by Jane Kindred
Helison arched his brow. “Indeed? What instrument do you play, Lady Beatrix?”
“The one-handed horn,” said Belphagor, with a completely straight face. The two angels he’d played simultaneously were mysteriously overcome with coughing fits at the same moment.
“I’ve not heard of that,” said Helison politely. “Perhaps you’ll play for Us sometime while you’re in Elysium.”
“It would be my pleasure, Your Supernal Majesty.” Belphagor dropped a little curtsy. Beside him, the duke’s fists were clenched tightly at his sides.
Helison turned to Elyon. “Would you mind if I stole Lady Beatrix away from you for a moment? I’d be delighted to speak with her a bit longer about her aspirations to the Hermitage. I find the calling fascinating.” Elyon’s mouth dropped open, and all he managed was a mute nod as the principality offered Belphagor his arm. “Have you had a chance to see the Winter Garden?” Helison asked. “It’s an absolute marvel.”
“I have not, Your Supernal Majesty.”
“Then you must.” He turned Belphagor toward a small door and led him through an intimate dining room and out through the rotunda to a sort of terraced atrium lit by an assortment of hanging lamps with panels of delicately painted glass. Phaleg followed them through the door and closed it behind him, waiting at attention.
Overhead, the arched ceiling was composed of dozens of skylights that would let the sunlight in during the day, and on the spans supporting the glass, intricate vines and flowers had been painted to match the ivy-covered trellises climbing the walls and spanning the arches. On every ledge and marble surface, an array of southern flowering trees and succulents had been artfully arranged in urns and pots that lined the terraced steps among miniature evergreens from the northern mountains of Aravoth.
“This lovely little bush is called poets’ jasmine, from the coastal lands,” said Helison with apparent interest as he stopped before one.
Belphagor leaned down to sniff the fragrant bloom the principality cupped for him.
“I understand you have information about the demon assassin,” the principality said, his voice suddenly firm and sharp with authority.
Belphagor straightened slowly and met his gaze. It was level with his own, which surprised him, as he rarely met a man of his own stature. “Yes, Your Supernal Majesty. Although you’ve been misled about the involvement of the demons.”
Helison released Belphagor’s arm and crossed both of his over his chest. “How so?”
“The assassination attempt was a plot to discredit the Fallen community and was carried out by angels. The same angels who organized against you that evening in the square.”
Helison cocked an eyebrow. “This ‘Union of Liberation’?”
“Then you know of it.”
“I have heard rumors of it since my inauspicious coronation. I am not entirely unaware of what my princedom thinks of me, nor am I fool enough to allow such treasonous talk to go unchecked. Angels suspected of involvement have been quietly dealt with.”
Belphagor made an effort not to glance Phaleg’s way. “What if I were able to provide you with the name of someone in the highest echelon of the Union? Perhaps the very highest.”
“I would be very interested indeed in such information.”
“Interested enough to offer a reward?”
Helison stared him down. “You tread on dangerous ground, Lady Beatrix.” He frowned and then gave him a sharp nod. “Name your price.”
“My price isn’t facets or property, Your Supernal Majesty. It’s the freedom of an innocent demon.”
“What demon do We have in Our custody?”
“He isn’t in your custody. He’s on the run. He was framed as your would-be assassin.”
The principality’s arm shot out, and Belphagor thought for an instant he was going to strike him, which seemed out of character for dealings with an angelic woman, but Helison gripped his arm above the elbow and stepped in close to him. “My guard will run you through before you can draw your blade,” he growled.
“I have no blade, Your Supernal Majesty. You have nothing at all to fear from me. What I’m telling you is the absolute truth.”
“You expect me to believe you’re in league with the demon who attacked me and yet insist he was framed. I felt his knife in my back!”
“It was an angel who stabbed you. The demon was there under duress to take the fall. He’d been coerced into coming to the square by a threat of violence against a young woman of his acquaintance. He was unarmed. He agreed only to make himself visible as the obvious target in exchange for her life. The angels killed her anyway.”
