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  I nod, deciding that’s better than anything I might say. And I am very serious about not landing myself in boiling hot water with Father. Failure isn’t something he tolerates with grace, infernal or otherwise.

  “Fine.” He sighs and waves for me to lean over the desk. “This may sting a bit.”

  “You’ll enjoy that.”

  “Greatly.” He touches my shoulder.

  Like that, the knowledge of the summoning burns through me like fire through a dry forest. I know precisely where I’m headed and who will be there chanting at me when I arrive. It tugs at me, the calling steady and going nowhere until it’s answered.

  “Smell you later,” I say.

  As he shakes his head with disappointment, I leap into the air and traverse the universe in the blink of an eye.

  Arriving in the cult’s lair, I find myself in the middle of a pentagram. It’s slightly disconcerting. Not that I don’t enjoy a pentagram as much as the next resident of the Gray Keep, but it is a confining nexus of energy.

  In other words, I feel as if I can’t just leave again if I want to. Because I can’t.

  Oh, so this is why Rofocale let me be summoned instead. Crap duty. Got it.

  There’s a lot I don’t know. A lot of Rofocale’s and Porsoth’s lessons I’ve neglected to pay attention to. Usually I’d say that’s a good thing, but there are some situations where you want to be able to channel the disenchanted, hardened point of view of a cynical demonic lord who’s seen it all.

  I didn’t really think about that when I volunteered. But then I remember Rofocale’s appointment with Father, the reason I did volunteer. Luke Astaroth Morningstar, prince of Hell, reporting for soul collection duty. Get the deal made, add thirteen souls to my tally, get out.

  “Great,” a female voice says, and I recognize the sarcasm like I would my own, “you summoned a male model. What’s he going to do without a catwalk?”

  I sniff and straighten to my full height. She’s not wrong about my looks. My appearance is human, and it’s not bragging to say the most attractive type. My brilliant blue eyes can mesmerize. I’m in jeans, black boots, and a leather jacket so cool it should be a sin and probably is. Yet what she said didn’t feel like a compliment. Turning, I find the girl who spoke, and I … feel something odd when I look at her.

  She has shoulder-length brown hair that is frankly the color of tree bark and green eyes that are grassy but intelligent and she’s scared to be here for some reason but, boy, is it impressive how little she shows it. None of those things are the most noteworthy detail about her.

  She’s good. She radiates it like sunshine. She has faith in the world.

  This is not love at first sight, it’s way better: it’s interest at first sight. I haven’t felt that in … ever. I’ve never looked at someone and felt anything remotely like this. A pull toward her.

  This is turning into a very strange evening.

  I like that.

  As long as I don’t get trapped here. Because why is someone good in this place with these cultists? Rofocale might have finally been right about something. This might be tricky after all. I decide not to ask about any of that, about her. It would give away too much.

  But I can’t let her remark pass without counter.

  “I have a brain too, you know. You could at least assume I’m here because of that,” I say, as if I’m wounded by the girl’s dismissal. Which I would never admit I almost am.

  Her mouth makes an O of surprise, and then, I swear to you, she rolls her eyes at me right in the middle of this parlor surrounded by cultists and candles.

  My heart beats in my chest. I’m sure it does that all the time, that it’s been there all along, but I hardly ever remember it’s there. I hardly ever feel it.

  She shakes her head. “Having the best cheekbones in Hell isn’t enough?”

  “The Best Cheekbones in Hell is the name of my next band,” I say.

  Beside her is a person whose gender is on a spectrum that touches the masculine and the feminine. “Don’t taunt the demon,” I hear this person whisper. Their name is Mag.

  And the name of the girl with the sharp tongue is Callisto, but she goes by Callie. Being able to know a few basic things about pretty much everyone on Earth with a tiny amount of focus and without earning it is one of my favorites of my gifts. I should probably feel bad about the intrusion. But unlike Callie and Mag, I’m not good. I’m the opposite.

  “Demons like being taunted,” I say.

