by Jane Kindred
Belphagor donned his hat and tipped it toward the girls still huddled together in the interior doorway. “Thank you, my friend. You’ve been a great help.”
It had been too late to head to the opposite end of the district to inquire after Koshka. Devil’s Doorstep was best visited in company and early in the evening. And certainly not in tails and a top hat. Instead, he’d dropped by in the morning before his meeting with Armen.
The Succubus was quiet at such an early hour, but by no means empty. When Belphagor entered the parlor and asked for Koshka, he was taken without question to a room in back, dismayed to discover that a thin curtain divided the waiting area of the little room from where Koshka was currently engaged in business. He was privy to every thump of the wooden bed and every grunt and groan of effort and appreciation exchanged.
The demon who’d concluded his transaction opened the curtain still lacing his trousers, giving Belphagor an absent nod as he held the fabric aside. On the bed, Anzhela’s mother lounged topless and mostly bottomless in a sort of garter belt and hose, her legs open and one leg in a high-laced ankle boot draped over the side, arms folded behind her head.
The slender strawberry blonde was as lovely as Anzhela, and in a purely abstract manner, Belphagor could appreciate the beauty of her form, but as always, the particulars of feminine attraction escaped him. Vasily could be aroused by either sex, but Belphagor found himself contemplating how much work it must be to find a woman’s diminutive organ and wondering what in the Heavens one would be expected to do with it once he had.
“Don’t be shy, lover.” Koshka rolled onto her side and propped herself on one elbow, patting the bed. “Come in and close the curtain.” The little closet of space placed him just beside the bed as he pulled the curtain shut, and he jumped in surprise as she reached through his legs from behind and cupped his balls. “It’s all right, sweetie,” she said kindly. “I know all sorts of tricks to perk you up.”
With a self-conscious cough into his fist, Belphagor extricated himself and stepped back against the curtain. “I’m not here as a client,” he said. “But I’ll pay for your time just the same.”
Koshka sat up, eyeing him warily, and drew a chiffon robe around her from the chair beside the bed, though the wispy fabric barely covered anything. “I don’t need reforming, and I don’t sell information.”
“I’m a friend of Anzhela’s.”
The demoness shoved him with such unexpected ferocity as she jumped to her feet that Belphagor nearly took the curtain down with him when he stumbled through it and grasped at it for balance. “You got what you wanted. You and your filthy fletchers can go to hell!”
He was immediately accosted by a thick-armed demon whose intention was clearly to hook one such arm around Belphagor’s throat. Belphagor, however, having plenty of experience evading unwanted holds by larger demons, tucked his chin against his chest, jabbed his elbow into the demon’s solar plexus and ducked out of the loosened grasp as the demon let out a hard grunt and stumbled onto one knee, trying to suck in air.
Whirling, he scrambled back onto the bed while another demon descended on him. “An actual friend!” He expelled the words toward Koshka with a kick of his feet to ward off the second assailant.
Koshka climbed over him and pinned his head back by the hair at his nape. “What ‘friend’?” she snarled.
“The Prince of Tricks,” he gritted out.
Her grip on his hair loosened, and her expression went from fierce to surprised and a bit sad as she appraised him. “You’re the demon who freed Tabris.” She turned, one dainty knee spearing him in the ribs. “It’s all right. He’s fine.” In the entrance, the two demons straightened their clothes and backed out with wary nods, the larger still red in the face and looking like he might vomit. Koshka closed the curtain and swung her leg off Belphagor’s chest. “Sorry. I thought… Sorry. You did a very kind thing, giving the reward you earned to Tabris after what she’d suffered.”
“It was the least I could do.” The young demoness had lost her sister and had been tortured nearly insensate by the Ophanim Guard because Belphagor had dragged the two prostitutes into his scheme.
Koshka studied him as he sat up. “Anzhela spoke very highly of you. I don’t know my daughter well, but I know she’s smarter than all the demons in Raqia and the supernal family put together.” The prefacing remark struck him as rather tragic. The celestial laws governing the indentured Fallen had kept mother and daughter so estranged that Koshka had only a distant acquaintance with her own child.
