“What crimes?” Moloch asked derisively.
Astaroth opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I will reveal that when the time is right.”
Calladia’s stomach sank. Shit. He’d been bluffing.
Moloch laughed. “More lies. Let’s end this farce.”
“If you recant your accusations against Moloch,” Baphomet said, “and cease this useless civil agitating, I may consider life imprisonment instead of death.”
“I refuse.” Astaroth lifted his chin. “And if you slay me here, know this moment will echo through history. Your legacy will be one of censorship and oppression, and the next uprising, when it comes, will not be nearly so peaceful.”
Baphomet gestured, but Calladia couldn’t tell who it was aimed at. She looked around, but the crowd pressed in, making it impossible to see far. Fear seized her throat and chest in iron claws, as suffocating as the packed gathering.
“I will give you one more chance,” Baphomet said. “If you prove you are committed to the pure-blood cause and denounce your human ties, you may be spared.”
Someone seized Calladia from behind. She shrieked and fought, but her assailant was impossibly strong, with rigid gray arms. Her yarn was ripped out of her hands, the levitation bracelet snapped as if it—and the spell—had never been. Next to her, Mariel was also being manhandled by what looked like a stone gargoyle. Oz roared and launched at the gargoyle, but his fists were no match for stone, and soon he’d been corralled, too. Their hands were bound with chains, and they were dragged up the steps to the platform where the high council stood.
Astaroth had fallen when Calladia’s concentration—and the spell—had broken. He scrambled to his feet at the base of the steps. Panic washed over his face before he steeled his expression. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
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.