by Jane Kindred
Love stopped in mid-bite and looked up at him, and then her eyes darted to Tyr to make sure he hadn’t moved. “I wasn’t lying.” She swallowed her mouthful and cringed.
“But you weren’t telling me the entire truth.”
Love stared at him. What on earth did he want to know? He glanced at Tyr and she scrambled back against the wall, kicking out with her feet when Tyr grabbed her by the hair. The scuffle upended the tray table, and the plate of pelmeni soared across the room and shattered as it hit the floor. Sour cream splattered the wall and Tyr’s legs, and Hera laughed loudly, doubled over in the kitchen doorway.
“Pikey bitch,” said Tyr—two English words Love understood—and threw her back onto the bed. He flicked sour cream from the toe of his boot and yelled something at Hera that prompted an argument in their language, cut short by Micah with a loud command. Hera went into the kitchen without further discussion, while Tyr began picking up the dumplings and broken pieces of china.
With the handkerchief in hand, Micah swung off the chair and dabbed gently at Love’s bloodied cheek. She winced when he touched her swelling eye.
“What could be so important it’s worth letting Tyr mess up such a pretty face?” He frowned and shook his head. “I haven’t even gotten to the hard questions.” Micah wiped at her tears, which only made them flow faster.
“There isn’t anything else to tell. We brought them to prove there are genuine angels on Anazakia’s side so the Night Travelers will break their alliance with the Malakim.”
Micah sat beside her. “Now, see? How hard was that? You didn’t mention Night Travelers before and you didn’t mention anything about alliances.”
“You didn’t ask.”
Micah sighed. “Is that how it’s going to be? All right, Love. Let’s be perfectly clear. The purpose of breaking an alliance is to form an alliance with someone else, yes?”
Love nodded.
“And with whom do you want the Night Travelers to ally?”
“With the Fallen.”
“Which Fallen?”
“Which Fallen?” She glanced nervously at Tyr.
“Yes, Love.” Micah spoke patiently. “Which Fallen? Celestial? Terrestrial? Exiles?”
“Terrestrial, I suppose. Whoever it was with before.”
“That would be terrestrial,” he agreed. “Which includes the Exiles. Which includes us, despite our differences with the insufferably paternal Grigori. You see, we are all in agreement on one thing: the demonic community is no longer interested in allying ourselves with outsiders. Demons are for the demons, regardless of what a bunch of night-traveling grifters and fortune-tellers have to offer. And bringing a bunch of more-virtuous-than-thou angels along for the ride isn’t going to be persuasive to the Fallen.”
“And yet you’re spending your time pretending to be a Heavenly messenger to sow discord.” She bit her tongue, afraid this might piss him off, but Micah laughed.
“Touché. Discord is in a demon’s nature, but then so is lying—perhaps I lied then or perhaps I’m lying now. But that brings me to my next question.” His eyes grew serious. “Where are the children?”
Love bit her lip. “I don’t know. I swear to you. I really don’t.” She could see he didn’t believe her. “Please,” she insisted as he stood. “I didn’t even know they were missing until you told me.”
Micah set the bloody cloth on the tray table. “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in that answer.” He looked at Tyr, who started forward from his statue-like pose.
Love pressed her back against the wall. “I swear to you! How can I tell you what I don’t know?”
Micah said something in English to Tyr and the pale-haired Nephil grinned. “This is your last chance to talk, Love.” Micah stood between them. “Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to step outside for a smoke. I can’t stand brutality.”
“I don’t know.” Love was weeping. “Please believe me.”
Micah moved out of Tyr’s way.
Love scrambled sideways as the Nephil approached her. “I don’t know anything!”
Tyr grabbed her by the legs and yanked her toward him, grasping her by the throat.
“Don’t get carried away,” Micah snapped as he opened the front door. “I need her conscious and able to speak.”
“Vasily!” gasped Love, forcing air through her throat beneath Tyr’s restricting fingers.
Micah paused in pulling the door closed behind him. “Did you say something, Love?”
“Vasily has them,” she croaked. It might be true. She hoped it was true. Regardless, it was something Micah could believe.
