A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch (Glimmer Falls #2)

by Sarah Hawley

“Why do you assume you weren’t close?” she asked. “Bargainers are trained outside the home,” he said. “You’ve got to learn to be cold, so nothing you do affects you. Demons might not feel emotions as strongly as humans do, but we still feel them, and the moment guilt or doubt creeps in, a bargainer becomes useless.”

was strange though—Astaroth seemed the opposite of cold. He was a snarky bastard, but she could begrudgingly admit he was a bit funny. He seemed vibrant, for lack of a better word. Fully alive, with an outsize presence, charisma, and the guts to march confidently through the world despite the tremendous blow of losing his memory.

Many ages past, the demon Lucifer had been banished from the mortal realm by an evil warlock. He’d opened a portal onto a world of dark, primordial chaos, but he’d brought the soul of a human he’d aided with him, and the light had pushed the darkness back. As other demons sought refuge from persecution, the lights had multiplied, and soon the plane was thriving.

He’d meddled in the affairs of humans for centuries, but even revisiting a few impressive bargains, such as the kingdom he’d single-handedly toppled in the 1600s, elicited little enthusiasm. It was like flipping through the pages of a history book and reading the dry details of someone else’s accomplishments.

“I’m too old,” he muttered, shivering as the night chill sank into him. Old and bored enough that bargains had lost their luster, and amnesia, while a devastating setback, was also refreshingly interesting. How else to explain the dullness he felt when thinking back on his exploits, versus the spark of excitement when he wondered what Calladia was muttering in her sleep now or what they would bicker about tomorrow?

She liked that she and Astaroth were the same height. She liked his snide comments and aura of elegant menace. She even liked how polished he was, despite how aggravating all that perfection could be, because it made her want to muss him up.

“I just have a healthy respect for your anger and your right hook. Would you rather I pretend you’re some delicate flower?” Calladia had never been a delicate flower, and she never would be. She stared at him, recalculating their hostile encounters through this upside-down demon lens. He engaged in their arguments eagerly, which she’d considered a mark of dislike. Everything she gave, he dished right back. Had he actually been telling her he respected her and saw her as an equal in their sparring matches?

And while Sam had tried to reshape Calladia into his ideal woman—a delicate flower, indeed—Astaroth seemed to want her to be herself, no matter how rude or aggressive that was.

“So, my warrior queen, where are we going?” Calladia nearly tripped over her feet. A laugh burst from her. “What did you just call me?” Astaroth gave her a crooked smile. “I was aiming for a new spin on violent harridan that would express the respect element more.”

Astaroth had always supported hybrid rights on the demon plane, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? It was practical to encourage genetic diversification. And if mortals were interesting enough to convince him to live mostly on Earth, that had been a tactic to better learn how to manipulate them, right? Or had it been a lie to cover up the real reason: that Astaroth felt a kinship with humans? The trouble with truth was that once it got bold enough to punch you in the face, it was impossible to ignore.

This was what she adored about werewolves and shifters. They were the only other people she’d met who seemed to understand fighting was fun.

She never felt better than when larger, stronger beings treated her like an equal and, most importantly, a threat.

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.

“Why would you care about defending me? I’m your enemy, remember?” “Why would you stab a werewolf to protect me?” he parroted. “I’m your enemy, remember?” He had a point. Calladia’s cheeks heated as she remembered how turned on she’d been watching Astaroth fight and how instinctively she’d acted to save him. Whatever they were doing was nowhere near traditional enemy behavior.

They were stuck together in the suspended moments between the end of one story and the beginning of another.

“You’re a good person, even if you don’t always believe it, but I’m not. Say the word, and I’ll punish him in the vilest ways you can imagine.”

Just because these are less violent times doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to be a monster.” Shit. She shouldn’t like that as much as she did. What kind of person threatened to destroy someone’s sucky ex? And what kind of person found the idea not just intriguing, but titillating? Her lower belly felt tight, and the throb of arousal between her legs grew heavier with every moment their eyes stayed locked.

He’d let his smiling mask slip, and for maybe the first time in their brief acquaintance, she’d seen the true monster beneath, the one that had spent six centuries in the hunt for power. Whatever Astaroth said, Calladia wasn’t a good person. How could she be, when seeing the monster inside . . . just made her want him more?

