by Jane Kindred
And knowing this was his fault, that he’d put Vasily in that place… He didn’t know how he was going to cope with that. He felt wretched, and there was no way to remedy it. No way to go back and undo those moments that had cost him his boy’s trust. Except he wasn’t Belphagor’s boy anymore, he reminded himself.
He persuaded Vasily to lie down, propping pillows behind him against the wall so Vasily could lie on the side Kezef hadn’t touched, and laid a blanket over him. In minutes, Vasily was asleep. He wasn’t sure Vasily would want to sleep with him, but he needed to be near him, so even though it was only eight o’clock in the evening, he climbed carefully under the blanket and turned on his side as well, facing Vasily. He watched him, aching, feeling there was a chasm between them he might never be allowed to cross again.
In the morning, he was on his other side, facing the room, Vasily’s comforting heat radiating against his back. He’d barely been able to sleep without him the past few nights, and for a moment he forgot about the chasm and felt immensely right to have his boy back with him. Until the word “boy” nagged at his memory and Vasily’s words came back to him: “I don’t think I can be that for you any longer. It requires trust.”
He slipped out of bed as quietly as he’d slipped into it. As usual, Vasily had thrown off the blanket in the night. It almost hurt to look at him in his gruff and glorious beauty. Belphagor wanted to taste the full lips and feel the rough patch of beard against his cheeks, to run his tongue over the exposed flesh from the Adam’s apple to the trail of burnished hair that disappeared into the pants that hadn’t been meant for a demon of his size and barely reached his hips. He wanted to pull the pants down and release Vasily’s inevitable morning erection among the red-gold curls and taste his smoky heat.
Or, hell, just curl up in his arms and hold him close. His Vasya. His demon. He was those things still, wasn’t he? He’d said he wouldn’t leave.
Belphagor busied himself with shaving and getting dressed. If he was going to deal with the Fletchery, he’d have to present himself as respectably as possible. He’d never done what he was about to do—turn demons over to angelic authorities. But of course, it wasn’t just demons he was turning in, it was angels. Which was the only reason the Elysian gendarmes might even bother to look into it. They weren’t otherwise likely to care about underage peasant whores.
And in truth, Belphagor himself had never given it much thought. He’d been an underage whore. He’d managed to convince himself that the young demons at the Fletchery were little different from himself or Vasily when they were making their way on the streets. But no one had sold him. He’d been a free demon who’d chosen to make a business out of something he already found pleasurable. He’d considered himself an entrepreneur, and certainly hadn’t considered himself a child.
But the roost at the Fletchery had no choice in the matter. By design, they had never experienced their own sexual awakening even insomuch as to determine what direction their own attractions lay. And by and large, they were too young to do so.
He knew Vasily had most likely been as young as most of the youths there when he’d begun his career, but he didn’t like to think of it. Belphagor had already been a hustler at the Demon Market, taking facets from boys and grown demons alike in street games of dice and chance, long before he chose to sell his charms. But Vasily had a kind of eternal naïveté about him that suggested he’d been managed by someone who had profited from keeping him sheltered.
Even at the time they’d met, when Vasily had been a lanky, angry teen trying to pick Belphagor’s pocket, there’d been a startling sweetness to him, an innocence that made him seem younger than he was. And as he’d matured, swiftly developing into his current imposing physique, that innocent quality had remained, somehow unspoiled by whatever life had handed him.
But regardless of his own history or Vasily’s, he was going to put the Fletchery out of business one way or another. If the Ophanim chose to ignore them after he’d turned the place in, he’d buy them out—down to the last child. He didn’t like to let on that he had such funds. He lived simply at the Brimstone to avoid attention. But decades of being the best wingcasting player in Raqia had left him with more than a reputation.
Occasionally, he had to put on a show of gambling recklessly while over-imbibing on demon ale or contraband vodka from the world of Man. These spectacular losses not only gave rise to speculation that he’d gambled away everything he’d ever earned, but it gave challengers hope that they might be the one to knock him off his winner’s pedestal. Otherwise, who would play him?
“You should wear one of the stiff white collars with that.” Vasily spoke behind him as Belphagor buttoned his coat.
He turned his head just slightly, still buttoning, not wanting to let on how the sound of Vasily speaking to him made his pulse quicken. Vasily was propped on one elbow watching him.
“Sorry?”
“Instead of a cravat. That tailored coat looks better with a high collar under the chin.” Vasily rose and took one of the collars in question from the top drawer of the wardrobe and tucked it inside the linen shirt while standing behind Belphagor. “Maybe a nice brooch to attach it.” His warm breath tickled Belphagor’s ear. “Where are you going?”
Belphagor straightened the collar, and his fingers brushed Vasily’s before they pulled away. “To get my ass kicked by Ophanim, most likely.”
“To what?” Vasily scowled at him in the mirror. “What are you up to now?”
