A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch
: Chapter 5

I look awful,” Astaroth groused, running his fingers through sleep-tangled, blood-caked hair as he peered at himself in the mirror.

Calladia was leaning against the doorframe, watching him “primp,” as she’d called it. “Yep,” she said cheerfully.

“You don’t have to agree.” Astaroth scratched his neck, feeling disgruntled and uncomfortable. He eyed the shower. “I don’t suppose your hospitality extends to a shower?”

Calladia sniffed in his direction, then wrinkled her nose. “You do smell rank.”

“Lovely,” he muttered. He turned to the shower and dropped the sheet.

“Do you have any modesty?” Calladia asked.

“No.” Astaroth bent to turn the shower knob, biting the inside of his cheek when Calladia gasped. If she didn’t like it, she could stop looking.

Once the water was steaming hot, he stepped in and slid the door closed. Through the clouded glass, he saw Calladia’s silhouette still in the doorway.

“Supervising?” he asked.

“I don’t trust you not to use my good conditioner.”

He studied the options on display. “None of these look good.” Was that a three-in-one conditioner, shampoo, and body wash? The horror!

“I could make you wash with steel wool.”

The only options were cheap-looking shampoo and conditioner or the dreaded three-in-one. How did she manage to have such soft-looking hair when she was abusing it with subpar products? He had too much self-esteem to go with the worst option, so he grabbed the basic bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

Five minutes later, he felt much better. The water at the bottom of the tub was running clear again after the blood had washed away, and he smelled like kiwi fruit.

“I’m coming out,” he warned Calladia.

A yellow towel was tossed over the top of the shower. He caught it and dried off before wrapping it around his waist.

When he stepped out, Calladia handed him his clothes, folded as well as they could be with blood stiffening the fabric. He grimaced at the thought of getting dressed in them again.

Calladia sniffed the air a few times, and her jaw dropped in outrage. “You used my good conditioner!”

“No, I used your slightly-less-objectionable conditioner.”

“Ugh.” Calladia shook her head. “Hurry up. I’ll be waiting in the hall.”

After swiping her deodorant over his pits, Astaroth dressed quickly. The fabric was scratchy against his damp skin and smelled of body odor and dried blood. He slicked his hair back, studying his reflection.

His black eye wasn’t puffy, thankfully, and he told himself the bruising looked rakish. The scabbed-over cut behind his left temple was impressively ugly. When he prodded the skin near it, pain clanged around his skull. He winced.

It wasn’t his best look, but this wasn’t his best moment. He contemplated Calladia’s toothbrush, then decided she would definitely draw the line at him borrowing that, so he put toothpaste on his finger and ran it over his teeth.

“Ready?” Calladia asked.

Astaroth spit, then rinsed out his mouth. “As I’ll ever be,” he replied.

That unknown voice was still cautioning him against seeing a doctor—they can’t know what you are, or you’ll never be able to claim your legacy—but Astaroth didn’t have any other ideas, and he needed his memories back as soon as possible to figure out what was happening.

Calladia was tapping her toe in the hallway. She seemed full of restless energy in general, as if she was most comfortable in motion. She gave him a cursory look, then turned and jogged down the stairs.

He followed, eyeing the decor curiously. Even in the dark, there’d been no missing the daffodil-yellow exterior of her narrow, two-story house, and inside was just as bright. The walls were painted cream with yellow accents, and woven blue rugs dotted the floorboards. The overall aesthetic reminded him of a summer sky.

Framed photographs lined the staircase. Roughly half of them depicted Calladia in workout clothes at the gym, smiling next to people she had presumably trained, while the others showed her eating, laughing, or taking selfies with other young-looking humans. There was no sign of a partner or child, nor were there any photos of what might be her parents.

The front parlor was cozy and sunlit, with white lace curtains and simple furniture. A plush blue couch topped with mismatched pillows faced a wall-mounted television, and a small barrel cactus sat in a terra-cotta pot on the windowsill.

It was a cheerful setting for someone who had threatened to obliterate his testicles, but humans were odd like that. One thing on the outside, another within. They might not be able to alter their physical forms the way werewolves or shape-shifters could, but they were shifters of a different sort, adapting themselves to new environments with ease.

