She bristled. “I am not.”
“You’re thinking like a human. Your political dynasties rise and fall in the blink of an eye compared to the demonic power structure. Our course can’t be changed so easily.”
Calladia rolled her eyes. Definitely calling bullshit on that one. “You know what I think the problem is? You’re falling into the same trap people like Moloch do. You think of humans as inferior.”
“I do not,” he said, outrage suffusing his face. “I’ve always been fond of humans.”
“But you hate the part of you that is human, don’t you?”
Astaroth didn’t reply.
Just as she thought. Calladia was tempted to smack Astaroth across the horns and tell him to expand his worldview. “Maybe you think human politics are too brief to pay attention to,” she said. “But the demon plane sounds stagnant, in my opinion.”
Now he looked offended. “It’s a beautiful realm with a long and storied history. Just because we live longer doesn’t mean we’re stagnant.”
“And yet hybrid rights haven’t advanced much since you were born six hundred years ago.”
Astaroth opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked down at his lap and started fussing with the hem of his T-shirt.
Gotcha. Calladia might prefer solving problems with her fists, but not every problem was a nail in need of a hammer. Some required a more delicate touch. “I think,” she said, “that being half human can be an asset when confronting Moloch. Everyone expects you to behave and think like a purebred demon. So what if you don’t? What if you forget everything about long, storied traditions of discrimination and take drastic action to change things?”
Astaroth picked at a loose thread. “It won’t work. Who would want to listen to me after they learn the truth? They’ll call me emotional and weak, my logical mind clouded by my heritage.”
“Who would want to listen to you? The entire hybrid community, for starters.”
Astaroth looked up quizzically. “The hybrids? What could they possibly do?”
“Maybe they aren’t just victims in need of protection. Maybe they’re warriors waiting for a chance to fight for their cause.” Sensing his hesitation, Calladia went in for the kill. “Maybe they’re strong, disciplined, and cunning . . . like you.”
She shifted, insecure and a bit embarrassed at having delivered the compliment. The two of them didn’t say nice things about each other. They bickered and joked, and, yes, sometimes felt each other up, but their dynamic had little room for softness. But with the way Astaroth was staring at her like she’d blown his mind and hung the moon all at once, she couldn’t regret it.
While she waited for his response, Calladia closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. The woods were wild and awake, full of buzzes, chirps, and rustles. The wind that tugged at her hair also ruffled the treetops and raced over the hills and valleys, like the exhalations of some great beast of the earth.
Being in nature made her feel small, but in a good way. Maybe that was part of being human. In the long stretch of time, she was just a blip. And when you were a blip, you didn’t have to worry about the weight of eons. You could live as loudly as you wanted in the space allotted to you.
Calladia’s life had been lacking in joy for a while. Had she let her fear of being hurt stop her from living boldly?
Could she make a different choice, as she was asking Astaroth to do now?
Astaroth’s hand covered hers on the log. Calladia opened her eyes to find him still staring at her with that wonderstruck expression. “Calladia Cunnington,” he said, “you are a marvel.”
Her smile probably looked goofy, but who cared? She tossed her hair over her shoulder and lifted her chin. “It’s because I’m human,” she said in a teasing tone. “Small life, big dreams, zero fucks to give.” Like a corgi in the universe’s dog park.
He lifted her hand to his mouth. “Your life is many things,” he said, lips pressed to her skin, “but it’s far from small.”
* * *
It was afternoon by the time they reached the spot where the road terminated at a parking lot overlooking the river. Narrow trailheads branched out from there, winding through the woods like roots.
Calladia eyed the forest. “I don’t love the idea of leaving Clifford.” Her beloved truck was the closest thing she had to a home at the moment.
“This means camping again, doesn’t it?” Astaroth sounded dismal. But when she glanced at him, he gave her a crooked smile. “Somehow, my delicate constitution and I will endure.”
She shouldn’t find him so entertaining. But over the course of the trip, the evil demon had transformed into a snarky yet supportive rascal. She liked this version of Astaroth, with his clever wit and absurdities. It was worrisome how much she liked him.
Would he remain the same once his memories were recovered though?
Calladia felt uneasy at the thought. Realistically, he needed to be whole again to confront Moloch and enact change on the demon plane, but would he still be willing to publicly fight for the hybrid cause once his memories returned? Or would he fall back into stagnation, cynicism, and easy, glib lies? He’d spent his long life in the pursuit of power, not justice, after all.
In aiding him, was Calladia inadvertently creating one more corrupt politician who could break her heart?
Stop it, she told herself. She wasn’t in love with him or anything. Would it be depressing to see Astaroth become the merciless demon of legend once more, rather than the flawed but fascinating man he was now? Yes. Would it break her? No.
Calladia didn’t break. Even at her lowest, she’d clawed her way back up.
“Let’s go.” She shrugged on the pack that held her sleeping bag and other necessary supplies. They’d stopped at a grocery store and clothing outlet in Griffin’s Nest, so they were fully provisioned. Astaroth had insisted on his own backpack to carry the tent and the other half of their supplies (which he still swore he’d pay her back for). When she’d teased him about chivalry, he’d gotten annoyed and said it was called teamwork and that the chivalric code had been left in medieval times for a reason, and he’d thank her not to reintroduce that church-and-state-focused propaganda to the modern world.
Each trailhead had a carved rock at its base depicting various animals. They chose the one with a bat etched into it—thanks, Bronwyn!—and started hiking. The trail quickly grew steep, the trees closing in overhead and blocking out the sky. Roots jutted out of the ground like gnarled knuckles. Soon the path dwindled to a mere track, and forward progress required shoving branches aside.
“Are you sure this is the right path?” Astaroth asked after a thin branch whacked him in the face. He spat out a dead leaf.
“I didn’t see any other bat signs,” Calladia said.