A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(126)

“Me, too!” shouted a British demon with pale blond hair and black horns who was gyrating on the opposite side of the small circle they’d formed. That was Astaroth, Oz’s former mentor, who had been kind of evil before a bout of amnesia had improved him immensely. The improvement was also due to his partner, Calladia Cunnington, who had reformed the demon during a road trip nearly two years ago. Astaroth’s memories had returned, including the knowledge that he was half human, but he’d remained on Team Good and now lived with Calladia on Earth, visiting the demon plane on occasion to help implement progressive societal reforms.

Astaroth was an incredible dancer. He’d spun Calladia around the floor in a waltz earlier—only wincing a few times when she stepped on his toes or head-butted him while trying to take the lead—and now he was doing an enviable John Travolta impression. He was also ridiculously handsome and an expert swordsman, and Ben had reflected more than once that the universe needed to spread out its gifts a bit more evenly.

Thankfully, being surrounded by good dancers and internet-famous pixies meant fewer people were looking at Ben. Thus, he was free to flail.

“When are you going to get hitched?” Themmie asked Astaroth, slurring her words. Ben noticed there were little hearts painted on the apples of her brown cheeks.

Astaroth looked toward the bar where Calladia was ordering drinks, and his face softened into an utterly infatuated expression. “Neither of us particularly believe in the institution of human marriage, and we don’t need a ceremony to be bound together forever.”

“Aww,” Themmie said. “But what about the tax benefits?”

Astaroth grimaced. “Right. Sometimes I forget humans are determined to suck the money and joy out of everything.” He shrugged. “Maybe someday, then, but I’ll let her lead the way. I’m just fortunate to be able to love her for as long as I can.”

A sharp ache took up residence in Ben’s chest. What he would give to be able to love someone with all his neurotic heart . . . but who could possibly love him back?

Drunk flailing took a sharp turn into drunk moroseness.

Themmie turned to face Ben. “And you? Got your eye on anyone special?”

Ben’s eyes were not fixed on anyone special, but they did abruptly grow watery. The ache spread and deepened, and he stopped waving his arms. “No,” he said sadly.

Themmie looked alarmed at his sudden shift in mood. She returned to the ground, then wrapped a small hand around his arm. “Come on,” she said. “I need a breather.”

She didn’t even come up to his shoulder, but pixies were stronger than they looked, and Themmie had no problem manhandling him off the dance floor. The world spun, and Ben staggered before face-planting into a tree.

Themmie winced. “Let’s sit you down.” She guided him to a bench. “Head between your knees.”

Ben obeyed, bracing his elbows on his knees and lowering his head. He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the urge to vomit. Damn the whiskey. If he were a normal person, he wouldn’t need to get drunk to dance at his friend’s wedding.

He’d said that last bit aloud, unfortunately.

Themmie patted his back. “Normal is overrated,” she said. “But want to talk about it?”

Ben didn’t. He really, really didn’t, especially not to an internet-cool pixie some fifteen years younger than him who generally had at least two or three significant others. That was why he opened his mouth and spilled the entire story to her.

“I’m thirty-eight and single and haven’t dated in nearly a decade. My business takes up all my time, and I like to knit, and I’m not even a proper werewolf, and who could ever love someone who feels this anxious most of the time? I should like all the howling and biting things, but I just feel out of control, and no one else likes sweater vests even though they’re wrong about that, and what if nothing about me is attractive and I die alone in a ditch?”

He sat back up in time to see Themmie blink a few times. “Wow,” she said. “That was a lot. Uh, let’s back up. For starters, what’s wrong with knitting?”

“People think it’s boring,” he said forlornly. “I should have a manly hobby like . . . like woodworking or sword fighting or hunting elk with my bare hands.” The best he’d managed in wolf form was a particularly ornery rabbit, and he’d felt guilty afterward.

“Hobbies don’t have genders,” Themmie said. “And you don’t have to be some stereotypical macho woodsman to be attractive. Also, you’re not going to die in a ditch, knitting isn’t boring, and sweater vests . . . uh, I’m sure they have many merits.”

“Many,” he said fervently. “Argyle is wonderful.” Such a pleasing pattern.

“I’m sure it is,” she said soothingly. “So you’re lonely and want to date, but you’re also anxious and not sure someone will like you just the way you are?”

“That’s precisely it.” How quickly she cut to the emotional core of the matter, like Hylo had. “Have you thought about being a bartender?”

Themmie cocked her head, looking confused. “Uh, not really.”

“You’d be great at it,” he said vehemently. “Not the drink bits—or maybe the drink bits, I don’t know—but all the listening and shit. Stuff,” he clarified. “Shouldn’t swear in front of a lady.” His mother had drilled that into him growing up, but it was hard to remember sometimes, like when he was drunk or hanging out with his creatively vulgar cousins and friends.