Calladia’s cheeks felt hot. She’d always been a rough-and-tumble sort and had gotten in a variety of scrapes over the course of her life, but she couldn’t deny things had gotten worse over the last few years. Anger simmered in her gut on a frequent basis, an ember that blazed into violence with the slightest encouragement. Yeah, this dude had had it coming, and she didn’t feel bad about it, but could she say the same for last week, when she’d leaped into a shape-shifter brawl that hadn’t remotely involved her, ultimately getting kicked out for smashing a stool over someone’s head?
Dozens of humans and supernatural creatures were gaping at Calladia, which made her feel itchy. Mariel hurried over, Oz at her side. “What happened?” Mariel asked. “Are you okay?”
Fuck. This was Oz and Mariel’s celebration, and Calladia had just messed it up, the way she messed up most things. “Sorry,” Calladia said. “I’m fine. Just . . . yeah.”
“The guy was harassing her,” Themmie said, wings twitching.
“Calladia . . .” Hylo jerked their head at the door. “Out. At least for a few minutes. You need to cool down.”
“Wait,” Mariel said, looking between Hylo and Calladia. “She’s my friend—”
“It’s fine.” Calladia pushed off the bar, managing not to sway. “I need to drink some water and go to sleep anyway.” She mustered up a wink, but considering Oz and Mariel’s expressions, it wasn’t a very good one. “Bye. Happy for you and your domestic bliss and shit.”
Before Mariel could say anything else, Calladia turned and strode out of Le Chapeau Magique, brushing off Themmie’s attempt to follow. She hadn’t paid her tab, but Hylo knew how to find her, and there was no way she was going to stay with all those eyes pinned on her. Her cheeks burned, and her stomach churned with anxiety along with the alcohol.
The autumn air felt crisp against her flushed skin. Calladia took a deep breath, welcoming the icy spear in her lungs. The bar harasser was nowhere to be seen, so she closed her eyes and leaned against the brick exterior of the building. Despite Hylo’s instructions to cool down, the change of venue was doing no such thing for Calladia. Her pulse raced, and she still felt the hot surge of anger and shame.
A pained male cry sounded from nearby. Calladia looked around, trying to pinpoint the source. Another shout was followed by a voice. “Where am I? Who are you? Leave me alone!”
A sweep of déjà vu washed over Calladia at the man’s posh British accent. Astaroth had had an accent just like that.
“Ow! Bloody hell.”
Lots of people had British accents though, and Glimmer Falls was full of tourists who had come for the magical town’s world-renowned Autumn Festival. Whoever the man was, he seemed to be in trouble, so Calladia pushed off the wall, determined to see what was happening and help if need be.
And fight if need be, right? her mind whispered, but she brushed it off. Sometimes violence was necessary. If it was in this case, she’d be doing a good deed, right?
She turned into an alleyway. A man with curly brown hair stood over a body on the ground, a knife in his hand. He kicked the body, eliciting a groan of pain. “I thought I’d kill you right away,” he said in an accent eerily similar to Oz’s, “but I like the idea of carving up that pretty face. Let you live with it for a while.”
“Who are you?” the man on the ground repeated. He was curled up with his arms over his head, so Calladia couldn’t see much of him, but there were bloodstains on his light-colored coat.
The other man tipped his head back and laughed, and Calladia stiffened as moonlight glanced off light brown horns. Another demon!
“What is this, an infestation?” she muttered as she strode forward. She’d lived her entire life in Glimmer Falls without seeing a demon, and now this was the third in a single month. She pulled a hank of thread from her pocket. Magic needed to be grounded in words and action, and while some witches preferred chalking runes or performing elaborate ritual dances, Calladia liked the intricacy and portability of thread for casting. “Get away from him,” she said loudly.
The demon’s head whipped around. He was weirdly sweet-looking, with brown hair, blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. He looked her up and down, then returned his attention to his victim. “Shall I cut your nose off first?” the demon asked the man. “Maybe an ear?”
Calladia didn’t like being ignored. She wound the thread around her fingers and began tying the elaborate knots that would ground her spell in physical action. “Defienez el daemon,” she said, tying the final knot.
The demon flew backward, hitting the brick wall. Calladia’s spell kept him pinned there like an insect. She sauntered up to him, smirking at his outraged expression. “What, you don’t like humans interrupting your demonic crimes?” she asked with only a slight slur.
He sneered at her. “Out of my way, witch.”
“You’re not going to offer me a bargain?” Astaroth had tried that earlier, offering her money, fame, love . . . whatever she wanted in exchange for her soul and her magic.
She knew better than to believe in such empty promises. Like anything else worth having, love was earned, not seized.
The demon scoffed. “You’re dealing with Moloch of the Nine, witch.” At Calladia’s uncomprehending stare, he clarified. “I’m a warrior, not a bargainer.” His muscles strained as he fought against the spell, and Calladia felt the magical bonds weakening. Hecate, he was strong.
“Not much of a warrior right now,” she said, brazening it out as she started tying a new string of knots. “You aren’t welcome here.”
She wove a circle of protection around herself and the unfortunate man in the gutter, who she hadn’t had a chance to look at yet. Better safe than sorry. It turned out to be an excellent impulse, as Moloch broke free of her original spell and lunged at her. He ricocheted off the shield, and Calladia laughed.
Moloch’s face twisted in an expression of rage so potent it made Calladia retreat a step. “This isn’t over,” he said. Then he made a circular gesture with his fingers, and a flame-edged oval the size of a door appeared in the air. A portal. With a final glower at the man on the ground, Moloch stepped through, and the portal sealed behind him.
Calladia blew out a heavy breath. “Wow. What a dick.”
A pained groan sounded from behind her. “You can say that again,” the British man said. “Bloody hell.”
Calladia dropped to her knees to examine the man for injuries. “Are you hurt—” She broke off as the man straightened from the fetal position and rolled to face her, revealing black horns and a familiar face. “Oh, hell no,” she said, scrambling away.
Had she seriously just rescued her enemy?
Astaroth looked like shit, at least. His white suit was stained with dirt and blood, his chiseled face was wan, and the skin around his eye was rapidly purpling. “Thank you,” he said weakly, pushing to a seated position.
“Nuh uh,” Calladia said, standing and backing away. She started tying new knots, trying to decide if she should forcibly fling him to Oregon or turn him into a newt. “You aren’t welcome here either.”
Astaroth’s forehead furrowed. “Sorry, have we met?”
Calladia laughed disbelievingly. “Forgotten me so quickly? Maybe my fist in your face will help you remember.”
He winced and prodded the swelling skin around his eye. “Forgotten . . .” His eyes widened with what looked like panic. “Wait, where am I? And who are you?”
THREE