by Jane Kindred
There was no public entrance on this side, but a discreetly recessed door led from the supernal rooms to the garden—locked securely, of course, but that was immaterial. Climbing over the wall in a dress was going to be the hard part. He settled on tucking the skirts of his gown and crinoline into his petticoat, modesty be damned; his intent, after all, was not to be seen. Belphagor rolled his eyes at himself that modesty had suddenly become something that even registered in his consciousness. Not to mention the awkward conversation he’d been forced to have with Anzhela when it turned out he had indeed taken on every physical characteristic of his temporary womanhood.
“Bozhe moi.” He gritted his teeth, trying to block the traumatic memory. When this was over, Vasily was going to get the thrashing of his life for having put him through this.
The thought of Vasily brought his concentration back to the task at hand and he scrambled up against the mortar between the stones and gripped the top of the wall, swinging one petticoated leg over and then the other, and dropping soundlessly among the hedges. He took a moment to adjust things and pat down his hair before making his way through the little maze to the door, where he fished a hairpin from his do and went to work on the lock. In the world of Man, elemental radiance enhanced his abilities in this regard, but being an airspirit actually had little to do with his skill in Heaven, despite what he’d told Phaleg. The suggestion merely added to his mystique.
Mystique, of course, was not a term he would have used for it in his normal guise. Even his brain seemed to be becoming feminized—a thought that would likely have mortified him prior to this experience, but despite the disadvantages of physicality he’d experienced, there was a certain keenness of thought he hadn’t had before. Of course, it went hand in hand with this annoying constant self-reflection and mental analysis of every angle of a thing before taking action. He had to admit, though, pausing to think things through was a quality that might have served him well in many situations he couldn’t help but reflect upon now.
“Oh, shut up,” he snapped at himself under his breath as the lock clicked. He carefully let himself in and pressed the door closed behind him. In the stairwell, he swiftly changed into the chambermaid’s uniform Phaleg had pilfered for him and stashed his gown. Dressed this way, he could pass the Seraphim outside the principality’s rooms without notice.
Up the stairs and to the left was the principality’s suite, ending with the gothic library that matched that of Nikolai II of Russia to the last detail. The rooms connecting around the square light shaft on this corner of the palace were mostly the supernal family’s private rooms, except the suite closest to the library, which the duke had been given when the principality had him moved into the palace as acting principality in the aftermath of the assassination attempt. The duke would be in his chambers dressing for dinner, and if Phaleg had succeeded in putting things in place, the principality would be concealed within a cabinet in the gallery of his own library, waiting for Beatrix to deliver the promised proof of Elyon’s treason.
Belphagor slipped inside the duke’s receiving room and saw Elyon with his back to the open bedroom door, giving his boot a quick spit polish. Positioning himself against the doorframe in a provocative pose, Belphagor waited for the duke to straighten and turn. The stark astonishment on Elyon’s face was priceless.
“Beatrix?” He stepped toward Belphagor with a scowl and, with a quick, nervous glance into the receiving room, closed the door. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“We had unfinished business, did we not?” He batted his eyelashes.
“The last thing I need right now is the principality getting wind of your presence in my room!” he hissed, grabbing Belphagor’s wrist. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“Don’t be cross. I have a friend who works as a chambermaid.” He smoothed his free hand down the bodice of his dress. “What do you think? Do I look the part?”
“You’ve gone too far, whore,” he warned.
Belphagor managed a pout. “I wanted to make it up to you for how things turned out at the salon. I thought surely you’d be eager to make use of my services.” He stroked his hand over Elyon’s crisp dinner vest and trailed it down, giving him a wink. “Haven’t you a knob that needs polishing, milord?”
Elyon grasped the other wrist, pulling Belphagor harshly against him. “If you’ve come to service me, I expect to be fully satisfied.” He pressed his hips against Belphagor’s for emphasis, letting him feel his rising erection. “I trust your little problem has cleared up?”
