The mood was glum around the table in the back corner of the out-of-the-way restaurant. Beverages of choice were sipped with little conversation; another toast was raised to the memory of the thirty-ninth president. Finally, the meeting was called to order.

“Old business?” Forty-four asked.

“I got some old business right here,” said Forty-six, the newest member of the group.

“Me, too,” said Forty-two with a lift of his eyebrows, which got a sharp-elbowed jab from his wife, honorary member Forty-three and a half.

Forty-four gave them the serious eyes.

“Fine,” said the man from Delaware. “I extended the invitation for honorary membership to her under the moniker Forty-six and a half. She…declined. Respectfully, so let the record report.”

Forty-three and a half looked aghast. “We’re not keeping actual records, are we?”

“It’s an expression.”

“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Forty-four said. He’d heard a lot lately about women taking a break from politics. Especially the women in his own family. I am so done with this, she’d said to him before leaving for Hawaii. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if she was ever coming back.

“I did miss Michelle at Jimmy Carter’s funeral,” Forty-three said. “Brought a bunch of extra hard candy just in case.”

“Can we get back to our agenda?” Forty-four said. Sounding more snappish and testy than he liked to.

“Sorry,” the man from Texas said. “Old business. Unfortunately, my time-travel escapade with Dr. Franklin didn’t work out the way I intended. I’d hoped 2021 Mitch McConnell would vote to convict on the second impeachment and keep our orange adversary out of the White House. Seems certain parties didn’t keep their agreements.”

“Bad intelligence?” Forty-two quipped. Silence. “What, too soon?”

“New business,” Forty-three and a half said, cutting off her husband. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

Forty-four leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. Lately he’d been wondering if the Council had outlived its utility. He often felt like Wile E. Coyote failing at his repeated attempts to catch the Road Runner. Just running straight into the side of a rock every time. “Are we all wasting our time here?” he asked the group.

Four pairs of eyes stared blankly back at him. Then the man from Delaware said, “Why, did you accept an invitation to go down to Mar-a-lago?”

“No, and never,” he said. “I mean, think of the hubris. That we, forged in our vows to uphold the Constitution, should be going against what the people voted for. If this is what the people want, then maybe…this is what the people want. And the best we can hope for is that those currently in power will be guided by their better angels.”

“Angels, my ass,” the man from Texas said. He let out a long sigh, dropped his gaze to the ice cubes floating in his Diet Coke. “His ‘guiding principle,’ if it can be called that, comes from the opposite direction. And I happen to know that for a fact.”

“Well, yeah,” Forty-four said. “That he’s not a choir boy isn’t exactly breaking news.”

“Wait,” Forty-three and a half said. “What do you mean, ‘know that for a fact’”?

Forty-three’s eyes slid left, then right, then he lowered his voice. “He’s made a…deal.”

“Deal?” Forty-two said, laughing. “Like in ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’? That kind of deal? Man, if that were even possible, I’d give selling my soul a think or two.”

“I only wish I was joking,” Forty-three said. “Reason I know about is that, well, I made a deal too.”

Dead silence fell. Then Forty-three explained. That he wanted redemption for what had happened during his two terms as president. The bad intelligence. The bad decisions. The whole “Mission Accomplished” business. A being calling himself Lucifer had offered him that redemption, while he was having a weak moment, for a price, and he accepted. That same Lucifer told him that the only living ex-president who will never be a member of the Council had made a deal, too.

“I knew it,” Forty-three and a half said, eyes narrowing.

“Come on,” Forty-four said. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? The devil is not real.”

“Sadly, I am not, and he is most assuredly real.” He drew in a breath. “But I don’t believe we are completely out of options, here. See, I bargained my way out of the deal by offering certain…services to humanity. So these deals have the potential to be reversed.”

Forty-four raised his brow. “Wait. If I’m understanding you correctly, the devil is open to negotiation?”

“Basically,” Forty-three said. “Although it will have to be one juicy worm to dangle in front of him, because Donald is, in Lucifer’s own words, his favorite toy.”

“Undoubtedly,” Forty-three and a half said. “But what could we even offer in exchange? How many politicians haven’t already sold their souls?”

Reluctant hands went up around the table. “Hypocrites,” Forty-three and a half said. “Every last one of you. And I should know.”

After a long pause, during which each member of the group eyed the others with trepidation, Forty-four cleared his throat. “Look. Politics is what it is. We play the game. But I do not want to live out the rest of my days worrying about what shenanigans he might pull to bring about the end of democracy as we know it. Especially with this new information that he might have supernatural help. This is serious WTF territory here. And I…well, I am plumb out of ideas.”

“I can take him.”

Forty-two turned to his wife, aghast. “Hill. How?”

“Because he’s a bully, like the Orange Menace. Which means he’s a coward. Which means he’ll fold like a cheap suit if a woman stands up to him. Tell me something, George. You’ve met the guy. Does he have a single woman in his organization?”

“Uh. None that I can think of. Frankly I’d kind of assumed—” He went red in the face from her ice-cold stare.

Forty-three and a half glared at him. “That he already owned me?”

“Um. No, ma’am.”

She stood from the table. Whipped out her phone. Punched in a number then said, “Get me my fighting heels. We ride at dawn.”