“You think you’re the victim,” Calladia said, turning to face him. They were blocking the path, but other late-night pedestrians wisely gave them a wide berth. “You, who tried to take Mariel’s soul. Who threatened Oz with a sword. Who tried to ruin their lives to win a bet.”
Astaroth perked up. “I have a sword?” Amnesia would feel a lot more comfortable if he was armed.
Calladia threw her hands up. “That’s what you care about?”
“What kind of sword?” He’d gone through a variety in centuries past—broadsword, rapier, saber, cutlass—and it was a relief to know some things hadn’t changed.
“Hopeless. You are absolutely hopeless.” Calladia started walking away.
Astaroth followed, pondering the likelihood she would tell him where to find said sword. He gave it approximately a zero percent chance, but might as well make an attempt. “Any idea where it is?”
“Up your ass,” she shot back.
“How unsafe.” Apparently she wouldn’t be much help in locating it, but something else she’d said caught his attention. “Wait, what bet did I try to win? What were the terms?”
“How should I know?” Calladia increased her pace, striding down the pavement like she could power walk him into the dust. “I’m not your nurse, your secretary, or your emotional support animal. Once I drop you off at the hospital, that’s it.”
He grimaced, trying to match her aggressive pace. Besides the splitting pain in his head, his leg still throbbed, and his ribs weren’t feeling great after receiving Moloch’s boot several times. “The hospital?” he asked.
“That’s where injured people go.”
Panic abruptly swamped him, and the same mysterious woman’s voice echoed in his head. Don’t trust doctors. They might figure it out. He still couldn’t place the voice with a face or an identity, nor did he know what doctors were at risk of finding out, but he knew—he knew—that bad things would happen if he went to a hospital. “Wait,” he said. When Calladia kept striding ahead, he halted, bracing himself against a lamppost. “Stop!”
She turned on him with an annoyed look that seemed to be her default expression. “What?”
“I can’t go to hospital.” He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the race of his heart.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Calladia rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.” She started walking again but stopped when she realized he wasn’t following. “Are you serious?”
Astaroth’s breaths were coming too fast. Anxiety buzzed beneath his skin and coiled around his lungs and stomach, squeezing hard. Hot pain stabbed his temple, and all at once, it was too much to handle. His knees buckled, and he sagged against the pole.
“Whoa,” Calladia said, hurrying over. She lifted her hands as if to steady him, then balled them into fists and dropped them to her sides. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know!” Astaroth shouted, losing the grip on his temper. “Is it not obvious that I have no bloody idea what’s happening or where I am or where to go?”
For once, she looked uneasy rather than simply pissed off. “If you go to the hospital . . .”
Astaroth smacked his fist against his thigh, instantly regretting it when the pain echoed in his bones. “Will you listen to me for a second? Or would you rather start speechifying about how horrible I am again, instead?”
Calladia planted her hands on her hips, not backing down. “Look, I’m being nice to you—”
Astaroth laughed. “This is nice? I’d love to see what you consider mean.” He should stop talking, but damn it, his head hurt like the dickens and his body wasn’t much better, and it was infuriating and terrifying to be faced with a black hole in the place of his memories. “Other than a few nonsensical snippets from centuries ago, the only things I remember are getting kicked in the ribs and you lecturing me about what a horrible demon I am. And Halloween candy, for some bloody reason. And now I’ve remembered one other thing, and it’s that I should never see a doctor, yet you are determined to drag me to some mortal hospital where Lucifer knows what will happen, just because you’re so eager to be rid of me.” He paused to take a deep breath, as if that might help him wrestle his emotions into submission. It didn’t, and shame fermented in his gut at his lack of control. “Look,” he said, digging his knuckles into his closed eyes, “just leave me here. Go home and forget about my horrible, evil presence. Soon enough, Moloch or someone else will find me, and you can rest easy knowing I’m no longer your problem.”