“I’m going to find myself some Supernal Guard and give them the names of the angels I observed at the Fletchery. After which time, if I’m still capable of demon speech, I intend to lead the Ophanim to its current locale.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Frequently.” Belphagor turned to face him. “How—?” He paused, as always somewhat startled at how much he had to look up, and raised his eyes to Vasily’s. “How else do you think I’m going to be able to get the place shut down, mal—?” He swallowed the word and turned back to the vanity to find an appropriate brooch in the jewelry box.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” Vasily said quietly.
Belphagor closed his eyes, gripping the edges of the vanity, and breathed in. “Vasya.” He breathed out and opened his eyes again, meeting Vasily’s in the mirror, and his gaze traveled over the hard chest to the tight, low-slung pants. “For the love of Heaven. Put some proper clothes on.” He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d meant to open his mouth and try to express how much he’d needed to hear those words, that he’d thought until Vasily said them that he might be dying.
Vasily whirled about and stripped off the pants, snarling the tangled lines connecting Belphagor’s head, heart and cock even further with the view of his tight ass as he jerked open the drawers behind the curtain and rummaged for something to wear.
Belphagor forced himself to stop looking in the mirror, finishing with his brooch and cufflinks without consulting his reflection. What was he supposed to do? How the hell was he going to make this better? When he turned around and found Vasily tucking a tight black T-shirt into the steel gray utility pants Belphagor had bought him in Moscow when they were there, he realized it didn’t matter whether Vasily was dressed to the nines or stark naked. Every inch of him, maddeningly clothed or temptingly revealed, made Belphagor crazy with desire.
“What?” growled Vasily. “You have a problem with this outfit?”
“No,” said Belphagor, and then drove his fingers through his hair between the stiff spikes he’d just waxed. “Yes.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means you’re making me crazy. And I’m not mad at you or blaming you. I’m not. I know I did this. But I don’t know how to do this.” He tugged at his hair. “I’m tearing my own hair out because I don’t know how stop myself from grabbing yours and pulling you down to your knees.”
Vasily folded his blasted brutish arms over his infuriatingly hard chest. “I don’t know
what to tell you, Belphagor.”
“Well, that makes two of us, because I don’t know what to tell me either. Do you want me to touch you? At all? Are you—am I—I don’t—fuck.”
Vasily’s arms slowly unfolded, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I just want you to give me some time. Some space.” Time and space. That wasn’t so much. But it was everything, wasn’t it?
Belphagor nodded and swallowed the madness and heartache. “Okay.” He finished buttoning his coat. “Let me go do what I need to do, and then when you want to talk—if you want to talk—we’ll talk. Or we won’t. Whatever you need.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.” He held up his hand at Vasily’s look of outrage. “I’m not giving you orders. It just won’t work if they see you. I’m going for a certain angle here. It’s mental wingcasting. Please, Vasya, just—trust me a little.”
Vasily sat on the bed, his mouth set in a tight line, and nodded.
As Belphagor headed out through the gaming room to the front of the Brimstone, a chorus of insults and compliments on his attire greeted him—the determining factor between one or the other being how recently or frequently he’d beaten the demon in question at cards. He bowed graciously at both, tugging on the points of his collar, and mounted the steps that led to the street just as the door opened and Armen stepped in.
“Well, if it isn’t the Pidor of Purgatory.”
Belphagor’s polite smile died on his face. The word was a Russian slur that equated homosexuality with pederasty. He clenched his fist but considered that getting bloodied, even in administering a beating, would mess up his carefully crafted presentation.
“Get the hell out of my way.”
“We had a deal.”
“And you have your names. Khai supplied you with positive identification of three who purchased the virtue of demon boys.”
“He provided two. Your little suka failed to consummate.”
Belphagor climbed the final step, putting himself within inches of Armen’s face. “I warned you not to disparage him again. Fortunately for you, I don’t have time to disembowel you at the moment. But I will be contemplating how to do it slowly and spectacularly while I’m directing the Ophanim Guard to the Fletchery to shut their shit down.”
Armen smiled dispassionately. “If you fuck up what I’ve got going, I will fuck up your life in ways you never dreamed.”
“What you have going?” Unable to restrain himself, Belphagor shoved the demon back through the door so hard he knocked him on his ass. “What you have going on,” he snarled down at him, “is profiting at the expense of child sex slaves.”
Though he’d tried to keep his volume down, several patrons near the door turned and stared. Armen jumped to his feet, his face blazing. “You dare to impugn me? You, who are a known member of the Fletchery?” Armen’s voice carried deliberately.
Belphagor realized the extent of his mistake in playing this game. But it was immaterial. He would do what he’d set out to. “I suggest you run along and collect what blackmail you can, because the Fletchery will be out of business before the day is out.”
“And you will be out of business in Raqia. Mark my words.”
There was no point in continuing to engage with Armen. He was only wasting valuable time.
Belphagor set out on his mission to find a squad of officers in the Supernal Army with whom to negotiate with the Ophan. He wasn’t fool enough to think angels of elemental fire would listen to a demon thief. He was taking a gamble that the angels he encountered wouldn’t be patrons of the Fletchery themselves, though from what he’d seen, the supernal officers were more likely to solicit the comparatively adult companionship to be found in the Market. It was the older, more privileged class of archangels who seemed to favor the sort of complete control an inexperienced youth afforded them. Just like the archangelic Malakim, whom Belphagor had known in his own youth in the world of Man. Like this Silk Vasily spoke of, Belphagor had played even younger than his years as a matter of survival when he’d found himself in their snare.
