A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(117)
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.”
“No!” Calladia shouted. She struggled harder, but the gargoyle held her in place.
“You can chop my head off right here in front of everyone,” Astaroth continued. A tremor raced through him, and he clenched his fists as he fought the sour twist of fear in his gut. It had only been a matter of time anyway. Whether in seventy years or this instant, Astaroth’s death had been written when Isobel had laid her life curse.
“Gladly.” Moloch unsheathed his sword. His dimpled cheeks were flushed with bloodlust, and his smile was sharp as a blade.
“Wait.” Sandranella rushed forward, hands out. “Don’t do this, Moloch. He deserves a trial.”
“The council can vote on his fate, if you prefer,” Moloch sneered at her. “But your side will lose.”
They would. With Baphomet allied with Moloch, and Astaroth out of power, the council was no longer in balance. Sandranella looked at Astaroth, and the grim look in her eyes said she knew how futile a vote would be.
Fight another day, he mouthed, hoping she would read his lips. The demon plane would need her in the dark days to come.
She nodded, then stepped back in line.
Astaroth began climbing the steps toward his doom. “I defy your reign of cruelty,” he said. There was no spell amplifying his voice now, so he spoke loudly, willing his words to reach to the back of the crowd and beyond. “I renounce any former alliances. I renounce my power and the cowardly choice I made not to reveal my heritage.” As he approached the platform, he met Calladia’s terrified eyes. “I choose the hybrids,” he announced, still holding her gaze. “And I choose these mortals.”
At the top, he knelt before Calladia. “I choose you,” he murmured, cupping her cheeks.
Tears shone in her beautiful brown eyes. “Please, no,” she said, voice breaking.
He would not be deterred. After a lifetime of manipulation and lies, Astaroth had found something more important than power.
“I choose love,” he told her. “I love you.”
All at once, his memories came flooding back.
* * *
Astaroth’s first memory was of his mother’s red hair and black horns shining in the sunlight. “You mustn’t tell anyone who you are, my sweet,” Lilith had said, cuddling him close. “They won’t understand. They won’t let you seize the power you deserve.”
She’d trained him in secret, teaching him about bargaining and how to access the magic within himself. How delighted she’d been to learn he’d inherited it! And even more delighted when, as an adult, Astaroth had ceased to show any signs of aging.
“You can pass as a full demon,” she’d crowed, spinning in wild circles. Her eyes had gleamed with a frenzied light, but love burned beneath the madness, and Astaroth had been determined to claw his way to power for her.
He’d enjoyed it, too: the deals, the stratagems, the wars and manipulations and seductions. It had been addictive. Every time a soul floated out of a mortal and into the demon plane thanks to his doing, he’d told himself he was as good as a pureblooded demon. Better, even, for he rarely left Earth, determined to craft a deadly reputation as quickly as possible. He’d fought, shagged, and charmed his way through witch after warlock, stealing their essence and sending it off, smugly thinking how fortunate it was he took after his demon mother, rather than his human father. He had no mortal soul to worry about, no fragile mortal emotions. He was Lilith’s true heir.