“Do you have matches?” Astaroth asked.
She held up a fire starter. “Better.” Then she slid a look at him, considering. “Unless you have some kind of demon trick?”
He shook his head, then crouched beside the logs. “I don’t have that kind of magic.”
She tore her gaze away from the stretch of fake leather over his thighs. “Too bad. Then you could literally fight Moloch’s fire with fire.” She scraped the fire starter, and sparks erupted, raining down on the kindling. A few more strikes, and the pine needles started smoldering.
She had a portable camp stove bundled away under the passenger seat, but Calladia preferred a campfire if possible. The warmth, the light, the smell . . . something about it relaxed her in a way she rarely felt.
When the smoke hit her nostrils though, she flinched.
“Everything all right?” Astaroth asked.
Calladia closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. This wasn’t the acrid, horrible smell of her burning house. This was good and natural—a fire built for comfort and safety, not destruction. She kept breathing, letting go of her knee-jerk panic response. Moloch had ruined her house; she wouldn’t let him ruin her enjoyment of a decent campfire.
“Yeah,” she said, opening her eyes to find Astaroth studying her intently. “I’m just peachy.”
His incisive gaze told Calladia he saw beneath her pretense, but he didn’t say anything. Calladia was grateful for his restraint. She might be off-kilter and sensitive from a rough day, but she would fake it until she made it.
As the flames grew, Calladia settled back on her haunches. “I’ve got a can of chili we can crack open,” she said. “Although I’m not sure how hungry you are, since demons only eat every few weeks.”
“I am exceedingly hungry.” Astaroth dragged over a log, then sat on one end and patted the bark. “You’re welcome to share the log, if it isn’t too close to my objectionable person.”
Calladia didn’t feel like getting close to him, but the ground was cold, and it wasn’t like they’d be snuggling or anything. She got up to retrieve the chili before positioning the open can in the glowing embers at the edge of the fire. Then she grabbed two blankets and handed one to Astaroth before sitting next to him.
Astaroth looked surprised at the offering, but he accepted it without comment, wrapping the fabric around himself. “So,” he said, “where do we go tomorrow?”
Calladia blew out a breath, shifting a ribbon of hair that had slid out of her braid. “I guess we start looking for a red deer in the woods.”
He sighed. “Witches are so dramatic.”
“Like you aren’t?”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” He grabbed a stick and poked at the fire, sending sparks shooting up. “I wonder if Isobel can enchant my flat to move around,” he mused. “I could use more drama.”
“What, the last few days haven’t been dramatic enough?” Calladia asked incredulously.
“Not that sort of drama. I’m talking about branding. An aesthetic to help accomplish your goals.” He nudged the fire again. “Proper presentation can set you at an advantage before you even engage with an opponent.”
Calladia wasn’t following. “And a moving flat is . . . ?”
“Unpredictable,” he said. “And implies the existence of powerful allies.”
“Huh.” She cocked her head, remembering their first meeting. “Is that why you carried that stupid cane sword? Because it looks dramatic?”
He pointed the stick at her. “It isn’t stupid. You’re just jealous.”
“I don’t see why having a sword matters that much.”
“Well, first off, it’s sharp,” he said. “But functionality aside, swords mesh well with a variety of aesthetics.”
“Tell me more about these aesthetics,” Calladia said, wanting to hear more of his weird opinions.
“Well, enemies base their actions on how they perceive you, so you can dress and accessorize to intimidate them or make them underestimate you. Or you can craft a persona that’s wealthy or chaotic or violent.” He shrugged. “Simple tactics, but so few people think of a personal brand as a weapon.”
How had she ended up in the woods getting a marketing lecture from a six-hundred-year-old embodiment of evil? “So what’s your brand?” she asked. “Or what would it be, if you could remember?”
“I remember enough of the early centuries,” he said, prodding the logs again. The firelight flickered over the sharp planes of his face, casting shadows under his cheekbones. “Those were more violent times, so making a good first impression was crucial to avoid random beheadings.” He raised his free hand, ticking off points on his fingers. “People have always respected wealth, so I made sure to portray myself as a society elite whenever possible. They also respect violence, so visible weaponry and a few displays of murderous temper made people not want to cross me. And they admire and are intimidated by beauty, so I’ve always maintained excellent hygiene and accessorized to accentuate my best features.” He shrugged. “Shag a few society influencers and add in a good skincare routine, and you’re already at an advantage.”