“I came to ask you what happened to her,” he said. “I thought she was a free demoness, but I encountered her—well, you know where she is.”
Koshka’s look grew dark, and her good opinion of him clearly evaporated. “You’re a patron of that place.”
“No,” he assured her. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, but only to gather information on its true clientele. I find their practices repugnant.”
She gave him a slow, guarded nod and sighed. “My mother intended for Anzhela to take her place when she retired, to own The Cat and take care of her girls.”
“Yes, Anzhela told me.”
“But something happened to Masha. They tell me she was acting strangely before she took ill. And then she was gone, and they said The Cat didn’t belong to her anymore. She’d sold it and Anyushka with it.” Koshka’s face crumpled as she spoke her daughter’s nickname. “She wouldn’t have done that. She would never have done that.”
Belphagor laid his hand lightly on hers, wanting to give comfort, but not wanting to give any offense.
“I think they killed her,” said Koshka.
“Killed her? Who killed her? How?”
She shook her head and turned her hand in his so their palms were together. “The investors who bought The Cat. Poisoned her, I think. They’ve forced the girls to pay a weekly fee to work there, and more for room and board.” Her hand closed tightly around his with a sudden desperation. “Please. You have to help my Anyushka. I don’t want this for her. It isn’t right.”
Belphagor squeezed her hand. “I’ll do what I can.”
By the time he arrived at the Demon Market for his appointed meeting with Armen, Belphagor realized he’d gotten deeply into something he didn’t want to be in. The facets they might extort from the angelic patrons of the Fletchery had become immaterial. How was he any better than their actual clientele if he profited from what was going on? It wasn’t enough to threaten the angels. He had to put the Fletchery permanently out of business.
Armen didn’t take the suggestion well. “What weight will our demands for payment from the angels carry if their temptation is gone?”
“They will still pay to keep what we know quiet,” said Belphagor. While they wandered the aisles of produce and sweets as if they were only there to shop, he handed Armen the paper on which he’d written the names and ranks of the angels he’d mingled with at dinner and afterward.
Armen wrinkled his brow. “What good is this?”
“Surely, you’re joking. Two counts, three dukes and a prince. I’d say they’re good for a great deal.”
“Yes, but what do you have on them?”
“What do I have on them? My testimony and the corroboration of two other witnesses that they engage in the practice of buying the sexual favors of underage demons.”
“Did you actually witness them in flagrante, or were they simply enjoying the novelty of some youthful companionship at dinner?”
“I never said anything about dinner.” Belphagor glared at him over the melon he was testing for ripeness. “You’ve already spoken to Mikhail.”
Armen folded the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “If perching a boy on one’s lap and feeding him croquettes is sufficient to ruin a reputation, I daresay yours is as tarnished as any angel at that table.”
“Poshel na khui.”
“I’ve no interest in your khui—nor anyone else’s—as you’re well aware. I am, however,
interested in where those counts, dukes and a prince are putting theirs. Once you can be certain they’ve put them where they shouldn’t, I’ll have enough to persuade them to part with some of their celestial bounty to keep the knowledge quiet. After that, if you feel the need to break up the party, by all means. We’ll have to assure them that their names will be kept well out of it so long as they continue to provide their insurance premiums, but it must be the act of fletching itself we hold over them, my friend. Nothing less.”
Belphagor nearly squashed the fruit in his hand. “The only way I can be certain is to watch them do it. And I will not stand by for that. You can keep your damned facets.”
“Not necessarily.” Armen paused to make a purchase before he continued. “If we know whose feathers they’ve fluffed, we will have the ammunition we need.”
“You expect Vasily and Khai to take it that far.”
“As far as they possibly can. I thought that was what they specialized in, after all.”
Belphagor gripped him by the shoulder as they walked, the pressure on his collarbone threatening. “I won’t ask Vasily to do that.”
