by Jane Kindred
Kezef adjusted his cuffs. “Fair enough. But my proposed bet is also rescinded. We’ll play for facets.” Belphagor nodded gruffly and took his seat as Kezef began to shuffle the wingcasting deck. “It’s a shame, of course. Given the fate to which you’re consigning those poor young demonesses.”
He wanted not to ask. He wanted to be beyond the bastard’s manipulative influence. “What fate would that be?”
Kezef smiled and took up his cards. “Well, now. If I told you, there’d be no value to the information. You’d have no reason to meet my challenge.”
“I’m not going to play your game, Kezef.” He was becoming a broken record, and it was pissing him off. Belphagor cast the die, and Kezef called out “Ptarmigan” while it snapped against the table’s corner. It landed on Ptarmigan. He was already playing Kezef’s damned game, and they both knew it. He surrendered a card to the pile, and Kezef took it up.
“Tell you what, Belphagor. I’ll modify the challenge. I’ll still wager my information, and you wager your boy for an evening, which he may take or leave as he chooses. So long as he shows up to entertain my offer, he’ll be free to go whenever he likes, but I’m quite certain he’ll be unable to deny himself what I provide. A single evening, no strings attached, at your boy’s sole discretion in exchange for the fates of five girls who are barely more than children. You can accept the simple challenge—assuming you have any faith in your own abilities at the game at all—or you can leave the young girls to their continued degradation.” He cast the die against the opposite corner of the marble table.
“Serpent,” said Belphagor calmly. The face of the die rolled to a stop, on serpent. They were evenly matched, and it was likely to be a long game.
Kezef put down his discard and Belphagor took it up. “What do you say? Is your boy’s already much-tattered virtue worth more than the lives of five helpless girls sold into sexual slavery?”
Belphagor gritted his teeth and held on to the die, though it was his cast. “How do I know you even have this information?” He could feel Kezef radiating triumph from across the table, knowing he’d reeled Belphagor in and there was no squirming off the hook.
“If you win, you’ll be able to verify the information I provide, but I understand your concern.” Kezef studied his cards. “You’re wondering what happens if you lose. Perhaps my information will prove to be entirely invented, and on such a false pretext, you’ll have surrendered your dearest possession for a night at my mercy, but you’ll never know for certain.” He smiled at Belphagor over the cards. “Let me set your mind at ease. When I win—and I will win—I’ll forfeit my wager anyway. You’ll have the information, which you may verify before I have my way with that ferocious firespirit.” He shifted his gaze to Belphagor’s hand, still holding the die. “Are you going to fondle that thing all night, or do you intend to cast?”
If he cast now, it meant he agreed to the terms. There would be no turning back. His stomach churned. Vasily would never forgive him if he knew he’d made such a bet. There was no way he’d lose to Kezef, but the principle of the thing was unforgiveable. And yet Kezef had him in a corner as tight as the sharp-edged marble ones of their playing surface. Belphagor cast.
Kezef laid his cards on the table without bothering to call the die. “Scarlet wing.”
He’d played a nearly impossible hand, and the odds the demon would have managed it after a single turn were astronomical. Kezef was either the best player Belphagor had ever seen or extremely adept at magical manipulation. And Belphagor had just wagered his boy.
Gaspard, of course, didn’t advertise his sexual proclivities—or his art—and Vasily would have to be discreet at the salon about the nature of their involvement. With his rough looks, Vasily couldn’t possibly be taken for a peer. The merchant introduced him to his guests as a reformed pickpocket he’d taken on as an apprentice at one of his warehouses. Since none of them would have knowledge of the day-to-day operations behind the scenes of Gaspard’s trade, there were no suspicions about why they’d never seen him before. Though Gaspard apparently did have a reputation for painting, just not the sort of paintings Vasily had sat for, and he also presented Vasily as a budding talent he was cultivating.
