by Jane Kindred
He leaned in to hear my instructions.
“This former schoolgirl,” I told him, “can kick your ass.”
Vosemnadtsataya: Spirits of the Air
Dear old Kresty prison embraced him once again. Belphagor had reacted instinctively to the insult at Finlyandsky Vokzal, knocking the son of a bitch onto his ass. Unfortunately, it had been just what the Malakim hoped he’d do; they’d sent one of their own to provoke him. The police had arrived within seconds to arrest him for “disturbing the public order,” as if they’d been called in advance.
In the holding cell—in which one could expect to be held for anywhere from three hours to three years—he’d been treated to the usual hostility engendered by his contradictory tattoos. Although the symbolic language of the vory v zakone had been diluted by the current fad among youths who’d never been in prison tattooing themselves for fashion, there was no mistaking the older tattoos Belphagor wore. Career criminals wanted to know how someone apparently only in his early thirties could possibly have earned the number and status of his tattoos.
He heard the same accusations every time. He couldn’t have earned them; who had tattooed him? With whom did he work? What business did he think he had wearing symbols from the Stalinist era? Did he think he was funny? They were questions he hadn’t had to consider decades ago when he’d first done time.
Nearly twenty-four hours passed before he had the opportunity to post bail. While Belphagor waited for Dmitri’s money to be processed, a pair of Heaven’s Messengers visited him, dressed in dark grey Italian suits. They were either going for the gangster look or the gangster’s counsel—not that there was much difference. For millennia, the Seraphim had enjoyed a privileged arrangement with the prisons of the world of Man, ensuring the incarceration of Fallen celestial subjects Heaven didn’t particularly want back. Evidently, the Malakim also had friends in bureaucratic low places.
The flashier of the two addressed him, while the rougher-looking Malak stood back with arms folded—Beauty and the Beast. “We know who you are, suka.”
“Congratulations.” Belphagor blew smoke at him through the bars from a cigarette he’d produced from his pocket, lit with a matchbook another prisoner had traded him. It never hurt to have a little something to barter when inside the Zona, and sharing his cigarettes had deflected much of the more vocal suspicion.
“You would do well to heed our advice.”
“And what advice would that be?” he asked without interest.
“Stay out of angelic disputes. The rule of Heaven is of no concern to petty thieves and con men.”
“Really. Then how do you explain your interest in it?”
The angel frowned at him and Belphagor couldn’t resist a further dig. “The Malakim are such masters in the art of flimflam that we have a special holiday set aside for you in Raqia.” He blew another exhalation of smoke their way. “It’s called Christmas.”
The silent angel moved as if to reach through the bars, but the other waved him back, giving Belphagor an oleaginous smile. “We merely spread Heaven’s glory among the world of Man. We can’t help how Men interpret it.”
Belphagor snorted. “Not a whole lot of wiggle room for interpretation in a pregnant virgin.”
“Laugh if you like, demon, but that one wasn’t our doing. Just keep your forked tongue out of our business.”
“Poshol na khui.” Belphagor cupped his groin.
The guard arrived to release him and Belphagor dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it under his boot as he stepped past the Malakim to collect his belongings. They followed him out and the talkative Malak leaned casually against the end of the desk as he signed for his things. “I wouldn’t bother with that train ticket if I were you.”
“You wouldn’t do a lot of things I’d do.” Belphagor passed the paperwork back to be stamped and put on his duster, slipping the ticket into his pocket.
“Your tsigane friend and those Aravothan traitors will never make it to Irkutsk.”
Belphagor turned slowly. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Ah, now he’s listening.” The Malak smirked. “We’ve sent our brethren to deal with them. They’ll be waiting for your pets when they get to Yekaterinburg.”
Belphagor swept his cell phone from the counter and hit the speed dial. “Lyosha. There are Malakim waiting to ambush you at Yekaterinburg. Remember what we discussed.” He snapped the phone shut and smiled at the flustered Malak. “Heaven’s Messengers, and you don’t know how to use the telephone? How sad is that?”
