by Jane Kindred
Loquel hadn’t been the only one he’d trained today. Within the confines of their rooms, he had carefully—very carefully—introduced the Virtues to their terrestrial wings. It was rather astounding to see the evidence of their earthspirit nature. Unlike their choral cousins, the Powers, they didn’t give an impression of earthiness. Belphagor had been somewhat doubtful that they’d even have wings, since their physical natures were so unique among the lower choirs.
Naturally, he’d chosen Loquel for his demonstration, and had tested him first in private to be certain of the outcome. With a leather belt secured around the pale neck as a makeshift leash and collar, he’d led the naked angel about his room on hands and knees, and then ordered him to bow low. Loquel had assumed it was for the purpose of obeisance. Already quick to respond to any command from Belphagor, he’d bowed forward with his forehead to the carpet. Belphagor had stretched Loquel’s arms back at his sides and bound his wrists to his ankles with torn pieces of the bed sheets, ensuring the Virtue was completely incapable of moving his limbs—at least those he was aware of.
“Milochki malchik,” he’d whispered at his ear. “You must trust me in what I do next, and do what comes naturally to you, but don’t cry out, and do not raise your head.”
When Belphagor slipped the belt from around his neck, Loquel trembled but didn’t lift his head from the carpet. Belphagor stood before him and placed one boot against the angel’s head for extra measure. He doubled the belt in his fist and brought it down with a sharp crack against Loquel’s upraised behind. Loquel jerked beneath his boot and a gasp of pain escaped him, but Belphagor didn’t count this as crying out. He struck him again on the other side, and Loquel jerked again.
Belphagor increased the strength of his blows, this time striking each of the angel’s shoulders in turn. Loquel shook and his back rose with a sharp intake of breath at each stroke, but still he remained silent.
“Such a good boy.” Belphagor struck him again. “But tell me the truth: don’t you want to leap away?” When Loquel said nothing, Belphagor pushed his boot roughly against the angel’s head. “I asked you a question. When I ask you a direct question, you answer, whether I’ve bidden you to be silent or not.”
“Yes, sir,” Loquel gasped into the carpet.
“Izvinite?” Belphagor snapped. He always insisted on responses in the language of Men from the boy he was disciplining. It added a layer of anxiety as well as taking one’s conscious mind from the pain at hand in order to stay focused.
“Prostite mnya, gospodin,” Loquel gasped. “Da, ser!”
“That’s better.” Belphagor stroked the leather belt lightly across his back, then struck him again with brutal force. Loquel’s head jerked violently beneath his boot. “Then leap away,” he ordered.
“I don’t understand.”
Belphagor struck him again.
“I don’t know the words!” he gasped. “Prostite, gospodin.”
“Ya. Ne. Po-ni-ma-yu.” Belphagor delivered each syllable with brusque enunciation, and struck him again. “I don’t understand: Ya ne ponimayu.”
“Ya ne ponimayu,” Loquel moaned and then caught himself. “Ya ne ponimayu, gospodin.”
“I am ordering you to leap away. When I strike you with such force that your body screams to leap away, you will let your body do what it desires. To the best of your ability, you will leap away when the urge compels you. Do you understand me?”
Loquel was quiet for a moment, but a thrust of Belphagor’s boot loosed his tongue. “Nyet, gospodin. Ya ne ponimayu.”
Belphagor could tell the angel was weeping, and it took all of his resolve to keep from kneeling down and gathering the sweet creature in his arms. “That’s all right. You will.” He moved his boot to brush the toe softly against Loquel’s cheek. “You will.” He repositioned his boot on Loquel’s head to get a solid stance and swung the belt in a rapid succession of blows against the angel’s shoulders.
Loquel’s back shook and his muscles rippled with the frustrated thwarting of the natural urge to escape. At the sixth stroke, the angel made a strangled noise of misery into the carpet—Belphagor was fairly certain he was biting it—and jerked his limbs with all the force he possessed. The angry red skin at his shoulder blades began to tear and Belphagor stepped back to watch the transformation.
