A Demon’s Guide to Wooing a Witch

They emerged from NecroNomNomNoms into the sunshine. Once Astaroth’s eyes had adjusted, he couldn’t stop staring at Ozroth. It was like viewing a sculpture or a painting that reminded you of someone you’d once known, but the details were lost to time, leaving only an echo of resemblance.

Ozroth was taller and broader than Astaroth, with craggy features. His skin was tawny gold and his wavy hair was as black as his horns. A tattoo wreathed his left bicep, runes spelling out his duty as a soul bargainer.

Ozroth noticed the direction of his look. “You had this tattoo inked on me when I was a child,” he said. “Remember?”

“No.”

“I’m going to get it removed.”

“All right.” When Ozroth kept staring at him, Astaroth fumbled for something more to say. “Do you want recommendations for tattoo artists?”

“No, I don’t want recommendations.” Ozroth jammed a hand in his hair and tugged in a gesture Astaroth was startled to realize echoed one of his own tics when frustrated. “You’re supposed to threaten me for removing it,” he said. “Tell me bargaining is my duty, that I’m weak and a failure to my species for quitting. That I’ve let a mortal poison my mind, and my emotions are embarrassing.”

Astaroth winced. Ozroth spoke with the ingrained bitterness of someone who had been told those things many times. “I don’t remember saying that, but I’m not going to say it again.”

“Oh, please.” Ozroth laughed bitterly. “You don’t have to pretend to be some new, improved person. Clearly you’ve fooled Calladia, but you can’t fool me.”

Astaroth snorted. “Like anyone could fool Calladia. You should give her more credit.”

Ozroth’s irises were metallic gold, and when he cocked his head, it made Astaroth think of a bird of prey. Déjà vu spun his head, and for a moment he had a vision of a small boy with gold eyes and small black horns looking up at him trustingly.

“Damn,” Astaroth said, rubbing his temples. It wasn’t that his head hurt—Isobel had taken care of that—but he was becoming increasingly aware of the pressure of memories building up. It was like floating on dark water, unable to see the danger lurking beneath the surface but knowing it was there. He leaned against the wall for support.

Ozroth’s face flickered from adult to young and back again. “What is it?” the demon asked, crossing his arms and scowling.

Across the street, a family was out for a walk. The father was a pixie, the mother human. One child had tiny pink wings, the other none, but they looked thrilled to be out together.

Astaroth imagined their lives as they grew older. Would the wingless child envy their sibling? Or would those minuscule wings be one more trait to love, the same as a mop of red hair or a crooked grin? Would the parents try to change or hide those half-breed traits, or would they embrace them?

Embrace them, he decided, considering their bright smiles. And those children would make it to adulthood feeling valuable just as they were, rather than feeling like they fell short of an impossible expectation.

Astaroth had done the opposite. He’d taken in a young child, then shaped that child to reflect the person Astaroth had secretly wished he could be: a pure-blood, ruthless demon, unafflicted by the doubts and fears of humans.

There was no such thing as a demon entirely unafflicted by doubt or fear though, or if there was, it would be someone like Moloch, whose worldview had become an exercise in sadism.

“When did I take you in?” Astaroth asked.

Ozroth’s forehead furrowed. “Right after my father died during the French Revolution. I was six years old.”

Astaroth winced. That was very young. And yes, bargainers were trained from youth—Lilith herself had trained him in secret on Earth until he’d grown old enough for her to realize he could pass as a full demon—but Astaroth knew his methods of teaching would have been far less cordial than his mother’s. “And then?”

Ozroth settled against the wall beside him. His eyes tracked the family across the way, too. “You took me to your palace in the Obsidian Realm, where you raised me to adulthood.”

Ozroth’s rumbling voice tugged at a stray thread in Astaroth’s brain. The Obsidian Realm was a barren, black wasteland below an extinct volcano. Astaroth closed his eyes, focusing on that thread of connection. “Tell me more.”

He heard Ozroth’s heavy sigh. “It was cold. Stone walls, stone floors. Only the basics required for survival and learning, because you said forming any kind of emotional connection to a person, place, or object would give my enemies a weapon to wield against me.”

Astaroth’s throat felt like it was being squeezed in a fist. It was similar to what Lilith had taught him. “Be cautious about your emotional connections,” she’d said long ago. “They can be wielded against you.”

She hadn’t told him he wasn’t allowed any connections though, had she? She’d taught him to conceal his human tendencies and limit emotional outbursts around others, but she’d never commanded him not to have them at all.

“Go on,” he said.

“You trained me in bargainer magic, had me read demon and human histories, taught me swordplay and torture techniques.”

At least that was standard for young bargainers, so Astaroth hadn’t failed in that sense. An effective bargainer was a knowledgeable, well-rounded one.

“You told me the most important thing a bargainer could be was cold,” Ozroth continued. “ ‘Make your heart ice,’ you said. ‘No one will ever be able to hurt you.’ ”

Had Astaroth been right in that? In some sense, perhaps. But now he saw an ugly truth. “In doing so, I hurt you though. Didn’t I?”

