Prince of Tricks

by Jane Kindred

  After the Duke had given each of his companions a brief sample of Vasily’s oral skills—very respectfully inquiring as to whether Vasily minded and assuring him that he needn’t fully service them all—the angels had wanted to know what else he could do with his element. Vasily had demonstrated his cigar-lighting trick, concentrating the heat of his fire into the tip of his tongue, had smoldered kindling for them with his hands, and, after untold tankards of mead, had even put on his most crass and useless display of firespirit talent—melting a candle in his ass.

  When Elyon had undertaken to hold Vasily against his will after his arrival this morning, he’d employed a Cherub to subdue him. The Seraphim that guarded the supernal family he’d seen from a distance in their sparkling fire, and the Ophanim, of course, he was as familiar with as he cared to be, keeping his head down whenever they were about, but Vasily had never seen the middle order of the three in their angelic firespirit choir before. The creature’s size was not as imposing as a Seraph’s and he didn’t glow like the Ophanim or shine with bright seraphic light, but he seemed far more solid and grounded than his majestic cousins. His form seemed somewhat mutable, shifting from that of an imposing man into several other aspects, one of which appeared to be leonine, another ox-like, and a third akin to a large and dangerous bird of prey. After demonstrating the considerable superiority of both his strength and his command of his element, which he used like bolts of lightning from his hands, the Cherub had chained Vasily’s wrists behind his back to ensure he couldn’t use his own fire against the duke.

  Vasily was sulking now in the duke’s scullery where the bastard had put him on ice, the chain at his wrists bound to an iron ring on the wall intended to hold a hook for hanging meat. At least he’d gotten his own clothing back after all, but it was little comfort surrounded by blocks chiseled from the frozen river to keep the perishables in the duke’s pantry cool. He still had no idea what the duke wanted of him. He’d told Elyon that Belphagor was expecting him and would certainly come looking for him when he didn’t return.

  “Don’t trouble yourself about your mackerel,” Elyon had replied. “You’ve already sent word to him that you no longer require his protection.” The angel had gotten in his face to say it, and Vasily had cracked the angel’s broken nose with a furious butt of his head. It had earned him a stomp to the groin from the duke after his Cherub had yanked Vasily onto his back with a swift jerk of the chain, but seeing the blood pouring from Elyon’s nose had been worth it.

  He’d had plenty of time, however, to sit and curse himself for getting into this predicament. He wasn’t terribly worried for his own sake. Whatever the duke had planned for him, he was sure he’d be freed eventually. But he couldn’t stand the thought that Belphagor might believe the note. The way he’d possessed Vasily last night—it was what he’d dreamed of, what he’d yearned for since the night he’d tried to steal Belphagor’s purse and Belphagor had taken the strop to him. And Belphagor had wanted it too. He knew it. The demon’s continued insistence that Vasily wasn’t old enough for him had nearly driven him mad.

  Vasily had let others pay to abuse him before, but this wasn’t abuse. This was something he’d never known was possible, something he had no words for. “Possession” was the closest he could come. Like a mythical demon from the folklore of the world of Man, Belphagor had gotten inside him in more ways than one.

  From the moment of that first beating with the strop, administered only as recompense for his foolish attempt to steal from the Prince of Tricks, Vasily had belonged to him. The unrelenting fall of the leather in Belphagor’s hand against his ass had let him move through fury and indignation to humiliation and fear to abject misery—and then somewhere beyond, transported, like an earthly religious experience or a mind-altering intoxicant. Belphagor’s unwavering control over him, pinning him down and simply striking out beat after beat without faltering, had somehow drawn something from him more powerful than any climax, as if his spirit had soared from his body on invisible wings.

  He’d been able to let go of himself, of the fearful control he felt he had to maintain that kept him from careening over the edge of civility into the domain of some ungoverned beast. Belphagor had given him that, all the while keeping him safe from whatever it was Vasily feared might happen if the terrifying emotion inside him were released. And then, more shocking than what had come before, he’d held Vasily while all that emotion poured out of him, held him like he was something to be cherished and told him he was a good boy.