“It has, but regretfully I’m temporarily indisposed in that direction.”
“Well, fortunately for me, I intend to give it to you in the ass as we discussed.” He turned Belphagor about and pushed him against the door as if he meant to do it standing.
Belphagor bit down his instinct to fight and giggled instead. “My, but you’re eager, Your Grace. But don’t you think your valet is bound to come looking for you shortly? You look dressed for a formal dinner.”
Elyon paused with his hands pressing firmly against Belphagor’s sides. “I suppose you have a point.”
“Isn’t the library just next door? There wouldn’t be anyone in there at dinnertime, and no one would think to look for you there.” Belphagor turned his head and gave him a sly glance. “I rather fancied the idea of being bent over His Supernal Majesty’s desk. Would serve him right to have a demoness in heat on top of his personal business, and him none the wiser.”
The gleam in Elyon’s eyes said he’d wagered perfectly. “The principality isn’t well,” he said as if calculating the risk. “He certainly won’t be using it.” He loosed his grip on Belphagor and slipped his arm around the corseted waist, pulling him intimately to his side. “You’re a wicked little thing, aren’t you, Beatrix? I never would have guessed.” And you haven’t; not by a longshot, mudak.
Elyon led him back through the receiving room and through the principality’s private door into the library, taking a quick glance around before locking the other entrances and slipping the key into his pocket. Without another word, he turned Belphagor about and pushed him onto the principality’s broad walnut writing desk, fumbling at the army of lacings up the back of the long apron connecting the straps to the sash that had given Belphagor no end of grief getting into them. “How the devil do I get at you in this thing?”
Belphagor laughed and pushed him away, straightening to work at the laces himself, and putting his back to the desk. “I’m surprised at you, my lord. Haven’t you ever buggered a chambermaid before?”
Elyon smirked. “Generally, I stick to groomsmen and stable boys. Nothing like a quick go in the hay.”
“But it’s such a bitch getting the straw out of your crack.” Belphagor released the first of the straps, which were actually buttoned in place after lacing. “Much nicer to have the run of the palace. What becomes of you if the principality succumbs to his injury?”
Elyon stepped close and wrapped his arms around Belphagor to free the second strap at the back. “As you know, he has no heir.”
“You don’t mean… Am I about to be buggered by the future principality of All the Heavens?”
Elyon untied the sash and dropped the apron, working the buttons down from Belphagor’s nape. “Not officially. Not yet.”
“But you’re actually in line for the throne?”
“As I said, not officially.” Elyon reached the base of the spine on the tight-waisted dress and turned Belphagor around again to manage the rest. “Officially, Grand Duke Lebes Alimielovich and his son Kae are next in line. Unofficially, there are some who feel a change to the old guard is in order.” The last button came away as he hitched the skirt up and laid it open, and Belphagor shivered at the sudden breeze as he yanked the petticoat down. “You truly do have the ass of a boy, my dear Beatrix,” he said admiringly.
Belphagor stilled a shudder of revulsion as the duke stroked his finger down the center. He hoped to hell the principality was really
in the gallery. “I suppose I should give it back, then,” he said lightly, and Elyon laughed and moved his hands to his dress pants to unbutton. “The old guard—so the Union of Liberation really means to overthrow the supernacy.”
“Where the hell did you hear that?” Elyon grabbed him by the hair and yanked Belphagor’s head about, his eyes like flint. “Someone’s put you up to this, you dirty little bint.”
“No one’s put me up to anything,” he replied between gritted teeth as Elyon twisted the hair at his nape.
“Then how do you know of the Union?” His eyes narrowed in fury. “It’s that damned Phaleg! I knew he seemed too eager about fucking a succubus.”
“I suppose he ought to be murdering them, like you.”
Elyon yanked Belphagor around to face him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“My friend Sefi. She overheard your plan to stage an assassination attempt, and you had her killed.” Elyon backhanded him, and Belphagor heard a noise from the gallery as he stumbled against the desk. He had to act fast to get a definitive confession. “Don’t bother to deny it. The demon you framed for the attack on the principality told me everything.”
