by Jane Kindred
He’d fallen asleep at some point—it was impossible to gauge the passage of time within the staircase—and when he woke, he sat up and gave it another heavy bang, expecting more nothing in response, only to have the door fly upward away from his fist. Leaning his weight on his forward foot, he nearly fell inside, catching himself with a hand on the rim before he bashed his head against it.
“Bel—?” The query was cut short when Tabris’s face appeared in the light above the hole, looking just as shocked to see him as he was to see her.
“You!” she cried. “Where is she? What have you done with Ouesti?”
He blinked at her. “Westy?” Then he remembered the odd name Belphagor had told him, Sefira’s real name: Ouestucati. “Tabris…” He climbed up into the room beside her and sat on the edge of the opening. “Ouestucati is dead.”
“I’m not a fool!” she cried, and an odd shiver followed the outburst, like an irrepressible tic. “She was here. You brought her here. I came to see. The revealing spell…” She waved a hand vaguely toward the trapdoor. Some spell designed to reveal magical charms must have shown it to her, though what she’d meant to reveal, he couldn’t fathom. Perhaps Sefira’s spirit?
Her eyes looked at once wild and glassy, and her garments were unkempt as if she’d slept in them, and perhaps several times in a row. He wasn’t quite sure what to do in the face of her peculiar behavior. Was she in denial about her sister’s death, or was she demanding to see the body after all this time?
“Did you speak to Belphagor?” he asked. “Is he here?” Tabris stared at him blankly. “The dark-haired demon with the ink on his skin. He took you to Duke Elyon’s villa that night.” He didn’t want to elaborate about what night in case she truly didn’t understand her sister was gone.
Tabris startled him by reaching out and touching the spiked adornment at his neck. “Did they do that to you?”
“Who?”
A shudder went through her, and she pulled her hand back. “The Ophan-Ophanim. Give us the demon,” she said in an odd voice and then seemed to answer herself. “I don’t know where he is! I swear it!” She scrambled to her feet, another shudder racking her.
“Tabris—”
“You!” she cried again, pointing at him. “You’re the assassin!” She fled the room, and Vasily stared after her, not knowing what to do. He couldn’t very well charge out into The Brimstone in pursuit; he was a wanted demon.
After closing the door, he sealed the trapdoor and covered it with the rug. The room didn’t look as if anyone had been here in days. Everything was as they’d left it, except that someone had obviously tossed things about when Sefira’s body was collected and Tabris was arrested. He picked up the tin cup Belphagor used for his shaving lather from where it lay on the floor and sat on the bed, turning it in his hands. Belphagor hadn’t been here at all. Or if he had, he’d been apprehended himself as soon as he’d arrived.
The doorknob rattled, and he jumped. Was it Tabris again, or had the Ophanim come? Before he could decide what to do, the door opened. He was sure he’d locked it.
A chestnut-haired demoness stared at him as if she knew him. “Malchik,” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”
Vasily stood, outraged. “How dare you call me boy! And what the hell are you doing in my room?”
The demoness closed the door. “Vasya, it’s me. I took a glamour.” She crossed the room and put her hand on his arm. “It’s Belphagor.”
He pulled his arm away, scrutinizing her. It couldn’t be. “Then where are your tattoos?”
“They’re glamoured away. Everything’s glamoured away.” She made a wry face, flicking her gray-blue eyes downward for an instant.
Tilting his head as he tried to comprehend how this could be Belphagor, he felt the tug of the spike at his neck. She had no metal bar in her eyebrow. “Belphagor has a piercing. You can’t glamour that away.”
She sighed. “But I can take it out, you stubborn boy. Look here. You can see the holes in my skin.” The demoness rose up on her toes—a very un-Belphagor-like motion—and pinched the flesh at the corner of her eyebrow. Vasily leaned forward and squinted. The holes were there. The unfamiliar mouth curved into a familiar expression, a half-smile, along with a twinkle in the eyes that said she was up to no good. “You see? It’s me.” She reached a hand up to his face and stroked it down his cheek to his neck, resting on the spikes of the barbell. “It’s your Beli. Now what the hell are you doing here?”
