The other council members shifted, looking uneasy. “Baphomet, is that so?” one asked. “Assassinations can’t proceed without the council’s full support.”
“Sandranella has succumbed to the same weakness of thought Astaroth has,” Baphomet said. “She seeks to undermine our power.”
“How is protecting hybrids weak?” The question came from overhead, where Themmie sat cross-legged in midair, smartphone held in front of her. Livestreaming on a demon social media site, presumably. Woe to anyone who underestimated the power of a sunshiny influencer with a cause to champion.
“This is the future progressives want,” Moloch said, pointing up at Themmie. “Our sacred realm invaded by interlopers. The strength of our bloodlines polluted by lesser beings.”
Calladia gritted her teeth to resist the urge to throw something at Moloch. If Themmie was streaming, it was best to let the demon dig his own grave.
“Do you know why Astaroth supports so-called ‘hybrid rights’??” Moloch sneered. “Because he himself is half human.”
Astaroth shrugged, looking unbothered. “A bit late on that revelation, Moloch. I already announced it.”
Moloch’s face twisted with hate. “Astaroth is an abomination and a criminal who lied to the high council. We had to remove him, lest he corrupt the rule of law further.”
“I’m not ashamed of being a hybrid,” Astaroth said. He met Calladia’s eyes. “I’ve learned my human half is a strength.”
Calladia would have clapped and started cheering if she hadn’t been holding the yarn—and the knots shielding him—in place. She smiled up at him, hoping he could see the hope and pride shining from her eyes. Fuck yeah, she mouthed up at him.
Tirana guffawed, puncturing the moment. “Listen to this fool.” She uncoiled her whip and waved a hand, and a tiny fireball danced from her fingers to the leather, setting the length ablaze.
Baphomet puffed up his broad chest. “For defying banishment and lying about your bloodline, I, Baphomet of the Nine, sentence Astaroth, formerly of the Nine, to death.”
Calladia’s hope abruptly warped into fury and terror. Her horrified gasp was echoed by others. “No!” she shouted, turning a vicious glare on Baphomet. She would gut him before she let him set a finger on Astaroth.
“You can’t just decide that,” Sandranella said. “It’s up to the whole council.”
“I am the council,” Baphomet replied. “My word will be law.”
Moloch’s grin was diabolical. “Do let me carry out the sentence.”
“What authority do you have anymore, Baphomet?” Astaroth asked. “You lost it when you tried to assassinate me before I could reveal the extent of Moloch’s own crimes.”
Calladia’s heart skipped a beat. Had he remembered something at last? Please, she silently begged. If ever there was a moment for him to rediscover his leverage over Moloch, it was now. She didn’t fear him becoming the worst version of himself anymore—what mattered was keeping him alive. Keeping him safe.
“What crimes?” Moloch asked derisively.
Astaroth opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I will reveal that when the time is right.”
Calladia’s stomach sank. Shit. He’d been bluffing.
Moloch laughed. “More lies. Let’s end this farce.”
“If you recant your accusations against Moloch,” Baphomet said, “and cease this useless civil agitating, I may consider life imprisonment instead of death.”
“I refuse.” Astaroth lifted his chin. “And if you slay me here, know this moment will echo through history. Your legacy will be one of censorship and oppression, and the next uprising, when it comes, will not be nearly so peaceful.”
Baphomet gestured, but Calladia couldn’t tell who it was aimed at. She looked around, but the crowd pressed in, making it impossible to see far. Fear seized her throat and chest in iron claws, as suffocating as the packed gathering.
“I will give you one more chance,” Baphomet said. “If you prove you are committed to the pure-blood cause and denounce your human ties, you may be spared.”
Someone seized Calladia from behind. She shrieked and fought, but her assailant was impossibly strong, with rigid gray arms. Her yarn was ripped out of her hands, the levitation bracelet snapped as if it—and the spell—had never been. Next to her, Mariel was also being manhandled by what looked like a stone gargoyle. Oz roared and launched at the gargoyle, but his fists were no match for stone, and soon he’d been corralled, too. Their hands were bound with chains, and they were dragged up the steps to the platform where the high council stood.
Astaroth had fallen when Calladia’s concentration—and the spell—had broken. He scrambled to his feet at the base of the steps. Panic washed over his face before he steeled his expression. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
Calladia, Mariel, and Oz were shoved to their knees facing the crowd, and Calladia winced as her kneecaps cracked against the stone. Heavy hands landed on her shoulders, keeping her down. She bared her teeth at the gargoyle, then at Baphomet and Moloch, continuing to struggle even though her fiercest efforts accomplished nothing.
Calladia refused to stop fighting though—for herself, for Astaroth, for Mariel and Oz and Themmie and the demon hybrids and the werewolves who had shown up because it was the right thing to do. For hope and justice.
For love.
Baphomet unsheathed his broadsword. The silver length of it gleamed in the firelight. “I have a proposition, Astaroth,” the demon said. “I will spare your life . . . if you take theirs.”
THIRTY-THREE
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.”