by Jane Kindred
“I’m afraid the time for civil discourse is over,” Micah agreed. “You’ll think Tyr is a lamb when Hera has finished with you. She’s been champing at the bit for this opportunity. If you’re able to speak afterward, I’ll be waiting in the living room.” He closed the door and Tyr stepped in front of it with his arms folded while Hera took a knife from the counter.
“Please.” Love edged away from her across the floor, her head swimming. Hera had crazy in her eyes. “I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you the truth.”
Hera advanced on her. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you lied your little pikey mouth off.” Love tried to stand, but everything went blurry and then Hera was in front of her pulling Love’s head back by the hair, forcing her to look up as she traced the bruise on Love’s cheek with the tip of her knife. The stony blue eyes went black. “And maybe you shouldn’t have murdered my brother.”
§
“Wings,” Belphagor instructed the Virtues, standing before the apartment building Dmitri had sent him to after reluctantly making a few calls. “But be careful about it. Don’t draw attention to yourselves.” He wasn’t certain how wings of fluid stone might be used in a fight, but they were about to find out. He shrugged his own from within his shirt—something far easier for his element than theirs, as his could move through porous objects—but kept them tucked within his leather duster. The Virtues’ baggy shirts and hooded jackets rippled with the powerful wings yearning to be released, but for novices, they managed to keep them fairly well in check.
Belphagor worked his elemental magic on the lock and led them into the entryway, instructing the Virtues to wait out of sight until he needed them. He found the first-floor apartment and kicked the door open. A bearded Nephil rose indignantly from his seat in the living room, but there was no one else in sight.
“You must be Micah.”
“And who the hell are you?”
“Belphagor.”
Micah laughed. “The Prince of Tricks, come to rescue his nanny. I’d heard you were scrawny. What do you plan to do, airspirit, breathe on me? Maybe huff and puff and blow my house down?”
“I prefer ‘wiry.’ And I thought I’d just kick your ass.”
Micah laughed again, and then flew at him in a blur of movement, sinewy nephilic wings fully extended in an instant. Belphagor held his breath while Micah ploughed through the space he’d been solidly occupying and slammed into the wall behind him.
He breathed out, solid once more, and regarded Micah with a half-smile. “Huff.”
Micah scrambled to his feet. “Coward.”
A muffled cry came from behind the door to Belphagor’s right and he yanked it open. A pair of blond Nephilim had Love against the kitchen table. The male held Love down with one hand on her neck, while the female was poised with a knife against Love’s bared back as if she meant to carve her up.
Belphagor grabbed the closest object and swung, cracking the cast-iron skillet against the side of the male Nephil’s head. The Nephil staggered backward and dropped to his knees, slumping sideways onto the floor.
“Sukin syn!” The woman came at Belphagor with her knife and he hesitated only a moment before swinging again and knocking her into the counter. The knife flew out of her hand and spun across the linoleum as she joined the Nephil groaning on the floor.
Belphagor drew Love away from the table, straightening her clothes, and an angry oath escaped him at the sight of her bruised face. “Oh, sweetheart.” He held her close to his side and turned to Micah, who stood staring him down. “And you call me a coward?”
“That was Tyr’s doing,” said Micah disdainfully. “I don’t believe in hitting women. But Love knew the consequences when she refused to answer my questions.”
“Let me get this straight. You think letting your goon beat up a woman for you makes you less of a coward.”
“Shut up, demon,” Micah snarled. “I don’t need lessons in cowardice from a pedik.”
Belphagor lowered Love into a chair and stepped toward Micah. “I suggest you take back those words.”
Micah laughed in his face and Belphagor threw off his coat and let his wings spread. They flew at each other, stirring the air as they grappled together. As this was Belphagor’s element, it was to his advantage. Micah, like most Nephilim, was tall and sturdily built, with a strength neither his human nor angel progenitors possessed, but Belphagor’s lithe frame made him quicker and more flexible. Belphagor lifted himself into the air, forcing Micah to rise with him. The Nephil’s weight became more of a hindrance as they wrestled off the ground, and Belphagor spun him with a twist of his wings, knocking him into the far wall.
