Chapter Two

Ozroth the ruthless had once been the best at his job. He’d collected human souls for centuries, driving such hard bargains that even millennia-old demons had whistled in appreciation. The demon plane was filled with evidence of his work, the golden soul orbs drifting through the air, filling the plane with magic and life. He had been feared and respected, and he’d liked it.

Now one tiny slipup later, he’d lost it all. Ozroth the Ruthless was a laughingstock. The only demon to accidentally gain a soul, rather than take one. He could feel that soul in his chest now, an uncomfortable, ominous warmth. He kept himself under tight control, but there was always the threat that the soul might act up. That he might—horrible thought—feel too much.

He stared at the witch who had summoned him to Glimmer Falls. It was rare that anyone requested him specifically for a bargain. Most desperate witches and warlocks cast a wide net with their spells, assuming any demon would do—an idea Ozroth sneered at. Some bargains were more intricate than others, and some demons were denser than others. Why use a blunt instrument for precision work?

Ozroth had built a fearsome reputation from his vengeance bargains in particular. The last time someone had summoned him by name, it was because the warlock had heard about his bargain with a sheriff whose wife had been killed by mobsters. The five assassins had all died in bizarre natural disasters, with no one to point a finger at.

This woman didn’t look the type to strike a revenge pact. Her expression was alarmed, rather than desperate, furious, or cunning. Her generous curves were wrapped in an orange apron, her curly brown hair was tangled and spotted with leaves, and her cheek was smudged with dirt. She was shockingly pretty.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, launching into a babbling explanation that made little sense. She was summoning . . . flour? She was happy he hadn’t exploded? And what kind of witch called a demon “sir”? Ozroth cocked his head, growing more intrigued by the second.

Then her eyes drifted up to his head, and fear washed over her face. “Oh, no,” she said. “This isn’t good.”

That was more in line with the reactions Ozroth was used to. He stepped out of the pentagram and spread his hands. “It is I,” he intoned—experience had taught him witches preferred their demons on the dramatic side—“Ozroth the Ruthless. Tell me what you would bargain your soul for.”

She frantically crossed her hands in front of her in the universal sign for no. “That’s not what I want. No bargaining. Nope, not me. Um, go away?”

Well, this was confusing. “You can’t tell me to go away,” he said, baffled by the very idea. “You summoned me by name.” And to Glimmer Falls, no less, which was renowned across the planes for being a hot spot of magic. Every time a generic bargain summons emanated from that town or one of the dozen or so other magical hot spots on Earth, demons nearly knocked each other over in their urgency to teleport to Earth and hopefully gain a powerful soul. In this case, the witch had requested Ozroth specifically, when most witches didn’t even know they could choose a preferred bargainer.

“No, I summoned flour by name,” she corrected. “You showed up.”

“That’s not how it works.” He crossed his arms, and her eyes darted to his tattoo. He had been marked by his mentor as a child, the runes spelling out his responsibility as a soul bargainer. “Now tell me what you would trade your soul for, mortal.”

“Nothing.”

He shrugged. “A poor choice, but if you want to give it to me—”

“No!” she yelped. “My soul is not up for grabs. Go back to Hell or—or wherever you came from.”

He squinted at her. “What are they teaching in universities these days?” he asked, too appalled to maintain the dramatic demon act any longer. Humans and magical beings had been living side by side for all of recorded time, and even schools that didn’t teach magic ought to offer basic Interspecies Relations courses. “There’s no such thing as Hell. I live in the demon plane.”

“Well, go back there, then!” She planted her hands on her hips, looking madder by the moment. That was unusual, too. No one talked back to a demon, much less Ozroth the Ruthless.

“I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth. Must he endure the disrespect of mortals, too? “As I explained earlier, you summoned me by name. I’m bound here until you complete the pact.”

“Oh, Hecate,” she said, stamping her foot. “Why can’t anything ever be easy?” She opened her cabinet, pulling out a bundle of sage, a saltshaker, and various small bottles.

He studied her intently as she arranged the items on her countertop. There was something odd about her—well, there were a lot of odd things about her, but something was making his skin prickle. A nearby movement caught his attention, and he watched as a houseplant on the windowsill reached out a tendril as if to stroke her.

He couldn’t sense the magic of any other creatures, including demons, but witch magic glowed like a beacon. Still, he normally didn’t feel it like this—not without focusing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on that prickling energy, opening all his senses to it.

Power. Pure, raw power. The hair on his arms rose, and he shivered in appreciation. The witch was brimming with it—golden, brilliant magic such as he hadn’t seen in centuries. While witchery traveled down family lines, it was rare for someone to inherit not just the innate talent for spellcraft but the raw power to achieve substantial works. Her soul would be a brilliant source of energy for the twilit demon plane.

His eyes snapped open. “You,” he said, “are very interesting.”

His pulse sped as excitement built. No one believed him capable of striking difficult deals anymore. To claim a soul this powerful . . .

