by Jane Kindred
Phaleg rose. “Certainly.”
“Well, then,” said Belphagor, turning his back on Armen and signaling to the barmaid. “More ale! Issuing challenges makes me ridiculously thirsty. And randy.” He sat back in his seat with a wink and drew Khai toward him with his arm around his waist while the other two rent boys moved behind him and toyed with his hair. It wasn’t generally popular to make obvious advances to a member of one’s own sex in a Raqia gambling den, despite the common practice of bringing one’s hired doxy along for good luck, but he figured he’d earned a bit of slack, while his apparent drunkenness would be seen as the reason for his lack of propriety. And demonstrating his interest in Khai was essential in dispelling Armen’s accusations.
He didn’t bother to look around to see what Armen’s response was to his indifference. It seemed best to add insult to injury and act as if he’d already forgotten him. The sound of angry footsteps on the stairs and the banging of the door to the street told him all he needed to know, and the resumption of activity within the den confirmed it.
Only then did he dart a surreptitious look around to see where Vasily’s party had ended up. They’d taken over a large open seating area by the fire pit in the front, where Vasily appeared to be holding court. Among his admirers were a trio of girls from The Cat and what appeared to be a pair of scholarly Dominions who must have hired him for the night. Fucking Silk. Belphagor’s only condition had been no angels.
He began to imagine all sorts of scenarios where the Dominions had their way with Vasily, worse than the thought of him kneeling for Silk. He botched his hand in the latest wingcasting round with the challenger who’d taken Phaleg’s place, and couldn’t concentrate enough to achieve even a fifty-fifty outcome with the cast of the die.
“What’s wrong?” Khai murmured in his ear. “Feeling the hot seat? Not so funny when it’s your own nuts, is it?”
Belphagor tossed a handful of facets into the pot with an angry flick. “Kneel if you’re going to hover,” he snapped. “You’re distracting me.”
“Oh, I’m distracting you.” Khai slid down beside him and perched his elbow on the edge of the table. “Not the Dominion with his hand down Vasily’s pants.”
“Do you mind?” sniffed his challenger. “I came to play cards, not to be subjected to your vulgarian exploits.”
With a sigh, Belphagor folded and held out his hand to Khai as he pushed back his chair and stood. “It seems I’m a bit too inebriated to hold my own here.” He glanced at the other two demons he’d hired, who were currently scandalizing the gaming room by making out with one another. “Perhaps one of you would like to help me hold my own in my room.”
With one arm around Khai and one around the nearest of the two demons, he headed for the back of the den, sweeping a bottle of vodka off the bar as he passed it. “Put it on my tab,” he said to the bartender’s objection, spilling vodka on Khai’s chest in his effort to hold on to both.
Once in his room, he extracted himself from his entourage and set the bottle on the vanity. The narrow cot had seemed horribly large since his return, and he could barely stand looking at it.
From his pocket, he took the small pouches he’d kept for the Stone Horse demons and held them out. “You two are free to go. Just slip out the back way behind the bar, if you wouldn’t mind.” They took the facets, barely aware of him at this point in their mutual interest in one another. “Be careful on the street,” he added as they opened the door.
“They’re pros,” said Khai, sitting on the cot as the demons took their leave.
Belphagor shrugged, slipping out of his coat. “They could still be jumped by angels who’ve had too much to drink.” He kicked his makeshift bedroll out from under the cot and stripped down to his shorts.
“Sure you don’t want to share the bed?” Khai lay on his side, his shirt falling open where the last of the buttons had come free. “You are paying for my time. And paying handsomely, I might add.”
“Thanks. I’m just not in the mood.” He climbed under his blanket and pulled it over his shoulder.
Khai snuffed out the lantern hanging from a hook in the wall above the bed that had on occasion held Vasily’s bound wrists instead. “You’ve got it bad,” Khai remarked into the darkness. “Worse than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah,” said Belphagor. “I know.” He was afraid it might be terminal.