Love cried out a warning and Belphagor turned to see the Nephil Tyr charging toward him with blood running into his eyes. Tyr struck him like a blind bull, knocking over the lamp beside the daybed and shattering the bulb as well as knocking the wind out of Belphagor. In the darkness, a flash of purest silver streaked across his vision accompanied by a tremendous thunderclap, and Tyr struck the ground.
Loquel stood palely luminescent before him, the edges of his open wings dripping blood. He’d boxed Tyr’s ears. “Gospodin.” Loquel helped Belphagor to his feet. “We saw the room go dark and we thought you would need us.” The rest of the Virtues hovered in the doorway. They’d all removed their shirts to avoid the pesky problem of figuring out how to raise their wings through the collars.
“You did very well, Lyosha.” Belphagor smoothed back a plait of his hair.
Micah picked himself up, his dark wings flaring defiantly for a moment before he shrugged them back into place. He eyed Loquel and sneered at Belphagor. “What a paragon of virtue you are.”
“Virtues, actually. But you flatter me.”
Micah let out a raucous laugh. “The Prince of Tricks has Virtues that come to his rescue. How perverse Heaven has become.”
Belphagor shrugged with a mild lift of his eyebrow. “Heaven, sir, has always been perverse.” He glanced at Love, slumped in the chair. Despite having warned him when Tyr charged, she seemed to be barely holding onto consciousness. From the blood caked above her temple, it was clear she’d taken a serious blow to the head. His chest surged with anger. “And just what was it you wanted to know so damned badly you had to beat up my girl?”
“Ola,” murmured Love. “Azel.” She shook her head with her eyes closed. “Don’t know where they are.”
“Of course she doesn’t know where they are.” Belphagor rounded on Micah. “You’re the ones who took Ola from us!”
“And then someone took her back, just as you and your Virtuous henchmen were skulking out of Raqia. Are you going to tell me you know nothing about it?”
Belphagor felt his face go almost as pale as the Virtues. “Took her back? Who took her back? Took her back where?”
Micah folded his arms. “Well, this is fascinating. I thought your little gypsy girl was just a very good liar, and loyal to the point of absurdity. But you are not a good liar. You’re a two-bit hustler. I’m well acquainted with your kind; you can’t possibly lie this well. Which begs the question: who would want to abscond with the supernal children if it wasn’t either of us?”
The Nephil knelt before Love and turned her head toward him before Belphagor could react. “Just a moment. I only want to ask her one other question. It’s about what we discussed in the car, Love, with regard to your name.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “Just tell me whether the number was one or two. By way of apology for our misunderstanding here, when I go back to the Romani community, I plan to take care of it.”
Love burst into tears.
Belphagor shoved the Nephil aside and helped her to her feet. “If any of your clan come anywhere near Love again—or anyone else in my family—I will kill you,” he promised Micah, holding Love close to him as she wept. “And I don’t mean just one of you. The Angliski Nephilim will be so thoroughly obliterated, the world of Man will forget you ever existed.”
“Our clan has it
s own vory v zakone.” Micah stood and brushed himself off. “There are certain things we don’t tolerate. I can’t make any promises with regard to the rest of your family—in particular, I’d have no qualms about beating your skinny little ass, given the opportunity. But you have my word no one is going to bother Love again.”
“And you have my word that I’ll kill you if they do.” Belphagor led Love out, but she turned back as they reached the door.
She looked at Micah for a long moment and then wiped her eyes and said, “Two.”
Back at the inn, Belphagor took Love to her room and helped her undress, reminding her when she seemed shy about it that he wasn’t the least inclined toward women. He cleaned and bandaged her cuts, trying to keep his anger in check when he saw the extent of her bruises, and wrapped her in a soft hotel robe. Giving her some painkillers and a sleeping pill, he put her to bed and pulled up a chair beside it.
