The Fallen Queen

  draped it over him and went up to bed.

  So much for him keeping an eye on me.

  §

  After a night’s sleep I thought better of telling Vasily my plans. To

  explain why I believed Azel still lived I’d have to tell him of the syla and what they’d said to me, and about the power of the fiery blossom.

  It seemed wiser to keep my own counsel. But I needed to know the

  trick to opening the portal in Belphagor’s room at The Brimstone. I’d

  have to get Vasily to tell me the spell.

  It proved more difficult than I expected. The demon was more

  than willing to indulge in drink almost every evening, and there was

  an ample supply, but I learned he was better at holding his liquor than he seemed. I could get him talking about his life in Raqia after a drink or two over a game of poker, but he grew melancholy at the mention

  of Belphagor. Steering him toward the spell and Belphagor’s skill with a lock was no easy task.

  The things he did tell me, however, made me uneasy. Tales of bands

  of angelic youth who came to Raqia to sow their wild oats among the

  peasant class—whether the demoness upon whom they thrust their

  attentions was willing or not—and who took pleasure in ganging up

  to administer savage beatings to young demons in the name of the

  House of Arkhangel’sk. I wondered if my father had known about

  such activities.

  Vasily had also spent time in the cloudy capital of Araphel in the

  Princedom of Zevul—where he had fallen in with his “bad crowd.”

  Deemed the ideal setting for scholarly pursuits because of its gloomy

  weather, Araphel, like its sister city Asphodel in the neighboring

  Princedom of Ma’on, was populated almost entirely by students.

  Araphel was home to Heaven’s academic universities for the noble

  houses of the Fourth Choir, while the academies at Asphodel trained

  its future military officers. Vasily had encountered both.

  136 JANE KINDRED

  While cut off from the company of women, the students treated

  demons like Vasily as playthings for sexual experimentation.

  Sometimes they took young demons—shockingly young, by Vasily’s

  account—under their patronage during their term of study and then

  tossed them aside upon graduation to return to marry their virginal

  betrotheds. The Powers, however, wasted no such efforts on patronage

  or other niceties. Desire for a member of the same sex among the

  military order was seen as weakness. They took their pleasure violently in a show of dominance.

  I was appalled at these stories, but couldn’t doubt their truth.

  Vasily was a terrible liar, particularly under the influence of vodka.

  He also told me the legend of the Archangel Mikhail for whom

  this region had been named. We knew him in Heaven, of course. He

  was the founder of the supernal House many generations past, and the

  only angel ever to have risen to power from the Order of Archangels

  instead of the Principalities. But that he’d fallen to the world of Man for a time was something I’d never heard. Vasily called him one of the Malakim, a sect of archangels who made it their business to interfere

  with the ways of the world of Man. It was Mikhail’s fault, he said, that customs such as those on Ivan Kupala had been subsumed by what

  he called the Holy Church. It was Mikhail’s fault there was a Holy

  Church at all.

  The foolishness of the Malakim was a subject Vasily was happy to

  expound upon. Yet despite his loosened tongue, I had not managed to

  pry out the information I needed before the short northern summer

  drew to a close, and even Vasily eventually tired of nightly drinking.

  Increasingly, evening tea became our ritual instead.

  The days shortened rapidly with summer’s end, and the

  temperatures grew colder, necessitating a fire every night and extra

  blankets on our beds. For the first time, I truly appreciated the custom of tapochki, slipping my feet into them in the mornings when I ventured out of bed, and taking refuge in them from the cold when I

  traded my boots for them after coming in from the garden. I could do

  little there now; only my dill plants had yielded anything before the

  ground grew cold, but I still enjoyed the tranquility of the spot.

  Dry goods and sundries were abundant in the dacha, but

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 137

  perishables had to be replenished regularly. Since we both agreed it

  was better if I was not seen, Vasily had no choice but to trust me not to run away when he took his weekly excursions to the city. If I’d learned the secret of the portal spell, I might have betrayed that trust. Instead, I stayed at home and spent my time doing the washing or chopping

  firewood, and even cooking on occasion once I’d learned a bit from

  Vasily. I gave up trimming my hair close to my head, though I still

  wore the cap—it was my last connection to Heaven, even if it was

  Belphagor’s—but less and less did I remember to bind my breasts.

  When the first snow came, there was still no news from Belphagor.

  Vasily made an extra trip to stock up in case the weather prevented it and returned with a box of books to pass the time. He was teaching me

  Russian, and I was able to read children’s books and had a passable

  understanding of what I read in magazines and newspapers.

  We were reading one afternoon after the sun had made itself

  scarce when a fuse blew out in the latest snowstorm, leaving us in the dark. The wind buffeted the house. I urged Vasily not to try to fix the fuse until daylight. We had the fireplace to keep us warm, but it was

  difficult to read by, and so at barely six o’clock we said goodnight to one another and went up to bed.

