Astaroth wanted to scream as Calladia was shoved to her knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The people were meant to rise up beside him, spurred by Sandranella and Lilith’s support, and together they would storm the high council chambers once Moloch’s dastardly plot was revealed. But although the crowd surged and seethed like an angry sea, no one seemed willing to openly defy the council.
Calladia’s expression was fierce, though her ponytail was lopsided, and there were red marks on her arms where the gargoyle had gripped her.
Astaroth was going to rip Moloch’s throat out with his teeth.
“Well?” Baphomet asked, holding out the broadsword. “Kill them, renounce your radical politics, and I won’t just suspend your sentence. I’ll allow you to be a special adviser to the high council as we discuss hybrid rights.”
As if that conversation would go any way but Moloch’s, but the offer let Baphomet save face.
It would also give Astaroth more time to scheme his way back to power.
He looked at Calladia, Mariel, and Ozroth. All mortal, all wearing matching expressions of defiance. Braver than Moloch and Baphomet and all their cronies combined.
Fuck Baphomet’s deal. Astaroth had lived a long time, but he’d finally found something worth dying for.
He took a deep breath. “I will surrender to your judgment if you let the mortals go.”
“No!” Calladia shouted. She struggled harder, but the gargoyle held her in place.
“You can chop my head off right here in front of everyone,” Astaroth continued. A tremor raced through him, and he clenched his fists as he fought the sour twist of fear in his gut. It had only been a matter of time anyway. Whether in seventy years or this instant, Astaroth’s death had been written when Isobel had laid her life curse.
“Gladly.” Moloch unsheathed his sword. His dimpled cheeks were flushed with bloodlust, and his smile was sharp as a blade.
“Wait.” Sandranella rushed forward, hands out. “Don’t do this, Moloch. He deserves a trial.”
“The council can vote on his fate, if you prefer,” Moloch sneered at her. “But your side will lose.”
They would. With Baphomet allied with Moloch, and Astaroth out of power, the council was no longer in balance. Sandranella looked at Astaroth, and the grim look in her eyes said she knew how futile a vote would be.
Fight another day, he mouthed, hoping she would read his lips. The demon plane would need her in the dark days to come.
She nodded, then stepped back in line.
Astaroth began climbing the steps toward his doom. “I defy your reign of cruelty,” he said. There was no spell amplifying his voice now, so he spoke loudly, willing his words to reach to the back of the crowd and beyond. “I renounce any former alliances. I renounce my power and the cowardly choice I made not to reveal my heritage.” As he approached the platform, he met Calladia’s terrified eyes. “I choose the hybrids,” he announced, still holding her gaze. “And I choose these mortals.”
At the top, he knelt before Calladia. “I choose you,” he murmured, cupping her cheeks.
Tears shone in her beautiful brown eyes. “Please, no,” she said, voice breaking.
He would not be deterred. After a lifetime of manipulation and lies, Astaroth had found something more important than power.
“I choose love,” he told her. “I love you.”
All at once, his memories came flooding back.
She’d trained him in secret, teaching him about bargaining and how to access the magic within himself. How delighted she’d been to learn he’d inherited it! And even more delighted when, as an adult, Astaroth had ceased to show any signs of aging.
“You can pass as a full demon,” she’d crowed, spinning in wild circles. Her eyes had gleamed with a frenzied light, but love burned beneath the madness, and Astaroth had been determined to claw his way to power for her.
He’d enjoyed it, too: the deals, the stratagems, the wars and manipulations and seductions. It had been addictive. Every time a soul floated out of a mortal and into the demon plane thanks to his doing, he’d told himself he was as good as a pure-blooded demon. Better, even, for he rarely left Earth, determined to craft a deadly reputation as quickly as possible. He’d fought, shagged, and charmed his way through witch after warlock, stealing their essence and sending it off, smugly thinking how fortunate it was he took after his demon mother, rather than his human father. He had no mortal soul to worry about, no fragile mortal emotions. He was Lilith’s true heir.
Except the mortal emotions had crept in anyway. Moments of doubt. Moments of sorrow. And sometimes, like the first time he’d used particularly brutal methods to force a warlock to fulfill a deal, a deep, gnawing guilt.