You’re useless to me like this, his mentor, Astaroth of the Nine, had spat when Ozroth had first returned with an inconvenient mortal soul lodged in his chest. I need you cold and efficient.

Honor and duty were important concepts to demons, and the honor of collecting souls to benefit the demon realm—whether through straightforward bargains or more complicated ones requiring trickery, threats, or violence—was the greatest of all. With the witch’s soul in hand, Ozroth would prove his worth and regain the honor he’d lost.

“I am not interesting,” the witch said, shaking her head as she drew a wobbly pentagram on the countertop with chalk, then circled it with salt. One of the leaves in her hair came loose and fluttered towards the floor, changing its trajectory partway down so it could cling to her shin instead. “I am very boring. I like to garden and bake, and I am not even a little bit interesting, and I would really appreciate it if you forgave this little . . . misstep and went back to Hell. The demon plane.” She waved a hand. “Wherever.”

Ozroth definitely wouldn’t be leaving, even if he could. This short, curvy, odd witch was exactly the leverage he needed to regain his fearsome reputation. Accidentally bargained or not, her soul could light up the demon plane all on its own. “No.”

She made a low sound that was almost a growl as she dotted pungent oil in the arms of the pentagram. Then she lit the gas stove and ignited the sage in the flames. “Begone, pest,” she said, waving the smoking sage in his general direction. “In the name of Hecate, I expel you from this realm! Relinquosen e’ daemon!”

Ozroth sneezed.

The witch waited a few seconds, staring at him as if hoping he would vanish. Then she shook salt in a new pattern over the pentagram. “Destruoum te ollasen!”

The teapot on her stove shattered, and Ozroth shielded his eyes as ceramic shards pelted him like shrapnel. The pieces clattered to the floor in a musical cacophony.

The witch looked at the remnants of her teapot, face painted with tragedy. “I really liked that teapot,” she whispered. Then she glared at Ozroth. “This is your fault.”

Ozroth picked ceramic pieces out of his hair, grimacing at the cheerful yellow flowers painted on the porcelain. “I don’t see how.”

“Ugh!” She threw up her hands and stomped away, then started rummaging through a bookshelf in the hall outside the kitchen.

He crossed his arms and leaned back against her counter, beginning to enjoy himself. Not that soul bargainers ought to enjoy things, he reminded the unwanted soul in his chest, which was apparently determined to have feelings about everything. Still, an accidental summoning was at least intriguing.

She muttered to herself as she tossed books over her shoulder. They were mostly cookbooks, along with a few self-help books: Never Good Enough? and The Magic of Dating: A Practical Guide for Lonely Witches. Finally, she straightened with an “Aha!,” a thick, leather-bound tome in her hand. She carried it into the kitchen, dropping it onto the table with a whump. The Omnibus Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures was scrolled across the cover in gilt script. She pointed at Ozroth. “I’m going to figure out how to get out of this.”

He watched as she turned the pages, muttering to herself. It was a futile exercise, but he had to appreciate her determination. He’d had people try to get out of bargains before—after they’d received whatever boon he’d granted in exchange, of course—but not like this. She hadn’t even asked him for anything. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can give you?” he asked. “Money, love, revenge against your enemies?”

She rolled her eyes. “You are such a cliché.”

His jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

She ignored him, continuing to skim through the book. She paused on a page with an illustration of a being with horns. Ozroth stepped closer to read over her shoulder. The image had clearly been drawn by someone who had never met a demon. The legs were backward-jointed, and the horns stuck straight up, rather than following the curve of the head and pointing back. The fangs were heavily exaggerated, too. His canines were long, but not that long, and he’d never slobbered like that in his life. Was this really how mortals saw his species?

He skimmed the entry. Demon: A humanoid species that resides in a separate physical plane. They can offer a witch or warlock any boon, but at a high price. In exchange for giving a witch their heart’s desire, the demon eats their soul.

He snorted. “We don’t eat souls. Who wrote this garbage?”

She looked up at him with wide hazel eyes. “What do you do with the souls you take, then?” Her brow furrowed. “I’m not even sure what a soul is, to be honest.”

“It’s the spark inside. The place where magic comes from.” The pulsing, beating, feeling part that made humans powerful yet fragile . . . and impossible to predict. All humans possessed that chaotic, passionate core, but only witches and warlocks produced magic from it . . . or had the ability to trade it away.

“You take away people’s magic?” She looked horrified.

Magic came tangled with emotion, too—after completing a deal, humans became cold and entirely cerebral—but she didn’t need to know that. “It’s their choice,” Ozroth said. “In return, they get everything they’ve ever wanted”—assuming he couldn’t find a way to twist the words of the deal to his advantage. Humans had a tendency to wish for batshit, logistically intensive things, and it was a mark of pride in the demon community whenever anyone circumvented a particularly wild deal.

Others might find it odd for a species so fixated on honor to praise cunning and deceit, but when deceit kept a community alive, what shame was there in it?

“You still haven’t told me what you do with the souls,” she said.