  Mag swallows.

  A man, name of Solomon Elerion, so my gift tells me, clears his throat. Solomon Elerion? How cute, he’s taken a Biblical king and prophet and matched it with a demon’s name to form his own. Unlike the others, he wears no beaked mask, only the same black cape. He’s the spokesperson for this little forced gathering, the leader.

  “Greetings, Lucifuge Rofocale, esteemed minister of Hell,” he says with a frown at Callie and Mag.

  Callie scowls at him.

  I decide to go along with the assumption I’m Rofocale. Best not let them know they’ve caught a more important title than his.

  “See,” I say to her, “I’m a minister of governance. Show some respect.”

  She doesn’t react either way. I notice how hard she grips Mag’s hand, and how hard Mag grips hers back. Why are they here?

  “We brought them as a gift to you,” Solomon Elerion says, and I face him. Deeply evil vibe, not a shred of decency in this one. His soul is mine for the taking. He hardly seems to want it. “As I’m sure you know, they are guardians,” he adds.

  I don’t let myself look over at them. Those two are many unusual things, but guardians? Pesky humans chosen by Heaven to train as holy warriors and to combat the work of my father’s helpers on Earth? There aren’t that many guardians left these days, and they tend to stick together in roving, righteous packs. Hmm …

  I know without even checking that these two aren’t for me. Their souls have been claimed by the Above and to get them back on the market would take more work than I would be willing to do. Not when there’s far easier prey in hand.

  And a deadline to meet.

  “Well met, Solomon Elerion.” I’ve heard Rofocale say such things. “And, ah, thanks.”

  Callie, eyes of grass green, hair of bark, soul of good, snorts. I turn to see her head shake in disgust. She and Rofocale would probably get along like gangbusters. I continue to be so interested in my reaction to her that it pains me to look away.

  But I do. I wave my hand to suggest the leader get on with it. “What can I do for you, Solomon Elerion? I assume you’ve summoned me for a reason.”

  Please don’t let it be capture. The pentagram pulses beneath my feet and the air feels closer, more confining, at the thought.

  “We are willing to trade our immortal souls in exchange for a certain boon we believe you can grant us.”

  See how easy this is? I grin. “Go on.”

  He continues. “Our number is an unholy thirteen, and our devotion to the Dark Prince is the strongest you will find.”

  “King,” I correct automatically, without thinking.

  His eyebrows lift. “The Dark King,” he says, clearly with pleasure at learning a secret of Hell.

  I suddenly wish Careful were my middle name. “And?” I prompt.

  He takes a step closer to the pentagram, but he doesn’t breach it. “We have dedicated our lives to bringing about his kingdom on Earth. We offer you not only our souls, but the boon we seek will be used to accomplish this. We hope we will be favored by him in return.”

  They don’t understand—they never do, the evil ones—that’s not how it works. Father encourages bad, but he wishes for good. The worse the stains on a soul, the worse the punishment. He sees us as a force of balance. He wants to be proven right, that mankind was a corruption of the highest order to the purity being an angel above promised. But he’s still disappointed by every soul that does prove him right. And disappointment makes him do very bad things.<
br />
  He’s a mass of contradictions, Father.

  I hedge. “I am certain you will receive particular treatment in the kingdom beyond.”

  Solomon Elerion bares his teeth, and then I understand it’s a smile. Save me from cultists. No, save cultists from me—or don’t. Remember why you’re here.

  “What is the boon you desire? If it is in my power, I shall grant it.”

  He takes a moment to gather himself, eager to spill but not wanting to seem so. I cast my senses around the room, seeking more information about the situation … and discover Callie and her friend Mag are here because they were kidnapped. These cloak-wearing cultists stole the book from Callie and her family and brought the two of them here to hand them over to me. I frown.

  Then, I focus harder.

  The cult calls itself the Order of Elerion, and Solomon here is only the latest to hold that name, it turns out. They have a longing for great power and have spent centuries working toward tonight. They’ve obtained a lot of divine and infernal secrets and items to get here.