Bargainers shouldn’t feel guilt. They were perfectly in control, Lilith excepted, but that was due to vast age twisting her sanity. The higher Astaroth rose, the more he encountered demons who embodied everything he wanted to be: cruel, cold, untouchable.
Centuries in, he no longer sought power for his mother’s sake. Everything he did was to further his own ambitions. Act like who you want to be, and you will become it. He didn’t recall which mortal had given him that advice, but it had held true. Astaroth had acted as cold and vicious as any of the preeminent demons, and his tender emotions had withered, or else he’d buried them so deep he’d ceased to acknowledge their existence.
Moloch had been the example Astaroth had measured himself against. Perfectly devious, perfectly cruel, unbothered by regret. The demon was ambition personified, and as Astaroth had honed his own ambition to deadly sharpness, the two had come into frequent conflict. They’d spread rumors, sabotaged each other’s plans, and jockeyed for favor with Baphomet. There had been no greater day in Astaroth’s existence than when a council member had been beheaded during the Thirty Years’ War and he had been selected to fill the position ahead of Moloch.
Astaroth of the Nine at last.
Unfortunately, a second council member had died that same day, and Moloch had been chosen for the other vacant spot. The two had taken their battle to a higher stage. There was one position yet to claim: the center of the high council itself.
Astaroth had done everything to bring that goal closer. Achieving ultimate power would be proof that, despite his embarrassing origins, he had become the perfect demon.
While Moloch led military campaigns against the demon plane’s enemies—the immortal fae, a rebel centaur faction, and others who tried to infiltrate the plane for its resources and land—Astaroth had collected souls at a breakneck pace. He’d taken on an apprentice to prove his worthiness as a mentor, and he’d shaped that child into a weapon. Ozroth the Ruthless had become the second-greatest soul bargainer of all time, after Astaroth himself.
When Moloch had veered toward traditional demon values, Astaroth had positioned himself strategically with the progressives on the council, calculating they had the better odds in the long run. And if the progressives argued for the rights of half demons? Astaroth told himself supporting that cause was a clever political move, not a reflection of his heritage.
Still, he had remained in deadlock with Moloch. Baphomet seemed impossible to sway. As the years ticked by and humanity moved into an era of cell phones and internet searches that made them less likely to succumb to demonic trickery, Astaroth had struggled to maintain his pace of soul bargaining. Increasingly, he’d woken from nightmares in a cold sweat, imagining his carefully hoarded power being stripped away. He dreamed of his charade being exposed while demons pointed and laughed at the hybrid who thought he was good enough to rule.
Then Ozroth had made a crucial mistake on a soul bargain. He hadn’t listened closely enough to a warlock’s final wishes, and when he’d delivered the illness-stricken man a peaceful death, the warlock’s soul hadn’t gone to the demon plane at all. It had taken up residence in Ozroth’s chest instead, cursing him with mortal emotions. When Ozroth had struggled with guilt during his next bargains, the council had discussed what to do about him. Strip him from power? Submit him to brutal reconditioning?
“Kill him,” Moloch had said, to Astaroth’s fury. “A faulty weapon is worse than no weapon at all.”
Wagers were a crucial tool among the council, good for a bit of humiliation or to wrangle political concessions out of an enemy. With Astaroth’s own dealmaking dwindling and his protégé failing, his chance of seizing ultimate power was vanishing. So he’d cast aside his carefully crafted schemes, stopped playing the long game, and made a reckless, bold move.
One wager. No limits. If Ozroth succeeded in his next soul bargain within the allotted time, Astaroth would seize whatever concession he wanted from Moloch. If Ozroth failed, Moloch could take his own concession.
Astaroth remembered the hungry gleam in Moloch’s eyes as they’d shaken hands. They both knew what this meant. After nearly six centuries of rivalry, one of them would win at last.
The memories flew past faster than he could track. He recalled threatening Ozroth if he failed, lying to him about the demon plane dying, anything to force him to take Mariel’s soul after the witch had inadvertently summoned him. He remembered Moloch’s taunts and Sandranella’s concern about the outcome. And still, he’d been confident he would win. He always won.
Until he lost.
The memory of Calladia attacking him merged with the rest. It had been the final, violent cherry on an utterly shite cake. He’d staggered into council chambers, wounded and panicked. He couldn’t fail, not after all this time.
