A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch -
: Chapter 4
This was dumb.
No, not just dumb. This was the single worst idea anyone had ever had.
Calladia lingered at the door to her spare bedroom, watching Astaroth poke around. He investigated the bookshelf, picked up a few trinkets, then fingered the lacy curtains. He was an odd sight in the cheery room: gorgeously disheveled above the neck, alarmingly blood-spattered below. His hand kept twitching at his side, and Calladia wondered if he was instinctively reaching for his cane.
A cane topped with a crystal skull, which she’d learned contained a sword, of all things. It was outrageously unnecessary, but the more time she spent with the demon, the more it seemed to suit him.
He tugged open a drawer and started digging through her scarves, and Calladia had had enough. “Stop snooping,” she ordered.
He adopted an innocent expression that didn’t fool her for a moment. “You can’t expect me to spend the night in a strange place without assessing the territory.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you want to assess my front lawn? Because I’m tempted to make you sleep outside.”
He shivered. “No, this will do.” He was holding a lumpy knitted blue-and-purple scarf—a gift from Themmie during the pixie’s intense but short-lived obsession with knitting. As he let it trail through his fingers, a tingle raced down Calladia’s spine. Those hands had leveled a sword at Oz’s throat earlier that day. They’d probably dealt more death over the centuries than she could imagine. And now they were touching her things.
It was like having a dangerous exotic animal prowling loose in her house. The bedroom was bright and comfortable, decorated in yellows and whites, and Calladia had assembled the simple furniture herself after buying it from the werewolf-run furniture and home accessory store LYKEA. It was a casual space suited for laughter and relaxation, not Astaroth’s elegant brand of menace. His white suit, blood-spattered as it was, was clearly expensive, and his black horns were sharp against his white-blond hair. Even his face was sharp, with high cheekbones, an elegant nose, and a chiseled jaw that would have been at home on a magazine cover. When he flicked his ice-blue eyes in her direction, Calladia resisted the urge to flinch.
“Are you going to stare at me all night?” he asked in that posh British accent.
“Are you going to keep being nosy?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know anything about you except that you hate me. It makes sense to learn more about my enemies.”
Hecate, why was she doing this again?
Oh yeah, because she was incapable of stepping away from a fight or a person in need. Also? Tequila.
Her buzz had worn off, but even with common sense back in action, Calladia didn’t like the idea of kicking Astaroth out of her house. Sure, she’d made Oz sleep on the lawn when she’d first met him and he’d been a real dick, but Oz hadn’t been hurt. Astaroth’s right eye was starting to swell, and although he’d clearly tried to mask it, by the time they reached her house, he’d been limping. Not to mention the blood that had dried in the hair near his left temple, which she suspected hid a nasty cut.
What had happened to make him lose his memory? Had she been the one to hurt him that badly? Sure, her spell had launched him over the mountains, but demons were hardy and healed quickly. Oz had staggered into town a few hours after she’d done the same to him, barely the worse for wear. It had been over twelve hours since she’d punched Astaroth, and he still looked like shit.
Astaroth shrugged out of his suit coat and hung it on the back of the desk chair. His vest went next, and before Calladia could process what was happening, he was unbuttoning his bloodstained white shirt.
“What are you doing?” she yelped, turning around and shielding her eyes.
“Getting ready for bed.” He sounded infuriatingly unbothered. “You seemed inclined to watch.”
“No, I just—” Shoot, why was she still standing there? “I wanted to, um, set some wards.”
Cheeks burning, Calladia pulled the hank of thread from her pocket, focusing on the outcome she wanted. Distracted thoughts were one reason a spell could go awry, and she’d trained hard over the years to be able to focus through emotional distress—a handy talent with a mother like Cynthia Cunnington, mayor of Glimmer Falls and the embodiment of parental disapproval. Calladia closed her eyes, imagining a golden cage shimmering into life at the boundaries of the room, then started weaving.
“I can feel your magic,” Astaroth said. “You’re strong.”
Calladia ignored him, contemplating what mix of words and knots would be best for this spell. The language of magic was difficult, complex, and irrational. It was an amalgamation of many languages, with chaotic elements all its own. Speaking the words wasn’t necessary for small spells—especially not for a spellcaster as accomplished as Calladia—but for a working like this, it was essential to ground the spell in both language and action. The string dug into her fingers, winding in tightening loops as she added varieties of knots. One knot for safety, one for captivity, one for violence should her mystical boundary be breached.
“Are you going to allow me access to the loo?” Astaroth asked.
