She shook her head. “Ridiculous,” she said, but for once, it didn’t sound like an insult.
TEN
It was full dark by the time they arrived at Mariel’s house. “Stay here,” Calladia told Astaroth. “Head down.”
“It’s like you’re embarrassed to be seen with me,” he marveled. “How odd.”
“That’s exactly it.” Ignoring Astaroth’s huff, Calladia exited the truck. “I’ll be back.”
Mariel flung open the door a few seconds after Calladia knocked. The short, curvy brunette witch launched herself at Calladia, knocking her back a few steps. “I was so worried!” Mariel cried as she hugged Calladia fiercely. “I can’t believe someone blew up your house.”
“Me neither.” Calladia squeezed Mariel tightly before releasing her. “Thanks for letting me stop by.”
Mariel scoffed as she ushered Calladia in. “You know you can just walk into my house whenever you want.”
Mariel’s home was cozy and charming, full of colorful knickknacks and woven rugs. They passed the den where Oz had spent days sleeping on the couch after Mariel had accidentally summoned him, then continued down the hall to the kitchen and adjacent dining nook. The air smelled like spices and cooking meat.
“Take a seat and tell us everything,” Mariel said.
Calladia smiled at the people gathered in the kitchen. Themmie, of course, who was zooming toward her, but also the werewolf Ben Rosewood, a good friend and Mariel’s boss at the garden shop he owned. Oz was chopping onions at the counter; he waved the knife in greeting, looking watery-eyed. “I would offer a hug,” the demon said in his rumbling baritone, “but you might start crying from these cursed onions, too.”
Themmie was so agitated she didn’t land before hugging Calladia. The pixie’s wings thrummed as she lifted Calladia off the ground. “I’m so glad you weren’t barbecued,” Themmie sobbed.
Despite everything, Calladia laughed. “Me, too. I hope you’re ready to plot revenge.”
Ben came to hug her next. The werewolf was tall and broad with shaggy brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, but he eschewed the badass biker look a lot of werewolves enjoyed in favor of dressing like a math professor, a lumberjack, or a combination of both. Tonight was all math professor, complete with sweater vest and gold-rimmed glasses. “We’ll pitch in to help you rebuild,” he promised. “No detail’s too small.”
Calladia’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “Thank you.”
The group was completed by Alzapraz, Mariel’s great-great-great-times-a-lot grandfather. When Mariel had heard there were demon issues afoot, she’d offered to invite the ancient warlock, who had more knowledge than the rest of them combined. No one knew what century he’d been born in, but he looked as old as he was, since he’d mastered enough life magic to extend his life span indefinitely, but not enough to preserve his health. He was more wrinkled than a pug, with a hunched back and a white beard that dangled to his waist. A pointy purple cap topped with a yarn pom-pom perched on his head.
Alzapraz waved a fork. “Glad you didn’t die,” he said in a creaky voice.
“Same!”
Oz was finally done with the onions, and after washing his hands, he came to give her a brief hug. “Sorry about the house.”
Calladia smiled at Oz. “Thank you.”
She’d mistrusted the big, serious demon at first, but she’d come to realize that behind his reserved exterior was a tender heart and a strong sense of loyalty. What he lacked in fancy words he made up for in actions, and his solid, protective presence was exactly the anchor flighty, dreamy Mariel needed.
They sat while Mariel resumed cooking coconut chicken curry. To Calladia’s delight, Mariel had incorporated magic into her meal prep and was summoning ingredients with ease. A week ago, that had been nearly impossible due to Mariel’s unpredictable spellcraft, but Mariel had finally realized her magic wasn’t the issue—the pressure exerted by her overbearing family was. Set free to explore magic on her own terms, Mariel had begun to flourish.
“Tell us what happened,” Themmie ordered. She’d clearly been crying; her cheeks were smudged with eyeliner, and her glitter eye shadow had migrated to seemingly every inch of her brown skin, from her forehead to the backs of her hands.
Calladia did, omitting the role Astaroth had played. Or rather, obfuscating. She’d concluded there was no way to leave the demon out of the story entirely, so she admitted accidentally interrupting Moloch’s attack. “I guess Moloch must have fixated on me,” she said. “He followed me home, convinced I was sheltering Astaroth.”