A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch

Hours after the attack, Astaroth was still furious.

It was an ugly emotion, hot and stinging. It coiled around his spinal cord, balled in his gut, seized his lungs in a stranglehold. He clenched his fists in his lap, staring at his whitened knuckles. How dare that Moloch bastard try to kill Calladia? Whatever Astaroth’s history with Moloch, he was sure he’d earned the demon’s hatred on his own merit. All Calladia had done was try to help someone she hadn’t needed—or wanted—to.

Calladia drummed her fingers over the steering wheel. Her own temper was evident in her set jaw and the aggressiveness with which she accelerated after each traffic light. The fact she was still moving, still planning, was awe-inspiring. Where someone else might have curled up in a ball and given up, Calladia had decided to fight.

Astaroth rubbed the spot behind his ear where the gold tracker had been. The skin still stung where its tiny barbs had dug in, and he despised the reminder that he’d been hunted down like an animal.

A thread of guilt mixed with the anger. Despite what he’d said earlier, Calladia had every right to be furious with him. He should have been warier. Even with his amnesia, he’d known about demonic fireballs and trackers—he just hadn’t put the pieces together until too late.

He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to center his thoughts. The conflict with Moloch had shaken a few things loose, but trying to bring his memories into focus was frustrating. It felt like piecing together a puzzle, except the pieces were blurry and slid sideways whenever he reached for them.

Still, there was apparently a key to defeating Moloch buried somewhere in his memory. He just had to dig it out.

“I’m going to ask Oz for advice,” Calladia abruptly said. When Astaroth looked up in surprise, she clarified. “About Moloch, not you.”

“Why not about me?” He didn’t remember Ozroth—and the fact he couldn’t remember his own protégé made him feel ill—but Ozroth undoubtedly remembered him.

Calladia turned a corner so aggressively that a wheel jumped onto the sidewalk and they nearly took out a rubbish bin. Astaroth braced himself against the door. “Oh, I don’t know,” Calladia said waspishly. “Maybe because you tried to murder him recently? And steal his girlfriend’s soul? I hear you weren’t a particularly affectionate mentor either.”

She had every right to be mad at him, but not for that last part. Even if he didn’t recall his time as a mentor, he knew how things worked. “Mentors aren’t supposed to be affectionate,” he said. “They’re teachers, not therapists.” Their duty was to craft the strongest bargainers—or warriors or healers—by whatever means necessary in order to ensure the future of the demon plane.

“Whatever,” Calladia said. “I’m still not telling him we’re hanging out.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” He wasn’t sure fleeing from a murderous demon with the witch who hated him qualified as a “hangout.”

Calladia sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just . . . be quiet for a bit, okay?”

Astaroth obliged, though he didn’t like it. He picked at his blood-and-dirt-smudged clothes and brooded as he stared out the window.

Glimmer Falls appeared to be a charming, colorful town full of eateries, boutiques, and lively public spaces. Despite the nip in the air, people of all species were everywhere, walking, talking, embracing, casting spells, or eating on restaurant patios. It was a beautiful place that Astaroth had inadvertently brought a great deal of ugliness to.

It was aggravating being so useless. He had a strong sense of self despite the amnesia, and perpetual victimhood wasn’t a look he enjoyed. He ought to have dueled with Moloch, skewered the bastard with his own sword, then charmed Calladia with some brilliant witticism. Instead, he’d retreated, and he still couldn’t come up with a single memory about the demon or how to defeat him.

“Maybe I’ll find his house,” Astaroth muttered. “Blow it up, see how he likes it.”

A soft noise caught his attention, and he looked over in time to see Calladia discreetly wipe her eye. The sound repeated, and to Astaroth’s horror, he realized it was a sniffle.

“Are you crying?” he demanded.

“No,” came the aggressive, if muffled, response. Then, “Shut up and mind your own business.”

He tried, but it was difficult. The sound of her soft weeping sent him into an agitated state. He needed to move around, fight something, kill something, anything to make the tears stop. “What would make you stop crying?” he blurted out when he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Just leave it, all right?” She wiped her nose, steering one-handed. “I’m sad about my house.”

“That bastard shouldn’t get to make you cry. He should be wearing his own entrails.”

Calladia gave a watery chuckle. “Agreed.” She wiped her eyes and nose again. “Why do you care if I cry anyway?”

Astaroth wasn’t sure how to answer. “It makes me uncomfortable,” he finally said.

“And everything’s about you, right?” The sharp edge had returned to her voice, but at least the anger seemed to have stalled the tears.

Pissing her off further might prevent future crying, but it also might tempt her to explode his testicles. “Not necessarily,” Astaroth said. “It’s just . . . upsetting, that’s all. That Moloch can hurt you like that.”