Ozroth didn’t answer for so long that Astaroth opened his eyes to see if he was still there. Ozroth was staring at him, confusion stamped over his face.

“Well?” Astaroth pressed. “Don’t hold back.”

Ozroth swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “You did.”

The words cut into Astaroth’s chest, sharp as a sword. He’d known the answer, of course. He’d just needed to hear it spoken from his victim’s lips. “I’m sorry.” The words scraped his throat raw.

Ozroth sucked in a harsh breath. “Don’t lie.”

“I mean it,” Astaroth said. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember doing those things, but I’m sure I did, and it was wrong.” The words scraped less this time. He repeated them, marveling at their shape. “I was wrong.”

A flood of memories surged into his mind all at once. Astaroth dropped to his knees, gripping his head.

A little boy with golden eyes and tiny nubs of horns was curled up on a pillow before a fireplace, weeping.

“He’s crying,” Astaroth said flatly.

“His father died.” The speaker, a demoness with black hair and mahogany horns, looked exhausted. “And he’s young. He doesn’t understand.”

Astaroth felt the web of potential around the boy, as surely as he knew the feel of his own magic or the golden glimmer of a mortal soul. This Ozroth could be a powerful bargainer with the right training. The demon plane needed bargainers more than ever; fewer were born with the talent each century, and occasionally some died in the course of duty. Ozroth’s father, Trinitatis the Trickster, had been one of them.

Except Trinitatis hadn’t died in the line of duty. He’d died on vacation to Earth, of all things, since he’d apparently failed to research what was happening in France before portaling straight into a revolution. An inconceivable, unforgivable error, since any decent bargainer studied the affairs of humans. Astaroth himself lived more than half-time on Earth in order to stay abreast of developments and learn how best to manipulate mortals.

That’s not why, a tiny voice in his head said, but Astaroth shoved it down. Power, ambition, and intent; that was all that mattered.

Astaroth struggled every day to hold himself to the standards of a true demon. If he had been trained properly on the plane, rather than in secret on Earth, maybe he wouldn’t have developed an affinity for humans. Maybe his hidden weakness would never have had the chance to burrow into his brain, digging roots so deep he was still trying to get them out centuries later.

Ozroth could be a hero to the species. He could be the perfect demon Astaroth wasn’t.

Resolved, Astaroth nodded. “I’ll train him myself. Starting today.”

Someone was shaking his shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”

Astaroth blinked, and the world returned. A cool November day, a charming small-town street, and a half-pixie, half-human family now watching him with alarm. Beside him was the grown—and then some—version of the child Astaroth had taken from his mother and ruthlessly shaped to become the perfect weapon.

To Astaroth’s surprise, his eyes were damp. “I remembered,” he said. “That first day, when I took you in. I remembered.”

Ozroth stiffened. Pain flashed across his expression. “And my mother?” he asked, voice rough. “You remember her, too?”

Ozroth’s mother had handed him over, her grief assuaged by the knowledge that with Astaroth’s mentorship, her son’s future would be bright. Bargainers were always taken young, after all, and she would have been preparing herself for that separation ever since she’d decided to have a child with a bargainer. It was an honor to make such a sacrifice for the species. And if Ozroth had been a bit too young for training, and if it had been a difficult time in the boy’s development to do so, Astaroth hadn’t cared.

Astaroth had never allowed himself to feel grief. If he never felt it, he didn’t have to understand it or empathize with those who did. “I remember,” he said through a tight throat. “Elwenna was her name.”

“Elwenna,” Ozroth breathed. “I’d forgotten.” His eyes widened with obvious panic. “Wait, you said it was her name. Is she dead?”

Astaroth’s brain had filled up with other memories after that first flashback. He remembered training Ozroth, from logic puzzles to emotional denial to physical tests of endurance. He remembered bringing the boy along on his missions, pleased when Ozroth asked the right questions or suggested subtle shifts in wording to make a bargain more advantageous. He remembered Ozroth’s first soul bargain, and how proud he’d been to see years of labor bear fruit.

Astaroth’s labor, that was. Because Ozroth had been the answer to Astaroth’s self-doubt, and to see the younger demon succeed was to know his own success. It had never been about Ozroth at all.

Taken all at once, the memories painted a damning picture. Astaroth had been a selfish, sometimes cruel mentor so focused on ambition that he’d failed to give his protégé space to be a child, or even his own person. Ozroth had been an extension of Astaroth, like his sword: a weapon to be wielded to ensure the demon plane thrived, and Astaroth’s reputation with it.

There was something he didn’t remember though, and it wasn’t because of the amnesia. This would damn him even more, but it would be cowardly to hide behind evasions or half-truths.

“I don’t know if she’s dead,” he admitted. “Maybe. After you became my ward, I . . .” He broke off, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I forgot about her. She was no longer relevant to my plans.”