In the light of day, Calladia was even prettier than he remembered. The sunlight caught in her butter-blond hair and made her tanned skin glow, and her lips were pink and lush. She hadn’t smiled at him yet, but he’d caught glimpses of straight white teeth, and he imagined her grin would light up a room.

She grabbed a red windbreaker off the chair and shrugged it on. Beneath it, she wore tight black exercise leggings, a blue T-shirt with a cartoon penguin on it, and black trainers with blue laces.

He looked more closely at her shirt. “Is that penguin holding a knife?”

“Yes,” Calladia said. “Stop staring at my tits.”

“Stop putting your tits behind interesting pictures.” Now that she mentioned it, they did deserve some attention. Her breasts were on the small side, especially considering the constraints of what was clearly a sports bra, but that didn’t signify. Big tits, little tits, no tits—Astaroth found all sorts of bodies attractive. Each person was unique, with their own topography to explore.

He contemplated what her breasts would feel like in his hands. Were her nipples sensitive?

Calladia grabbed a coaster from the side table next to the couch and flung it like a throwing star. The cardboard square bounced off Astaroth’s forehead. “No ogling the enemy,” she said.

There was her ferocious scowl again. Some people required armor to look intimidating, but Calladia managed it just fine in workout gear. He imagined her in armor and stifled an appreciative shiver. There were few things as appealing as a woman who was comfortable in her power. In times past, with a sword in her hands, she could have ruled empires.

To avoid the temptation of further ogling, he crossed to the front window and looked out. Her lawn was brown for the cold season, and the apple and pear trees at the edge of the yard were bare, but he could imagine it in the heat of summer. Verdant grass, buzzing insects, and Calladia’s yellow house rising from all that green like a flower.

An orange shimmer in the air above her driveway caught his eye. It expanded into a flaming oval, framing the demon who stepped out of thin air.

Thoughts of summer died as a chill raced down Astaroth’s spine. “Moloch,” he said. “He’s here.”

“What?” Calladia hurried over to stand next to him. “How did he find us?”

“He must be tracking me.” But how?

Moloch strode toward the house. He wore brown leather pants and a matching jerkin over a long-sleeved blue shirt, and a sword was strapped to his back. “Fancy seeing you here,” Moloch shouted, audible through the window glass.

Astaroth swore and jammed a hand into his hair between his horns. “We need to barricade.”

Calladia was already tying knots in a string she’d fished out of a pocket. “Lock the door,” she ordered.

He obeyed, dragging a small bookshelf in front of it for good measure. Not that it would do much good. Moloch could just smash through the glass of Calladia’s wide front windows.

An eerie grin stretched Moloch’s mouth. “You can’t escape, Astaroth. Whatever leverage you think you have over me means nothing.”

Adrenaline rocketed through Astaroth’s veins. His head buzzed with conflicting thoughts and impulses. Leverage . . . Why was that word pinging around his brain? The world slid sideways, then righted itself as Astaroth braced himself against the wall.

Leverage, leverage . . .

He knew something about Moloch, something that would destroy the demon surer than any weapon. The certainty settled in his chest, merging with the storm of rage and fear. “I’m going to take you down, Moloch,” Astaroth shouted, following that intuition. “I have everything I need.” Somewhere. If he could only remember what that leverage was.

Moloch’s grin faltered. Then he recovered his oily smile. “Not if you’re dead.”

The demon held his hands palm-up before him.

Dread seized Astaroth by the breastbone. “Run!” he shouted, lunging for Calladia.

Calladia stopped in the middle of tying knots, her brown eyes wide with alarm. “What?”

Two fireballs appeared in Moloch’s upraised hands.

Moving on instinct, Astaroth grabbed Calladia by the waist and threw her over his shoulder. He sprinted toward the connected kitchen, where he’d spied a back door leading to the yard.

Calladia hammered his back, screeching protests, but there was no time to argue. Those fireballs were the trademark of the warrior class of demons, and they would do a tremendous amount of damage.

Astaroth reached the door and yanked it open. Her backyard was small, with a low fence separating it from what looked like a public park. “Cover your ears,” Astaroth ordered as he ran for the fence. He hurdled over it, wincing when the landing jarred his sore leg. There was no time to waste . . .

The air erupted behind them.

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