A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch -
: Chapter 32
Even knowing her magic was keeping Astaroth in the air, Calladia was awestruck by the sight of him. As the procession made its way down the road toward a temple-like structure in the distance, Astaroth floated above it all, arms spread like a savior or a martyr. His red shirt rippled in the breeze, highlighting his lean, muscular body, and his stunning beauty was even more striking in these dim surroundings. His hair was a pale halo, the dark slash of his horns echoed the roiling smoke, and shadows lurked beneath his stark cheekbones.
“This is wild,” Mariel said. The eerie gray-black-purple atmosphere had affected her looks, too; her skin seemed luminous, while her green dress was so vibrant it nearly hurt the eye. “Oz described the plane, but I don’t think anything could have prepared me.”
Calladia agreed. The stark stone buildings and cobbled streets gave a medieval flavor to the scene, and the air smelled of smoke and spice. Flickering torches lined the road, but most startling of all was the scatter of golden orbs drifting through the air. Human souls, bringing light to this alien realm. They were different sizes and brightnesses, but each contained the emotions and magic of a person.
Mariel could have become one of those orbs. She would have been, had Oz not pulled a clever switcheroo after she’d been forced into a bargain with Astaroth.
Astaroth now reigned over the chaotic procession like Woden leading the Wild Hunt. He’d gone from villain to savior so quickly, it was hard to believe.
Calladia believed though. And she was committed to creating a safer world for him and those like him. She’d fight at his side until they won—and then fight whatever battles came next.
She kept an eye on their surroundings, checking for adversaries. Mariel was intercepting periodic rocks, spears, arrows, and fireballs, and Calladia had looped the levitation spell around her wrist and started a new weaving to cast a defensive shield around Astaroth. Themmie was zooming around, throwing rocks at people.
Mariel inscribed a swirl in the air, and a spear clattered to the ground.
Wait a second. Calladia frowned. “Mariel, raise your hand again.”
Mariel did, and as her fingers were silhouetted against the sky, Calladia saw a faint light emanating from her skin. Calladia lifted her own hand and saw the same thing.
“We’re glowing,” Calladia said.
“Weird.” Mariel turned her hand this way and that. “I feel fine.”
Calladia noticed small, dark green sprouts pushing up between the cobblestones at their feet. When she turned to look behind them, she saw a trail of greenery that hadn’t been there before.
A hunch formed, and Calladia studied a nearby soul. This one was the size of a grapefruit, bobbing along at head height between the road and a stream running parallel to it. The bank of the stream was narrow and steep, dotted with strange flowers. As the soul passed over a patch of dark purple buds, their petals opened, revealing gold centers. The flowers turned their faces to the soul as if it were the sun.
“It’s the magic,” Calladia said, excitement swelling in her breast. “Look, the plants are growing.”
Mariel closed her eyes, and Calladia knew she was consulting her nature magic. Her eyes popped open, and a wondering look suffused her face. “They’re feeding on the magic.”
“Should we be worried?”
Mariel shook her head. “They’re not stealing it from us. It’s like being adjacent to the souls, or to us, is enough to make them thrive.”
Calladia’s heart raced. If that was true, this could have enormous implications for the demon plane and the fraught witch-demon dynamic. “If witches and warlocks were allowed to live here,” she said, “bargainers wouldn’t need to harvest as many souls. Just the presence of magic users would give the plane energy.”
Themmie landed next to them. “Why do you look like you just got the shock of your life?” she asked. Calladia explained what they’d noticed, and Themmie gasped. “Ooh. Am I glowing, too?”
Pixies had minor magical abilities, mostly limited to cleaning magic. It had been a huge source of irritation to Themmie, who tended toward disorganization, that her one magical ability was something she hated doing.
Calladia leaned in, inspecting the pixie’s hand. Her rich brown skin didn’t seem to be glowing, but when Calladia cupped Themmie’s hand in her own, cutting off outside illumination, and put her eye to the gap in their fingers, she saw a faint bluish-green light. It was like looking at a glow-in-the-dark pattern in a darkened room. “You are!” she exclaimed.
Themmie screeched and fluttered off the ground in a show of excitement. “You know what this means, right?”
Calladia nodded, feeling giddy. “It means the demon plane’s problem with needing outside magic has a simple solution.”
“Immigration!” Themmie crowed. “Throw open the borders and let other species settle here. More magic! More hybrids! More life!”
Astaroth needed to know this information before he confronted Moloch and the high council, and they were quickly approaching the intimidating black building at the end of the road. Along the way, the protestors had been joined by a groundswell of other demons.
“Cover me?” Calladia asked her friends, who nodded. She tied a new spell that mirrored what she’d cast on Astaroth and rose into the air, trying not to panic as the ground fell away. If the thread was severed or she lost concentration, she’d fall.
Astaroth looked startled when she drifted to his side. “Fancy seeing you here,” he said. Mariel’s loudspeaker spell had been terminated while she was playing defense, so his voice was normal volume. “Are you joining me?”
“Only briefly.” She was acutely aware of the demons whispering and pointing at her. It couldn’t be often that a fully ensouled witch showed up in this plane. “I just learned something.”