Vasily’s heart skipped at the casually delivered phrase: your Beli. The intimate name that Belphagor professed to be embarrassed by, and the possessive that turned everything he’d been thinking on its head. With just three syllables, Belphagor had utterly disarmed him.
“I asked you a question.” The tone of the feminine voice had the same steely authority that turned his legs to jelly.
“You’re a bastard,” he managed weakly. He cursed himself for falling apart within seconds of confronting Belphagor. He’d been rehearsing his words for days, how he planned to demand that Belphagor tell him once and for all if he wanted him, if he meant to be with him always as he’d implied with the piercing of his flesh, or if all of this was just another game for Belphagor to win, Vasily just a prize that amused him when he was in the mood to use him.
“That’s your answer?” The hand at the side of his neck tightened and moved to the back. “I’m a bastard? That’s why you’ve defied me and endangered us both when I’m on the verge of clearing your name?”
Vasily tried to hold on to his defiance. “Just what are you doing running about Heaven like—like that—that could possibly clear my name? Fucking more angels?”
The blue eyes narrowed with anger, but a sound from the corridor interrupted the brewing storm. “Beatrix, are you in there?” The loud whisper accompanied a sharp rap on the door.
Belphagor-turned-demoness opened the door to an alarmingly handsome supernal soldier. “Phaleg? What’s going on? How did you know I was here?”
“They told me at The Cat you’d gone in search of Tabris, and Tabris has just reported…” The angel glanced at Vasily, a quick, appraising look in his eyes. “She turned him in.”
“He’s the one you’ve been fucking, isn’t he?” Vasily burst out, recognizing the intimacy in their body language, the deferential look the angel was giving Belphagor. A fist closed around Vasily’s heart, squeezing the blood out of it. Belphagor had been doing more than just fucking this angel.
“Vasya, we’ll talk about this later. Right now, we have to get you out before someone sees you.”
“I can stall my men,” said the angel. “They’re out front questioning some of the patrons. Do you have a back exit?”
“I don’t need your damned help!” Vasily growled, stepping forward to menace the angel.
The demoness grabbed him by the sleeve, turning him toward the door. “Don’t be an ass about this, malchik.”
Vasily yanked his sleeve from her grasp with a wide swing of his arm, and his fist clipped the soft cheek. As she reeled back with her hand to her face, the angel steadied her in his arms. Vasily gaped at the two, not sure whether to be horrified at himself for hitting a woman, or disgusted with Belphagor for behaving suddenly fragile, or livid at the sight of the angel as Belphagor’s protector.
“Just go to fucking hell, the both of you!” he finally shouted and whirled about to take his chances with the Supernal Army.
Pyatnadtsataya
Belphagor pulled the collar of his long fur close in front of him against the newly falling snow as he watched the troop of angels lead Vasily away toward the bridge in irons. They’d had to wrestle him to the ground outside The Brimstone after he’d barreled his way through the gaming room instead of trying to do the discreet thing and duck out the back. Belphagor should have just said to hell with it and let Phaleg know about the portal. Vasily could have been safely hidden there if he’d just opened it up and told him to wait beneath the room until the principality’s men
gave up and moved on. Though given the way he was acting, he probably wouldn’t have set even a foot below on Belphagor’s orders either.
“I’ll try to make sure they keep the Ophanim away from him,” said Phaleg beside him.
“I need you to get me into the palace again.”
“The palace? They’ll be keeping him in the Conciliary.”
“Not to get him out,” said Belphagor. “To get Elyon alone in the library while the principality conceals himself in the gallery to listen to his confession.”
Phaleg turned to look at him. “Are you sure that’s wise after what happened last night?”
“You think I can’t handle Elyon?”
“Oh, I’m sure you can handle him. I’m just not sure I want him to handle you.”
“Phaleg, I’ve told you I’m not your damned damsel in distress. You may be unaware of the rest of my reputation as the Prince of Tricks, but I am quite well versed in delivering beatings to grown men—with and without their consent.”
