The Fallen Queen

by Jane Kindred

  the Seraphim.

  It had seemed natural at the time; they had no right to be in the

  world of Man, and I, with the birthright of my angelic order, would

  send them back. In the aftermath of the events, the enormity of the

  peril I had faced struck me full force. The Seraphim were sent to

  destroy me, or to return me to Heaven, which amounted to the same.

  Had I stopped to think before acting, I was certain we would all be

  dead.

  If Belphagor was right and the Seraphim returned, would I be able

  to send them away again if the means by which I did so the first time

  was still a mystery? Now they were prepared for me, they might not

  be so easily commanded, if commanding indeed was what I’d done.

  Until this morning, I would not have believed it possible for a

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  Seraph to harm one of the House of Arkhangel’sk. They were our

  sworn protectors, but now they served my cousin, and I was in his way.

  I stroked my ring finger, aware for the first time since my fall of the ring’s absence. Legend said the stone, forged of celestial ice, protected us from our own protectors.

  Had I given the ring to Helga for safekeeping? I could not

  remember removing it. My exodus from Heaven was a fevered dream,

  disturbing and best forgotten. All of this confused me, but the strange light formed of my element with Vasily’s fairly stunned me. That his

  fire had somehow mended the damage done to my shade when it

  returned to me on the train seemed logical, because the damage was

  magical. It had not truly happened to me, though it now felt more real than any other moment in my life. Those last thirty seconds of memory

  while my shade’s form was destroyed were a white-hot brand burned

  into my heart.

  What had been done to the demon Vasily, though, wasn’t mere

  magic. He’d been tortured, slowly, his tissues inexorably destroyed by a force akin to his own element. Water, even elemental water, could

  not restore burned flesh. Something else had.

  Despite his weakened state, Vasily resisted help, but he could not

  get to the car on his own, and so Belphagor and I made our way down

  the stairs nearly carrying the large demon between us. Only then did

  he confess he couldn’t see.

  His eyes, too, had been horribly burned before my radiance

  touched him. The intensity of the Seraphim’s radiance was much

  greater in the world of Man than in Heaven, and Vasily must have

  been forced to look upon them to sustain such damage. As with the

  rest of his tissues, his eyes appeared whole, as if they had never burned, but their function was not fully restored. Unable to see the wired

  connections beneath the dashboard of the car without feeling for

  them, he finally admitted he saw only vague shapes and could make

  out no details.

  Belphagor became very solicitous, insisting that Vasily lie down in

  the back seat of the vehicle with a blanket salvaged from one of the

  bedrooms. Vasily protested, declaring he was only a little lightheaded, but Belphagor was firm. By the time we reached the outskirts of the

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  city, the powerfully built fire demon was asleep like a child.

  I watched the scrub rushing past the window, fascinated by the

  small wooden houses appearing here and there along the highway.

  Belphagor called them dachas, rustic cottages where city-dwellers

  retreated in the hot summer months. We were headed toward one

  of these, he said, but one well hidden from the highway. Some were

  little more than huts made of plywood, while others were charming

  summer houses with white wooden carvings hanging from the gables

  like the icing on a gingerbread house.

  We drove far enough to reach true darkness. I watched the

  lavender shades of twilight steal across the sky above the taiga with a kind of awe, as if I had never seen a sunset before.

  “It gets into your blood,” said Belphagor. “The White Nights. Like

  a drug.” He stared forward at the road. Lit by the pale, blue glow of

  the gadgets on the dashboard, a day’s growth of beard gave his jaw a

  more rugged look than usual. He was almost handsome, for a demon.

  I nodded and leaned back against the seat. “Thank you.”

  Belphagor lifted his eyebrow, the silver spike through it catching

  the flash of the setting sun. “For what?”

  “Keeping your promise. You’ve both risked your lives.”

  The demon’s attention flicked briefly from the road.

  “Not for you,” murmured Vasily from the back seat, awakened by

  our voices. “For the money.”

  Belphagor’s lips twitched. “Maybe a little bit of both.

  The dacha sat at the end of a dirt road hidden from the highway

  by a dense covering of trees. We wound through the darkness, the pale

  circles of our headlamps showing only vegetation until the sudden

  appearance of a man bearing an earthly weapon. Belphagor stopped

  and waited while the armed man approached his window.

  “Kto vy?” He shoved the barrel of his weapon through the open

  window and jabbed Belphagor in the chest.

  Belphagor answered him in the angelic tongue. “We’re fellow

  travelers. Belphagor and Vasily—and Malchik.”

  The man glanced in the backseat and then peered in at me. “Your

  reputation precedes you,” he said to Belphagor. He grinned, clasping

  his hand in greeting. “Trust the Prince of Tricks to lead the angelic

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  youth astray. This one hasn’t even got down on his cheeks.”

  “Just an apprentice,” said Belphagor.

  “Whatever you say.” The demon gestured with his weapon to

  wave him on.

  I studied Belphagor’s profile. “Why did he call you a prince?

  You’re not even Host.”