Vasily was scaring the Dominions. He couldn’t help it. Watching Belphagor treating Khai—Khai, of all demons—the way he’d once treated him—was he trying to punish him for being with Silk? After throwing Vasily into Silk’s arms, it hardly seemed fair. None of this seemed fair. He thought back over everything he’d said and done over the past few weeks, and every single word out of his mouth to Belphagor made him cringe. Why had he told him he didn’t want to be his boy? It was the worst lie he’d ever uttered. Why couldn’t he have just explained to Belphagor how he’d hurt him without twisting everything up into such an unfixable mess?
“Ow!” The angel whose thigh he’d begun to stroke when Belphagor had looked his way jumped under his grip. There was a scorched mark on the angel’s pants.
“Sorry,” Vasily growled, embarrassed, but the sound of his voice seemed to make it worse. He stood, and the angel visibly cowered. “You don’t owe me anything for the evening. I’ve been poor company. Please don’t hold it against the Stone Horse. If you could see these lovely ladies back to their residence, I’d appreciate it.” He took the redheaded demoness’s hand and kissed it. “And if I need to pay for your time—”
“Don’t be absurd!” She snatched her hand away and glowered up at him, offended, and then her look softened at his abashed expression. “Sure you don’t want to come back to The Cat? Maybe what you need is a nice massage. On the house.”
“Thanks, but I’m afraid I’m liable to start a fire.” He thanked the other demonesses and took his leave.
Back at the Stone Horse, the party was going strong and Silk was thriving in his new role. Vasily went back to the apartment, where Anzhela was the only one awake.
“Did you have a good evening?” She glanced up from reading one of his books in the parlor.
He dropped into the chair across from her. “Not really. I kept scaring people.”
“Maybe the cosmetics were a bit much. I should have done something a little more playful.”
“No, it wasn’t that. I’m afraid I was miserable company.”
“Missing Belphagor?”
Vasily snorted. “I’d have liked to have missed him, but he was everywhere.” He sighed. “I think he hates me.”
Anzhela set her book down. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You didn’t see him. His hands were all over these other demons. Right in front of me. He didn’t even care that I was there.”
“Do you see this house you’re sitting in?”
“Of course I see it.”
“Do you have any idea how much this must have cost?”
“Facets obviously don’t mean very much to him. He’s been throwing them around like candy. Buying Silk suits. Buying him a building.”
“Silk could very easily live in the Stone Horse. That’s generally where the proprietor lives. Instead, Belphagor has set him up here with you in a place that is most certainly not going to pay for itself like the Horse.”
“No, but it’s for the boys. Where else were they going to go?”
“Yes, it’s for the boys. But he went to some trouble to make sure it wasn’t just some dormitory like they’re used to. They’d have been thrilled with a boardinghouse room. This is a home, and it has all sorts of little touches that say he adores you.”
“What touches? It does not.”
“This reading lamp, for instance. It’s illuminated by spell. Do you think he put this here for me? Silk doesn’t even read.” She glanced up at the torchère spreading soft white light over the comfortable, stuffed armchair like an earthly floor lamp. “He had al
l of your books sent over.”
“Yes, because he threw me out.”
“Did you buy these books?”
“Well, no, but—”
“He bought them for you. And he knew you liked to read, so he made sure you had the books, and he bought you a rather expensive magical lamp—it’s got to be fueled with ophanic fire. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“So he’s buying me off.”
“Oh for Heaven’s sake. The pair of you. I swear.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You should have seen him moping about when he left you in the world of Man last year, completely convinced you would never forgive him, pining like a lovesick girl. I’ve never seen the like. The two of you are exactly the same. You’re like children.”
“He threw me out.”
“And into the arms of your very handsome, much younger lover. And bought you a house.”
“He’s not my—” Vasily swallowed and tried not to blush. It wasn’t as if he and Silk had been behaving exactly platonically. “And what do you mean, he bought it? How do you know he’s not renting it until Silk can pay the rent himself with the profits from the Horse?”