She explained the discovery to Astaroth, whose eyes widened. “Fiery Lucifer,” he said when she was done. “You’re not jesting?”
In response, Calladia held up her hand. The sky had darkened from purple-gray to purple-black, and golden light shone from her fingers, brighter now that they were heading into the demon plane’s version of night.
Astaroth seized her hand and held it to his lips for a kiss. “Goddess, you have no idea the weapon you just gave me.”
“My hand?”
He shook his head. “Even better. An idea. No, an ideal. Moloch’s influence relies on fear and oppression. This?” He held her hand to his chest. “This is hope.”
They’d reached the steps leading up to a colossal black structure. It was constructed like a Maya step pyramid, and a platform at the top of the first flight of stairs held large stone doors covered in intricate carvings. The doors swung open slowly, revealing nine demons silhouetted by a fiery red background.
“Time for me to head down,” Calladia said. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
Astaroth’s posture shifted. He seemed taller, more rigid, and his expression was hard as iron. His bearing screamed of power and influence, and Calladia felt a twinge of unease. This wasn’t Calladia’s Astaroth—it was the demon the council had known for centuries.
He was playing a part, she told herself. Committing to the aesthetic.
She expected him to bid her a formal farewell, rather than expose his feelings for her, but as she started to sink back down, he looped an arm around her waist and hauled her in for a fierce kiss.
“Fight well, my warrior queen,” he said when he let her go.
She smiled, heart thumping with a mix of adoration, exhilaration, and fear. “Fight well, my warrior king.”
Then she dropped to the ground, readying herself for the confrontation to come.
“How dare you return, Astaroth?” Baphomet asked. “You were banished.”
The head of the council could certainly project. Calladia wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he had a microphone hidden beneath those layers of fur and leather.
“Yeah, banishment wasn’t really my thing,” Astaroth said.
Calladia jumped. Mariel had resumed her amplification spell.
“That’s not how banishment works,” Moloch said. He’d adopted a more archaic form of dress: his brown leather pants were topped with a blue shirt and leather jerkin, and he wore knee-high boots with daggers tucked into them. Leather bands covered his forearms, a blue cape linked with a silver chain draped from his shoulders, and a sword was sheathed at his hip.
Calladia scanned the other high council members. Sandranella was there, looking unflappable in a deep purple gown covered with silver filigree. She hadn’t decided to abandon their cause, had she?
The white-haired demoness met Calladia’s eyes and winked.
An ally on the inside. It was a smart call; if she had marched, it might have diminished her credibility as a council member. This way she could argue on Astaroth’s behalf from a position of authority.
That didn’t explain where Lilith was, but from what little Calladia had learned about her, the demoness, like her son, would time her entrance for when it would have the greatest impact.
“I learned some alarming things while on Earth,” Astaroth said. “My concern was so great, I chose to return for the sake of our people.”
“You are no longer a council member,” Moloch said. “You have no influence.”
“Is Tirana a council member?” Astaroth gestured to the demoness with the dirty-blond hair and coiled whip.
Moloch’s eyelids flickered. “We were just meeting to discuss that matter.”
“So that’s a no.” Astaroth turned until he was half facing the assembled crowd. “For those who are just joining us, we gathered for a peaceful protest on behalf of demon hybrids and were viciously attacked by Moloch’s minions.”
“Lies,” Moloch said. “You caused the conflict yourself to undermine me and regain your council seat.”
Astaroth kept speaking. “We were protesting because Moloch, Baphomet, and Tirana, as well as potentially other council members, support the destruction of hybrids. They want to close all entrances to the plane and usher in a totalitarian rule based on violent, outdated ideals.”
Murmurs sounded from the restless crowd. Someone threw a rock at the dais.
“Be silent,” Baphomet ordered.
Astaroth stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “No.”
“Astaroth is afraid of change,” Moloch told the crowd. “He doesn’t want to acknowledge that our species has become weak over the centuries.”
“How are we weak?” Astaroth asked. “I’d argue our weakness is in refusing to embrace diversity. Hybrids have much to offer our community.”
Pride swelled in Calladia’s breast. How far he’d come—from despising his human half to embracing it, from playing politics to leading a revolution.
Moloch scoffed. “Half a demon is no demon at all. They lack our intelligence, strength, and sense of honor.”
“Boo,” Calladia called out, and echoing hisses came from behind her. Someone fired an arrow, which unfortunately missed Moloch.
“See? What coward hides behind a bow?” Moloch gestured to the arrow. “Who attacks an enemy without a fair fight?”
“You do,” Astaroth said. “After Moloch vindictively had a witch turn me mortal, I was grievously wounded. He followed me to Earth and tried to kill me outside the view of the high council, which everyone should know is against the council’s sacred precepts.”
Sandranella gasped loudly and turned to Moloch. “Is this true?” she asked with a convincing display of concern.
“Don’t play games, Sandranella,” Moloch snapped. “You support Astaroth’s unhinged schemes.”