“What proof do you have of these allegations?”
Belphagor sighed. “I have no proof, Your Supernal Majesty. Only my word. But I can give you the name, and I can offer myself as bait to lure the guilty party into giving you the proof of his crimes with his own tongue.”
“You’re no angel,” the principality realized with a scowl.
“No, sire, I am not.”
“Then the Lady Beatrix—you’re impersonating her. What’s become of her?”
“There is no Lady Beatrix,” said Belphagor. “And that fact ought to lend credence to the validity of the name I’m about to give you.”
Helison’s grip softened on his arm. “What is the name?”
“Will I receive my reward? I believe you’re a man of your word and will stand by it if you give it now.”
The principality let go of him and paced along the border of the container garden with his hands clasped behind his back. “If you can supply a confession from this angel in the presence of my agent…” He paused and sighed. “I will grant a pardon to the demon.”
“A pardon implies a crime. He’s guilty of none.”
“Absolution, then!” The principality spun toward him with exasperation. “The charges against him will be dropped.”
“Thank you, sire.” Belphagor inclined his head in gratitude, suppressing a joyous grin at the tremendous relief those words provided. “The angel who organized the attempt upon your life and the rebellion against your throne is Duke Elyon of the House of Arcadia.”
Helison closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “You will find it difficult to convince me of that,” he said stiffly, and yet he seemed not altogether surprised to hear the name. “Why threaten my life only to cry assassin and leap to my aid?”
“Whether or not the assassination attempt was successful was immaterial to his plan. His goal was to appear as your champion. Had you died of your injury, the Union would have rallied around him as a hero for capturing the principality’s perceived killer—whom Duke Elyon intended to kill as well, as soon as the deed was done.”
Helison turned. “And how would a Fallen strumpet know of such a plot in such great detail?”
Belphagor smiled, not taking offense. “A Fallen strumpet is in a position to learn a great many things from the men who frequent her bed. Such men often like to brag of their exploits—both in and out of the brothel.”
Phaleg cast him a quick look, as if wondering whether he counted among the sort of men Belphagor was disparaging.
“A Fallen strumpet is also practiced in telling lies,” said Helison, though his frown said he was having more difficulty trying not to believe Belphagor than otherwise. His doubts seemed to make him angry. “If you’re telling me false…” He shook his head. “I could have you arrested and hanged before the night is up for making such allegations against an angel of supernal blood.”
“Your Supernal Majesty.” Phaleg stepped away from the door, and Helison turned toward him in surprise. “I can corroborate what Beatrix is saying.” The angel drew his sword, making both Helison and Belphagor stiffen with alarm, but he held it out hilt-first to the principality and bowed on one knee. “I surrender myself to your justice, sire. I am now and until my death your true and faithful servant, but I was a member of the Union of Liberation until late and was privy to all the lady is telling you.”
Helison took the sword, staring down at the angel. “Those are treasonous words, soldier.”
Phaleg hung his head. “Yes, sire.”
“And you are in league with this courtesan.”
“I am. And I would stake my life upon her honor, Your Supernal Majesty.”
The principality stroked his beard, conflicted, as he gripped the sword and pondered Phaleg’s bowed form. “I had thought to make you my agent in this matter, Lieutenant Phaleg. But there’s no point in sending you to obtain proof against Duke Elyon if you’ve conspired with this demoness against him. I cannot trust you in this.”
Phaleg said nothing, and Belphagor could sense the shame emanating from him for having disappointed his principality. “Your Supernal Majesty—”
Helison held up his hand to silence Belphagor and continued his fretful contemplation. At last he sighed and held the sword out, point-down, to Phaleg, who glanced up in surprise to take it. “I cannot trust you in this matter, but I feel I must trust you in all else. To have made such an admission to me cannot have been easy. You know well what the penalty for treason is, and I would have been within my rights to take your head where you knelt. Stand,” he added with a note of irritation as Phaleg gazed up at him.
