A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch
: Chapter 1

Astaroth of the Nine—demonic high council member, legendary soul bargainer, and renowned liar—was having a very bad day.

He limped down a firelit stone corridor within the high council’s grand temple on the demon plane, leaning heavily on his cane sword and cursing witches and traitor demons under his breath. His former protégé, Ozroth the Ruthless, had just handed him a neat and complete defeat, turning a soul bargain that ought to have been a coup for Astaroth into an embarrassment. And for what?

Love.

Astaroth scoffed at the absurdity. A demon soul bargainer falling in love with the witch whose soul he was supposed to take? Human-demon pairings were rare, but they did happen—Astaroth knew that all too well—but this was unprecedented.

It should have been a simple bargain. After Ozroth had shown signs of decreased performance as a soul bargainer, thanks to accidentally gaining a human soul during a bargain gone awry, Astaroth had been determined to help his protégé recover his edge. When Mariel Spark, a powerhouse of a witch, had accidentally summoned Ozroth for a bargain, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to resurrect Ozroth’s ruthlessness and gain a beautiful, bright human soul for the demon plane.

Ozroth hadn’t claimed the witch’s soul though. No, he’d dawdled and brooded and pined for the witch like bloody Lord Byron himself (and Astaroth ought to know, since he’d shagged that dramatic bastard for a few months in the early nineteenth century). Unlike old Georgie though, Ozroth lacked the charisma and sartorial panache to pull off romantic brooding, so Astaroth had quickly stepped in to make the deal himself and save both of them embarrassment.

Then it had all gone wrong.

A few impossible spells later, Ozroth and Mariel remained in a disgustingly happy relationship with both partners still in possession of their souls. And Astaroth had bargained away any leverage he might use to punish them.

He scowled at a torch sconce shaped like a hellhound’s three gaping maws. The other members of the demonic high council would rip into him as viciously as a pack of hounds if they sensed an opportunity to reduce his influence and promote their allies. The scent of his blood was in the air, and there was no shortage of aspirants in the hunt for power.

The huge black doors leading to council chambers loomed ahead. Each was banded in silver and held half of the crest of the high council: a nonagon with nine spokes arrowing toward a stylized flame in the center.

Dread squeezed his insides with an iron fist. Astaroth rested with his back against the wall for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing through the surge of undemonlike fear. After six centuries, he knew how to force his secret weaknesses under control.

His aching leg welcomed the respite. It had been broken during his defeat thanks to one of Mariel’s allies, a violent blond witch wearing spandex, of all things. Humiliating enough to be punched in the throat, kneed in the groin, and nearly launched into the stratosphere by the witch; her naff attire had added insult to injury. The same accelerated healing that kept demons immortal allowed him to walk on the damaged leg, but he hadn’t had time to change out of his dirt-and-bloodstained white suit before being summoned to council quarters.

It’s fine, he told himself, tapping his sword cane against one white, stack-heeled dress shoe, as if that could knock off the grime ground into the leather. So you lost this bet. Make another one, then win that.

The high council was fond of bets and wagers, which were an excellent way to test rivals, since it was dishonorable to refuse a bet. Frustrated after centuries of deadlock with his main rival on the council, an aggressive demon fundamentalist named Moloch, and with the council muttering about Ozroth’s fitness to continue as a soul bargainer, Astaroth had rolled the dice. If Ozroth succeeded in his next bargain within the allotted time, Astaroth would win whatever prize or punishment he wanted from Moloch. If Ozroth failed, Moloch could decide the prize or punishment.

A wager with open-ended terms was a risky move, but Ozroth had never failed to complete a bargain, even if he had felt some guilt about it recently. Astaroth had been sure Ozroth would seize the witch’s soul and win the bet.

Ah, to return to such an innocent time.

The door’s silver sigil gleamed in the wavering glow of torchlight like a bright, flame-pupiled eye, judging Astaroth with its stare. Bets had been lost in the high council before. The results were never pretty.