“Khai has it on good authority that one of the angels you dined with last evening has negotiated for your boy’s fletching. All he has to do is say yes.” Armen pried Belphagor’s fingers away from his shoulder. “Khai himself is perfectly willing, but he says you’ve put an exclusive reservation on him. Incredibly gallant of you, but a bit stupid. You’ll need to relinquish that so he can finish the seduction he says he’s engaged in with not one but two of the dukes. With Vasily’s angel, that would give us three of your six.”
“No.”
Armen shrugged. “Or assist one of the other three with buggering some innocent. It’s up to you.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Leave it up to your boy, Belphagor.” Armen patted him on the cheek, and Belphagor struck him away, barely restraining himself from taking him down right there in the market. “Let him decide. And don’t forget to free up Khai’s virtue.”
In the morning, Silk made no mention of what had happened between them, but after Vasily endured the morning ritual and the first group of boys had been sent on their way, Silk approached him with a sly smile.
“Ruby. Just the boy I wanted to see. I spoke with Raum and told him Kezef was pursuing unwanted contact with you after you’d turned down his advances. He’s no longer permitted to purchase any of your services.”
Vasily regarded him with surprise and relief. “You did? Thank you, Silk.”
“I told you I’d take care of you.” Silk turned Vasily about to straighten his bow. “I take care of all my boys.” He set his hands on Vasily’s shoulders. “You’re up next. Don’t forget; you come to me if anyone bothers you. You’re not obligated to take any offers, not even to grant a patron a sample if you don’t feel comfortable. And Ruby?” He lowered his voice, lightly massaging Vasily’s shoulders as he leaned closer. “Your prince is in the salon. Ignore him.”
He managed to keep from looking at Belphagor when he entered the room, but he was impossible to ignore. And for a change, Belphagor wasn’t ignoring him. Vasily slipped inside his niche and hadn’t even sat down before the curtain parted to reveal the Prince of Tricks. Belphagor drew the curtain tightly shut and took a step toward him to pull Vasily into his arms, but Vasily ducked away from him with a fiery glower.
Belphagor frowned and crossed his arms over his chest as if he needed something to do with them. “Vasya. You know my indifference to you last night was only part of the act.”
“And I suppose your tongue down Khai’s pants was an act too.”
“It was not down his pants.”
“Oh, sorry. I couldn’t exactly see once your head went below the table. I was on my knees.”
“Vasya, you agreed to do this. You’ve had the power to stop it at any moment with a word. Do you want to use it?”
Vasily felt tears prickling behind his eyes at the suggestion that he had any power at all to stop anything after what Kezef had reduced him to. He’d never felt so powerless in his life. But he had agreed to it, and Belphagor was in some kind of mess that had forced him into this game he didn’t want to play. That much was clear.
Vasily sighed, echoing Belphagor’s physical stance. “No. No, I’ll do it.” Was it his imagination, or did Belphagor almost look disappointed in that answer?
“You know you’re still my malchik.” Vasily flinched slightly as Belphagor reached to touch the choker around his neck. The rough fingers brushed beneath it over the place where the spiked bar ought to be. “Mine.” His jaw was tight. “I don’t want you to accept any more engagements with that Kezef.”
“I thought I was supposed to be playing the part,” snapped Vasily. The memory of Kezef humiliating him at the dinner while Belphagor simply watched stung like a straight razor cutting into his flesh.
“Play it with someone else.”
It struck him then that Belphagor was jealous. Belphagor had watched another demon enjoying the pleasure that ought to be his. He knew that wasn’t entirely fair. Belphagor derived pleasure out of making Vasily admit he desired what he professed to hate, and there had been nothing in the interaction between himself and Kezef that had remotely kindled Vasily’s desire. Nor had Kezef wanted his desire. There was something cold and calculating about the pleasure he took, his arousal seeming greater the less aroused Vasily was. Still, Belphagor was possessive. “Mine.” Someone else had touched and enjoyed what was his, and he couldn’t stand it—unless Belphagor gave Vasily to someone else to be used for his own amusement; then Vasily was fair game.
