Calladia’s brow furrowed as she considered the strange warning. “What does she mean, what you are? It’s not like you’re hiding your horns or anything. And what kind of legacy?”
He made a frustrated sound, and his eyes popped open. “I don’t know, curse it. It’s something to do with me being the son of . . . someone.” He shook his head and grabbed the stick to stab the fire again. The aggressive blows made a log collapse, and sparks leaped into the air. “Bloody ridiculous,” he groused. “I can’t even remember who my parents are. I’m sure we weren’t close, but still.”
Calladia’s chest ached at the reminder that she wasn’t particularly close with her parents either. Cynthia Cunnington was the household tyrant, and Calladia’s father, Bertrand, had practically made “absentee father” a career. “Why do you assume you weren’t close?” she asked.
“Bargainers are trained outside the home,” he said. “You’ve got to learn to be cold, so nothing you do affects you. Demons might not feel emotions as strongly as humans do, but we still feel them, and the moment guilt or doubt creeps in, a bargainer becomes useless.”
The words were an echo of what Oz had said. It was strange though—Astaroth seemed the opposite of cold. He was a snarky bastard, but she could begrudgingly admit he was a bit funny. He seemed vibrant, for lack of a better word. Fully alive, with an outsize presence, charisma, and the guts to march confidently through the world despite the tremendous blow of losing his memory.
Also? Total drama queen.
He probably wouldn’t like being told he was a drama queen rather than the ice-cold badass he clearly thought he was. And who knew, maybe the head blow really had altered his personality. Calladia let that aspect drop, though she wanted to know more about the parent situation. “Why would growing up in a family make you more likely to feel guilt?” she asked.
“Emotional connections are weaknesses. If you show vulnerability, enemies can manipulate you, and that’s not including the self-sabotage demons might get up to if they regret a deal.” He shrugged. “Learning how to shed weaknesses as a child is a gift.”
Calladia didn’t like that one bit. “Emotional connections can be strengths, too,” she said. “Mariel and Oz kicked your ass in the name of love.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What exactly happened with them?”
She hesitated. What if reminding him of the particulars of his battle with Oz and Mariel resurrected his memories, and he shifted back into evil-asshole mode? He was downright pleasant now compared to their first interaction.
“I’m tired,” she said instead. She stretched and yawned, then checked her watch. “Hecate, it’s nearly midnight.” Astaroth was still glowering, so she offered an olive branch. “I’ll tell you another time.”
He shook his head, then stood and started kicking dirt onto the embers of the smoldering fire. “Do you have extra bedding or are we sharing?”
“What?” Calladia stared at him in horror. “What do you mean, are we sharing?”
He pointed at the tent. “I assume we will be sharing that flimsy excuse for shelter tonight. Do you have enough blankets and pillows for both of us, or will we be combining body heat?”
Calladia nearly swallowed her tongue. “No,” she choked out. “Absolutely zero body heat sharing. Ew.” He would probably be way too warm, making her sweat, and what if he was a cuddler? He could end up snoring on top of her, pinning her down with all those muscles and—“Ew,” she repeated. “Horrible. Terrible. The worst.”
He looked affronted. “People don’t generally respond so poorly to the thought of sharing my bed.”
“It’s not a bed,” she said. “It’s a tent. One you will be sleeping in with a few blankets, while I will be occupying the sole sleeping bag.” Her forehead furrowed as she considered something. “Wait, demons don’t sleep as often as humans, do they? Or eat or pee. I mean, not that I’ve seen you pee—”
“I did,” he confirmed, pointing into the woods. “Took a piss on that tree.”
She winced. “The point is, why do you need to sleep when you slept last night? Can’t you go on a hike or something?”
He looked as confused as she felt. “You want me to hike around the freezing cold woods alone at night rather than resting? What if it aids my memory?”
Okay, that was a decent point. Demons typically slept once or twice a week, but maybe he needed extra sleep because of the injury? Or maybe she’d caught him at some weird part of the demon cycle where they needed to eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom for a few days in a row. Demonic ovulation of the metaphorical type. It was possible; the only things she knew about demons came from Oz and an Interplanal Relationships course she’d taken in college that had been light on details.