Gaspard’s friends observed him with interest, a sort of “wild boy” oddity whom one of their more genteel peers had managed to tame. It was incredibly condescending but made it all the more satisfying when they jumped at the gruff sound of his voice or an emanation of his element when he belched and let off a little steam.
As for what a salon consisted of, it seemed to be nothing more than a handful of demons trying to impress one another with how well they had integrated with angelic society. Not one of them had the fair coloring of the Fourth Choir angels, so there was no question of passing, but they seemed to have made it their business to be accepted into angelic circles through their assimilationist behavior, making sure never to transgress in deed or in etiquette. Which made Gaspard’s secret desires all the more scandalous. Vasily wondered what would happen if he got down on his knees right here in the parlor and swallowed the demon’s cock. Gaspard would be ruined, of course, but it was a rather thrilling thought.
Bored by all the meaningless talk and picking at the tiny sandwiches on his plate, Vasily gradually became aware of the conversation between the two merchants beside him on the settee.
“Liberation is not the way forward for the Fallen,” said the demon who’d been introduced as Barakel. “It’s a mirage to pacify the peasant class, always just beyond reach. A promise that will never happen.”
“We’re already liberated,” said the other, whose name Vasily hadn’t caught. The demon swirled the bowl-like glass resting in his hand and took a delicate sip of the caramel-colored liquor that seemed to take forever for any of them to drink. Typical angel tipple. They didn’t have the stomach for real spirits. These demons had even adopted their affectations. “We make a good, honest living and have every opportunity to prosper. Those who remain impoverished and indentured merely lack the fortitude to make something of themselves and prefer to blame it on the angels.”
Vasily stifled a growl in his throat by stuffing a finger sandwich into his mouth. What bollocks. But this was precisely the sort of thing he ought to be listening for, so he leaned in just a bit while appearing to be fascinated by the brocade fabric of the upholstery.
“Too bad the current principality has let the bleeding hearts bend his ear with all their whining about demon rights. All his programs of reform have done is make a discontented, entitled, shiftless class of demons. His father would never have been that sort of spineless ruler. They say he was built like a firespirit—gruff and broad, and brooked no nonsense. I wouldn’t be surprised if the liberationists who wanted Helison on the throne so they could manipulate him to their own ends were behind Grand Duke Alimiel’s ‘accidental’ fall from a horse.”
Barakel lowered his voice, and Vasily had to strain to hear without appearing to pay them any mind. “Between you and me, they say the younger brother is more like the father.”
The other demon set his glass down on the table before them, leaning forward with interest. “I heard talk of a movement to encourage him to challenge the principality.”
“Not just talk, my friend. He has a solid following, and I’d say solid grounds to replace his incompetent brother. Word is, he’s promised to be a friend to the merchant class. He’s no liberationist. He believes in rewarding those who are industrious.”
“I’d back him in a minute.”
“Talk to Gaspard later. He’ll set you up with a group of the grand duke’s supporters—both Fallen and Host.”
Vasily jumped as Gaspard spoke behind him. “So, young Vasily, are you enjoying the salon? Sorry to have left you alone so long.”
Vasily turned and smiled. “Oh, I’ve been entertaining myself with these little sandwiches.” He nodded toward the plate where he’d pushed four of them together to try to form a more respectable meal.
&n
bsp; Gaspard laughed and held out a hand. “Let me find something a little more entertaining for you. I received a shipment of pigments I wanted to show you. Very fine, rich colors from the cliffs of the Samudran Sea in the southern tip of Vilon.”
Vasily rose and went with him to his studio upstairs, where Gaspard closed and locked the door. “There aren’t any pigments, are there?” Vasily smiled at him slyly.
“Oh, there are, but that’s not why I wanted to bring you up here.” Gaspard went to the covered easel and drew the sheet off to reveal the finished sketch. Vasily’s cheeks heated at the way Gaspard had drawn his erect cock almost absurdly beyond scale. “Do you like it?”
Only a croak came out when Vasily tried to speak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s very well done.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“It’s not that I don’t like it.” Vasily’s voice was raspy with embarrassment. “I just…don’t really feel comfortable viewing myself that way.”