  “We’re all ‘Host.’” He drove forward on the gravel, his face hard.

  “What do you think demons are, trained apes? I assure you, we’re all

  the same under our clothes.”

  I blushed. What was under his clothes was certainly not what was

  under mine. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that you couldn’t be

  from a noble house. You’re Fallen.”

  “You don’t need to tell me what I am.” He pulled up before a

  wooden structure with a sharp, pointed roof and an overhanging

  veranda that looked as if it might topple the building. With a twist of his wrist that might have been demon sleight of hand or just disengaging

  the wires, he stopped the engine. “You’ve led a very sheltered life,

  Nenny.”

  “You shouldn’t call me that,” I reminded him.

  “Yes.” Vasily sat up and hooked his elbows over the top of the

  seat. “You shouldn’t call Malchik that.” There was clearly some deeper meaning to his words I couldn’t fathom. “Prince of Tricks is a nickname Belphagor earned in Raqia. Call it a term of endearment.”

  The door opened at the top of the wooden stairs and a stocky,

  bearded demon raised a hand to him. “Come in! Come in, my friends!”

  We followed our host up the stairs, supporting Vasily between

  us, into a primitively appointed cabin decorated with bright swatches

  of red and white embroidered cloth. There were at least half a dozen

  demons sharing the space, and except for Boris, who had met us o
n the

  drive, and Nikita, who led us in, I could not remember all their names.

  We lowered Vasily onto the cushions of a wooden couch, but he

  refused to lie down when he discovered drinks were being poured.

  Instead of the ubiquitous tea, it was a red liquid served in short, clear glasses. Nikita poured a round for everyone while another demon

  brought out a tray of smoked fish and potatoes.

  “Cranberry vodka.” Belphagor handed me a glass. “Homemade.”

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  This meant nothing to me, but I realized how parched I was and

  I drank it quickly, though it was a bit sharp going down. Nikita and

  Boris laughed, falling over themselves to pour me another.

  “Chtob vse byli zdorovy!” One of them touched his glass to mine with a loud clink.

  I glanced at Belphagor, but he merely smiled and passed me a

  plate. If it was poison, I supposed it would be no more gruesome a way to die than any other I had imagined at their hands, and so I drank

  and ate.

  The vodka had a pleasant warmth to it, and on such an empty

  stomach, the simple food was like an angelic feast. I soon relaxed into my chair, letting the harrowing day slip away into past experience.

  I hardly noticed when the talk around me switched from angelic to

  Russian, with “Malchik,” interspersed into the conversation, the only

  word I recognized.

  As the evening wore on, Vasily became more animated. At one

  point, he stood, holding onto the edge of the couch, and began to

  recite a long passage of Russian verse, his hand waving spiritedly with his drink. Though I couldn’t understand the words, the demon’s rough

  voice was surprisingly evocative, and the meter and rhyme of the verse rolling off his tongue was nearly breathtaking.

  “Yevgeniy Onegin,” Belphagor said to me. “Pushkin. Famous

  Russian poet.”

  “Da, Vasily… our dyemon Onegin,” said one of the demons to a chorus of laughter.

  “Nyet! Pushkin!” Another demon raised a toast. “Look at his

  beard. Looks just like him. To the Pushkin of Purgatory!”

  Vasily ignored this and continued his recital, raising his glass and

  taking a drink at the end of each stanza while the others cheered. More drink poured, and I realized this vodka was some kind of alcoholic

  beverage. I’d been allowed to drink wine and champagne, but we’d

  never had anything stronger at the palace. It made me lightheaded,

  but it soothed me more than anything I had encountered in this world.

  As Vasily finished his verse, Belphagor produced a handful

  of cigars, and more cheering and drinking ensued when Vasily

  demonstrated his firespirit ability by lighting them for the others on

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  the end of his tongue. The demons passed one to me and I waved it

  away, contributing to their amusement.

  Vasily’s gift was again put to use in lighting a fire in the fireplace, but the gust of breath he exhaled to stoke it left him coughing and

  pale, and Belphagor stepped in at last.

  “That’s enough for you, my friend.” He helped Vasily to his feet.

  “Off to bed with you.” Belphagor led him toward the back of the dacha, swaying against him, and more cheering in Russian and laughter from

  the demons followed.

  I leaned back in my chair and stared into the fire, mesmerized by

  the flames dancing like Seraphim before me. I had acted once without

  being fully conscious of the danger they posed—and would pose again,

  if Belphagor was right. However my element had managed to dispel

  them, they would be ready for it the next time and I would not have

  the luxury of beginner’s luck. My presence in this world had nearly

  cost Vasily his life, and two of their friends had lost theirs in earnest. If the Seraphim found us again— when they found us again—I could not let them harm anyone else, Fallen or not, because of me. I determined

  then in the bravado of drink that when they came again, I would go

  with them willingly. I was the Grand Duchess Anazakia Helisonovna

  of the House of Arkhangel’sk, and I would…

  I lurched to my feet, suddenly aware of the churning fish and vodka

  in my stomach. I used one of the crucial Russian phrases Belphagor

  had taught me. “Gdye tualyet?”

