Astaroth had done the opposite. He’d taken in a young child, then shaped that child to reflect the person Astaroth had secretly wished he could be: a pure-blood, ruthless demon, unafflicted by the doubts and fears of humans.
There was no such thing as a demon entirely unafflicted by doubt or fear though, or if there was, it would be someone like Moloch, whose worldview had become an exercise in sadism.
“When did I take you in?” Astaroth asked.
Ozroth’s forehead furrowed. “Right after my father died during the French Revolution. I was six years old.”
Astaroth winced. That was very young. And yes, bargainers were trained from youth—Lilith herself had trained him in secret on Earth until he’d grown old enough for her to realize he could pass as a full demon—but Astaroth knew his methods of teaching would have been far less cordial than his mother’s. “And then?”
Ozroth settled against the wall beside him. His eyes tracked the family across the way, too. “You took me to your palace in the Obsidian Realm, where you raised me to adulthood.”
Ozroth’s rumbling voice tugged at a stray thread in Astaroth’s brain. The Obsidian Realm was a barren, black wasteland below an extinct volcano. Astaroth closed his eyes, focusing on that thread of connection. “Tell me more.”
He heard Ozroth’s heavy sigh. “It was cold. Stone walls, stone floors. Only the basics required for survival and learning, because you said forming any kind of emotional connection to a person, place, or object would give my enemies a weapon to wield against me.”
Astaroth’s throat felt like it was being squeezed in a fist. It was similar to what Lilith had taught him. “Be cautious about your emotional connections,” she’d said long ago. “They can be wielded against you.”
She hadn’t told him he wasn’t allowed any connections though, had she? She’d taught him to conceal his human tendencies and limit emotional outbursts around others, but she’d never commanded him not to have them at all.
“Go on,” he said.
“You trained me in bargainer magic, had me read demon and human histories, taught me swordplay and torture techniques.”
At least that was standard for young bargainers, so Astaroth hadn’t failed in that sense. An effective bargainer was a knowledgeable, well-rounded one.
“You told me the most important thing a bargainer could be was cold,” Ozroth continued. “?‘Make your heart ice,’ you said. ‘No one will ever be able to hurt you.’?”
Had Astaroth been right in that? In some sense, perhaps. But now he saw an ugly truth. “In doing so, I hurt you though. Didn’t I?”
Ozroth didn’t answer for so long that Astaroth opened his eyes to see if he was still there. Ozroth was staring at him, confusion stamped over his face.
“Well?” Astaroth pressed. “Don’t hold back.”
Ozroth swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “You did.”
The words cut into Astaroth’s chest, sharp as a sword. He’d known the answer, of course. He’d just needed to hear it spoken from his victim’s lips. “I’m sorry.” The words scraped his throat raw.
Ozroth sucked in a harsh breath. “Don’t lie.”
“I mean it,” Astaroth said. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember doing those things, but I’m sure I did, and it was wrong.” The words scraped less this time. He repeated them, marveling at their shape. “I was wrong.”
A flood of memories surged into his mind all at once. Astaroth dropped to his knees, gripping his head.
A little boy with golden eyes and tiny nubs of horns was curled up on a pillow before a fireplace, weeping.
“He’s crying,” Astaroth said flatly.
“His father died.” The speaker, a demoness with black hair and mahogany horns, looked exhausted. “And he’s young. He doesn’t understand.”
Astaroth felt the web of potential around the boy, as surely as he knew the feel of his own magic or the golden glimmer of a mortal soul. This Ozroth could be a powerful bargainer with the right training. The demon plane needed bargainers more than ever; fewer were born with the talent each century, and occasionally some died in the course of duty. Ozroth’s father, Trinitatis the Trickster, had been one of them.
Except Trinitatis hadn’t died in the line of duty. He’d died on vacation to Earth, of all things, since he’d apparently failed to research what was happening in France before portaling straight into a revolution. An inconceivable, unforgivable error, since any decent bargainer studied the affairs of humans. Astaroth himself lived more than half-time on Earth in order to stay abreast of developments and learn how best to manipulate mortals.
That’s not why, a tiny voice in his head said, but Astaroth shoved it down. Power, ambition, and intent; that was all that mattered.
Astaroth struggled every day to hold himself to the standards of a true demon. If he had been trained properly on the plane, rather than in secret on Earth, maybe he wouldn’t have developed an affinity for humans. Maybe his hidden weakness would never have had the chance to burrow into his brain, digging roots so deep he was still trying to get them out centuries later.
Ozroth could be a hero to the species. He could be the perfect demon Astaroth wasn’t.
Resolved, Astaroth nodded. “I’ll train him myself. Starting today.”
Someone was shaking his shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”
Astaroth blinked, and the world returned. A cool November day, a charming small-town street, and a half-pixie, half-human family now watching him with alarm. Beside him was the grown—and then some—version of the child Astaroth had taken from his mother and ruthlessly shaped to become the perfect weapon.
To Astaroth’s surprise, his eyes were damp. “I remembered,” he said. “That first day, when I took you in. I remembered.”
Ozroth stiffened. Pain flashed across his expression. “And my mother?” he asked, voice rough. “You remember her, too?”
Ozroth’s mother had handed him over, her grief assuaged by the knowledge that with Astaroth’s mentorship, her son’s future would be bright. Bargainers were always taken young, after all, and she would have been preparing herself for that separation ever since she’d decided to have a child with a bargainer. It was an honor to make such a sacrifice for the species. And if Ozroth had been a bit too young for training, and if it had been a difficult time in the boy’s development to do so, Astaroth hadn’t cared.
Astaroth had never allowed himself to feel grief. If he never felt it, he didn’t have to understand it or empathize with those who did. “I remember,” he said through a tight throat. “Elwenna was her name.”
“Elwenna,” Ozroth breathed. “I’d forgotten.” His eyes widened with obvious panic. “Wait, you said it was her name. Is she dead?”