King of Thieves

by Jane Kindred

  Silk leaned close to him with his hands on the crocheted collar as if to adjust it, but pressed his lips to Vasily’s throat instead. “Have fun,” he said as he raised his head. “And maybe you can tell me all about it after. If you want. If you come back late, just slip over to my bunk and wake me.” There was a clear invitation in his eyes that said he hoped for an intimate account, perhaps physically illustrated. Vasily wondered if the boys often came to Silk after, no longer under the edict not to fraternize once they were “sullied”. And why shouldn’t he? He was here to play a part, and play it well.

  He smiled at Silk. “I’d like that.”

  An attendant escorted him to the upstairs receiving room, where Count Salmay waited. The angel rose from his seat with an eager smile and an even more eager erection visible beneath his elkskin dress whites, and took Vasily’s hand.

  “Lovely Ruby. You look sweet enough to eat.” He winked and led Vasily through a door in the back of the room into a dimly lit corridor where large curtained alcoves were spaciously arranged for privacy. The sounds of varying degrees of intimacy came from behind the curtains as they passed.

  They entered the interior-most of these rooms, and Salmay closed the door and led Vasily to the bed, directing him gently onto his back. “Just relax,” he whispered, working his hands down the buttons of Vasily’s robe and laying him open. He lowered his mouth to one of Vasily’s nipples, and Vasily closed his eyes with a soft moan, doing his best to tremble a bit. The angel’s hands were untying his pants and easing them down, but as the angel grasped his willing cock, another hand—a third hand—stroked his cheek.

  Vasily’s eyes flew open, and he stared up into the laughing amber eyes of Kezef. Before he could leap away, Kezef had pinned him down with a hand to his throat.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t have you? That a few words from your precious nanny, Silk, would matter?”

  Count Salmay stood off to the side watching, his lip curled in contempt, no longer playing the part of the enamored, solicitous patron. “I’ll take my facets now, demon. Do what you like with the boy.”

  Kezef let go of Vasily for a moment to untie the purse at his hip, and Vasily vaulted past him over the bed, bolting for the door. The speed and viciousness with which Kezef hauled him back was dizzying. The tall demon tossed him against the wall, and Vasily grabbed for the table of oils and implements beside the bed to steady himself, but his momentum took the table down with him. He wasn’t used to being so slight and tossable, and he sprawled in the wreckage with a groan. The glamour had taken all his strength and muscle with it.

  With a swift, efficient motion, Kezef retrieved a leather strap from a hook on the wall above the bed and belted Vasily in the side of the head with it as he tried to scramble up. It set Vasily’s ear ringing, blood dripping from it onto the pristine white costume, as he crawled disoriented toward what he thought was the exit but turned out to be a corner, where he was hopelessly trapped.

  “Take your damned facets,” he heard Kezef say through the muffled ringing. The demon tossed the purse to the angel, who cast a look of mild concern at Vasily before leaving with a shrug. Vasily’s vision blurred slightly as Kezef walked toward him in no apparent hurry and stood over him. “I thought you were properly trained, but I see your master failed to teach you basic manners. You kneel before your betters and take what you have coming. You do not cower like an ignorant whore’s whelp and whimper.”

  The strap sang through the air and struck his shoulder with the sting of a red-hot fire iron.

  “Up on your knees, boy!” Kezef growled. Gasping at the pain, Vasily complied. “Better. But not the proper attitude.” He struck again, and Vasily couldn’t restrain a cry. “Nose to the floor.”

  Vasily obeyed, unable to concentrate on anything but the stinging agony of the strap. He stared at Kezef’s boots before him.

  “You will grovel and beg to be put in your proper place,” said Kezef. “You will ask to be used and degraded. That is the purpose of a demon like you. To provide pleasure through your debasement. Nothing more.” He crouched in front of Vasily and propped his chin up with the edge of the strap. “Is that not how your Belphagor used you?” He smiled. “I could see from the moment he arrived with you that you were no innocent. I could have informed the proprietor, but I held my tongue, because as amusing as it is to corrupt the chaste, I find it eminently more satisfying to hear little sluts like you admit what they are, beg for what they deserve and grovel in thanks when I’m done with them. Which is what you will do.” Kezef rose. “Tell me.”

