“I’m not finished,” Moloch said sharply. He snapped his fingers, and a gargoyle leaped down from the rafters to open the council room doors. “The second part of your punishment will take place now.”
Astaroth stared, confused and alarmed, as a woman with long black hair and pointed ears entered. She wore glitter-spangled velvet robes and a necklace with a dramatic, cage-like silver pendant. When he opened his demon senses, he saw the golden glow of a soul emanating from her chest. A human witch, then, one descended from some fae creature. “Who is this?”
Moloch smirked. “You’ll find out.”
Another snap, and more gargoyles jumped down. These ones gripped Astaroth’s arms with granite fingers, keeping him in his chair.
“Get your hands off me,” Astaroth said, struggling to break free. There was a reason the gargoyles were used as demonic security though, and their stony strength was more than enough to subdue him. “Everyone needs to know something about Moloch—”
Moloch talked over him again. “Astaroth, formerly of the Nine, I hereby banish you to Earth.”
Astaroth’s head spun. “What? No!” He liked Earth, but he couldn’t shape demon politics if he was stuck there full-time.
Sandranella stood, looking alarmed. “Moloch, that’s an excessive punishment.”
Moloch shrugged. “He accepted the wager.”
Sandranella turned to Baphomet. “You must put a stop to this. It sets a dangerous precedent.”
“Moloch is right,” Baphomet said. “Astaroth accepted the wager. He can take the punishment.”
Astaroth’s heels scraped over the flagstones as he tried to escape, but it was no use. The pain in his still-healing leg was nothing compared to the riot of agonized emotion in his chest. He’d always felt more than a demon ought to, and the surge of anger and fear threatened to drown him. “You can’t do this,” Astaroth said. His mask of control had disintegrated. “You can’t!”
“Watch me.” Moloch motioned to the witch, who raised her hands. She moved them in an intricate, roiling dance, inscribing symbols in the air.
“What is she doing?” Sandranella asked, looking between Astaroth and Moloch. “We don’t need her to banish him.”
“Oh, she’s not here to banish him,” Moloch said. “She’s here to do something else . . . and once she does, I’ll finally have proof that Astaroth has been lying to us for centuries.”
Magic built in the air, prickling like electricity. The witch spoke a spell in the language of magic, and a concussive wave of power slammed into Astaroth’s chest. He shouted as fire writhed through his veins, and his vision whited out. His mind seemed to split into kaleidoscopic fragments.
“What did she do?” Sandranella asked, the words garbled as if he was hearing them from underwater.
Moloch’s voice echoed distantly. “Once the witch confirms it worked, I will reveal all.”
Astaroth felt sick and sluggish. He couldn’t let it end like this. He needed to let the council know about Moloch’s crimes.
He forced his thick tongue into motion. “Once the others find out what you’ve been doing—” he slurred, “they’ll—”
“What I’m doing is taking out the trash,” Moloch interrupted.
“Baphomet,” Astaroth said, turning blurred eyes in the direction of the council head. “You must listen to me.”
“Enough,” Baphomet said. “End this, Moloch.”
Moloch snapped his sharp canines at Astaroth. “Ready to go?”
The haze cleared from Astaroth’s vision in time for him to see Moloch open a portal. The fiery-edged oval hovered in midair; through it, he saw a darkened suburban street on the mortal plane. Iron lamps cast pools of gold over the pavement, and trees rustled in the wind.
The gargoyles muscled Astaroth out of the chair and shoved him toward the portal.
“No, wait—” Astaroth’s head was spinning, his normally ordered thoughts a chaotic jumble. Terror wrapped around him like clinging vines.
Moloch was grinning like a fiend. “See you soon,” he whispered.
Then Moloch kicked Astaroth in the backside, and Astaroth stumbled through the portal into the mortal realm. The pavement rushed toward him, and the world went black.
TWO
Cheers, bitches!”
Calladia raised the tequila shot, spilling some of the alcohol on her wrist. It was her fourth—or maybe fifth?—shot since arriving at Le Chapeau Magique to celebrate Mariel and Oz’s victory over Astaroth of the Nine, demonic dickhead. The dive bar was full of their friends chatting, singing, and swaying to the music pouring from a battered jukebox. Christmas lights were strung around the ceiling, and the wood-paneled room had taken on a hazy, pleasant glow.