by Jane Kindred
The two of them dashed away through a corridor of overhanging branches while the laughter and shouting continued behind them, coming to a breathless stop at last on the top of a wooden footbridge over one of the frozen canals. A charming little outbuilding in faded celestine blue paint, its gabled roof capped with snow, broke the monotony of white across from them, nestled in the trees.
Phaleg leaned back, resting his elbows against the rails of the bridge, blue eyes twinkling as Silk settled beside him. He looked strangely right in this setting in his heavy, peasant coat and utilitarian blue canvas pants, yellow curls peeking out under a dark cap and his cheeks blooming with color in the cold. He looked like a painting.
“Not such a terrible world.”
“Could be worse,” Silk agreed happily. No one seemed to be about in this little wooded corner of the park. He leaned in, figuring it was safe to steal a kiss, and grunted in surprise at the double thump of a pair of snowballs striking the backs of their heads in unison.
Phaleg laughed and ducked down to scoop a handful of snow from the bridge. “This means war,” he said, grinning at Silk as he joined him in stockpiling ammunition.
It was four against two, but they had the advantage of cover while the others were out in the open, and Silk had an angel from the Armies of Heaven on his side. The odds were decidedly in his favor.
But the skirmish in the park was over all too soon, and after a warming pot of tea at the Grigori flat, Belphagor and Vasily were saying their good-byes. Vasily picked Silk up and held him off the ground, making him breathless. There were promises to keep in touch, and Dmitri would have their contact information once he and Phaleg left the Russian princedom, but Silk knew there was a strong probability they’d never see each other again.
“You be good,” said Vasily before he set him down, his eyes steamy with moisture, as if his heat evaporated the tears he didn’t want to shed.
“Always, my ruby plum.” Silk batted his lashes provocatively to keep his own tears at bay.
“And be good to your angel,” Belphagor put in with a warning in his voice, stepping up after his private good-bye with Phaleg.
Silk narrowed his eyes. “Don’t ruin it, Prince of Tricks. I don’t fancy having to fight you in a duel before we part ways.”
Belphagor ruffled Silk’s carefully parted hair, and Silk gaped at him in outrage. “You’re adorable,” said Belphagor. “I’m going to miss you too.”
Raqia seemed quieter, as if Silk had been the leader of a madcap adventure who had drawn all of the Demon District under his spell. Peter Pan had grown up and fallen in love.
As for the Lost Boys, they were growing up too, but they’d be boys a little while longer. At least they still had Anzhela to keep them in line. Belphagor was glad to learn Silk had said his good-byes to them, even though he hadn’t told anyone else he was leaving the sphere for good. Only young Ruslan, just returned from the palace, had missed the opportunity to say good-bye. Grand Duke Lebes had left his son in the care of the supernal family and returned to Iriy, too grief-stricken to deal with him. None too fond of demons at present, the principality had turned Ruslan out.
The irony of the whole effort of the Traditionalists to prevent the queen from giving Helison an heir was that little Grand Duke Kae was now in the principality’s custody, being groomed as the consort of the future queen of Heaven. Helison had issued a decree allowing the firstborn daughter of a principality to inherit her father’s rule in the absence of male issue. And Queen Sefira had given birth on the Solstice to yet another daughter. Four girls. It had all been for nothing.
Khai was gobsmacked at the news about Silk. “He’s staying in the world of Man?” The half-angel ran his fingers through the unruly gold curls he’d recently begun to grow out, accentuating the striking contrast with his warm brown skin. “I can’t believe he’d give up this posh little pad—and the Horse—for there.”
“Not for there,” Belphagor reminded him. “For Phaleg.”
“Yeah.” Khai nodded thoughtfully. “That one was something.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in staying on at this posh little pad? And as proprietor of the Stone Horse?”
“Are you serious?” The gold rings around Khai’s brown eyes seemed to glow brighter for a moment. “Hell, yes.”