  That had been the moment Vasily had fallen helplessly and hopelessly in love with him. He hadn’t known precisely what his own age was—it was only later that Belphagor had helped him pin down the year of his birth by relating the events he recalled at various times in his life—but he knew he was no longer a boy. For several years already he’d been earning his way by selling what he chose to sell, and his body had long since changed from a child’s to a man’s. Yet when Belphagor called him “boy”, and not just a boy, but a good boy, his heart had nearly burst.

  He still couldn’t explain even to himself why those words were like magic to him. And something about hearing it said in the earthly tongue made that magic stronger: malchik. In that single utterance from Belphagor’s lips, he heard, I love you. You belong to me. You’re safe. You are mine. He was Belphagor’s. And that was all that mattered.

  It hadn’t stopped him, of course, from being a complete prat. He’d given Belphagor so much grief already in the time they’d been together, impatient in the lessons Belphagor had been teaching him—he’d known nothing of letters or numbers, beyond the going rate for his services, and Belphagor had given freely of his knowledge—and impatient for their relationship to move more quickly, while at every turn expecting Belphagor to abandon him or betray him in some way, even goading him to do it. Even after Belphagor had finally admitted his desire for him, finally touched him as he’d been longing to be touched, Vasily had stormed off and punished him with his absence for not giving enough.

  When he’d gone back to Belphagor last night, he’d feared it might be another year before Belphagor would touch him again, deciding Vasily wasn’t mature enough to handle it. And then Belphagor, as he’d put it, had given him “what for”. Vasily’s cock strained against his jeans as he remembered just what “what for” had meant. The first time they’d been together had been unquestionably the best fuck he’d had in his life, but this time—this had been like having every cell in his body undone, fucked, and then put back together and fucked again. He could still feel Belphagor inside him, owning him, obliterating him. He hadn’t wanted it to end and thought he might have happily died of it if it hadn’t.

  If Belphagor believed that after everything—after that—Vasily had chosen to walk away from him for the favors of an angelic noble… He jerked against the chain, raging at himself and at Elyon, but the iron ring didn’t budge.

  “Let me the fuck out of here, you son of a succubus!” The sound seemed to fall flat against the thick walls. Even his voice wasn’t escaping this room.

  Dusk, thankfully, came early this time of year, with winter solstice just days away. Enclaves of debauchery like the Demon District and the Left Bank, rather than retreating into hibernation, became even livelier, with that many more hours for pleasure and revelry.

  Tabris and Sefi—whose working name, it turned out, was Sefira, after Helison’s queen—were eagerly awaiting him, as if Belphagor were some kind of local nobility himself. Perhaps he was, he smiled to himself. Prince of Tricks. And he had a number of them up his sleeve tonight.

  He’d dressed conservatively, in a three-piece suit and top hat, with a heavy woolen overcoat, and white gloves on his hands to cover his tattoos. Aristocratic fashion had made this much of his disguise easier for him. In addition to the quest for clothes, he’d also spent a few hours at the Demon Market, where he’d procured a glamour that lightened his hair and his skin, with a dash of sapphire oil in his eyes to turn the dark irises blue.
He might not be able to pull off passing for an angel, but he could easily pass for an angel’s bastard.

  His fancy ladies, however, weren’t the least bit taken in, which worried him slightly. “What gave me away?” he asked as they cooed over him. “I thought I’d done a rather nice job of impersonating a pompous ass.”

  “It’s not how you look, sweetmeat,” said Sefi wryly. “It’s how you don’t look. Your eyes haven’t stopped on these once.” She fluffed her now more conservatively corseted breasts, pushed up and nearly strangling her, it seemed to him. He couldn’t imagine how she managed to breathe. He had to concede the point.

  With a demoness on each arm, he headed into the cold in the direction of The Brimstone.

  “I thought we were going to Duke Elyon’s palace,” Tabris complained, drawing her cheap fur collar close.

