A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(8)
The demon’s head whipped around. He was weirdly sweet-looking, with brown hair, blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. He looked her up and down, then returned his attention to his victim. “Shall I cut your nose off first?” the demon asked the man. “Maybe an ear?”
Calladia didn’t like being ignored. She wound the thread around her fingers and began tying the elaborate knots that would ground her spell in physical action. “Defienez el daemon,” she said, tying the final knot.
The demon flew backward, hitting the brick wall. Calladia’s spell kept him pinned there like an insect. She sauntered up to him, smirking at his outraged expression. “What, you don’t like humans interrupting your demonic crimes?” she asked with only a slight slur.
He sneered at her. “Out of my way, witch.”
“You’re not going to offer me a bargain?” Astaroth had tried that earlier, offering her money, fame, love . . . whatever she wanted in exchange for her soul and her magic.
She knew better than to believe in such empty promises. Like anything else worth having, love was earned, not seized.
The demon scoffed. “You’re dealing with Moloch of the Nine, witch.” At Calladia’s uncomprehending stare, he clarified. “I’m a warrior, not a bargainer.” His muscles strained as he fought against the spell, and Calladia felt the magical bonds weakening. Hecate, he was strong.
“Not much of a warrior right now,” she said, brazening it out as she started tying a new string of knots. “You aren’t welcome here.”
She wove a circle of protection around herself and the unfortunate man in the gutter, who she hadn’t had a chance to look at yet. Better safe than sorry. It turned out to be an excellent impulse, as Moloch broke free of her original spell and lunged at her. He ricocheted off the shield, and Calladia laughed.
Moloch’s face twisted in an expression of rage so potent it made Calladia retreat a step. “This isn’t over,” he said. Then he made a circular gesture with his fingers, and a flame-edged oval the size of a door appeared in the air. A portal. With a final glower at the man on the ground, Moloch stepped through, and the portal sealed behind him.
Calladia blew out a heavy breath. “Wow. What a dick.”
A pained groan sounded from behind her. “You can say that again,” the British man said. “Bloody hell.”
Calladia dropped to her knees to examine the man for injuries. “Are you hurt—” She broke off as the man straightened from the fetal position and rolled to face her, revealing black horns and a familiar face. “Oh, hell no,” she said, scrambling away.
Had she seriously just rescued her enemy?
Astaroth looked like shit, at least. His white suit was stained with dirt and blood, his chiseled face was wan, and the skin around his eye was rapidly purpling. “Thank you,” he said weakly, pushing to a seated position.
“Nuh uh,” Calladia said, standing and backing away. She started tying new knots, trying to decide if she should forcibly fling him to Oregon or turn him into a newt. “You aren’t welcome here either.”
Astaroth’s forehead furrowed. “Sorry, have we met?”
Calladia laughed disbelievingly. “Forgotten me so quickly? Maybe my fist in your face will help you remember.”
He winced and prodded the swelling skin around his eye. “Forgotten . . .” His eyes widened with what looked like panic. “Wait, where am I? And who are you?”
THREE
Astaroth’s face hurt, and his brain was foggy. He stared at the angry witch standing over him, trying to figure out where he knew her from. She clearly knew him, after all, and she didn’t seem to like him much, despite having saved him from whoever that Moloch fellow was.
He tried to remember anything prior to the past few minutes. He had a jumbled impression of vaguely familiar faces, the flicker of firelight . . . and nothing else. Just the residual emotional echo of some horror.
Who was this woman? Who was the demon who had punched Astaroth in the face before threatening to skewer him alive? Why did his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton?
“What do you mean, where are you and who am I?” The witch crossed her arms, displaying a pair of impressive biceps. She was tall and lean, with sun-kissed white skin, long blond hair tied up in a ponytail, and a thunderous expression. She was wearing a pair of daisy-patterned leggings and a shirt that said Sweat Like a Girl. The cheap fabric of her leggings made Astaroth shudder with distaste, though he could admit it highlighted her arse in a compelling way.
“I can’t remember anything,” Astaroth said, rubbing his aching temples. His head pounded, and not just from being punched by Moloch. “I don’t know how I got here or where I am.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the woman said. “Can demons get amnesia?”
He reached up to touch one of his horns. He knew they were black, the way he knew his name was Astaroth and that spandex was repellent in most contexts. But although he had a general sense of self, he had no idea what that self had been up to before the preceding minutes. “I suppose they can,” he said, rubbing his forehead with his palms. “Lucifer, my head hurts.” Pain pulsed inside his skull, punctuated by sharp, fiery stabs.
The witch shifted from foot to foot, looking between him and the entrance to the alleyway. “You really don’t recognize me?”