He mumbled and spit it out, only to realize the hair had encroached elsewhere. Strands were wrapped around his neck, something brushed his ear, and when he breathed in, hair tickled his nostril. He nuzzled into the pillow to scratch his nose, then opened bleary eyes.
Dawn light spilled through the window, casting a bright rectangle across the bed. Astaroth was lying on his left side, and directly in front of him was a large quantity of the hair in question. It was long, straight, and buttery-blond, the texture silky where it wasn’t tangled from sleep. The head to which the hair belonged rested on a pillow next to him, facing away in a mirror of his pose.
He inhaled the scent of Calladia’s soap. She smelled like oranges and sun-warmed linen.
His sleep-fuddled mind didn’t understand why she was so close to him. Hadn’t she erected a pillow fortress? His right hand was resting on something soft; maybe the barrier hadn’t been fully breached overnight.
When he raised his head, he realized he wasn’t touching the pillow barricade. His hand was resting on the curve of Calladia’s waist. Her chest rose and fell softly under blue, rubber duck–patterned fabric.
He slowly placed his head back on the pillow, not wanting to make any sudden movements and wake her. Resting with her, touching her, felt surreal. Lucifer, even seeing her relaxed and quiet was bizarre. She’d had a few lively conversations with herself during the night, but now her breathing was deep and even.
It could be like this between us, he thought. Days spent fighting the world and each other, nights and lazy mornings dedicated to peace. His witch was a powerhouse, a warrior queen, but even warriors had to rest between battles.
It was who they let themselves rest around that mattered.
Calladia shifted. “Freaking bulldozer,” she muttered.
Astaroth bit back a laugh. His fingers gently flexed on her waist. The onesie was soft, but he felt the firm line of her body beneath it.
Had rubber ducks ever been so arousing?
Calladia made a grumpy noise. “Where’d you get the fedora?”
Astaroth froze. The words echoed in his head, ringing like a bell. Where’d you get the fedora? Where’d you get the fedora?
Where’d you get the fedora, a pickup artist convention?
His temple throbbed, and his head spun. Astaroth closed his eyes, swallowing against nausea.
A memory played out, one bracketed with green pines and sprawling brambles. The background was hazy, but one thing was clear and sharp: Calladia, standing with her fists clenched, a furious expression on her face. Her hair hung loose to her lower back, and she was wearing the same outfit from the first day: leggings patterned with daisies and a blue tank top that said Sweat Like a Girl.
In the memory, Astaroth stood opposite her, his white suit clean of blood and a black fedora covering his horns. His hand rested on the crystal skull topper of his cane sword.
This motherfucker is Astaroth of the Nine? the Calladia of memory asked. Where’d you get the fedora, a pickup artist convention?
Memory Astaroth and current Astaroth were united in their outrage. I don’t take sartorial critiques from people wearing spandex, he’d sneered.
Nearby, a short pixie with pink-and-green hair expressed alarm. Another of Calladia’s friends, presumably. Whatever she said was lost, because Calladia was walking toward Astaroth, cracking her knuckles, and she was all he had focus for.
The last few days had taught Astaroth to be wary when she looked like that. The emotions captured in the memory didn’t match what he felt now though. At the time, Astaroth had been full of disdain. He’d considered her annoying and irrelevant. Beneath him.
So you’re the demon who’s been destroying the forest? Calladia began tying her hair up, and Astaroth instantly knew this memory was about to devolve into a fight. The demon who destroyed my best friend’s greenhouse? The one trying to force Oz and Mariel to make a bargain?
He’d looked at her soul then, opening his demon senses. It was brilliant, pure in its power. And Astaroth, greedy demon that he was, had wanted to claim it for himself. Seize a new victory out of the bitterness of recent defeat. Maybe with her soul as an offering, the high council would allow him to amend the terms of the wager. He could still come out on top.
Astaroth’s sweat had felt cold in the forest air. Moloch couldn’t win. Not before Astaroth revealed . . .
But the particulars of what Astaroth needed to reveal drifted away like mist.
Do you want to become a princess? he’d asked, determined to find the price that would convince her to hand over her soul. Own a diamond mine? Say it, and it’s yours.
I do want something, she’d said, stopping just out of reach, but I can’t get it through a deal.
What had she wanted? He desperately wanted to know. He’d wanted to know back then, too, but for a different reason. Until he knew her vulnerabilities, he wouldn’t be able to use them for his own ends.
It was strange, feeling this split in himself. It seemed impossible he’d ever viewed her with sneering disdain, yet the memory was definitely his.
I can give you anything.
No thanks. I take what I want.
He’d noticed her beauty even then. The mix of classically delicate features and visible musculature had been interesting. His mind had traveled down speculative paths, considering what the angry, pretty witch would take if she could.
Then she’d punched him in the throat.
In the present day, Astaroth yelped and twitched. Calladia instantly sat upright, shoving hair out of her face to reveal flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. “What is it?” she asked, voice still blurred by sleep. “Who’s there?”
He sat up, too, powered by a burst of outrage. “You punched me in the throat!”
“I did?” Calladia looked down at her hand, then back at him, blinking slowly. “Sorry, I’m an active sleeper. You look fine.”
“Not in your sleep,” he said through gritted teeth.
She squinted at him, and he saw when her mind finally caught up with the conversation. “Oh,” she said. And then, “Oh! Wait, did your memory return?”
“Some of it,” he said, crossing his arms. “I remember you hitting me.”
“Well, at least it’s a start,” she said with a cocky grin. “I’m sure you’ll remember the rest of the beatdown soon.”
The casual way she spoke about it set his teeth on edge. “You sound awfully cheerful about it.”
“And you seem upset, though I’m not sure why. We’re enemies, remember?”
“Because . . . because . . .” Dash it, he wasn’t sure why he was angry either. It was just that after all they’d been through together, being attacked by her stung. That the attack had happened before their recent adventures didn’t seem to figure in to his addled brain. With memories popping up willy-nilly, it felt like she’d punched him moments ago.
And why did she have to say it like that? We’re enemies, as if that neatly summed everything up. As if she still saw nothing more in him than a foe to be vanquished.