The Armies of Heaven

by Jane Kindred

  “But you knew the alliance with the gypsies had been restored.”

  Lively said nothing, and it was answer enough. Helga grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the door of the adjacent dining room. Lively couldn’t fight her even to defend herself. Enhanced by the fern flower in the locket, Helga’s power of influence had become impossible to resist.

  “You’re going to make yourself useful once and for all.” Helga propelled her through the dining hall and across the sunlit rotunda to the library, where dark curtains had been drawn and a fire roared on the hearth. The heat was oppressive and Lively felt lightheaded as Helga dumped her unceremoniously into the high-backed leather chair before an oak desk that had been dragged close to the fire.

  “In this desk you will find everything you need.” Helga threw open the drawers to reveal a cache of spell-casting supplies.

  “For what?”

  “To close the breach, of course.”

  “Close the breach?” Lively exclaimed. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “We didn’t send you to the apothecary to learn how to make analgesics. He taught you elemental composition. A dimensional breach is spun like a web of all four elements. You’re going to split them apart.” She went to the door. “If you fail me at this, Lively, I simply cannot waste any more energy on you. Your tenderhearted angelic benefactress will not be here to stop your bleeding this time. You have five minutes.”

  With a sinking heart, Lively stared at the jumbled collection of pewter and alabaster boxes, crystal vials, and bundles of candles. She had no idea where to begin, and if she succeeded, she’d destroy Anazakia’s last chance. She wished Margarita were here to give her the courage to defy Helga. Against all common sense, Margarita believed in her. She wanted to be worthy of it, wanted to change her unworthy self to be the woman Margarita believed in, but even without the threat, the urge to do as her aunt said was powerfully strong. Trying to resist it was like resisting the urge to breathe.

  Lively sighed and set the candles on the desk. The beginning, of course, was always the same; she could at least do that. She positioned four of the pillars at the corners of her work surface and lit a fifth at the fireplace, using this candle to light the others in a counterclockwise circle.

  Turning back to the drawers to see what else might be useful, she paused and gazed into the flickering flames. The candle itself is the perfect magical alembic, she heard her master saying. Lit aflame, it is at once all celestial elements in a single unity. The solid wax is earth; the liquid wax, water; and the smoke, the element of air. Together with the element of fire as it burns, the candle represents Quintessence. It was one of the first lessons he’d taught her as a young apprentice.

  If the candles represented the composition of the breach, then she only had to split the elements from the candles in some way. Fire, of course, was the simplest means. She could throw the candles into the fire and it would consume, transform, and release all they contained. The only problem was that she needed something that belonged to the author of the breach itself to direct the spell.

  Lively bit her lip. If the Grigori had opened the breach, the author of the breach was surely their chieftain, Dmitri. And she had something of Dmitri’s—something Margarita had given her. She reached into her pocket and clutched the object in her fist.

  “Oh, please, Auntie Helga,” she whispered. “I don’t want to.” She might as well beg the sun not to rise.

  §

  Something had gone wrong. Only a fraction of the terrestrial forces had come through the breach when it suddenly began to wobble on the plane of its self-sustaining orbit. It was as if the elements within it snapped like bands of elastic, soaring out and away from the vortex one after the other until it collapsed on itself like a dying star.

  Belphagor cursed himself for trusting Misha. The leshi had suggested the breach be executed in waves so they could send through a single company at a time, emerging in a succession of openings along the Acheron. The Unseen forces had been preparing to follow after the first dozen waves had broken through, with the promise of manipulating Heaven’s aether so the breach would thereafter be hidden. Belphagor hadn’t set much store by Misha’s claims in this regard, but he’d been curious to see whether the Unseen would live up to their name. He waited to see if the collapse of the breach had been some kind of illusion orchestrated by the Unseen themselves, but there was no sign of any further activity between the spheres.

  Those who’d gotten through before the breach collapse, however, seemed to have altered the course of the current battle, at least for the time being. The Supernal Army had been closing in on the Virtues from all sides, but the Fallen reinforcements had taken the queen’s men by surprise, forcing them into a defensive position instead of an offensive one. The Nephilim, in particular, many of whom had unofficial Spetsnaz training, were highly efficient at neutralizing their opponents.

  The Supernal Army pulled back to regroup as Belphagor arrived, and he found Anazakia heading toward her pavilion with Gereimon and two of his Virtues beside her. She looked exhausted and harried, but her eyes lit up like blue stars when she saw him, and she grabbed his hand, mystifying him by dragging him into the tent without a word.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you, too, Nazkia,” he said behind her with a laugh, and then his laugh was cut short and he was struck dumb by the vision before him. Ola sat on a stool drawing pictures on a slate, looking terribly grown up in a little blue pinafore and slippers beneath a halo of coppery curls.

  She looked up from her drawing with a smile of supreme satisfaction and said, “Beli,” in a firm tone that said she’d finally gotten what she’d been asking for and she thought everyone around her completely daft for having failed to understand this simple request until now.

