When Astaroth had been named to the high council, he’d thought he’d finally surpassed Moloch in status . . . until Moloch had been raised to the council that same day. Now there was only one position left to fight over: Baphomet’s.
Astaroth had been searching for dirt on Moloch for a long time. He would need to be careful how he revealed his recent discoveries, considering the situation.
Moloch stood, smoothing a curl over one dun-colored horn. He wore a gray tunic over a blue shirt—an echo of his origin in the late 1300s, though his gray trousers were more modern. “Before we learn how Astaroth has fared, let us recap the terms of the bet,” he said. His eyes glittered in the torchlight, and the satisfaction in them said he knew exactly how Astaroth had fared. “One month ago, we discussed Ozroth the Ruthless during a high council meeting. His failure to deliver a warlock’s soul to the demon realm, and the subsequent discovery that he accidentally absorbed that human soul, caused grave concern among the council. When it was recommended he be put down to avoid future failures, Astaroth interceded, promising that Ozroth would deliver a new soul within a month.”
Astaroth’s expression didn’t change, though he was entertaining a fantasy of garotting Moloch. “Don’t use such passive language, Moloch,” he said lightly. “You were the sole member of the council to recommend my protégé be killed rather than given a chance to prove himself.”
Moloch shrugged. “A faulty weapon is more likely to harm the wielder. With the demon plane dependent on souls, it made sense to eliminate the problem as quickly as possible.”
Without the human souls that drifted like enormous fireflies in the perpetual twilight of the demon plane, all life within the plane would gradually die. It was why demons and witches had formed a symbiotic relationship. The witch or warlock provided a soul—their magic—to keep the demon plane alive, and in exchange, a soul bargainer granted them a wish.
Moloch didn’t care about the demon plane so much as he cared about spiting Astaroth though. “One would think after all these years you’d have learned patience,” Astaroth said, “but you’ve never seemed to enjoy the long game.”
A dimple appeared on Moloch’s cheek. “I’m enjoying it right now.”
Not as much as I’ll enjoy airing your dirty laundry at this table in a few minutes, Astaroth thought. Moloch had won the battle, but Astaroth would win the war.
“Enough posturing,” Sandranella said. “Or at least whip your dicks out and measure them so we can get this over with. I have a happy hour on the elven plane to get to.”
“No need,” Astaroth said. “My dick is definitely bigger.”
Moloch cleared his throat and puffed up his chest. “That’s patently false, but let’s move on. The wager dictated that if Ozroth succeeded in his next soul bargain before the end of the mortal month of October, Astaroth could decide the consequences dealt to me. If Ozroth failed, I would decide the consequences dealt to him.”
Sandranella met Astaroth’s eyes and shook her head. Bad choice, she mouthed.
Yes, he was well aware.
Moloch’s grin was sharp. “So, Astaroth, did Ozroth succeed in claiming a soul within the allotted time frame?”
A muscle under Astaroth’s eye started twitching. “No.”
A murmur went around the table. The conservative demons looked chuffed—they were undoubtedly hoping for Astaroth’s removal from the high council so one of their allies could take his place.
“Would you care to tell us what went wrong?” Moloch asked, clearly hoping for an opportunity to humiliate Astaroth further.
“No,” Astaroth said.
“Will Ozroth be returning to his duties as a soul bargainer?” Moloch pressed.
“Also no. Are you done with the pointless questions?” Because as soon as Astaroth claimed the floor, he would let the rest of the council know what kind of snake they held to their bosom.
“Not quite.” Moloch sauntered around the table, looking like the cat that got the canary. “You’ve always been overly fascinated with humans, haven’t you?”
Foreboding prickled down Astaroth’s spine. “I would hardly call it a fascination,” he said, striving for a bored tone. “I spend time among them to better learn how to manipulate them into bargains.”
“So you’ve always said. The flat in London, the many, many mortals you’ve had carnal relations with—yes, I know all about that—the ridiculous fashion shows you attend . . . all of it is to better manipulate humans, hmm?”