King of Thieves: Demons of Elysium, Book 2

by Jane Kindred

  The demon smirked. “Hello, Vasily.” If Vasily were a cat, his ears would have flattened. As it was, a steamy hiss escaped between his teeth.

  Belphagor’s pierced eyebrow lifted with curiosity. “You’ve met my boy?”

  “We’ve competed for business,” said the demon who called himself Mikhail after the founder of the supernal House of Arkhangel’sk.

  Belphagor turned to Vasily. “Is he as good as he claims?”

  “How would I know?” Vasily growled, and then added a grudging “Ser.”

  “Well, then, let’s give him a test run, shall we?” He nodded to Mikhail. “Start with him. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Mikhail affected a sort of exaggerated aristocratic walk and approached Vasily, dropping smoothly to his knees.

  Vasily gaped at Belphagor. “You want him to suck me?”

  “How else am I supposed to evaluate his technique? Come on, now, up on your knees.”

  “No touching.” Mikhail was firm as Vasily reluctantly obeyed. “I’ll do the work.” Vasily let out a rough groan as Mikhail got on all fours and swallowed him.

  “Impressive.” Belphagor nodded his approval. “He doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable with such a mouthful.” Vasily glared down at Mikhail’s enthusiastic, bobbing head, just the way Belphagor liked him—furious and helplessly aroused.

  Belphagor stepped behind him and crouched with his arms wrapped around Vasily’s chest and his chin resting on the top of Vasily’s head. Vasily’s breath was tight and shallow as he struggled to keep silent. His hips moved with slight jerks, pumping involuntarily. “He looks just lovely with a mouth full of your cock.” Mikhail glanced up at him with an approximation of a smile and hummed with appreciation at the compliment. “How would you rate his technique? Adequate? Above average? Superior?”

  Vasily made a noise that was more of a grunt than an answer.

  “On a scale of one through five, one being subpar and five superior, what would you—”

  “Four,” Vasily burst out, his face flushed. Mikhail doubled his efforts, as if above average were a challenge to exceed.

  Belphagor had palmed his vial of almond oil before coming up behind Vasily, and he slicked some over his cock and let it press against Vasily’s bare back at the cleft of his ass. Vasily gasped and clenched his fists at his side, having been forbidden to touch the demon vigorously sucking him.

  “Put your hands behind your head for balance,” murmured Belphagor as he slid Vasily’s jeans down to his knees. “Then lean into me.” He pressed his cock between Vasily’s buttocks, and Vasily shuddered, hands clasped beneath his queue, as the slick head spread him open. “I’ve got you, malchik.” With one arm around the firespirit’s waist and the other hand at a taut nipple, he bit lightly against Vasily’s shoulder and drove himself in.

  Vasily groaned, rocking between the two opposing pleasures, balanced on his knees with his elbows wide at the sides of his head like wings.

  “That’s it, sweet boy.” Belphagor ran his tongue up the side of his neck to circle the spiked steel post he’d pierced him with when they were in the world of Man. Mikhail, stroking his own cock with his hand down his pants, was going at him with gusto. “Is he going to make you come?”

  “Da, ser,” Vasily moaned.

  “Mind your heat,” Belphagor admonished, and fucked him without mercy, sending him over the edge.

  The firespirit shuddered in his arms and arched back against him with a shout that had to have been heard in the gaming room. Mikhail swallowed eagerly, neither demon letting up on Vasily until he nearly collapsed in Belphagor’s arms. Mikhail sat up, wiping his mouth and unabashedly fondling himself.

  “Satisfactory, then, Vasya?” Belphagor murmured. Vasily answered incoherently. “I’ll take that as a yes. All right, then, my fine friend. I’ll have my turn.” He pulled out of Vasily and stood to rinse himself off at the basin while Mikhail crawled toward him, and Vasily dropped forward onto all fours as if he couldn’t hold himself up. Belphagor stroked himself, looking down at the two of them at his feet. “Can you suck me off while fucking him?” he asked Mikhail.

  Vasily tensed, and Belphagor put a hand on his back. “Use your word if you need to,” he reminded him, but Vasily remained silent. “Well, Mikhail?”