  Vasily cried out again as the strap cut into his shoulder.

  “What are you?”

  “Fuck you,” he hissed, not so much defiance as an uncontrollable response to the pain. He braced himself for the strap to fall again.

  “Get the hell away from him!” Sweet, blessed Silk.

  Vasily breathed out the tight coil of tension that gripped his entire body and raised his eyes, trying to focus through the burning sweat of his element, just in time to see Kezef whirl and beat Silk back with the strap with a rapid-fire of backhand and forehand strokes that stunned Vasily.

  Silk stumbled onto one knee. “Go, Ruby!” he groaned as Kezef’s blows began to rain down on him. “Get out!”

  Pyataya

  Vasily scrambled to his feet and hurtled past Kezef through the curtain, tangling himself in it and yanking it free from the rod while he continued to run. Patrons and boys peered out of their alcoves as he shouted for help, but ducked back inside and closed their curtains when he neared them.

  “He’ll kill him!” he cried. “He’ll kill Silk! Somebody help!” Tears of anger poured down his cheeks, his body shaking with delayed fright. If only he had the reversal spell for the glamour, he’d beat the shit out of Kezef himself. Why the fuck wouldn’t anyone help?

  At the end of the hall, he ran straight into Khai, who grabbed him as he tried to flee past him.

  “Let go of me, dammit, Khai!” Vasily struggled with him, but the burning sting of the stripes Kezef had cut into his shoulder made it difficult to exert what strength he had, and Khai was determined.

  “Vasily,” he hissed, risking discovery by the patrons in the waiting room. “I don’t have time to argue with you. Come with me. Quickly.” He spun about and propelled Vasily toward the staircase with him.

  “He’s beating Silk!” Vasily protested. “Someone has to help him!”

  “Shut up and keep moving. You can’t help Silk. The other patrons won’t interfere, and management will turn a blind eye.” Khai took him forcefully by the hand and ran with him down the stairs, bypassing the corridor to the dormitories and heading straight for the front of the establishment.

  “What are you doing?” Vasily stumbled with him in bewilderment.

  “Getting the hell out of here.” Khai burst through the salon into the entry hall, while patrons gaped at them but made no move to stop them. Apparently, no one had ever tried to make a break for it. To the young demons sold to the Fletchery with no future, what would have been the point?

  In a moment, they were on the street, conspicuous in their satin whites—Vasily had only just noticed Khai was dressed for his fletching as well.

  Vasily tugged back on Khai’s hand. “I can’t leave Silk—”

  “You will leave Silk,” Khai snapped. “You’ve left Silk. It’s over by now. He took the beating to give you time to get out.”

  “How the hell do you know what he did?” Vasily yanked himself free. “You could have helped me! We could have fought Kezef off!”

  Khai turned and kept walking swiftly. “We have the bodies of children at the moment, you fool. Kezef is built like you when you’re not stuck in this glamour. He’d have snapped both our necks. And I promised Belphagor I’d make sure nothing happened to you.”

  “You promised Belphagor?” Vasily hurried after him. “When did you promise Belphagor anything?”

  “This morning after he met with you. He had to forma
lly relinquish the reservation on me so I could bed the two dukes. He said you were going to take the offer from Count Salmay, and he wanted me to keep an eye on you and see that you weren’t coerced into anything against your will.” Khai slowed a bit and glanced over at him. “I was in the next alcove reclining with my satisfied patrons when I heard the trouble. I ran for Silk because I knew no one else was going to help. He said he’d keep Kezef occupied while we got out.”

  “Occupied?” Vasily slashed at a hot tear. “He was beating him half to death.”

  “Silk knew what he was getting into. He’s grown up in the Fletchery. They use him to keep the boys in line. He pretends to be younger than he is since he’s got that angelic face so the boys will trust him.”

  “He told me the management thought he was younger.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they know how old he is. They’re the ones who’ve kept him on all these years after he earned his feathers. He gets the boys to relax and perform because they feel safe with him. They think he’s one of them.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Khai shrugged. “I’m observant. And I flirt with the attendants. We were there for information, after all. Or did you think you were there to get your wings?”

  Vasily scowled. “Very funny. And for your information, I’ve already gotten my actual wings. I’ve flown. In the world of Man.”