There were fewer supernal officers about since the scandal of Duke Elyon’s downfall and his exposure as a traitor to the supernal crown. Belphagor found himself crossing the Palace Avenue Bridge over the Acheron and heading into the Left Bank before he encountered any. His presence was immediately spotted once he had. Demons were as unwelcome in the bohemian quarter these days as anywhere in Elysium proper.
As Belphagor approached a pair seated outside a sidewalk cafe, one of the angels rose. “Halt, demon. State your business.”
“I came to report a crime.”
The pair of them laughed. “You hear that, Erel? This fine gentleman has come to report a crime.” The angel looked him over. “Well? What did you do? Steal those clothes?”
“The crime isn’t my own,” said Belphagor patiently. “I have information on an establishment trading in the corruption of children.”
The smiles disappeared from their faces, and Erel stepped into Belphagor’s space. “You listen to me, you filthy incubus. We’re not interested in your trade. How dare you present yourself to officers of the Supernal Army with such a proposition?”
Belphagor sighed. “I’m not offering, you halfwit. I’m requesting that the principality’s Guard be dispatched to shut the place down. I can provide you with the names of its patrons, their recent activities and the location of the domicile in which the children are being kept.” He probably should have avoided the dig on the angel’s intelligence, but his patience was running thin.
The angel glared at him. “If it’s a demon establishment and demon children, it’s for demons to deal with.”
“Even if it’s angelic nobles who patronize it?”
The two angels exchanged glances. “That’s a slanderous statement unless you have proof.”
“I have witnesses.”
“Demon witnesses,” said Erel.
Belphagor inclined his head in agreement. He’d been afraid it might come down to this. He handed a folded bit of parchment to the angel. “Just give the address to the Ophanim patrol. I’m sure they’ll find enough Union of Liberation sympathizers among the patrons to warrant a raid.”
The angel took it reluctantly, as if afraid he might catch something from Belphagor. These definitely weren’t the sort of angels he was used to dealing with. “And the names?” asked the angel as he opened the note and found only the address written down.
“Those will cost you,” said Belphagor. He wasn’t fool enough to think the names would be turned over to the Ophanim for arrests to be made. Any noble names he provided would be useful bargaining tools for an angel who hoped to advance his place in society or among the supernal ranks.
“Move along,” said Erel gruffly, handing back the parchment. “Elysian soil isn’t the place for your skunk peddling.”
It had been worth a try. Belphagor gave them a sharp bow of acknowledgment and headed back.
When he returned to the Brimstone, he found Vasily curled up on the cot reading Dostoevsky. His boy, who hadn’t even known how to read simple angelic two years ago, was devouring nineteenth-century Russian literature in its native language. No, not his boy. The reminder punched him in the gut.
Vasily looked up at him with his unasked questions.
“The Supernal Army apparently isn’t interested in demon matters. Even when they involve angels.” Belphagor took off the white gloves he’d donned for the encounter and tossed them on the vanity. “Not a huge surprise, I suppose. At any rate, that was Plan A. Care to join me for Plan B?”
“Plan B?” Vasily tucked a red ribbon between the pages and set the book aside.
“The direct confrontation method. I’ll need your muscle for it.”
Vasily nodded and rose. “I’m up for that.”
“And Vasya—let me do the talking. Showing your fire is fine, but I need you to hold your tongue.” Belphagor thought he detected the hint of a prelude to the sort of
outrage that inevitably led to a physical confrontation between the two of them, and it stirred his desire in a hopeful way, but Vasily only nodded again after a measured breath. Belphagor gave him a nod in return. “Good. I need you with me in case things go south. But violence is the absolute last resort.”
It was a good three hours all told from the time Belphagor had run into Armen to the time they reached the Fletchery. Just long enough, it seemed, for them to sanitize the place. Armen had tipped them off.
The view of the salon through the open double doors revealed an empty room, and the atmosphere looked much more conservative, as if it were a gentlemen’s club that was actually just for gentlemen—or as near as one could come to a gentleman in the Demon District. The front entrance was laid out like a reception area, and there was even a young demoness—young, but firmly over the age of consent—seated behind a desk, who lifted her head from a ledger and gave them a quizzical glance.
“May I help you, sir?”
Belphagor set his hands on the edges of the desk and leaned in, focusing his natural ability at influence. “I’m looking for Raum Tephrosovich.”
She was either more adept at deflecting suggestion than she appeared, or they’d kept her in the dark. “I’m afraid there’s no one here by that name.”
“Let’s not waste time,” said Belphagor, pressing both palms flat against the desktop. “I’d like to see whoever is pretending to be in charge of whatever this place is now pretending to be, and I would like to see them now, or I’ll release the list of names I have in my pocket to the Ophanim I saw just down the street.”