“Demons don’t eat, drink, or use the bathroom as often as humans do. You’ll be fine.”
“If you want to risk it. They’re your sheets.”
Damn. Calladia unraveled a few knots, then made new loops to extend the parameter, adjusting her mental picture to allow a narrow corridor between the spare bedroom and the bathroom. Hopefully she wouldn’t run into him in the middle of the night.
“Astaroth din indelammsen,” she whispered. With a final tug, the spell settled into place, and Calladia shivered with the pleasant sensation of magic sparkling through her body. It felt like a banked forge in her chest had roared to life, filling her with heat and light.
She opened her eyes and turned around. “All set—what the fuck?” The last words came out way too high-pitched, because Astaroth hadn’t stopped with the shirt.
No, the demon was standing by the foot of the bed, hands on his lean hips, completely nude.
Calladia’s eyes darted down against her will, then immediately up again. Whoa. That was . . .
Yeah. No. Ew.
She shook her head as if that could dislodge the image, then covered her eyes with her hands for good measure. Nevertheless, his frame was imprinted in her brain: pale skin stretched over lean muscle, and between his legs . . .
“Nope,” she said, refusing to contemplate it.
“Something not to your liking?” he asked.
“All of it, actually.”
“Are you sure? You haven’t even seen all of it yet.” His voice practically dripped with wickedness.
“And I never will,” Calladia vowed. “Now go to sleep, you menace.”
She didn’t move until she heard the rustle of sheets. When she peeked out from between her fingers, she saw him sitting upright in bed, arms crossed behind his head as if to better show off his cut torso. Thankfully, his legs and . . . yeah . . . were covered by the sheets.
“My wards will cause serious damage if you go anywhere but this room and the bathroom,” she said, trying to ignore the warmth in her cheeks. “So don’t fuck with me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” His lips curved up on one side in a devilish smirk that implied otherwise. His burgeoning black eye should have diminished his appeal, but Calladia had always been a sucker for a good fight.
She turned off the light. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m getting rid of you tomorrow, one way or another.”
His voice trailed after her. “If you say so . . .”
“Bloody hell.” Astaroth’s voice was fuzzed with sleep. His head poked up from the covers, and Calladia stifled a laugh. His hair stuck up chaotically around his horns, his eyes were half closed, and he was giving her a surly scowl that aimed for “intimidating monster” but landed on “pathetic morning grump.” His black eye had purpled but didn’t seem too swollen.
“Do you remember everything yet?” Calladia asked.
Astaroth groaned. “It’s too early for speech.”
She checked her smartwatch. “It’s nine a.m. and I’ve already been to the gym.” Thank Hecate for that hangover tonic. Her freshly washed hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and she was buzzing with an endorphin glow.
Calladia wasn’t naturally a morning person, but she’d gotten in the habit of going to the gym early. Working out had been her drug of choice for years. She’d always enjoyed sports, and exercise was a helpful coping tool to survive life’s stresses—not least of which was the pressure exerted by her mother. The older Calladia got and the more she’d struggled with her place in the world and an identity outside of “Cynthia Cunnington’s daughter,” the more she’d hit the gym. Calladia’s mother wouldn’t be caught dead sweating or performing any kind of manual labor, and it felt good to have a hobby separate from her mom’s polished, fake world.
She’d only fallen off her routine during those years with Sam . . . but no, she refused to think about that now. Would rather never think of her ex again, if only brains could be trained like one of Mariel’s plants to bloom only in appropriate directions.
“Come on,” she said when Astaroth showed no signs of getting up. “I have stuff to do.”
“Like what?” he groused, pushing himself to a seated position. The sheet slipped down, revealing carved muscles, and Calladia was instantly reminded he was nude. Her gaze darted to where the sheet bunched at his hips.
Calladia forced her attention upward. It didn’t matter that Astaroth was objectively attractive in a way that catered to Calladia’s precise tastes, nor that he was currently naked in her spare room. He was an evil, horrible, manipulative demon, and she would be a bad person and a worse friend to lust after him. “I work as a personal trainer,” she said, answering his question. “I have three clients this afternoon.” Her mother despised Calladia’s job, but Calladia loved it. Helping other people feel strong and confident was a reward beyond the paycheck.
Astaroth stretched, arms high over his head. His skin was smooth and alabaster pale. According to Mariel, demons had less body hair than humans, but the movement revealed tufts of reddish-gold hair in his armpits. Seeing that detail felt oddly intimate, like sharing a secret.