“No one would rent out a place like this. This is the sort of place one stays in until one dies. Or loses at the wingcasting table to the Prince of Tricks.” Anzhela rose and left Dostoevsky’s Demons on the chair. “And if you think it’s not killing him to see you and Silk together, you’re even thicker than you seem. I saw his face when Silk announced that you’d practically proposed to him, back in the world of Man. It’s the sort of look a man has when he realizes he’s lost everything. I can’t imagine how seeing you like this tonight must have affected him, but I can guarantee you he isn’t bedding the demons he was flaunting. He’s probably going completely mad imagining whom you’re bedding.”
“I’m not bedding anyone!” he protested as Anzhela flounced off to her room. He was pretty sure it didn’t count as bedding if it was only mouths and hands. And it had only happened a couple of times. Silk had been preoccupied with the opening of the Stone Horse for the past few days, and Vasily had been mostly relieved. The more Silk’s dominant tendencies had come out, the less Vasily was sure whether he wanted to play the role of a submissive. He wasn’t submissive. And he and Belphagor hadn’t been playing. Belphagor had owned him, body and soul, from the moment he’d first laid a hand on him.
He sank into the chair, holding the book under the soft glow of the lamp. Was Anzhela right? Had it hurt Belphagor to think of him with Silk? Somehow, hurt hadn’t occurred to him. Angry had occurred to him. Arrogant and selfish had occurred to him. Belphagor himself had told him he had his blessing to be intimate with Silk, which Vasily had just assumed meant he’d wanted an excuse to play with Lev without feeling guilty. But had Vasily’s affection for Silk been hurtful to him all along?
Dammit, he didn’t understand Belphagor at all.
He sat up reading, waiting for Silk, but Silk had apparently found a patron or patrons to keep him busy. He reached the end of his book at last, turning page after page as the action in the story spun out of control, feeling anxious for Dostoevsky’s Stavrogin despite all the self-destructive behavior and inexplicable cruelty of which he was capable. There seemed something in him that wanted to be noble and kind, but it was as if he didn’t think he deserved to be. At the unexpected fate that befell the character, Vasily found himself weeping. Stavrogin had succumbed to a kind of negative inertia, letting his worst impulses spin tragedy out around him when he could have been a different kind of man had he only taken action. He’d seen himself at last as the worst of which he was capable—perhaps because he’d been told that was all he was. Like a demon in Elysium’s ghetto.
Vasily wished he could talk to Belphagor about the book and how it made him feel. He wasn’t quite sure he understood it all. He was anxious and sad, and touched by the beauty of the language. And he missed saying the words to Belphagor in their adopted tongue that bound them together more intimately than any angelic words could ever do. Da, ser, ya tvoy malchik. I’m your boy.
He fell asleep in the chair with the tears still hot on his face.
The break he’d been looking for finally came. Using Phaleg as his front for the purchase of The Cat had worked like a charm. The angels Phaleg had nettled with his inquiries had alerted the actual investor.
“He’s from the Order of Powers,” Phaleg told him as they met in the Market over a cup of Raqia coffee. Not Belphagor’s favorite beverage, but thick and dark enough to wake him at this early hour. Khai had been snoring when he left. It had reminded him painfully of Vasily, only the room was too cold. “Sergeant Veloas of the Embankment Patrol.”
“A superior of yours?”
“No.” Phaleg gave him a slightly patronizing smile. “Powers are not of the nobility. A sergeant is not a commissioned officer.”
Belphagor sipped the bitter liquid. “The intricacies of angelic hierarchy escape me. To put it another way, they bore and annoy me. What’s the upshot, then? Will he sell? Is your offer an insult?”
“Not an insult. Your figure enticed him. You may not be conversant in celestial rankings, but you certainly know the value of a facet.” He smiled at Belphagor’s dramatic flourish as he made a mock bow. “He was surprised, however, to hear the offer came from me. I’m afraid my reputation is going to take a bit of a plummet.”
“Sorry about that.”
Phaleg shrugged. “I doubt it will do me any harm. Being associated with a whorehouse, after all, ought to dispel any rumors of my perversion.”
