A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(101)

“I think the two of you should talk.”

“We are talking,” Oz said.

Mariel shook her head. “Not like this. Alone. Go hash some things out while we make plans for Themmie’s protest.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“That hasn’t stopped you from shouting at me so far, has it?” Astaroth asked. Calladia lightly kicked him, and Astaroth exhaled and held up his hands. “All right, all right. We can talk.”

Oz glowered at Astaroth. “I don’t like this.” He took another look at Mariel’s pleading hazel eyes, then sighed. “Fine. Let’s go outside.”

TWENTY-NINE

They emerged from NecroNomNomNoms into the sunshine. Once Astaroth’s eyes had adjusted, he couldn’t stop staring at Ozroth. It was like viewing a sculpture or a painting that reminded you of someone you’d once known, but the details were lost to time, leaving only an echo of resemblance.

Ozroth was taller and broader than Astaroth, with craggy features. His skin was tawny gold and his wavy hair was as black as his horns. A tattoo wreathed his left bicep, runes spelling out his duty as a soul bargainer.

Ozroth noticed the direction of his look. “You had this tattoo inked on me when I was a child,” he said. “Remember?”

“No.”

“I’m going to get it removed.”

“All right.” When Ozroth kept staring at him, Astaroth fumbled for something more to say. “Do you want recommendations for tattoo artists?”

“No, I don’t want recommendations.” Ozroth jammed a hand in his hair and tugged in a gesture Astaroth was startled to realize echoed one of his own tics when frustrated. “You’re supposed to threaten me for removing it,” he said. “Tell me bargaining is my duty, that I’m weak and a failure to my species for quitting. That I’ve let a mortal poison my mind, and my emotions are embarrassing.”

Astaroth winced. Ozroth spoke with the ingrained bitterness of someone who had been told those things many times. “I don’t remember saying that, but I’m not going to say it again.”

“Oh, please.” Ozroth laughed bitterly. “You don’t have to pretend to be some new, improved person. Clearly you’ve fooled Calladia, but you can’t fool me.”

Astaroth snorted. “Like anyone could fool Calladia. You should give her more credit.”

Ozroth’s irises were metallic gold, and when he cocked his head, it made Astaroth think of a bird of prey. Déjà vu spun his head, and for a moment he had a vision of a small boy with gold eyes and small black horns looking up at him trustingly.

“Damn,” Astaroth said, rubbing his temples. It wasn’t that his head hurt—Isobel had taken care of that—but he was becoming increasingly aware of the pressure of memories building up. It was like floating on dark water, unable to see the danger lurking beneath the surface but knowing it was there. He leaned against the wall for support.

Ozroth’s face flickered from adult to young and back again. “What is it?” the demon asked, crossing his arms and scowling.

Across the street, a family was out for a walk. The father was a pixie, the mother human. One child had tiny pink wings, the other none, but they looked thrilled to be out together.

Astaroth imagined their lives as they grew older. Would the wingless child envy their sibling? Or would those minuscule wings be one more trait to love, the same as a mop of red hair or a crooked grin? Would the parents try to change or hide those half-breed traits, or would they embrace them?

Embrace them, he decided, considering their bright smiles. And those children would make it to adulthood feeling valuable just as they were, rather than feeling like they fell short of an impossible expectation.

Astaroth had done the opposite. He’d taken in a young child, then shaped that child to reflect the person Astaroth had secretly wished he could be: a pure-blood, ruthless demon, unafflicted by the doubts and fears of humans.

There was no such thing as a demon entirely unafflicted by doubt or fear though, or if there was, it would be someone like Moloch, whose worldview had become an exercise in sadism.

“When did I take you in?” Astaroth asked.

Ozroth’s forehead furrowed. “Right after my father died during the French Revolution. I was six years old.”

Astaroth winced. That was very young. And yes, bargainers were trained from youth—Lilith herself had trained him in secret on Earth until he’d grown old enough for her to realize he could pass as a full demon—but Astaroth knew his methods of teaching would have been far less cordial than his mother’s. “And then?”

Ozroth settled against the wall beside him. His eyes tracked the family across the way, too. “You took me to your palace in the Obsidian Realm, where you raised me to adulthood.”

Ozroth’s rumbling voice tugged at a stray thread in Astaroth’s brain. The Obsidian Realm was a barren, black wasteland below an extinct volcano. Astaroth closed his eyes, focusing on that thread of connection. “Tell me more.”

He heard Ozroth’s heavy sigh. “It was cold. Stone walls, stone floors. Only the basics required for survival and learning, because you said forming any kind of emotional connection to a person, place, or object would give my enemies a weapon to wield against me.”

Astaroth’s throat felt like it was being squeezed in a fist. It was similar to what Lilith had taught him. “Be cautious about your emotional connections,” she’d said long ago. “They can be wielded against you.”