When the guard buzzed him through, he looked about for Dmitri, but the Grigori was nowhere in sight. Instead, his gaze met with a pair of brilliant green eyes.
Misha gave him a wide grin. “Privet, Belyi.”
§
Beneath the cloth bag, Kirill was now aware enough of his surroundings to struggle against the bonds at his wrists, but his hands were too numb to make any progress. Whatever the demon had thrown in his face, its euphoric effect had finally worn off. He was left instead with a gnawing hunger compounded by nausea and a headache.
His legs were also bound, but he managed to roll over onto his side and stretch them out. They struck against something solid and Kirill felt about with his feet to try to identify it. Determining it to be a chest of drawers, he scooted himself in front of it and began to kick the drawers with both feet.
“Let me out of here, you devil!”
His efforts were soon rewarded and the door swung open. “Here, now!” The shopkeeper admonished him in Kirill’s own tongue. “What’s all this ruckus?” He pulled the bag from Kirill’s head and Kirill blinked and squinted in the light. “How did you like your little adventure, eh? First time with firedust?”
“To hell with your devil’s dust. Release me!”
The demon clucked his tongue. “Now, now. Watch your mouth or no one will want to bother with you. You’re a good, strong man, and I ought to be able to find a buyer for you faster than for the children, but we can’t have you abusing the customers.”
“I will be no one’s slave! I am a servant of God!”
“God, is it?” The demon bent down and tugged on Kirill’s beard, and Kirill jerked his head away. “Is this a priest’s beard? Well, I’m sure you can call your master whatever you like as long as it’s respectful.” He pulled a pipe from his pocket and began to pack the bowl with a powdery substance. As he lit it and puffed, Kirill smelled the same sweet, marine fragrance he’d smelled before. “What you need is a little more relaxation.” The demon took the pipe from his mouth and held it out to Kirill, but Kirill spat at him and the demon struck him. “That’s very rude. Now open up or I’ll shove this pipe up some other orifice and deliver it to you that way.”
Kirill resisted, and the demon climbed on top of him and held his jaw, shoving the pipe between his lips though Kirill clenched his teeth. The demon held his hand over Kirill’s nose and Kirill tried to shake him away, but he breathed in involuntarily and the warm sensation swam into his head almost immediately. A few more breaths and he’d forgotten why it had seemed so important to leave. He closed his eyes and lay back, listening to the strange crackle of the dust in his head. He wondered if the sound was an actual combustion of the warm substance inside him or whether it was some kind of auditory hallucination brought on by the properties of the drug.
He couldn’t recall when the shopkeeper left.
Sometime later, the angel of light appeared to him, and he wondered if this, too, were a hallucination. Perhaps it had always been. Perhaps he was a little mad.
“Man of God.” The amorphous shape pulsed before him. “Remember what I say to you now, though it seem as dreaming.”
Kirill nodded to the creature and closed his eyes against its brightness. The firedust seemed to enhance everything around him and the light hurt his eyes.
“I will deliver you and the child.”
“Children,” Kirill murmured.
“Yes, the ch
ildren.” The angel seemed annoyed with him. “When I come to you again, you will not see me, but you will find your bonds loosed and the doors open. You will take the children and flee from here, and you will receive a sign.”
“What sign?” Kirill slurred, listening to the crackle of the sweet fragrance in his brain.
The spirit hesitated for a moment. “A burning bush. When you receive the sign, you must go to the Acheron and make a sacrifice in thanks.”
“A sacrifice?” Kirill opened his eyes and squinted at the angel. “I have nothing to sacrifice.”
“One will be provided, Man of God.”
§
“Misha, what are you doing here?” Belphagor scrutinized the leshi as they rode away from Kresty in a taxi. “Where’s Dmitri?”
“He called me and said he needed someone the Malakim wouldn’t recognize to post bail. The word isn’t out yet on the underground that the Exiles are backing Anazakia and he thought it would be safer if we kept it that way for now.”
“And whom are you backing?” Belphagor lifted his eyebrow. “Are the Unseen suddenly taking an interest in celestial affairs?”
