Fog.
Hang it, why couldn’t he remember?
“I guess that seems silly to you,” Calladia said.
Astaroth snapped back to the conversation. “What?”
“A thirteen-year age gap being problematic.” She slid him a glance. “Since you’re older than dirt.”
“I object,” Astaroth said. “Dirt is substantially older than me.”
“Still, you must have had, ah, relations with plenty of people younger than you.”
“I have,” he said. “Though it all blurs together after a while.” Nameless faces, nameless bodies, the dances of attraction or manipulation or boredom or some mix of the three. There had been princes and priestesses, demons and elves and humans. None of them stood out as being particularly remarkable.
“Hmm.”
He couldn’t tell what sentiment lay behind that syllable, but her jaw looked tighter than it had before. “You disapprove?”
“Not at all. If I was six hundred years old or whatever, I’d probably have a massive body count, too.” Her fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “I guess you get good at it after that long.”
“Oh, I was good at it from the start.” He smirked at her eye roll. “Why, looking for tips?”
He’d gladly give her some. Or literally the tip, should she express interest. The spandex had been packed away, but her well-worn jeans were just as much of a problem, as he suspected anything would be that had the fortune of cupping that remarkable arse. He eyed the fall of her messy blond braid over her shoulder, imagining wrapping the bright length around his hand while he thrust into her from behind.
His trousers grew tighter.
“No, thank you,” she said vehemently.
It wasn’t the enthusiastic response a demon might hope for, but it was the response he’d expected. Still, he deflated a bit. Metaphorically. The trouser situation remained an issue.
Calladia braked, and Astaroth was distracted from her rebuttal and his erection by the sight of a stop sign. The road terminated in an intersection, where a green sign with white arrows indicated what lay ahead: scenic lookout, 5 miles to the left, and fable farms, 15 miles to the right.
Calladia pointed to the sign. “Maybe Alzapraz’s instructions weren’t so bad, after all. ‘Head east and begin the fable.’？”
“It’s a bit of a reach,” Astaroth said. “Shouldn’t he have said ‘begin at the Fable’ if he meant it as a literal place? Or, I don’t know, ‘drive to Fable Farms,’ if he really wanted to be helpful?” A certain type of warlock adored riddle shite like this, and though it was a solid branding move, it was deeply obnoxious for the people forced to solve those riddles.
Calladia flicked on her blinker. “It’s the best clue we’ve gotten, and I’m driving, so you can shut up and go along for the ride.” Her lips curved. “Or you can sing more pop songs. Silence or singing—those are your options.”
The radio had moved on to something jangly and unpleasant. He sighed. “Silence it is.”
FOURTEEN
Calladia stood with hands on her hips and toe tapping, gazing down the main drag of Fable Farms. And by main drag, she meant the only drag.
“Bit underwhelming,” Astaroth commented. He stood beside her on the sidewalk next to Clifford the Little Red Truck.
Calladia grunted in agreement. She was used to life in a reasonably small town, but this was something else. Unpaved roads wound into the trees, where a few buildings were visible, but the one paved street housed a general store, a gas station, a few unidentifiable structures, what looked like some kind of hunting lodge, and an antiques market/clothing boutique/ice-cream parlor/sports equipment store with a sign declaring kai’s korner. Other than the gas station, the buildings were built from timber, giving the impression of an Oregon Trail settlement that had survived to modern times.
“Presumably the red deer is in the forest somewhere,” Calladia said. “I guess we start hiking?”
Astaroth’s stomach chose that moment to grumble.
“After we eat something,” Calladia said. She was peckish herself, and lunch with a demon wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had.
No, rescuing the demon in the first place had definitely been the worst idea.
A blue convertible was parked outside the general store, and a large man in a green shirt stood by it, guzzling a sports drink. Maybe he could direct them where to eat.
Calladia waved and jogged over. “Hello,” she called out.