A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch

Despite his grumbling about sleeping outdoors, Astaroth proved adept at helping set up the tent. Calladia hammered in a stake by the light of a glowing orb she’d conjured, sneaking glances at him. His brow was furrowed with concentration as he threaded a pole through the orange rain fly.

It felt odd to work together like this. Sure, they’d fought Moloch and fled together, but that hadn’t been an organized effort. This was a smaller, more domestic task, and the way he took direction and anticipated what tools she needed was honestly kind of nice.

“I would kill for a bath,” Astaroth said once the tent was assembled. He wiped his forehead. “There’s soot caked in unmentionable areas.”

Calladia retrieved her bugout bag from the back seat of the truck and dug through it until she found wet wipes and dry shampoo. “Here,” she said, tossing them over. “Better than nothing. The stream’s down the slope.” Once he was done, she’d take a turn.

“I’ll return shortly.” Astaroth scooped up the bag of clothes she’d bought him and a battery-powered lantern and disappeared into the forest.

Calladia turned to scan the woods opposite. This wasn’t an official campground, just a secret spot she and Mariel had discovered that was barely large enough for a tent. Calladia breathed in the scent of pine trees and sighed, shoulders relaxing for maybe the first time that day.

Astaroth returned dressed in the black pants and blue shirt she’d bought him. He bent to stash the bag in the tent, and Calladia couldn’t help a quick ogle. The pants looked unreasonably good stretched over his muscular ass, and she cursed herself for not buying a pair of baggy sweatpants instead. It was just that in the store, her eyes had been drawn to the black sheen of faux leather, and she’d instantly known he would like them.

Why that should matter, she didn’t know.

“How are the clothes?” she asked.

He turned to face her, holding out his arms in a ta-da pose. “What do you think?”

The shirt was a bit baggy, but the pale blue color echoed his eyes, and the pants looked indecently good from the front as well. Calladia swallowed. “Seems fine,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. “Do the shoes fit?”

He looked down at the plain white tennis shoes. “A bit naff, but very comfortable.”

Calladia wasn’t going to ask what naff meant. “Good,” she said. She grabbed a water bottle from the truck and tossed it to him. “I’m going to change and grab some kindling so we can get a fire going.”

She conjured another magical light and took the wet wipes, travel toiletries, and a fresh change of clothes with her. “Who’s paranoid now?” she muttered as she picked her way between trees, the glowing orb bobbing above her. Mariel and Themmie teased her for having so much survival gear in her truck, but this was exactly the sort of scenario she’d planned for.

Well, maybe not exactly. She’d envisioned an earthquake or getting stranded in the wilderness, not having her house blown up and running from a demon. Either way, she was glad she’d prepared.

At the stream, she stripped off her top and bra, then splashed water over her face and armpits, cursing at how cold it was. But that was November in the Pacific Northwest. It hadn’t snowed yet, but this stream was fed from high in the Cascades, and mountain water was frigid. She hurried through wiping down her top half before changing into a new sports bra and a button-up flannel. She peed behind a bush, then cleaned her bottom half even more quickly, shivering as goosebumps erupted over her bare skin. Fresh underwear and jeans helped with the chill, as did woolen socks and hiking boots. Workout gear was comfortable, but not suited for the wilderness, especially not at this time of year.

Dry shampoo was followed by a thorough combing and braiding of her hair, and Calladia finally felt halfway decent. She gathered her things and headed to the campsite, collecting sticks as she went. When she looked up, the night sky looked like it was spattered with diamonds.

Back at the clearing, she found Astaroth arranging firewood inside a shallow, freshly dug pit. Calladia stopped, taken aback.

Having someone help set up camp was a novelty. She’d camped with her friends before, but Themmie’s talents ran toward making the campsite aesthetically appealing for Pixtagram, and Mariel, bless her nature witch heart, usually got so distracted greeting and petting new plants that she forgot to gather wood. Calladia was happy to shoulder the practical burdens if it meant spending time with her adorably eccentric friends, but this felt . . . refreshing.

Not the sentiment she ought to be feeling around a demon. Calladia busied herself augmenting his base structure with her own kindling, reminding herself this situation was temporary. They’d find Isobel the life witch and figure out how Astaroth could recover his memory and defeat Moloch, and then Calladia would cheerfully send him off to face the demon alone. She’d return to Glimmer Falls, crash on Mariel’s couch until she could figure out her housing situation, and move on with her life, hopefully never seeing Astaroth again.

This was only an interlude. A brief detour in the journey of her life, soon to be nothing but a story to tell.