§
They might not have been as well trained as the Iriyan Mounted Guard, but the demons in Helga’s army fought without regard for rules. Iaoth had ordered his troops to fall back as dusk descended, but the enemy kept coming. They fought with whatever they had, whether a stolen sword or a broken bottle. Vasily was helping with the wounded, and the situation was grim.
They’d come upon the Liberation forces by accident, not expecting to engage them until they neared Aden. They’d stopped for supplies at an inn just over the border from Arcadia where the old road joined the new, when a page fetching water had come running for Iaoth and Vasily. With canteens clanging empty around his neck and one open canteen sloshing water, he gasped for breath to tell them he’d seen a horde of demons on the road below.
The demons, it turned out, had been augmented by two companies of turncoat Arcadian soldiers from the Supernal Army, and where the demons lacked skill, the Arcadians filled the gap. It was strange to see the bright colors of two branches of the Supernal Army engaged in a battle against one another in which neither was fighting for the reigning queen. Though the demon forces had continued coming at them through the night like a pot of porridge boiling over, the Arcadians withdrew at dusk to regroup and recuperate until morning. The remaining skirmish with the demons was a protracted chaos of swarming but undisciplined guerrilla fighters. They fought for nearly two days straight before finally limping back to their camp, leaving only a few dead among the Mounted Guard, but many wounded.
Vasily sought out Iaoth when things had quieted some hours before dawn on the second night.
“They just keep coming,” Iaoth said when Vasily found him standing at the makeshift desk of an overturned trunk in his tent. He shook his head. “I’ve never seen such a thing. It’s as if the dead regenerate.” He looked up while Vasily cleaned his spectacles, not realizing until he set them back on his face he’d smeared them with blood. “You can’t, can you? Regenerate, I mean?”
“No,” said Vasily wearily. “We die just like the Host.” He stopped. “I mean, they die…I keep forgetting I have no demon blood.”
“I apologize, Your Supernal Highness.” Iaoth looked mortified.
Vasily waved away his concern and took off his spectacles again to attempt to clean them with an unsoiled portion of his shirt. It took a moment to find one. “I think the Liberation fighters are just joining up as they hear the news. So in fact, they are regenerating—with new recruits.”
“And how many do you suppose their numbers will ultimately be?”
Vasily shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you, Captain.”
“Well, regardless, we appear to be somewhat—and perhaps significantly—outnumbered.” Iaoth sighed. “And in light of that, I suppose we both ought to get some sleep while we can. Even an hour can help during a lull like this. Then we may need to take a realistic look at things in the morning and assess our options.”
Vasily didn’t like the sound of this. It seemed Iaoth was already contemplating a full retreat. But Vasily wasn’t the captain of these men and the decision wasn’t up to him. He only wanted to find Ola.
He attempted to get a few hours’ sleep, woken what seemed only minutes later by an officer bearing a message from the Liberation forces.
“Take it to Captain Iaoth,” muttered Vasily, feeling about for his spectacles.
“It’
s specifically addressed to you.”
Vasily sat up and took the note, reading it in the early glow of dawn as the officer held the tent flap open. It was a message signed by Helga. Come alone to neutral ground inside the tavern, and we will discuss the children.
He took it at once to Iaoth.
The captain frowned at the idea. “The demons practically occupy the tavern at this point. It’s hardly neutral ground. What makes you think her minions will suddenly respect the rules of engagement to allow a neutral meeting?”
“I think they’ll do whatever she orders them to. And if she breaks her word, you just carry on as before. Don’t bother with a ransom. But I don’t see how I can ignore this. If there’s a chance of making some kind of a deal for Ola, I have to try.”
He followed the messenger, a skinny demon boy who reminded him of himself at eighteen or nineteen, and stifled an inappropriate laugh at the incongruous thought that popped into his head, that this was the type of youth Belphagor would say made his spanking hand itch. He sighed, wondering what Belphagor was doing in St. Petersburg—or whom he was doing. Despite Belphagor’s assurances, he’d seen the young Virtue’s worshipful looks since Belphagor had rescued him from nearly being beaten to death, and the angel was undeniably beautiful. But he’d almost rather Belphagor take Loquel as a lover than think of him spending even a single hour with that miserable leshi.
