Astaroth’s heels scraped over the flagstones as he tried to escape, but it was no use. The pain in his still-healing leg was nothing compared to the riot of agonized emotion in his chest. He’d always felt more than a demon ought to, and the surge of anger and fear threatened to drown him. “You can’t do this,” Astaroth said. His mask of control had disintegrated. “You can’t!”
“Watch me.” Moloch motioned to the witch, who raised her hands. She moved them in an intricate, roiling dance, inscribing symbols in the air.
“What is she doing?” Sandranella asked, looking between Astaroth and Moloch. “We don’t need her to banish him.”
“Oh, she’s not here to banish him,” Moloch said. “She’s here to do something else . . . and once she does, I’ll finally have proof that Astaroth has been lying to us for centuries.”
Magic built in the air, prickling like electricity. The witch spoke a spell in the language of magic, and a concussive wave of power slammed into Astaroth’s chest. He shouted as fire writhed through his veins, and his vision whited out. His mind seemed to split into kaleidoscopic fragments.
“What did she do?” Sandranella asked, the words garbled as if he was hearing them from underwater.
Moloch’s voice echoed distantly. “Once the witch confirms it worked, I will reveal all.”
Astaroth felt sick and sluggish. He couldn’t let it end like this. He needed to let the council know about Moloch’s crimes.
He forced his thick tongue into motion. “Once the others find out what you’ve been doing—” he slurred, “they’ll—”
“What I’m doing is taking out the trash,” Moloch interrupted.
“Baphomet,” Astaroth said, turning blurred eyes in the direction of the council head. “You must listen to me.”
“Enough,” Baphomet said. “End this, Moloch.”
Moloch snapped his sharp canines at Astaroth. “Ready to go?”
The haze cleared from Astaroth’s vision in time for him to see Moloch open a portal. The fiery-edged oval hovered in midair; through it, he saw a darkened suburban street on the mortal plane. Iron lamps cast pools of gold over the pavement, and trees rustled in the wind.
The gargoyles muscled Astaroth out of the chair and shoved him toward the portal.
“No, wait—” Astaroth’s head was spinning, his normally ordered thoughts a chaotic jumble. Terror wrapped around him like clinging vines.
Moloch was grinning like a fiend. “See you soon,” he whispered.
Then Moloch kicked Astaroth in the backside, and Astaroth stumbled through the portal into the mortal realm. The pavement rushed toward him, and the world went black.
TWO
Cheers, bitches!”
Calladia raised the tequila shot, spilling some of the alcohol on her wrist. It was her fourth—or maybe fifth?—shot since arriving at Le Chapeau Magique to celebrate Mariel and Oz’s victory over Astaroth of the Nine, demonic dickhead. The dive bar was full of their friends chatting, singing, and swaying to the music pouring from a battered jukebox. Christmas lights were strung around the ceiling, and the wood-paneled room had taken on a hazy, pleasant glow.
Calladia licked salt from the hand holding the glass, tossed the shot back, then sucked the quarter of lime she held in her other hand. Sharp citrus sang along her taste buds, and the alcohol burned just the right amount going down. She did a full body shudder. “Whew!”
Calladia wasn’t normally a big drinker—she despised hangovers and tried to eat and drink relatively healthily—but her best friend defeating an agent of evil was a big fucking deal. Calladia getting to punch said agent of evil had been pretty cool, too.
Calladia closed her eyes, remembering Astaroth’s shocked expression after she’d punched him. That snooty motherfucker hadn’t known who he was messing with.
“I love everyone in this bar!”
Calladia opened her eyes at the slurred exclamation and smiled at Themmie. The Filipino American pixie was “in her cups,” as some might say, her brown eyes half closed, her mouth tilted in a goofy smile. Themmie slammed her own shot of tequila, iridescent wings twitching as she gasped.
“I’m going to regret this in the morning,” Calladia said, bracing herself against the bar as her head spun. She belched, then thumped her chest with her fist. “I haven’t done a shot since college.”
“Really?” Themmie wrinkled her nose. “The so-called ‘real world’ sounds terrible.”
Five years younger than Calladia and Mariel, Themmie was a senior in college studying anthropology and business, with a goal of going to law school to become an advocate for the disenfranchised, as she said when sober or going to interviews. To fuck the man! was what she was more likely to say when drunk or in private.
“Which man?” Mariel had slurred once at happy hour, to which Themmie had wrinkled her nose, looked at the ceiling, and responded, “The one with a capital M.”
Calladia agreed wholeheartedly. Every day, she felt worse and worse about . . . well, most things. Her dating prospects, her mother’s reign of terror as the mayor of Glimmer Falls, and all the ways life had gradually ground her down until she was more sharp edges than anything else.
“The real world is terrible,” Calladia said. “But there’s no homework, so that’s good.”
Themmie shook her head. “Not for me. Practicing law is like weaponized homework.” She blinked at Calladia. “You really don’t do shots anymore?”
Calladia eyed the empty shot glass. The hazy contentment she’d been feeling all night was a welcome change from her normal agitated state. Why had she stopped doing shots, again?
Her temples started throbbing. Oh, right.
“My sweet summer child,” Calladia said with what she imagined to be great dignity, “there’s something you’re going to get well acquainted with over the coming years. It’s called a hangover. I hear that by the time we’re thirty, we’ll get one just from prolonged eye contact with alcohol.”
“Boo.” Themmie’s eyes wandered over the selection of bottles behind the bar. “We’re not thirty yet. Want another one?”
The tequila already consumed said yes, but the shred of rational thought remaining said absolutely not. Calladia made eye contact with the bartender, a nonbinary centaur named Hylo who had a buzz cut, a labrum piercing, and hooves adorned with neon nail polish. “Water?” she said hopefully.
Hylo trotted over with an enormous glass. “Want to add an anti-hangover supplement? We’re trying out a new elven manufacturer.”
“Absolutely.” Calladia eyed Themmie, who had her phone out for a selfie and was making alarming faces at the camera. “One for her, too.”
The roan-patterned centaur snorted as they pulled a bottle of glittering green powder out and began stirring it into the water. “Themmie, you better not be posting those.”
Themmie hiccupped. “My followers love slices of real life.”
“So do mine, but there’s something to be said for a prudent amount of editing.”
“You’re a Pixtagram influencer, too?” Calladia asked. Themmie made a tidy profit from endorsements for her colorful photos and videos, and though Calladia itched at the thought of receiving that much attention from strangers, she had to admire the pixie’s hustle.
“Not Pixtagram,” Hylo said. “ClipClop.”