Belphagor smirked. “Thank Heaven I was able to persuade you. You’re a hard sell.” He reclined in the comfortable reading chair, tired from the trip. “I’ll arrange for you to see my tailor in the morning. I’m thinking we’ll dress you a bit more conservatively than Silk. High collars and cravats. Heeled boots and spats. But not too conservative. Something of a naughty fop. You can keep that mop of hair if you wear it in a queue.”
“I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, Belphagor, if you hadn’t just offered me the run of a playground of my very own and a fabulous pad to crash in after. For that, you can tie me up naked in a bow for all I care.”
“It’s not all play,” said Belphagor. “And I’ll find a nice bow for you later.”
It felt good to be back in their room. Small and humble as it was, this was home. Belphagor took his time getting undressed, knowing Vasily was anxious for some alone time with him—as evidenced by the fact that the firespirit already lay naked and propped on one elbow on the bed, sporting a healthy erection.
Belphagor unbuttoned his cuffs with his shirt hanging open, letting Vasily have a decent look at the king-of-thieves cross inked on his chest. “You’re feeling pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you, boy?”
“Maybe.”
“Letting that fat cock give you a fat head.”
“I can’t help the size of my head.”
Belphagor laughed and slipped off the shirt, dropping it on the floor. That one sensuous hip in the air was tantalizing. Just looking at it, he could feel the bounce of the tight firespirit ass against his hand, like a well-stretched skin across a drum. He climbed onto the cot and pushed Vasily onto his stomach, straddling him. “I can’t tell you how delightful it was to watch that wickedly beautiful cock pounding sweet Phaleg’s ass.” One hand teased along Vasily’s hip where it met the mattress. “You really let him have it.”
“So did you.” The breathy growl from within the crook of Vasily’s arm was deep with arousal.
“True. But then that’s kind of my thing.” Belphagor licked the warm firespirit skin between the shoulder blades and watched the shiver ripple over Vasily’s spine. “But you…you were utterly selfless, giving him what he needed—both the brutality he craved and the tenderness necessary to bring him back from it.”
“I learned from the best,” Vasily rumbled.
“Ah, sweet boy. Straight to my heart.” Belphagor bent over him to let his breath tickle against the piercings at Vasily’s neck. “You’ve been such a remarkably good boy.” He grabbed Vasily’s locks without warning and yanked his head back. “Even if it has gone to your head.” The surprise maneuver was redirection for working his cock through the buttons of his jeans and oiling up without Vasily noticing. He’d gotten pretty good at it over the years. Vasily was still wincing and tugging against his hold, oblivious to the very practical reason Belphagor had for pulling his hair. Having something to hang on to when he shoved his cock up the firespirit’s ass was just a bonus.
He demonstrated it now, and Vasily groaned with genuine surprise. Belphagor let himself burrow in slowly, enjoying the way Vasily moaned and arched to take him deep even as he squirmed with resistance. Watching his cock disappear into Vasily’s insulted backside was a singular pleasure. It really never got old.
He lowered his body onto Vasily’s, forcing his hand under the warm hip to take hold of the even warmer cock, and twisted Vasily’s hair to make him look over his shoulder. “Whose cock is it, malchik? This pretty cock you buried in an angel’s ass?”
“Yours,” Vasily groaned, the fiery eyes bright.
“And whose boy are you?”
“Yours.”
“Say it.” Be
lphagor thrust hard as the words burst out of Vasily.
“I’m your boy.”
“Tell me again.” Thrust.
“I’m your boy.”
“Again.”
“I’m your boy.” He grunted out the words with each deep penetration.
“More,” Belphagor growled at his ear. “Keep up.”
Vasily repeated the words while Belphagor fucked him, the rumble of his voice getting deeper and more feral. “I’m your boy. I’m your boy. I’m your boy. Bozhe moi. Fuck. I’m your boy!” The firespirit’s muscles rippled along his back as if his wings would tear through right here in Heaven with the force of his orgasm.
Belphagor fucked him harder, his fist pumping mercilessly on the pulsing cock. “That’s it, boy. Give it all to me. It’s mine.”