  Khai’s glanced at him, impressed. “You have? There are real wings?”

  “Incredibly real.” He sighed at the memory of his manifest radiance carrying him over the early morning skies of a Russian village on feathers of flame. But the pleasure of the memory was tainted with his worry for Silk. Even if every word out of Silk’s mouth had been a lie, he’d thrown himself at the mercy of Kezef—a demon for whom the concept was clearly meaningless—to save Vasily.

  They were getting strange looks from people on the street. Khai turned down an alley. “Come on. We need to get out of these doll clothes.”

  “We need to get out of these glamours,” Vasily growled. “I’ve had my fill of reliving my youth.”

  Khai scrambled up onto a wall behind a laundress’s cottage and grabbed a set of workmen’s clothes for each of them, oversized but far less conspicuous, and tossed their satin costumes up onto the line as compensation for the laundress. The fine fabric would net her more at the Demon Market than the facets she lost on the missing clothes.

  Vasily forgot he was still wearing the scarlet ribbon in his hair until Khai pulled it out as if to toss it away. He grabbed it back and tucked it into his pocket. It reminded him of Silk.

  They made their way through the Demon District, the dirt and cobblestones rough on their glamoured feet, until they reached the Brimstone. They looked too young to enter on their own, but Khai managed to persuade the bartender at the back door that Belphagor owed him money, while Vasily hung back out of sight.

  “That’ll be great for Bel’s reputation,” Vasily murmured while they waited for the bartender to fetch Belphagor.

  “Well, don’t worry,” said Khai. “I’m not planning on following through with Armen’s threat.”

  Before Vasily could ask who Armen was, the bartender returned to say Belphagor wasn’t about. Time to come clean. He stepped out of the shadows. “Oza, it’s me. Vasily. I’m glamoured, and I need to get inside and take the reversal. Don’t ask,” he added as Oza gaped at him.

  The demon shook his head and let them in with a shrug. Luckily, Belphagor had rigged the door to their room with a magical lock that responded to Vasily’s touch as well as Belphagor’s—and even more luckily, the lock recognized his smaller, smoother hand as his own.

  Inside, he collapsed into the chair at the vanity, glad to be home but numb from the shock of their flight.

  Khai dipped a cloth into the basin and dabbed the damp cloth against Vasily’s ear. “Don’t dwell on Silk.” He rubbed at the dried blood. “He can take care of himself.”

  “The hell he can.” Vasily grabbed the cloth and pulled off his stolen shirt with a hiss of pain. “Do you see this?” He nodded at his shoulder, already violently discolored around the red stripe. “He hit me three times, Khai. I nearly wet myself. I can take pain, but I’ve never felt anything like that.” He touched the cloth to it and grimaced. “I heard no less than eight blows before I fled, and they happened in seconds.”

  “We had to go. You understand that.”

  The latch lifted on the door, and Belphagor entered, stopping still when he saw them, his gaze flitting only briefly over Khai and landing on Vasily. “Moi malchik. How did you get here?” He went down on one knee in front of the chair, lifting the cloth from where Vasily pressed it. “What did they do to you?”

  “Kezef,” said Khai.

  Belphagor’s fist closed around the cloth, and his coal eyes seemed to go even darker. “Give me the tinder box behind you,” he ordered Khai. When Khai handed the box to him, Belphagor popped it open and took out a tiny red pill. “Open your mouth, malchik.”

  Vasily wasn’t sure how he felt about Belphagor giving him orders right now. Or calling him “boy”. Or seeming to give a shit. His head hurt like mad and his shoulder and back were throbbing, and he thought maybe he was going to be sick. He opened his mouth and let Belphagor put the pill on his tongue.

  “Swallow. It’s the de-glamour.” He handed the box back to Khai. “There’s one for you.”

  Vasily swallowed and felt a rush of blood that seemed to flow outward to his extremities—all of them, unfortunately, though he was in no way aroused. He gripped the edge of the chair and saw his hands and arms turn sinewy and hard like they ought to be.

  “Move,” he managed before lunging forward and vomiting between Belphagor’s feet. Khai, looking like his usual self, stumbled onto the bed with his hand on his stomach but managed to hold back his gorge.

