Astaroth’s brain had filled up with other memories after that first flashback. He remembered training Ozroth, from logic puzzles to emotional denial to physical tests of endurance. He remembered bringing the boy along on his missions, pleased when Ozroth asked the right questions or suggested subtle shifts in wording to make a bargain more advantageous. He remembered Ozroth’s first soul bargain, and how proud he’d been to see years of labor bear fruit.
Astaroth’s labor, that was. Because Ozroth had been the answer to Astaroth’s self-doubt, and to see the younger demon succeed was to know his own success. It had never been about Ozroth at all.
Taken all at once, the memories painted a damning picture. Astaroth had been a selfish, sometimes cruel mentor so focused on ambition that he’d failed to give his protégé space to be a child, or even his own person. Ozroth had been an extension of Astaroth, like his sword: a weapon to be wielded to ensure the demon plane thrived, and Astaroth’s reputation with it.
There was something he didn’t remember though, and it wasn’t because of the amnesia. This would damn him even more, but it would be cowardly to hide behind evasions or half-truths.
“I don’t know if she’s dead,” he admitted. “Maybe. After you became my ward, I . . .” He broke off, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I forgot about her. She was no longer relevant to my plans.”
Ozroth’s nostrils flared, and his fists clenched like he was imagining pummeling Astaroth.
Well, it wasn’t the worst olive branch to extend. “You can hit me,” Astaroth said, a feeble offer at letting Ozroth get out some frustration, if not undoing the damage Astaroth had wrought. “If you like.”
In response, Ozroth gripped Astaroth’s hand and pulled, helping him stand upright. Then he punched Astaroth in the face.
“Ow,” Astaroth said, cupping his jaw. Did the bloke have bowling balls for fists? At least he’d apparently taught Ozroth well. “Feel better?”
Ozroth scowled. “No.”
Well, atonement couldn’t be that easy, or therapists would have long ago traded the chaise longue for the boxing ring. He moved his jaw from side to side, then traced his tongue over his teeth, checking for damage. The copper tang of blood met his tongue, and a hot throb had started beneath skin and bone, but otherwise he was intact. “Want to do it again?” he asked.
Ozroth considered the question, then nodded. “Yes.”
He punched Astaroth in the gut.
The breath wheezed out of Astaroth as he bent over. “Bloody hell,” he gasped, bracing his hands on his knees. “That was a good one.” He breathed deeply, then coughed. Lucifer, he hoped Ozroth’s anger ran out soon, or he would end up more tenderized than a decent steak. “Where next? Though I should remind you I’m mortal at the moment, and while a beating is fine and justified, I don’t consent to being murdered.”
“I don’t understand you,” Ozroth said. When Astaroth looked up, he saw the larger demon glowering at him with his hands on his hips. Some variant of brooding or scowling seemed to be his default expression when he wasn’t going starry-eyed over Mariel Spark, but this glare held a substantial amount of confusion. “Even a month ago you would have had my hide for defying you in any way.”
“Hopefully not literally,” Astaroth said, wincing as he straightened. “If my degeneracy has extended to skinning people, it’s worse than I feared.”
“No, not literally.”
What a relief. “I’m recovered enough to continue,” Astaroth said, bracing his feet and squaring his shoulders. “Punch away.”
Ozroth’s lips parted. “You really are different, aren’t you?”
It was a strange notion, that Astaroth could be a wholly different person without his memories. Maybe identity was just a story people told themselves. When Astaroth’s past had been stripped away, it had put an abrupt end to the narrative he’d told himself for centuries, and a new story had begun.
Was Astaroth truly different? No and yes, in the way all things were after enough time had passed. When the plank of a ship rotted and was replaced by fresh wood, that ship might bear the same name, but its composition had shifted.
Astaroth’s internal composition had shifted drastically over the past few days. He bore the same name, carried the same legacy, but losing his memories had allowed a rotting board to be swapped out for something better. Something stronger.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve changed.”
“Huh.” Ozroth ran his hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots of the dark, wavy strands. He shifted from foot to foot. “Well,” he said after a long pause. “What now?”
Astaroth had been bracing himself for anything from a punch to fresh accusations of being a manipulative, lying monster. He blinked. “What do you mean, what now?”
Ozroth gestured between them. “The talking. Is it over yet?”
Astaroth resisted the urge to laugh. Whatever Mariel had expected from their conversation, it probably wasn’t this. “Do you want it to be over?”
“I don’t know.”
Astaroth didn’t know either. This was deuced awkward, and guilt still churned in his gut over how he’d trained Ozroth, but it also felt good. Like a broken bone had been set back in place.
Your memories will return when you’re ready to seize the life you want. The moment he’d apologized to Ozroth, he’d regained that segment of memory.
His course was clear. There would be no going back to who he had been.
“I suspect I’ll be apologizing to you for a long time,” Astaroth said. “Not that you’ve got to accept it, or even care. And I promise to help find out about your mother, if you let me.” He hesitated, then asked a final question. “Are you happy here?”
Ozroth looked toward the door of the restaurant, and his expression softened. “Yes, I am.”
“Even losing your immortality?” Astaroth pressed.
“Especially losing my immortality.” Ozroth’s mouth curved in a small smile. “My life may be shorter, but it’s so much brighter. Why would I want to go back to what I was before?”
Why, indeed? With fresh Earth air in Astaroth’s nostrils and laughter echoing from some raucous group nearby, it was tempting to remain. To squeeze as much brightness as he could from this colorful world.
Ozroth had never wanted a career in politics though. He hadn’t been born to it the way Astaroth had. The demon plane was already short a bargainer in Ozroth; if Astaroth never returned, they’d be short another bargainer and a powerful voice for change.
No, Astaroth needed to return to power, and he needed his immortality to do it. Just because a new story had started didn’t mean his responsibilities had ended.
There wasn’t room for loving a mortal in that story.
Human emotions couldn’t be reshaped so easily though. Astaroth loved Calladia, and he would keep loving her for as long as he could.
And if his heart ached at the thought of their inevitable separation?
Well, as Elwenna had known when she’d given her child up, sacrifices had to be made for the species.
Time for Astaroth to make one.
THIRTY
Calladia eyed the door nervously. With logistics for the upcoming Hybrid Rights Campaign hammered out, most of the group had dispersed, but Oz and Astaroth still weren’t back.