  “We are. I’m just picking up some company who will likely be more to your taste.” He’d recruited without difficulty half a dozen semirespectable-looking demons who were indebted to him in one way or another. When he’d explained to them what the majority of their duties would be during his venture this evening, to a man, they’d vowed to sacrifice themselves to the cause.

  “We like your company just fine,” said Tabris as they waited for the demons, pressing against him playfully. “Easiest date ever.”

  No doubt. Nevertheless, his ladies seemed to shine in the more appreciative company of his entourage.

  They made a lively group as they bypassed the nearby Palace Avenue Bridge in favor of a walk along the embankment past the bustling Demon Market. At this time of evening, things were just getting into full swing, with street performers vying for facets, while the daytime games of dice played by boys along the cobblestone walks made way for more serious dice games and rounds of cards in the pavilions. Cart vendors switched from hawking trinkets and sweets in favor of hearty meat pies and sausages interspersed with every kind of peasant magic remedy—including the black-market earthly “remedies” of whiskey and vodka—and elderly demonesses who sold fortunes and baubles during the day made way for much younger demonesses promising more certain favor. Not as refined as the ladies from The Cat, but in great demand, the market girls would give a gent so inclined a toss or a suck for a small facet.

  Tabris and Sefi expressed distaste for the street girls who made little pretense of actual interest in their clients and barely drew them out of view of passersby to deliver the promised goods. Nonetheless, Belphagor’s fancy ladies seemed keen to occupy the attention of his comrades as they passed the Market, lest they lose one of their prospects to an alley toss before they reached the villa.

  At the Market’s terminus, they crossed the “Hell’s Gate” bridge over the Acheron to where the Left Bank district began. The difference between the Market and the Left Bank, Belphagor noted, seemed to be only in the discretion of the activities and the ratio of angels to demons participating in them.

  As they continued up the embankment, however, the bohemian neighborhood grew markedly more moneyed, and more of the debauchery on the street presumably moved inside behind the high walls of the fancy riverbank villas. Sefi pointed out the duke’s domicile, though Belphagor would have guessed had she not. It was indeed more of a palace, as Tabris had called it, its façade of gilded columns and its gaudy fountains along the walk reminiscent of the Arkhangel’sk Summer Palace at Lake Superna in the north of the Firmament.

  The festivities were clearly already in full swing, and Belphagor’s party blended in without difficulty, Sefi and Tabris making a smooth entrance for them by drawing the attention of the guests already in attendance. The assets that had failed to elicit the proper response in Belphagor upon greeting the ladies this evening were now given their proper due.

  Duke Elyon was easy to spot with a bandage taped over his nose. It gave Belphagor some measure of gratification to see the bloom of blood pooled beneath the skin under the angel’s eyes. With the duke’s attention turned on the fancy ladies, Belphagor wandered unnoticed from the group and took the opportunity to explore the palatial villa.

  A more intimate party was underway in the drawing room beyond the main parlor, with Elyon’s angelic peers engaged in various acts of carnal pleasure with demons in the gender of their choice. Keeping an eye out for Vasily among the heads bobbing in laps and the backsides being happily plundered, he lingered here, letting a pale, slender young demon—whose strikingly feminine features on a decidedly male form spoke of his probable descent from a less-than-virtuous Virtue—try to win his attention. After several minutes, satisfied there was no sign of Vasily, he kissed the demon’s hand in thanks for his attentions and pressed a facet into his palm as he declined any further companionship. Despite the purpose of his visit, he had to admit the look of genuine disappointment on the demon’s face as Belphagor turned him down was gratifying. On any other night… Belphagor nipped the thought in the bud.

  Continuing through the dimly lit passages, he found a few guest rooms similarly occupied, but much of the place was not in use. If Vasily was being held against his will, it would likely be one of these unused bedrooms, and the room would likely be locked.

  He checked every closed door, using his airspirit skill to turn the knob soundlessly and slowly enough to open it a crack, and slipping inside if it was empty or retreating with equal stealth if it turned out to be occupied by those with a preference for less public pleasure. He found only one door locked, which seemed promising. There wasn’t a lock made he couldn’t open, and in a moment, he was in, his heart pounding with hopeful anxiety that he would find Vasily here, but it turned out to be nothing more than a storage room full of papers.