Gaspard let the sheet fall back over it. “I see. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“No, that’s not it at all. It’s very flattering. It just makes me feel a bit…bashful,” he finished, his cheeks definitely flaming now.
“Bashful?” Gaspard observed him with a look both amazed and amused. “You? You do those performances for the entire Stone Horse.”
“Sure, but I don’t have to watch myself do it, if you see what I mean. In the world of Man, they have magic that allows you to capture a moving image. If someone captured my image that way during my performance, I’d be mortified if I had to see it. Does that make sense?”
The merchant tilted his head as if considering it. “I suppose it does. Should I not have done the sketch?”
“No, really, it’s fine. I’m happy to pose for you. I just feel a little silly faced with the completed work.”
“Oh, it’s not completed.” Gaspard moved aside a stack of metal boxes on the worktable and opened one from behind them. “These are the pigments I told you about. I’m going to use them to paint your likeness from the drawing. If that’s all right with you?”
Vasily noted the varied hues of bright reds and oranges and smiled. “Perfectly all right.”
As Belphagor had predicted, the game showed every indication of going on indefinitely. A champion couldn’t be declared until a player won three consecutive hands. Neither he nor Kezef intended to let that happen anytime soon, and both had the skill at the game—and other means—to ensure it didn’t. Belphagor had spent every evening for a week defending his title. Vasily, meanwhile, had been gathering information. He tried not to think about how.
Both of them were tired when they turned in, or one of them turned in after the other had gone to bed, so their usual sexual fervor was lacking. At least Belphagor tried to tell himself that was what it was. For his part, guilt weighed on him about the wager. He doubted guilt factored into Vasily’s lack of enthusiasm—or maybe he hoped it didn’t, come to think of it. But the upshot was that for the first time since they’d been together except for their brief separation, they’d gone several days without fucking. Or fucking each other, at any rate. Vasily was clearly enjoying the attentions of his merchant. Belphagor hated the petty jealousy percolating inside him as he imagined all sorts of scenarios wherein Vasily might be achieving satisfaction.
But what Vasily had managed to glean through his connection to Gaspard was significant. He’d obtained the names of several wealthy demons who were actively supporting what amounted to a coup, just as Phaleg had suspected. Vasily was pretending to let Gaspard slowly convince him Lebes would be a better ruler for demonkind so he could find out even more and perhaps attend one of the secret meetings with the angelic conspirators.
On the rebellion front, he was also doing a marvelous job of cozying up to his fellow talent at the Stone Horse. Though none of them had come right out and said so, it was clear there were rendezvous with angelic demon sympathizers at the brothel that weren’t all business. Meanwhile, Belphagor had ceased to make progress with his contacts since his time at the gaming tables had been monopolized by Kezef, and they were drawing crowds who were placing bets on which of them would prevail. With no end to their contest in sight, he proposed they engage in a formal tournament in which neither would leave the table until someone won. Kezef agreed. They called a temporary truce and would reconvene at the tables in a week’s time for the ultimate game of winner take all.
With his time temporarily freed up, Belphagor hoped to fill it with Vasily—and to fill Vasily—but it was the following morning before the firespirit made an appearance.
Belphagor was already up when he stumbled in. “Well, look who it is.” He smiled to soften the sarcasm, though he wasn’t quite feeling it. “I was beginning to think you’d taken a permanent room at the Horse.”
“Sorry. One of the working boys had a birthday celebration, and it was so late by the time things started winding down I decided to catch a few hours’ sleep there.” Vasily stripped out of his clothes, which cheered Belphagor immensely until he noticed the distinctive red marks of a paddle on Vasily’s ass.
He grabbed Vasily’s arm and turned him about to take a closer look. They were well placed, and the skin had the bright flush of having taken several strikes in succession in the same two spots on his cheeks. “What the hell is this?”
