by Jane Kindred
“Sacrifices you’ve made?” I held on to Love to keep from leaping up and striking my former nurse, the woman who’d cared for me through childhood illnesses, who had bathed and clothed and fed me when I was small. I had once trusted her more than anyone in my life, as Ola now trusted Love. I shook my head at her in disgust. “You are well and truly mad.”
“I’m fighting to save this world from a tyrant,” she said haughtily. “Fighting to free my people from centuries of bondage. Something Vashti’s kind ought to appreciate. As should your little gypsy.” Helga gave Love a scornful look. “Yet she does your bidding like a happy little slave.”
Love took a sharp, shocked breath and drew back, wiping her eyes.
Vashti, who’d risen and crossed the room as she spoke, stopped before Helga, her six feet towering over the shorter woman. “And just what the hell do you mean by ’my kind’? You know bollocks about my kind.” She slapped Helga with the full force of her nephilic strength, and the older woman buckled at the knees but caught herself and stood upright. Vashti gripped her palm as if the blow had hurt her hand, and Helga smiled, fingering the locket at her breast. Vashti drew the hand to her waist. “As for Love, you don’t know bollocks about her kind, either, so don’t you talk about her or even speak to her. Anyone who insults Love or so much as touches her or Anazakia or that baby will answer to me.” She looked embarrassed as she turned away from Helga and saw that Ola had scrambled up from Margarita’s lap into Love’s, regarding her warily.
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Margarita murmured as Vashti sat down next to her at the little table that clearly had not been designed for someone of her size.
“Remind me to shut up.” She gave me an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to scare her. Don’t mind me, kid,” she said to Ola, attempting a smile. “Vashti is very naughty.”
I looked away from her. If she thought changing her allegiance now was going to make up for her part in this, she was as mad as Helga.
From the bench by the door, Lively watched with curiosity, apparently unperturbed by Vashti’s assault on her aunt.
“What about demons who enslave one another?” I asked Helga. “Where do they fit in your revolution? Or was that just one more thing Lively was lying about? Did your family actually sell her?”
Helga shrugged. “People do what they must to survive. I passed for angelic. My brother wasn’t so fortunate. He was more like your Vasily, wearing his demonic persona with defiant pride. My sister-in-law was rather fecund and they couldn’t afford to feed all those mouths. But most of them found decent posts.” She smiled at Lively. “Lively will inherit the apothecary when her employer passes on. There’ll be no need to sell her baby. Of course, her baby will be very special.”
“Yes,” I said. “It will be polovina-d’yavol.”
Helga glared at me.
“It will be Ola’s little brother or sister,” Lively said smugly. “Then you won’t be the only one with something special.”
“Don’t ask,” I said as Vashti and Margarita exchanged looks of surprise.
Lively didn’t wait for them to. “I’m carrying Vasily’s baby.” She cupped her stomach with a smile.
Love, who hadn’t known about Vasily’s part in Lively’s condition, seemed particularly offended by the notion. “Eto fignya. He would never cheat on Nazkia.”
“I wouldn’t call it cheating,” I reminded her. “He belongs to Belphagor.”
“Beli,” said Ola, pleased with herself for recognizing this name.
Love put her hands over Ola’s ears as if she would understand what was being said. “But while you were searching for Ola?”
“He thought she was me.” I was irritated at having to go over this and even more irritated that Lively was obviously enjoying it.
Love looked confused for a moment before the realization dawned on her. “Oh. The glamour. You looked like her.”
“Believe whatever you like about how it happened.” Lively took a bite of one of the pieces of cracker bread she kept in her pocket. I’d never seen anyone look so pleased with herself in all my life. She was like a cat fat with cream. “The fact remains that his seed is in my belly.”
“Beli,” said Ola. She slipped from Love’s lap and went to pat on the door. “Go see Beli.”
Vosemnadtsatoe: Wild Card
The monk spent nearly every waking moment murmuring the words of an Orthodox prayer about the Christian god Jesus. He knelt on the floor of the dungeon with his face pressed to the ground—something Belphagor considered inadvisable—holding a rope of knotted wool that he worked in his fingers with each iteration of the prayer. At least he was eating now, if only small pieces of bread. It seemed his brief reunion with Love had given him the will to live.
