Astaroth straightened, cracking his neck before shifting his weight onto both legs. Sharp pain shot through the injured leg, but he gritted his teeth and started walking without a limp.
The scent of his blood might be in the air, but Astaroth had fangs as sharp as any hellhound’s.
Time to show them.
* * *
The eight other demons of the high council sat around a table shaped like the council crest. The slab of basalt was carved with the sigil’s design, and molten silver circulated through the grooves. Thanks to a spell commissioned from some long-ago warlock, the silver never cooled, nor did it damage the stone. It flowed endlessly, making the flame shape at the center seem to dance. Torches burned in sconces around the room, highlighting rich tapestries depicting famous demon victories, but the high ceiling was shrouded in shadow. Living stone gargoyles perched in the rafters, barely visible in the darkness.
Astaroth had always appreciated a bold aesthetic, and the council chambers delivered. Gothic drama practically dripped down the walls, and although most of the demons in this room, Astaroth included, had smartphones in their pockets, for the next hour they would all pretend they were suspended out of time.
The council members stared as Astaroth strolled toward his chair with an air of lazy arrogance. He lowered himself onto the emerald-green velvet seat, biting back a sigh of relief. Appearances mattered more than substance in his world. Reality was crafted from lies on top of lies, and Astaroth had long been the best liar of all.
Baphomet, the eldest demon on the high council, raised one disdainful eyebrow. “About time you joined us.”
The demon was massive, with a braided red beard and thick ivory horns that curved along the sides of his head before ending in wicked points. Astaroth was fairly sure Baphomet filed his horns to make the tips that sharp, and he shuddered at the thought of doing the same to his own sleek black horns. Baphomet dressed like he was straight out of the Viking Age—which he was—in furs, metal, and leather. The attire smelled unpleasantly musty, but Astaroth couldn’t deny the demon had cultivated a distinct brand.
Baphomet was the most important person in the room. He was the council’s nominal head, having committed to a centrist position, and he served as tiebreaker whenever the four conservative and four liberal demons failed to come to an agreement. He also played dictator as needed.
It was his position both Moloch and Astaroth had their eyes on.
“I was held up,” Astaroth said. Unlike the other demons, his accent was crisply British, thanks to centuries spent living mostly in London on the mortal plane, rather than here on the demon plane. To better understand and manipulate mortals, he’d told the council.
They didn’t need to know his reason for spending time with humans was more complicated than that.
“You look wretched,” Sandranella, the demoness to Baphomet’s right, said. Her dark skin and black horns contrasted sharply with her cloud of white hair, and she was dressed in her typical elegant-but-don’t-fuck-with-me attire: a sapphire brocade gown with a metal breastplate. She was as close to a friend as Astaroth would allow himself to claim.
“I’m trying out a new aesthetic,” Astaroth said, examining his nails.
“What, looking like you got your ass kicked and then rolled around in mud?”
That was exactly what had happened, but Astaroth wasn’t about to admit it. An image of his assailant flashed through his mind: brown eyes, blond ponytail, an oval face with a determined chin. The woman had been tall and leanly muscled, but she was merely human, and nothing about her had screamed Your balls are in danger! “It’s called deliberately distressed clothing,” he said, shoving thoughts of the witch away.
“It’s certainly distressing me,” Sandranella said, looking him up and down disapprovingly.
“Enough chatter,” Baphomet boomed. Astaroth wondered if the demon practiced that voice alone in his den, calculating which volume level best qualified as “booming.” “We are here to resolve the wager proposed by Moloch.”
Astaroth maintained an indolent smile, despite the urge to grind his teeth and spit at Moloch. His longtime nemesis sat across from Astaroth, an oily smirk on his face. Moloch might look cherubic, with rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and curly brown hair, but he was the cruelest snake Astaroth had ever met. Admirable—except that his treachery was often aimed at Astaroth. They’d been born around the same time, and their fierce rivalry had intensified over the centuries as Moloch had become the preeminent demon warrior and Astaroth the preeminent soul bargainer.