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.
SIX
A roaring noise filled Calladia’s ears, followed by a cacophony of explosions and shattering glass. A wave of hot air smacked into them like a train, sending them flying. She screamed as she tumbled across the grass, shielding her head with her arms. A bush stopped her forward momentum, and she lay dazed in a cradle of broken branches.
When she looked back at her house, she cried out in horror. A plume of fire reached toward the sky, and black smoke roiled around it like a many-limbed monster. Ashes rained down, and the wind blew an acrid scent into her nostrils.
Astaroth staggered into view through the smoke, looking as battered as Calladia felt. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to hide before he realizes we’re alive.”
Calladia couldn’t tear her eyes away from the destruction. “My house.” Her beautiful yellow house. Grief tightened her throat and burned her eyes.
Astaroth grabbed her hand and tugged her to her feet. “Later,” he said. “We need to get away right now.”
Calladia was in too much shock to argue. She let him drag her down a slope toward a copse of trees. Astaroth was muttering as he patted himself all over with his free hand. When his fingers quested behind his ear, he snarled and tugged at something.
“Bespelled tracking device,” he said, showing it to Calladia. It was a small gold disk with miniature spikes covering one side. “Hunters use it on the demon plane; he must have applied it when we first fought.”