“And your father?” he asked. Calladia hadn’t spoken of him.
Her laugh was bitter. “We’ve never really had a relationship. To be honest, I think he’s hiding from her. He traveled for business a lot when I was little—I had a nanny—but now he’s gone all the time. I’m pretty sure he’s renting a house in Thailand.” She shrugged. “I haven’t seen him in two years, and Mom tells everyone he’s away on business or likes to keep his life private.”
Astaroth’s throat felt thick. At least his mother, unpredictable as she seemed, clearly cared for him. Calladia had grown up with an absent father and a disapproving mother. What she described was a cold, lonely sort of isolation, a prison of neglect and impossible expectations.
“They’re both wrong,” he said softly. “Wrong to abandon you, wrong to make you feel small.”
She sat up again, and he reluctantly released his grip on her waist, but she kept her hands on his shoulders. “Thank you,” she said. “You know, you’re the only person besides Mariel and Themmie who knows how bad it is. Mom plays up the whole ‘happy-but-busy family’ impression, and everyone assumes things are fine.”
“They’re not fine.”
“No, they’re not.” She sighed. “I thought Mariel had it worse for a long time, since she’s had all this prophecy and magical legacy shit hanging over her head since childhood. And her mom’s overbearing, too, but I think it comes from a place of love, twisted as it is. She wanted Mariel to be the most powerful version of herself, and yeah, it was to fit the family legacy, but it was also because her mom wanted her to be successful. They just didn’t define success the same way.” Her fingers flexed over his skin. She was cold; Astaroth wanted to tug her into the pool and warm her up, but he didn’t dare do anything to disrupt the moment. Having her willingly touch him felt a bit like having a butterfly land on his finger, and he didn’t want her to fly away. “But you know what happened when Mariel said she’d cut contact until her mom started treating her with more respect?” Calladia asked.
“What?”
“Her mom apologized.” Calladia’s mouth tipped in a crooked smile. “We’ll see if it lasts, but she’s apparently trying. And if her mom acts the way she did before, Mariel isn’t going to tolerate that behavior.”
Human relationships were tricky. No one knew that better than a demon who had spent his career finding new ways to sink his hooks into their vulnerabilities. Astaroth was aware that what he was about to ask might backfire, but it needed to be said. “Have you thought about cutting contact with your mother?”
Calladia’s gaze focused somewhere over his shoulder, but he could tell she wasn’t looking at anything in particular. She was thinking.
“I have,” she finally said. “But it makes me sad.”
“You would be far from the first human to make that choice to protect themselves.” Astaroth had seen it before, had even helped facilitate it. Sometimes family could be so toxic, there was no other option. Of course, the witches and warlocks desperate to cut contact with cruel or downright evil relatives had stopped caring after their soul bargains, since the “soul” in question included emotion, but they’d been better off after.
Or had they? An uneasy doubt crept in. He wouldn’t want Calladia to become an emotionless echo of her vibrant self. She was also the first human he’d really, truly let himself grow close to. Oh, he’d enjoyed sex and war and politicking with humans, but none of them had touched him on a deeper level.
Calladia, with her prickliness and courage, had.
For the first time, Astaroth wondered if what he’d done as a bargainer was wrong on some level. The demon plane required souls to survive, but was that enough of a reason to manipulate mortals into giving up their very essence?
What if there was another way to bring life to the plane, but demon society was so steeped in tradition they hadn’t considered making a change?
Stagnant, Calladia had called it. Closed borders, closed minds.
“I hope she loses the next election,” Calladia said. “Maybe she’ll return to normal once she’s not so power-hungry.” She made a face. “Not that normal was great, but there’s a difference between an overbearing mother and a dictator.”
“She might,” Astaroth said cautiously, “but she also might not. Not everyone is capable of change.”
“I know.” Calladia took a deep breath, then shook out her arms and cracked her neck in a way he recognized meant she was shrugging off heavy feelings so she could move on. “Anyway,” she said, “that conversation is done for now. She can leave all the voicemails she wants, but I’m not turning the phone back on until tomorrow.” She frowned toward the woods. “Assuming I can find it.”