To be honest, no one had ever asked him that. Historically, people had been too caught up in the “trading my soul” angst to worry about what happened to said soul. “The souls provide our realm with energy and light.”

She blinked. “That was not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” he asked, thinking about the drawing with the fangs and weird legs and copious saliva droplets.

She waved a small hand. “Dark rituals, eternal torture, blood orgies . . . the usual.”

It was his turn to be taken aback. “That’s your usual?”

“Not me.” She grimaced. “The blood orgies are more my mother’s thing.”

Ozroth was too distracted by the energy pouring off her to care about her mother. To his demon senses, her magic glowed like a small sun in her chest. The witch burned with possibility.

Realizing he was staring at her—at her soul, really—he shook himself. “The eternal torture thing is mythological nonsense,” he said. “Some witch with half a foot in the human world bollocked it up, and now everyone thinks demons steal souls, drink blood, and tear into people’s delicate bits in the afterlife.”

“So there’s no punishment in the afterlife?”

He scoffed. “I’m still alive, last time I checked.”

“Good point. So, what, do human souls power your electrical grid?”

“It’s hard to explain.” The demon plane had no visible sun, just a thick layer of clouds that limited the sky to shades of gray, purple, and black. The floating golden orbs of mortal souls provided illumination, but it was more than that. Demons couldn’t produce their own magical energy—other than the soul bargaining or other types of magic a rare few inherited—so they had to take it from others. Without that magic, the demonic realm would slowly darken, its inhabitants losing life and energy with it. Eventually, everything would crumble into dust.

She shook her head, leaf-strewn curls bouncing. “This whole thing is stupid.”

“Excuse me,” he snapped, temper flaring. “Do you know who I am?” He was the architect of countless important bargains, including the assassination of no less than twelve world leaders. Sure, his reputation was currently in tatters on the demon plane, but there were entire chapters of necronomica dedicated to him.

“An inconvenience,” she shot back. “I’m already the most incompetent witch ever to exist. I don’t need to accidentally summon a demon on top of that.”

“Incompetent?” He shook his head. “I can feel your magic, witch.”

“Yeah, so did the stars and the wind and the earth, and look at us now.” She sighed and thunked her forehead against the table. “So what happens now? You hang around until I give you my soul?”

This was a unique experience. Normally witches were gagging to give him their souls, desperate for whatever prizes he could offer in return. “Well . . . yes.”

She picked up her head and glared at him. “Never going to happen.”

He shrugged. “I’m immortal. I have time.”

She parted her lips—probably to say some other rude thing—but the moment was interrupted by a doorbell ringing. “Mariel, dear!” a female voice called, the sound muffled. “Come give your mother a kiss!”

The witch’s name was Mariel. Pretty.

Ozroth watched with interest as the color drained from Mariel’s cheeks, making her freckles stand out. “She can’t know I summoned you,” she whispered, panic written across her face.

Ozroth sensed an opening. “If you give me your soul, I won’t tell her.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” Mariel stood and darted to the hallway closet, returning with a pink knitted cap, which she tugged over his head before he could stop her. He shivered as the fabric stretched over his sensitive horns. “Wear this, and don’t you dare move. I’ll be back in a few.”

She hurried down the hallway as the doorbell rang again. Ozroth ran a hand over the hat, which was no doubt intended to hide his horns. What was wrong with this witch? His horns were considered very handsome on the demon plane, and no one dared come near them without his approval. This witch had just trampled over one of the most sacred boundaries of demonkind, much like she trampled over basic politeness.

But Ozroth needed Mariel to warm up to the idea of a soul pact, so he kept the cap on, despite the way it made his horns itch.

He followed Mariel, watching as she finger-combed her messy hair and scrubbed at the dirt on her cheek. She took a deep breath, then opened the door. “Hi, Mom! It’s really not a good time—”

The words were cut off when a middle-aged woman in a white pantsuit forced her way in. She was thin and wiry, with Mariel’s curly brown hair and the sharp-featured face of a predator. Her lips were painted blood red, and a pair of designer sunglasses rested on top of her head. “Darling,” she cooed, kissing the air on either side of Mariel’s face with loud smacking sounds. “I know we just talked, but I was in the area, and I couldn’t wait to see how your summoning went.”

Mariel edged in front of her mother, standing between her and the kitchen, where Ozroth watched from the doorway. “I can’t chat right now.”

“Oh, hush,” the woman said. “Where’s your spell? Has your handwriting gotten any better? I cannot tell you how much I regret sending you to public school for second grade.”

“Mom, no—”

It was no use though. The small woman slid around Mariel like oil. She took two steps towards the kitchen, then stopped at the sight of Ozroth. Her eyes widened. “Who is that?” she demanded, pointing a long, manicured nail at him.

He grinned, exposing his sharp canines. “As a matter of fact, I’m—”

“My boyfriend!” Mariel shouted before Ozroth could finish the sentence.

Silence fell in the wake of that announcement.

Ozroth gaped at Mariel. He was what?

And then Mariel’s mother burst into tears.

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