From the torn flesh of his back, Loquel’s wings struggled forth and rose, and Belphagor had to leap out of the way to make room for the majestic unfurling of a substance like pliant alabaster. Unlike the massive, stony span of the Grigori’s earthspirit wings, these didn’t spread outward so much as up, and the tips of the white stone pennants struck the ceiling, scattering plaster over their heads. Loquel gasped in shock against the carpet, so good he hadn’t even raised his head to try to see what was happening.
Belphagor knelt on one knee beside him and stroked the silver hair, damp with sweat, where it had fallen from its tie across the angel’s face.
“Lift your head, little angel. Look into the mirror and see why we fall.”
Loquel raised his head, his face streaked with tears, and gazed into the full-length mirror across from him. His bright eyes widened and he jerked his head about, trying to see his own wings behind him. Belphagor untied his wrists and ankles and lifted him to his knees. He’d never seen anything to compare with the ethereal beauty of this ghostly pale and luminescent angel, naked on the floor of a St. Petersburg hotel room, discovering his own radiance.
“I had no idea,” Loquel breathed. He looked to the mirror and stretched the wings slowly above his head. He’d begun to weep again.
Belphagor pulled him gently into his arms, careful of the raw flesh where the wings had broken through, and rocked him.
“Spasibo, gospodin.” Loquel whispered against Belphagor’s chest, his voice hitching on the tears he was trying to hold back. “Thank you.”
“It’s all right, malchik. You’re all right now.” He resisted the urge to smother the angel with kisses, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop at that. He missed Vasily with an intense, physical ache. If it had been Vasily in his arms, now would be the moment he dragged him by the hair to the bed and let him make all the noise he’d been holding in. While there was a certain undeniable level of sexual satisfaction to be gained from disciplining the lovely Virtue, it couldn’t compare to the heat Vasily ignited in him. There was something essential to his soul Vasily provided, the passionate anger and resistance making it all the sweeter when Vasily surrendered to him. Finding Vasily had been like discovering after a lifetime of dining on nothing but sweets that he’d been starving.
Belphagor sighed and tore himself from his reverie as he watched the moonless sky overhead. With less fanfare, each of the Virtues had discovered their wings when he’d stood Loquel before them to let them see. The initial release was always a painful one, but it had been impossible for them to resist once they’d seen Loquel’s transformation. Belphagor hadn’t simply been using colorful speech; there was a reason celestials fell, encapsulated in this moment of painful, ecstatic self-discovery. It remained to be seen whether the Virtues could maneuver with their wings intuitively.
He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. Over the tops of the cemetery trees, twelve stunning pairs of alabaster wings soared aloft, glowing softly with their own luminescence. The dull, baggy clothing Belphagor had dressed the Virtues in did little to dampen the splendor.
The angels lighted with varying degrees of aplomb among the crumbling tombstones, leaving their wings extended as Belphagor had instructed, for maximum effect. They also removed their caps and dark glasses, uncovering their shining hair and eyes, and even without their wings, they would have been an impressive demonstration of Heaven’s splendor. The Night Travelers gathered around them, looking duly awed.
Belphagor smiled. “I present our representatives from the Virtuous Army of the Princedom of Aravoth.”
For the first time this evening, Pyotr Alexeyevich was speechless.
“
The Night Travelers welcome you,” said Alexei with a humble bow.
Elena observed them cautiously. “You say they’re representatives of the Virtuous Army. What does that mean, exactly? And how many are they?”
Gereimon, who’d taken the role of platoon leader since the death of Sar Haniel, answered. “We are Virtues, angels of the Third Choir and the Eighth Order. There are seven thousand in the Virtuous Army of Aravoth.”
“Seven thousand Virtues fighting for the true queen of Heaven,” said Belphagor. “And another seven or eight hundred Host from one of the armies of the Firmament joined our cause as we marched on Elysium. We expect the desertions from Aeval’s forces to continue, as we expect to siphon off some of Helga’s once the Fallen have a chance to see Anazakia.”
