It was like having a dangerous exotic animal prowling loose in her house. The bedroom was bright and comfortable, decorated in yellows and whites, and Calladia had assembled the simple furniture herself after buying it from the werewolf-run furniture and home accessory store LYKEA. It was a casual space suited for laughter and relaxation, not Astaroth’s elegant brand of menace. His white suit, blood-spattered as it was, was clearly expensive, and his black horns were sharp against his white-blond hair. Even his face was sharp, with high cheekbones, an elegant nose, and a chiseled jaw that would have been at home on a magazine cover. When he flicked his ice-blue eyes in her direction, Calladia resisted the urge to flinch.
“Are you going to stare at me all night?” he asked in that posh British accent.
“Are you going to keep being nosy?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know anything about you except that you hate me. It makes sense to learn more about my enemies.”
Hecate, why was she doing this again?
Oh yeah, because she was incapable of stepping away from a fight or a person in need. Also? Tequila.
Her buzz had worn off, but even with common sense back in action, Calladia didn’t like the idea of kicking Astaroth out of her house. Sure, she’d made Oz sleep on the lawn when she’d first met him and he’d been a real dick, but Oz hadn’t been hurt. Astaroth’s right eye was starting to swell, and although he’d clearly tried to mask it, by the time they reached her house, he’d been limping. Not to mention the blood that had dried in the hair near his left temple, which she suspected hid a nasty cut.
What had happened to make him lose his memory? Had she been the one to hurt him that badly? Sure, her spell had launched him over the mountains, but demons were hardy and healed quickly. Oz had staggered into town a few hours after she’d done the same to him, barely the worse for wear. It had been over twelve hours since she’d punched Astaroth, and he still looked like shit.
Astaroth shrugged out of his suit coat and hung it on the back of the desk chair. His vest went next, and before Calladia could process what was happening, he was unbuttoning his bloodstained white shirt.
“What are you doing?” she yelped, turning around and shielding her eyes.
“Getting ready for bed.” He sounded infuriatingly unbothered. “You seemed inclined to watch.”
“No, I just—” Shoot, why was she still standing there? “I wanted to, um, set some wards.”
Cheeks burning, Calladia pulled the hank of thread from her pocket, focusing on the outcome she wanted. Distracted thoughts were one reason a spell could go awry, and she’d trained hard over the years to be able to focus through emotional distress—a handy talent with a mother like Cynthia Cunnington, mayor of Glimmer Falls and the embodiment of parental disapproval. Calladia closed her eyes, imagining a golden cage shimmering into life at the boundaries of the room, then started weaving.
“I can feel your magic,” Astaroth said. “You’re strong.”
Calladia ignored him, contemplating what mix of words and knots would be best for this spell. The language of magic was difficult, complex, and irrational. It was an amalgamation of many languages, with chaotic elements all its own. Speaking the words wasn’t necessary for small spells—especially not for a spellcaster as accomplished as Calladia—but for a working like this, it was essential to ground the spell in both language and action. The string dug into her fingers, winding in tightening loops as she added varieties of knots. One knot for safety, one for captivity, one for violence should her mystical boundary be breached.
“Are you going to allow me access to the loo?” Astaroth asked.
“Demons don’t eat, drink, or use the bathroom as often as humans do. You’ll be fine.”
“If you want to risk it. They’re your sheets.”
Damn. Calladia unraveled a few knots, then made new loops to extend the parameter, adjusting her mental picture to allow a narrow corridor between the spare bedroom and the bathroom. Hopefully she wouldn’t run into him in the middle of the night.
“Astaroth din indelammsen,” she whispered. With a final tug, the spell settled into place, and Calladia shivered with the pleasant sensation of magic sparkling through her body. It felt like a banked forge in her chest had roared to life, filling her with heat and light.
She opened her eyes and turned around. “All set—what the fuck?” The last words came out way too high-pitched, because Astaroth hadn’t stopped with the shirt.