A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(36)
Time wore everything down like water over stone. Astaroth’s body would never age—although it was certainly taking its time to heal from his recent injuries—but inside he recognized the dulling contours of his past self. He’d burned in those early centuries, consumed by ambition, drunk on the power of shaping worlds and lives. But life had lost its ability to surprise sometime in the murky past.
Calladia, at least, was always surprising. Mortals tended to be, with their brief lives and oversized hungers. Maybe that was why he’d started spending more time on Earth over the centuries, even if he’d sworn it was from a dedication to duty that allowed no respite.
He slipped into the tent and zipped it behind him. When he turned, he saw Calladia looking at him beneath heavy lids. “？’S raining?” she mumbled.
“It is,” he confirmed as he toed off his shoes. He clambered into the blankets.
Calladia’s head dropped to the pillow. “Good,” she said, closing her eyes. “The sandwich is safe.”
He stifled a laugh at the nonsensical words. Still asleep, then, or sliding back into it so quickly that dreams and reality blurred. Soon she was breathing deeply, one hand curled next to her face. Her blond braid was a mess after all that thrashing, and a section of loose hair curved over her cheek, the ends tickling her lips with every exhale.
Astaroth reached out and gently tucked the strands behind her ear.
Then he turned over with a curse, putting his back to her.
As the rain and her soft breathing mingled, he wondered: Why, when he had been shivering a few seconds ago, did his chest now feel oddly warm?
* * *
“Head east and begin the fable. Stalk the red deer.” Astaroth scoffed. “Bloody nonsense. You’d think the witch would at least have a postcode.”
They were winding down a mountain road the next morning, passing in and out of patches of mist. There hadn’t been many turnoffs, and Calladia swore this road was the one that old warlock had instructed her to take, but with every kilometer farther into the forest, Astaroth doubted this plan more.
Calladia’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “I thought you liked drama.”
“As a concept, yes. When it’s impeding my goals? Less so.”
He was feeling decidedly cranky this morning after a night tossing and turning. Calladia had provided him with a granola bar for breakfast, but his stomach still felt hollow. This frequent eating and sleeping business was obnoxious. Astaroth scratched his neck and glared out the window, as if the pine trees might answer for the wrongs he was suffering. At that moment, his stomach gave a loud grumble.
Calladia looked askance at him. “You’re hungry again? Already?”
“Another symptom of my brain damage, apparently.” A thought spun up from the hazy recesses of his mind: Bing might have information about amnesia. He racked his brain, trying to remember who Bing was, but came up blank. “Do you know of an oracle named Bing?” he asked. “I just had a random thought that I might be able to ask them about this.”
Calladia burst into loud laughter. Astaroth jumped at the noise, then found himself unable to tear his gaze away from Calladia as she cackled and slapped the steering wheel. “An oracle,” she wheezed. “You think Bing is an oracle. Even more remarkably, you use Bing!”
“No need to mock me,” he said, torn between embarrassment and a fascination with her amusement. She laughed as boldly as she did everything else, and as soon as the sound tapered off, he found himself wanting to hear it again.
“Sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s just . . . gosh. I love that. Every time I Google something, I’m going to call it ‘consulting the oracle.’？” She was still grinning as she glanced at him. “Bing and Google are internet search engines. You type things on your computer or your phone, and it shows results from across the web.”
“Ah. The internet.” That did sound familiar. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, tapping the screen and scowling when it requested a passcode. “If only I could remember how to get into this blasted thing.”
“You don’t have biometrics set up?” Calladia asked. “Like unlocking it with your fingerprint?”
The words felt familiar, but with little to anchor them in his head, the idea struck him as absurd. It was astounding how much had changed over the course of his long life. At the moment, his most vivid memories involved swinging a sword on European battlefields or entertaining queens by firelight. Now it was possible for a device the size of his palm to be unlocked with a fingerprint so the user could search the internet for information.
He slid his finger over the case, pressing it to various promising-looking spots. “It doesn’t seem like I do.”
Calladia swerved to avoid an oversized chipmunk sitting in the middle of the road—one with purple fur, wings, and fangs. “Probably for the best,” she said. “I heard it’s easy to hack those things with the right tools. Someone lifts a fingerprint, prints it on special paper, and bam, they can unlock your shit.”
Interesting. He’d need to look into that in case the technique could be helpful for soul bargaining.
Calladia switched on the radio and scanned through stations. Static, laughter, static, opera, static . . . then a familiar female voice danced over a rhythmic guitar line. Astaroth nodded along.