Elena looked thoughtful. “And the numbers for Aeval’s army? And the revolutionary forces? How many are they?”
“The Supernal Army numbers some twenty thousand troops,” he admitted. “We don’t know how many of the Fallen Helga has been able to recruit to fight, though we know in addition to the Fallen, she also has a small number of the Host on her side.”
“Those are not encouraging odds.” Pyotr sounded almost disappointed.
“Still,” said Elena. “It is far more than we expected. Or were led to believe.” The elegant older woman shared some silent communication with Alexei and nodded, pulling her hood over her hair again. “We will reconvene to hold another vote on the alliance and let you know what we’ve decided.”
“But let me remind you again,” said Alexei, “that should we vote to break our alliance with the Malakim and restore the alliance with the Fallen, the Night Travelers will respect whatever decision the terrestrial Fallen make about which faction to support. We cannot persuade them Anazakia is more worthy of the throne than young Grand Duke Azel. As before, an alliance merely means we assist the Fallen in ways that require human intervention—in exchange for protection when it’s needed. Our decision will also depend to a great degree on the perceived viability of either side in the celestial war. It may be cynical, but I don’t wish to give you false hope. If the Parliament of Night Travelers determine that we cannot hope for the success of the Fallen’s champion, we would be fools to re-ally ourselves with them at this time.”
“Understandable.” Though the number of conditions being placed upon allegiances was disheartening, he could hardly blame them. Who wanted to face Aeval’s wrath if she emerged victorious? Still, the lack of faith from all sides was depressing. “If the underground is reestablished,” he promised, “I’ll do my best to persuade the Fallen they’ll fare better under Anazakia’s rule than any other.”
As the Night Travelers turned to slip back into the shadows, Belphagor called out to them. “There’s one other thing I’d like to ask your help with.”
Elena still eyed him with cautious mistrust. “We will consider it.”
“If you could use any contacts you might have to help me find Love—Lyubov Andreyevna—she’s been missing since this morning and I’m very concerned about her.”
“Missing?” exclaimed Elena. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
Pyotr stepped out of the shadows and in the pale luminescence of the Virtues’ wings Belphagor thought he appeared to be blushing. “I may have an idea about that.”
Elena’s brow knitted as she waited for an explanation.
“The Malakim have expressed a great interest in her because of her close connection to the angel child.” Pyotr nodded to Belphagor. “Your little girl.”
“And?” He felt his temper rising again.
“And there is one Malak in particular who happened to ask me about her today, a Malak who poses as an Orthodox monk and a prophet—and lives with Lyubov Andreyevna’s mother.”
Elena’s eyes narrowed. “You told one of the Malakim we were meeting to discuss the alliance?”
“No, no,” Pyotr assured them. “I said nothing of the meeting. He mentioned in passing he’d heard she’d just arrived in St. Petersburg and I merely confirmed it. He seemed keen to meet her. Obsessively keen.”
Alexei’s frown mixed displeasure with worry. “Which Malak?”
“He calls himself Micah. He’s an Englishman.”
The flesh on the back of Belphagor’s neck prickled with apprehension. “Englishman? An English angel?”
“I…” Pyotr’s cheeks had definitely gone red. “I assumed he was, from his accent. But I wasn’t thinking. Of course he couldn’t be if he’s a celestial. Perhaps the accent is a put-on.”
“Or perhaps it’s not the accent that’s put on,” said Belphagor grimly. It was now more urgent than ever that they reestablish the underground network. He needed to know what had become of the Angliski Nephilim and he needed to know now.
§
“There’s no need to be alarmed.”
Love blinked under the glare of a bright, incandescent bulb.
“No one has touched you while you slept and we have no plans to harm you unless you give us a reason to.”
She sat slumped against a daybed in a small apartment, dark except for the single bulb in the bare lamp beside her. Someone had taken her shoes. Love tried to sit up and the room spun around her. “I don’t feel very good.” She clutched at the fabric of the bedspread beneath her.
“Use this.” Micah pushed a metal dustbin toward her with his foot.
