Calladia switched on the radio and scanned through stations. Static, laughter, static, opera, static . . . then a familiar female voice danced over a rhythmic guitar line. Astaroth nodded along. He didn’t realize he was quietly singing until Calladia gasped. “Wait,” she said. “No way.” She was probably surprised by his recall of the lyrics—as was Astaroth, now that he thought of it. “I don’t know how I know the song,” he said. “It’s just familiar. Maybe there’s an amnesia exception for music?” “Not that,” she said, flapping her hand. “You’re a Swiftie?” He squinted, confused. “Is that a
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