Ozroth’s nostrils flared, and his fists clenched like he was imagining pummeling Astaroth.

Well, it wasn’t the worst olive branch to extend. “You can hit me,” Astaroth said, a feeble offer at letting Ozroth get out some frustration, if not undoing the damage Astaroth had wrought. “If you like.”

In response, Ozroth gripped Astaroth’s hand and pulled, helping him stand upright. Then he punched Astaroth in the face.

“Ow,” Astaroth said, cupping his jaw. Did the bloke have bowling balls for fists? At least he’d apparently taught Ozroth well. “Feel better?”

Ozroth scowled. “No.”

Well, atonement couldn’t be that easy, or therapists would have long ago traded the chaise longue for the boxing ring. He moved his jaw from side to side, then traced his tongue over his teeth, checking for damage. The copper tang of blood met his tongue, and a hot throb had started beneath skin and bone, but otherwise he was intact. “Want to do it again?” he asked.

Ozroth considered the question, then nodded. “Yes.”

He punched Astaroth in the gut.

The breath wheezed out of Astaroth as he bent over. “Bloody hell,” he gasped, bracing his hands on his knees. “That was a good one.” He breathed deeply, then coughed. Lucifer, he hoped Ozroth’s anger ran out soon, or he would end up more tenderized than a decent steak. “Where next? Though I should remind you I’m mortal at the moment, and while a beating is fine and justified, I don’t consent to being murdered.”

“I don’t understand you,” Ozroth said. When Astaroth looked up, he saw the larger demon glowering at him with his hands on his hips. Some variant of brooding or scowling seemed to be his default expression when he wasn’t going starry-eyed over Mariel Spark, but this glare held a substantial amount of confusion. “Even a month ago you would have had my hide for defying you in any way.”

“Hopefully not literally,” Astaroth said, wincing as he straightened. “If my degeneracy has extended to skinning people, it’s worse than I feared.”

“No, not literally.”

What a relief. “I’m recovered enough to continue,” Astaroth said, bracing his feet and squaring his shoulders. “Punch away.”

Ozroth’s lips parted. “You really are different, aren’t you?”

It was a strange notion, that Astaroth could be a wholly different person without his memories. Maybe identity was just a story people told themselves. When Astaroth’s past had been stripped away, it had put an abrupt end to the narrative he’d told himself for centuries, and a new story had begun.

Was Astaroth truly different? No and yes, in the way all things were after enough time had passed. When the plank of a ship rotted and was replaced by fresh wood, that ship might bear the same name, but its composition had shifted.

Astaroth’s internal composition had shifted drastically over the past few days. He bore the same name, carried the same legacy, but losing his memories had allowed a rotting board to be swapped out for something better. Something stronger.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve changed.”

“Huh.” Ozroth ran his hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots of the dark, wavy strands. He shifted from foot to foot. “Well,” he said after a long pause. “What now?”

Astaroth had been bracing himself for anything from a punch to fresh accusations of being a manipulative, lying monster. He blinked. “What do you mean, what now?”

Ozroth gestured between them. “The talking. Is it over yet?”

Astaroth resisted the urge to laugh. Whatever Mariel had expected from their conversation, it probably wasn’t this. “Do you want it to be over?”

“I don’t know.”

Astaroth didn’t know either. This was deuced awkward, and guilt still churned in his gut over how he’d trained Ozroth, but it also felt good. Like a broken bone had been set back in place.

Your memories will return when you’re ready to seize the life you want. The moment he’d apologized to Ozroth, he’d regained that segment of memory.

His course was clear. There would be no going back to who he had been.

“I suspect I’ll be apologizing to you for a long time,” Astaroth said. “Not that you’ve got to accept it, or even care. And I promise to help find out about your mother, if you let me.” He hesitated, then asked a final question. “Are you happy here?”

Ozroth looked toward the door of the restaurant, and his expression softened. “Yes, I am.”

“Even losing your immortality?” Astaroth pressed.

“Especially losing my immortality.” Ozroth’s mouth curved in a small smile. “My life may be shorter, but it’s so much brighter. Why would I want to go back to what I was before?”

Why, indeed? With fresh Earth air in Astaroth’s nostrils and laughter echoing from some raucous group nearby, it was tempting to remain. To squeeze as much brightness as he could from this colorful world.

Ozroth had never wanted a career in politics though. He hadn’t been born to it the way Astaroth had. The demon plane was already short a bargainer in Ozroth; if Astaroth never returned, they’d be short another bargainer and a powerful voice for change.

No, Astaroth needed to return to power, and he needed his immortality to do it. Just because a new story had started didn’t mean his responsibilities had ended.

There wasn’t room for loving a mortal in that story.

Human emotions couldn’t be reshaped so easily though. Astaroth loved Calladia, and he would keep loving her for as long as he could.

And if his heart ached at the thought of their inevitable separation?

Well, as Elwenna had known when she’d given her child up, sacrifices had to be made for the species.

Time for Astaroth to make one.