  I don’t like them. Not because of their mission, which is frankly in line with my own here this evening and my father’s larger goals. But because of the kidnapping of Callisto and her friend. This … caring … is a new sensation.

  Novelty is important. I’m not bored in the least. I decide to lean in, as they say, and torment him a bit. “What is this boon you seek? It better be good for me too, because your souls aren’t really A-plus material. None of you even play instruments, so you’re useless to my new band.”

  “Oh?” Solomon gives me a look, then sweeps his eyes down to the pentagram. He knows I’m trapped. “And why would you not want our souls?”

  I curl my lip. “Why on Earth would I want your souls?”

  Except, of course, I desperately need them. Why in the devil’s name did I say that?

  Solomon’s eyes widen and he takes a step forward—still not quite far enough to break the pentagram and let me escape it. He’s got too much presence of mind for that.

  I have to get those souls. I force my face into an expression that seems more appropriate for negotiation. “As I asked before, what is the boon you require in exchange?”

  “We would like the Spear of Destiny,” Solomon says. “The Holy Lance.”

  Not a small ask.

  But I reach out with my senses, prepared to say yes. The spear is the one that was used by the Roman soldier Longinus to pierce Jesus’s side as he hung on the cross, sacrificing himself to give humanity a path to redemption (one path of many, to be sure—most religions have some truth about them). It’s endowed with the power to bestow God’s full might to whoever has it. Many evil men have tried to take possession of it over the thousands of years since, and a small group of do-gooders managed to hide it away to prevent that. No one who wants to use it to help Father has gotten this far.

  They’re ambitious, I’ll give them that. There’s just one problem.

  “I can’t give it to you.”

  Solomon opens his mouth.

  I speak before he can. “It’s in a sacred place. Where I can’t go. So I can’t give it to you.”

  “No spear, no deal,” he says and any deference vanishes. I feel the lines of the pentagram that surround me like the cage walls they are.

  “But,” I say, “because of that little favor I did where your souls are still intact for now, I can tell you where it is. Then you can retrieve it.”

  He hesitates. “All right. I suppose we have a deal.”

  I nod, pretending I’m not flooded with relief. And already second-guessing my actions.

  “Where is it?” he asks.

  “It is in the gardens of Quinta da Regaleira in Portugal. You will find it beneath the chapel.”

  “Thank you.” Solomon Elerion inclines his head. He still doesn’t smudge the edge of the pentagram to free me, however.

  “Our business is thus concluded.” Another phrase I’ve heard Rofocale use. It’s a little stuffy for my taste, but I’m in a pinch.

  Solomon smiles at me, that baring of teeth. “Not until we have the spear.”

  “That, person who is not my friend, is not the deal,” I say. “You forget your place. You seek to trap me and you haven’t even made good on your promised gifts.”

  “What gifts?” he asks, perplexed. He’s forgotten Callie and Mag.

  I smile. My best smile. The smile the wolf who wore sheep’s clothing wishes it could smile. But sexier. I have officially lost my mind.

  “Her,” I say and fix my attention on Callie.

  “No way!” she says, hand on her hip. Her eyes are narrowed and rage-filled. Maybe I misjudged the green. Maybe it’s the green of a stormy ocean, not grass. “They can’t do that! I’m not theirs to give!”

  “Done,” says Solomon, flatly, like he doesn’t get why anyone would want her but won’t judge. Also, like he worries about my sanity.

  “No way!” she says. “Did you hear a word I said? I am my own person. You cannot trade me for … for…”

  “And her friend goes free too,” I add.

  Callie stops midprotest. She looks at Mag. She swallows.

  “No,” Mag says. “No freaking way.”

  “Fine,” Callie says.

  It’s not fine. I can feel the hatred boil off of her. I bet she’s already planning to find “instructions on how to kill a minister of Hell” in some dusty tome like the one these guys stole.

  “You can have them both, as promised,” Solomon says.