“It’s not afternoon yet,” Astaroth said, dropping his hands to his lap. “You could have let me sleep.”
“Oh, stop being a whiny baby,” Calladia said.
Astaroth’s eyebrows shot up. “A whiny baby?” His voice was full of outrage. “I’m six centuries old. I’ve seen more mortal lives come and go than you can comprehend.”
“Bully for you. You’re still being a baby.”
“Do you even know who I am?” Astaroth asked pissily.
It was Calladia’s turn to raise her brows. “Do you?”
“I—” His mouth opened and closed a few times, and then Astaroth rubbed his temples, grimacing. He cursed under his breath, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
Calladia instantly averted her eyes. “You’d better wear that sheet like a toga. I refuse to sully my eyes with the sight of your dick.”
“How you wound me.” Astaroth’s mutter was followed by the rustling of sheets. “Joyless harpy.”
“No, just a joyless witch, but there’s a harpy a few blocks down who’d be interested in meeting you. I’m sure she’d love the chance to devour some demon liver.” Ocypete was actually a vegetarian who used her wings and claws to paint abstract art pieces, not disembowel her enemies, but Astaroth didn’t need to know that.
Calladia risked a glance and was gratified to see the demon had wrapped the sheet around his waist. It didn’t solve the issue of his pecs or a truly remarkable eight-pack, but at least she didn’t have to worry about getting another eyeful of his equipment. “So,” she said. “How’s your head? Any memories come back?”
“It hurts,” Astaroth said, rubbing his temple with the hand not clutching the sheet at his waist. “And no, not particularly.”
“You know your age,” Calladia pointed out.
He grimaced. “It’s complicated. Some things I’m certain of, and I get flashes of images or words, but when I try to remember anything that’s happened recently, it’s just . . . blank.”
“So there’s really no change this morning?”
“None.”
“Shoot.” Calladia nibbled her lip, looking between Astaroth and the bright day outside. She couldn’t deal with a demonic houseguest indefinitely. “Look, I know you don’t like the idea of a hospital, but memory loss is a serious thing. You should at least get checked out.”
“No.” The refusal was instantaneous.
“What if they can help? What if every moment you wait, you risk the memories never coming back?”
“They’ll come back,” he said, but although his tone was confident, his darting eyes suggested he had doubts.
“What will you do if they don’t?” Calladia pressed. “You can’t stay here. Are you going to wander the streets indefinitely, waiting for Moloch to finish you off?”
Astaroth made a face. “He does seem like a touchy wanker.”
“And you’re vulnerable.” She could tell Astaroth didn’t like that, so she kept pushing. “You’re injured and alone, without any information about your enemies. If you don’t take steps to get treatment, then frankly, you’ll deserve whatever happens to you.”
“Lovely bedside demeanor you have,” he said. “Do you offer inspirational speeches as well?”
“I prefer inspirational butt-kickings,” Calladia said. “So I’m setting the rules. Either you go to the hospital or end up on the street, but you’re not staying here a moment longer.”
Seconds ticked past while Astaroth glared at her. Calladia folded her arms and glared right back. He wanted a standoff? He could have one.
As the silence stretched out, the scene struck Calladia as absurd. Here she was in her cheerful spare bedroom, sunlight spilling through the window, while a six-hundred-ish-year-old demon wearing a bedsheet glowered at her. He’d need to try way harder than that to intimidate her, but then again, she hadn’t found him intimidating the previous day either.
Their first meeting was preserved so vividly in her mind, it was a marvel it hadn’t imprinted itself just as deeply in his brain. Astaroth hadn’t glared at her in the woods when Calladia had come to help Mariel. No, he’d sneered, as if she were no better than a bug beneath his boot. With his suit, cane, and that absurd fedora, he’d looked like a Hollywood version of an over-the-top villain. Swaggering and threatening, puffed up on his own importance.
Calladia shouldn’t have found him physically attractive then. And she hadn’t—not really—just a passing thought when she’d first clapped eyes on his cheekbones and lean, elegant frame, an objective observation soon subsumed by pure rage. She definitely shouldn’t find him attractive now.
He was still glowering. Calladia turned her lips down in an exaggerated frown and cocked her head, mocking him.
“Blast,” he muttered.
Calladia kept waiting. He might have the patience of an immortal, but she had the kind of patience that came from pure spite. No way he was winning this standoff.
Astaroth threw up his free hand. “Fine,” he spat. “I’ll go to hospital.”
Triumph swelled in Calladia’s chest. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Now get dressed.”
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