Moloch’s taunts. Isobel’s curse. Falling through the portal and hitting his head.
Past and present merged. The vicious, desperate demon he’d been for centuries melded with the softer version Calladia had brought out, two halves melding into a whole.
That vicious, cold self settled into the realm of memory though. Who he’d been the last few days felt immediate and real.
That new, better person couldn’t have existed without the amnesia, he realized. He’d been twisted by ambition, and only by forgetting it had he managed to uncover the human half he’d buried so deep.
Your memories will return when you’re ready to seize the life you want.
He blinked, and the world returned.
Calladia was crying in front of him. Moloch’s sword hovered close to Astaroth’s neck. “Say your goodbyes,” the demon sneered.
“I remember,” Astaroth told Calladia wonderingly. “I remember everything.”
“Everything?” she asked, lip trembling.
The torrent of memory settled, like water from a burst dam forming the lake it was meant to be. The final piece came clear.
Astaroth rolled away from Moloch’s sword and leaped to his feet, hope swelling in his chest. “I have something to say,” he announced. “It’s important.”
“Seriously?” Moloch asked.
“Let’s hear him out,” Sandranella said. When Moloch glared at her, she shrugged an elegant shoulder. “You can always behead him after.”
Astaroth shot her a grateful look. “Moloch,” he said, turning to face the demon. “Just to confirm, you support pure-blood demons only, right? You don’t believe any other species have a place here?”
“Other species are weak,” Moloch said. “By allowing them access to our plane, we invite that weakness in.”
“And fornicating with them is out of the question, of course.” He projected his voice to reach as many ears as possible.
“Obviously.” Moloch nudged Calladia’s leg with the toe of his boot. “But of course you have no qualms about associating with filth.”
Astaroth nearly tackled the demon right then and there. He took a deep breath. “Then would you care to explain why you’ve been skimming from the high council’s gold reserves to pay your elven mistress?”
Silence fell. Moloch’s eyes widened.
One heartbeat passed, another . . .
Then everyone started talking and shouting at once. Hybrids screamed accusations from the crowd while council members turned on each other, bickering about what was true and who knew what.
“Silence,” Baphomet shouted. “Enough of this nonsense. Either kill the mortals or die yourself, Astaroth.”
The other council members looked uneasy though. Murmurs passed down the line, and Sandranella stepped forward. “Tell us more, Astaroth.”
“Gladly,” he said, feeling a burst of spiteful glee. Astaroth had been hiring investigators to tail Moloch since their rivalry had begun, but it wasn’t until he’d discovered Moloch had a secret off-plane bank account that he’d thought to engage human hackers to infiltrate the demon’s online accounts. Humans were always more resourceful than others gave them credit for. “He’s been carrying on an affair with an elven woman for the last fifteen years. He built her a mansion on Earth in a place called Miami, as well as several more on various planes.”
“You don’t know that,” Moloch gritted out between clenched teeth.
“Remember when we were on the brink of creating an alliance with the dwarves?” Astaroth asked the rest of the council. “They were facing a gold shortage, and we had gold to spare, so we proposed financing some urgent infrastructure upgrades in exchange for more favorable tariffs on imports and exports between planes.” Demons operated on the barter system for the most part, but they did hoard various currencies to hold their own with capitalist species.
“I remember,” Sandranella said. “Baphomet changed his mind on the morning of the vote.”
“I concluded the terms weren’t beneficial enough for us,” Baphomet said, looking uneasy.
Astaroth had believed him at the time. Even knowing Moloch’s perfidy, he’d assumed Baphomet had noticed their own gold shortage and covered it up while investigating. He’d never believed the incorruptible Baphomet had finally been corrupted.
“The gold we were going to offer went missing,” Astaroth said. “Moloch funneled it away, and Baphomet covered up the loss.”
Baphomet’s glare was murderous. “These accusations are treason.”
“How is it treason?” Sandranella asked.
“I am the head of the council!” Spittle flew from the demon’s mouth.
“The high council is more than just you,” Sandranella said. “That you believe yourself to speak for all of us, no matter what, and that you see any accusations against you as treason, is proof you are no longer fit for the position.”
That sent the other council members into an uproar. They shouted and pointed fingers, each faction accusing the other of corruption and lies.
