When Astaroth thought back though, he couldn’t remember many of his deals. A love bargain here, a revenge bargain there . . . The endless cycle of coups and fortunes and passion and violence blurred together. He’d meddled in the affairs of humans for centuries, but even revisiting a few impressive bargains, such as the kingdom he’d single-handedly toppled in the 1600s, elicited little enthusiasm. It was like flipping through the pages of a history book and reading the dry details of someone else’s accomplishments.
He sighed as he tore his gaze from the stars and headed to the tent. Maybe the last century or so had held more interesting deals, but of all the things he wanted to remember, those bargains didn’t seem that pressing.
“I’m too old,” he muttered, shivering as the night chill sank into him. Old and bored enough that bargains had lost their luster, and amnesia, while a devastating setback, was also refreshingly interesting. How else to explain the dullness he felt when thinking back on his exploits, versus the spark of excitement when he wondered what Calladia was muttering in her sleep now or what they would bicker about tomorrow?
Time wore everything down like water over stone. Astaroth’s body would never age—although it was certainly taking its time to heal from his recent injuries—but inside he recognized the dulling contours of his past self. He’d burned in those early centuries, consumed by ambition, drunk on the power of shaping worlds and lives. But life had lost its ability to surprise sometime in the murky past.
Calladia, at least, was always surprising. Mortals tended to be, with their brief lives and oversized hungers. Maybe that was why he’d started spending more time on Earth over the centuries, even if he’d sworn it was from a dedication to duty that allowed no respite.
He slipped into the tent and zipped it behind him. When he turned, he saw Calladia looking at him beneath heavy lids. “？’S raining?” she mumbled.
“It is,” he confirmed as he toed off his shoes. He clambered into the blankets.
Calladia’s head dropped to the pillow. “Good,” she said, closing her eyes. “The sandwich is safe.”
He stifled a laugh at the nonsensical words. Still asleep, then, or sliding back into it so quickly that dreams and reality blurred. Soon she was breathing deeply, one hand curled next to her face. Her blond braid was a mess after all that thrashing, and a section of loose hair curved over her cheek, the ends tickling her lips with every exhale.
Astaroth reached out and gently tucked the strands behind her ear.
Then he turned over with a curse, putting his back to her.
As the rain and her soft breathing mingled, he wondered: Why, when he had been shivering a few seconds ago, did his chest now feel oddly warm?
* * *
“Head east and begin the fable. Stalk the red deer.” Astaroth scoffed. “Bloody nonsense. You’d think the witch would at least have a postcode.”
They were winding down a mountain road the next morning, passing in and out of patches of mist. There hadn’t been many turnoffs, and Calladia swore this road was the one that old warlock had instructed her to take, but with every kilometer farther into the forest, Astaroth doubted this plan more.
Calladia’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “I thought you liked drama.”
“As a concept, yes. When it’s impeding my goals? Less so.”
He was feeling decidedly cranky this morning after a night tossing and turning. Calladia had provided him with a granola bar for breakfast, but his stomach still felt hollow. This frequent eating and sleeping business was obnoxious. Astaroth scratched his neck and glared out the window, as if the pine trees might answer for the wrongs he was suffering. At that moment, his stomach gave a loud grumble.
Calladia looked askance at him. “You’re hungry again? Already?”
“Another symptom of my brain damage, apparently.” A thought spun up from the hazy recesses of his mind: Bing might have information about amnesia. He racked his brain, trying to remember who Bing was, but came up blank. “Do you know of an oracle named Bing?” he asked. “I just had a random thought that I might be able to ask them about this.”
Calladia burst into loud laughter. Astaroth jumped at the noise, then found himself unable to tear his gaze away from Calladia as she cackled and slapped the steering wheel. “An oracle,” she wheezed. “You think Bing is an oracle. Even more remarkably, you use Bing!”
“No need to mock me,” he said, torn between embarrassment and a fascination with her amusement. She laughed as boldly as she did everything else, and as soon as the sound tapered off, he found himself wanting to hear it again.