Calladia had never been soft. Yet she kept staring, enraptured by this vision of a woman who might have existed, had she not had to erect so many walls to protect herself.
Calladia shook her head and shoved the nonsensical thought aside. It was probably heatstroke combined with the text from her mother making her emotional. Thinking about her mother punctured that hazy bubble of contentment, which proved it hadn’t been meant to last. “Your turn,” she said as she stepped into the main room. “Unless you like reveling in filth.”
“Depends on the filth,” Astaroth said. He turned from where he’d been leaning over the table, then recoiled. “Dear Lucifer, what are you wearing?”
Calladia was distracted by what he’d been leaning over: two takeout containers, a bowl of limes, and bottles of tequila, triple sec, and simple syrup. She rushed over. “Where did you get this?” she demanded. She inhaled deeply, then moaned at the spicy scent of Mexican food.
Astaroth crossed his arms, looking as smug as if he’d single-handedly taken down a mammoth with a spear and dragged it to his cave. “I found a takeout menu in the kitchen, and Tansy provides delivery service.” He gestured to the spread. “Voila, quesadillas.”
The fight had cut lunch short, and Calladia hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She wanted to cry looking at the crisp tortillas overflowing with melted cheese. “Thank you.”
“It’s being charged to your card,” Astaroth said.
Calladia laughed and swiped at her eye. Trust the demon to spike his own guns with a sardonic comment. She was getting to know his tells though, and she recognized he used snark to deflect attention whenever he did something heroic. And yes, the retrieval of Mexican food did count as heroism.
She dug in with a fork and knife from the kitchen, groaning when she realized the cheese was still hot and gooey. Peppers and rich chunks of pulled pork were dotted throughout.
When the sharp edge of her hunger had been dulled, she thought of something. “How did you order takeout if you can’t unlock your phone?”
“I tried a few combinations of numbers,” he said. He’d been eating slowly and neatly, cutting the quesadilla into small bites. “1 2 3 4 5 6 worked.”
“Seriously?” She chuckled. “That’s, like, the least secure passcode in history. So much for being a master strategist.”
He gave her a dark look. “It got you quesadillas, didn’t it?”
She lifted her fork. “Touché. I rescind my mockery.”
Astaroth picked up the tequila bottle and peered at the label. “How does one make a margarita anyway?”
Calladia was more than happy to teach him. She found a cocktail shaker and glasses in the kitchen and shook up two margaritas.
When Astaroth sipped, his face relaxed into a smile. “That’s delicious.”
Calladia felt a swell of pride, which was ridiculous. Making a margarita for a demon she despised wasn’t exactly a life accomplishment.
Looking at his clever, compelling face though, she was forced to admit a truth that had been building for some time. She didn’t despise him, no matter what she said. No matter how much she should.
She hadn’t spent much time with him before he’d lost his memory, but this version of him was far more appealing than the sneering villain who’d insulted her after trying to hurt her friends. Sure, he was a snarky ass, but he was also generous and willing to back her up in a fight or order takeout if she was hungry.
Was this the true Astaroth? Or was the villain the real version?
As Calladia watched the skin beside Astaroth’s eyes crinkle with a smile, she found herself wishing he’d never gain back his memories if it meant he’d stay like this.
* * *
“I do this spell at home,” Calladia slurred, pointing at the fireplace. The third margarita had been a mistake, but she was so full and relaxed she couldn’t regret it. The sky was dark outside, and wind whistled through the treetops.
“Yeah?” Astaroth sounded buzzed, too. He reclined at the other end of the couch, a half-empty glass dangling from his fingertips. “How do you do it?”
Calladia fumbled in her pocket for a piece of yarn. She tried to knot it a few times, ultimately giving up when she realized she was tying a knot for explosion rather than ignition. This was why doing magic while drinking was a bad idea.
“There’s more than one way to do it,” she said, “but ultimately, it’s a mix of action and words. You tie a few knots or scribble some runes to define what you want.” She stared into the fire, thinking about what spells she might do if she weren’t intoxicated. “I could tie one knot for fire, one for safety, one to contain it to the fireplace.” She waved a hand. “Some other stuff to be thorough. And then you have to pick which spell words to speak.”