Helga waited for him in a dim corner of the tavern, still lit by a candle at this early hour. He stifled the urge to simply wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze with the force of his element until her skin burned black and peeled away.
“Please have a seat, Your Supernal Highness.” There was a sneer of sarcasm in her voice.
He sat reluctantly, his bench pulled away from the table so he wouldn’t have to be any closer to her than necessary. “Where’s my daughter?” He had no patience for phony pleasantries.
Helga gave him a veiled look, pressing her hand to the locket she’d taken from Anazakia. Again, he had the urge to grab her by the neck and yank it from her, but as soon as the thought entered his head, his hands ached like he’d thrust them into freezing water.
“I see I’m not going to get a thank-you for keeping her out of Aeval’s clutches.”
“A thank-you?” He rose from his seat and slammed his hands onto the table, leaning in toward her. “For throwing her into a hole like garbage?”
Helga laughed incredulously. “I don’t know who’s feeding you such nonsense.”
“Anazakia has seen it,” he growled.
Helga sighed, turning the locket back and forth in her fingers. “Nenny believes she has visions now, does she? She was always such a grandiose child. After I sacrificed my youth for her and her brother and sisters, never anything but tender to her—more tender than her own mother, that’s for certain—she has the temerity to imagine me a monster who would abuse a child. Because as you and I both know, demon mothers boil their own young for tallow.”
Vasily took his seat again with a glower of heat in his eyes. It was true Anazakia had surprised him with her ignorance of the Fallen on more than one occasion. Could she have projected her subconscious prejudices onto her dreams?
“Ola is like a granddaughter to me. I wouldn’t harm a hair on her head—nor my sweet Azel’s.” Her eyes glittered with tears. “I suppose she believes I cut her dear sister open myself and stole the child.”
“Didn’t you?”
She held the locket to her breast with a look of outrage. “Which seems the more likely? That the butcher with the bloody sword standing next to Omeliea as she clutched her gaping womb had cut her open? Or that her own nurse who’d cared for her from infancy snuck in while he slaughtered her family and performed a delicate surgery on her to steal her child while she was still alive?”
Put so plainly, it sounded absurd. Anazakia couldn’t believe the worst of her cousin despite having felt his blade in her own chest, but enchanted or no, Vasily had never trusted him.
“I was hiding in the nursery, terrified.” Helga’s look was distant and anguished. “I’d seen him stab my darling boy in his sleep.” She stroked her fingers over the locket as if she stroked the fair hair of the boy himself. “I was about to step out of my hiding place to see if I could do anything for Azel when that madman came back, dragging his poor wife by the hair. She screamed and begged for mercy, but he tied her to the nursery table and laughed while he carved her up.”
Helga took a handkerchief from her pocket and held it to her mouth a moment. “I think I was in shock. I just remember my Ola screaming and then Kae dragging her away, and the baby—” Her voice caught in her throat. “The baby was lying there in a great puddle of blood. I thought he must be dead. He was so small, not meant to be in the world yet. And then he made a weak little noise and I feared the grand duke would hear it, and I snatched him up in a towel and ran.”
Vasily felt ill at the image of poor Omeliea in his head. It was just as he’d always thought, and he felt foolish for having believed anything else. Kae had done it. Of course he’d done it.
Helga put the damp handkerchief back in her pocket after drying her eyes. “I had to keep little Azel hidden. I couldn’t tell Nenny about him. I didn’t want to upset her, and the more people who knew of his existence, the more danger we would all be in. But now here we are.” She sighed deeply. “I suppose we should get down to business.”
“Business?” Vasily’s head felt foggy from lack of sleep.
“This business of fighting each other. It’s a waste of resources. Just think how much better our chances would be against Aeval if we fought only her.”