Why was the witch so compelling? Astaroth stewed on the question as he snuck more surreptitious glances at her. He’d known courtesans and famed society beauties in centuries past and was familiar with the tools of attraction. Cosmetics, costume, and a puff of scent took care of the physical lure; polite conversation, flirtatious witticisms, and dazzling displays of talent accomplished the rest. Beauty was crafted like any other work of art, and its perfection took effort. Calladia didn’t try at all. She wore no makeup and didn’t care about fashion. She sang off-key and was more likely to punch someone than engage in polite conversation with them. And she was the most beautiful person Astaroth had ever seen.

Astaroth couldn’t help it. He laughed, a full, hearty guffaw. “You’re so bloody mean!” She smirked. “You can take it.” “And so I shall, gladly,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. Calladia shook her head. “It’s like you want me to insult you. Are you a masochist or something?” “Just a demon who likes a challenge. A mortal constantly trying to take the piss out of me is unusual.”

But his witch was complicated. If seduction wasn’t equally her idea, she’d never go along with it. Calladia wasn’t a prize to be won—she was an equal competitor in this battle of wills and wants, and the only way to woo a woman like that was to leave her wanting until she got impatient and seized the prize herself.

Former protégé now, after choosing love for a human over his duty to the demon plane. Astaroth’s chest felt tight. He focused, trying to identify the emotion. It was . . . loss of some sort. A subtle yet bitter grief. He chose them, Astaroth thought nonsensically.

“It feels like I’ve lost something. There’s this hollowness inside.” “What do you think you lost?” Astaroth grimaced. “I don’t know. It’s just a sense of something missing.” Or someone, he realized. Ozroth had chosen humanity over everything Astaroth had taught him, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

You are wholly yourself, and that in itself is perfect, because anything else would be a lie.”

“Binding objects is difficult,” Calladia said as the cage returned to its position. “You have to layer spells to accomplish it, but basically, you infuse magic into two separate things and then force them to share the same resonance. It’s like tricking them into thinking they’re the same object.”

Calladia was thrilled for them and would be delighted to be an aunt figure in their children’s lives, but whenever she considered having kids of her own, she had three immediate thoughts. One: expensive! Two: time-consuming! Three: don’t wanna!

Sparring with the demon held the same out-of-control thrill as dancing at the edge of a cliff or standing outside in a thunderstorm, and Calladia was enough of an adrenaline junkie to crave more. She’d always been drawn to danger. Tension thrummed between them like a plucked string. What would happen if she seized that thread and made something out of it, the way she wove magic from twine? The cliff edge—and madness—beckoned.

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 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.

“Just because you can’t remember doesn’t mean you didn’t do it,” she tossed over her shoulder. Astaroth made a frustrated sound. “And is my entire worth and identity boiled down to one incident? Will you always look at me and see the demon who hurt your friends, no matter what else I do or say?” She was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. Maybe the alcohol had broken his composure, the way being contacted by her mother had broken hers. Maybe both of them had learned too well how to shield themselves from the world.

“First off, I’m a woman, not a girl, and I don’t belong to anyone.” Astaroth felt a fierce burst of pride. He might think of her as “his” witch, but that was a private, relational expression, not a claim of ownership. He was her demon as much as she was his witch. “Quite right,” he said. “And, that real man nonsense is an artifact from less progressive times.

Astaroth didn’t care if this werewolf deemed him less than a “real” man. So why did he care so much that he wasn’t a “real” demon?

“I’m not afflicted by madness.” Lilith winked. “Madness is afflicted by me.”

“Moloch brought a witch to your banishment. He said she would cast a spell to prove you’d been lying to the council. You seized up when she cast it, and then Moloch booted you through a portal to Earth. After you were gone, he told us the witch could alter human life spans, and since she had just altered yours, it was proof of your half-human heritage.”

Astaroth was stuck on one thing. “What did the witch do to my life span?” he asked, feeling a heavy swell of dread. Sandranella grimaced. “I’m sorry to tell you, but the witch . . . made you mortal.”

“Do you know how to restore immortality, then?” Calladia asked. Alzapraz coughed. “The problem with life magic is that there’s always a price. I managed to extend my life, but it came at the expense of my health. It’s possible we could look into something similar for your hybrid, but I have to warn you, the extreme geriatric lifestyle isn’t for everyone.”

“You know what I think the problem is? You’re falling into the same trap people like Moloch do. You think of humans as inferior.” “I do not,” he said, outrage suffusing his face. “I’ve always been fond of humans.” “But you hate the part of you that is human, don’t you?” Astaroth didn’t reply. Just as she thought. Calladia was tempted to smack Astaroth across the horns and tell him to expand his worldview. “Maybe you think human politics are too brief to pay attention to,” she said. “But the demon plane sounds stagnant, in my opinion.” Now he looked offended. “It’s a beautiful realm with a long and storied history. Just because we live longer doesn’t mean we’re stagnant.” “And yet hybrid rights haven’t advanced much since you were born six hundred years ago.”