Calladia pulled a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. “I’ll recover. And when I do, he’s going to regret ever crossing me.”

Astaroth’s lips quirked at the bloodthirsty promise. “Now that, I believe.”

With the crying over, he was able to relax again—as much as he could with Calladia weaving in and out of traffic. The witch approached driving as combatively as everything else she did.

“Are we going to see Ozroth?” he asked, a bit nervous at the prospect.

“I have to pick a few things up first.”

Something in her tone caught his attention. He studied her as they stopped at a red light. Her face was tight with stress, and her fingers were still drumming on the steering wheel. Her tapping foot joined the percussion, and since the ancient truck’s engine rattled while at rest, the noise swelled into an annoying symphony. He was tempted to ask if there was a tambourine for him to bang when he caught the look in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, whipping his head around to study their surroundings. “Is it Moloch?” All he saw were innocuous-looking vehicles, a gaggle of cheerful pedestrians, and a street performer juggling flaming bowling pins.

“Is what Moloch?” Calladia asked, obviously confused.

“You look afraid.” He’d only known her a short time, but he didn’t like seeing that haunted expression on her face.

“I’m not afraid,” she rebutted instantly. “And no, it isn’t about Moloch.” The light turned green, and she slammed on the accelerator, nearly taking out a centaur on an enormous modified moped who’d taken a wide right turn into her lane.

The centaur veered away, then flicked Calladia off. “Watch it,” the centaur shouted.

“You watch it!” she shrieked, showing him her middle finger in return.

Astaroth side-eyed the witch, then decided not to push further.

Thankfully, they soon entered a residential neighborhood with fewer drivers for Calladia to antagonize. The road climbed up a substantial hill, and the houses grew more extravagant as they went. Columned porticos replaced simple front porches, and the buildings glowed from within as lamplight bounced off gold, silver, and crystal. Most houses had elaborate Halloween displays out front.

“Where are we going?” Astaroth asked.

“My parents’ place is up ahead.” The words were brusque and accompanied by a squeeze of the steering wheel. “I need to stock up on supplies.”

Astaroth tried to reconcile this posh neighborhood with the foul-mouthed harpy beside him. “You grew up here?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She pointed ahead and to the left. “In the gray house at the top of the hill.”

He was too distracted by the house opposite it, which was an absurd amalgamation of architectural styles from neoclassical to Gothic to Tudor. A purple flag snapped in the wind atop a turret. “What is that monstrosity?” he asked.

“The Spark family home,” Calladia said. “Subtlety isn’t their thing.”

He shuddered. “I respect a bold aesthetic, but it ought to at least be tasteful.”

“That’s not a Spark thing either. Mariel aside.” Calladia pulled into the driveway before her parents’ house and parked. “I’ll try to be in and out quickly, but my mother is . . . yeah.” She pointed at Astaroth. “Stay here and don’t let anyone see you. Especially not my mother.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were still haunted.

Astaroth nodded, though he was rabidly curious. She could deny it all she liked, but she was looking at that house with dread.

Astaroth’s fingers twitched, longing for the hilt of a sword.

Ludicrous. Calladia didn’t need him to defend her against her own mother. And even if she did, a violent gutting probably wouldn’t be her defense of choice.

“Right,” Calladia said with a nod, as if replying to her own internal debate. “Rip the Band-Aid off.” She got out of the truck, brushed off her clothes, and shook out her hair, sending residual ash flakes swirling. Then she walked toward the house, looking like a martyr marching toward her doom.

The house was three stories, constructed of gray stone that sparkled in the waning afternoon light. The lawn was neatly manicured, and even the curtains hung in perfectly symmetrical arcs, as if nothing dared step out of place. Astaroth hunkered down in the seat, watching over the dashboard as Calladia rang the doorbell. The door opened, and Calladia disappeared inside.

Well, this wouldn’t do.

When faced with a mystery, Astaroth couldn’t resist the urge to seek answers, and this was quite a mystery. Why was Calladia afraid to speak with her own mother?

Through a window on the ground floor, he saw two female shapes come into view, silhouetted by light from a crystal chandelier. The window was cracked open.

If it was that convenient, he was practically obligated to eavesdrop.

Astaroth slipped out of the truck. This was just a stratagem, he told himself as he hurried across the lawn, hunkering low. Know thy enemy and all that. If he knew what truly rattled Calladia, he could wield that weakness against her if need be.

This was definitely not a ridiculous urge to play the hero if Calladia needed saving.

He positioned himself in the bushes below the window, straining his ears for female voices within. A strategy, yes. Some good, old-fashioned demon plotting.

And if his fingers still itched to hack apart whatever had upset his unpredictable, cantankerous enemy/savior? Chalk that up to the brain damage.