by Jane Kindred
Silk’s cheeks went red. “That isn’t fair.” He stood still for a minute, and then lunged forward without warning and shoved Vasily in the chest, making him stumble back against the windowsill in surprise. “And fuck you, Ruby! Just fuck you!” Tears were spilling over his cheeks, and Vasily grabbed his arm and stopped him as he whirled about to leave.
“I’m sorry. Please, Silk. I didn’t mean it.” Silk put up a brief show of resistance before letting Vasily enfold him in his arms. He held the slender demon, shaking against his chest, a bit dismayed at how this had turned into him comforting Silk. “Please don’t cry. You’ll wrinkle your gorgeous suit.” Never mind that the suit made him want to cry.
Silk sniffed and wiped at his eyes. “I told you I wanted to find a mark. He’s a perfect mark. One that thinks he’s playing me when I’m really playing him. It isn’t personal.” He glanced up at Vasily, his eyes shining with tears. “I don’t want him. You know that. It’s business.” Vasily let his arms slip away, and Silk stepped back, straightening his slightly crushed lapels.
“So you’re going to let him dress you?” He couldn’t believe how awful that felt to say. “And sell you? That’s business?”
“Wasn’t it your business once?” Silk put out his hand in negation as Vasily’s eyes flared once more. “I don’t mean with him. I mean the trade. It is my trade. And if you have a problem with me making a living this way—”
“No, of course not.” Somehow, it had turned around again. He’d insulted Silk and was having to placate him even though he still felt as if Silk and Belphagor had conspired to stomp on his heart. He tried Belphagor’s breathing technique to get control of his wildly spinning thoughts. “It’s going to have to be my trade again too. I just don’t see why he has to be involved. Can’t you do it without him?”
Silk smoothed his hands over the suit jacket. “Do you think I could buy this? I’d have to do an all-night gangbang just to pay for the buttons. Doing it his way, with his facets, I may not have to work much at all except when I feel like it. He wants me to run a whorehouse.”
Vasily nearly choked on his own fiery spit.
“Male whores,” Silk clarified. “He’s at the Market recruiting right now. And he’s bought the building next door. So it’s going to happen with or without me.”
Vasily grabbed his head with both hands as if to make it stop spinning. “He bought a building?”
“It opens Friday night. The Stone Horse. He says you’re welcome to entertain there as well if you choose. But I’m not supposed to let you engage in business with any angels.”
A full-on fiery blaze of fury surged inside him so hard he had to choke it down before he opened his mouth and incinerated the attic. Belphagor thought he could throw him away and still control his every move. “Oh, really. Well, fuck him.”
Silk gave him a sly smile and sidled up close to kiss his scruffy cheek despite the heat he was giving off. “That’s my succulent ruby plum.”
The Stone Horse was such a novelty that word of its inception attracted even those who had no personal interest in its wares—among demons and angels alike. Some came to gawk and others for titillation, resulting in a situation where those who had come with the intent of partaking of the unique offering ended up feigning membership in one of the former two camps.
For Belphagor’s purposes, however, the odd cocktail-party atmosphere was a perfectly successful opening. His aim was to be seen shopping for a new “boy”. For his part, Silk was superb. No one who saw him this evening would have taken him for the seemingly adolescent dorm monitor of the Fletchery. He looked every bit the sophisticated panderer and seemed to be relishing his role.
As much as Belphagor was aching to see Vasily, he hoped the firespirit would stay home and sulk. Instead, Vasily appeared early in the evening in a stunning ensemble that Silk or Anzhela must have helped him pull together. His matted locks were wound with gold thread, and Silk had done up his eyes in dark kohl paint that ended in a spiral flourish dotted with imitation crystal chips. Over a bare chest, he wore a sort of velvet smoking jacket that came to his knees in a deep ruby hue with black collar and cuffs over a pair of black silk lounging pants gathered at the ankles.
