King of Thieves: Demons of Elysium, Book 2
Page 25
“Is that what you think?” Belphagor shook his head and ran his fingers through the stiff, dark spikes of his hair, the tattoos disappearing into its camouflage. “I’ve been trying to play this one close to the vest. It’s crucial to the influence I’m attempting to work that I project a very specific, believable persona. But I’m troubled that you’ve accepted it so easily.” His hand dropped back to the table, where he played with the cup once more. “I’ve purchased Khai’s time to play a part for me. Nothing more. I want you to understand that, if you understand nothing else. He is not my boy.”
Neither was Vasily. “You’re not my boy.”
“And while I knew what you’d assume when I sent that letter, I’d hoped you might pick up on the subtler nuances eventually. Perhaps you should read it again.”
“I can’t read it,” Vasily growled. “I burned it.”
“I see. Well, I presume you remember the gist of it well enough. But its significance was in what it did not say.”
Vasily held his breath, trying to suss out what Belphagor was getting at, trying to think over the words he’d tried not to think of for days. Belphagor’s hand inched toward him over the table. And Anzhela returned at the worst possible moment.
She glanced from one to the other and carefully set the open sewing box on the table between them, the pincushion holding a needle threaded with a heavy, waxed thread perched prominently on top. Swiping a bottle of spirits from the counter, she set it firmly beside the box. “Alcohol makes a good antiseptic,” she said and left the room. Belphagor stared at the pincushion.
“I don’t need stitches.” Vasily’s voice rattled in his throat so unconvincingly that Belphagor’s head darted up. The dark eyes had a characteristic gleam that was more than a little unnerving.
“I trust Anzhela’s judgment.” Belphagor proceeded to uncork the bottle and hold the needle and thread under the stream as he tilted it over his teacup. “Sit still.” It verged on a command, but Vasily held his tongue. And his position. Belphagor pinched the flesh together over Vasily’s brow and poked the needle through, the alcohol stinging like fire. Vasily couldn’t help but think of the place on his neck where the flesh had healed over. He let out a slight hiss through his teeth, as much against the discomfort as against the feelings the memory stirred.
“What the letter did not say,” Belphagor resumed quietly as he drew the thread through Vasily’s eyebrow and pulled it tight, “was anything suggesting you should stay away permanently.” He drove the needle through again and pulled. “You told me you wanted to be with Silk, so I’ve accommodated that.” Another stitch. “I’ve tried to leave you alone, to give you the time and space you asked for.” Stitch. “I’ve given you an ample allowance to be sure you’re comfortable here.” Stitch. “Khai sleeps in your bed.” Stitch. “I sleep on the floor. In our room.”
“You got rid of all my things,” Vasily managed, shuddering as the needle went through again.
“I thought you’d want them here. Should I leave you with no comforts?” Belphagor added a final stitch and tied the thread off with a tight jerk, then leaned in and cut the end of the thread with his teeth, making Vasily screw his eyes shut, trying not to react. “And clearly, you didn’t check your delivery thoroughly if you thought I’d sent you all your things. Or didn’t you want that fancy coat of yours any longer?”
Vasily opened his eyes and looked up at Belphagor standing over him. “You kept my coat…for me?”
“Well, you didn’t think I could wear it, did you? I look ridiculous in it, as you’ve pointed out in no uncertain terms. It looks far better on you—with your arms stretched over your head, bound and hooked to my wall, and nothing beneath that soft, smooth velvet except a magnificent erection.”
Vasily tried to still the one stirring inside his tight jeans, and his breath caught at Belphagor’s touch on his cheek.
“I can’t make you come back to me. But I imagine it every night. Bound and gagged and at my mercy while I use you for my pleasure. And this new look of yours, the wild, painted eyes… You look feral, like a creature who needs to be chained and caged, or a barbarian to be broken with cruelty, raging against the humiliation I choose to inflict, helpless against the pain I mete out.” Belphagor let his hand fall away and began cleaning up the table. “But you do what you will.”
Vasily made an incoherent choking sound, cleared his throat and tried again. “Why did you give Phaleg to Silk?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. His brain was deprived of oxygen from the blood that had drained to his cock.