  Upon closer examination, the papers turned out to be pamphlets advocating a workers’ revolt against the principality, with demons and angelic demon sympathizers called upon to take Council Square in an act of defiance. Freshly printed, they advertised tomorrow evening as the intended date. Which meant someone would be distributing all of these tonight.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  Belphagor turned to find Elyon standing behind him. “I was looking for the water closet.”

  The angel eyed him with mistrust. “This room was supposed to be locked.”

  Belphagor shrugged as he let the pamphlet he was holding drop from his fingers. “Someone evidently forgot. I’m one hundred percent behind your cause, so there’s no need to worry.”

  “Who are you?” Elyon demanded, unimpressed by his currying attempt.

  “Semyon Xomoyovich of the House of Ea.” Belphagor gave him a polite bow. “I’m visiting from Iriy and heard this was the place to be.” He let the comment hang there for Elyon to decide whether he meant it in terms of the festivities or the political dissent.

  Elyon was studying him with narrowed eyes, an expression, Belphagor was pleased to note, which appeared to hurt. “Have we met before?”

  Hoping the glamour was still holding, he smoothed his gloved hand across the slick hair at his forehead, neatly oiled and combed away from a severe side part in the manner of the aristocratic set. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Elyon frowned, obviously sensing something but unable to make the connection. The glamour must be doing its job. The angel stepped in toward the door and put the key in the lock, and waited for Belphagor to come out past him.

  “These aren’t ready for general distribution yet.” He closed the door firmly.

  “But the call is for tomorrow, is it not?”

  “It’s not certain that the public demonstration will be going ahead tomorrow. I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t mention it until the word is out.”

  Belphagor raised an eyebrow. “Seems like a rather large expense to go to and not follow through.”

  “There may be other actions taking place,” said Elyon. “Timing is everything. In the meantime, please enjoy my hospitality. We have entertainment of every flavor here this evening.”

  Belphagor accompanied him back toward the pa
rty. “Indeed. I brought one flavor of my own—a succulent pair of succubi from The Cat—but I may be in the mood to sample another.” He winked as Elyon glanced over at him. “I hear you’ve tamed that firespirit brute that always hangs about The Brimstone. I’d love to get a taste of that.”

  Elyon’s expression was instantly guarded. “Firespirit brute? I’m sure I don’t know who you mean, but there are treats of all sorts to sample in the salon that may take your fancy.”

  “The ladies at The Cat bragged about you bringing in some red-haired wild boy the other night. That wasn’t the firespirit I’ve heard about? With the steamy mouth?” He winked again and gave Elyon a friendly elbow in the side.

  The duke regarded him for a moment. “Oh, him. He was a bit of a slumming novelty. Haven’t seen him since. Probably gone back to bending over in back alleys for drunks.”

  Belphagor clenched his fist at his side, but kept his face neutral. “Ah, well. The half-Virtue in the salon seemed quite eager to entertain me. I suppose I’ll head back that way.”

  “I thought you were in search of the water closet.”

  Belphagor laughed. “So I was. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “Just down the hallway from the salon.” The angel gestured in the direction from which Belphagor had come.

  “Excellent. Thank you.” He excused himself and found the room Elyon had indicated. Once inside behind the closed door, he punched the wall, stifling a groan of pain as he flexed his bruised fingers. Idiot. Duke Elyon had been deliberately goading him. Belphagor had obviously tipped his hand.

  He waited for a few minutes before stepping into the hallway, thinking he could slip out quietly, but Elyon had apparently hired muscle since the night before, and said muscle was standing in the hallway in front of Belphagor in the form of two earthspirit bruisers who made Vasily look petite. He might have tried to fight them anyway, but the ferocious glare of a Cherub at the end of the corridor made him think twice. He’d had the misfortune of running afoul of their rare breed before. He submitted with a sigh as they escorted him out through the servants’ entrance off the kitchen and watched him until he’d left the property.