A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(3)

Moloch didn’t care about the demon plane so much as he cared about spiting Astaroth though. “One would think after all these years you’d have learned patience,” Astaroth said, “but you’ve never seemed to enjoy the long game.”

A dimple appeared on Moloch’s cheek. “I’m enjoying it right now.”

Not as much as I’ll enjoy airing your dirty laundry at this table in a few minutes, Astaroth thought. Moloch had won the battle, but Astaroth would win the war.

“Enough posturing,” Sandranella said. “Or at least whip your dicks out and measure them so we can get this over with. I have a happy hour on the elven plane to get to.”

“No need,” Astaroth said. “My dick is definitely bigger.”

Moloch cleared his throat and puffed up his chest. “That’s patently false, but let’s move on. The wager dictated that if Ozroth succeeded in his next soul bargain before the end of the mortal month of October, Astaroth could decide the consequences dealt to me. If Ozroth failed, I would decide the consequences dealt to him.”

Sandranella met Astaroth’s eyes and shook her head. Bad choice, she mouthed.

Yes, he was well aware.

Moloch’s grin was sharp. “So, Astaroth, did Ozroth succeed in claiming a soul within the allotted time frame?”

A muscle under Astaroth’s eye started twitching. “No.”

A murmur went around the table. The conservative demons looked chuffed—they were undoubtedly hoping for Astaroth’s removal from the high council so one of their allies could take his place.

“Would you care to tell us what went wrong?” Moloch asked, clearly hoping for an opportunity to humiliate Astaroth further.

“No,” Astaroth said.

“Will Ozroth be returning to his duties as a soul bargainer?” Moloch pressed.

“Also no. Are you done with the pointless questions?” Because as soon as Astaroth claimed the floor, he would let the rest of the council know what kind of snake they held to their bosom.

“Not quite.” Moloch sauntered around the table, looking like the cat that got the canary. “You’ve always been overly fascinated with humans, haven’t you?”

Foreboding prickled down Astaroth’s spine. “I would hardly call it a fascination,” he said, striving for a bored tone. “I spend time among them to better learn how to manipulate them into bargains.”

“So you’ve always said. The flat in London, the many, many mortals you’ve had carnal relations with—yes, I know all about that—the ridiculous fashion shows you attend . . . all of it is to better manipulate humans, hmm?”

Moloch knowing that Astaroth had shagged mortals was not good. While many demons appreciated humans, seeing them as symbiotic counterparts, the conservative members of the high council disdained them as lesser beings, and Astaroth had always been careful to keep the, ah, extent of his interactions with humans a secret. “What’s your point?” he asked.

“I’ve wondered about you for centuries.” Moloch stopped just out of range of the sword hidden in Astaroth’s cane. Pity. “Something’s always seemed . . . different about you.”

The smile vanished as cold sweat beaded on Astaroth’s forehead. Moloch couldn’t know . . . could he? “It’s probably the long track record of success,” Astaroth said. “You haven’t had a decent war to fight in decades.”

“I did some research,” Moloch said, ignoring the barb. “The records around your birth are surprisingly sparse. With a mother like Lilith, one would think she’d trumpet the immediate arrival of an heir, rather than wait forty years to claim you as her son.”

“Who can say why Lilith does anything?” Astaroth asked. “She’s mad.” Fear festered in his gut though, and his throat felt tight. There was a reason his wonderful, exasperating mother hadn’t publicly claimed him right away, and if it was revealed, the high council would never see Astaroth the same way again. Which would be a death sentence for his ambitions.

Ambition—power—was everything. It was the only thing.

“I do agree she’s insane,” Moloch said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather-bound book with gilt edges. “But Lilith’s diary contains some very interesting information.”

Bloody fucking fuck. Did his cursed mother have to document her entire life? She had a whole bookshelf of similar-looking diaries in her den, filled out over the centuries, but Astaroth had never dreamed she’d write down the secret the two of them alone shared.

“What part of Lilith is insane are you missing?” Astaroth snapped to cover up his unseemly fear. “Just because she wrote something down doesn’t mean it’s true. She writes explicit Wars of the Roses tentacle fan fiction, too.” Way, way too much Wars of the Roses tentacle fan fiction, which she posted to AO3 like a horny human teenager rather than the millennia-old demoness she was.

“Wow,” Sandranella drawled. “Are the tentacles aligned with Lancaster or York?”

“I wouldn’t say aligned with so much as inside of,” Astaroth said, “but that’s not the point. If she can confidently write Henry VI taking it up the arse from a Yorkist squid, she very well might have invented all sorts of falsehoods about me.”

Moloch bared his teeth. “You’re very defensive for someone who doesn’t even know what I’m accusing you of. Unless you do?”