“This is the problem,” Astaroth shouted over the din. “We are no longer a council comprised of multiple viewpoints, and we’ve been prioritizing our own power ahead of the well-being of the plane. We have effectively adopted a two-party system, which anyone on Earth can tell you is a recipe for disaster.”
Moloch’s fingers flexed on the hilt of his sword. “You have no proof to back up these spurious accusations.”
Except Astaroth did have proof: written journals locked in his den, scans saved to an external hard drive in his London flat. The hackers had more records. And if Moloch stealing from the demon plane to pay his nondemon mistress wasn’t enough to sway the council against him, this next piece ought to do it.
“I have proof,” Astaroth said. “Including a very interesting signed confession from an assassin.”
Moloch’s ruddy cheeks darkened further, and a vein stood out on his forehead. He started to say something, but Astaroth talked over him.
“Moloch arranged for the murder of Cassaviel,” he said, naming the demon whose position Astaroth had taken on the high council. The confession had been extracted during a booze-heavy night of high-stakes Bingo with a group of retired immortal assassins. “When Moloch wasn’t named to that open position, he had the assassin murder Drivanna as well.” The council member whose spot Moloch had ended up taking.
The arguments between high council members stopped. Every eye fixed on Moloch.
Moloch scoffed. “Where is this so-called proof?”
“I have evidence in my den. I would be glad to retrieve it for the council to investigate—”
Moloch laughed loudly. “Astaroth, your den burned to the ground the day you were banished. A tragic accident, of course.”
Astaroth ought to have known the demon would pull something like that. Luckily, there were merits to having spent so much time among humans. An IT professional he’d shagged a few years ago had taught him the merits of backing up his data.
He’d be sending that human a thank-you card, should this go as hoped. “Good thing I have duplicates,” Astaroth said. “There’s a marvelous invention you may not have heard of called a scanner.”
“And good thing I was able to post the evidence online!”
The familiar voice came from below. The crowd of protestors parted to reveal Lilith, flanked by two burly werewolves: Avram on her left, Kai on her right.
Astaroth’s mother was small, but she carried herself like a queen. Her red hair was bound up in a gold hairpiece that matched her suit of armor—gilt over steel plate, he remembered, a gift from Henry VIII. “I like not knowing if a bed partner wants to lop off my head after,” Lilith had said at the time. “Lends some extra excitement.” The ensemble was completed by a short sword whose hilt was adorned with electrum.
“It’s Lilith herself!” someone shouted, and cries of alarm and awe followed.
“You are not on the high council, Lilith,” Baphomet said. “Your input is unwelcome.”
“Being on the high council sounds boring. I’ve turned it down so many times.” Lilith mounted the steps with her werewolf honor guard. Her smile was vicious, revealing the sharp points of her canines. “I might change my mind though. Your skull would make a lovely chalice to drink rosé from while I purge the council of your sycophants.”
“God, that’s hot,” Kai said.
Lilith patted the werewolf’s forearm and snapped her teeth at him. “Good boy.”
“Where did you post the evidence?” Themmie called from on high. Astaroth twitched; he’d forgotten she was hovering there, phone angled toward the dais. “I’m streaming everywhere from Pixtagram to GhoulTube, and I’ll cross-promote with my socials.”
Given Baphomet’s and Moloch’s blank expressions, they had no idea what that meant. Yet more evidence one shouldn’t dismiss humans, since what they lacked in immortality or super strength they made up for in technical ingenuity and a passion for oversharing.
“I summarized everything and posted it on AO3,” Lilith declared proudly.
Oh, Lucifer. Astaroth resisted smacking his forehead with his palm. “You mean Archive of Our Own?” he asked. “That fan fiction site where you post your tentacle porn?”
“She writes tentacle porn?” Themmie asked. “Awesome. I’m gonna need that link. For, uh, research.”
Lilith looked up at the pixie. “I knew I liked the colorful bug. My next one-shot will be dedicated to you, flappy one.”
Themmie pumped her fist. “Yes!”
Calladia cleared her throat. “Are the scans available online, too?” she asked. “Not just a summary?”
Lilith had reached the dais. “Of course they are,” she said, moving to stand at Astaroth’s side. “They’re linked in the author’s notes.”
“I’m still not sure what fan fiction is,” Moloch said, “but everyone knows you’re insane. Who would believe you?”