  Belphagor calmly wiped up the mess and wrung the cloth out in the chamber pot, rinsing the cloth in the basin and pouring clean water over it before he returned to Vasily’s side and wiped his mouth and beard. His beard. Thank Heaven. Vasily had a beard.

  “Malchik.”

  “Stop calling me that.” He was gratified to hear his own deep, gravelly voice. Something was tight around his throat, and he reached up to discover he still wore the crocheted collar. Before he could move to untie it, Belphagor had taken a knife from his boot and slid it under the threads, slicing outward with an angry jerk. The collar came away in Vasily’s hand, and he felt the spiked end of the jewelry knotted inside it against his thumb. He tucked the collar into his pocket next to the scarlet ribbon.

  Belphagor rose, his eyes unfocused, gaze pointed toward the floor as if he weren’t seeing it. “Khai, would you mind reporting back to Armen that his little venture has capsized? And let him know that you and he can make whatever accusations you like about me. I’m done.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Khai stood and went to the door. “I’m done too. You won’t hear anything more from me on the subject.”

  Belphagor nodded, still staring at the floor, and Khai took his leave. After a long silence, he looked up at Vasily. “Why did you accept an offer from Kezef?”

  Vasily blinked at him coolly, no fire left in him. “I didn’t. I accepted the count’s offer. Kezef had bribed him to do it, it turns out. He was waiting in the room for me.”

  Belphagor’s face twisted with emotion, and he crouched before the chair. “I’m so sorry. My sweet boy—”

  “Don’t.” Vasily shook his head. “I don’t want you to call me that anymore.”

  “Vasya.” Belphagor looked almost helpless as he searched Vasily’s eyes. “I realize the connotations—”

  “It isn’t that. It isn’t because of Kezef or how anyone treated me there.” His voice was rougher than usual, and he cleared his throat. “I don’t think I can be that for you any longer. It requires trust, and…”

  “You don’t trust me?” Belphagor’s face was ashen.

  “You hurt me, Belphagor.” Vasily close
d his eyes to stop seeing the look in Belphagor’s. “And you didn’t ask me if I wanted to be hurt like that. No more than Kezef did.”

  “Vasya.” There were tears in Belphagor’s eyes when Vasily looked up. Now Vasily had hurt him. But it was true. “Are you—will you leave?” His voice broke on the last word.

  Vasily looked away. He couldn’t imagine leaving, couldn’t imagine being without Belphagor. But things couldn’t be the way they’d been. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not leaving you, Beli.”

  Belphagor melted against him, head buried in his arms in Vasily’s lap. He could see Belphagor was lost, knowing he’d fucked up and not knowing how to deal with it. Before, Vasily would have taken his punishment for him. A part of him wished he could now. But maybe it was time Belphagor learned to really feel what he’d done and not use their arrangement to behave however he liked, knowing his transgressions were the ultimate foreplay.

  After a moment, Belphagor lifted his head with a brusque nod as if he’d come to the same conclusion. “I’ll go empty the pot,” he said. “And then we’ll tend to those wounds.”

  “Belphagor.” Vasily spoke as Belphagor picked up the chamber pot and headed for the door. “There was a boy at the Fletchery—not a boy, really, but a sort of caretaker for the others; he pretends to be a youth—anyway, he’s the reason I escaped Kezef. He and Khai. Khai went to get him when he heard what was happening, and Silk came and put himself in front of Kezef’s strap to give me a chance to run.” He swallowed. “I left him there. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. I feel like I have to try to help him if I can.”

  “Silk?” Belphagor repeated.

  “That’s his name.”

  Belphagor nodded. “I’ve already begun working on a plan to bring down the Fletchery permanently. We’ll get your friend out of there. And Anzhela. And the rest. I promise.”

  Vasily submitted later to Belphagor’s ministrations, letting him wash the marks Kezef had left on him that were part burn, part deep cut, as if Kezef had swung the strap in on an angle with a powerful, swift thrust like he was wielding a sword. Bruises were spreading outward on the ruddy firespirit flesh, demonstrating how much force the sadistic demon had put behind the blows. Belphagor had never felt so angry or so powerless. At least, not in many years, and not on another’s behalf.