  Belphagor found himself on the ground before her without even realizing he’d crossed the tent. His inner self had a brief laugh at his expense that there was, at last, someone who could bring him to his knees, before Ola slipped from the stool and climbed into his waiting arms.

  “My little angel,” he whispered, wiping his tears with the back of his hand so she wouldn’t see them when she lifted her head.

  “Gde sobaka?” asked Ola, looking up at him.

  Belphagor laughed and took the little stuffed dog from his coat pocket where he’d carried it since Gehenna. Ola grinned and clutched it as he stood and twirled her about, making her giggle.

  As he spun back around, he noticed another stool on the other side of the table where a solemn little angel sat watching them. Though the eyes were a deep blue unlike the pale grey his father’s had been before the fire had marred his face, the boy bore a striking resemblance to the arrogant, dashing angel Belphagor had first met in Aeval’s Winter Palace.

  “Eto Azly,” said Ola.

  “How do you do, Your Supernal Highness?” Belphagor gave him a perfunctory bow.

  “Very well, thank you.” The little grand duke sounded disconcertingly proper for his age. He looked at Belphagor’s tattooed hands and then stared at his pierced eyebrow and spiked hair. “You’re a demon,” he said in a much more child-like tone.

  Belphagor smiled. “I am indeed.”

  The boy didn’t return the smile.

  Breathing in Ola’s sweet scent, Belphagor glanced at Anazakia. “How…?” he began, but then the answer to the question stumbled in through the open entrance of the pavilion. Lively’s message had said the children were with the monk, and here he was, trembling and drenched with sweat. He grasped for the edge of the flap to steady himself and missed it, and Gereimon caught him before he fell.

  Love jumped up and took his other arm, gasping as she touched his forehead. “Kirill, you’re burning up.”

  “I’m very thirsty.” He looked dazed and disoriented. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Firedust,” murmured Anazakia beside Belphagor. “Someone gave it to him. We haven’t been able to get any information from him yet.”

  Belpha
gor set Ola on her stool and went to the monk, lifting the drooping eyelids. The hairline red rim about the unfocused pupils didn’t bode well. Kirill was in serious withdrawal, which meant he’d ingested a great deal of the drug, and he’d done so more than a few times. “He’s going to be a bit ill for a while.” Belphagor felt a tug at his coat and looked down to find Ola standing beside him holding up a glass of water.

  “Ki’ill thirsty.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” He smiled and smoothed her hair. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” Belphagor held the glass for Kirill, who was unlikely to be able to hold onto anything himself. “We should take him back to his tent,” he murmured to Gereimon as Kirill drank eagerly. “He won’t keep this down long.”

  “Privet, devochka.” Kirill smiled at Ola when he’d emptied the glass, but his eyes fell on Azel behind her. He turned to Love with a pained expression and whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt the little boy,” and then cried out, “Angel Bozhii govorit!”—the angel of God speaks!—and began to weep. He was as erratic and confused as he’d been when his introduction to Heaven had nearly left him unhinged.

  Love bit her lip. “Oh, Kirill.”

  His weeping stopped as suddenly as it began and he reached for her cheek. “What’s happened? Has someone hurt you?”

  Love ducked her head, avoiding his touch.

  “Poidem, Brat Kirill.” Belphagor swung the monk’s arm over his shoulder. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  Gereimon took the other arm and they turned Kirill about and led him from the pavilion. It wasn’t a moment too soon, as he began to vomit up the water he’d drunk when they were just outside.

  “Where’s Love?” the monk gasped as they deposited him inside his tent. “Did someone hurt Love?” He curled onto his side, shaking violently and retching again, though there was nothing inside him.

  “Kirill.” Belphagor held the bearded face steady between his hands when Kirill stopped heaving. The monk’s eyes rolled back in his head. “Look at me, Kirill. Focus on me.”

  Kirill did his best.

  “Take a breath. Breathe deeply. Do you smell the firedust?”

  “You have more devil dust?” Kirill asked anxiously, trying to sit up.

  “You don’t need devil dust. Breathe in. The dust is already in your lungs. Do you smell it?”

  Kirill took a deep breath and nodded, lying back on the bedroll.

  “Feel it behind your eyes,” Belphagor crooned softly. “Listen to the fire.”

  Kirill sighed, his body relaxing.

  “That’s it, Kirill. Let it burn.”

  “What happened to Love?” the monk murmured, closing his eyes.

  “Zeus’s brother happened to Love. But you don’t need to worry about that right now. Love is fine.”

  Kirill had begun to breathe anxiously again, but he calmed at the words “Love is fine.” Belphagor folded the monk’s hands over his chest and Kirill began to murmur his religious incantation as his hands approximated the gesture of prayer.

  “You’re going to sleep for a bit.” Belphagor pulled a blanket over him, and the incantation faded on Kirill’s lips. With a signal to Gereimon to join him, Belphagor stepped outside.

  Gereimon shook his head at the tent. “That’s quite a drug. How long will it stay in his system?”