  Nikita laughed and came to my side to lead me to the outhouse. I

  barely made it to the toilet and expelled everything I’d ingested. The numbing of the alcohol, however, had the advantage of making the

  experience relatively painless and forgettable.

  With eager attentiveness, the residents of the dacha continued to

  refill my glass, speaking to me in Russian and grinning at my helpless shrugs. Under the influence of the drink and the fire, I soon nodded off to sleep, happily numb, until a rough hand against my mouth woke me.

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 85

  Desyatoe: Ya Vas Lyubil

  Vasily fell asleep in his arms the moment they hit the bed.

  Belphagor traced the spikes at his neck with his thumb. Splitting up

  had been stupid. If the angel took flight again, they would pursue her together. The forces against them were too great to risk alone; they

  needed the safety of numbers, even meager ones.

  He pressed his lips against the thick locks tumbled over his arm

  and was arrested by the sound of a cry from the front of the dacha. It was muffled and cut short, but it was the frightened voice of the angel.

  Vasily was out cold and didn’t stir when Belphagor shoved him

  aside and leapt over him. From the hallway, he saw Boris straddling

  the chair by the fire. All he could see of the girl were her thrashing legs and the belt of her jeans dangling loose.

  He crossed the room in three strides and yanked Boris up by the

  collar, eliciting a yelp of surprise. The angel stumbled from the chair and hitched up her pants. Her face seemed to war between fear and

  anger before she burst into tears.

  Belphagor shook the demon. “What in the name of hell is wrong

  with you?” He looked around at the others standing about. “What is

  wrong with all of you?”

  Boris pulled his collar away from Belphagor’s fist. “I wasn’t

  hurting her.”

  “Then why is she sobbing?” With the fist Boris had freed,

  Belphagor knocked the drunken demon to the floor.

  Boris looked up at him with a mixture of guilt and anger, rubbing

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  his reddened jaw. “Your ‘Malchik’ is a girl.” He seemed to think that

  explained it. “I was just verifying.”

  Belphagor looked to the angel, swaying on her feet. “Did he—?”

  His face reddened. “Did he ‘despoil’ you?”

  The angel shook her head, wiping at her cheeks with a curled fist.

  “He touched me.” She took an unsteady breath. “With his fingers.”

  “I told you, I was just verifying.” Boris started to get up.

  “I’d advise you to stay down.” Belphagor regarded him with black

  fury, and the demon sat back on the floor. “The dacha is supposed to

  be a safe house.” He looked at the others standing like sheep against

  the walls, unresponsive.

  “Not for angels,” said Boris, and then cringed when Belphagor

  made a move toward him.

  “For the Fallen,” Belphagor snapped. “I’m sick of these stupid

  distinctions. Angels or demons, there’s only one way to get here. We’re all Fallen.” Belphag
or took the unsteady angel by the arm. “Malchik is under my protection.”

  The girl was weeping again when he closed the bedroom door.

  Belphagor looked around, not sure what to do with a weeping

  angel. “You’ll sleep with us.” He sat on the bed. “Here in between us.

  No one will touch you.”

  The offer was more effective than he expected. The weeping

  stopped immediately, and she sucked in her breath with a slight recoil, as though he’d suggested she sleep in the mud, but when he held

  out his hand, she took it and climbed into bed. Belphagor pulled the

  coverings over her and Vasily, with just enough blanket to reach his

  own left shoulder. Despite her air of angelic aloofness, the moment

  she was asleep, the angel curled against him with the trust of a child.

  §

  They might have left the White Nights behind, but the sun was still

  up early in Novgorod Oblast. Vasily stretched his limbs, remembering

  the comforting arms of Belphagor around him as he’d fallen asleep.

  But the body beside him was not Belphagor’s.

  Vasily rolled over and squinted in the sunlight streaming through

  the window. He could just make out the form of the angel lying in the

  bed, face buried in the hollow of Belphagor’s shoulder. He felt his

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 87

  inner fire combusting. What the hell had happened after he’d passed

  out? Belphagor had never been able to be faithful when they were

  together, but Vasily had never seen him with a girl.

  There was a first time for everything, he supposed. Vasily

  wasn’t particular about a lover’s sex. On a visceral level, he almost

  preferred women because the emotional connection wasn’t so strong.

  But Belphagor had been his first and maybe only love, and for Bel

  to disrespect him this way while he was asleep in the same bed was

  beyond the pale.

  Vasily sat up and yanked the blanket back, intending to embarrass

  them, but both Belphagor and the angel were fully clothed. She shrank

  from him as if he’d raised his hand to her. He supposed it had entered his mind.

  Belphagor yawned and pulled his arm out from under the angel to

  prop himself up. “What’s going on?”

  “I thought you might tell me. How drunk were you that you

  fucked her with your clothes on?”

  Her hand went to her belt buckle, hanging open by the sound of it,