Love lurched forward and retched into the bin, grabbing onto the sides to keep from falling. She felt as if she’d been swilling vodka all night and had woken hung over and still half drunk. Only it wasn’t morning, it was night and she hadn’t gone to sleep, and it was her breakfast she was losing from who knew how many hours ago.
“When was that?” she murmured when her stomach finally stopped heaving and she fell back against the daybed.
Micah gave her a towel to wipe her face. “You’ve been out about twelve hours. Nadja got a little carried away with your tea.”
“That bitch,” groaned Love, and Micah laughed. She focused on him, straddling a kitchen chair turned the wrong way and leaning his elbows over the back. Though he wore a short beard for his part as a monk, he no longer wore the robes.
He handed her a bottle of carbonated water and inclined his head at her look of mistrust. “Hasn’t been opened.” Love broke the seal and drank it gratefully. “Feeling better? Would you like a little something to eat? Bring her some pelmeni,” he barked over his shoulder at a man and a woman standing behind him in the kitchen doorway, both pale oaken blonds like Zeus had been. He kicked the dustbin across the wooden floor toward the woman. “And get rid of this.”
The woman cursed in English and took the dustbin into the water closet to dump it before retreating to the kitchen, banging cupboards and drawers.
“Hera’s still bent out of shape about Zeus.”
Love glanced at him. “Hera?”
“Younger sister. He thought it was cute when she chose her name after him, but they were always…unusually close.” He chuckled when Love recoiled. “I’ve never asked. Tyr, on the other hand, never got along with his brother.” He smiled in Tyr’s direction. “He also doesn’t speak a word of Russian. They say he’s hung like a bird.”
Love stifled a laugh and pulled her bare feet under her on the bed, feeling more at ease with Micah despite herself.
“How’s that pelmeni coming?” he called into the kitchen.
“Poshol v pizdu!” Apparently, Hera’s Russian was significantly better than Tyr’s.
“Looks like it’ll be a while.” Micah winked. “Now, Lyubov—Love, sorry. We’re going to have a little conversation. We’ll start with something easy. You came to St. Petersburg with someone. I already know who it was. Just confirm the name for me.”
Love shrugged, having no idea where he was going with this. “Belphagor.”
Micah smiled. “Excellent. Now, then. You didn’t travel alone.”
“No,” said Love tentatively.
“Remember, I’m fully aware of
your arrival. You’re just telling me what I already know.”
“We came with some angels,” she said, not understanding this game.
“Very good, Love. You’re doing just fine.” He patted her knee and she flinched. Micah lifted his hand and held it in the air. “Sorry. You’re jumpy. I don’t blame you. But I promise, you have nothing to worry about. I’m nothing like Zeus.”
Love colored.
Micah leaned into the chair once more, resting his chin on his folded arms. “All right. That was a warm-up. Now for something a bit more advanced. Why are you and Belphagor in St. Petersburg with twelve of the Heavenly Host?”
“We…” Love hesitated and Micah waited with a patient smile. He must have figured this much out himself. “We want to persuade the Roma that the Malakim don’t have their best interests at heart.”
Micah nodded thoughtfully and stared at her with an intense look she couldn’t interpret. Then he shook his head and before Love realized Tyr had even moved, he delivered a blow of blinding pain across her face with the back of his hand. She cried out in surprise while Tyr stepped back into the same expressionless stance in the doorway, his hands behind his back.
Hera appeared with a tin tray table and a plate of dumplings and set them before Love with a gloating look. Love’s eyes burned and blood trickled from her nose.
Micah took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. “That looks painful.” He appeared genuinely concerned. “I’m sorry you lied to me, Love. I don’t like watching a man hit a woman.” He scooted the tray in front of her. “Please eat. We don’t want you passing out on us.”
Ignoring the handkerchief, Love took the fork and began to eat, afraid to disobey, tears falling onto the plate.
Micah watched her closely. “Is it satisfactory? Do you want something else?”
“No, it’s fine.” She kept her head over the plate.
He sat back, apparently satisfied. “So, again. Why are you and Belphagor here with a troop of angels?”