“Money happened,” Astaroth replied succinctly. He hefted the tree branch higher. “I find it interesting, Baphomet,” he declared loudly, “that you, famously the centrist of the high council, have joined Moloch on a mission to kill me.”
Baphomet scowled. “You earned your punishment.”
The demoness with the whip cracked it, sending sparks through the air. She had dirty-blond chin-length hair and marbled gray horns. “Let me snap his head off, Moloch.”
“Ah, Tirana,” Astaroth said, giving an elaborate bow. “You are as charming as ever.”
The name was familiar, and Calladia racked her brain for what she’d learned about high council politics. Baphomet was the oldest demon on the court and its ostensible leader, and Sandranella had mentioned him seeming sympathetic to Moloch’s cause. Sympathetic to both Moloch and Tirana, she remembered, Tirana being the anti-hybrid extremist who wanted to claim Astaroth’s former position on the council.
Two conservative hard-liners were collaborating with the powerful centrist demon everyone wanted to sway to their side. That Tirana had asked Moloch for permission to attack Astaroth, rather than Baphomet, told Calladia the swaying had already happened. “Looks like Baphomet is no longer in charge,” she told Astaroth. “I wonder if the rest of the council knows?”
Baphomet glared at her. “Who are you?”
“None of your business.” Calladia looped thread over her fingers, whispering as she tied knots faster than she ever had in her life. A defensive shield formed in front of them, invisible to the naked eye.
“She’s casting a spell,” Tirana said. The whip flashed forward in a bright blur, and Calladia flinched when it ricocheted off the shield.
Astaroth shoved her behind him. “Your quarrel is with me, not her.”
Calladia made an irritated sound. “I can fight.”
“I know,” he replied. “So can I.”
“You have a stick.”
“Indeed I do.” He waved the branch in front of him. “Come on, you cowards. Who wants to face me first?”
Moloch burst out laughing. “Oh, this is too good,” he said between chuckles. “What a fearsome stick you wield.”
Calladia kept tying knots. “What are you doing?” she whispered hotly.
“It’s called a diversion,” Astaroth muttered. “So hurry up with whatever diabolical spell you’re working on.”
Oh! Astaroth knew he couldn’t win against three armed demons, so he was distracting them until Calladia could come up with something dramatic enough to get them away safely.
Calladia didn’t have a plan, but that hadn’t stopped her before. Remembering a spell from her textbook, she focused on the earth at the feet of the three demons. “Descendren ti talammven,” she said, weaving a pattern like a spiderweb between her fingers.
The ground collapsed beneath the three demons. The pit was only a few feet deep, but it would at least slow them down.
“Run!” Astaroth said.
“Already on it!”
They sprinted into the forest together. Calladia hurdled over logs and wound around trees like escaping demons was an Olympic event. When a vine stretched across the path, Astaroth sliced through it with a swing of his branch, clearing the way.
Behind them came shouts and crashing noises as the demons pursued. Calladia desperately wanted to weave a new spell, but it was impossible to get the precision she needed while running. Damn it, why couldn’t she have an ounce of Mariel’s nature gifts? Mariel could have made the forest attack their pursuers with little but a whispered request.
Calladia’s throat burned with her heaving breaths. She leaped over a log, then ducked under a branch.
A cracking noise accompanied a sting at the side of her head, and Calladia cried out as pain burst white hot over her skin. When she touched the spot, her fingers came away wet with blood, and the smell of burned hair filled her nostrils. Tirana had cracked her whip, and only Calladia’s incidental dodge had prevented it from doing further damage.
Astaroth turned and flung the branch like a javelin, and a cry of pain followed. “Leave her alone,” he shouted.
“Just run,” Calladia gasped. The pain of the strike numbed out as adrenaline kicked in, and despite the blood, it didn’t seem like a devastating injury. Head wounds always bled excessively. It was too bad the whip hadn’t contacted her skin long enough to cauterize the cut.
The river glinted through the trees downslope. They were nearing the trailhead and Clifford the Little Red Truck, but the demons were far too close. “Lilith,” Calladia wheezed. “She needs to know.” Shit had officially hit the fan, and this situation was more than they could take on alone.