Belphagor paused and glanced at him, the wingcasting face back. “I didn’t give Phaleg to anyone. He’s a free angel. I merely introduced them. I thought they’d enjoy one another’s company.”
“You mean you thought you’d enjoy taking something from me.”
Belphagor went back to cleaning the table. “So that’s what’s bothering you. That Silk should be ‘yours’. I suppose I’ve underestimated your feelings for him. Well, thank you. That douses the idiotic fantasy I just shared with you quite nicely.”
Vasily cursed himself. “No, that isn’t what I meant—”
“How did you get the cut?” Belphagor interrupted as if he were no longer interested in the topic. Vasily fidgeted, confused by the rush of arousal Belphagor had stirred up, and by his own feelings. And by his stupid mouth. “Not going to tell me. Got it. Perhaps you’ll feel more comfortable telling Silk about it in bed tonight.”
Vasily rose, anxious, and blurted it out as Belphagor went to the door. “Someone threw a bottle at me when I came out of the Stone Horse.”
Belphagor stopped. “You were attacked?”
“It was just a couple of young malcontents. Obviously drunk. They kept their distance. Called me a name and ran away like cowards.”
“What name?”
“Sodomite.”
Belphagor frowned. “That’s an earthly insult. If they’re young and yet they’ve fallen often enough to learn that kind of nonsense, I’d say they must be doing some kind of regular business between Heaven and the world of Man.”
“You mean smuggling.”
He nodded. “Drovers. I guess that means I’m getting close. Striking nerves.” Belphagor reached for him suddenly and pulled Vasily into his arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in danger again.”
“You’re confusing me,” Vasily whispered.
“That’s all right,” said Belphagor. “You’re confusing me too.” He stepped back, hooked his fist into the center of the mesh shirt and pulled Vasily down to take his mouth in a hard, angry kiss that made him tingle with elemental fire. “We’ll figure it out.”
Vasily was too preoccupied with what had passed between them to go back to the Stone Horse. Belphagor’s admission of desire and the revelation that he expected Vasily to come back to him lingered in his head, as the kiss lingered on his lips.
He waited up for Silk, who returned late, but not nearly as late as he had from the previous evening. Perhaps he hadn’t enjoyed Phaleg’s company as much as Belphagor had hoped. But all Silk could talk about was Phaleg.
“He’s a remarkable submissive,” he mused as he undressed. “Takes orders without question and endures whatever’s required of him, despite a significant amount of fear and a rather low tolerance for pain. I suppose he can be toughened up, though.”
Vasily pulled the mesh shirt over his head and tossed it aside. “How can you hit someone after the way Kezef treated you?”
Silk’s brow lifted. “Hit someone? It’s not as if I’m beating him up. I thought you’d been trained by Belphagor. Was it mostly bondage?”
“I don’t want to talk about Belphagor. I’m just thinking of your history. It seems odd to me that you’d want to—to play that way.”
“You do realize that the way Kezef ‘plays’ is no game. He’s a sadist who enjoys true suffering. That’s not remotely what I’m doing.” Silk tossed down his pants as he stepped out of them. “Honestly, I’m more than a little offended you’
d even bring up that vile creature and me in the same sentence.”
Vasily cringed. “Sorry. That was thoughtless. I don’t know why I’m having trouble with the idea.”
“The idea of me as a dominant? Or anyone?”
“Anyone, I suppose. Which makes no sense after Belphagor. So…tell me about the angel.” He climbed under the covers and held them for Silk to crawl in.
Silk cuddled against him. “Well, I could tell immediately how easily he could be humiliated—and how much he craved it—so I made him strip while Khai and I remained fully clothed. Khai is versatile, so I gave him orders, even though he was loving every minute of it. I made him suck the angel until he was hard—he was too afraid at first to be aroused—and then I bent him over the sawhorse and let Khai fuck his mouth while I cropped his ass and called him names. And I’m telling you, I didn’t even hit him very hard before he was crying out in pain. Or at least trying to with his mouth full of Khai.”