  The wind was still high, but the sky had cleared. As I climbed

  beneath my covers, I saw a strange light over the horizon. The

  illumination danced above the trees and colored the snow with a lurid

  green phosphorescence. It rippled upward across the atmosphere like

  the radiance of a firespirit so powerful it encompassed the sky.

  Shivering, I crept to the window to be sure I wasn’t dreaming and

  watched in awe while the light flickered and expanded, winking out

  and then surging forth again, the stars muted by its magnificence. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I didn’t know why. I suddenly felt tiny and

  insignificant in this vast world, far from home and Heaven, and yet my heart was captivated and humbled as if I alone had been chosen to see

  this wonder.

  I padded in my tapochki and flannel nightshirt to Vasily’s room to see if he was awake. He lay in bed, his eyes closed, but they opened

  when I hesitated in his doorway.

  “What is it?” He sat up. “Are you all right?”

  138 JANE KINDRED

  “The sky,” I whispered.

  He put on his spectacles and looked. “The Aurora Borealis.” He

  saw me shivering and pulled back his covers for me to climb in. “The

  Northern Lights. I’ve only seen it once before.”

  Beneath his blankets, I curled against his chest for warmth. “What

  are they? Not seraphic?”

  “No. The phenomenon belongs solely to the world of Man. I don’t

  know what causes it. Something purely mundane, I understand.” He

  wrapped his bare arms around me and watched over his shoulder. He

  was dressed only in a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of briefs.

  “Aren’t
you cold?” I asked. “Don’t you wear a nightshirt to bed?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a firespirit.” His body was warm, almost flushed

  compared to mine. I rested my head against his chest and watched the

  lights, listening to the wind rattling at the window and to the steady beating of his heart.

  “Do you miss him?” I whispered.

  “Always.” There was a universe of longing in that single word.

  I looked up at him, overwhelmed by the urge to protect him from

  the pain Belphagor had caused him, to comfort him as I had when he’d

  wept in my arms. With the strength and heat of his body against me,

  I realized comfort wasn’t my only urge. My virtue had been carefully

  preserved for a political match that would bring heirs to some far-

  corner duchy of Heaven, an unappealing eventuality I’d intended to

  prolong as long as possible. But the stringency of duty and honor had

  drained away into the aether with my family’s blood. Of what use was

  virtue when my world had ended? I had an ardent, urgent desire for

  this demon as I’d wanted nothing in my life.

  He caught me looking at him and his eyes widened in surprise. I

  hadn’t meant to act on this sudden revelation of awakened need, hadn’t meant to throw caution—and my virtue—to the luminous arctic wind,

  but the answering hunger in his eyes loosed my impetuous tongue.

  “What happens,” I breathed, “when a firespirit and a waterspirit

  come together?”

  He pressed his fingers to my lips as if to be sure I was speaking,

  and a spark of wavering violet danced on his hand. I sought his mouth

  with mine and at the meeting of our lips, the light surged around us

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 139

  like our own aurora.

  “Nazkia,” he whispered, pushing the curls away from my eyes to

  look closely at me.

  “Share your heat with me,” I begged. I pulled my nightshirt over

  my head to feel his skin on mine.

  Vasily rolled me over and pressed his body against me, his eyes

  smoldering. I tugged at his briefs with one foot, my legs wrapped

  around his waist. It was all the permission he needed to dispose of the undergarment.

  He looked me in the eyes once more, hard and hot against my

  thigh. Our light snaked across his hair. “Are you sure, Nazkia? Your

  maidenhead…”

  “Take it,” I urged against his ear.

  Vasily covered my mouth with his and caught my cry as he

  complied.

  140 JANE KINDRED

  Chetyrnadtsatoe: In the Redeeming Arms of Kresty

  “You. On your feet!”

  Only too glad to yield the grimy mattress and its rusty framework

  to one of the standing prisoners, Belphagor hopped down from the

  bunk and followed the guard.

  “Suka.” Spittle struck his cheek while he was marched past the

  row of cells.

  Belphagor didn’t bother to ask where he was going. Asking

  questions led to “incidents” more often than not. Incidents, of course, didn’t always involve the guards. Tattoos from previous sojourns in

  the Russian zona hadn’t made him any friends. He had a peculiar juxtaposition of the spades of a thief—considered honorable here—

  and the diamonds of a suka. Less obvious were the suit of hearts, but these couldn’t be hidden in the shower, and he’d been involved in

  more than one incident as a result.

  The guard opened the door to the visitation room. “You have a

  visitor. Ten minutes.” He pushed Belphagor into a seat where Knud

  waited opposite.

  Belphagor folded his arms. “Back again so soon?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I tried to get in to see you earlier, but they kept denying my request.”

  Belphagor shrugged. He knew it wasn’t the young man’s fault;

  he’d gotten himself into this, after all. He’d been doubtful when Knud had introduced himself in Arkhangel’sk as the contact Belphagor had

  arranged to meet. He’d taken pains to make sure they’d left no trail

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 141

  out of Vologda, and had planned to meet with his gypsy contact upon

  his return to St. Petersburg. Yet there Knud had stood in the garden,

  knowing exactly where the angel and Vasily were, and having spent

  hours with them so he could identify them with certainty.

