A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(118)

Except the mortal emotions had crept in anyway. Moments of doubt. Moments of sorrow. And sometimes, like the first time he’d used particularly brutal methods to force a warlock to fulfill a deal, a deep, gnawing guilt.

Bargainers shouldn’t feel guilt. They were perfectly in control, Lilith excepted, but that was due to vast age twisting her sanity. The higher Astaroth rose, the more he encountered demons who embodied everything he wanted to be: cruel, cold, untouchable.

Centuries in, he no longer sought power for his mother’s sake. Everything he did was to further his own ambitions. Act like who you want to be, and you will become it. He didn’t recall which mortal had given him that advice, but it had held true. Astaroth had acted as cold and vicious as any of the preeminent demons, and his tender emotions had withered, or else he’d buried them so deep he’d ceased to acknowledge their existence.

Moloch had been the example Astaroth had measured himself against. Perfectly devious, perfectly cruel, unbothered by regret. The demon was ambition personified, and as Astaroth had honed his own ambition to deadly sharpness, the two had come into frequent conflict. They’d spread rumors, sabotaged each other’s plans, and jockeyed for favor with Baphomet. There had been no greater day in Astaroth’s existence than when a council member had been beheaded during the Thirty Years’ War and he had been selected to fill the position ahead of Moloch.

Astaroth of the Nine at last.

Unfortunately, a second council member had died that same day, and Moloch had been chosen for the other vacant spot. The two had taken their battle to a higher stage. There was one position yet to claim: the center of the high council itself.

Astaroth had done everything to bring that goal closer. Achieving ultimate power would be proof that, despite his embarrassing origins, he had become the perfect demon.

While Moloch led military campaigns against the demon plane’s enemies—the immortal fae, a rebel centaur faction, and others who tried to infiltrate the plane for its resources and land—Astaroth had collected souls at a breakneck pace. He’d taken on an apprentice to prove his worthiness as a mentor, and he’d shaped that child into a weapon. Ozroth the Ruthless had become the second-greatest soul bargainer of all time, after Astaroth himself.

When Moloch had veered toward traditional demon values, Astaroth had positioned himself strategically with the progressives on the council, calculating they had the better odds in the long run. And if the progressives argued for the rights of half demons? Astaroth told himself supporting that cause was a clever political move, not a reflection of his heritage.

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.