Calladia adjusted Astaroth’s logs here and there, and though he shot her a few dark looks, he let her meddle with his campfire structure. A few years in Girl Scouts had kick-started her love of camping, but she’d been pissed she couldn’t do the rougher things Boy Scouts got up to, and the stupid uniform skirt was an affront to practicality as well as a depressing imposition of gender norms, so she’d dropped out and started reading survivalist books at the library instead.

Her mother had, naturally, disapproved. “Girl Scouting is very respectable,” she’d said at the time. “And after a few years, you can switch to the Witch Scout corps. Don’t you want that?”

Had young Calladia wanted to join the older girls in Witch Scouts, who at the time held the mysterious glamour of adolescence? Yes, but not enough to wear skirts.

“Do you have matches?” Astaroth asked.

She held up a fire starter. “Better.” Then she slid a look at him, considering. “Unless you have some kind of demon trick?”

He shook his head, then crouched beside the logs. “I don’t have that kind of magic.”

She tore her gaze away from the stretch of fake leather over his thighs. “Too bad. Then you could literally fight Moloch’s fire with fire.” She scraped the fire starter, and sparks erupted, raining down on the kindling. A few more strikes, and the pine needles started smoldering.

She had a portable camp stove bundled away under the passenger seat, but Calladia preferred a campfire if possible. The warmth, the light, the smell . . . something about it relaxed her in a way she rarely felt.

When the smoke hit her nostrils though, she flinched.

“Everything all right?” Astaroth asked.

Calladia closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. This wasn’t the acrid, horrible smell of her burning house. This was good and natural—a fire built for comfort and safety, not destruction. She kept breathing, letting go of her knee-jerk panic response. Moloch had ruined her house; she wouldn’t let him ruin her enjoyment of a decent campfire.

“Yeah,” she said, opening her eyes to find Astaroth studying her intently. “I’m just peachy.”

His incisive gaze told Calladia he saw beneath her pretense, but he didn’t say anything. Calladia was grateful for his restraint. She might be off-kilter and sensitive from a rough day, but she would fake it until she made it.

As the flames grew, Calladia settled back on her haunches. “I’ve got a can of chili we can crack open,” she said. “Although I’m not sure how hungry you are, since demons only eat every few weeks.”

“I am exceedingly hungry.” Astaroth dragged over a log, then sat on one end and patted the bark. “You’re welcome to share the log, if it isn’t too close to my objectionable person.”

Calladia didn’t feel like getting close to him, but the ground was cold, and it wasn’t like they’d be snuggling or anything. She got up to retrieve the chili before positioning the open can in the glowing embers at the edge of the fire. Then she grabbed two blankets and handed one to Astaroth before sitting next to him.

Astaroth looked surprised at the offering, but he accepted it without comment, wrapping the fabric around himself. “So,” he said, “where do we go tomorrow?”

Calladia blew out a breath, shifting a ribbon of hair that had slid out of her braid. “I guess we start looking for a red deer in the woods.”

He sighed. “Witches are so dramatic.”

“Like you aren’t?”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” He grabbed a stick and poked at the fire, sending sparks shooting up. “I wonder if Isobel can enchant my flat to move around,” he mused. “I could use more drama.”

“What, the last few days haven’t been dramatic enough?” Calladia asked incredulously.

“Not that sort of drama. I’m talking about branding. An aesthetic to help accomplish your goals.” He nudged the fire again. “Proper presentation can set you at an advantage before you even engage with an opponent.”

Calladia wasn’t following. “And a moving flat is . . . ?”

“Unpredictable,” he said. “And implies the existence of powerful allies.”

“Huh.” She cocked her head, remembering their first meeting. “Is that why you carried that stupid cane sword? Because it looks dramatic?”

He pointed the stick at her. “It isn’t stupid. You’re just jealous.”

“I don’t see why having a sword matters that much.”

“Well, first off, it’s sharp,” he said. “But functionality aside, swords mesh well with a variety of aesthetics.”

“Tell me more about these aesthetics,” Calladia said, wanting to hear more of his weird opinions.

“Well, enemies base their actions on how they perceive you, so you can dress and accessorize to intimidate them or make them underestimate you. Or you can craft a persona that’s wealthy or chaotic or violent.” He shrugged. “Simple tactics, but so few people think of a personal brand as a weapon.”

How had she ended up in the woods getting a marketing lecture from a six-hundred-year-old embodiment of evil? “So what’s your brand?” she asked. “Or what would it be, if you could remember?”

