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.
That new, better person couldn’t have existed without the amnesia, he realized. He’d been twisted by ambition, and only by forgetting it had he managed to uncover the human half he’d buried so deep.
Your memories will return when you’re ready to seize the life you want.
He blinked, and the world returned.
Calladia was crying in front of him. Moloch’s sword hovered close to Astaroth’s neck. “Say your goodbyes,” the demon sneered.
“I remember,” Astaroth told Calladia wonderingly. “I remember everything.”
“Everything?” she asked, lip trembling.
The torrent of memory settled, like water from a burst dam forming the lake it was meant to be. The final piece came clear.
Astaroth rolled away from Moloch’s sword and leaped to his feet, hope swelling in his chest. “I have something to say,” he announced. “It’s important.”