by Jane Kindred
“The hot piece of Grigori ass is standing right behind me, isn’t he?” said Belphagor in a stage whisper.
“Khrystos, Belphagor. Shut up.”
Belphagor turned and smiled at the young man standing in the doorway narrowing his eyes at them. His smile widened as he took in the lithe, sensuous frame. Damn. “I’m Belphagor,” he said, offering his hand.
Lev took the hand and gave it an exaggeratedly fey kiss. “And I’m a hot piece of Grigori ass. Pleased to meet you.”
Dmitri was glaring at Belphagor when he turned back to the table. “Get your own hot piece of ass.”
Belphagor raised his eyebrow. “What did I do? Besides, I brought my own hot piece of ass, and he’s almost too hot for me to handle.”
Lev came around the table and leaned over Dmitri deliberately to take a sweet bun from the plate on the table and take a bite. “So what’s your story, Belphagor?”
“You can call me Bel.” He tried not to smile at the evil look Dmitri was giving him around Lev. “And my story’s a bit complicated.”
“When is it not?” said Dmitri.
Belphagor shrugged. “I suppose you should know whom you’re harboring. Vasily’s wanted for the assassination of the principality of the Firmament.”
“He’s what?” Dmitri nearly jumped out of his seat.
“At least I think it was an assassination. We didn’t stick around to find out.”
Dmitri frowned. “Since when do you take up with revolutionaries, hot or otherwise?”
“He’s not a revolutionary. He was framed by angels so they could get rid of the new principality without taking any responsibility for it or for starting a civil war.”
“And so you made a beeline for my apartment.”
“I wasn’t looking for your apartment. You offered. I was going to use the usual underground contacts, but then Vasily got sick and I needed to get him off the street.”
“I’m going to tell you right now, Belphagor, that if Seraphim show up at my door, I’m going to hand your boy over wrapped in a bow. I will not get in the middle of celestial politics.”
“Not in my home, you won’t,” Lev retorted, turning to face Dmitri and leaving Belphagor with a prime view of the hot Grigori ass. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Dmitri speechless before. Belphagor was beginning to like this Lev.
Though it wasn’t common knowledge, Dmitri was the Grigori chieftain, which was akin to saying he was the tsar of all the Fallen in the world—or at least of the most powerful Fallen: the Grigori, who were directly descended from the Order of Powers, and their Nephilim kin born of human liaisons. The “ordinary” Fallen could pledge loyalty to the Grigori or not. Technically, the Grigori Duma, assembled ad hoc when important decisions had to be made, were the ultimate authority, but demons across the globe would do Dmitri’s bidding at a word. Nevertheless, he preferred to live humbly, not wanting to draw attention to himself. But most demons thought twice before crossing him.
“I beg your pardon?” Dmitri finally managed.
“No demon who takes sanctuary in this apartment is going to be turned over to a Seraph bounty hunter. I don’t care if you are the chieftain. You taught me the Grigori were all about protecting the Fallen.”
“This is celestial—” Dmitri began, but Lev cut him off.
“Everything is celestial! Where the hell do we fall from? And everything is political. The angels think they have the right to treat us like chattel. One of them strays from the herd and they send their fire hounds to round him up. I don’t care what Vasily’s been accused of. The underground doesn’t turn demons over to Seraphim. Since when did we become subjects of the principality of Heaven?” Lev turned and swept through the kitchen door, slamming it behind him.
“Wow,” said Belphagor. Dmitri sat looking like a stream roller had just driven over him. “He must be one hell of a lay.”
Dmitri expelled the breath he’d been holding. “Do you ever say anything that isn’t wildly inappropriate?”
Belphagor smiled. “Not if I can help it.”
Dmitri sighed and got to his feet. “I assume that unlike dear, literal Lev, you’re aware that was hyperbole. I might throw you out on your ass to find a less conspicuous safe house, but I wouldn’t actually turn Vasily over to a Seraph.”
Belphagor poured himself another cup of tea from the samovar. “Certainly not wrapped in a bow.”
Dmitri tried not to smile. “I guess I’d better go unruffle his feathers.”
