Demon-human hybrids were rare. Some took after their mortal parent and lived on Earth, but others lived on the demon plane. They weren’t respected by fundamentalist demons though, and none had ever gained political power.
If Astaroth knew anything about himself, it was that he’d always sought power. There was no way he was anything other than a full-blooded demon.
Right?
“Are you even listening?” The woman who was apparently his mother sounded annoyed. And Lucifer, how could he not remember his mother? Sure, his memory was spotty even for events long past, but a parent was a fairly pivotal part of one’s life. “You know your power rests on your reputation,” she said. “You didn’t have an emotional outburst, did you? You were doing so well at masking your human traits.”
Human traits. Emotional outbursts.
Astaroth started to sweat. He wanted to shout that he was a pure-blooded demon, with horns and the immortal life span to prove it, but that meant little. While many hybrids had small horns or none at all, others had normal horns. And though some had finite life spans, immortal hybrids existed as well. The quirks of genetics had created an array of possibilities should a demon procreate outside the species.
His temples throbbed. He wanted to scream denials, maybe throw something. Tear the whole bloody room apart if that would somehow prove his full-blooded status.
But that would be an emotional outburst, wouldn’t it?
He met Calladia’s wide brown eyes. She looked as shocked as he felt. That was comforting, at least—but then again, a proper demon wouldn’t crave comfort, would they?
Half human.
Maybe the knock on the head wasn’t to blame for his volatility, after all. But if he was a hybrid . . . Lucifer, what a nightmare.
The most traditional demons considered humans a prey species, essential for maintaining the demon ecosystem but not worthy of respect. Astaroth had always supported hybrid rights on the demon plane, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? It was practical to encourage genetic diversification. And if mortals were interesting enough to convince him to live mostly on Earth, that had been a tactic to better learn how to manipulate them, right?
Or had it been a lie to cover up the real reason: that Astaroth felt a kinship with humans?
The trouble with truth was that once it got bold enough to punch you in the face, it was impossible to ignore. He could throw out countless arguments, but when Astaroth took stock of his tumultuous inner landscape, this revelation felt true. And although he gleefully lied to others, he didn’t want to lie to himself.
His reality shifted on its axis.
“So?” His mother’s voice burst from the speakers. “Did the high council find out what you are?”
Fresh revelations aside, there was still a conversation to navigate, and Astaroth didn’t want to admit his amnesia yet. “I don’t think so,” he said. Technically true, since it was impossible to speculate without any evidence. He cleared his throat. “What have you heard?”
“That they removed you from the high council and banished you to Earth, the soon-to-be-eviscerated wretches, but that’s a minor setback, so long as they don’t know the rest of it. We’ll get you back in power in no time. No one treats me and mine like this, and if Moloch has forgotten the name Lilith, I will happily remind him.” She cackled. “I’ll carve it into his skin over and over again until my name echoes in his bones.”
Lilith.
The name unlocked a memory of a woman’s face bent over him while sunshine cascaded through her red hair. Astaroth had been small then, seated in her lap and looking in awe at her black horns while she regaled him with stories of her conquests. Someday, she’d said, stroking his hair, your horns will grow bigger even than mine and you’ll have enemies of your own to destroy.
He’d wanted nothing more.
The memories spilled out from there, like tiles tumbling into an artist’s hand, bright pieces that, once assembled in the correct order, would form the mosaic of his past. He envisioned Lilith bundled in furs with a sword strapped to her back, hair gleaming like fire against a snow-capped peak. Lilith playing cards and stabbing a knife through her opponent’s hand, then telling Astaroth—over the man’s screams—that if cheating failed to prosper, violence was always an option. Lilith scribbling in a leather-bound book, her hair in wild tangles as she giggled to herself about tentacle jousting and something called AO3.
Lilith cupping his cheeks, pale blue eyes glinting with love and an edge of madness. They must never find out what you are, or you won’t be able to seize your legacy as my son.