The angel swiftly obeyed and stood at attention once more, the sword crossed over his chest. The corner of Belphagor’s mouth twitched. Such a well-trained soldier.
Helison inclined his head toward Belphagor. “I shall, however, have to give your proposal some additional thought. Right now, I believe I’ve overtaxed my circulation after all and will have to retire.” He gave Belphagor a polite half bow as if “Beatrix” were a lady of the peerage and turned toward the far side of the garden that opened onto the rotunda. He was moving with an obvious limp; he’d indeed overtaxed himself.
Phaleg started after him. “Your Supernal Majesty, the Seraphim,” he reminded him.
“Let them go to the devil,” Helison snapped, a clear indication that he was in greater pain than he let on.
“I’ll inform the Seraphim that His Supernal Majesty has retired,” said Belphagor with a reassuring hand on Phaleg’s shoulder.
Phaleg glanced back at him. “Be careful,” he warned, and hurried after the principality.
When Belphagor returned to the Malachite Room, all eyes were on him. Elyon, in particular, eyed him intently. As he closed the door with no one following, the Seraphim stepped forward, the large, fiery frames moving more swiftly than Belphagor would have anticipated.
“His Supernal Majesty asked that I convey to you that he was feeling winded and has retired to his rooms,” he informed them.
One of the Seraphim intercepted him with two great strides. “Not acceptable,” he said, in a voice like the reverberation of iron upon iron, struck by a giant hand. Every angel in the parlor clutched his head as if in the grip of a migraine. Before Belphagor could respond, the Seraph had grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. The glowing creature wasn’t exactly burning like the fire he appeared to be composed of, but the searing heat was a close second.
To his surprise, Elyon came to his defense. “Let her down,” he demanded. “Your mandate is to protect the principality, not assault his guests!”
The Seraph turned and glared at him—an impressive thing, coming from a being of elemental fire—and released Belphagor at the same moment so that he stumbled and nearly fell, caught by Elyon at his side. “We will protect the principality against all threats,” the Seraph snarled.
“Then by all means, find out whether he’s in danger!” Elyon snapped, pressing his fingers to his temple against the horrid sound of the Seraph’s voice.
The Seraph turned to the door and threw it wide, revealing the empty room.
“As I said,” Belphagor managed, composing himself, “he’s retired to his rooms. Lieutenant Phaleg has accompanied him.”
“I suggest you hightail it to the principality’s quarters,” Elyon chastised. “Lady Beatrix could hardly have done away with them both in the last five minutes and disposed of the bodies.”
The Seraphim swept past them through the dining room into the rotunda, their bright forms radiating light as they surged down the hall.
“Well, that was unexpected.” Elyon addressed the gathering, trying to laugh off the tension, his arm still around Belphagor’s waist. “Another drink for the Lady Beatrix.” The servant making the rounds with the tray of nepenthe flutes responded instantly, appearing at the duke’s side. Elyon handed a glass to Belphagor. “I knew having you here wouldn’t make for a dull evening,” he murmured as Belphagor drank a bit more than a sip. “What did you and the principality have to talk about?”
“One-handed horns,” said Belphagor.
“Very funny.” Elyon took the glass from his hand and set it down on one of the green-marble-topped tables. “Why don’t we take a walk? I’ll show you the principality’s library. It’s quite impressive.” Without waiting for agreement, he turned Belphagor about and headed through the open door through which the Seraphim had just departed. They passed through the stately rotunda and into a more intimate room with walls lined with bookshelves, and decorated in rich tones of rosewood and leather.
Elyon closed the door and pushed Belphagor back against it. “What the hell are you up to?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”
“Oh, now you play at deference.” Elyon placed his fingers against the red marks from the hot hand of the Seraph at Belphagor’s throat and closed them around it. “What information were you giving the principality?”
Only the knowledge that he needed Elyon to exonerate Vasily kept him from blowing his cover and taking the duke down a peg. He might not possess the same physical strength as when he was himself, but he was certain his technique was unimpaired. “If you must know, Your Grace, he knew me from The Cat.”