“Whatever you want to call it, Dima. Just give me a holler if you want me to join in.”
Dmitri’s laugh was just a touch nervous.
When the bedroom door closed and it seemed clear Dmitri wouldn’t be coming out for a while, Belphagor helped himself to a shower. The shower shared a wall with the bedroom, however, and with the thin Soviet walls, he could hear some vigorous “unruffling” going on. He found himself reluctantly soaping up and “unruffling” himself after a bit, knowing Vasily was in no condition to bring him any relief. He leaned his forehead against the common wall, letting the hot water pound on his back while he pounded on his front, listening to the soft grunts of effort and the rhythmic thump of a headboard against the ubiquitous wood paneling until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He shot the shower wall, with just enough of a groan that the noise from the bedroom ceased immediately.
He smiled to himself as he toweled off, picturing Dmitri gripping the headboard to keep it still, every muscle in his compact but powerful form held tight while he finished in his piece of hot Grigori ass. Dmitri had done well for himself. He and Belphagor had spent some time together a few years back with mutual enjoyment in one another’s company but never quite fitting together. Dmitri was happy to bottom, but he was no submissive, and any attempt on Belphagor’s part to make things interesting had merely annoyed him. It was good to hear him enjoying himself—and clearly topping Lev, which was an interesting development. He wondered what it would be like to watch Dmitri fuck Vasily.
Belphagor groaned inwardly. The firespirit heat had clearly bedeviled him. He was becoming obsessed. Everything made him think of fucking Vasily or of having Vasily fucked. He gathered his second-hand clothes and headed for the converted dining room without putting them on, knowing Vasily would be uncomfortably warm.
Vasily was sound asleep, looking almost angelic. Belphagor slipped under the covers beside him and spooned him. Sure enough, it was like hugging hot coals.
Vasily stirred, and Belphagor regretted waking him for his own selfish need to cuddle, but Vasily tugged Belphagor’s arms tighter around him. “You smell like tea biscuits,” he murmured. Dmitri—or Lev—had vanilla-scented soap.
Belphagor nuzzled his warm neck. “And you smell like a campfire.” He paused and stifled a laugh. “And about a pint of semen.”
There was a brief pause before Vasily muttered, “Ublyudok.”
Belphagor kissed his nape. “Eto moi malchik.” That’s my boy.
Belphagor drifted off and had no idea how long he’d slept when he woke to the smell of blini frying in the adjacent kitchen. He climbed out of bed and tucked the covers around Vasily before shuffling out to investigate. Lev stood at the stove and Dmitri was standing behind him nibbling his ear.
“I hope I get to eat some,” said Belphagor, enjoying the double-entendre.
Dmitri turned and gaped at him standing naked in the doorway. “Bozhe moi. Put something on, for the love of Heaven.”
Belphagor put his hands on his hips and wiggled his toes in his slippers. “I’m wearing my tapochki.”
“Very funny.”
Belphagor shrugged. “If you have something I can borrow, I’d appreciate it. I got my clothes at the pawnshop, and I’d rather wash them before I put them on again. You never know what’s crawling around in human clothing.”
Dmitri sighed and took the spatula from Lev. “Would you run and get him your robe, lyubimaya? Mine would swim on him.”
Lev scuttled off to get the robe, casting
a significant glance at Belphagor as he passed him.
“Love, eh?” Belphagor commented after he’d gone.
Dmitri smiled without looking up from the blin he was flipping. “Seems that way. From the way you were cuddled up in there with your firespirit, I suspect it’s going around.”
“Who, him? He followed me home from the metro station.” Belphagor sat at the table with a sigh. “I have to admit, it scares me a bit how much I—”
“Bozhe MOI!” Dmitri dropped the blin he was flipping onto the floor as he turned and saw Belphagor sitting down. “Get your naked ass off my kitchen chair!”
Belphagor crossed his legs at the knees, bobbing one tapochka in the air. “It’s a clean ass. You certainly didn’t have any objections to putting your t—”
“Belphagor!”
“Oh, let him finish,” said Lev from the door. He leaned against the frame and tossed a robe to Belphagor. “It was just getting interesting. Putting your…toe? Tapochka?”