Lilith snapped her fingers, and Kai pulled a smartphone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to her. Lilith peered at the screen. “There are already sixteen thousand hits, and I haven’t even posted the explicit chapter yet.”
Astaroth eyed his mother askance. “There’s nothing explicit in my evidence.”
“Yes, you were very dull about the forbidden demon-elf affair.” She shrugged. “I took some creative license.”
“Enough!” Moloch shouted. He raised his sword and held his left hand out, summoning a fireball that hovered over his palm. “This has gone too far.”
“Wait just a moment,” a council member said. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?”
More voices chimed in. Sandranella had been edging toward the kneeling mortals; as Astaroth watched, she whispered a dismissal to the gargoyles, then quickly knelt down and did away with the restraints.
“Thank you,” Calladia said, rubbing her wrists. She jumped to her feet, yanked out a strand of hair, and started tying knots.
The council was having a vicious argument with Moloch, which was what Astaroth had hoped for, but the people needed to have a say as well. He faced the gathered onlookers, hybrid and pureblood alike. “Your council is flawed,” Astaroth announced. He nearly recoiled as his voice boomed. When he looked to the side, Mariel winked.
“They—we—are flawed,” he continued, the words magically amplified. “Greedy and power-hungry, hiding behind lies, inventing enemies to justify our actions. Moloch claims hybrids as the enemies, but in truth, they will be part of our deliverance.”
Something hit his side hard enough to send him staggering. When he looked down, he saw the hilt of Moloch’s dagger sticking out.
Calladia shrieked and launched herself at Moloch, taking the demon down. She punched him in the face repeatedly, sending blood spraying, before Ozroth took over the beating. Mariel started murmuring a spell.
Calladia hurried to Astaroth’s side. Moloch’s blood painted her knuckles and was spattered over one cheek. “We need to get you to a doctor,” she said.
Astaroth swayed, feeling light-headed. Not from blood loss—with the dagger still inside, he wasn’t worried about that just yet—but because the experience of being stabbed didn’t improve over time. “He missed vital organs,” he wheezed. “It’ll be fine. I need to finish the speech.”
Calladia gave him a murderous look. “If you avoid getting treatment just to give a speech, I will twist this knife. Just try me.”
“I swear I’m not in danger of dying at the moment.” He kissed her before she could clobber him over the head and drag him away. “Let me finish the speech. Then we’ll go to a doctor.”
Calladia hesitated before holding out her hand, pinkie extended. “Will you pinkie swear?”
Astaroth didn’t know what that meant, but he would swear on anything she liked. He reached out, looping his pinkie around hers. “I pinkie swear.”
She shook his hand solemnly. “The pinkie swear is a sacred vow. You can’t break it.”
“And I won’t.” He smiled, then winced at a throb of pain in his side. He was relieved to see Moloch being restrained by multiple council members, progressives and conservatives alike. Baphomet, too, was being hotly questioned by two conservative demons.
Finally, the council was taking action. And all it took was a light stabbing.
“Closing our borders to other species isn’t the answer,” Astaroth said, addressing the crowd again. “Nor is discriminating against hybrids. We’ve grown stagnant as a species, and while the souls bring life to our plane, we haven’t bothered to think of other options.”
He reached for Calladia’s hand, twined his fingers with hers, then raised it overhead. Her skin glowed in the demon twilight.
“The plants started blooming when the witches and pixie arrived,” Astaroth continued. “That means we don’t need to rely on soul bargains to keep the plane alive. We’ve just got to open our borders to others. Allow them to share their light with us.” He kissed Calladia’s hand. “In return, perhaps we can share some light and love as well.”
Moloch was screaming threats and thrashing against the people chaining him. Tirana and Baphomet were similarly bound. Sandranella called for the gargoyles, who started dragging the three demons away.
“Hold on,” Astaroth called. He looked to Calladia. “Do you have something you want to say to Moloch?”
Her grin was vicious. “Do I ever!” She walked up to Moloch, then punched him in the face. “That’s for my house.” Her next hit went to his gut, and he groaned. “That’s for Astaroth.” Finally, she tied a series of knots with a strand of her hair. “And this is for the whole demon plane.” She muttered a spell, then booted Moloch in the groin.
