Framed photographs lined the staircase. Roughly half of them depicted Calladia in workout clothes at the gym, smiling next to people she had presumably trained, while the others showed her eating, laughing, or taking selfies with other young-looking humans. There was no sign of a partner or child, nor were there any photos of what might be her parents.
The front parlor was cozy and sunlit, with white lace curtains and simple furniture. A plush blue couch topped with mismatched pillows faced a wall-mounted television, and a small barrel cactus sat in a terra-cotta pot on the windowsill.
It was a cheerful setting for someone who had threatened to obliterate his testicles, but humans were odd like that. One thing on the outside, another within. They might not be able to alter their physical forms the way werewolves or shape-shifters could, but they were shifters of a different sort, adapting themselves to new environments with ease.
In the light of day, Calladia was even prettier than he remembered. The sunlight caught in her butter-blond hair and made her tanned skin glow, and her lips were pink and lush. She hadn’t smiled at him yet, but he’d caught glimpses of straight white teeth, and he imagined her grin would light up a room.
She grabbed a red windbreaker off the chair and shrugged it on. Beneath it, she wore tight black exercise leggings, a blue T-shirt with a cartoon penguin on it, and black trainers with blue laces.
He looked more closely at her shirt. “Is that penguin holding a knife?”
“Yes,” Calladia said. “Stop staring at my tits.”
“Stop putting your tits behind interesting pictures.” Now that she mentioned it, they did deserve some attention. Her breasts were on the small side, especially considering the constraints of what was clearly a sports bra, but that didn’t signify. Big tits, little tits, no tits—Astaroth found all sorts of bodies attractive. Each person was unique, with their own topography to explore.
He contemplated what her breasts would feel like in his hands. Were her nipples sensitive?
Calladia grabbed a coaster from the side table next to the couch and flung it like a throwing star. The cardboard square bounced off Astaroth’s forehead. “No ogling the enemy,” she said.
There was her ferocious scowl again. Some people required armor to look intimidating, but Calladia managed it just fine in workout gear. He imagined her in armor and stifled an appreciative shiver. There were few things as appealing as a woman who was comfortable in her power. In times past, with a sword in her hands, she could have ruled empires.
To avoid the temptation of further ogling, he crossed to the front window and looked out. Her lawn was brown for the cold season, and the apple and pear trees at the edge of the yard were bare, but he could imagine it in the heat of summer. Verdant grass, buzzing insects, and Calladia’s yellow house rising from all that green like a flower.
An orange shimmer in the air above her driveway caught his eye. It expanded into a flaming oval, framing the demon who stepped out of thin air.
Thoughts of summer died as a chill raced down Astaroth’s spine. “Moloch,” he said. “He’s here.”
“What?” Calladia hurried over to stand next to him. “How did he find us?”
“He must be tracking me.” But how?
Moloch strode toward the house. He wore brown leather pants and a matching jerkin over a long-sleeved blue shirt, and a sword was strapped to his back. “Fancy seeing you here,” Moloch shouted, audible through the window glass.
Astaroth swore and jammed a hand into his hair between his horns. “We need to barricade.”
Calladia was already tying knots in a string she’d fished out of a pocket. “Lock the door,” she ordered.
He obeyed, dragging a small bookshelf in front of it for good measure. Not that it would do much good. Moloch could just smash through the glass of Calladia’s wide front windows.
An eerie grin stretched Moloch’s mouth. “You can’t escape, Astaroth. Whatever leverage you think you have over me means nothing.”
Adrenaline rocketed through Astaroth’s veins. His head buzzed with conflicting thoughts and impulses. Leverage . . . Why was that word pinging around his brain? The world slid sideways, then righted itself as Astaroth braced himself against the wall.
Leverage, leverage . . .
He knew something about Moloch, something that would destroy the demon surer than any weapon. The certainty settled in his chest, merging with the storm of rage and fear. “I’m going to take you down, Moloch,” Astaroth shouted, following that intuition. “I have everything I need.” Somewhere. If he could only remember what that leverage was.