Silk, coolly entertaining a group of girls from The Cat who’d come out of curiosity—not the sort that killed, one hoped—turned as if on cue when Vasily entered. “Ah, here’s my ruby plum.” He held out his hand, and Vasily crossed the room to take it, passing Belphagor as if he didn’t see him. The waves of angry heat coming off him, however, said he most certainly had. “Vasily, I believe you already know some of the ladies in our sister trade.”
Vasily went slightly pink but managed a grunted greeting. Good thing he wasn’t trying to sell his services to them with such lack of finesse. Not that Belphagor wanted him successfully selling his services to anyone. He’d been selfish enough to hope Vasily wouldn’t want to. The more fool, he.
Surly or not—or perhaps because he seemed surly—he was attracting a great deal of attention from those who were likely future patrons, including a group of angelic nobles Belphagor had been watching since he’d arrived. They had surfaced when Phaleg made his offer on The Cat a few days earlier, apparently perturbed at the competition, though they hadn’t turned out to be the investors themselves. Nevertheless, they’d taken an interest in not only The Cat but the Stone Horse, and had apparently heard the rumors Armen had been spreading about Belphagor, sneering at him when they entered and making snide remarks about there being nothing rare enough for him on the menu.
As with The Cat, he was a silent partner here, and he tried to ignore them while simultaneously keeping his eye on them, using his shameless flirting with the young demons he’d recruited himself for the Stone Horse as cover. He’d already arranged to escort a pair of them back to the Brimstone for a late evening of gaming and drink.
When one of the angels began making coarse comments about Vasily loudly enough for everyone within earshot to hear, Belphagor made a move in his direction, unable to keep silent, but Silk unexpectedly stole the show before he had a chance to act.
“Why, Duke Balkin,” he remarked, turning his head in the angels’ direction. “I had no idea you’d be vying for my disciplinary services so soon. I have a special room laid out for you downstairs. Why don’t you go down and wait for me over the sawhorse? I’ll be along presently to redden your ass to match your face.”
On cue, the angel blushed hotly, and then went even redder when the laughter around him made the joke clear to him. “I don’t pay demons to beat me,” he snapped.
Silk smiled. “That’s all right, sweetheart. I’m sure you can find plenty who’ll do it for free.”
The angel realized there was no graceful way out and turned to his companions with a stony expression that stopped their laughter instantly. “Let’s go. This is precisely the sort of freak show I told you it would be, and not nearly as amusing.”
“I thought it was hilarious,” murmured one of them with a wink at Silk as they followed their friend out to the street.
“Well, they were unpleasant,” said Silk amiably. “How about a round of nepenthe on the house for the rest of our guests?”
This was met with a cheer of approval, and the stewards Belphagor had hired proceeded to pour the sparkling nepenthe Belphagor had bought. Silk flashed him a knowing look across the room that said he’d spend Belphagor’s money all he liked.
“I do have a sawhorse available downstairs with a nice set of manacles,” Silk added as the guests drank to his generosity. “If anyone actually does want their ass to blush, I’m happy to oblige.”
Belphagor raised his eyebrow as the guests began to flirt with Silk in brash terms about being spanked and tied up. It seemed everyone was suddenly horning in on his specialty. When had bondage and discipline become the titillation du jour? It was a tad annoying. He was certain any of those currently sucking up to Silk about it would scream like schoolgirls if actually subjected to a good thrashing.
<
br /> The idea depressed him, and Vasily’s stark beauty in his unusual getup was making him feel as if his heart were slowly bleeding into his lungs. He might as well head back and make sure the duke and his friends didn’t get up to any mischief. He wrapped an arm around the waists of his two escorts for the evening and pulled them close.
“What do you say we take our party to my place?” He swayed a bit drunkenly and winked. “Between the two of you, I’m sure one of you can keep me up.” He glanced at Silk as they headed out. “I’ll settle accounts when I bring ’em back in the morning,” he promised. “Mostly intact.” He felt Vasily’s eyes burning into the back of his skull as he lurched through the door.
