the right position in the sky. The correct number of candles were lit and carefully arranged. A gentle night breeze toyed with each flickering flame. It was the perfect evening to conjure the demon king.
The angel and the woman he possessed crawled across the floor of her art studio and meticulously scraped sea salt into a perfect circle with a painting knife. Possession was not a complicated dance. There were only three real requisites—the possessed must be human, living, and willing. In contrast, conjuration was a tangle of arbitrary requirements depending on the spirit one wanted to call. But the watcher Azazel had been summoning spirits of his own ilk for eons, and by now, it was second nature to him. No matter how much he loathed forcing the presence of incorporeal beings, he had to admit he had a talent for it.
The woman he possessed—the artist—was no stranger to Azazel. In fact, he’d been acting as her muse for years. How he’d worried over her reaction when he finally revealed his true identity, but she hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t even doubted. And when he’d asked permission to enter and possess her body, she’d just given it.
Now he moved his partner like a puppeteer, nimbly pulling her arms and legs over little walls of salt, careful not to disturb the words and symbols already organized within the circle. He felt her give in to every tug. It was like hypnosis, the way he took her, and she never fought any of it. She truly had nothing left to lose. He, on the other hand, was on the cusp of losing her.
Azazel had always been a better dancer than he was a conqueror. His talents were in beauty and presentation. He loved the spectacles of music, color, twinkling lights and well-placed mirrors. He loved glitter and sequins and all manner of bawdy, extravagant theater. He was an artist and a craftsman. Even the magic circles he fashioned had something about them, some indescribable quality. They were elegant, and Azazel knew it. He stood back in the woman’s body and admired his own work through her eyes. Of the few virtues the angel possessed, humility was not one of them.
When Azazel was satisfied with his circle, he knelt outside it, spread the woman’s arms, and began to sing. Even in her human tongue, his voice was magnificent. The song he sang was powerful. It included the Ineffable Name—a key that opened the gate to another universe. It harnessed the natural laws of his old world and applied them handily to his new one.
The song drew to a close, and Azazel began the summons in earnest. He spoke in Portuguese, the woman’s native language. “I command you, Ashmedai, appear in my circle in fair and comely form, without noise or deformity. Come now, demon—visibly, peacefully, affably—without delay. Speak to me with a clear and perfect voice. Answer to your names: King of Demons, Aeshma Daeva, and Asmodeus.” He paused and saw the circle waver and steam. Just to speed the process along, Azazel added one last name to his spell. “Appear before me now, Ash darling.”
The wind howled, but the candles burned steadily. The hairs on the woman’s arms stood on end as though held by a magnetic force. The incorporeal mingled with the corporeal world as the demon in question drew in the dust he needed to build his body.
Ashmedai never did appreciate the effort that went into conjuration. He was a prickly academic who would not forgive an interruption, no matter how necessary the conjuror deemed it. He appeared within the circle, a book in one hand and gold-rimmed spectacles in the other, his jaw clenched, his mouth pouting.
He’d heeded the command most accurately, however. Fair and comely he certainly was, though it was no trouble for him. The demon king stood tall and proud. He’d taken his original form, as he loathed putting effort into anything outside his studies. His black hair was shaved to the scalp. He had deep, russet skin that drank in the candlelight and glowed like a gem. His eyes were spectacular, hooded and brooding. His mouth was a downturned Cupid’s bow with the slightest dimple in his lower lip. He looked just like his mother. Azazel had always thought so.
“Speak, Ash.”
Ashmedai scowled. “Why am I in Brazil? How dare you? We were finished with each other. We had an understanding.”
“Forgive me, darling, but I didn’t have the time to spare. I need Raphael’s weapon. Something’s come up.”
Ashmedai positioned his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, which was the only hawkish feature on his otherwise heart-shaped face. He squinted down at the woman whose body Azazel occupied. Then he removed his spectacles. The demon king had an eye for the unseen. He could glimpse the polaroid flash of a person’s past and future when he put his mind to it, and he almost always put his mind to it.
