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.”