Belphagor stole a glance at Vasily on the cot beside him. He could understand the sentiment.
Vasily nodded toward the monk. “Does he ever stop that?”
“Not so you’d notice.”
“It’s the Prayer of the Heart,” said Lev, leaning against the bars. “I learned it in church.”
Belphagor regarded him dubiously. “You’ve been to church?”
“Why not? Churches are pretty.” Lev shrugged. “I like the sense of ceremony, the peaceful meditation.”
Dmitri smirked at Lev. “I keep telling him he’s going to burst into flames one of these days.”
“I prefer the church of chance myself.” Belphagor clasped his fingers in front of him and cracked his knuckles as he stretched, glad not to have his wrists bound. “I could do with some ’ceremony’ right about now. Can’t remember the last time I partook of a good game of wingcasting.”
Nebo, at the other end of the cot, pulled a leather bag from his coat pocket and held it up. “It just so happens I’ve got a deck right here.” He grinned at Vasily. “Took it from a fellow along the road to Aravoth who didn’t seem to need it.”
Vasily laughed and Belphagor raised his pierced eyebrow. Apparently the two of them had shared a bit of adventure.
The graceful Virtues, shackled in the cell across from them, watched with curiosity as Belphagor and Vasily turned the iron cot into a wingcasting table. Stretching a coat across the frame for a surface to cast the die and deal out cards, the five players sat around the table while the monk continued his devotion unperturbed.
“Teams?” asked Belphagor as he dealt.
“With you and Vasily together?” Lev rolled his eyes. “We’ve met you, you know. I think we’ll stick to single-player.”
Belphagor shrugged and dealt out seven cards to each of them. “Aeons wild.”
“Just a minute.” Dmitri grabbed up his cards. “You can’t call a wild card after you’ve already looked at your hand.”
“I hadn’t looked.” Belphagor tried to maintain a straight face and then grinned as the others stared him down. “All right, nothing wild for this hand. Your cast, Dmitri.” He set the die before him.
Dmitri threw the twelve-sided die lightly across the makeshift table, and Nebo, to his left, called out “Ptarmigan.” The die landed on the Phoenix.
“What are we betting?” asked Nebo. “Rubles? Facets?” He looked into his pocket. “I’ve also got euros.”
Belphagor laughed. “We’re betting you won’t notice we’re all broke. Go ahead and throw in. We’ll be happy to take whatever you’ve got.”
“How ’bout we play for who has to sleep next to the piss-pot tonight,” Lev suggested, wrinkling his nose.
“Was that piss-pot or piss spot?” asked Vasily. “The cot seemed a little damp after you had it last.”
“Oh, ouch.” Dmitri examined his hand. “That was the wet spot, not the piss spot.”
Nebo laughed. “You’re the craziest bunch of demons I’ve ever played with. I’m not putting down anything.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Belphagor dropped his cards onto the cot in front of them. “Full choir plus a full sphere.” The complete Second Choir—Seraph, Cherub, and Ophan—in the suit of
facets was neatly arranged next to the Aeon, Seraph, Dominion, and Principality of tricks, the first orders of each choir.
“You dealt yourself a Scarlet Wing on the first round?” Lev tossed down his cards. “You are so cheating, Prince of Tricks!”
Belphagor grinned. “There’s no need for name calling.”
Vasily was smiling at him over his black-rimmed spectacles, and Belphagor’s pulse picked up a beat. Vasily had always been aroused by his antics at the wingcasting table. There had been more nights than he could count, back in the day, when he’d gotten up in the middle of a game to take Vasily back to his room at The Brimstone to “punish” him for his own misdeeds. It was an agreement they’d come to early on in their relationship that seemed to suit them both. Despite his temper, Vasily was generally too well behaved to earn the sort of treatment he craved from Belphagor, while Belphagor, by his nature, was as Lev had said: the Prince of Tricks.
