“She’s the mayor,” Calladia said. “Two years now, and years of campaigning before that.”
If she had to pinpoint when her mother’s expectations had grown toxic, versus simply overbearing, it had been the moment Cynthia had decided to run for office. Suddenly, Calladia’s existence had become part of a political narrative—one that didn’t allow for foul-mouthed daughters who didn’t fit high society’s expectations.
“Is she any good at it?” Astaroth asked.
Calladia was startled into a laugh. No one had ever asked her that. “I mean . . . no? Not in my opinion, at least. She doesn’t think highly of nonwitches or working-class people, and she definitely takes bribes.” Calladia had been disgusted when she’d realized how quickly her mother, the so-called “pillar of the community,” had embraced being a crooked politician. “Did you know she supported bulldozing some of the forest to build a resort and spa for rich people? Like, she fully didn’t care if the forest died or the fire salamanders went extinct, so long as her bank account stayed healthy.”
Suddenly, Calladia remembered who she was talking to. Astaroth had been poisoning the woods, too—not to make way for a resort, but in an effort to force nature-loving Mariel into a soul bargain. He had been as devious as Cynthia in pursuit of his goals, with little care about who was hurt in the process.
Astaroth had also been the reason the resort was scrapped though. Mariel had eventually made a bargain, and in return, Astaroth had cured the woods and made it so no one could build on that protected land again. Even after Oz’s magical UNO Reverse play to return Mariel’s soul to her, nothing could cancel Astaroth’s magic.
He’d saved the forest, but did that matter when his intentions were rotten?
“Why are you glowering at me all of a sudden?” Astaroth asked. He blinked slowly, his long, pale lashes sweeping his cheekbones. “Makes you look very fearsome. Duck onesie aside.”
He’d made a few sly digs at her attire, but it wasn’t like he could talk, since he was wearing a fluffy bathrobe. And after discussing her mother, Calladia was no longer in the mood to be twitted. “I was thinking about when we met,” she said. “You were trying to kill the forest, too.”
“So you’ve said.” He drained his glass, then held it in his lap, turning it over. “Was I in cahoots with your mother, or did you decide it was easier to be pissed at me again, rather than her?”
Calladia set her own glass down on the floor. “I can be mad at two people at once.”
“I am well aware.” He stared into the empty glass like it held the answer to an unspoken question. “It does feel a bit like being punished for someone else’s crimes though.”
Oh, please. “I said I could be mad at both of you—”
“I’m not talking about your mother,” Astaroth interrupted. “I’m talking about whatever version of me you met in the woods. You hate him, and for all I know you’re right to, but since I can’t remember a bloody thing, it seems unfair to keep being punished for it.”
Calladia stood and retrieved both glasses, taking them to the kitchen. “Just because you can’t remember doesn’t mean you didn’t do it,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Astaroth made a frustrated sound. “And is my entire worth and identity boiled down to one incident? Will you always look at me and see the demon who hurt your friends, no matter what else I do or say?”
She was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. Maybe the alcohol had broken his composure, the way being contacted by her mother had broken hers. Maybe both of them had learned too well how to shield themselves from the world.
Calladia wasn’t sure how to respond, or even if she should. Was this an argument? It had an edge to it their usual banter didn’t, like the uneven sharpness of broken glass. She didn’t like it.
Was Astaroth looking to be comforted, absolved of his crimes? He didn’t deserve such softness, any more than Calladia did.
Their eyes remained locked for long moments. Then Astaroth stood. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced. He looked between her and the bed, then plopped back down on the couch. He lay on his side facing the fire, legs tucked up and head pillowed on his bicep.
Calladia stared at him. What happened to fuck chivalry?
He had been right though; the couch was too small for him to sleep on. His knees hung over the edge, his legs were jammed toward his chest, and if he shifted more than a few inches, he’d topple off.
Calladia sighed. Maybe it was the tequila speaking, but she didn’t like seeing him uncomfortable. She didn’t like fighting with him either—at least not like this.
She moved around the space, dousing lights before casting a quick spell to bank the flames to a subtle glow. Then she grabbed all the spare pillows she could find and made her way to the bed.
“What’re you doing?” Astaroth’s sullen voice came from behind her, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw him peering over the back of the couch.
“Making a pillow wall, obviously.” She’d constructed a soft barricade down the center of the bed. “I get the left side.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I said I get the left side. You get the right.” He seemed befuddled, so she shrugged. “If you want to sleep on the couch, I won’t stop you, but the bed would be more comfortable.”
Calladia went to brush her teeth, then left the brush and toothpaste on the counter for Astaroth to use if he wanted. She took her bun down and shook it out, finger-combing the damp strands. She’d brush it in the morning once it was dry.
When she returned to the bed, there was a demon-shaped lump under the covers on the right side. Calladia felt a twinge of something alarmingly close to fondness when she noticed the tips of his horns peeking out. Mariel had told her Oz slept bundled up like a burrito, his demon physiology demanding heat. Astaroth was apparently the same.
Calladia slid into the side of the bed closest to the window, where the air was cooler. Even with the pillow wall between them, she was far too aware of the demon’s presence. His soft breathing was audible in the stillness, and the mattress dipped slightly in favor of his weight.
Rain began tapping against the roof and windows, and Calladia yawned. “Good night, dramatic demon,” she mumbled as she curled up on her side.
Sleep reached for her with soft, dark fingers. She had nearly succumbed when Astaroth murmured a reply.
“Good night, grumpy witch.”
Calladia smiled.
NINETEEN
Astaroth woke up with a mouthful of hair.