Vasily roared and shook beneath him, cock thrusting into Belphagor’s hand as the firespirit spunk kept streaming out of it, until at last he whimpered, empty, his body limp beneath Belphagor’s rapid pounding. “I’m your boy,” he moaned weakly into the blanket while Belphagor kept fucking.
“Damned right, you are.” Belphagor slowed his motions. “Moi malchik. Sladostnyi malchik. Malchik milochki.” He rose onto his knees, withdrawing gently while Vasily moaned with regret. “Roll over, boy. I want to see your face while I come.”
Vasily flipped onto his back, clasping his hands behind his head with his ankles crossed in a characteristically unself-conscious gesture, the hazel eyes gazing up at Belphagor working himself. “I love you, Beli.”
“Damn, I love you, you beautiful boy.” Belphagor groaned out the words as he came, watching the pearly droplets spill over onto Vasily’s abs and chest. He collapsed onto him, kissing Vasily while he thrust his cock against the come he’d spilled on him. He was crazy about this demon. He’d been tamed and enslaved by the beautiful firespirit, and he didn’t care. He belonged to his boy as much as Vasily belonged to him. More.
He laughed against Vasily’s shoulder when his body had calmed. “Damn. I meant to have you tongue my ass so I could feel that slick heat inside me. You took me by surprise, and I came too soon.”
Vasily made a sound in his throat like a contented lion and wrapped his arms around the small of Belphagor’s back. “Oh, well. There’s always tomorrow.”
About the Author
Jane Kindred is the author of The House of Arkhangel’sk trilogy and The Devil’s Garden. Born in Billings, Montana, she spent her formative years ruining her eyes reading romance novels in the Tucson sun and watching Star Trek marathons in the dark. She now writes to the sound of San Francisco foghorns while two cats slowly but surely edge her off the side of the bed.
You can find Jane on her Twitter account and Facebook page—both of which are aptly named “janekindred”—and her website, www.janekindred.com.
Look for these titles by Jane Kindred
Now Available:
Demons of Elysium
Prince of Tricks
King of Thieves
Coming Soon:
Looking Glass Gods
Idol of Bone
Idol of Blood
Idol of Glass
When desire rises, angels will fall. One, by one, by one…
Prince of Tricks
© 2014 Jane Kindred
Demons of Elysium, Book 1
Over the past century, Belphagor has made a name for himself in Heaven’s Demon District as a cardsharp, thief, and charming rogue.
Though the airspirit is content with his own company, he enjoys applying the sweet sting of discipline to a willing backside. Angel, demon, even the occasional human. He’s not particular. Until a hotheaded young firespirit steals his purse—and his heart. Now he’s not sure who owns whom.
A former rent boy and cutpurse from the streets of Raqia, Vasily has never felt safer in the arms—and at the feet—of the Prince of Tricks. He’s just not sure if Belphagor returns those feelings. There’s only one way to find out, but using a handsome, angelic duke to stir Belphagor’s jealousy backfires on them both.
When the duke frames Vasily for an attempted assassination as part of a revolutionary conspiracy, Belphagor will do whatever it takes to clear his boy’s name and expose the real traitor. Because for the first time in his life, the Prince of Tricks has something to lose.
Warning: Contains erotic sex: m/m, m/m/m, m/m/m/m…oh hell. Let’s just say “mmmmmm!” and be done with it. Also one m/f scene. Smart discipline meted out with a great deal of love and charm. Erotic sex acts requiring copious amounts of elbow grease.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Prince of Tricks:
In the gaming room of the Brimstone for the next several evenings, Belphagor kept an eye out for Vasily’s entrance without appearing to do so. He hadn’t become the best wingcasting player in Raqia by telegraphing his moves. He played exceptionally well, in fact, by maintaining an external awareness beyond the boundaries of the marble-rimmed table while projecting an air of inattentiveness to anything but his own cards. The false inward focus was contagious and tended to make his opponent forget to take note of the broader actions of the game.