“I remember enough of the early centuries,” he said, prodding the logs again. The firelight flickered over the sharp planes of his face, casting shadows under his cheekbones. “Those were more violent times, so making a good first impression was crucial to avoid random beheadings.” He raised his free hand, ticking off points on his fingers. “People have always respected wealth, so I made sure to portray myself as a society elite whenever possible. They also respect violence, so visible weaponry and a few displays of murderous temper made people not want to cross me. And they admire and are intimidated by beauty, so I’ve always maintained excellent hygiene and accessorized to accentuate my best features.” He shrugged. “Shag a few society influencers and add in a good skincare routine, and you’re already at an advantage.”

Calladia was torn between the urge to laugh and a grudging respect for his tactics. She was familiar with the complicated game of crafting a persona for public consumption, thanks to Themmie and her massive Pixtagram following, but she’d never thought about how other people might leverage their looks to gain power. Themmie’s brand was whimsical, energetic, and bright—the sunshiny parts of her personality dialed up to 11, with any flaws or negative emotions saved for offline spaces. Astaroth’s brand was apparently “fashionable sexy murderer.” “I don’t think I have a brand,” she said.

Astaroth scoffed. “Of course you do. No makeup, workout clothes that show off your muscles, a few well-placed conversational barbs, and a general combative air. You want everyone to know you’re strong, don’t care how they expect you to act or look, and won’t suffer fools.”

She blinked. That was . . . huh. He’d said it matter-of-factly, with no hint of judgment in his tone. “It’s not like I sat down to create a strategy,” she said, oddly pleased by his description. “I like comfortable clothing, and makeup is a waste of time and makes my face itch.”

His lips tilted in a crooked smile that made Calladia’s heart rate pick up. He had probably practiced that wickedly appealing look in a mirror. “I’m not saying it’s a bad choice,” he said. “You can choose comfort and practicality for yourself, not just to cater to the expectations of others. But humans are social animals, so how you present yourself is inherently part of a larger game.”

The chili was bubbling, so Calladia took a break to grab spoons. After hesitating, she decided it wouldn’t kill her to eat from the same can as Astaroth rather than dirtying her collapsible camping bowls. She handed him a spoon and set the can on the log between them, using the blanket to shield her fingers from the hot metal. “We’ll want to let it cool—”

She broke off as Astaroth shoveled a spoonful of steaming chili into his mouth. Rather than screaming in pain, he closed his eyes, seeming to savor the mouthful. “Delectable,” he said after he’d swallowed. “Rich and savory, with balanced flavors and spices.”

Right. Demons liked hot things—she remembered Mariel telling her Oz hadn’t needed to spend any time adjusting to the high temperatures of the hot springs near Glimmer Falls. “It’s not fine dining,” she said. “This can cost less than two bucks.”

He ate another spoonful. “You don’t realize how dismal food is on a lot of planes,” he said. “There’s a reason demons often order takeout from Earth. Even simple human meals have complex flavor profiles.”

Calladia took her own spoonful, blowing on the chili before tentatively nibbling. It was hot, but manageable. As she chewed, she considered the flavors. That one mouthful contained beans, meat, tomato, onion, chili peppers, and a variety of spices she couldn’t name. Mariel would know, but Calladia had never pretended to be a great cook. Her blender was the most-used tool in her kitchen.

If Astaroth hadn’t commented on the flavors, she would have wolfed it down without a thought for anything but the protein. He was right; it was good.

“I’m curious,” she said after a few minutes. “You mentioned only remembering things from the past, but modern life doesn’t seem to faze you. Why do you think that is?”

He looked thoughtful as he chewed. “I’m not certain. It’s not like I remember everything about the past—more like my memory is a patchwork quilt with squares missing. Sometimes I can recall things easily, and sometimes images or sounds come to me at random. And some things seem automatic, like my mind and body know how to exist in this time, even if I can’t recall having done so.”

It struck Calladia that he was very well-spoken. Not that she hadn’t noticed how articulate he was before, but this was the first time the adrenaline rush had slowed down enough for her to really pay attention and give him room to speak at length. “You remembered your flat,” she said. “And pumpkins, right? Anything else?”

Astaroth closed his eyes. His eyelids flickered like he was dreaming. “There’s a woman,” he said. “One with red hair, but I can’t make out her face. I hear her voice sometimes, warning me about things.” He huffed. “Like hospitals.”

Calladia felt a weird surge of irritation. Why did it matter if he had some woman’s voice in his head? “What else did she warn you about?”

“She said they can never find out what I am, or I won’t be able to claim my legacy.”

Calladia’s brow furrowed as she considered the strange warning. “What does she mean, what you are? It’s not like you’re hiding your horns or anything. And what kind of legacy?”

