Calladia thumped his shoulder, brown eyes burning with fury. “How many people will have to die to keep you in power? One every century? Every fifty years? Every twenty? For how long? Indefinitely?”
Astaroth felt sick at the thought. He didn’t want to kill mortals for the sake of extending his life span, but if they consented, as Isobel said they sometimes did, would that absolve him of blame?
He knew what Calladia would say.
As much as Astaroth wanted an instant solution to his mortality problem, he wanted Calladia’s good opinion more. “It might not come to that,” he said, backing down from the argument. “Isobel doesn’t know every life witch—there might be one who can restore my immortality without any murder.” Calladia still looked pissed, so Astaroth grabbed her hand and kissed it. “This is only one option. We’ll find another.”
“You’re damn right we will,” she snapped. She looked toward Isobel, then sighed. “So what do we do now, if she can’t kill Moloch and you can’t regain your immortality or your memories here?”
It was a setback, but the solution to his amnesia was somewhere inside his head. He just had to figure out how to trigger the return of his memories now that Isobel had healed some of the damage. “She said the memories will return when I’m ready to seize the life I want, right?”
“Not the most helpful instructions,” Calladia said.
“Still, my amnesia isn’t permanent.” It was a massive relief. He’d been afraid he would stay broken forever. “So we’ll carry on, and maybe Lilith will have some answers the next time we talk. Or who knows, maybe I can meditate or see a hypnotist or something.”
Calladia bit her lip. When she looked back at him, her expression was still wary but slightly softer. “Where do we carry on to?” she asked. “This was the end point of the quest.”
What? No. “We’ll go back to Glimmer Falls,” Astaroth said, fighting a wave of panic at the thought of his time with her ending. “We can consult Alzapraz again. And I’ll call Lilith as soon as we’re done here to see if she found anything in my den.” A brilliant idea came to him, a way to extend the trip even farther. “We can go to London and search my flat! Have you ever been to London?”
“No.”
“Oh, you must. You’ll love it.” He’d take her to see all the sights, walk with her along the Thames, share the wonders of a full English breakfast or a Sunday roast. She’d look lovely in a wool peacoat, and he had to take her to his haberdasher, of course; everyone deserved a favorite hat—
“Astaroth.” Calladia interrupted his fantasies. “How long do we keep doing this? What if the ideal moment for your memories to come back is in eighty years or something?”
“Bloody hell, I hope not.” Although he suspected they could get up to a great deal of fun in eighty years. And that led to another possibility: maybe he could convince her to seek immortality with him. “Have you ever wanted to live forever?” he asked.
She grimaced. “You sound like an informercial spokesperson. Interested in eternal life?” she said in a mockery of his accent. “Look no further than our range of weaponry you can use to murder innocents and steal their lives!”
Apparently Astaroth’s potential murder spree was still a sensitive subject. “Well, ah, like I said, there may be another way—”
Calladia stiffened and clapped her hand to his mouth. He tried to protest, but she shook her head. “Listen.”
He strained his ears, wondering what had gotten her attention. The fire crackled softly; the cauldron bubbled. Through the shuttered windows, he heard wind whipping through the trees.
Leaves crunched, and a man’s voice murmured outside. The words were too indistinct to make out, but the tone was familiar.
He met Calladia’s wide eyes. Moloch, he mouthed.
They moved in unison, preparing for battle. Astaroth rushed to retrieve his branch, while Calladia pulled some yarn from her pocket. Isobel was now standing beside the front door, slipping a cell phone into the pocket of her dress. Firelight flickered across her face, and déjà vu spun Astaroth’s head again.
He’d seen the witch before, illuminated by fire as she was now. Her black eyes had stared deep into him, and her mouth had opened around a spell. Astaroth had tried to get away, but something had held him in place . . .
Shock rattled him to his bones. “You!” He pointed a damning finger at Isobel. “You’re the witch who cursed me.”
“What?” Calladia’s head whipped around. “Wait, the one who took your immortality?”
“The very one. I just remembered.” He was seething. How could she have lied to their faces?
“Well, this is awkward,” Isobel said, stifling a yawn. “It was nothing personal, you understand. Just business.”
“Give me my immortality back,” Astaroth ordered, advancing on her.
“I can’t. It’s already been applied to my own life.” Her lips curved in a mean smile. “A half-human immortal is a rare find. Thanks to you, I won’t need to harvest shorter mortal lives ever again.”
Outrage burned through him. The witch had been working with Moloch all along. She’d cursed him with mortality and stolen his eternal life, and now she’d alerted the demon to their location. “How much is he paying you?” he demanded.
“More than fifty gold doubloons,” Isobel said coolly. “Which you still owe me, by the way.”
“Did you even heal him?” Calladia asked. “Or was that a trick?”
“I do not accept money and then fail to deliver on my promises,” Isobel said. “I applied magic to heal his brain. The rest of what I told you about recovering his memories is true as well.”
Calladia was practically snarling. “How are we supposed to believe a filthy liar?”
“I didn’t lie. I omitted the truth.”
Blast, this was a trick Astaroth ought to have seen coming. His instincts were growing dull. “We need to get out of here,” he told Calladia. “Now, before Moloch sends some fireballs in and roasts us alive.”
Isobel looked startled at that. She whipped out her phone and started typing, presumably a text along the lines of NO FIREBALLS. “It’s been a tepid experience doing business with you,” she said, gesturing at the door. “There’s the exit.”
Calladia looked murderous. She wore bloodthirstiness well, but attacking Isobel would only delay them. “She’s not worth it,” he told Calladia. “We need to get out of here.”
Calladia sneered at Isobel. “I hope you choke on those gold doubloons, bitch.”
“Blame capitalism,” Isobel said. “Good luck with everything.”
Astaroth stood at the front door, ready to burst out with metaphorical guns blazing. And by metaphorical guns he meant a big stick and a pissed-off witch. He could think of worse weapons. “Come on,” he told Calladia. “Your arse-kicking skills are needed.”
Calladia nodded, then strode past Isobel. Then she pivoted and booted the witch in the chest with a side kick, sending Isobel crashing into her cauldron. Isobel shrieked as boiling tea splashed on her.
“Nice,” Astaroth said.