Belphagor stood, slipping his arms smoothly into the robe as he slung it around his shoulders. “I never get kissed and tell,” he said and tied the sash.
Lev saw the blin on the floor and went to clean it up while Dmitri stood aside, glaring daggers at Belphagor. “You never kiss me that way,” he said to Dmitri with a smirk when he straightened.
“You want to go? Let’s go.” He tugged on Lev’s arm as if he’d drag him to the bedroom, looking deadly serious. “I’ll do it right now. I’ll kiss you ’til you can’t sit down.”
“No need to leave the room for that on my account,” said Belphagor. “Just pretend I’m not here.”
Lev burst out laughing at the look on Dmitri’s face. “Damn. You’re totally ready to give me a tongue-lashing. What else have you done to Belphagor that I can get in on?”
Belphagor helpfully opened his mouth to offer up some more examples, but Dmitri pointed the spatula at him fiercely, like he was wielding a weapon.
“Put a sock in it, Bel.”
Belphagor raised an eyebrow. “We definitely didn’t do that one.”
Lev took the spatula out of Dmitri’s hand and kissed him. “I like this demon, sweetie. Let’s keep him.”
As Lev took over the blin making, Dmitri stepped out of the way and threw his hands in the air in surrender. “Well, you win, Belphagor. You’ve corrupted my hot piece of Grigori ass without even laying a finger on him.”
Belphagor took a mock bow. “If you’d like me to corrupt him by laying anything else on him—or in him—you just let me know.”
Dmitri sat on the other side of the table. “Jesus. You’re exhausting.”
Lev glanced over and winked at Belphagor. “He says that to all the boys.” His eyes lingered on the tattooed stars on Belphagor’s knees showing beneath the hem of the robe. “So what do those mean? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Belphagor stiffened reflexively, though these particular tattoos weren’t ones he was ashamed of. Inevitably, when someone asked about one, they’d go on to ask about others.
“That’s a bit personal, Lyova,” Dmitri said quietly, and Lev looked abashed.
“No, it’s all right,” said Belphagor. “The stars mean I will kneel to no one.”
“Gangster tattoos?” Lev shrugged when Dmitri scowled and shook his head.
“Prison. It’s the Thieves’ code.”
“Vory v zakone.” Lev nodded. “Gangsters.”
“Lev.” Dmitri looked appalled.
Belphagor shrugged. “I suppose you’re not wrong.”
He had a complicated history with the vory, having served time first when he was still a pretty youth. If you didn’t, couldn’t or didn’t know how to fight back in the Zona, it would eat you alive. He’d nearly been devoured. And most of the ink he wore on his back was testimony to that, stitched into him by force to announce his place to everyone who saw him. It was only later, during subsequent incarcerations for one petty crime or another over the years, that Belphagor had toughened up and not only fought back but fought viciously, until he’d earned the series of tattoos that decorated his front, and others on his back to cover earlier shame. Unfortunately, rather than merely advancing him to a position of power, this had meant he was always on his guard, always fighting to prove he’d earned the later tattoos.
And the older he’d gotten, the worse it had become. It was increasingly difficult to explain how he could have earned the myriad tattoos at his apparent young age. The last time he’d fallen, just before the Berlin wall came down, he’d done a short stint that convinced him he wouldn’t survive another. He’d managed to come out on top in the inevitable fight with a younger vor, but just barely. And he’d had to hurt the challenger badly, which he no longer relished. He just wanted to be left in peace.
“Sorry,” said Lev, watching him. “Sometimes I don’t know when to shut my mouth.”
Belphagor resisted the clever remark that sprang to his tongue about putting something in it. He’d probably pushed Dmitri’s buttons as far as he could get away with for the moment. “Don’t worry about it. My fault for coming out naked.” He grinned.
“So what do you say we actually eat these blini before Lev ends up filling the room with them?” Dmitri smiled at Lev. “I think you’ve made plenty.”
Lev glanced at the tall stack on the plate on the counter and laughed. “You have a point.”