It had been painful enough to think of Vasily sharing Silk’s bed, but the idea of the young demon laying a firm hand on him began to eat at Belphagor as he and his companions caroused through the streets on the way to the Brimstone. Would Vasily kneel for someone else? He couldn’t stand the thought, and he almost turned around and went back to challenge Silk before he caught sight of the duke and his friends heading for the Brimstone. He’d gone to all this trouble for a reason, and he couldn’t afford to blow it now because his pride was wounded.
The wingcasting table would at least provide an outlet for his frustration. He hadn’t played a good game in weeks, and it was time to reclaim his crown as the Prince of Tricks. And in the process, he had an excellent opportunity to loosen some tongues.
Pyatnadtsataya
In the wake of Belphagor’s flamboyant departure, Vasily tried to maintain an unaffected air, but Silk already knew him too well.
Drawing him by the hand into one of the private rooms, Silk closed the curtain and slipped his arms around Vasily’s neck. “You don’t look like you’re having any fun, my ruby plum. I can’t have my plum looking glum.”
Vasily groaned at the rhyme. “I think I should head home. No one’s buying tonight anyway.”
“Why, because His Highness is cavorting about with a pair of fancy boys? He’s playing a part, Ruby. You should play one too.”
“What part? He’s being an ass. That hardly takes skill.”
“He’s playing the rake, as if he doesn’t care at all about whose heart he might be breaking. Yet he couldn’t take his beady little coal-button eyes off you. You are simply stunning this evening. Anzhela is an artiste. Who would have thought anyone could make you look both more intoxicating and more terrifying?”
“I look ridiculous,” Vasily protested. “Those angels were laughing at me.”
“No, you absolutely do not. That’s one of the most endearing things about you. You have no idea of your own allure. You’re like some exotic barbarian from the stormy wilds of Ma’on who ought to be wielding a curved blade as you leap through the crowd severing heads. You look like you could breathe fire.”
Vasily glowered with embarrassment. “I can breathe fire.”
Silk’s eyes widened. “Oh my Heavens, Ruby. I think I just came a bit in my pretty new suit.”
Vasily laughed nervously, but Silk’s expression turned serious.
“You could have your pick of any demon or angel out there this evening, and you could charge just to keep them company without ever letting anyone lay a hand on you. And I think you should.”
“You think I should what?”
Silk rolled his eyes and tapped Vasily’s nose. “I think, my ruby plum, that you should go out there and entice someone to take you out for the evening. That other group of angels, perhaps, who’ve been drooling over you and practically pissing themselves in fear every time you look in their direction.”
“They—who—what?”
“You’re completely adorable. The ones who keep hanging about the girls from The Cat trying to pretend they aren’t actually trying to get your attention. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.” Silk kissed him and opened the curtain. “Come on. You’re going out.”
He led Vasily back to the center of the action. “Who’d like to take this fiery beast out for a night on the town? To the Brimstone, perhaps? I hear he’s good luck at the tables.”
“Silk,” Vasily hissed under his breath, but Silk just pushed him forward.
“You boys look like you can handle him.” Silk propped an arm on the shoulder of one of the angels. “Fancy it warm?”
The angel darted his eyes toward Vasily and back down, his cheeks pink. Was Silk right? Did they want him and find him menacing at the same time?
“We’ll join you,” piped up one of the ladies. It was the redhead Belphagor had bought for him at The Cat. The one who had a tattoo of a tail coming out of her— Vasily jumped slightly as she slipped her arm through his and hooked the angel with the other. “I like it hot,” she said with a wink. “You remember.” She turned to the angel. “It’s okay, he doesn’t talk much, but he has a wicked tongue.”
Before he knew it, he was being swept toward the door between two of the women, flanked by the pair of dumbstruck angels.
“Have a good time,” Silk called. “Don’t forget to get paid.” It was obvious he wanted Vasily to be seen by Belphagor in the company of angels. Whether it was simply to show Belphagor that Silk was in control of the game or a genuine desire to help Vasily get back at him, he wasn’t sure. Feeling an unaccustomed sense of power with the angels, he began to enjoy his role. In the past, he’d been a novelty for angels who clearly held the power themselves and treated him like an overgrown pup. This was the first time he’d felt in control.