He made a frustrated sound, and his eyes popped open. “I don’t know, curse it. It’s something to do with me being the son of . . . someone.” He shook his head and grabbed the stick to stab the fire again. The aggressive blows made a log collapse, and sparks leaped into the air. “Bloody ridiculous,” he groused. “I can’t even remember who my parents are. I’m sure we weren’t close, but still.”

Calladia’s chest ached at the reminder that she wasn’t particularly close with her parents either. Cynthia Cunnington was the household tyrant, and Calladia’s father, Bertrand, had practically made “absentee father” a career. “Why do you assume you weren’t close?” she asked.

“Bargainers are trained outside the home,” he said. “You’ve got to learn to be cold, so nothing you do affects you. Demons might not feel emotions as strongly as humans do, but we still feel them, and the moment guilt or doubt creeps in, a bargainer becomes useless.”

The words were an echo of what Oz had said. It was strange though—Astaroth seemed the opposite of cold. He was a snarky bastard, but she could begrudgingly admit he was a bit funny. He seemed vibrant, for lack of a better word. Fully alive, with an outsize presence, charisma, and the guts to march confidently through the world despite the tremendous blow of losing his memory.

Also? Total drama queen.

He probably wouldn’t like being told he was a drama queen rather than the ice-cold badass he clearly thought he was. And who knew, maybe the head blow really had altered his personality. Calladia let that aspect drop, though she wanted to know more about the parent situation. “Why would growing up in a family make you more likely to feel guilt?” she asked.

“Emotional connections are weaknesses. If you show vulnerability, enemies can manipulate you, and that’s not including the self-sabotage demons might get up to if they regret a deal.” He shrugged. “Learning how to shed weaknesses as a child is a gift.”

Calladia didn’t like that one bit. “Emotional connections can be strengths, too,” she said. “Mariel and Oz kicked your ass in the name of love.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What exactly happened with them?”

She hesitated. What if reminding him of the particulars of his battle with Oz and Mariel resurrected his memories, and he shifted back into evil-asshole mode? He was downright pleasant now compared to their first interaction.

“I’m tired,” she said instead. She stretched and yawned, then checked her watch. “Hecate, it’s nearly midnight.” Astaroth was still glowering, so she offered an olive branch. “I’ll tell you another time.”

He shook his head, then stood and started kicking dirt onto the embers of the smoldering fire. “Do you have extra bedding or are we sharing?”

“What?” Calladia stared at him in horror. “What do you mean, are we sharing?”

He pointed at the tent. “I assume we will be sharing that flimsy excuse for shelter tonight. Do you have enough blankets and pillows for both of us, or will we be combining body heat?”

Calladia nearly swallowed her tongue. “No,” she choked out. “Absolutely zero body heat sharing. Ew.” He would probably be way too warm, making her sweat, and what if he was a cuddler? He could end up snoring on top of her, pinning her down with all those muscles and—“Ew,” she repeated. “Horrible. Terrible. The worst.”

He looked affronted. “People don’t generally respond so poorly to the thought of sharing my bed.”

“It’s not a bed,” she said. “It’s a tent. One you will be sleeping in with a few blankets, while I will be occupying the sole sleeping bag.” Her forehead furrowed as she considered something. “Wait, demons don’t sleep as often as humans, do they? Or eat or pee. I mean, not that I’ve seen you pee—”

“I did,” he confirmed, pointing into the woods. “Took a piss on that tree.”

She winced. “The point is, why do you need to sleep when you slept last night? Can’t you go on a hike or something?”

He looked as confused as she felt. “You want me to hike around the freezing cold woods alone at night rather than resting? What if it aids my memory?”

Okay, that was a decent point. Demons typically slept once or twice a week, but maybe he needed extra sleep because of the injury? Or maybe she’d caught him at some weird part of the demon cycle where they needed to eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom for a few days in a row. Demonic ovulation of the metaphorical type. It was possible; the only things she knew about demons came from Oz and an Interplanal Relationships course she’d taken in college that had been light on details.

“Fine,” she said, eyeing the tent with a burgeoning sense of dread. “You can sleep with me.” At his smirk, she hurried to clarify. “Next to me, that is. Not with me. Preferably as far from me as the tent will allow.”

He sighed. “If you insist you don’t want to share warmth . . .”

“I do.” She wasn’t even going to think about having his hot skin pressed against her or his breath puffing against her ear or his . . . “I’m going to sleep now,” she announced, cheeks flaming.

As she hurried toward the small orange tent, she swore she heard his chuckle behind her.