He shuddered. “I respect a bold aesthetic, but it ought to at least be tasteful.”
“That’s not a Spark thing either. Mariel aside.” Calladia pulled into the driveway before her parents’ house and parked. “I’ll try to be in and out quickly, but my mother is . . . yeah.” She pointed at Astaroth. “Stay here and don’t let anyone see you. Especially not my mother.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were still haunted.
Astaroth nodded, though he was rabidly curious. She could deny it all she liked, but she was looking at that house with dread.
Astaroth’s fingers twitched, longing for the hilt of a sword.
Ludicrous. Calladia didn’t need him to defend her against her own mother. And even if she did, a violent gutting probably wouldn’t be her defense of choice.
“Right,” Calladia said with a nod, as if replying to her own internal debate. “Rip the Band-Aid off.” She got out of the truck, brushed off her clothes, and shook out her hair, sending residual ash flakes swirling. Then she walked toward the house, looking like a martyr marching toward her doom.
The house was three stories, constructed of gray stone that sparkled in the waning afternoon light. The lawn was neatly manicured, and even the curtains hung in perfectly symmetrical arcs, as if nothing dared step out of place. Astaroth hunkered down in the seat, watching over the dashboard as Calladia rang the doorbell. The door opened, and Calladia disappeared inside.
Well, this wouldn’t do.
When faced with a mystery, Astaroth couldn’t resist the urge to seek answers, and this was quite a mystery. Why was Calladia afraid to speak with her own mother?
Through a window on the ground floor, he saw two female shapes come into view, silhouetted by light from a crystal chandelier. The window was cracked open.
If it was that convenient, he was practically obligated to eavesdrop.
Astaroth slipped out of the truck. This was just a stratagem, he told himself as he hurried across the lawn, hunkering low. Know thy enemy and all that. If he knew what truly rattled Calladia, he could wield that weakness against her if need be.
This was definitely not a ridiculous urge to play the hero if Calladia needed saving.
He positioned himself in the bushes below the window, straining his ears for female voices within. A strategy, yes. Some good, old-fashioned demon plotting.
And if his fingers still itched to hack apart whatever had upset his unpredictable, cantankerous enemy/savior? Chalk that up to the brain damage.
EIGHT
What happened when ambitious little girls were taught to contort themselves into whatever shape society deemed proper, feelings and individual preferences be damned?
Mayor Cynthia Cunnington happened.
Calladia squeezed her hands in her lap as she sat opposite her mother in the living room, trying not to fidget. Her father wasn’t there, of course, off on his never-ending business trip. The high-backed chair was stiff and uncomfortable, despite being covered in beautiful blue brocade. That summed up her childhood home in a nutshell—expensive, tasteful, and painful as hell.
Cynthia didn’t look uncomfortable in the slightest. As Mariel would say, cacti had evolved to thrive in harsh environments. Calladia’s mother perched at the edge of her chair, knees pressed together and feet tucked to the side. Her sheath dress was made of gray-blue satin, smooth as a glassy lake. She was sixty but hardly looked it, considering the mix of magical and nonmagical procedures she’d undergone to maintain the sharp line of her jaw and that stiff expanse of forehead. Her blond hair was rolled into a chignon, her lips were painted pink, and her blue eyes skewered Calladia like daggers.
“What did you say happened to your house?” Cynthia asked in a voice like ice. She’d never liked Calladia’s house—too small, too bright, not at all appropriate for the Cunnington family heir.
“A demon blew it up.” Calladia wasn’t going to mince words; that would only necessitate staying longer.
A long, slow blink while Cynthia processed this. “You seem unharmed.”
“Are you inquiring or informing me? Yes, I’m mostly fine, thank you so much for your concern.” Calladia didn’t bother to strip the sarcasm from her tone. She knew better than to expect motherly fretting, but the tepid response still stung, and the only defense was to sting right back.
“Watch your tone.” Cynthia touched the strand of pearls that perpetually adorned her neck. Not a threat, precisely, but a reminder of where the power in this room resided. Calladia wove spells with thread, but her mother’s necklaces were her own talismans, and the spinning and twisting of beads could portend a nasty spell.