The feeling lasted all of twenty minutes while they made their way to the Brimstone—and indeed continued just a few moments as he came down the stairs and every head turned to stare with a gratifying look of awe. And then it was crushed beneath the boot of whatever game Belphagor was playing.
With his back to the door, the airspirit sat with his chair tilted onto its rear legs, one boot heel hooked under the base of the wingcasting table in a characteristic way that said he wasn’t nearly as inebriated as he let on, mouthing an unlit cigar stub. The rent boys he’d picked up at the Stone Horse were standing on either side of his chair, admiring his card play and vying for his attention. But the one who had it was his opponent across from him: none other than the angel Phaleg, whom Belphagor had carried on with a year and a half ago while he’d left Vasily in the world of Man.
As if that weren’t humiliating enough, beside Phaleg, curled on a chair he’d dragged over to the table to watch the play, that devil Mikhail was plainly flirting with Belphagor, his shirt open to the navel and his hand playing sensuously between his pecs. He was the first at the table to notice Vasily and his entourage, and he went a bit pale. Beside him, Phaleg glanced up sharply at a murmured word from Khai, and the angel went significantly paler. Good. At least this stupid getup was good for something. He hoped they’d pissed into their boots. Belphagor never turned.
“Don’t look now,” murmured Khai, “but your boy just walked in. At least I think it’s him. It’s either him or some eastern prince who’s about to declare war on Elysium and slit all our throats.”
It took everything Belphagor had not to react as he perused his cards.
“No, it’s him,” Khai confirmed. “He just burned off one of my nuts with his eyes.”
“Please don’t engage him,” said Belphagor. “Phaleg, it’s your play.”
Khai squirmed in his seat. “I’m not engaging him; he’s burning my nuts off.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need your nuts, then, isn’t it? Toad,” he added as the die left Phaleg’s shaking hand.
“How do you always know?” Phaleg complained when the die landed on Toad, and surrendered a card to the pile. “Incidentally, this is making me very uncomfortable.”
Belphagor picked up the card and glanced at his options. “I’m sure your testicles are quite safe, Phaleg.” He laid down a Full Choir. “Your facets, on the other hand, are not.”
“Why, if it isn’t the Prince of Tricks.” The derisive voice behind him was one he’d been expectin
g to hear for some time. Why couldn’t the bastard have shown up before Vasily arrived? “Aren’t these boys a bit old for you?” Armen added. “Looks to me like they’ve all got hair on their balls.”
Might as well get this over with. Belphagor let the front legs of his chair drop, and pushed away from the table. “Armen Nekirevich.” He took his cigar from his mouth as he rose and turned, pushing up his sleeves. “Care to make your meaning plain?”
“My meaning,” said Armen loudly, “is that you prefer little boys to grown men. Isn’t that why you’ve dumped your incubus bitch?”
He’d meant to make a clever retort that would make Armen look a fool. Instead, he found himself on top of the bastard, pummeling his face into the floor of the Brimstone. It took all four of his companions and two of Armen’s to drag him off and shove him into a chair.
Armen staggered to his feet, holding his hand to his nose while blood gushed out of it. “I’ll have the Palace Guard in here!” he howled. “I have witnesses who can place you at the Fletchery. I’ll have you pilloried for your perversion!”
Belphagor shook off Phaleg and Khai and got to his feet. “You’ve impugned my honor for the last time, Armen Nekirevich. I challenge you to defend yourself against me in a duel.”
“A duel?” Armen laughed. “Now you fancy yourself an angel, putting on airs!”
“I fancy you a coward,” Belphagor retorted. “Take back your slander against me, or name your weapon and meet me on the field of honor.”
“You’re out of your mind. And drunk! I’ll do nothing of the kind.”
“So you’re a coward, then. Man enough to invent slander about me after manufacturing the circumstantial evidence of it yourself, but not man enough to defend your own craven words. I demand satisfaction before these witnesses. Will you recant?”
Armen’s face was red enough to match the blood Belphagor had drawn. The entire den was watching him. Belphagor had put him firmly between brimstone and a hard place. “I will not recant,” he snarled.