It was a double-entendre on Belphagor’s wandering eye. Punishing Vasily for such wanderings as well had made the wandering and the punishing that much more exciting. Lev, in fact, had been a bit of that wandering when they’d first met. Because of the natural aging that occurred in the terrestrial sphere, Dmitri and Lev appeared some years older than Belphagor and Vasily now, but they’d been a perfectly matched foursome for a time.
“How nice to see you amusing yourselves.” The field marshal stepped into the torchlight from the darkened passageway in his trademark black, right down to the leather mask that covered his disfigurement. Looking at him now, Belphagor was surprised he hadn’t seen it before. As principality, Kae had dressed always in black, presumably at the desire of his queen. She’d found it amusing to dress Belphagor in ivories and creams so that when they encountered each other, the effect was that of two pawns on a chessboard. Indeed, that was exactly what they’d both been.
He wasn’t sure to what extent Anazakia’s cousin was under Aeval’s control, but he suspected the principality hadn’t even been aware of his state. Even now, the field marshal seemed unaware of who he’d once been, which made his disguise all the more convincing.
Clearly, however, he remembered something of Belphagor, even if he wasn’t certain why. He walked slowly along the corridor of the dungeon with the pleti in his hand, running it along the bars. The knotted leather-and-lead flogger was an antique instrument from the brutal history of Russia’s prison system. Aeval had procured it for Kae, wanting to see it used on Belphagor, and Kae had taken to it like a natural—Belphagor was enough of a connoisseur to know.
“Who is that for?” Belphagor nodded at the pleti. He felt Vasily’s fury rising beside him and he touched his hand lightly to calm him.
Kae noted the motion. “Charming.” He looked at Dmitri and Lev as he stopped before the cell. “Are you all…that way?” He smiled as Lev betrayed his surprise. “Yes, I’ve noted your unnatural tendencies, though you were wise to try to hide it. My men have been growing restless after so long on the road—and you do look like you’d put up less of a fight than those two toms.” He cocked his head. “Is it a demon thing? Do you simply fall to depravity despite yourselves?”
“What do you mean by ’tom’?” Nebo looked as if he was about to rise and challenge the field marshal. “If you’re implying my sister is a dyke—”
“It’s really best not to engage him,” Belphagor murmured, and then ignored his own advice and gave Kae a contemptuous look. “Certainly not to disagree with him. He gets quite testy if you challenge his world view.”
Kae stood perfectly still for a moment. His silence was like that of a sleeping Vesuvius, deceptively tranquil until it went off.
“Of course she’s a dyke.” Belphagor gathered up the cards. “We’re all dykes. Just a bunch of happy little dykes. She’s just better groomed than you are.”
“What is it you think you know about me, demon?” Kae stroked the pleti.
Again, Vasily tensed beside him, and again Belphagor stilled his hand. “What is it you think you know about me? Why did you call me the queen’s pet?” He dug his nails into the back of Vasily’s hand this time to stop him from reacting. Instead of his murderous fury at the angel, Vasily’s breath quickened with the more familiar outrage that Belphagor’s seemingly arbitrary acts of cruelty always inspired in him. As much as Vasily desired it, it always infuriated him at first when Belphagor appeared to abuse him without cause. Indignant resistance and a sense of being unfairly wronged seemed to be a key ingredient in Vasily’s eventual surrender and release.
Belphagor was actually surprised and touched to have elicited such a reaction. Perhaps Vasily had forgiven him for his unconscionable stupidity now that they’d found Ola. Perhaps he was feeling just a little bit of fear at how far over the line he’d stepped—not that Belphagor hadn’t deserved it.
He deliberately broke the skin as he squeezed Vasily’s hand behind him, feeling the thrill of the hot blood against his fingers. He hoped he’d have the opportunity to make good on the implied threat—as well as the energy and fortitude to carry it through.
Kae looked unnerved. “Your reputation,” he answered vaguely. “Every man in the Queen’s Army knows about you.”
“Do they really?” Belphagor pretended to be flattered. “The queen actually shares such intimate details with the enlisted men?”
Kae struck the bars with the pleti. “You will not speak of Her Supernal Majesty with such insolence!”
