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 pureblood 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.”