“Belphagor may be, but Beatrix has soft, smooth knuckles and rounded, tender flesh, and is outweighed by the rather fit—and younger—duke by a good fifty pounds.” Phaleg reached up and touched the bruise on his cheek, and Belphagor winced and slapped his hand away. “Have you ever bruised like this before? Would you have thought twice about taking your Vasily down to his knees with one hand if he’d decked you in your true form?”
Belphagor shivered and glared. “Goddammit.”
Phaleg wrinkled his brow. “Is that peasant tongue?”
“No, it’s extreme frustration. Bog chert vozmi would be peasant tongue. And it’s not peasant tongue, it’s Russian, a language from the world of Man.”
“You’ve really been there,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.
“Can you get me in or can’t you?”
Phaleg sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. I’d better catch up with my men so I can keep an eye on him.”
“Thank you,” said Belphagor. “For giving a damn about him.”
Phaleg seemed surprised. “Of course.” He hurried after the party dragging the loud, angry demon to Elysium.
Belphagor headed back inside The Cat and found Tabris weeping in Anzhela’s arms in the lobby.
“She found the assassin,” said Anzhela, sharing a look with him over Tabris’s head, and Belphagor nodded.
“They can’t touch me again?” Tabris implored Anzhela. “I gave them the demon.”
“No, Tabi. They can’t touch you. You’re safe here.”
Belphagor sat beside them and put a hand on Tabris’s back, softly stroking, and for once she didn’t shudder or pull away. “He knows you had to, Tabris. He understands. It’s okay.” Tabris cried harder, evidence that this was indeed what tormented her. What the hell had those Ophanim done to the poor girl? He smoothed her hair, and the three of them sat huddled in sisterly comfort—a strange, instinctive behavior that had come to him, evidently, along with his borrowed hormones.
Phaleg sent word the following day that the principality was amenable to his plan, but he was at a loss as to how to lure the duke into the trap. Beatrix had been escorted off the premises at the principality’s orders. It wasn’t as if she could reasonably appear for a social visit. Belphagor would have to appeal to the duke’s wounded pride at having been called out by the principality on his indiscretion. Not only would his ego be vulnerable after the dressing down, but he would want to take his anger out on Beatrix for putting him in such a position—for Beatrix would clearly be the one to whom he’d assigned the blame.
When Belphagor came up with his plan, he waited for Phaleg’s next visit to tell him of it rather than risk discovery should his message be intercepted. It was several days before Phaleg next made an appearance at The Cat, and Belphagor was on edge. The angel had assured him that the principality wouldn’t rush Vasily’s execution, knowing that his innocence might be proven, but Belphagor couldn’t help wondering how his boy was being treated.
When Phaleg was announced, Belphagor had him ushered back to his private room. “You might have sent word before now,” he snapped, pacing angrily as Phaleg sat on his bed.
“I did send word. Did you not get my message the morning following the arrest?”
“Yes, I got it, but it’s been nearly a week since. You’ve told me nothing of Vasily’s present state. Am I just to take it on faith that he’s not being tortured?”
“I’m sorry; I thought it would be dangerous to send communications specifically about him. He’s being treated with civility. No Ophanim interrogations. I promised you I’d make certain of it.”
Belphagor clenched a fist in his hair. Civility from angels to a demon, especially one believed to be an anarchist assassin, strained credulity. If only Vasily had listened to Belphagor and stayed away. Knowing he was sitting in some dank hole believing the worst of Belphagor—not to mention that the worst was true—was eating at him like an ulcer.
“How is the principality’s health?” he asked after calming his rising anxiety with some deep breaths.
“His health?” Phaleg gave him a puzzled look. “He’s recovering.”
“He needs to be seen to be in decline. Let Elyon believe the principality is too weak to be on his feet. Keep Elyon from seeing him. Rumors of a persistent fever and wasting would be even better. The less he fears the principality, the more likely he is to take chances.”
