Calladia’s drink-fuzzed brain couldn’t imagine a centaur performing Riverdance, but she’d bet it was noisy. “Sounds neat.”
“Thanks.” Hylo handed over the glass.
Calladia took a glug of the green-tinged water. “Ugh,” she said, spitting it out. “Why does that taste like moss?”
“Elves,” Hylo said succinctly. “Just chug it.”
Calladia did, grimacing. Anti-hangover powders were always hit or miss. One species’ hangover didn’t translate to another’s, and quacks loved selling knockoffs of elven potions or minotaur semen that had no actual health benefits. Calladia wasn’t brave enough for the supposed cure-all elixir of minotaur cum, and she despised fake supplements, so she usually just suffered the occasional hangover in peace.
Tonight was a different case. Shots had been had, and her head would hopefully thank her tomorrow. Horrible remedy downed, Calladia wiped her mouth on her forearm and looked at the dance floor. It wasn’t a slow song, but Mariel was wrapped around Oz, the two of them swaying to a beat all their own. The big, normally surly demon was beaming down at Mariel, looking utterly enraptured, and Mariel’s pink cheeks and shining hazel eyes showed she felt the same in return.
Calladia’s chest felt tight. She hadn’t liked Oz at first, but there was no denying the couple were great together. She was delighted for her best friend and fully acknowledged she’d been wrong about Oz—or, at least, that he had vastly improved after spending more time in the mortal realm and embracing his new soul. Still, no matter how happy Calladia was for them, seeing their joy was bittersweet.
Could a perfect match ever happen for Calladia? She wasn’t like Mariel, who was beautiful, sweet, and giving. Calladia was prickly, aggressive, and damaged. If Mariel represented the best of people, Calladia was, though not the worst, at least on the “uh oh” end of the spectrum.
Calladia shook her head and tipped her empty shot glass into her mouth, then grimaced when she realized there was no more tequila to be had.
A voice sounded from her right. “What are you drinking?”
Calladia stiffened. The voice wasn’t familiar, but the tone was. She turned to see a smug-looking white man with styled brown hair, pointed ears, and a square jaw. He looked like a movie star, and Calladia already hated him. “What do you want?” she said, hoping he could hear the warning in her flat tone.
The man eyed her up and down, then licked his lips. “Whatever you’re offering, baby.”
Calladia’s temper was rarely fully banked, especially these days. At those words, the embers flared to life, burning through the haze of alcohol. She straightened, only wobbling a bit, then pinned him with her meanest stare. “I’m no one’s baby,” she said, slow and exaggerated from the tequila. “In fact, I’ve been a grown woman for a while now.”
The man scoffed. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. You wore those pants for a reason. Let’s just have a drink, yeah? Get to know each other?”
“Oh, shit,” Themmie said, backing away. She tripped but righted herself with a sharp flap of her wings.
Calladia didn’t literally see red, but her vision narrowed in on this asshole like a James Bond credit sequence when the gun fired. Her “pants” were workout leggings, and whatever this dude thought, they were designed for ease of movement rather than enticing lovers.
She had a flashback to the way Astaroth had sneered at her during their confrontation earlier that day. When she’d dissed his fedora, he’d said, I don’t take sartorial critiques from people wearing spandex.
At least Astaroth had objected to the spandex rather than ogling her body. Calladia had had no problem ruining the hot demon’s day; she would have no qualms about putting this pathetic bar slime in his place either.
“Do you know why I wear these leggings?” Calladia asked. Her pulse raced with familiar, addicting adrenaline. When the guy smiled, she bared her teeth. “It’s easier to kick assholes.”
To her fury, the man laughed. “You’re a spicy one, aren’t you?”
He reached out, lightly resting his hand on her arm, and Calladia snapped.
“Don’t touch me,” she said loudly, yanking her arm away. That had been one of her kickboxing instructor’s biggest tips: people remembered what they heard, so if she needed to tussle, she should make it clear the other person had instigated it. As the pointy-eared man lurched off-balance, Calladia grabbed his upper arm and used his momentum to slam him ribs-first into the bar. Not hard enough for an assault charge—hopefully—but hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Then she fisted her hand in his hair and gently introduced his face to the bartop.