the overgrown furballs propositioned her again.

“Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s retrieve Bronwyn and discuss next steps.”

The dryad was nowhere to be seen though, and a rolling metal door had been pulled down to block the space above the bar. The door to the kitchen was barricaded with a table.

Ranulf sauntered into the middle of the room. “You might have won this match,” the bear-shifter said, “but we still have the most wins in the league.”

All the rugby players were standing now. Some were stretching, others punching their palms. One grabbed a pool cue and snapped it over his knee.

“Calladia,” Astaroth said, gripping her elbow to help her out of her chair, “it isn’t safe.”

“Season isn’t over,” Kai said. “Next match, we’re going to wipe the field with you again.”

“How?” Ranulf shot back. “You incompetent degenerates can barely wipe your own asses.”

The insult elicited a burst of outraged grumbling. “Calladia,” Astaroth repeated more urgently, tugging at her arm. She didn’t move, her attention fixed on the rapidly devolving scene.

“You’re a hoity-toity jackass with an overinflated ego,” Kai said.

“And you’re a bum with mommy issues whose closest relationship is with your right hand,” Ranulf snapped.

Kai’s eyes looked about to bug out. “Your man bun is tasteless, and your beard smells like stale chips and defeat,” he nearly screamed.

With a roar, Ranulf rushed forward and tackled Kai into a table, which broke under their weight. Instantly, the rest of the men sprang into action, pummeling one another with fists, pool cues, even chairs. Cooper the corgi-shifter headbutted a green-kitted wolf, and blood sprayed.

Definitely time to leave. Astaroth reached for Calladia again—

Only to realize she was no longer at his side.

He looked around frantically and caught a glimpse of a swinging blond braid. Then a swinging fist.

A blue-kitted shifter’s head snapped back at Calladia’s hit. “Damn,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “A new player has joined the game.”

He picked up a chair and swung it at Calladia.

Astaroth was already halfway across the room, but he wouldn’t be fast enough. His heart hammered, and terror rose in his throat.

Calladia ducked and spun, jabbing her elbow into the shifter’s ribs. The chair went flying.

Then Astaroth was in the thick of it, dodging fists and elbows as he tried to make it to her side.

“Well, well.” Kai was abruptly in front of him, grinning with blood-slicked teeth. “The demon wants to play!”

Astaroth risked a glance at Calladia and was relieved to see her still on her feet. She cast him a feral grin before picking up a napkin holder and chucking it at someone’s head.

Apparently they were doing this.

Astaroth cracked his neck. His leg had been a bit sore earlier, but the adrenaline pumping through him was enough to make him feel invincible.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Kai taunted. “Show me what you’ve got.”

This werewolf wanted a fight?

He was going to get one.

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