“I thought sucking cock was fashionable among younger officers.”
Phaleg choked slightly on his coffee, still possessed of the sensibilities of an angel after all. Belphagor suppressed a grin. “Unfortunately,” he said when he’d recovered, “Duke Elyon’s treason put a damper on the sort of carefree experimentation that was popular a year or so ago. His parties were infamous. Angels who were looking for an excuse to vilify such behavior leapt upon the opportunity. There’s an unofficial policy now that commanding officers won’t make any inquiries into a soldier’s sexual proclivities so long as the soldier himself doesn’t advertise any. The upshot being that if one soldier has a grudge against another soldier, he claims he heard him saying he’s been ‘pilfering from the home till’, and the accused soldier gets a reprimand. If evidence is presented, he gets a dishonorable discharge and may even lose his noble rank.”
Belphagor’s grin had faded. “I’m sorry to hear it. I hope I haven’t put you in harm’s way.”
“No, it’s all right. No one knew of our relationship. You were Beatrix most of the time, after all.”
“Is that why you haven’t found anyone? The danger of being caught?”
“Mostly, yes.” Phaleg’s gaze flicked to Belphagor’s and away, a light blush in his cheeks. “That, and you’re a hard memory for any angel to live up to. But I didn’t come here to talk about my sad lack of discipline.” He made an attempt at a smile. “Sergeant Veloas has agreed to sell his interest in The Cat. And better still, I made a casual remark to him about how convenient it would be to buy a whore one could dispose of when one was through to avoid messy complications, and he mentioned that he knew of a source for purchasing demons that could be dispensed with afterward because they were owned outright, and all one had to do was sell them out of Heaven to ‘where they belong’.”
Belphagor leaned forward against the rail of the standing coffee bar. “He actually said that? Sell them out of Heaven?”
“His exact words.” Phaleg finished his coffee and passed his cup along the bar, turning to lean back against it, facing the market. “And he claims to be making a far better return on his investment trading in ‘expendables’, as he calls them, which is why he’s happy to relinquish The Cat.”
“Has a ready supply, I suppose,” Belphagor grumbled. “Wherever they’ve relocated the Fletchery.”
“I didn’t ask him specifically
about underage demons. I didn’t want to arouse his suspicion.”
“Of course. But underage or not, this is an excellent lead.” He glanced at Phaleg’s profile. “Anyway, I don’t want to drag you too far into this.”
“Farther than owning a whorehouse?”
“That is pretty far, I admit.” Belphagor studied him. “How would you like to own two?”
Phaleg’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “Two?”
“Come with me and Khai to the Stone Horse tonight. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“The Stone Horse? Your male-only brothel?”
“Seal the deal with your sergeant this afternoon, and tell him you’re interested in purchasing one of the ‘expendables’ for your personal use—that you’ve heard demons can transmit disease from the world of Man, and rather than taking a chance on one of the whores who work in your new brothel, you want one that hasn’t been broken in. That way your interest needn’t appear to be in underage trade, just ‘clean’ trade. If they happen to intersect, that’s no fault of yours.”
“Do they?”
Belphagor wrinkled his brow at the expression of concern on Phaleg’s face. Had he not understood that this was about the sale of underage virgins? He tried to buy time to think how to answer the angel truthfully without unnerving him and losing his support. “Do they what?”
“Transmit diseases.”
The unexpected reply took Belphagor by surprise. “You’re asking if we’re actually dirty?”
Phaleg blanched. “No! I just—you brought it up. I’d never heard that before, except your little tale about ‘bugs’—the one you told Duke Elyon when you were trying to avoid bedding him as Beatrix.”
His surprise that had been verging on outrage fizzled out. “Sorry, I forget you don’t know anything about the world of Man. Disease is rampant there, but I’ve never heard of a demon bringing back any of the more serious contagions. Most of us are very careful about our levels of contact among the terrestrials. The story about bugs was based on truth, though. Sometimes a variety of rather embarrassing lice has been known to make it into Heaven.”