“What do you say?” Avram asked, looking at Calladia. “Teaming up could be fun.”
Calladia grinned. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, most of the furniture had been turned into matchsticks and over half the fighters were groaning on the floor. Calladia’s cheek throbbed from a stray punch she’d caught, and her arm was lightly bleeding from a fork projectile, but she was giddy with delight. She never felt better than when larger, stronger beings treated her like an equal and, most importantly, a threat. When she spun, broken chair leg in hand, a blue-kitted shifter cringed away from her. “Mercy,” he rasped, so she turned to look for another opponent.
Astaroth stood on the trestle table, which miraculously remained intact. He swung a table leg in vicious arcs, beating away enemies right and left. Apparently the remaining combatants had decided to gang up on him.
Calladia would have been worried, but she’d seen enough of his fighting technique to know he had this on lock. He was precise and deadly, with preternatural reflexes and balance, and if Calladia had been a little turned on earlier, she was fully wet now. Fighting sometimes had that effect, since she had a lady boner for danger, but in this case, she knew exactly what had caused her state of arousal.
That damn demon.
He looked good and fought like hell, and if anything riled Calladia up, it was a display of competence. And oh, how competent he was.
She noticed a figure creeping around the back of the trestle table: Kai, carrying a jagged piece of wood. Astaroth was engaged with the werewolves in front and hadn’t noticed.
Calladia hurried toward him, stepping over downed assailants. “Astaroth, behind you,” she called, but the shouting was too loud, and she was too far away. Kai raised the stick, ready to strike.
Calladia gripped the chair leg like a javelin and launched it full force at the werewolf.
Too late, she realized she’d thrown it pointy end first. She watched in horror as the wood pierced Kai’s shoulder. He toppled back, shattering the window.
The fighting abruptly stopped. Everyone in the room looked at Kai, then Calladia.
“Uh oh,” she said. She’d violated the first rule of friendly brawl club: no maiming. She waved and smiled awkwardly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to impale him.”
Kai sat up from the pile of glass shards and tugged the wood out of his shoulder. It hadn’t penetrated too deeply, thankfully. “Get her!” he called.
Calladia was reckless, but even she could recognize when it was time to cut her losses and retreat. She met Astaroth’s wide eyes and jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the exit. He nodded, then took a running leap over the heads of the werewolves surrounding the table. He landed with a cat’s grace. “Time to go,” he said, grabbing her hand.
They burst into the afternoon sunlight with a pack of werewolves hot on their heels. It was an outright sprint down the street, and Calladia’s heart raced as giddy laughter climbed in her throat. She only let go of Astaroth’s hand once they’d reached the truck.
“Prepare for blastoff,” she said as she started the engine and depressed the clutch. She put the truck in gear and hit the gas, upshifting quickly. Clifford the Little Red Truck might not look like much, but she had power where it counted. They careened down the street, steering around shouting werewolves. Soon the tiny town of Fable Farms was left in the dust.
Once she was certain they had escaped, Calladia let out a wild laugh. “That was incredible!”
Astaroth was white-knuckling the bench. “You,” he said, “are the most reckless, ridiculous person I have ever met.”
But he was grinning as he said it, and his eyes were bright, and below the bruise darkening his temple, his cheeks were flushed. When he burst into laughter, Calladia thought she’d never seen anything so beautiful.
Oh, Hecate. She was in trouble.
* * *
“We seem to have made a critical error,” Astaroth said thirty minutes later as they crested a hill. The terrain was growing rockier and more rugged as they climbed into the mountains. Douglas firs, western red cedars, pines, and other coniferous trees loomed over the narrow road, and snow-capped peaks stood stark against the slate-gray sky.
“Hmm?” Calladia said. The adrenaline from the fight was wearing off, and aches had started to set in. She rolled her neck, wondering if there was a hot spring nearby they could soak in.
“We forgot to ask Bronwyn about Isobel.”
Calladia’s eyes widened, and she hit the brakes. “Oh, shit.” The truck lurched to a stop at the side of the road. Calladia tapped the steering wheel, pondering the best course of action. “We can’t go back. Those werewolves were mad.”