“Belyi.” Misha laughed and took his hand. His touch was always soothing, and Belphagor couldn’t help relaxing beside him. “We have always had an interest in celestial affairs. A fundamental interest, you might say.”
“How so?”
“Have you ever seen an Ardor? A Second-Order angel, I mean. One of the Elim.”
Belphagor shrugged. “No. I don’t think anybody in Heaven can claim to have seen any of the angels of the First Choir. I suspect they’re extinct.”
“Oh, we’re not extinct. We just got sick of Heaven’s shit.”
“Come again?”
Misha answered in angelic. “I’m an Ardor.”
Belphagor was dumbstruck. It couldn’t possibly be true, but he couldn’t imagine why Misha would make up such a thing.
“Yes, I know it’s hard to believe. But the leshi are all Ardors. And the syla are Splendors, the Erelim. We’re incorporeal in Heaven, but as we discovered when we fell, we have bodies here much like those of Men and angels.”
“You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious.” Misha’s grin seemed to belie his words.
Belphagor removed his hand from Misha’s, suspecting his touch might be mesmerizing in more than the figurative sense. “And when did you do this ‘falling’? The First Choir has been missing in action for centuries, as I understand it. Perhaps millennia.”
Misha laughed. “You know, you’re no spring chicken either, my dear.”
“Are you saying you’re hundreds of years old?” Belphagor scoffed. “I thought Yulya was human.”
“Oh, my heart.” Misha clutched his chest. “Bringing Mother into it!”
Belphagor sighed. “Now I know you’re joking. Very amusing. You had me going for a moment.”
“No, really, Belyi.” Misha’s mischievous twinkle was absent now. “You’re just too much fun to tease, but I’m completely serious. We’re not ageless or immortal exactly. I’m no more than the thirty-one years you know me to be. But we…reincarnate, you might say. Or we’re omni-carnate. We’re aware of the full consciousness of the Ardent body, present and past. We made a bargain with the Splendors when we fell that we would perpetuate one another’s races. Splendors are of a feminine nature and Ardors are of a masculine, so it’s worked out quite well for us.”
They pulled up in front of Dmitri’s Soviet deco apartment building and Belphagor paid the driver as they got out. “And the Aeons?” he asked as he rang Dmitri’s flat. “Where are they in this?”
“The Tafsarim are still in Heaven, so far as we know.” Misha shrugged. “As I said, our choir is incorporeal there, so you might pass them all the time and never know it, but for an unusual trick of light or an errant breeze.”
“Or,” said Belphagor as Dmitri came down to let them in, “being incorporeal, all of the First Choir is still there floating about and you’re pulling my leg.”
Dmitri held the door open. “Who’s pulling your leg?”
“Oh, Misha, haven’t you shared this little joke with dear Dmitri?” Belphagor preceded Dmitri up the stairs. “Misha thinks he’s an eternal Ardent spirit.”
Misha made an exaggerated sigh behind him. “It wasn’t exactly common knowledge. But I suppose it’s all right if Dmitri knows. You might want to keep your voice down about it, though.”
Upstairs, Dmitri looked from Belphagor to Misha in confusion while they removed their shoes and put on the indoor tapochki he’d provided. “You’re what, now?”
“That’s exactly what I said.” Belphagor sat on the couch. “Thank you for posting bail, by the way. I ran into a few of our Malak friends as I was leaving. They were terribly smug about having kept me out of action for a day while their comrades headed to Yekaterinburg to ambush Love and the Virtues—until I picked up my phone and told Loquel to expect them.” He grinned at Dmitri. “You’d have thought they’d never seen a cell phone before.”
“The angels always did sneer at magic. Whether elemental or technological.”
“Well, part of that is our doing.” Misha sat in the plush chair that had been Lev’s, ignoring the look Belphagor gave him to encourage him to choose another. “We may have neutralized a number of things in Heaven through the manipulation of the aether.”
“We?” Dmitri repeated.
“The First Choir.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Misha!” Belphagor burst out. “You’re really taking this too far.”
