“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.
EIGHT
What happened when ambitious little girls were taught to contort themselves into whatever shape society deemed proper, feelings and individual preferences be damned?
Mayor Cynthia Cunnington happened.
Calladia squeezed her hands in her lap as she sat opposite her mother in the living room, trying not to fidget. Her father wasn’t there, of course, off on his never-ending business trip. The high-backed chair was stiff and uncomfortable, despite being covered in beautiful blue brocade. That summed up her childhood home in a nutshell—expensive, tasteful, and painful as hell.
Cynthia didn’t look uncomfortable in the slightest. As Mariel would say, cacti had evolved to thrive in harsh environments. Calladia’s mother perched at the edge of her chair, knees pressed together and feet tucked to the side. Her sheath dress was made of gray-blue satin, smooth as a glassy lake. She was sixty but hardly looked it, considering the mix of magical and nonmagical procedures she’d undergone to maintain the sharp line of her jaw and that stiff expanse of forehead. Her blond hair was rolled into a chignon, her lips were painted pink, and her blue eyes skewered Calladia like daggers.
“What did you say happened to your house?” Cynthia asked in a voice like ice. She’d never liked Calladia’s house—too small, too bright, not at all appropriate for the Cunnington family heir.
“A demon blew it up.” Calladia wasn’t going to mince words; that would only necessitate staying longer.
A long, slow blink while Cynthia processed this. “You seem unharmed.”
“Are you inquiring or informing me? Yes, I’m mostly fine, thank you so much for your concern.” Calladia didn’t bother to strip the sarcasm from her tone. She knew better than to expect motherly fretting, but the tepid response still stung, and the only defense was to sting right back.
“Watch your tone.” Cynthia touched the strand of pearls that perpetually adorned her neck. Not a threat, precisely, but a reminder of where the power in this room resided. Calladia wove spells with thread, but her mother’s necklaces were her own talismans, and the spinning and twisting of beads could portend a nasty spell.
Ambition could twist easily into ruthlessness, and if her mother had ever struggled to fit the Cunnington family mold the way Calladia did, there was no sign of it now. Cunningtons had always been socialites and politicians, as judgmental as they were influential.
“My tone is fine,” Calladia said. “Especially considering I’m nearly thirty years old and you no longer supervise my every action.”
She despised the defensive edge to her words. No matter how much time passed, she still felt like a rebellious teenager, and with the stress of the day wearing at her, Calladia was slipping into old patterns.
Hecate, this house. It scratched at her like one of the poofy dresses she’d been forced to wear growing up. It was straight out of a magazine spread, all silk and brocade, silver and crystal, gray and blue and cream. The Spark family home across the street had also been oppressive for Mariel growing up, but at least that hodgepodge monstrosity had character. The Cunnington home felt like a frozen lake.
Calladia thought of sunshine yellow walls and golden wood, and the loss of her home stabbed her in the gut again.
“How did you antagonize this demon into exploding your house?” Cynthia asked.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Calladia protested. “He thought I was sheltering a rival demon. No idea where he got that from.”
Telling the truth was out of the question. There was no way Cynthia would approve of harboring a demon, especially since a different demon—Oz—had accidentally nearly electrocuted her at the last town hall.
“If he heard that rumor, others may have as well. Is anyone else aware of the situation?” Cynthia grabbed her smartphone and started typing, no doubt some message to her beleaguered assistant, who was tasked with everything from procuring exotic potion ingredients to crafting social media responses to emergent crises. Crises such as family members pissing off demons, apparently.
“I mean, probably,” Calladia said. “Considering all the smoke and fire.” As explosions went, it hadn’t been subtle.
“No, I mean, does anyone know it was an attack, not an accident?” Cynthia’s thumbs stilled on her phone, and she looked up. If Calladia’s announcement had temporarily stunned her, she was back in action, the crafty expression on her face indicating an upcoming bout of scheming. “Then again, that could be a compelling campaign trail narrative. An underhanded attack against my daughter, no doubt funded by a rival candidate—”
Calladia shot to her feet, outraged. “Do not twist the destruction of my house into propaganda. You aren’t even up for reelection for two years.”