“Understood.”
Inside, the bar defied physics in ways that made Ava’s head hurt. Bottles hung suspended in midair, pouring themselves into glasses that floated to waiting hands. The bartender had four arms and used them all simultaneously, mixing four drinks at once without looking. In one booth, a demon played cards with himself; literally, five identical versions arguing about who was cheating.
The upper level was elegant: chandeliers made from something that might have been bone, private booths upholstered in velvet so dark it seemed to swallow light. Below, visible through gaps in the railing, a fighting pit. Two demons circled each other on blood-stained sand, both wounded, both grinning.
Victor led her toward the back, past booths where demons glanced up, registered who they were looking at, and quickly found somewhere else to direct their attention.
The booth at the very back was different. Larger. More private. Upholstered in something Ava decided not to think about too carefully.
Andromalius looked like he’d stepped out of a prohibition-era photograph. Pinstripe suit, immaculately tailored. Hair slicked back with something that gleamed. Gold rings on every finger, gold watch chain across his vest, gold eyes that matched Victor’s but held none of his warmth.
“Well, well.” He gestured for them to sit, not rising. “Victor Morningstar. I heard rumors you’d come back, but I didn’t believe them.” His gaze slid to Ava, to the chains pulsing beneathher skin. “And this must be her. The substitute. The human who bound herself to Hell to save her family.”
“I need your help.”
“Everyone does. That’s why I can afford this booth.” Andromalius smiled without warmth. “Sit. Drink. Tell me why I should care about your problems after six thousand years of silence.”
They sat. A server appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and placed three glasses on the table. The liquid inside glowed faintly blue.
Ava didn’t touch hers.
“I need an audience with Marchosias,” Victor said. “Tonight. Before the formal acceptance.”
Andromalius laughed. “During his five-hundred-year court celebration? When half of Hell is queuing up to petition him?” He shook his head. “You always did have audacity. I’ll give you that.”
“Can you get us in?”
“I can do many things.” Andromalius picked up his glass, swirled the glowing liquid. “The question is why I would. You left, Victor. Walked away from everything: position, connections, reputation, to play human in the mortal world. And now you come back, after six millennia of nothing, asking for favors?”
“I’m asking for help.”
“Same thing. Different word.” Andromalius drained his glass, set it down with a click. “Give me one reason. One actual reason why I should stick my neck out for a demon who abandoned his own kind.”
Neither of them spoke. Ava felt the chains pulse faster, responding to her rising anxiety.
“Because you showed me how to leave,” Victor said finally. “Six thousand years ago. When everyone else called me a fool,you showed me how to pass in the mortal world. How to survive up there. You gave me that when no one else would.”
“And you think that earns you a favor now?”
“I think it means you understood. Why I needed to go. What I was looking for.” Victor met his eyes. “I think some part of you wanted the same thing.”
Andromalius was quiet. His gold eyes gave nothing away.
“You have something,” Ava said.
Both demons turned to look at her.
“You wouldn’t have agreed to meet us if you didn’t.” She kept her voice steady, though the chains were burning now, pulling harder with every passing minute. “You have something that can get us an audience. The question is what you want for it.”
Andromalius studied her. His gold eyes assessed her, not with hostility, but with something closer to respect.
“Smart.” He reached into his jacket and produced a small object. “You’re right. I do have something.”
He set it on the table between them.
A golden idol, small enough to fit in a palm. Solid gold, carved with exquisite detail: a figure seated on a throne made of wheat sheaves and coins, crowned and regal. Marchosias as he’d been once. As he remembered himself.
“I recovered this from a collapsed temple in what used to be Mesopotamia,” Andromalius said. “It’s the last one. All the others were destroyed millennia ago.” He paused. “This is proof that Marchosias was worshipped. Proof he was divine before he fell. He’s been searching for it for three thousand years.”