  “With pleasure,” Mikhail answered. “Though it’s another five facets.”

  Belphagor laughed. “Make it six, and make it last.” Freeing his cock and rubbing himself with the oil Belphagor offered, Mikhail rose onto his knees. “Use his hair for a handhold,” Belphagor suggested, and Mikhail grasped the tied bunch of Vasily’s locks and mounted him.

  Vasily clutched at the carpet, groaning, while Belphagor straddled his waist facing Mikhail and grabbed the demon’s head in both hands, pushing himself into his mouth. He made sure Mikhail made plenty of noise, wanting Vasily to envision what was happening behind him while he was being fucked. The jealousy and anger in the firespirit’s ragged moans brought Belphagor swiftly to the verge of climax, but he held back until Mikhail let out a groan of pleasure around his mouthful and bucked into Vasily with his own. With a somewhat exaggerated shout, Belphagor let loose, and Mikhail swallowed him. The half-angel was certainly good at what he did, but it was nothing to the desperate, thrilling experience of being sucked by his boy.

  When Mikhail had extricated himself and gotten himself together, Belphagor gave the demon his pouch of facets and dropped an extra into it. “For your discretion.”

  Mikhail looked mildly offended. “I am always discreet, sir.”

  Belphagor twisted his hand in Vasily’s hair as Mikhail went to the door. “Thank him for the service, boy.” He could feel the fury in the set of Vasily’s jaw as he clenched out his thank-you.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Mikhail, and with a bow to Belphagor, he went out.

  Vasily was still on his hands and knees. Belphagor relaxed his grip and smoothed his hands over the tight shoulders. “Are you angry, malchik?”

  “Da, ser.”

  “But you chose not to use your word.”

  Vasily shrugged.

  “Stand up and pull up your pants.” As Vasily obeyed, eyes downcast in a manner that was more of a sulk than humility, Belphagor moved his hands aside and buttoned the jeans for him. “Do you love me, malchik?”

  Vasily sucked in a sharp breath. “Da, ser.”

  “No Russian,” said Belphagor. “No obedience. Just you and me. Just the truth.”

  “The truth?” Vasily searched his face with a look of confusion. “Of course I love you, Beli. Why are you asking? Did I do something wrong?”

  Belphagor bent to pick up the discarded belt and slipped it through the loops of Vasily’s jeans. “It scares me a bit how much I enjoy what I do to you. You have to promise to tell me if you don’t want something I want.”

  “I do want it. I will. I promise.”

  Belphagor kept his eyes on the tattoos that ringed his fingers, marks earned in the world of Man. “If I were to spend the rest of my days in a Russian prison, the vision of you with your arms stretched out, hands behind your head, while you came in that demon’s mouth with my cock up your ass—it would sustain me until I died.”

  Vasily grasped Belphagor’s hands over the buckle. “Why are you talking about dying?”

  “Because, malchik.” Belphagor looked up. “I love you so much, sometimes I think it will kill me.”

  Vtoraya

  Vasily was content to spend the rest of the day in their room with a book—Belphagor had taught him to read in Cyrillic, and Vasily had started on a copy of Dostoevsky’s Demons, thinking it might have something to do with their kind. Belphagor supposed it might, though Dostoevsky would never have known the Fallen lived among them in the world of Man. But who was he to say the revolutionaries and malcontents upon whom the author had based his memorable characters weren’t of Fallen stock?

  Belphagor returned to the tables, amused to see Armen still at it. “Don’t you have mouths to feed at
home?” he asked when they’d been paired together by Belphagor’s quick advancement through the ranks of players on his way to the master table.

  “And how else do you think I feed them?” Armen laughed as Belphagor dealt the cards. He continued to chat as the round commenced, a tactical error Belphagor swiftly took advantage of, relieving Armen of nearly half his cards in the first three casts as he failed to correctly call the die, while Belphagor called all but one of his.

  “A pristine Ebony Wing.” Belphagor laid down a consecutive set of First Choir cards along with the first order of the remaining three choirs in the suit of spindles. “It’s going to be a short game if you keep playing like this.”