The demon launched over the rooftops as if shot from a catapult, his scream fading as he disappeared into the distance.
“That was cool,” Mariel said, “but, uh, do we know where he went?”
“He’s in chains,” Calladia said. “He won’t get far.”
Lilith grabbed Kai by the back of the neck and hauled him down into an aggressively tongue-forward kiss. “Werewolves have an excellent sense of smell,” she said after she broke away. “Fetch him for me?”
With a hearty howl at the sky, Kai leaped off the dais and started running.
A demon doctor hurried toward Astaroth. She tugged the knife out, then began treating the wound. Astaroth winced at the sharp pain, but he felt much better once his side was packed with medicinal herbs and gauze.
“So,” Sandranella said once the doctor was done. “Fancy being a part of the high council again, Astaroth?”
Calladia stiffened. Astaroth looped an arm around her waist, considering.
Being on the high council would give hybrids a voice in the seat of power, but did he want to keep doing this? The endless machinations, the slow march of progress . . . how long would it take Astaroth to fall back into the pit of cynicism and ambition?
His past was part of him. Not a comfortable part—more akin to a splinter under his skin—but still there. He didn’t want to be that person again.
And yet . . .
He faced Calladia, pulling her into his arms. “Calladia,” he said seriously, “will you be angry if I stay on the high council? Or at least act as a consultant for hybrid rights?”
A consultancy might be better anyway. More freedom to explore the worlds. More time to spend with his love.
Calladia’s face fell, but she recovered quickly, giving him a tight smile. “Guess you decided to take Isobel up on her offer, after all.”
Wait, Isobel the life witch? Astaroth was briefly confused before realizing Calladia thought he was planning a return to immortality, not just the high council.
After everything that had happened though, Astaroth had come to a conclusion.
The best aspects of himself didn’t come from his demon heritage, though he still wanted to make his mother proud. And though Lilith had a demon’s love of ambition and ruthlessness, more importantly she loved him.
He’d just seen Calladia, Mariel, Ozroth, Themmie, and a pack of random werewolves fight for demon hybrids for no reason other than that it was the right thing to do. Over the years, he’d watched mortals live with such aggressive passion, it boggled the mind. Living on Earth had provided a contact high of sorts, but Astaroth was done letting other people live boldly while he tried to diminish his emotions.
The best aspects of Astaroth were human.
Maybe it was because human lives were brief. They crammed in so much meaning that each day was an adventure. They cared so fiercely that their love stories echoed through time.
He wanted to make his mother proud, but more importantly, he wanted to make himself proud.
Though she was smiling, fear and sorrow shone from Calladia’s beautiful eyes. Astaroth cupped her cheeks, vowing to do whatever it took to erase that pain. “Calladia,” he said with his entire heart, “I don’t want to be immortal again.”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“I’m not going to contact Isobel again—well, after I pay her those gold doubloons, damn it. I’m staying mortal.”
After a moment, hope bloomed over her face like an exquisite flower. “Really?”
“Really,” he confirmed. “I can still do good here, and I hope to get more hybrids on the council going forward—and we should probably expand the council anyway—but as for my life . . .” He trailed off, thinking how to word it.
Words could do a lot, but not everything. His truth was a feeling, precious and warm, held safe within his rib cage. His truth was also in his arms, his equal in every way.
“Calladia Cunnington,” Astaroth said, “my warrior queen. I love you, and I want to spend a life with you. The good and bad and annoying and sublime. I want you to shout at me and kick my arse. I want to tickle your feet and tempt death. I want to live with you, as fully and aggressively as we can.”
By the end of that speech, his eyes were damp.
Calladia was crying, too. “Astaroth, pain in my ass and light of my life . . . I love you, too. I can’t believe how fast this happened, but I wouldn’t trade a moment of it.” She considered. “Well, maybe a few moments. But overall . . . yes. Sign me up for all of that and all of you.” And because Calladia was never predictable, her heart-stoppingly tender smile was followed by her gripping his horns in both fists and hauling him to her mouth. “Let’s do this, warrior king,” she said before kissing him soundly.
The plane erupted with cheers, but Astaroth didn’t hear them. He was lost in a new world comprised of him and Calladia and all the possibilities that awaited them.
The fight. The laughter.
The love.