When he cast the die or called his opponent’s cast, he let his attention encompass the entire establishment. This part of the game was only chance; willing the die to land on the elemental creature one had called or staring anxiously at the twelve-sided game piece as it struck the table’s rim after an opponent had called one’s own cast had no effect on the outcome. Shifting the air around the table might, of course, but that was easily done with the flick of the wrist in casting or the breath of a bored sigh. If Belphagor’s cardinal element responded more readily to his influence than it did for other airspirits, it was no coincidence.
He’d devoted years of his life—and the number was considerable for a demon who frequently fell to the world of Man where aging was far more rapid than in the pure celestial air—to understanding how to master the dominant element in his blood. The number of Fallen who literally fell was small in comparison to the demonic population, and the average demon had never experienced terrestrial magic. In Heaven, a demon—or even an angel, though they were generally too uptight to try—might manipulate his element for simple tricks and folk magic, but in the world of Man, every celestial possessed a radiant power that manifested as elemental wings.
Belphagor had first fallen when he was only fifteen years of age. He hadn’t made the discovery right away, and the Fallen he’d encountered there, in the city of Petrograd, hadn’t told him. It was only in fleeing the law some months after his arrival that he’d inadvertently found his wings. Leaping from a bridge to escape, he’d expected to swim for it and found himself instead soaring on the wind, the radiance that burst from his shoulder blades outstretched as wings of solid air that seemed to swallow up the visual range of light into their element.
“Ptarmigan,” he said absently as the die tumbled from his opponent’s fingers and struck the rim. The other demon scowled as the die landed with the ptarmigan face-up. Sometimes Belphagor’s luck was better when he put no effort into the game at all.
“It’s a loaded die,” the player accused. The demon had clearly had too much to drink.
Belphagor narrowed his gaze on the pallid-looking waterspirit. “I beg your pardon?”
“Loaded die!” He stood and delivered the accusation loudly enough for the house to hear. Any such accusation had to be taken seriously. The game was immediately halted and the pot forfeited to the house while the deck and die were confiscated for examination.
It took every ounce of Belphagor’s restraint to keep from leaping on the little worm and delivering a very unerotic beating. He’d automatically turned up the cuffs of his shirt in preparation for it without being aware he’d done so, showing his ink like an animal might show its teeth in warning.
The bluish-black tattoos that marked his fingers and the backs of his hands were the badges of his incarceration in the Russian prison system. They marked him as vor, a thief, and announced in no
uncertain terms that he was not to be trifled with. The association commanded a certain level of respect in the world of Man—among the right people—that he might never have been afforded due to his less than impressive physical stature, but in Raqia it had the added intimidation factor of making it clear that he had not only dealt with the harsh prison system of the Zona but with the Seraph bounty hunters who exploited it with their own terrestrial magic.
Just as the game inspector pocketed Belphagor’s favorite wingcasting set, the street door opened, ushering in a blast of wet winter wind and admitting a party of young angelic toughs—arrogant, but breathtaking in their sterile waterspirit purity. One of them had his arm over the shoulder of a demon smartly dressed in a black velvet frock coat and tailored slacks. Despite his impressive size, had it not been for the shock of red matted locks done up in a knot just below the demon’s crown, Belphagor might actually have missed him.
The sore loser still glaring his defiance across the table at him ceased to matter in the rush of possessive desire and jealous fury that nearly knocked Belphagor off his feet.
Angels were touching his boy.
His brain dropped into his testicles, and he charged across the bar like a bull sporting bloody banderillas and struck the angelic prick right in the kisser.
The angel went down in stunned surprise, and time seemed to freeze for a moment before the rest of the angels in the fancy one’s entourage sprang forward and descended on Belphagor, dragging him upstairs to the street. Despite his stature, he was more than a match for a pair of the little bastards, or even three; prison had taught him a number of valuable skills. But he’d had the misfortune to anger a pack of them.
“Learn your place, you Fallen piece of trash.” A fist landed in his gut while he struggled, snarling, with the group of angels who had his arms, and another slammed into his cheek. As he spat blood into the snow, the angel before him raising his fist for another blow suddenly howled with pain. Behind him, Vasily had reached over the angel’s shoulder and twisted his arm into an unnatural pose.