“You’re suggesting an alliance? Nazkia would never agree to that. Not after you’ve kept Ola from her.” He heard himself speaking of Anazakia as if he were apart from it. It seemed strange, but he was tired—and not just tired from being up for two days straight bandaging wounds and stitching men together, or from marching for weeks through mountains and bogs, but tired to his bones of this whole mess. He hadn’t asked for any of this. He just wanted to take Ola and go home.
“Vasily, dear. Don’t you understand? I’ve only kept Ola for her own safety. She can go home with you and Nazkia as soon as Aeval is out of the way and can no longer harm her. And that’s all Nenny wants, isn’t it? To be with you and Ola in your little cottage? Has she ever said she wanted to be queen?”
He answered slowly. “No…”
“So then we’re agreed. When she sees Ola, I promise she won’t care about the rest of this. We’ll defeat Aeval and bring freedom to Heaven.” She let go of the locket and held her hand out to him. He shook it feeling somewhat dazed, as if he’d missed something. She rose, and he stood also.
“Where’s Ola?” He tried to shake off the fog. “Can I see her?”
“Heavens, she isn’t here. That would be dangerous. I’ve sent her on ahead to Elysium with little Azel by carriage with a troop of armed Arcadian guards.” She looked at him as if he’d forgotten something. “So you’ll explain our arrangement to the Iriyans. Call a cease-fire. How many soldiers do you have? A thousand?”
“Oh, this isn’t our army. There are thirty-five hundred Virtues marching south from the Central Rift. They should be in Elysium in a few days.”
Helga’s eyes darkened an instant and then she smiled. “Excellent.”
Trinadtsataya: Travail
from the memoirs of the Grand Duchess Anazakia Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk
“I don’t want to die,” Lively moaned. “Am I going to die?”
Once her water had broken, the labor that had begun nearly a day and a half earlier progressed rapidly and there’d been no way to stop it. The child was coming into the world whether it was ready to or not.
“You’re not going to die,” I assured her as Margarita wiped her brow. “Just try to breathe with it. Makes it easier.”
“Easier?” Lively shrieked as another contraction came. “Maybe for angels, it’s easy!” She wailed
loudly and I feared my “will” wouldn’t be enough to keep the rest of the palace sleeping. She’d been in active labor for well over the four hours the spell had been meant to last, but she assured me it would hold as long as I continued to renew the powder, since there was no distance between one lamp and the other.
She’d begged us not to let the spell lapse until the baby came, terrified someone would prevent us from helping her and she’d be left to labor alone while one of the Liberationists went for the midwife in Raqia. There were no other women in the palace, she said, and no one trained in childbirth, and she’d been in labor far too long for anyone to make it to Raqia and back in time.
I couldn’t help taking everything Lively said with a grain of salt. My first impulse upon her appearance in Margarita’s room had been to wonder if she was trying the same trick she’d used to get into the palace—though to what purpose, I couldn’t fathom—but my suspicion vanished in the face of her genuine distress. Perhaps she was lying about our being the only women in the palace or even exaggerating her fear, but she was definitely afraid of something. Since there was no chance we’d escape tonight—or this morning, as it was now—I humored her and continued to feed the spell. I well remembered laboring alone.
After another hour, I began to doubt my reassurances to her. Lively was growing weaker. Judging from when she’d first begun to speak of her pains, she’d been in labor nearly forty hours. I feared the infant would be stillborn if it were born at all. And if it didn’t come soon, I feared for Lively as well. There were no doctors in Heaven equipped to perform a surgical birth that would not have killed the mother; what Helga had done to my sister, she must have learned in the world of Man. Heaven prided itself on a certain provincial backwardness, eschewing the advancements of Men as if they weren’t needed here. If it wasn’t a celestial scientist who made a particular discovery or invented something new, it was not worth Heaven’s time.
Despite my bitterness over all she’d done to sabotage us, I had no desire to watch Lively die in childbirth. Margarita, evidently having the same fears as I, grew increasingly distraught, though she tried not to show her fear to Lively. The way she tenderly held Lively’s hand during each contraction and brushed the sweat-soaked hair away from her face, it was obvious she loved her. I felt a pang of envy—there had been no one to show me such care when Ola was born—and then immediately felt guilty for begrudging Lively what little she had.
