Calladia was torn between the urge to laugh and a grudging respect for his tactics. She was familiar with the complicated game of crafting a persona for public consumption, thanks to Themmie and her massive Pixtagram following, but she’d never thought about how other people might leverage their looks to gain power. Themmie’s brand was whimsical, energetic, and bright—the sunshiny parts of her personality dialed up to 11, with any flaws or negative emotions saved for offline spaces. Astaroth’s brand was apparently “fashionable sexy murderer.” “I don’t think I have a brand,” she said.
Astaroth scoffed. “Of course you do. No makeup, workout clothes that show off your muscles, a few well-placed conversational barbs, and a general combative air. You want everyone to know you’re strong, don’t care how they expect you to act or look, and won’t suffer fools.”
She blinked. That was . . . huh. He’d said it matter-of-factly, with no hint of judgment in his tone. “It’s not like I sat down to create a strategy,” she said, oddly pleased by his description. “I like comfortable clothing, and makeup is a waste of time and makes my face itch.”
His lips tilted in a crooked smile that made Calladia’s heart rate pick up. He had probably practiced that wickedly appealing look in a mirror. “I’m not saying it’s a bad choice,” he said. “You can choose comfort and practicality for yourself, not just to cater to the expectations of others. But humans are social animals, so how you present yourself is inherently part of a larger game.”
The chili was bubbling, so Calladia took a break to grab spoons. After hesitating, she decided it wouldn’t kill her to eat from the same can as Astaroth rather than dirtying her collapsible camping bowls. She handed him a spoon and set the can on the log between them, using the blanket to shield her fingers from the hot metal. “We’ll want to let it cool—”
She broke off as Astaroth shoveled a spoonful of steaming chili into his mouth. Rather than screaming in pain, he closed his eyes, seeming to savor the mouthful. “Delectable,” he said after he’d swallowed. “Rich and savory, with balanced flavors and spices.”
Right. Demons liked hot things—she remembered Mariel telling her Oz hadn’t needed to spend any time adjusting to the high temperatures of the hot springs near Glimmer Falls. “It’s not fine dining,” she said. “This can cost less than two bucks.”
He ate another spoonful. “You don’t realize how dismal food is on a lot of planes,” he said. “There’s a reason demons often order takeout from Earth. Even simple human meals have complex flavor profiles.”
Calladia took her own spoonful, blowing on the chili before tentatively nibbling. It was hot, but manageable. As she chewed, she considered the flavors. That one mouthful contained beans, meat, tomato, onion, chili peppers, and a variety of spices she couldn’t name. Mariel would know, but Calladia had never pretended to be a great cook. Her blender was the most-used tool in her kitchen.
If Astaroth hadn’t commented on the flavors, she would have wolfed it down without a thought for anything but the protein. He was right; it was good.
“I’m curious,” she said after a few minutes. “You mentioned only remembering things from the past, but modern life doesn’t seem to faze you. Why do you think that is?”
He looked thoughtful as he chewed. “I’m not certain. It’s not like I remember everything about the past—more like my memory is a patchwork quilt with squares missing. Sometimes I can recall things easily, and sometimes images or sounds come to me at random. And some things seem automatic, like my mind and body know how to exist in this time, even if I can’t recall having done so.”
It struck Calladia that he was very well-spoken. Not that she hadn’t noticed how articulate he was before, but this was the first time the adrenaline rush had slowed down enough for her to really pay attention and give him room to speak at length. “You remembered your flat,” she said. “And pumpkins, right? Anything else?”
Astaroth closed his eyes. His eyelids flickered like he was dreaming. “There’s a woman,” he said. “One with red hair, but I can’t make out her face. I hear her voice sometimes, warning me about things.” He huffed. “Like hospitals.”
Calladia felt a weird surge of irritation. Why did it matter if he had some woman’s voice in his head? “What else did she warn you about?”
“She said they can never find out what I am, or I won’t be able to claim my legacy.”