“It’s not exactly up to me, is it, Bel?” He could see Belphagor didn’t care for the footing Vasily had put them on by using the nickname—not Beli, which meant “I love you,” and not “ser,” which meant so much more—just Bel, like any friend or acquaintance might call him.
“I understand one of the angels intends to put in a bid for your virtue.” Belphagor spoke sharply, as if this simple fact beyond Vasily’s control were Vasily’s fault. “If you accept, it gives us the leverage we need to finish this and get out of here.”
“What leverage? What are you talking about?”
“I won’t ask you to do it. It’s your choice.”
“My choice? Before we arrived here, you said you didn’t want me being fucked by one of them. Now you do, and it’s my choice?”
Belphagor uncrossed his arms, his fists clenched. “I don’t. I want this over with. I want you out of here.”
Vasily regarded him stonily. “So you want to put the responsibility on me so you can feel like you didn’t pimp me out, is that it?” Belphagor made a strange sound in his throat as if Vasily had knocked the wind out of him. Because Vasily was right. Sonofabitch. “Well, don’t worry about it, Belphagor. It’s all on me. I’ll get your ‘leverage’. I’ll be your whore.”
“Vasya—”
“Time’s up, sir,” insisted the attendant at the curtain. The demon held the curtain aside and gave Belphagor an uncompromising jerk of his head toward the salon. They had apparently missed the more subtle cues that they’d gone over the allowance for sampling.
Belphagor stepped through and then turned back, his face twisted with conflict. “Say the word, Vasya.” Their disagreement had so flustered him he’d forgotten he shouldn’t be using Vasily’s name.
The sommelier stepped between them and put his hand out flat in front of Belphagor. “Other patrons are waiting. You’re done.”
“Say it.”
Vasily narrowed his eyes, letting the heat of his fire flare visibly. “Nyet. Ser.”
As Belphagor had predicted, Count Salmay, one of the angels they’d dined with the previous evening, offered for Vasily that afternoon. Like most angels of the nobility, he was disarmingly handsome in a somewhat sterile way, like a too-perfect painting or an unsettlingly lifelike sculpture one had to touch to be certain it wasn’t animate. It wasn’t as if it would be a hardship to le
t him take Vasily’s imaginary virginity. Salmay was even exceedingly polite and considerate, asking permission to touch while they sat together in the little booth, softly kissing his neck and murmuring endearments in his effort to coax Vasily’s consent from him.
If Vasily went through with it, Belphagor had said, they could be done with this misbegotten game. He agreed, and Salmay lifted his chin and kissed him on the lips as if Vasily had granted him a great honor. Such solicitous treatment of a demon whore by an angel of the blood ought to have served as warning that something was amiss.
Silk bathed him and dressed him in a special uniform, a robe somewhat like Silk’s own, but with short cap sleeves. Elaborate pearl buttons and clasps decorated the front, with the same loose pants the boys customarily wore beneath it, except this pair was made of lustrous satin like the robe—all in white, as if the boy were a bride being presented to a victorious groom for the consummation of his wedding night.
“I suppose I don’t have to tell you what I usually tell the boys,” Silk murmured, brushing Vasily’s lips and cheeks with a ruby stain to match his name. “But you might want to give the impression that you’re a little anxious and unsure of what’s about to happen. And when he takes you, don’t make it too easy. Let him think it hurts.”
“I think I vaguely recall the experience,” Vasily said drily. Silk smiled and then gave him a wistful sigh. “What?”
“You’ll be leaving after. They always do. The patrons here come for the express purpose of being the first. They don’t want seconds.”
“Yes, I’m well aware. Don’t worry. I won’t let on I’m used goods.”
“No. Ruby…that wasn’t what I meant.” Silk looked wounded. “I just wish you’d held out a little longer.” He screwed the lid onto the tin of stain, looking down at it. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Oh.” Vasily blushed as if he were a virgin after all. He tried to think of something to say. It wasn’t as if he could tell Silk to look him up at the Brimstone; Silk was virtually a prisoner here.