Azazel braced himself. “She’s dying, Ash.”
“I can see that.”
“I need the sword.”
Ashmedai sighed. “Every mortal dies, Azza.” His informality was more to pacify than show affection.
“She’s only twenty-three.”
“People die young.” Ashmedai shrugged, a graceful gesture if Azazel ever saw one. The demon king really was the picture of his mother. “It isn’t uncommon, especially these days.”
“Please, Ash. You know why this is important to me. You must. If you can’t see it, put your spectacles back on and look, for god’s sake.”
Ashmedai did not. Instead, he glanced around the studio, eyeing multiple easels and stacks of canvas, all in varying stages of completion—the color, the texture, the applied gold leaf reflecting candlelight. “Is this all her work or is some of it yours?”
“It’s hers.” Azazel was becoming impatient. “I need the healing sword, Ash. I did you a great service once. You owe me this.”
Ashmedai shook his head. “The service you performed was payment for my releasing you. Anyway, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy binding Raphael. You hated him as much as I did.”
“You could never have bound him without me.”
“And you could not have overcome him if I hadn’t taken his weapon. We defeated him together, you and I. And we did it each for our own reasons. I owe you nothing.”
“A favor then, please. I’ll be in your debt.” Azazel wished he was dealing with a lesser demon. Ashmedai was no one to trifle with. The demon king was as old as they come, born to a watcher, though no one knew which. His mother, Naamah, had been a lover to many of the fallen ones. Her kindness and beauty were legendary among them. Azazel had not forgotten her—he had been one of the first to accept her comfort—but Ashmedai was not his son. No, the demon king’s father was undeniably cherubic, and Azazel was not. Every once in a while, he wished he had fathered the boy. Just now, he could have used a familial relationship to his advantage.
Instead, he had to beg. “I’ll give you anything, Ash darling. Think it over. You may need me again someday, and I’ll be there for you. I swear it. Is that not worth something to you? You don’t even have to retrieve the sword. Just tell me where it is. Or better yet, you keep it. Just bring it here and heal the girl. Please. It’s such a little favor. Surely you can see the value in such a little favor.”
Ashmedai donned his spectacles once more, stepped to the edge of the circle, and held out his hand. Azazel reached inside and let the demon touch the outstretched fingers of the woman he possessed. This way, Ash would get a better sense of her. He would see how precious she was. He had to. After several minutes of stillness, the demon king withdrew his hand. “Is she really the last?”
Azazel nodded. “There are no others. I’ve searched the world over.”
“I’m sorry, Azza.” Ashmedai pocketed his spectacles and sighed. “But I can’t bring the sword to you. I lost it in a wager years ago. I don’t even know where it is anymore.”
Azazel nearly laughed, but the somber expression on Ash’s face told him this was no joke. His rage was belated but all the more fiery for that. “You lost it?” He rose up and up. His ever-brightening body shook the walls around them with the force of a small earthquake. “Why would you gamble with something like that?”
“What did I need with a healing sword? I’m already dead.”
Azazel screamed, furious. The woman slumped to her knees as he returned control of her body to her. She looked up and saw the demon king watching her. “What’s happening?” she croaked, exhausted.
Ash glanced up at the raging angel. “If I were to hazard a guess,” he said in Portuguese, “I’d say a tantrum.” He blinked slowly, polished his nails on his lapel, and winked at the woman to calm her. Then he took a deep breath and hollered up at Azazel. “How this is supposed to improve your situation is beyond me! But if you release me from this confounded circle, I might be able to help you find the sword!” He glanced down at the woman. “Dona Artista, do you want to know how long you have? I can tell you.”
She shook her head. “No, but I don’t want to wait for him to calm down either. He used my body to capture you.” She smiled and held out her hand for Ashmedai. He took it and squeezed as she said, “I will use it to set you free.”
The woman broke the circle with one foot, and Ashmedai stepped across the barrier, intentionally scattering more salt as he did. “I can see why he values you, Dona Artista,” he said with a smile. “You’re full of fire, aren’t you?”