Silk’s hand stole between Vasily’s legs and curled around his erection. “I decided to stick with humiliation for a bit, not knowing what his tolerance level was.” His hand moved slowly up and down Vasily’s shaft. “I fucked him with the handle of the crop—also wasn’t sure he could handle a cock up his ass.”
Vasily arched slightly into his hand. “Oh, he can handle it,” he growled. “I’ve fucked him.”
“Have you really, my naughty plum? Goodness, I should have ridden him into the ground. I had no idea.”
“Belphagor made me,” he groaned as Silk thumbed the head of his cock.
“Of course he did.” Silk began to stroke him in a steady rhythm. “So Khai came in his mouth, and I forbade Phaleg to swallow and left the crop up his ass and made him get himself off while he dangled there with a mouthful of spunk.”
Vasily groaned with pleasure at the image, and Silk stroked harder.
“You like thinking of that poor, sweet angel being tormented, don’t you, my plum?”
“Yes,” Vasily moaned.
“Is it you, or is it getting awfully warm in here?” Silk threw off the covers to expose him while he stroked, revealing his own erection. “Poor Phaleg was so mortified, he couldn’t come, even though I made him keep at it. But you’ll come for me, won’t you, Ruby?” Silk’s hand bore down on him unrelentingly, and Vasily clutched the sheets, his breath coming in hot rings as he tried to keep from making noise.
And then the orgasm burst out of him, and he gasped, “Move your hand! It’s too hot!” just in time for Silk to pull his hand away and watch him erupt.
“My goodness,” Silk breathed. “You’re like the Pyriphlegethon…my own little river of fire.”
Vasily laughed raggedly, falling back against the pillow as his cock still pulsed. “Sorry. I got carried away.”
“You can make it up to me while I finish the story,” said Silk and rose up on his knees to straddle Vasily’s head. “Suck me, Ruby. Be a good little fireslut.” Vasily took the cock in his mouth and held Silk’s thighs as Silk continued. “So there he was, rubbing his dick raw in that awkward position, so eager to please that he began to weep because he couldn’t do it.” Silk moved his hips against Vasily’s mouth. “I ordered him to lie down on his back and had Khai sit on his sweet, battered prick and ride it while I rode his mouth, just like this, with Khai’s spunk still on his tongue. Khai made him come at last, and I—” Silk tensed and clutched Vasily’s shoulders, and Vasily felt the warm fluid shoot against his tongue as Silk jerked into him. “I came just like that.” Silk sighed happily and slipped out to climb off and cuddle up against him once more.
“Do you think you’ll see him again?” asked Vasily, no longer feeling jealous about it.
“Mmm, definitely,” Silk murmured against him. “The way he trembled in my arms afterward and knelt and kissed my feet while I cropped his sweet, pink ass for being a dirty little slut, and how he became the stoic supernal soldier once more as soon as he’d put on his clothes… A demon could get used to that.” Silk snuggled into his warmth, not bothering with the blanket. “After the duel’s over, I’ve invited him to stop by to discuss his interest in a regular arrangement.”
“Duel?” Vasily opened his eyes and looked down at Silk, who was slipping into unconsciousness. “What duel?”
“His Highness,” mumbled Silk. “Phaleg’s his second.”
He remembered Belphagor shouting something at Armen about challenging him the night before at the Brimstone, but he hadn’t thought they were serious. A satisfied stupor had begun slipping over him. Now he was wide awake.
Semnadtsataya
The sky and the river shared a silvery hue in the glow of the coming dawn. The bridge south of the Demon Market was less traveled than other points between Elysium and Raqia and there was little chance the angelic authorities would catch wind of a duel between two demons.
Belphagor waited on the north side of the bridge for Phaleg to arrive with Armen’s second to let him examine the pistols. Statues of winged lions decorating the bridge rails at the four corners, meant to be representative of the Cherubim in their leonine aspect, reminded him of the Horse Tamers on the Anichkov in the world of Man. The only Cherub he’d encountered, a hired thug who had murdered poor Ouestucati, had borne no resemblance to the beautiful lines of these majestic lions. He’d always wondered who’d sculpted them.