“That simpleton,” Elyon sneered. “He’s about to swing from the gallows. And you’re going to swing beside him.”
“And I suppose you think the rest of the Supernal Army will rally around you and your Unionists the moment the principality’s dead.”
Elyon gripped him by the throat and slammed him onto the desk, and Belphagor couldn’t make a sound to alert the principality to his predicament as he clawed at the duke’s arm and tried to free his legs from the tangle of petticoat and crinoline so he could kick the duke in the groin. Duke Elyon was equally silent in choking the air out of him, both hands wrapped around Belphagor’s throat and thumbs pressed to his windpipe.
Bright spots exploded in Belphagor’s vision like a burst of Victory Day pyrotechnics as his lungs convulsed and his grip on Elyon’s hands weakened. He let go and stretched his arm across the desk, feeling for something—anything—to use as a weapon before he blacked out. His fingers closed around the edge of a marble inkwell stand, but the angle was too awkward for him to get ahold of it. When he grasped for the inkwell itself, it didn’t budge, mounted in the marble, and the metal pen rolled away from him as he scrabbled for it with his fingers.
At the same moment, one boot tore free of the crinoline, and he rammed his heel against the inside of Elyon’s knee, but with the thickness in his head and the burning in his lungs, the amount of force he was able to muster was inadequate.
Before Belphagor lost consciousness, Elyon gave him a violent jolt and brought his face close. “Go to hell where you belong, whore. You won’t be here to see the Heaven I’ll rule when the House of Arkhangel’sk is overthrown.”
A cabinet above banged open just as Belphagor’s grasping hand closed around a heavy brass letter opener in a depression in the marble inkwell holder. He seized it with all his remaining strength and jammed it into the side of Elyon’s neck. The last thing he heard was Elyon’s howl accompanied by a sharp command from the gentle principality as the room swam away.
“Belphagor. Beatrix. No, dammit!” Someone slapped at his cheek, and the groan it dragged out of Belphagor made him choke and gasp against the pain in his throat. The rasping cough this provoked turned into retching, and someone turned his head to the side. He heaved unproductively, sending a fiery stab through his lungs.
The struggle with Elyon returned to him, and he swung out instinctively against the person kneeling over him.
“Beatrix, it’s Lieutenant Phaleg.” The angel grabbed his swinging fist. “Thank the Heavens. You’re alive.”
For a moment, he saw double, and then his vision cleared and he found not only Phaleg but the principality of All the Heavens staring down at him in concern. Phaleg helped him stand and then quickly stepped behind him to right his clothing while the principality politely turned his back.
“We owe you a great debt, madam.” The principality clasped his hands behind him as he spoke without turning.
“The only reward I require is the demon.” Belphagor brushed Phaleg’s hands away when he continued to fuss with the apron laces after the buttons had been done up. “I’m presentable, Your Supernal Majesty,” he added, putting a hand to his throat at the hoarseness of his voice, as if that would have any effect. Touching the bruises turned out to have been ill advised.
The principality turned, frowning in concern. “And We wish to express Our dismay that you were placed in harm’s way to reveal a deception within Our own ranks to which We were blinded.” He stepped toward Belphagor and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Are you all right, dear girl?”
Belphagor nodded. “Yes, Your Supernal Majesty.” Damn, that was a bitch of a mouthful. He swallowed and regretted it.
The principality’s eyes were kind. “No need to speak.” He steered Belphagor gently to the leather couch by the fireplace. “You must rest here until you’ve recovered your strength. A physician will be along presently. When he’s tended to you and you feel up to it, a carriage will be arranged and Lieutenant Phaleg will see that you’re delivered safely to your home.” He patted Belphagor’s hand as Belphagor sank onto the cushion. “Rest assured, your demon friend will be released as promised.” The principality pressed his hand with gratitude and let himself out. The brief glow of Seraphim lit the room from the corridor before he closed the door.
