“It’s not afternoon yet,” Astaroth said, dropping his hands to his lap. “You could have let me sleep.”
“Oh, stop being a whiny baby,” Calladia said.
Astaroth’s eyebrows shot up. “A whiny baby?” His voice was full of outrage. “I’m six centuries old. I’ve seen more mortal lives come and go than you can comprehend.”
“Bully for you. You’re still being a baby.”
“Do you even know who I am?” Astaroth asked pissily.
It was Calladia’s turn to raise her brows. “Do you?”
“I—” His mouth opened and closed a few times, and then Astaroth rubbed his temples, grimacing. He cursed under his breath, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
Calladia instantly averted her eyes. “You’d better wear that sheet like a toga. I refuse to sully my eyes with the sight of your dick.”
“How you wound me.” Astaroth’s mutter was followed by the rustling of sheets. “Joyless harpy.”
“No, just a joyless witch, but there’s a harpy a few blocks down who’d be interested in meeting you. I’m sure she’d love the chance to devour some demon liver.” Ocypete was actually a vegetarian who used her wings and claws to paint abstract art pieces, not disembowel her enemies, but Astaroth didn’t need to know that.
Calladia risked a glance and was gratified to see the demon had wrapped the sheet around his waist. It didn’t solve the issue of his pecs or a truly remarkable eight-pack, but at least she didn’t have to worry about getting another eyeful of his equipment. “So,” she said. “How’s your head? Any memories come back?”
“It hurts,” Astaroth said, rubbing his temple with the hand not clutching the sheet at his waist. “And no, not particularly.”
“You know your age,” Calladia pointed out.
He grimaced. “It’s complicated. Some things I’m certain of, and I get flashes of images or words, but when I try to remember anything that’s happened recently, it’s just . . . blank.”
“So there’s really no change this morning?”
“None.”
“Shoot.” Calladia nibbled her lip, looking between Astaroth and the bright day outside. She couldn’t deal with a demonic houseguest indefinitely. “Look, I know you don’t like the idea of a hospital, but memory loss is a serious thing. You should at least get checked out.”
“No.” The refusal was instantaneous.
“What if they can help? What if every moment you wait, you risk the memories never coming back?”
“They’ll come back,” he said, but although his tone was confident, his darting eyes suggested he had doubts.
“What will you do if they don’t?” Calladia pressed. “You can’t stay here. Are you going to wander the streets indefinitely, waiting for Moloch to finish you off?”
Astaroth made a face. “He does seem like a touchy wanker.”
“And you’re vulnerable.” She could tell Astaroth didn’t like that, so she kept pushing. “You’re injured and alone, without any information about your enemies. If you don’t take steps to get treatment, then frankly, you’ll deserve whatever happens to you.”
“Lovely bedside demeanor you have,” he said. “Do you offer inspirational speeches as well?”
“I prefer inspirational butt-kickings,” Calladia said. “So I’m setting the rules. Either you go to the hospital or end up on the street, but you’re not staying here a moment longer.”
Seconds ticked past while Astaroth glared at her. Calladia folded her arms and glared right back. He wanted a standoff? He could have one.
As the silence stretched out, the scene struck Calladia as absurd. Here she was in her cheerful spare bedroom, sunlight spilling through the window, while a six-hundred-ish-year-old demon wearing a bedsheet glowered at her. He’d need to try way harder than that to intimidate her, but then again, she hadn’t found him intimidating the previous day either.
Their first meeting was preserved so vividly in her mind, it was a marvel it hadn’t imprinted itself just as deeply in his brain. Astaroth hadn’t glared at her in the woods when Calladia had come to help Mariel. No, he’d sneered, as if she were no better than a bug beneath his boot. With his suit, cane, and that absurd fedora, he’d looked like a Hollywood version of an over-the-top villain. Swaggering and threatening, puffed up on his own importance.