Phaleg arrived from the direction of the Brimstone with a demon Belphagor had seen hanging about Armen on occasion. Behind them, a small crowd was flowing from the darkened Raqia houses. Word of the duel had apparently spread.
Armen’s second nodded to him, holding an ornate wooden box in his arms, which he handed to Phaleg before opening the hinged top. Inside the purple-velvet-lined case lay a pair of ebony-handled pistols with silver inlays, the wood intricately carved. Belphagor picked one up and opened the chamber to see that it was loaded with a perfectly ordinary lead projectile from the world of Man. He examined the other and found it the same. The magical mechanism still escaped him.
“How do I know both of the pistols function with elemental combustion?” he asked the second. “And how am I to be sure my element will do as I’ve been told it will?”
“You may fire each of the weapons at a target of your choosing. I’ll reload for the duel, and you can check them again to ensure nothing is amiss.”
Belphagor aimed one of the pistols at a wooden piling beneath the bridge at the water’s edge. He hadn’t fired a gun in years. It had never been his weapon of choice—and weapons had never been his method of achieving his aims—but there had been occasions over the years he’d spent in the world of Man when they had come in handy.
He glanced at the demon. “What do I do?”
“Concentrate on your grip and imagine the pistol as an extension of your hand. When you fire, your element should spark the flint in the chamber, and the resulting explosion will propel the projectile.”
It seemed improbably simple. “How was the spell fashioned? This elemental connection happens every time without being replenished?”
The demon shrugged. “Beats me. I only know it works. And I know it wasn’t cheap.”
Belphagor raised an eyebrow. Using Armen’s weapon seemed like a bad idea, but it was the etiquette of the duel, after all, since Belphagor had challenged. He aimed once more and let himself feel the wood and metal on every surface of his palm and fingers where they touched. When he pulled the trigger, nothing seemed to happen for a second, and he almost turned around with the gun still raised in his hand, when he felt a sudden heat rush through the barrel, and with the loud crack of an ordinary gun, it fired, his shot straying wide as he’d started to move his hand.
The bullet skipped across the water of the Acheron and struck the opposite bank.
Returning the pistol to the demon, Belphagor took the other and aimed again, this time holding the gun steady after pulling the trigger, and giving his element a little boost with a measured breath. His shot struck the piling perfectly centered.
“Earth,” said the demon, preparing the pistols.
Earth. Not a common element among demons. Most were waterspirits, just like the Fourth Choir angels they resembled. A fair number were airspirits like Belphagor, and he’d known a few firespirits—though none as potent as Vasily. But among the earthspirits of the Third Choir were the Virtues, whose aethereal physicality was quite distinct, the Dominions, who had a tendency to the stout and portly, and the Powers, who were bred as warriors. Armen had neither the statuesque grace of the Virtue nor the dumpy gravity of the Dominion, so his ancestral lineage was likely from the Powers. Which meant he was probably an excellent marksman, by blood.
After showing the pistols to Belphagor once he’d reloaded them to let him inspect, the second closed the box and proceeded toward the strip of sand under the bridge where the duel was to take place, with Phaleg at his side to ensure the weapons weren’t meddled with post-inspection.
Armen appeared on the road, flanked by a group of demons who had been making their opinions about Belphagor known for some time—in other words, those he’d beaten badly at cards. “Sure you don’t want to call this off?” Armen offered with a sneer. “Elementally fired bullets will kill you just as dead as conventional ones in the world of Man.”
“If you’ve come to apologize and retract your slander, I’ll be happy to call it off. Otherwise, it’s your funeral.”
“We’ll see about that.” Armen headed for the bank. Clearly, an apology would not be forthcoming.
Phaleg enumerated the rules of dueling, stating that Belphagor and Armen would count off thirty paces before turning to fire their weapons. Each demon would be allowed a single shot, and any injury to Armen, fatal or otherwise, would constitute satisfaction of Belphagor’s challenge. Should Belphagor be injured, while Armen was not, Armen’s slander would stand as fact. If neither were injured, Belphagor could choose to declare his challenge satisfied, at which point Armen’s claims about Belphagor would be considered false, or he could insist on a second shot.