Phaleg nodded. “I think I can get him to agree to that.”
“We have to move as quickly as we can. I can’t leave Vasily hanging.” He grimaced. “Bad choice of words.”
“And what move do you intend to make?”
“I plan to appeal to Elyon’s desire for revenge against me for making him look a fool in front of his sovereign. I was cocky that evening. He won’t have forgotten it. He’ll want his pound of flesh.”
Phaleg looked alarmed. “Pound of flesh?”
“It’s from an earthly tale. He’ll want to take it out on me to make himself feel in control.”
“Belphagor—”
“Don’t start with your misplaced chivalry,” Belphagor snapped. “I’m warning you, Phaleg.”
The angel gazed up at him, troubled. “You’re angry with me. I only meant to look out for you. The duke is a dangerous man, and he’ll be even more dangerous if he feels cornered.”
Belphagor stopped his agitated pacing. “I am angry with you. I’m sorry. I’m doing it again. Projecting my anger at myself onto you.”
“Why are you angry at yourself?”
“Because I’m not omnipotent,” he said with a harsh laugh. “Because I’ve hurt Vasily. And because I’m acutely aware of my privilege as a male demon and how arrogant I’ve been to think all Fallen were equally oppressed.”
“Privilege?”
“You wouldn’t think so, would you? But to realize how much I’ve taken for granted—that I can go anywhere I like, do anything I please, and take a man down for giving me lip or a bad look…” He shook his head. “And that I can do it all without fear of repercussion—or of harm to myself for no reason at all—you try wearing a woman’s skin for a month and let me know how much you like yourself, Phaleg. I dare you.” Belphagor laughed as he realized his anger had brought him to the point of tears. “And this! It’s maddening. Do you think women want to break down in tears when they’re mad as hell? And to top it all off, my damned breasts hurt like the dickens.”
Phaleg’s face went a bit pink and he gave Belphagor an uncomfortable smile. “A month. Belphagor, you’re—”
“Oh, for the love of hell, no!” Belphagor’s eyes went wide. “Do you think…?” He shuddered. “I have to get out of this body. Let’s get this done. Persuade the principality to take a quick turn for the worse. I’ll sneak into the palace myself and let the duke apprehend me, and I’ll get him into the library at the appointed time. Your job will be to get the principality there beforehand and conceal him in the gallery.”
“Sneak in? How do you mean to do th
at? There are two hundred Ophanim surrounding the palace at all times.”
Belphagor smirked. “I’m an airspirit, my angel.”
Phaleg’s flush deepened. “Your angel.”
“You haven’t forgotten that I own you.” Belphagor stepped in front of him at the edge of the bed, forcing him to look up.
“Nyet, ser.” The angel’s voice was gratifyingly unsteady.
“You are a very, very good boy.” Belphagor ran his thumb over the angel’s bottom lip. “You have no idea what I’d give to have possession of all my…faculties…right now.” He smiled and gave the angel’s lip a firm press at the center with his thumb and held it there. “I’d fuck you senseless.” He ignored his conscience that said he wouldn’t do any such thing.
A weak moaning sound escaped the angel that he didn’t seem conscious of, a cross between desire and fear.
“Prove yourself to me.” He prodded the angel’s lip into a pout, stroking against the moist rim. “Put everything in place as I’ve asked by this Friday night, just after dusk.”
Phaleg nodded breathlessly. “Da, ser.”
“And you are not to interfere with my dealings with the duke. Do I make myself clear?”
Phaleg nodded again, his lips pressed tightly together. Whether it was to hold in a retort or to keep another moaning sigh from escaping, Belphagor wasn’t sure.
Using information Phaleg provided on where Duke Elyon was quartered, Belphagor had targeted the northwest wing of the Winter Palace. It overlooked a walled garden where the Supernal Guard was lacking, the concentration of Ophanim being at the entrances on the square and the boulevard facing the Neba—a river whose name so closely matched its earthly counterpart it left no question that someone involved in the establishment of one city had intimately known the other.