This was evidently not the answer Elyon had expected. “The Cat?” His grip loosened. “You’re telling me the principality of All the Heavens visits a demon whorehouse?”
“He has the same needs as any man. In truth, I’ve only seen him there once, and he certainly didn’t advertise his identity. The girls took him for a rich aristocrat, but we had no idea how true that was.” Belphagor placed his gloved hand over Elyon’s and firmly removed it from his throat. “We’d never seen the principality, of course. How would we know what he looked like?”
Elyon’s expression was calculating, as if he were examining this revelation from all angles within his head. “When was this?”
“Oh, at least three or four years ago, now. Perhaps five. I was a fresh young thing at the time.”
Elyon gave him a dubious look, and Belphagor took exception to his doubt on Beatrix’s behalf. “Perhaps five…so he might not yet have married.”
Belphagor shrugged. “He didn’t divulge that information to me, at any rate. He wasn’t my client, but I did entertain him a bit in the parlor while he was relaxing afterward with a pipe. He tucked a pair of huge, perfect facets into my corset. That’s a thing you don’t forget.” Belphagor fluffed his breasts and grinned. “He said they were an ‘homage to the perfection of the pair above ’em.’”
“And he remembered you?”
Belphagor gave him a mock pout, hands on hips. “Everyone remembers me, my lord.” Behind Elyon on the second level of the library, he noted a series of cabinets that could easily conceal a grown angel, and filed this information away. This room might be the perfect place to entrap the duke—if Belphagor ever received another invite to the palace. “The principality wanted my assurance that I’d not come to blackmail him. I told him it was the furthest thing from my mind. Of course, I’m afraid he’s now aware that you brought a whore to the palace and passed her off as your cousin. I don’t think he was amused.”
“And one that he knew,” said Elyon with a smirk. “I doubt he’s going to make a fuss about it.” The duke straightened his bowtie. “Well, you’ve certainly proven the most interesting guest my little salon could have had, my dear Beatrix. Now it’s time for you to earn your supper.” His hands moved down his coat, unbuttoning to the waist. “On your knees, dear. I haven’t got all day.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor before he began to unlace.
Belphagor tried to contain his fury. It wouldn’t do to lose all the ground he’d just made. But he’d be damned if he was going to get on his knees before the son of a succubus and let him use his mouth. The suggestion dredged up memories he didn’t care to revisit. His hands clenched tightly at his sides. “I didn’t even have any supper.” He managed to deliver the words in a lightly mocking tone and give the duke a smile.
“Supper or no supper, the nepenthe you drank alone is more than you’re worth.” Elyon paused at his laces in irritation as Belphagor continued to stand before him. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Before Belphagor could answer, the door they’d come through opened and Phaleg entered. “Pardon me, Your Grace. I hate to interrupt, but His Supernal Majesty has asked that I escort Beatrix off the premises.”
“Well, it can wait five minutes,” said Elyon. “She has business to attend to first.”
“The principality has asked to see you.”
Elyon grimaced and swore, lacing up with reluctance. “Take her, then.” He gave Belphagor a pointed look as he buttoned his coat and went to the door. “We’ll settle accounts another time.”
After hours of climbing and doubling back repeatedly, during which he was sure he’d gone past it half a dozen times, Vasily had finally found the trap door beneath Belphagor’s room at the Brimstone. With relief, he searched for a latch or a handle but found only a smooth surface. When he pounded his fist against it, the door didn’t budge.
“Son of a bitch.” Vasily hammered at it with both hands, but it was no use. Belphagor had magically charmed it. There was no getting in from this side without whatever magic he’d used to do it. The only way in was for someone inside to open it. He wasn’t sure the pounding would even be audible in the celestial realm, or if Belphagor would be there to hear it, but he wasn’t about to go all the way back to Moscow now, so he kept up a steady rhythm, pounding with one fist in a succession of beats, then pausing a minute and starting again.