Calladia’s mother was waiting at the top of the stairs, mouth twisted in a frown. There were lines beside her eyes she either hadn’t tried or hadn’t been able to eliminate. “I know you don’t believe me,” Cynthia said, “but I’ve only ever wanted the best for you.”
The worst part was, Calladia knew her mother was being, for once, entirely sincere. There was just one problem.
“Your idea of what’s best and mine don’t match, Mom.” Calladia’s voice sounded as tired as her mother looked. “I just wish you could understand that.”
She left before her mother could say anything more.
NINE
Astaroth barely made it back to the truck before Calladia stormed out of the house. He hunkered down, heart racing and mind churning over what he’d overheard.
That conversation had been overflowing with toxicity. Did Calladia’s mother truly not see her daughter’s worth? Where Astaroth saw passion and fire, a willingness to fight for what was right, and an indomitable spirit and clever wit, Calladia’s mother saw . . .
A disappointment.
The truck door was flung open, and Calladia shoved a cardboard box at him. “Take this,” she ordered.
He did, propping it on his lap as he sat upright. “What’s in here?”
“None of your business.” Calladia backed out of the driveway like ghouls were chasing them, then sent the truck lurching forward. It stalled, and she cursed as she restarted the car, jammed the clutch in, and yanked on the shifter.
Astaroth’s curiosity would make it his business, but he knew better than to start digging through the box while she was watching. “So,” he said. “How’d it go?”
Calladia leveled him with a death glare. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Astaroth chewed his lip, wondering what to say next. He couldn’t admit he was listening in; that would just piss her off more. But how else was he going to get information out of her?
To be better able to manipulate her, of course. Blackmail and whatnot. Just in case.
Considering she was driving like she was actively seeking out adorable Disney animals to turn into roadkill, there wasn’t much more pissing off to do before she hit her limit, so Astaroth went for it. “I was eavesdropping,” he said. “Your mother seems like a treat.”
Calladia slapped the steering wheel. “I told you to stay in the car!”
Astaroth shrugged. “I was curious. Were you really engaged to be married?”
It wasn’t the question he’d planned to ask, but it was the one that popped out. Why that should be the thing he’d fixated on, who could say. It just seemed odd for someone so militantly independent to be engaged, that was all. Anyone would be curious.
The look Calladia threw him threatened to rearrange his insides. “None of your business,” she repeated.
“Why’d you break it off?” he asked, undeterred. “Did you castrate and disembowel him and then have to make up a story to explain his absence?”
“I wish.” Calladia grimaced. “He tried to make me small.”
She didn’t elaborate, but it was enough for Astaroth to start forming a picture. The kind of man Calladia’s mother would have found “high-value” was probably some snooty fuck with strict expectations of female behavior. There were far too many men like that, on Earth and other planes, and Astaroth despised them. Not that he wasn’t a snooty fuck—he was, and proudly—but he couldn’t imagine trying or wanting to shape someone like Calladia into another form.
“Well.” Astaroth cleared his throat. “As your sworn enemy, I can reliably inform you he did not succeed. It would take magic beyond the most powerful witch’s abilities to turn you into anyone but exactly who you are.”
Calladia’s lips parted. As she coasted to a stop at an intersection, she stared at him. He couldn’t identify the emotion in her eyes, but it made him feel awkward. He fidgeted and looked down at the box in his lap.
Calladia didn’t say anything for a while. She drove on, eyes on the road and hands clasping the steering wheel, though her grip didn’t seem as tight as it had before. “So,” she eventually said. “We’ll hit up Mariel’s place next, and then we need to find a place to stay. I want to get out of town, just in case Moloch realizes we’re alive. I have camping gear—”
Astaroth recoiled. “Camping? Like . . . in nature?” He may not remember much of the last few centuries, but his imperfect memory did contain strong opinions about having to bivouac when he’d tagged along with King George III’s soldiers for a lark. Faced with mud, terrible rations, and a distinct lack of hygiene, he’d determined the camping lifestyle was （A） not a lark, and （B） not for him.