“What meal is this, anyway?” Belphagor glanced at the clock on the wall over the table as he took his seat. “Is it six o’clock in the evening or six o’clock in the morning?” Moscow winter made it difficult to tell. Both looked like the middle of the night.
Dmitri laughed. “It’s six in the morning. You slept for fourteen hours,” he added, in case Belphagor hadn’t surmised that much.
Belphagor yawned. “Transcontinental train lag is a bitch. Not to mention trans-sphere.” He loaded his blin with jam and sour cream, relishing one of the many treats he couldn’t get in Raqia. There were definitely things about the world of Man that made it appealing, despite the short life a demon would have here. Dmitri already looked as old as Belphagor did, and he’d only been a few years older than Vasily was now the last time Belphagor had seen him. But he’d lived in the lesser sphere his entire life, aging rapidly, like Men.
After making a serious dent in the stack of blini, Belphagor took a plain blin and a mug of tea into the makeshift guestroom and woke Vasily. If he’d slept fourteen hours, Vasily had slept even longer without replenishing any fluids he was sweating out with the fever.
Vasily sat up groggily and drank the tea, at least no longer shaking with chills, though he was still warmer than normal. He picked at the blin, definitely not yet on the mend.
“Where are we?” he asked. “I don’t remember much about how we got here.”
“A friend’s place in Moscow. Dmitri and his partner Lev. They’re Grigori.”
Vasily’s eyes widened a bit. “Grigori are real? I thought that was just a story.”
“Very real. So are the Nephilim. And television. Want to see some?”
“Nephilim?”
“Television.” Belphagor switched on the little set on the dining table, found a news station and turned the TV toward him. “You can get some practice listening to Russian.”
Vasily stared at the screen in amazement. “How the hell do they do that?”
“Tiny little people live in the box.”
“Seriously?”
Belphagor laughed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t tease you. Invisible signals are broadcast through the air to form moving pictures.”
Vasily made a groggy attempt to glare fire at him. “You’re hilarious.”
Belphagor smiled and kissed him.
“What was that for?”
“For being adorable.”
The weak fire in his eyes blazed a little stronger. “You’re just full of mean this morning.” Vasily settled back into his blankets, bleary eyes on the television for a few minutes until they fluttered closed.
By the following morning, Vasily’s fever had finally broken and he woke alert and hungry, and only a few degrees warmer than an average demon. After eating the bowl of kasha Belphagor brought him, he demonstrated his other renewed appetites with an enthusiastic erection while he watched Belphagor dress in a pair of Russian army fatigues and a long thermal undershirt Lev had lent him.
“I see you’re feeling better.” Belphagor eyed the conspicuous bulge in Vasily’s jeans as he tugged the snug undershirt over his abs and zipped the loose pants. Lev’s build was like the reverse of Belphagor’s, with a slimmer torso but a rounder ass.
“Much,” Vasily agreed, slipping his hand inside the waistband of his jeans.
“I hate to tell you this, sweet boy, but at the moment, you are anything but sweet.” Belphagor gave him an apologetic smile. “To put it bluntly, you’re absolutely filthy.”
Vasily colored. “Well, whose fault is that?”
“I take full responsibility for drenching you repeatedly in my ‘selfish enjoyment’.” Belphagor winked. “And I fully intend to punish myself by proxy by taking it out on your sweet self—once it’s sweet again.” He tossed Lev’s robe at him. “Shower’s that way.”
Vasily growled at him and followed where he’d pointed down the hallway. “How do you use this damn thing?” he complained loudly from the bathroom after a few minutes.
Belphagor had forgotten he’d never seen modern earthly plumbing and went in to turn the water on for him. “I probably should have showed you the water closet first,” he realized as the water began to splash into the tub. “It’s at the other end of the hall.”
Vasily widened his stance as he stood under the warm water. “Too late,” he said, and aimed his cock at the drain.
Belphagor watched with amusement as Vasily pissed in awkward spurts through the inconvenient erection. “I suppose I could help you wash up,” he suggested. “You’re probably weak from the fever.” He closed the door and undressed, watching the remains of his own dried fluids wash from Vasily’s skin down the drain. The firm ass still bore a faint hint of black and blue from where he’d marked him a week ago.