She shook her head at his absurdity and started slopping water over her arms and shoulders. Then she ducked underwater, holding her breath while the heat sank into her scalp. Her hair drifted like seaweed, and her racing thoughts began to slow.
Calladia unfortunately didn’t have gills to stay under indefinitely, so she surfaced and set about shampooing and soaping. Once her hair was slick with conditioner, she grabbed a combat magic textbook from her backpack and settled in to refresh her memory on spells that could be useful in the days ahead.
She read for a while, but the excitement of the last few days was catching up with her, and as warmth relaxed her muscles, Calladia’s eyelids drooped. When she nearly dunked the book in the water, she gave up on reading and tossed it aside.
She’d just rest for a few moments. Astaroth and her mother and the stresses of the outside world could wait.
Calladia must have drifted off, because the next thing she knew, she was sneezing and coughing up soapy bathwater. Her eyes watered as she shoved herself upright, and water slopped onto the floor. She swiped the hair out of her eyes, cursing up a storm. So much for a relaxing bath.
A cleared throat came from the other side of the bathing screen. “Battling the Spanish Armada in there?” Astaroth asked.
Calladia glared at the screen. “Are you still eavesdropping?”
“It’s hardly eavesdropping when you’re that loud.”
“Ugh. Go take a long walk off a short branch.” She started untangling her conditioner-slick hair with her fingers, grimacing at the pull on her scalp.
“As delightful as plummeting to grievous injury sounds, I prefer to stay here.” There was a long pause, during which Calladia scrubbed and stewed over her ruined bath. “Do you need anything?” Astaroth asked.
“Sure,” Calladia said sarcastically. “A stiff drink, a quesadilla, and a new set of lungs.” She coughed again, spitting out the last of the water.
Astaroth didn’t respond, so Calladia dedicated herself to finishing off the bath. Near-drowning or not, exhaustion or not, aggravating text from her mother or not, she was going to squeeze whatever small amount of relaxation she could from this situation. She grabbed a loofah and scrubbed militantly until her skin stung.
All right, maybe she wasn’t the best at relaxing. But by the time she was done, her skin was squeaky clean, her hair was wound in a wet bun on top of her head, and she smelled like sweet orange and lavender essential oils. Her self-care techniques might be aggressive, but the results were what mattered.
Calladia drained the tub and toweled off thoroughly. Through the window, the ruddy light of a dying afternoon had melted into the purple hues of twilight, and Calladia felt the urge to curl up under a blanket and let the lingering heat of the bath lull her to sleep. She put on clean underwear and shimmied into the onesie, buttoning up the front and that ridiculous butt flap.
When she looked at herself in the mirror, she hardly recognized the woman looking back at her. The duck pajamas were part of the effect, sure, but there was something else she couldn’t put her finger on. An extra rosiness to her cheeks, maybe, or a luminosity to her eyes. It was as if some invisible tension had been lifted from her skin by the hot water. She looked . . . soft.
Calladia had never been soft. Yet she kept staring, enraptured by this vision of a woman who might have existed, had she not had to erect so many walls to protect herself.
Calladia shook her head and shoved the nonsensical thought aside. It was probably heatstroke combined with the text from her mother making her emotional. Thinking about her mother punctured that hazy bubble of contentment, which proved it hadn’t been meant to last. “Your turn,” she said as she stepped into the main room. “Unless you like reveling in filth.”
“Depends on the filth,” Astaroth said. He turned from where he’d been leaning over the table, then recoiled. “Dear Lucifer, what are you wearing?”
Calladia was distracted by what he’d been leaning over: two takeout containers, a bowl of limes, and bottles of tequila, triple sec, and simple syrup. She rushed over. “Where did you get this?” she demanded. She inhaled deeply, then moaned at the spicy scent of Mexican food.
Astaroth crossed his arms, looking as smug as if he’d single-handedly taken down a mammoth with a spear and dragged it to his cave. “I found a takeout menu in the kitchen, and Tansy provides delivery service.” He gestured to the spread. “Voila, quesadillas.”
The fight had cut lunch short, and Calladia hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She wanted to cry looking at the crisp tortillas overflowing with melted cheese. “Thank you.”
“It’s being charged to your card,” Astaroth said.
Calladia laughed and swiped at her eye. Trust the demon to spike his own guns with a sardonic comment. She was getting to know his tells though, and she recognized he used snark to deflect attention whenever he did something heroic. And yes, the retrieval of Mexican food did count as heroism.
She dug in with a fork and knife from the kitchen, groaning when she realized the cheese was still hot and gooey. Peppers and rich chunks of pulled pork were dotted throughout.
When the sharp edge of her hunger had been dulled, she thought of something. “How did you order takeout if you can’t unlock your phone?”
“I tried a few combinations of numbers,” he said. He’d been eating slowly and neatly, cutting the quesadilla into small bites. “1 2 3 4 5 6 worked.”
“Seriously?” She chuckled. “That’s, like, the least secure passcode in history. So much for being a master strategist.”
He gave her a dark look. “It got you quesadillas, didn’t it?”
She lifted her fork. “Touché. I rescind my mockery.”
Astaroth picked up the tequila bottle and peered at the label. “How does one make a margarita anyway?”
Calladia was more than happy to teach him. She found a cocktail shaker and glasses in the kitchen and shook up two margaritas.
When Astaroth sipped, his face relaxed into a smile. “That’s delicious.”
Calladia felt a swell of pride, which was ridiculous. Making a margarita for a demon she despised wasn’t exactly a life accomplishment.
Looking at his clever, compelling face though, she was forced to admit a truth that had been building for some time. She didn’t despise him, no matter what she said. No matter how much she should.
She hadn’t spent much time with him before he’d lost his memory, but this version of him was far more appealing than the sneering villain who’d insulted her after trying to hurt her friends. Sure, he was a snarky ass, but he was also generous and willing to back her up in a fight or order takeout if she was hungry.
Was this the true Astaroth? Or was the villain the real version?
As Calladia watched the skin beside Astaroth’s eyes crinkle with a smile, she found herself wishing he’d never gain back his memories if it meant he’d stay like this.
* * *