A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(52)
He grunted in acknowledgment, then snuck a glance at her. Her profile was elegant for such an aggressive force of chaos, with a high forehead, classically straight nose, and pouty bottom lip. The fight had mussed her braid until gold hair escaped in haphazard clumps, and her tan skin practically glowed. She was so lovely it made his fingertips tingle with the urge to touch her.
Her skin would always be cool compared to his, and he’d bet anything the curve of her cheek would feel like satin under his fingertips. Naked, she would be exquisite, all firm muscle under smooth skin, the perfect mix of hard and soft.
Speaking of hard . . . Astaroth shifted on the bench seat, turning his hips away to disguise his growing erection. This was also abnormal. Astaroth had been shagging for centuries in every combination and permutation one could imagine. Sex could be a tool or a bit of fun, but he’d never been ruled by his desires.
Now? Just imagining the witch naked was enough to make him hard.
Trees flashed by, a mix of coniferous green and bare or autumn-clad branches. An osprey circled overhead, wings stabbing black against the gray sky. The demon plane was beautiful in its own way, but the brilliant shades of Earth were more to his taste. Rather than relying on outside magic to thrive, the human world produced its own, and he hadn’t found anywhere else in the universe quite so vibrant.
Calladia switched the radio on and scanned through channels of static until she found a station she liked. It was a pop song similar to the one by Taylor Swift, though this one didn’t trigger any memories. Calladia hummed along, voice wobbling above and below the melody.
Why was the witch so compelling? Astaroth stewed on the question as he snuck more surreptitious glances at her. He’d known courtesans and famed society beauties in centuries past and was familiar with the tools of attraction. Cosmetics, costume, and a puff of scent took care of the physical lure; polite conversation, flirtatious witticisms, and dazzling displays of talent accomplished the rest. Beauty was crafted like any other work of art, and its perfection took effort.
Calladia didn’t try at all. She wore no makeup and didn’t care about fashion. She sang off-key and was more likely to punch someone than engage in polite conversation with them.
And she was the most beautiful person Astaroth had ever seen.
“Tits!” Calladia exclaimed.
Astaroth was startled out of his reverie. “Tits?” he repeated dumbly. His eyes dipped to where her breasts were hidden by soft-looking flannel. Did she have tan lines? Or did she sunbathe nude? The thought wasn’t helping the situation in his trousers, so he told himself not to imagine her bare breasts or speculate on the color of her nipples.
Shell pink, maybe. Or dusky rose, the hints of brown echoing her tan.
“Mother Nature’s bosom or whatever.” Calladia pointed ahead. “They just came into view.”
Right, the quest. He followed the direction of her finger and saw two rounded hills rising in the distance past a deep valley, the slopes visible now that they’d topped this latest ridge. Jagged snowcapped peaks towered behind the “tits” as the mountains claimed the horizon.
A town sprawled along the top of the ridge, the buildings lining the road and extending into the trees. Unlike Fable Farms, these were far from uniform. There were wooden cabins, adobe buildings with flat tops, and spiraling towers with pieces of colored glass pressed into the stucco. A mounded hill with a door built into it indicated more housing underground, and a wooden platform ringing the top of a tree had rope bridges extending from it.
“Griffin’s Nest, I presume.” Astaroth rolled down his window, inhaling the crisp autumn air.
“It’s cute.” Calladia pulled to a stop outside a black-walled restaurant labeled NecroNomNomNoms. The menu posted outside was written in runes, and the acrid spices wafting from the building were enough to make Astaroth’s eyes water. Calladia sniffed, then made a face. “Whew, someone’s getting adventurous with valerian.” She sniffed again. “Mandrake, wormwood, and horehound, too. And definitely some blood.”
“You have a keen sense of smell,” he said.
“My mom made me take a potions course in college.” Calladia grimaced. “Not my favorite aspect of magic, but the scents stick with you after you’ve been sweating over a cauldron for a semester.” She unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. “I need to stretch my legs.” Once outside the truck, she raised her brows. “Well? Are you coming?”
Astaroth’s chest warmed at the thought that she wanted his company. He got out of the truck and shook out his legs before reaching overhead, groaning at the delicious ache in his muscles. “Lucifer, I’m stiff.” He twisted his torso a few times, then noticed Calladia staring at him. Or rather, at his waist. He glanced down and realized the stretch had lifted his shirt to expose a strip of skin. Astaroth reached even higher, arching his back to show off more of his abs.
Calladia quickly looked away. “I was thinking we should stop here for the night,” she said. “We only have another hour or two of sunlight, and I’d rather reach Isobel’s place during the daytime. Visiting strange witches after dark is a good way to get hexed.”
Relief washed over Astaroth at the realization that his time with Calladia would be extended. It was followed by swift self-condemnation, because that was the opposite of the scenario he should be hoping for. He needed to reach Isobel as soon as possible to learn how to restore his memories and kill Moloch; every minute spent delaying that goal was a minute he risked himself—and Calladia—encountering further danger. “Are you sure?” he asked. “The tent isn’t exactly comfortable. We could push through and see if Isobel has a spare room.”