  Armen shook his head in chagrin as Belphagor collected the pot of facets and gave him the cards to deal the next round. “Actually, I was hoping to run into you again. There was something specific I wanted to discuss with you.” He spoke casually as he shuffled and dealt, but this was obviously anything but casual if he was willing to forfeit so much crystal to make it seem so.

  Belphagor perused his cards. “Oh?”

  “A proposal. I suppose you’ve heard of the Fletchery.”

  Belphagor scowled at the demon, no longer interested in whatever game Armen was playing. The Fletchery was an underground club that professed to provide its male clientele with underage sex. The pun on the name that rhymed with lechery was that the client would be teaching a fledgling how to fly. “Fletching” was a euphemism for being the first to have a young virgin of either sex, though more often applied to the homosexual variety, as if preferring the same sex somehow equated with pederasty.

  “I’ve heard of it,” he said through gritted teeth. “And it has nothing to do with me.”

  “Of course not,” Armen assured him. “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it did. But of course, my opinion isn’t necessarily of consequence.”

  “And just whose is?”

  “Others,” said Armen vaguely, casting the die. Belphagor let it strike the edge of the wingcasting table without calling it. “There are some who find your association with a certain young demon suspect.”

  Belphagor threw down his cards and shoved back his chair as he stood. “Vasily is over the age of consent in any sphere. I don’t have to justify our ‘association’ to you or any ‘others’.”

  Armen held up his hand. “You misunderstand me, Belphagor. Please. Sit down and hear me out.” Belphagor remained standing, arms folded as he glowered at the other demon. “It’s not that it isn’t clear he’s of age now. It’s the fact that he’s been with you for some time and your tendency to call him your ‘boy’ that gives the impression to some that perhaps your patronage of him could be considered slightly…unsavory. I only mention this because you have a reputation at the tables, and it would be a shame if your privileges at the Brimstone were revoked for impropriety.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Oh, come now, Belphagor. I’m not saying it. It’s just that some might. I would of course stand by you if anyone were to cast such aspersions. And I might be in a position to ensure that no one else does, in fact. If you were amenable to my proposal.” He smiled, shuffling cards as Belphagor continued to stare daggers at him. “Please sit.”

  A number of patrons were looking their way, prurient curiosity in their unabashed stares as if they were hoping for a scandal. Other players were always hoping to catch him cheating. He sat on the edge of his chair, his entire being seething.

  “I really think you’ll find this quite interesting.” Armen dealt once more as if they’d agreed to play another round. “My plan is to gather information on some of the Fletchery’s more prestigious clientele—angelic, to be precise—and turn that information into profit. But I need someone on the inside.”

  “The inside?” Belphagor gripped the edge of his seat to keep from leaping up in outrage. “If you expect me to patronize the establishment so you can collect your blackmail, you can fucking forget it.”

  “Only to give the appearance of doing so. And they’re very discreet. Which is why I haven’t been able to gather enough information to be lucrative yet. But I’ve enlisted someone who will pose as the object of your attentions, so there’ll be no need for you to compromise your…principles.”

  Belphagor snorted with disgust. “Some boy you’ve dragged into this? Now who’s the pedophile?”

  “Not a boy.” Armen gave him a look of disdain. “Any more than your own is a boy.” He crooked his finger toward the bar, and a young demon stepped forward out of the shadows. “Meet my young friend, Khai.”

  Belphagor sucked in an angry breath and clenched his teeth around the name. “Mikhail.”

  The half-angel gave him an exaggerated bow. “At your service, m’lord.” He grinned as he straightened. “Literally.” He licked his lips as if still savoring what he’d swallowed earlier.

  “I hardly think anyone will take your ‘friend’ here for a fledgling,” Belphagor sneered. “He’s undoubtedly had his share of patrons who’d know better.”

  “Why, sir.” Khai put a hand to his chest in mock dismay. “Are you impugning my virtue?”

  “No more than they’d take your boy for one,” Armen interrupted. “Which is why we will use a simple glamour that some of your generation use as a youth tonic.” There was an obvious dig in that, as if Belphagor were past his prime. “It just takes off a couple of years. And that’s all either of them need, isn’t it?”

  Belphagor clenched his fists at his sides. “Either of them?”