“Me?” Belphagor released Vasily’s hand to shuffle the deck. “I believe it was you who were being indelicate and discussing Her Supernal Majesty’s private business in front of your entire company.” He shrugged. “Though how you’d know about it, I can’t imagine.” He cut the deck. “Shall I deal you in? We could use a little in the pot.” He glanced up at the field marshal, gauging the level of rage that was building in his cold veins. “You know the game, don’t you? Or haven’t you figured it out yet?”
The field marshal raised a cool eyebrow at him. “Your game, sir? No, I have not. But I intend to.”
Belphagor had lost the moment. Kae’s volatile blood, held in check by the queen who commanded it, was no longer threatening to rise out of control. They’d done it once, he and Anazakia, nearly driving the man out of his mind, and might have killed him in the process. The heat of Vasily’s child inside her womb had seemed to spark an answering heat in Kae’s blood when he’d grabbed Anazakia after Belphagor had driven him to a frenzy. Belphagor wondered what would happen if he let Vasily at him.
Once the angel’s frozen blood had begun to heat, his temperature couldn’t be brought down. Only Aeval had been able to return him to equilibrium. Without her to cool him once driven to fever, Kae would likely die. Belphagor shrugged, unable to see a downside.
“However.” Kae pulled his eyes away as if Belphagor had mesmerized him. “Figuring out your game is not why I came down here.” He moved to the opposite cell and unlocked the door. Pulling one of the shackled Virtues to his feet, he led him out into the corridor with the chain dragging between his ankles. The Virtue looked barely old enough to hold a sword.
“What is your name?” The field marshal observed him as if with idle curiosity.
“Loquel.”
Kae turned him about and hooked the shackles that locked his wrists together on a peg protruding from the cell bars above his head, so that Loquel had to stand on the balls of his feet.
“Well, Loquel.” Kae tore open the jacket at his back. “I intend to have more names from you before I’m through.” He swung and struck the Virtue with the pleti before he’d even given him a chance.
Loquel cried out in surprise, scrabbling with his feet to remain standing.
In his head, Belphagor heard the sound of Aeval’s melodic laughter the first time Kae had beaten him with that same weapon, with an equal lack of warning. Her delighted voice echoed in his memory. Oh, if you could only see your face!
“That was a warning.” The field marshal turned Loquel’s head toward him. “A t
aste of what you can expect if you defy me.” The path of the lead balls in the leather thongs was already livid against the Virtue’s back.
Virtues were not normally warriors. The Powers of their choir had that distinction, while Virtues studied the law and used their intellect and wisdom to enforce it. They didn’t seem built for war, and certainly not to withstand the sort of abuse a man like Kae Lebesovich took pleasure in meting out.
“Your leader told me before he died that he’d come from the estate of Sar Sarael.”
The Virtue said nothing, and Kae struck him again. The other angels turned their heads away, evidently unable to look Loquel in the eyes as he was suffering.
Loquel swung forward off his feet before catching himself with difficulty, his knees bashing against the bars. “Yes, sir! We came from Pyr Amaravati!”
“Good.” The field marshal nodded. “And for whom does Sar Sarael procure such forces?”
“For whom, sir?” He gasped as Kae struck him again, his legs trembling as he tried to remain on his toes. “Please, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”
The next blow landed on his lower back and curled around his side. The luminous Virtuous flesh was already scored with ugly welts, and this drew blood. Loquel lost his footing and howled when one of his shoulders was dislocated as his arms were forced to bear his weight. When the field marshal struck him again, he made a sound like a beaten dog and wet himself as he dangled from his shackles, the silver-white hair falling over his face from its queue.
Inside their cell, the monk had begun whispering his prayer more urgently, crossing himself and bobbing forward and back in agitation. Belphagor was methodically shuffling cards, while Dmitri and Lev stared down at the wingcasting table, and Nebo stared ahead with outrage in his eyes. Vasily had turned pale.
Belphagor placed his hand on Vasily’s forearm and Vasily stared at him, ashen. “You know it wasn’t like that for me,” he murmured to the backdrop of helpless whimpering to which the Virtue had been reduced. “Demons are made of tougher stuff.”