“I’m going to stay right here next to you. You just get some sleep.”
“What about the Night Travelers?” She struggled to keep her eyes open as the drugs began to take effect.
“We already met with them. They’re going to vote on whether to restore the alliance.” He didn’t mention the fact that with the Exiles firmly against Anazakia, an alliance likely wouldn’t matter.
“You called me your girl,” she murmured as her eyes closed.
“Sorry. That was sexist of me.”
“No, it was sweet. My father left when I was a kid. I’ve never been anybody’s girl.”
Belphagor smoothed her hair across her brow, somewhat chagrined that she saw him as a father figure. Not that he wasn’t old enough. Technically, he was old enough to be her great-grandfather.
Love sighed after a moment. “I miss…” Her voice trailed off and she began to breathe deeply.
“I know you do, sweetheart. I’m sure he misses you, too.”
§
Kirill had spent two days and nights roaming the streets of the nest of demons. The first night, he’d nearly been arrested by the Ophanim Guard, rescued by an altruistic demon who ran a soup kitchen and pretended Kirill was merely demented and had wandered away. The demon led him to a room in a doss-house upstairs. When Kirill tried to thank him, the older man cut him off.
“You don’t belong here.” He spoke in Russian.
Kirill eyed him suspiciously, answering back in his native tongue. “How do you know where I belong?”
“I’ve done my share of falling. I know a human when I see one. Not that you were all that hard to spot.” He glanced at Kirill’s garments. “We don’t have many churches in the hell district.”
“It is all hell,” Kirill replied. “God has abandoned heaven.”
The soup kitchen demon gave Kirill some ordinary clothes, complete with a coat bearing the demonic patch on its arm, and told him he’d better get rid of the robes unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life in a prison camp.
With all that had befallen him since he’d found himself here, taking off his robes was perhaps the hardest thing he’d done. He’d put on the podryasnik six years ago as a sign of his commitment to the monastic life and had received the outer ryasa at his tonsure two years later, and hadn’t taken them off since except to bathe—and to sin with Love. But God had given him a task, and if his robes would hinder him in that task, he must put them aside. He bundled them into a cloth bag when he set out again for the demon market, trading his skufia for a black cap with a bill in front. His beard, he couldn’t bring himself to cut, and so it stayed.
The first two days turned up nothing. He’d wandered through the stalls of the market, asking people if they’d seen the children, and most simply ignored him. This morning, however, dressed like a local in khaki work pants and a loose, belted cotton shirt like a Russian kosovorotka, he blended in, and demons approached him trying to sell their wares. When he asked one of the vendors if he’d seen two small children, the man appraised him and nodded.
“Come with me. But be discreet.”
Kirill followed, mystified by the instruction. He glanced at stalls along the way as if he were interested in purchasing some of the produce or textiles, and the vendor led him eventually into a curtained area where a portly older gentleman greeted him.
“He’s looking for some children,” said his companion, adding something else in the angelic tongue Kirill couldn’t make out with his limited vocabulary.
The portly gentleman gave the other man a coin and he went on his way. “So.” The demon observed him. “What is it you seek? A girl? A boy?”
“Both. The boy is older.”
“I see.” The man nodded. “And the girl—how young?”
Kirill realized he didn’t know the words for giving ages in angelic and he hesitated.
“Like so?” The man put his hand at waist height.
Kirill shook his head. “Younger. Very small.” He lowered his hand to just above his knee.
The man eyed him peculiarly. “That’s quite young. The young are very dear, of course. But I may know of such a girl who in fact has a boy with her.” He wrote something on a piece of paper and folded it in half. “The address is a general store. Tell the shopkeeper Osip sent you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Kirill took his hand and pressed it gratefully. “I ask everywhere and you are the first person who helps me.”
Osip smiled. “It’s all a matter of coming to the right place.”
