“Not the kind of action I meant.”
Calladia made a shocked noise, then planted her hands on his chest and pushed. He stepped back, grinning at how flustered she looked. “You are incorrigible,” she said, shaking her head.
Not a victory yet, but a tactical advantage. Astaroth slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I think you like it.”
“And I think you have delusions of grandeur.” But as she turned to face the bakery window, Astaroth spied the points of her nipples pressing through her shirt.
Oh, yes, she liked it. Humans were a passionate species, and despite everything he’d done to antagonize her, she still wanted him.
Around her, he felt passionate, too. Had he been younger, he might have made his move right then and there, pressing her to the window and capturing her lips in a hungry kiss. But his witch was complicated. If seduction wasn’t equally her idea, she’d never go along with it. Calladia wasn’t a prize to be won—she was an equal competitor in this battle of wills and wants, and the only way to woo a woman like that was to leave her wanting until she got impatient and seized the prize herself.
Astaroth reached out to tuck back a loose strand of her hair, letting his fingers linger on the rim of her ear. She tipped her head to the side as if inviting him to trail his fingers down her jawline, then quickly straightened, narrowing her eyes.
Patience, he told himself as he withdrew the touch. Play the long game.
It was difficult when everything in him was screaming to seize her, kiss her, pleasure her.
Calladia shook her arms out and cracked her neck like she was shrugging off the carnally charged energy. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s find a place to stay.”
Astaroth followed, his pulse tapping a giddy beat. As they headed down the street, he realized something startling. Despite centuries of being a master planner and manipulator who knew all the right buttons to push to influence people . . . Astaroth truly had no idea what Calladia would do next.
And fuck if he didn’t like that.
* * *
Griffin’s Nest proved to be a quirky, eclectic town designed for ease of access. The pavements were wide, and all public buildings had landing pads for winged creatures and ramps for wheelchair users, centaurs, and others who couldn’t navigate stairs with ease. Pride flags fluttered next to flags from around the world, and the windows were filled with signs advertising community events and cross-species sporting leagues and art classes.
Although Astaroth horns garnered a few curious looks, the people here didn’t seem alarmed by his presence. Everyone they passed had a smile and a wave. There was one tense moment when they passed a sweet shop and a gnome in a pointed blue cap came barreling out, but although Astaroth instinctively braced himself for an attack, he ended up confronted by a tray of free caramel apple samples instead.
“Are you a minotaur like Dr. Shepard?” the gnome asked, looking curiously up at Astaroth. He was a teenager, with acne-spotted cheeks and a diminutive letter jacket bearing a gold Honor Roll star. “Or part minotaur? You have the horns, but you don’t have a bull head like him.”
Well, that question explained the community’s general comfort with horned creatures. “I’m a demon,” he said, accepting a toothpick bearing a green apple slice drizzled in caramel.
The gnome’s jaw dropped. “No way? That’s so cool. Dr. Shepard teaches history and interplanar cultures. I’ll have to tell him I met you!”
Minotaurs had a fearsome reputation in most places, due to their penchant for lurking in caves and absconding with attractive people, but Astaroth was canny enough to recognize a marketing choice, and everyone he’d met who had been abducted by a minotaur had found the experience thrilling.
He sank his teeth into the apple and made an approving noise. “Lucifer, that’s good.”
“Right?” The gnome grinned. “The Wicked Witch provides the apples.”
Calladia and Astaroth shared an alarmed glance. “Are these apples . . . doctored in any way?” Calladia asked as she tossed her own toothpick in the bin.
The gnome laughed. “Sorry, I forgot you’re tourists. The Wicked Witch is a shop selling locally grown produce. It’s owned by two of the sweetest witches you’ll ever meet, and all they do with their magic is extend the growing season.”
“Mariel would love that,” Calladia said. “One of my best friends,” she clarified at the gnome’s curious look. “She’s a nature witch.”
The gnome launched into an excited spiel about garden magic, the quality of local produce, and various plant-related festivals Calladia’s friend ought to visit for. Astaroth half listened while surreptitiously watching Calladia. Her face lit up whenever she mentioned Mariel, and it was clear she loved the witch very much.
And Astaroth had apparently tried—and failed—to collect Mariel’s soul. He closed his eyes, begging his brain to produce anything related to the failed bargain that had turned Calladia into his enemy rather than something sweeter.
He had a flash of a wall of brambles and a furious-looking witch with curly brown hair. That image lurched abruptly into another: the same witch standing with a blank expression on her face while a demon with black horns and hair cried out, sounding agonized.
Was the brunette Mariel or some other witch he’d met during the centuries missing from his memory? Considering the presence of a heartbroken-looking demon, he suspected it was Mariel and he’d gotten a brief glimpse of the bargain gone awry. Which meant that large, very upset-looking demon was Ozroth, Astaroth’s so-called protégé. Former protégé now, after choosing love for a human over his duty to the demon plane.
Astaroth’s chest felt tight. He focused, trying to identify the emotion. It was . . . loss of some sort. A subtle yet bitter grief.
He chose them, Astaroth thought nonsensically.
“Earth to Astaroth,” Calladia said.
Astaroth opened his eyes to find her snapping her fingers under his nose. The gnome was nowhere to be seen. The world spun, and he braced his feet farther apart to center himself. Curse these dizzy spells.
Calladia looked concerned. “Is everything all right? Where’d you go just now?”
He hesitated, wondering if mentioning Ozroth and Mariel would anger her. Then again, it wasn’t like she’d forgotten what he’d done to them, even if he had. “I think I remembered Ozroth and Mariel.”
Calladia stiffened. “What did you remember?”
“Not much.” Astaroth weighed his words carefully. “I saw a woman with curly brown hair casting magic on a wall of plants. Then I saw a demon with black hair next to her.”
“That does sound like Mariel and Oz.” Wariness lurked in Calladia’s brown eyes, and her posture was tense. “Anything else?”