“I support keeping all inhabitants of our plane safe,” she replied. “And the reason you know I agree with Astaroth is that I saw you, Tirana, and Baphomet try to murder him and his witch companion just yesterday.”
The other council members shifted, looking uneasy. “Baphomet, is that so?” one asked. “Assassinations can’t proceed without the council’s full support.”
“Sandranella has succumbed to the same weakness of thought Astaroth has,” Baphomet said. “She seeks to undermine our power.”
“How is protecting hybrids weak?” The question came from overhead, where Themmie sat cross-legged in midair, smartphone held in front of her. Livestreaming on a demon social media site, presumably. Woe to anyone who underestimated the power of a sunshiny influencer with a cause to champion.
“This is the future progressives want,” Moloch said, pointing up at Themmie. “Our sacred realm invaded by interlopers. The strength of our bloodlines polluted by lesser beings.”
Calladia gritted her teeth to resist the urge to throw something at Moloch. If Themmie was streaming, it was best to let the demon dig his own grave.
“Do you know why Astaroth supports so-called ‘hybrid rights’ ?” Moloch sneered. “Because he himself is half human.”
Astaroth shrugged, looking unbothered. “A bit late on that revelation, Moloch. I already announced it.”
Moloch’s face twisted with hate. “Astaroth is an abomination and a criminal who lied to the high council. We had to remove him, lest he corrupt the rule of law further.”
“I’m not ashamed of being a hybrid,” Astaroth said. He met Calladia’s eyes. “I’ve learned my human half is a strength.”
Calladia would have clapped and started cheering if she hadn’t been holding the yarn—and the knots shielding him—in place. She smiled up at him, hoping he could see the hope and pride shining from her eyes. Fuck yeah, she mouthed up at him.
Tirana guffawed, puncturing the moment. “Listen to this fool.” She uncoiled her whip and waved a hand, and a tiny fireball danced from her fingers to the leather, setting the length ablaze.
Baphomet puffed up his broad chest. “For defying banishment and lying about your bloodline, I, Baphomet of the Nine, sentence Astaroth, formerly of the Nine, to death.”
Calladia’s hope abruptly warped into fury and terror. Her horrified gasp was echoed by others. “No!” she shouted, turning a vicious glare on Baphomet. She would gut him before she let him set a finger on Astaroth.
“You can’t just decide that,” Sandranella said. “It’s up to the whole council.”
“I am the council,” Baphomet replied. “My word will be law.”
Moloch’s grin was diabolical. “Do let me carry out the sentence.”
“What authority do you have anymore, Baphomet?” Astaroth asked. “You lost it when you tried to assassinate me before I could reveal the extent of Moloch’s own crimes.”
Calladia’s heart skipped a beat. Had he remembered something at last? Please, she silently begged. If ever there was a moment for him to rediscover his leverage over Moloch, it was now. She didn’t fear him becoming the worst version of himself anymore—what mattered was keeping him alive. Keeping him safe.
“What crimes?” Moloch asked derisively.
Astaroth opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I will reveal that when the time is right.”
Calladia’s stomach sank. Shit. He’d been bluffing.
Moloch laughed. “More lies. Let’s end this farce.”
“If you recant your accusations against Moloch,” Baphomet said, “and cease this useless civil agitating, I may consider life imprisonment instead of death.”
“I refuse.” Astaroth lifted his chin. “And if you slay me here, know this moment will echo through history. Your legacy will be one of censorship and oppression, and the next uprising, when it comes, will not be nearly so peaceful.”
Baphomet gestured, but Calladia couldn’t tell who it was aimed at. She looked around, but the crowd pressed in, making it impossible to see far. Fear seized her throat and chest in iron claws, as suffocating as the packed gathering.
“I will give you one more chance,” Baphomet said. “If you prove you are committed to the pure-blood cause and denounce your human ties, you may be spared.”
Someone seized Calladia from behind. She shrieked and fought, but her assailant was impossibly strong, with rigid gray arms. Her yarn was ripped out of her hands, the levitation bracelet snapped as if it—and the spell—had never been. Next to her, Mariel was also being manhandled by what looked like a stone gargoyle. Oz roared and launched at the gargoyle, but his fists were no match for stone, and soon he’d been corralled, too. Their hands were bound with chains, and they were dragged up the steps to the platform where the high council stood.
Astaroth had fallen when Calladia’s concentration—and the spell—had broken. He scrambled to his feet at the base of the steps. Panic washed over his face before he steeled his expression. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
Calladia, Mariel, and Oz were shoved to their knees facing the crowd, and Calladia winced as her kneecaps cracked against the stone. Heavy hands landed on her shoulders, keeping her down. She bared her teeth at the gargoyle, then at Baphomet and Moloch, continuing to struggle even though her fiercest efforts accomplished nothing.
Calladia refused to stop fighting though—for herself, for Astaroth, for Mariel and Oz and Themmie and the demon hybrids and the werewolves who had shown up because it was the right thing to do. For hope and justice.
For love.
Baphomet unsheathed his broadsword. The silver length of it gleamed in the firelight. “I have a proposition, Astaroth,” the demon said. “I will spare your life . . . if you take theirs.”
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