  “Khai. And your boy.” He waved a dismissive hand when Belphagor sprang to his feet. “Don’t bore me with a protracted argument about his virtue, for the love of Heaven, Belphagor. The story of you dragging him away from a party of rambunctious youths having a good time with him in the Devil’s Doorstep after you first took him in is legendary. Even if they’d fletched him that very night, the number who had him at that gathering alone would exceed the experience most decent demons have in a lifetime.” The memory of that night made Belphagor’s skin go cold. A group of rough demons Vasily had run with had gotten him so drunk he was barely conscious when his so-called friends assaulted him.

  Sublimating his fury into a deadly calm, Belphagor leaned over the wingcasting table, hands against the rim. “If you so much as hint at disparaging my boy again, Armen, I will slice you open, disembowel you and feed you your own entrails.” He let his mouth curve into a smile that promised he was crazy enough to do it. “Try me.”

  Armen had the good sense to look nervous. “No need for threats of violence. I was merely making a point. Both Khai and your Vasily will be perfectly capable of holding their own among the clientele of the Fletchery, and you’ll be there to see that nothing gets out of hand. But I warn you, Belphagor, if you spurn this opportunity, Khai here is prepared to implicate you in the very thing I’m trying to spare you from.”

  Khai smiled innocently. “I can describe certain identifying marks on your skin that only someone intimate with those body parts would know. And if I happen to say my acquaintance with them was made some years ago instead of this afternoon, who’s going to question me? I might have had a respectable career in gambling had it not been for the demon who fletched me and put me on the street with no option but to sell myself.”

  No one would truly believe Khai’s story, but there were plenty in Raqia who’d be happy to say they did, if only to witness the downfall of the player they blamed for their own poor skills at the game.

  “I can just as easily give Khai the glamour I mentioned before he makes his accusation,” said Armen. “I’m offering you a lucrative opportunity. You’ll take forty percent of the payoff for you and your boy.”

  Belphagor dug his black-lacquered nails into the rim of the table, resisting the urge to wipe the floor with the smarmy bastard. Armen was a better player than he’d let on. But perhaps something good could come of the enterprise if it managed to cripple the Fletchery. “I’ll take sixty if I’m the one doing all the work
.”

  “Fifty-fifty split,” Armen countered. Khai turned to glare at him with a hand on his hip. “And each of us to divide our share as we see fit with our apprentices.”

  Something was wrong with Belphagor. There were no orders or commands this evening, no dark looks in his eyes that sent Vasily’s stomach plummeting to his feet and his blood surging into his cock. He was maudlin, with more talk of death, and told Vasily more than once how much he loved him. Not that Vasily could ever tire of hearing it, but Belphagor wasn’t usually one to make such declarations of devotion.

  He more than made up for the morning’s lack of kisses, which distracted Vasily from his worry for a time. Belphagor undressed him, kissing his way down the skin he bared, but tormenting him by bypassing Vasily’s eager erection, only letting the skin of his bare chest brush against it as he passed it over—just enough to make Vasily gasp at the fleeting touch and moan with disappointment.

  Then he perched above Vasily on all fours on the cot, unfastening his pants and releasing himself, just about driving Vasily out of his mind knowing he couldn’t put the cock in his mouth. He suffered a brief flare of ire as he replayed the sound in his mind of Mikhail sucking it with loud enthusiasm, giving Belphagor the pleasure he was being denied the right to provide.

  “Something wrong, malchik?” Belphagor stared down at him. Vasily reached to stroke him, but Belphagor grabbed both his wrists and held them at his sides. “Speak up, Vasya. Tell me what you want.”

  The breath rose tightly in his chest, nearly smothering him. “I want to suck your cock.”

  Belphagor shook his head. “You haven’t earned back the right to pleasure me yet.” For a moment, there was a devilish twinkle in his eye. “Believe me, malchik. This hurts me more than it does you.” He lowered his head and offered his lips instead, kissing Vasily sensuously, ardently, making it last as if it were the act of sex itself. Vasily closed his eyes, breathing him in, sucking his tongue as a substitute for what he longed for. Belphagor was a master at turning the tables on him, finding new ways to torment him. Damn, he loved this demon.