She rolled her eyes. “Let’s revisit that after coffee.”
She slouched off to the loo like W. B. Yeats’s beast in search of Bethlehem. What a grump. Astaroth grinned as he got up and did his own stretching. Then he pulled out his phone and called Tansy for a delivery.
When Calladia emerged from her shower to see coffee and a breakfast sandwich waiting for her, she looked like she might cry. “You angel.”
He nearly choked. “Not quite.”
“You terrible, wonderful demon,” she corrected, rushing for the caffeine.
After eating, Astaroth hit the bath area for his morning preparations. He’d stocked up on a few changes of clothes the previous day, and once he was clean, he laid options on the bed.
“Trouble deciding?” Calladia asked, rubbing her damp hair with a towel. She’d dressed in jeans and a yellow T-shirt that said Fear My Fists in a cursive script dotted with flowers.
“I need to send the right message.”
“Pretty sure ‘fully clothed’ is enough of a message.”
Astaroth shook his head. “This is my triumphant return from banishment, and I’m facing the high council, so I need to look powerful. But I’m also campaigning for hybrid rights, so I’ve got to look accessible to the public.”
Calladia looked down at her shirt. “Should I have put more thought into this?”
“It’s perfect,” he said. “Jeans are more protective than leggings during a fight, and the shirt is an overt threat. Plus, the yellow is the exact shade of your house, which will tell Moloch you’re out for vengeance.”
“Wow.” Calladia looked startled. “I didn’t do it intentionally or anything.”
“You have good instincts.” Astaroth decided on black jeans and motorcycle boots and paired them with a long-sleeved red satin shirt that moved like liquid over his muscles. He accessorized with spiky silver rings—a more fashionable version of brass knuckles. He wished he had his cane sword to finish the look, but alas, he’d need to make do.
He turned to Calladia with his arms out. “What do you think?”
Her eyes trailed over him in what could only be termed a leer. “I think I’d like to get you back in bed.”
His cock stirred. “An interesting proposition. Do we have time?”
Calladia checked her watch. “Themmie, Oz, and Mariel headed out an hour ago to start putting up signs, and Lilith and Sandranella have been stirring demons up for a protest march since yesterday. They ought to be gathering now, and we have forty minutes before you’re supposed to make your appearance and lead the march to the high council chambers.”
“I can work with that.” Astaroth reached for the fly of his jeans.
A portal opened in the middle of the room, and Themmie tumbled through, wings smoking. “Ambush!” she screeched.
Calladia grabbed her water bottle and dumped it over the pixie, extinguishing the embers that had settled on Themmie’s wings. “Are you all right?” Calladia asked.
Themmie shook her wings out, then inspected them over her shoulder. “Yep, superficial damage. They’ll heal right up.” Her cheek was smudged with soot, and embers had burned holes in her Pixie Pride T-shirt.
“What do you mean, an ambush?” Astaroth asked.
Ozroth stuck his head through the portal. “It means get over here,” he shouted. “Moloch and his followers ambushed the protestors.”
Fuck. If the protestors didn’t get a chance to gain public attention or confront the high council, there was only one option. Fight Moloch and his allies. Finish this battle, once and for all.
Astaroth grabbed the fireplace poker and headed for the portal, Calladia by his side. “Ready?” she asked, yarn stretched between her fingers.
He nodded. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
On the other side of the portal, screams filled the air. Smoke roiled over cobblestones and cast a veil over the torches lining the street. The sky ought to be the hazy purple-gray of daylight, but the heavy smoke made it seem like night.
The street was packed with demons, many of whom carried glittery neon signs with various slogans: horns off my rights, hybrids can be heroes, diversity = strength. Someone was screaming a chant. “Two, four, six, eight, Moloch, don’t discriminate!” Astaroth saw many familiar faces, both hybrid and full-blood, and among the ones he didn’t know, he spotted a variety of horn sizes, ear shapes, and other traits that indicated mixed heritage.
A fireball streaked past, narrowly missing a demon. It crashed into the side of a building, igniting the black-and-red vines climbing the stone wall. A demoness tossed a bucket of water on the flames, extinguishing them, and a new chant went up. “Two, four, six, eight, don’t send us to a fiery fate!”