Astaroth barely made it back to the truck before Calladia stormed out of the house. He hunkered down, heart racing and mind churning over what he’d overheard.
That conversation had been overflowing with toxicity. Did Calladia’s mother truly not see her daughter’s worth? Where Astaroth saw passion and fire, a willingness to fight for what was right, and an indomitable spirit and clever wit, Calladia’s mother saw . . .
A disappointment.
The truck door was flung open, and Calladia shoved a cardboard box at him. “Take this,” she ordered.
He did, propping it on his lap as he sat upright. “What’s in here?”
“None of your business.” Calladia backed out of the driveway like ghouls were chasing them, then sent the truck lurching forward. It stalled, and she cursed as she restarted the car, jammed the clutch in, and yanked on the shifter.
Astaroth’s curiosity would make it his business, but he knew better than to start digging through the box while she was watching. “So,” he said. “How’d it go?”
Calladia leveled him with a death glare. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Astaroth chewed his lip, wondering what to say next. He couldn’t admit he was listening in; that would just piss her off more. But how else was he going to get information out of her?
To be better able to manipulate her, of course. Blackmail and whatnot. Just in case.
Considering she was driving like she was actively seeking out adorable Disney animals to turn into roadkill, there wasn’t much more pissing off to do before she hit her limit, so Astaroth went for it. “I was eavesdropping,” he said. “Your mother seems like a treat.”
Calladia slapped the steering wheel. “I told you to stay in the car!”
Astaroth shrugged. “I was curious. Were you really engaged to be married?”
It wasn’t the question he’d planned to ask, but it was the one that popped out. Why that should be the thing he’d fixated on, who could say. It just seemed odd for someone so militantly independent to be engaged, that was all. Anyone would be curious.
The look Calladia threw him threatened to rearrange his insides. “None of your business,” she repeated.
“Why’d you break it off?” he asked, undeterred. “Did you castrate and disembowel him and then have to make up a story to explain his absence?”
“I wish.” Calladia grimaced. “He tried to make me small.”
She didn’t elaborate, but it was enough for Astaroth to start forming a picture. The kind of man Calladia’s mother would have found “high-value” was probably some snooty fuck with strict expectations of female behavior. There were far too many men like that, on Earth and other planes, and Astaroth despised them. Not that he wasn’t a snooty fuck—he was, and proudly—but he couldn’t imagine trying or wanting to shape someone like Calladia into another form.
“Well.” Astaroth cleared his throat. “As your sworn enemy, I can reliably inform you he did not succeed. It would take magic beyond the most powerful witch’s abilities to turn you into anyone but exactly who you are.”
Calladia’s lips parted. As she coasted to a stop at an intersection, she stared at him. He couldn’t identify the emotion in her eyes, but it made him feel awkward. He fidgeted and looked down at the box in his lap.
Calladia didn’t say anything for a while. She drove on, eyes on the road and hands clasping the steering wheel, though her grip didn’t seem as tight as it had before. “So,” she eventually said. “We’ll hit up Mariel’s place next, and then we need to find a place to stay. I want to get out of town, just in case Moloch realizes we’re alive. I have camping gear—”
Astaroth recoiled. “Camping? Like . . . in nature?” He may not remember much of the last few centuries, but his imperfect memory did contain strong opinions about having to bivouac when he’d tagged along with King George III’s soldiers for a lark. Faced with mud, terrible rations, and a distinct lack of hygiene, he’d determined the camping lifestyle was (A) not a lark, and (B) not for him.
“Where else would you camp?” Calladia asked.
Astaroth shook his head. “Absolutely not. First off, there are bugs. And dirt. And probably bears and who knows what, and I’m not going to sleep on the ground.”
Calladia looked at him askance. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those precious types who can’t sleep unless they’re in a proper bed.”
“Is that precious?” Astaroth asked. “Or is it a reasonable expectation, considering the technology available? I was born in the late medieval period. Why would I choose to revisit it?”
“Well, for starters, camping isn’t about comfort. It’s about getting away and enjoying nature. Cooking over a fire and staring at the stars.”
“I can enjoy nature through a window, thank you very much.”
“Secondly,” Calladia said, “we’re on the lam. This isn’t some five-star vacation getaway.”
“That doesn’t mean we need to lower all our standards—”
Calladia interrupted him. “Where’s your wallet?”
Astaroth blinked, jolted out of his argument. “What?”
“Your wallet.” She held out her hand, beckoning with quick flicks of her fingers. “Since you clearly have the cash to pay for a fancy hotel.”
“I—” Astaroth closed his mouth, then opened it again. “I’m sure I have plenty of resources on the demon plane.”
“The demon plane where Moloch lives? Sure, sounds good. Let’s go there.”
Curse her, she wasn’t supposed to have a good point. “I’ll pay you back. Eventually.”
She scoffed. “Like I believe that.”
“We could make a bargain,” Astaroth offered. “Those are unbreakable.”
Calladia slammed on the brakes so fast, Astaroth was thrown against the seat belt. “Don’t ever offer me a bargain again,” she said vehemently, jabbing a finger into his shoulder.
Astaroth rubbed the spot she’d poked. “Touchy, touchy.”
Her scowl was even more ferocious than usual. “I know how bargains work. I ask for a favor, and you fulfill it, taking away all my magic and emotions while you do so, right?”
“Well . . . yes.” Bargaining was woven into his being—even if he couldn’t remember all the details, the instinct was there. Demonic bargainers devoted their lives to making deals that protected the species. Even the smallest demon child knew that without the light and magic provided by mortal souls, their plane would darken and die.
Calladia shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
Astaroth felt a flicker of something he suspected might be guilt, but he suppressed the impulse to apologize. Bargaining was a noble calling; there was nothing to be ashamed of. “So that’s a no on the bargaining. A shame. You have such a lovely soul.”