But Astaroth had centuries of cunning and experience on his side, and he was determined not to go down without a fight. Besides, any legendary schemer had a backup plan. He’d been investigating Moloch for years, looking for a weak spot to target, and he’d finally discovered the evidence he needed to take out his greatest enemy on the council. Moloch might win this bet, but he would soon lose everything else.

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.

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?”

Moloch knowing that Astaroth had shagged mortals was not good. While many demons appreciated humans, seeing them as symbiotic counterparts, the conservative members of the high council disdained them as lesser beings, and Astaroth had always been careful to keep the, ah, extent of his interactions with humans a secret. “What’s your point?” he asked.

“I’ve wondered about you for centuries.” Moloch stopped just out of range of the sword hidden in Astaroth’s cane. Pity. “Something’s always seemed . . . different about you.”

The smile vanished as cold sweat beaded on Astaroth’s forehead. Moloch couldn’t know . . . could he? “It’s probably the long track record of success,” Astaroth said. “You haven’t had a decent war to fight in decades.”

“I did some research,” Moloch said, ignoring the barb. “The records around your birth are surprisingly sparse. With a mother like Lilith, one would think she’d trumpet the immediate arrival of an heir, rather than wait forty years to claim you as her son.”

“Who can say why Lilith does anything?” Astaroth asked. “She’s mad.” Fear festered in his gut though, and his throat felt tight. There was a reason his wonderful, exasperating mother hadn’t publicly claimed him right away, and if it was revealed, the high council would never see Astaroth the same way again. Which would be a death sentence for his ambitions.

Ambition—power—was everything. It was the only thing.

“I do agree she’s insane,” Moloch said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather-bound book with gilt edges. “But Lilith’s diary contains some very interesting information.”

Bloody fucking fuck. Did his cursed mother have to document her entire life? She had a whole bookshelf of similar-looking diaries in her den, filled out over the centuries, but Astaroth had never dreamed she’d write down the secret the two of them alone shared.

“What part of Lilith is insane are you missing?” Astaroth snapped to cover up his unseemly fear. “Just because she wrote something down doesn’t mean it’s true. She writes explicit Wars of the Roses tentacle fan fiction, too.” Way, way too much Wars of the Roses tentacle fan fiction, which she posted to AO3 like a horny human teenager rather than the millennia-old demoness she was.

“Wow,” Sandranella drawled. “Are the tentacles aligned with Lancaster or York?”

“I wouldn’t say aligned with so much as inside of,” Astaroth said, “but that’s not the point. If she can confidently write Henry VI taking it up the arse from a Yorkist squid, she very well might have invented all sorts of falsehoods about me.”

Moloch bared his teeth. “You’re very defensive for someone who doesn’t even know what I’m accusing you of. Unless you do?”

Astaroth struggled to shove down his rising panic. Proper demons—powerful demons—didn’t panic. Moloch was speaking in vagaries in hopes of prompting a confession. “Whatever it is, I know it’s nonsense.”

“Maybe,” Moloch said with a shrug. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Baphomet tapped on the table. “Enough of these cryptic clues,” he said in that rumbling bass voice. “Let’s move on with the session.”

Right. Because after whatever devastating punishment Astaroth was about to receive, the council would carry on as always, discussing everything from community resources to the growing unrest among the hybrids who chose to live in the demon plane rather than the plane of origin of their nondemon parent.

Astaroth’s stomach churned again. He was one of the few voices on the high council in favor of protecting the rights of the hybrids and nondemons who lived on-plane. It was a tricky balancing act, and without his input, more conservative voices would prevail. If Baphomet didn’t intervene—and he wouldn’t if the majority were in favor of Moloch’s plans—the council would swerve in a fundamentalist direction it would take centuries to course-correct.

“Very well,” Moloch said. “Let’s discuss the terms of my victory. Obviously, Astaroth will be removed from the high council.”

Astaroth’s blood raged at the demotion, though he had planned to do the same to Moloch. Still, the punishment could have been worse, and there was always scheming to be done. Once Moloch was discredited, Astaroth would be back on top. “If you insist, I will gracefully resign for the moment,” he said, preparing to stand. “But first, I have some information to share with the council—”

“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.

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