“Maybe I’ll find his house,” Astaroth muttered. “Blow it up, see how he likes it.”
A soft noise caught his attention, and he looked over in time to see Calladia discreetly wipe her eye. The sound repeated, and to Astaroth’s horror, he realized it was a sniffle.
“Are you crying?” he demanded.
“No,” came the aggressive, if muffled, response. Then, “Shut up and mind your own business.”
He tried, but it was difficult. The sound of her soft weeping sent him into an agitated state. He needed to move around, fight something, kill something, anything to make the tears stop. “What would make you stop crying?” he blurted out when he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Just leave it, all right?” She wiped her nose, steering one-handed. “I’m sad about my house.”
“That bastard shouldn’t get to make you cry. He should be wearing his own entrails.”
Calladia gave a watery chuckle. “Agreed.” She wiped her eyes and nose again. “Why do you care if I cry anyway?”
Astaroth wasn’t sure how to answer. “It makes me uncomfortable,” he finally said.
“And everything’s about you, right?” The sharp edge had returned to her voice, but at least the anger seemed to have stalled the tears.
Pissing her off further might prevent future crying, but it also might tempt her to explode his testicles. “Not necessarily,” Astaroth said. “It’s just . . . upsetting, that’s all. That Moloch can hurt you like that.”
Calladia pulled a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. “I’ll recover. And when I do, he’s going to regret ever crossing me.”
Astaroth’s lips quirked at the bloodthirsty promise. “Now that, I believe.”
With the crying over, he was able to relax again—as much as he could with Calladia weaving in and out of traffic. The witch approached driving as combatively as everything else she did.
“Are we going to see Ozroth?” he asked, a bit nervous at the prospect.
“I have to pick a few things up first.”
Something in her tone caught his attention. He studied her as they stopped at a red light. Her face was tight with stress, and her fingers were still drumming on the steering wheel. Her tapping foot joined the percussion, and since the ancient truck’s engine rattled while at rest, the noise swelled into an annoying symphony. He was tempted to ask if there was a tambourine for him to bang when he caught the look in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, whipping his head around to study their surroundings. “Is it Moloch?” All he saw were innocuous-looking vehicles, a gaggle of cheerful pedestrians, and a street performer juggling flaming bowling pins.
“Is what Moloch?” Calladia asked, obviously confused.
“You look afraid.” He’d only known her a short time, but he didn’t like seeing that haunted expression on her face.
“I’m not afraid,” she rebutted instantly. “And no, it isn’t about Moloch.” The light turned green, and she slammed on the accelerator, nearly taking out a centaur on an enormous modified moped who’d taken a wide right turn into her lane.
The centaur veered away, then flicked Calladia off. “Watch it,” the centaur shouted.
“You watch it!” she shrieked, showing him her middle finger in return.
Astaroth side-eyed the witch, then decided not to push further.
Thankfully, they soon entered a residential neighborhood with fewer drivers for Calladia to antagonize. The road climbed up a substantial hill, and the houses grew more extravagant as they went. Columned porticos replaced simple front porches, and the buildings glowed from within as lamplight bounced off gold, silver, and crystal. Most houses had elaborate Halloween displays out front.
“Where are we going?” Astaroth asked.
“My parents’ place is up ahead.” The words were brusque and accompanied by a squeeze of the steering wheel. “I need to stock up on supplies.”
Astaroth tried to reconcile this posh neighborhood with the foul-mouthed harpy beside him. “You grew up here?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” She pointed ahead and to the left. “In the gray house at the top of the hill.”
He was too distracted by the house opposite it, which was an absurd amalgamation of architectural styles from neoclassical to Gothic to Tudor. A purple flag snapped in the wind atop a turret. “What is that monstrosity?” he asked.
“The Spark family home,” Calladia said. “Subtlety isn’t their thing.”