“Who would want to listen to you? The entire hybrid community, for starters.” Astaroth looked up quizzically. “The hybrids? What could they possibly do?” “Maybe they aren’t just victims in need of protection. Maybe they’re warriors waiting for a chance to fight for their cause.” Sensing his hesitation, Calladia went in for the kill. “Maybe they’re strong, disciplined, and cunning . . . like you.” She shifted, insecure and a bit embarrassed at having delivered the compliment. The two of them didn’t say nice things about each other. They bickered and joked, and, yes, sometimes felt each other up, but their dynamic had little room for softness. But with the way Astaroth was staring at her like she’d blown his mind and hung the moon all at once, she couldn’t regret it.

Being in nature made her feel small, but in a good way. Maybe that was part of being human. In the long stretch of time, she was just a blip. And when you were a blip, you didn’t have to worry about the weight of eons. You could live as loudly as you wanted in the space allotted to you.

“It’s because I’m human,” she said in a teasing tone. “Small life, big dreams, zero fucks to give.” Like a corgi in the universe’s dog park. He lifted her hand to his mouth. “Your life is many things,” he said, lips pressed to her skin, “but it’s far from small.”

She liked this version of Astaroth, with his clever wit and absurdities. It was worrisome how much she liked him. Would he remain the same once his memories were recovered though? Calladia felt uneasy at the thought. Realistically, he needed to be whole again to confront Moloch and enact change on the demon plane, but would he still be willing to publicly fight for the hybrid cause once his memories returned? Or would he fall back into stagnation, cynicism, and easy, glib lies? He’d spent his long life in the pursuit of power, not justice, after all.

“Oh, my warrior queen,” Astaroth said softly. “Has anyone ever worshipped you the way you deserve?” Calladia wasn’t sure what she deserved. She wasn’t particularly pure of heart or noble of spirit, and her life had been spent spitting in the faces of people who called her loud, aggressive, unfeminine, embarrassing, not good for optics. She faced the world with teeth and claws bared. When she didn’t answer, Astaroth growled and shifted his grip from her butt to her hair. “Listen to me,” he said, fisting the strands at their roots. “You deserve everything you want. You should take everything you want, the way you once promised me you would. And if you can’t do that yet, say the word and I’ll do it for you.”

He took a moment to look at her soul using his demon senses. It glowed in her chest like a small sun, golden and radiant. In olden days he would have considered the potential of removing it from her, but he liked seeing it there, where it belonged. As a bargainer, he should feel ashamed for a thought like that. But as a bargainer, there was a lot he was doing that he should feel ashamed about. He’d gone from a stone-cold manipulator with a fearsome reputation to . . . Well, a demon who was currently smiling giddily at the witch he was feeling an alarming amount of emotion toward.

Calladia’s deep love for her friend was obvious, and Astaroth felt a mix of guilt and envy. Guilt that he’d targeted someone Calladia valued this much, even if he couldn’t remember it, and envy that someone else got to experience the gift of her unshakable loyalty. She might deny being a good person, but Calladia loved deeply and fought hard for the people she valued, and if that wasn’t goodness, what was?

“No.” His denial was loud. “Don’t let her diminish you. You’re a warrior, Calladia, and you don’t need to apologize for being who you are.” Her lips trembled as she smiled, and a tear slid down her cheek. “When did you get so nice?” He scoffed. “I’m not nice. I’m honest.” “I thought you were a famed liar.” She swiped at her eyes. “To the rest of the world, maybe. Not with you.” He held her gaze, willing her to see his sincerity. “Like calls to like, Calladia. You’re a force to be reckoned with, no matter what your mother says. I’m six hundred years old, and you still put me in my place.” Her mouth twisted. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.” “It is. You’re just not used to people who admire strength.”

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.

His restless mind had stilled, the thoughts and feelings coalescing into one undeniable truth. For the first time in his long existence, Astaroth was in love.

“Some bastards want power but don’t know how to get it without tearing other people down. If they can’t earn respect on their own merits, they’ll create a victim with no choice in the matter.”

“The problematic part is when an older partner specifically chooses someone young and naive to take advantage of or demean,” Astaroth said. “I’m interested in you for who you are, exactly as you are.

“Being strong doesn’t mean winning every battle. Sometimes it means surviving to fight again.”