In the midst of that never-ending family drama, finally being able to buy a house with her own money had been a bright spot. A way to set herself apart and start building something of her own, untouched by her mother’s judgments.
Now her home and all its promise had been turned into smoking rubble, and Calladia needed to face the person she most dreaded seeing.
Delaying wouldn’t help, so Calladia cracked her neck and started the ignition. “Let’s go,” she told Astaroth, who had settled onto the bench seat beside her. “Our revenge plot starts now.”
SEVEN
Hours after the attack, Astaroth was still furious.
It was an ugly emotion, hot and stinging. It coiled around his spinal cord, balled in his gut, seized his lungs in a stranglehold. He clenched his fists in his lap, staring at his whitened knuckles. How dare that Moloch bastard try to kill Calladia? Whatever Astaroth’s history with Moloch, he was sure he’d earned the demon’s hatred on his own merit. All Calladia had done was try to help someone she hadn’t needed—or wanted—to.
Calladia drummed her fingers over the steering wheel. Her own temper was evident in her set jaw and the aggressiveness with which she accelerated after each traffic light. The fact she was still moving, still planning, was awe-inspiring. Where someone else might have curled up in a ball and given up, Calladia had decided to fight.
Astaroth rubbed the spot behind his ear where the gold tracker had been. The skin still stung where its tiny barbs had dug in, and he despised the reminder that he’d been hunted down like an animal.
A thread of guilt mixed with the anger. Despite what he’d said earlier, Calladia had every right to be furious with him. He should have been warier. Even with his amnesia, he’d known about demonic fireballs and trackers—he just hadn’t put the pieces together until too late.
He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to center his thoughts. The conflict with Moloch had shaken a few things loose, but trying to bring his memories into focus was frustrating. It felt like piecing together a puzzle, except the pieces were blurry and slid sideways whenever he reached for them.
Still, there was apparently a key to defeating Moloch buried somewhere in his memory. He just had to dig it out.
“I’m going to ask Oz for advice,” Calladia abruptly said. When Astaroth looked up in surprise, she clarified. “About Moloch, not you.”
“Why not about me?” He didn’t remember Ozroth—and the fact he couldn’t remember his own protégé made him feel ill—but Ozroth undoubtedly remembered him.
Calladia turned a corner so aggressively that a wheel jumped onto the sidewalk and they nearly took out a rubbish bin. Astaroth braced himself against the door. “Oh, I don’t know,” Calladia said waspishly. “Maybe because you tried to murder him recently? And steal his girlfriend’s soul? I hear you weren’t a particularly affectionate mentor either.”
She had every right to be mad at him, but not for that last part. Even if he didn’t recall his time as a mentor, he knew how things worked. “Mentors aren’t supposed to be affectionate,” he said. “They’re teachers, not therapists.” Their duty was to craft the strongest bargainers—or warriors or healers—by whatever means necessary in order to ensure the future of the demon plane.
“Whatever,” Calladia said. “I’m still not telling him we’re hanging out.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” He wasn’t sure fleeing from a murderous demon with the witch who hated him qualified as a “hangout.”
Calladia sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just . . . be quiet for a bit, okay?”
Astaroth obliged, though he didn’t like it. He picked at his blood-and-dirt-smudged clothes and brooded as he stared out the window.
Glimmer Falls appeared to be a charming, colorful town full of eateries, boutiques, and lively public spaces. Despite the nip in the air, people of all species were everywhere, walking, talking, embracing, casting spells, or eating on restaurant patios. It was a beautiful place that Astaroth had inadvertently brought a great deal of ugliness to.
It was aggravating being so useless. He had a strong sense of self despite the amnesia, and perpetual victimhood wasn’t a look he enjoyed. He ought to have dueled with Moloch, skewered the bastard with his own sword, then charmed Calladia with some brilliant witticism. Instead, he’d retreated, and he still couldn’t come up with a single memory about the demon or how to defeat him.