  But here I am, still bound in this pentagram.

  At that precise moment, as I’m about to despair of getting out of this entire situation and to my eternal surprise, Callie leaps forward. She grabs one of the tall burning candles and brandishes it at the bad Solomon. He recoils with as much surprise as me, and bless her, he does as she intends before he realizes she intends it. She drives him forward, and he breaks the pentagram.

  I immediately fly above it, not a showy distance, just a foot or so. I breathe easier the second my feet leave that bound patch of Earth.

  Callie shoots me a look like she’d love to see if I’m flammable, but drops the candlestick. Several cape-wearers dart forward to pick it up and an awkward scene ensues while they try to put out the flame.

  “Our business is thus concluded for now,” I say. “My … guardians … and I will be going.”

  “You leave now, our souls remain ours,” Solomon Elerion says.

  He’s right, of course. I never specifically stated my terms for the deal meant they’d give their souls. In my rush to torment him, I questioned their value and then only made a deal to tell them the location and help them get the spear.

  I’ve screwed myself to the max and let him come up with a loophole.

  Currently, I have zero leverage. I hate him with all the fires of the Phlegethon.

  “We’ll see about that,” I say.

  Callie and Mag are already hand in hand again and headed for the door. I stick with them as we leave, exiting into the cool night and its freedom.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “We’re going home,” Callie says. “You can go back to Hell.”

  Is she truly so ungrateful? Am I that bad? No, I’m not. At least, not right this second. What I am is in big, deep trouble. I still have zero souls. Why am I always my own worst enemy?

  Because it’s more fun this way.

  “Not without you,” I say.

  It’s the obvious solution. The only solution. I’ll need an intermediary or two to get back in a position to force the issue of the cult’s souls. Which means having good company who can retrieve the spear they desire first. Even if I could get into the spot where it is, I can’t directly prevent them from getting it now. I should’ve paid more attention to Porsoth and his talk of deals.

  I need Callie’s help to get the cult’s souls by my deadline. Well, I need someone’s. But it’s hers that I want.

  Mag looks over at me. “I don’t suppose you ha
ve a phone we can use.”

  “I’m from Hell, not Luddite-ville,” I say and hand mine over. My thumbprint smokes a little as I unlock it and I expect them to be impressed.

  Callie reaches out and takes it, holding it in a way to make as little contact as possible. “He still uses the worst rideshare,” she says, in an “of course, ugh” tone. She and Rofocale really will hit it off. “Crap. Not a car within fifty miles of this place,” she says after a few swipes.

  “But in sixty?” Mag asks, hopefully.

  “Nope. We start walking,” Callie says. “Until we can, I don’t know, hitchhike or get a car or be murdered on the side of the road. We’re definitely not sticking around here.”

  “What about me?” I try again. “I might be able to help. You are mine now.”

  Callie turns and smiles sweetly under the moonlight. Maybe she’s seen reason. I am a handy ally to have. And a devastatingly handsome one.

  I want to tempt her. Badly.

  “I told you, go back to Hell. We’re not actually ‘guardians,’ whatever that is. So I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

  She seems to mean it, and she’s leaving again. Mag chases after her. But I’m the devil’s son, and I already told you about my eyes. They’re nothing next to my cleverness.

  “Not interested? Really?” I say and stop. I know she’ll stop walking too, momentarily. “I find that hard to believe. You are a guardian. It’s your job to foil evil plots like the one back there. I can’t believe you’re not going to do it. That you’re just going to walk away.”

  Her feet plant on the ground in a way I can’t help but find oh so satisfying.

  “What?” she demands.

  And I know she’s mine for the rest of the evening, in every way that matters.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CALLIE

  The devil’s minister stands there, smirking at me.

  Lucifuge Rofocale. The devil’s minister … who looks like he’s my age and really should be modeling or in a band. What’s that about? Is it one of his powers that I simply want to stare at him, because he’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen? Right now, I need an explanation for all of this. I don’t care for the one he just rolled out.