Trees flashed by, a mix of coniferous green and bare or autumn-clad branches. An osprey circled overhead, wings stabbing black against the gray sky. The demon plane was beautiful in its own way, but the brilliant shades of Earth were more to his taste. Rather than relying on outside magic to thrive, the human world produced its own, and he hadn’t found anywhere else in the universe quite so vibrant.
Calladia switched the radio on and scanned through channels of static until she found a station she liked. It was a pop song similar to the one by Taylor Swift, though this one didn’t trigger any memories. Calladia hummed along, voice wobbling above and below the melody.
Why was the witch so compelling? Astaroth stewed on the question as he snuck more surreptitious glances at her. He’d known courtesans and famed society beauties in centuries past and was familiar with the tools of attraction. Cosmetics, costume, and a puff of scent took care of the physical lure; polite conversation, flirtatious witticisms, and dazzling displays of talent accomplished the rest. Beauty was crafted like any other work of art, and its perfection took effort.
Calladia didn’t try at all. She wore no makeup and didn’t care about fashion. She sang off-key and was more likely to punch someone than engage in polite conversation with them.
And she was the most beautiful person Astaroth had ever seen.
“Tits!” Calladia exclaimed.
Astaroth was startled out of his reverie. “Tits?” he repeated dumbly. His eyes dipped to where her breasts were hidden by soft-looking flannel. Did she have tan lines? Or did she sunbathe nude? The thought wasn’t helping the situation in his trousers, so he told himself not to imagine her bare breasts or speculate on the color of her nipples.
Shell pink, maybe. Or dusky rose, the hints of brown echoing her tan.
“Mother Nature’s bosom or whatever.” Calladia pointed ahead. “They just came into view.”
Right, the quest. He followed the direction of her finger and saw two rounded hills rising in the distance past a deep valley, the slopes visible now that they’d topped this latest ridge. Jagged snowcapped peaks towered behind the “tits” as the mountains claimed the horizon.
A town sprawled along the top of the ridge, the buildings lining the road and extending into the trees. Unlike Fable Farms, these were far from uniform. There were wooden cabins, adobe buildings with flat tops, and spiraling towers with pieces of colored glass pressed into the stucco. A mounded hill with a door built into it indicated more housing underground, and a wooden platform ringing the top of a tree had rope bridges extending from it.
“Griffin’s Nest, I presume.” Astaroth rolled down his window, inhaling the crisp autumn air.
“It’s cute.” Calladia pulled to a stop outside a black-walled restaurant labeled NecroNomNomNoms. The menu posted outside was written in runes, and the acrid spices wafting from the building were enough to make Astaroth’s eyes water. Calladia sniffed, then made a face. “Whew, someone’s getting adventurous with valerian.” She sniffed again. “Mandrake, wormwood, and horehound, too. And definitely some blood.”
“You have a keen sense of smell,” he said.
“My mom made me take a potions course in college.” Calladia grimaced. “Not my favorite aspect of magic, but the scents stick with you after you’ve been sweating over a cauldron for a semester.” She unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. “I need to stretch my legs.” Once outside the truck, she raised her brows. “Well? Are you coming?”
Astaroth’s chest warmed at the thought that she wanted his company. He got out of the truck and shook out his legs before reaching overhead, groaning at the delicious ache in his muscles. “Lucifer, I’m stiff.” He twisted his torso a few times, then noticed Calladia staring at him. Or rather, at his waist. He glanced down and realized the stretch had lifted his shirt to expose a strip of skin. Astaroth reached even higher, arching his back to show off more of his abs.
Calladia quickly looked away. “I was thinking we should stop here for the night,” she said. “We only have another hour or two of sunlight, and I’d rather reach Isobel’s place during the daytime. Visiting strange witches after dark is a good way to get hexed.”
Relief washed over Astaroth at the realization that his time with Calladia would be extended. It was followed by swift self-condemnation, because that was the opposite of the scenario he should be hoping for. He needed to reach Isobel as soon as possible to learn how to restore his memories and kill Moloch; every minute spent delaying that goal was a minute he risked himself—and Calladia—encountering further danger. “Are you sure?” he asked. “The tent isn’t exactly comfortable. We could push through and see if Isobel has a spare room.”
She shot him a knowing look. “I find the tent perfectly comfortable, but I’m willing to take pity on your delicate constitution. We’ll book a hotel.”
“I’m not delicate,” he objected, despite the relief he felt. “I’m discerning.”
“Definitely delicate,” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked away, hips swinging. “And a frightful snob, to boot.”
He stifled a chuckle. “Do you know how many people dare disrespect me?” he asked in a mock-stern tone as he caught up to her.
“Not nearly enough, I bet.”
Astaroth couldn’t help it. He laughed, a full, hearty guffaw. “You’re so bloody mean!”
She smirked. “You can take it.”
“And so I shall, gladly,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.
Calladia shook her head. “It’s like you want me to insult you. Are you a masochist or something?”
“Just a demon who likes a challenge. A mortal constantly trying to take the piss out of me is unusual.”
“So you like being called a delicate little purse dog because it’s a novelty?” she asked.
They were passing a bakery with an array of large, colorfully shelled eggs in the window next to the pastries—a sure sign of griffin occupancy, since the creatures used their talons to puncture eggs before slurping up the yolks. On impulse, Astaroth cut Calladia off and backed her toward the window. She went without resistance, and her breath hitched when her shoulder blades met the glass.
Very interesting.
Astaroth planted his hands on either side of her head and leaned in until his mouth was inches from hers. Her eyelashes fluttered. “It is a novelty,” he murmured, reveling in the pleasurable tension strung between them. “But part of the enjoyment comes from imagining all the ways I can prove you wrong.”
“Oh, yeah?” Calladia asked. “How would you prove me wrong?”
She was trying to play tough, but the breathy quality to her voice sent triumph spinning through him. Every sense felt sharpened as he took her in. The unsteady waft of her breath, the pink tinge to her cheeks, her dilated pupils . . . she was far from unaffected by his nearness.
Did she want him as badly as he wanted her?
Astaroth brought his mouth even closer to hers, watching her eyelids sink to half-mast . . . then shifted until his lips brushed her ear. “You wouldn’t call me delicate if you’d seen me in action,” he murmured.
She shivered. “I saw you fight.”