Unable to read the angelic script, Kirill asked passersby until someone read the address to him and pointed the way. He found the shop in a narrow street in a somewhat seedier section of the demonic district, though it all seemed seedy to him. It was, he supposed, a symptom of their poverty. Inside, he told the shopkeeper Osip had sent him, seeking two children.
The shopkeeper frowned at him. “I don’t do business in front. Come around back to my apartments.” He opened a door behind the counter.
Kirill followed anxiously into the shopkeeper’s living quarters. “You have the children? They are here?”
“You’re awfully eager.” The shopkeeper gave him a disapproving look. “I’m sure it’s none of my business, and a crystal facet from one man is as good as the next, but you do realize they are very young children.”
“Of course.” Kirill was puzzled by the man’s demeanor.
“And it hasn’t escaped my notice you’re not from around here. I must say I find it a bit distasteful someone from the world of Man would come to Raqia to do such business. We are not a playground, sir.”
Kirill was having trouble understanding this demon, but he blushed at being caught out as a human once more. His accent was still very poor.
The shopkeeper turned a key in the lock of a door at the back of the apartments, but didn’t yet open it. He scrutinized Kirill from top to bottom. “These two will come dear,” he said firmly. “With such fine skin and eyes, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were the issue of some slumming noble. Are you sure you can afford them?”
“Afford? I do not know what this means.”
The shopkeeper lowered his voice to an angry whisper. “It means, you stupid human, I expect to be paid handsomely for your perversion!”
“For my what?” Kirill shook his head, confused by this whole exchange.
“Perversia!”
Kirill gaped, suddenly seeing the conversations at the market in an entirely different light—a garish and grotesque light of abomination. Except for the madness that had overtaken him when he’d found the Nephil Zeus attacking Love, he’d never raised a hand in violence to anyone, but he couldn’t contain the fury building at what he’d been mistaken for.
He grabbed the shopkeeper by the collar and swung him around, slamming him into the wall with an angry roar. “You sell them? You sell children for the pleasures of evil men?”
The shopkeeper’s eyes bulged as Kirill pressed his fingers to his throat, and he tried to pry the hands away, but an unholy rage had possessed Kirill, giving him a surge of violent strength.
He wanted to dash the shopkeeper’s head against the plaster until his skull cracked. He wanted to see his brains splattered against the wall.
All at once he was overcome with horror at his own violent urges and he threw the demon from him. The shopkeeper sprawled on the floor, choking and coughing, and scrambled back when Kirill took another step toward him.
“They’re runners!” the shopkeeper gasped. “Escaped slaves caught stealing! I have a right to a fair price for them. What the buyer does with them isn’t my responsibility.”
Kirill reached down and dragged the startled demon to his feet. “They are the heirs to the throne of Heaven!” he whispered fiercely.
The demon stared at him aghast a moment before pulling his collar from Kirill’s grip. “In the name of Heaven! Why didn’t you say so?” He put his hand on the latch and pushed the door open onto a small room that was little more than a closet.
Kirill caught a quick glimpse of two disheveled children huddled on the floor in the corner—a flash of golden hair and a tangle of dull and matted reddish curls. Before he could take a step toward them, the demon blew something from his palm into Kirill’s face. He coughed violently and his lungs felt on fire. Then the room seemed to melt like a painting with a solvent thrown onto its canvas, and he wanted very much to sleep.
Pyatnadtsataya: The Price of Magic
from the memoirs of the Grand Duchess Anazakia Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk
In my dream, I was asleep on my horse and someone was shaking me, telling me that despite having ridden for miles, I still had many more to go. My mind had finally quieted after breakfast, allowing me to sleep, but the insistent shaking jarred me from it, and I opened my eyes to see Margarita standing over me with a look of panic on her face. It was a look I’d never seen on that self-assured countenance. The shackles dangled from one wrist as if she’d been in such a hurry to remove them she hadn’t bothered with the second.