  Knud had apologized for the deceit, but the Parliament of

  Night Travelers who governed gypsy-Fallen relations had deemed

  it necessary. They’d needed to know what Belphagor was trying to

  hide before they’d go to the extraordinary measures he’d proposed in

  negotiating with the Seraphim.

  It was an unusual proposal, to say the least. He’d asked for assistance in getting arrested so he could negotiate from within the relative

  safety of the prison walls—even Seraphim valued a certain amount of

  discretion, and blazing into a public facility to accost a demon wasn’t prudent. Knud was to serve as a go-between in offering the angel’s

  signet ring to the Seraphim in exchange for letting Belphagor and the

  others go their way unharmed. The Seraphim would never hear from

  the angel again. All they had to do was take the ring back to Heaven

  as “proof” of her demise.

  Though the lad looked green, he’d turned out to be nothing but

  professional in his role. After their arrival in St. Petersburg, Knud had made sure Belphagor was accused of an unsolved armed robbery.

  Once Belphagor was safely ensconced in Kresty’s welcoming arms,

  the young man had made the connection with the Seraphim.

  “So I take it you have news?”

  Knud’s expression turned rueful. “There’s a problem. The

  Seraphim have been ordered to return.”

  Belphagor leaned forward, careful not to touch the barrier

  between them. “Shouldn’t that speed things up? They need to shit or

  get off the pot; I’ve just about had my fill of this place. Are they going to deal or not?”

  “That’s the problem. The principality must have caught wind

  of the deal. He’s given us an ultimatum. We deliver both the ring

  and yourself into the custody of the Seraphim or he’ll revoke the

  proscription against their interference with our kind.”

  Belphagor sat back at a warning look from the guard. He scratched

  at the stubble of his beard while considering this new development.

  142 JANE KINDRED

  “Apparently his new queen wants to question you,” Knud added.

  “Maybe she’ll be willing to negotiate for the ring herself.”

  Belphagor almost laughed; a command performance for the

  queen of Heaven. Not quite the outcome he’d planned.

  He suspected the Seraphim might be too stupid to see the

  brilliance of his offer. Their job was to destroy the grand duchess, and bringing back the ring would have been unquestionable proof that

  they’d done so. In dallying so long in the world of Man, the Seraphim

  had tipped off the principality that something was amiss.

  Belphagor sighed. “I gather your people are pressing for Option

  A.”

  Knud gave him an apologetic shrug.

  “What about my safety? I didn’t come here for the fond memories.

  It’s the only place safe from the Seraphim. The minute I’m in their

  ‘custody,’ they’ll grill me like shashlik.”

  “They’re already in trouble with the
crown. They aren’t going to

  jeopardize their position just to take revenge on you.”

  Belphagor wasn’t so sure. Crossing his arms, he nodded to the

  guard who’d given him the five-minute warning. “What assurance do

  I have this queen will give a damn what condition I’m in when they

  deliver me? I don’t like this. Kresty is the only advantage I have.”

  “They suggested to me,” said Knud with obvious discomfort, “that

  you either come with them or die here. They have agents inside who

  can see that it’s done, and not quickly.”

  “Shit.” He’d bluffed that if they didn’t agree to his terms, he’d

  confess to crimes even the Seraphim’s influence couldn’t get him out

  of. He’d remain in Kresty, beyond their reach, and they’d never find

  the ring or the girl. They’d humored him thus far, but it was not in the nature of the Seraph to take losing to a demon gracefully. Pushing

  them any further would seal his fate. They’d call his bluff and see to it he was detained here indefinitely.

  He’d considered this possibility one worth risking; at least the

  ring would no longer be able to lead them to Vasily and the angel.

  But Belphagor had gotten Knud entangled in this, and by extension,

  the entire gypsy race. Potential consequences of Belphagor’s actions

  might sunder an alliance between the Travelers and the Fallen that

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 143

  had lasted millennia. Naturally, there were gypsy agents willing to

  take him out. If their people lost immunity with the Seraphim, all hell would break loose, as the saying went.

  “Time,” snapped the guard. It was indeed.

  “Tell them I agree.”

  The Seraphim’s intercession on his behalf, however, was several

  days in coming. They had influence with certain earthly powers, but

  due to the nature of their relations with humans, dealing with the

  Seraphim was little different than dealing with the Russian bureaucracy.

  Belphagor’s luck had run out, where Kresty was concerned.

  The welfare of prisoners had never been a great concern under any

  incarnation of the Russian government. The red-brick complex of two

  cross-shaped buildings on the bank of the River Neva wasn’t designed

  for the population inhabiting it now, and overcrowding was the least

  of its problems, though it contributed to the worst. Twelve men were