Two matching spots formed on Vasily’s upper cheeks. “Silk wanted to spank the birthday boy—someone said it was a custom from the world of Man—but he couldn’t take more than a couple of swats so Silk decided to make me his ‘proxy’.”
Belphagor had to step away from him to control the surge of anger that nearly choked him.
“Sorry, Beli, should I not have let him?” Vasily’s anxious expression went a long way toward calming the unexpected fury, but beneath it throbbed a hollow pain, like he’d been punched in the gut.
“I know you’re not officially my boy,” he said carefully, making sure his voice didn’t catch, “but you belong to me.” He put his hand around the back of Vasily’s neck and dug his thumb in against the piercing on the left. “Have you forgotten that?”
Vasily looked crestfallen. “Nyet, ser,” he rasped. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think… You let me play with Silk before, and this was just a spanking, not sex.”
Belphagor yanked him closer, bringing them face-to-face. “Just a spanking? Is that all they are to you? Do you think all we’re doing is playing a game?”
“No!” Vasily squirmed under his steely gaze. “Not with you, Beli. I just meant with Silk it’s nothing.”
They had begun with a spanking. Vasily had tried to cut his purse, and Belphagor had given the skinny young thief a thrashing he’d never forget. Only it turned out to be one Belphagor would never forget. That night, Vasily had become his, though it would be another year before he realized it, and Belphagor had finally, truly fallen, bound to this demon as surely as if a serpentine chain passed through one of Vasily’s piercings instead of the steel bar—a chain lodged with a hook in Belphagor’s heart.
He steered Vasily roughly toward the bed. “On your knees. Face the cot.” Alarmed enough, or penitent enough, Vasily obeyed without question. “Clasp your hands behind your head and bend over.” Vasily’s long legs and the short height of the cot made it perfect for him to stretch over it and expose his reddened ass. Belphagor stared at the inflamed skin for a long time, struggling with unfamiliar emotion. He was angry with Vasily, and angry with Silk. He felt betrayed, though he knew Vasily hadn’t meant it that way. But how could Vasily not feel the special, sacred thing this was between them?
He calmed his breathing and swallowed his irrational fear and anger. “How many times did the paddle strike you?” He knew the emotionless, brusque tone would provoke an involuntary response in Vasily. His heart would beat faster. Fear would settle in the pit of his stomach. And his cock would rise. Through the demon’s spread thighs, he could see evidence of the latter. For once, this evoked no si
milar response in himself.
“It’s a birthday tradition,” Vasily said sullenly against the cot. “One for every year. Sasha turned twenty.”
“Twenty.” Belphagor bent and stroked the marks, raising gooseflesh on Vasily’s skin. “Twenty times you gave to someone else what is mine.”
“I didn’t realize—”
“Silence!” He crossed to the vanity, and from the special drawer he took a paddle similar in size to the marks on Vasily’s ass. “I’ve failed to enumerate certain rules I took for granted you would follow. Let me make this one perfectly clear right now.” He struck Vasily over one of the marks, a spot that was obviously bruised deep and had to hurt like hell after taking ten solid beatings with a paddle the night before. Vasily made a soft noise of pain against the blanket. “Physical discipline is for no one but me to administer, unless I’ve ordered it.” He struck the other side, and Vasily managed only a muffled grunt. “Does that hurt?”
“Da, ser.”
“Good.” He struck both cheeks again with unrestrained force, and Vasily moaned with his lips shut tight. “I’m going to match the strokes of the paddle you took without permission. And I promise this will be a lesson you remember.”
It took only a few more swats before Vasily was unable to hold in the cries of pain. Belphagor took grim satisfaction in the noises he made, hitting him harder with each swing until the firespirit shuddered and jerked under the blows as if struggling not to scramble away. When he’d reached twenty, he gave him two more on each side before stepping back. Vasily was shaking with tears.
“Next time you try to sit down, I imagine you’ll remember whose ass that is.” Belphagor tossed the paddle onto the bed, took his coat from the back of the chair and left.