“I don’t need a physician,” Belphagor said to Phaleg, who was hovering over him. “What happened to that bastard Elyon?”
“The Ophanim carted him off howling like a five-year-old. You missed his carotid by an inch.”
“My aim was a bit off.”
“I’m so sorry.” Phaleg went down on one knee. “We couldn’t tell what was happening for a moment, and I was waiting for Elyon to fully implicate himself before I opened the cabinet.”
“You were here?”
Phaleg nodded. “I concealed myself with the principality, not knowing if the duke might prove dangerous when caught out. I had no idea just how dangerous.” The blue eyes were anxious. “Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You did just as I asked.” He took Phaleg’s hand and squeezed it in lieu of further talking.
While Phaleg fetched his customary clothes from the stairwell so he could change out of the chambermaid’s uniform, Belphagor submitted reluctantly to examination by the supernal physician. The elderly angel—which meant he was somewhere north of two hundred years—pronounced Belphagor “a very lucky girl” and gave him an analgesic powder to mix into a glass of water, but Belphagor didn’t want to stay a moment longer. He’d had enough of being Beatrix, and he wanted to get back to take the restorative elixir. And to be with his boy.
Vasily, however, hadn’t yet been cleared to leave—there were “procedures” that had to be followed, apparently involving mountains of paperwork and supernal signatures—and when Belphagor arrived back at The Cat and took the analgesic, it turned out to be a powerful sedative as well. He passed out without even getting to the elixir and didn’t wake until late the next morning.
When he did, Vasily was at his side. “Beli.” He handed Belphagor a glass of water when he sat up, shaking his head as he watched him drink it with care. “That is you, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed, malchik.”
“You scared me so damned much.” Vasily laid his fingers gently beside the bruises at his neck. His rough growl rivaled the hoarseness of Belphagor’s voice. “That…angel of yours came to tell me what happened as I was being released.” There was still bitter anger in his eyes over the betrayal of Phaleg.
“Vasya, I owe you an apology.” He sighed. “A great many, I suppose.”
“Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. The things I said to you before I left—I needed you angry enough not to try to come with me. Nothing I did was out of spite.”
“I know that.” Vasily looked down at his lap, his back to Belphagor where he sat on the edge of the bed so that Belphagor couldn’t see his expression. “Lev told me.”
“Lev? I didn’t say anything to him about it.”
“Well, he seems to get you pretty well. Better than I do.” More bitterness.
“It was never my intention to hurt you.”
Vasily jumped to his feet. “I can’t do this.”
“Do…what?” He gazed up at the hurt in the hazel eyes, his pulse stuttering with alarm. Had he screwed up this badly? “You mean, be with me?” he managed.
“Be with you?” Vasily’s mouth parted in surprise, his brow wrinkling with consternation. “I—aren’t you dumping me?”
“What the hell, Vasya?” Belphagor swung his legs over the side of the bed, encumbered by the gown he still wore, and yanked it from around his calves as he stood to stare Vasily down. The spiked adornment he’d given Vasily caught the light, and Belphagor put his palm against it as he clutched the back of the firespirit’s neck.
“What do you think I gave you this for?” He pressed hard against the spikes, jamming them into Vasily’s skin until he flinched. “Did you listen to a word I said? This is always, do you hear me? So you either take it out and walk away now, or you deal with my arrogance and stupidity and let me atone for my fool mistakes. Or had you forgotten our agreement? That you chose to take my punishment when I screwed up?” He gave him a dark half-smile. “If you imagined I wasn’t likely to—and frequently—then you need to get to know me better, boy. I might just screw up for the sheer joy of the consequence.”
Vasily bit his lip—a gesture that made Belphagor want to sink his own teeth into it—and blinked his eyes, bright with moisture that was either anticipation or a prelude to tears. Or both. “Beli…could you…are you going to stay like that?”