Misha ignored him. “Take firepower, for instance. Do you think it’s merely angelic decree that keeps it out? Why wouldn’t one of the Fallen have simply imported it from the world of Man?” He smiled. “Well, they have, of course, and it’s completely inert. It’s the same reason elements are much harder to manipulate within Heaven and that most angels can’t manifest their wings. The aetheric content of the air dampens most radiance.”
“All right, then, speaking of wings, let’s see yours.”
“Not in the house!” Dmitri exclaimed. “I just had the cleaning devushka in.”
Belphagor arched an eyebrow. “Well, you’re not off the hook, Misha. You can show me outside.”
“The Elim do not have wings,” said Misha patiently. “As I mentioned, the change in our elemental makeup when we fall is corporeality, not wings.”
“You’re really not going to let this go.”
“Belyi, I’m offering our help. If you want to say it’s the help of the woodspirits of the Unseen World, that’s fine with me. I don’t really care what you call us. Just know that you have another army at your disposal. A rather…infinite army.”
“Infinite?” Belphagor raised an eyebrow. “I hardly saw anyone in the Unseen World when I was there.”
Misha smiled, clearly trying not to laugh. “Did you hear what you just said?”
Belphagor glared. “I thought you were supposed to be unseen in the mortal realm, not your own.”
“When we want you to see us, you’ll see us, whether in the world of Man or in our realm. The advantage of being an airspirit.”
“Really,” said Belphagor. “I don’t seem to have that ability.”
“You’re diluted, Belyi. Hence the fact that you have wings. If you were a pure airspirit, you wouldn’t have been substantial in Raqia.”
Belphagor regarded him. “So as an omni-carnate, you must remember my airspirit ancestor who ‘inspired’ the Fourth-Choir angel who bore my Fallen lineage. Perhaps you can explain to me exactly how that worked.”
Misha shuddered. “Where do you think the concept of immaculate conception originated? I try never to think of it, Belyi. Any more than I wish to think of my own conception, thank you very much.”
It was a rather unpleasant notion, Belphagor conceded, to think one could “remember” impregnating one’s own mother. He stretched his arms along the back of the couch and relaxed against the cushions. “So what is it yo
ur infinite leshi hordes plan to do for us? March on Heaven like Birnam Wood?”
“Something like that. If you take us with you through the breach, we can camouflage the breach itself, and once in Heaven, we can turn the very air against your enemies.”
Dmitri looked perturbed. “How do you know about the breach?”
Misha smiled. “The Unseen see everything.”
§
Love was somewhat miffed that Loquel continued to be the conduit for messages from Belphagor. He seemed to have entrusted the Virtue with all kinds of information she wasn’t privy to; she was used to being the one in the know. But with Belphagor’s warning and the work he’d done with Loquel in St. Petersburg, they were prepared for the Malakim.
The Messengers weren’t expecting the welcome awaiting them on the Baikal Express. The train arrived at Sverdlovsk station in Yekaterinburg at one-thirty in the morning. Love, on lookout as the least conspicuous, spotted the four Malakim easily in their expensive suits. They gained entry to the train under the pretext of belonging to some government agency, flashing badges at the provodnik. Love hurried back to the Virtues’ compartments to give the word before locking herself into one of the adjoining washrooms to keep out of the way.
Through the crack in the door, she could see Loquel pretending to sleep, while Gereimon lay in wait on the opposite bunk. She held her breath as the Malakim broke the latch on the compartment door and stole in, knives raised to stab the Virtues in their sleep. She knew it was part of the plan to let the Malakim think they’d succeeded in surprising them, but it took all she had not to shout a warning. The surprise on the Malak’s face when his knife snapped in two as it met the solid stone of Loquel’s Virtuous radiance was worth the anxiety.
Belphagor had worked with him to find the Virtues’ strengths, discovering that as he was able to briefly utilize his element to allow objects to pass through him, so the Virtues could manipulate theirs, becoming as solid as marble. They had released their wings to access this elemental power but kept them tucked beneath them to hide the pure, white radiance of the alabaster surface.