  “It’s already out. I merely suggested to him that he was ‘flying’ again. Some humans are more prone to suggestion than others.” He sighed. “It won’t work for long, though. And it isn’t going to be pretty when it stops.” Belphagor hoped the monk’s system could handle it. He’d never heard of a human smoking dust before, let alone shaking an addiction to it.

  When they returned to the pavilion, Kae was waiting outside as if he didn’t have permission to enter, while Loquel stood before the entrance with the stoic patience of an Ophan.

  Belphagor gave the field marshal a lift of his eyebrow. “Are you going in?”

  “No, as a matter of fact,” said the sullen angel. “I needed to speak to you, and this Virtue of yours wouldn’t tell me where you were.”

  “I told him you would return shortly,” said Loquel.

  “Nazkia told me to discuss our next steps with you.” Kae began to walk away from the pavilion and Belphagor followed, bemused, nodding to Loquel to join them. “Your arrival was fortunate timing. Though it’s only delayed the queen briefly. She still outnumbers us by at least four to one, and of course Helga has nearly as many of her own men. We need to discuss a strategy that will maximize our strengths and keep us from being crushed between both armies.”

  When Belphagor tried to interrupt, Kae barreled on in his scratchy voice as he led him into his tent. “One of our strengths now, thanks to your efforts, is that we have a fair number of Fallen on our side, and I think we ought to be able to capitalize on that, try to siphon off some of those who may be disillusioned with the SLP.” He turned and paused at the sight of Loquel hovering behind them.

  Belphagor took advantage of the pause. “There are upwards of ten thousand Exiles waiting to enter the breach as soon as it can be reopened. And an untold number of terrestrial nature spirits who have volunteered their services.” He was pleased to see he’d rendered Kae speechless. “That’s assuming it can be reopened. I’m not certain how it closed. We were expecting to bring all our troops through in a series of waves.”

  Kae stared a moment longer and then glanced at Loquel, obviously unnerved by the presence of the Virtue he’d tortured so mercilessly. Belphagor felt a rush of pride to see Loquel seemingly unaffected, where previously he’d been unable to meet the field marshal’s eye and had fairly quailed before him. The angel had learned his lessons well in such a short time.

  Kae cleared his throat. “You may go now, Loquel.”

  The Virtue looked to Belphagor first before obeying.

  “He seems…different,” Kae said after the angel had gone. “Not so jumpy.”

  “I’ve been training him.”

  Kae gave him a look of disdain. “Like a dog.”

  “Very.”

  The angel shook his head as he sat down on his trunk. “I must confess, I’m astonished that even angels debase themselves with you. I thought only demons were subject to such perversions.”

  Belphagor startled him with a hearty laugh. “Your Supernal Majesty, you are without a doubt the most perverse individual I have ever met.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Kae snapped. “I’m not the principality. I am not even a grand duke. I am nothing.”

  “I rest my case.”

  Kae observed him. “I don’t think I’ve understood a single word you’ve ever uttered. You are a strange little man.”

  “You’re barely two inches taller than I am.” Belphagor smirked. “And I’m not so little where it counts.”

  “You see, now why do you feel the need to bring bawdiness into it?” Kae protested. “I’m not the least bit interested in the size of your cock.”

  “What makes you think I was referring to my cock?”

  “Oh, for the love of Heaven!” the field marshal sputtered. “I didn’t bring you here to be mocked and ridiculed.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Kae was speechless with exasperation.

  “I only ask because you do seem to crave insult.” Belphagor spoke a touch more kindly. “You call me in here to discuss strategy and then you obsess over my relationships of power with other angels. You sit down while I remain standing, which may be simple rudeness on your part, but feels more deliberate, as if you wish to relinquish your power when in private with me. It’s as if you’re jealous of my ‘boys’ and are desperate for a bit of correction yourself.”

  “You’re absolutely mad.”

  “There’s no shame in it.” Belphagor stepped closer so Kae had to look up. “I mean, there’s shame in what you’ve done, of course. Shame I can’t even imagine. But there’s no shame in admitting you’re in so much pain you’d debase yourself before someone you hate to silence the vo
ices of self-loathing in your head.” He grabbed the field marshal’s bob, yanking his head back as if he intended to violate him, and Kae swore and struggled, but not hard enough. “You’d actually let me do it,” Belphagor said softly, struck with the inexplicable sliver of compassion he sometimes felt for the miserable angel.

  “Get your hands off me!” Kae snarled and made a move to stand up, but when Belphagor twisted the hair in his fist and shoved him onto his knees before the trunk, the field marshal didn’t fight.

  Belphagor whispered in the angel’s ear as he crouched over him. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” He slid his free hand beneath the fabric of Kae’s shirt and stroked his fingers down the soft skin of the angel’s spine.

  Kae shivered, not with need, but something closer to horror, yet still he didn’t resist.

  “This is what you desire.”

  “I have no desire for your kind.” Kae spat the words against the trunk and jolted as if he’d pull away, but didn’t.

  “Well, of course you don’t,” Belphagor murmured against his ear. “You’re in love with Anazakia.”

  The angel jerked with sudden violence beneath him, but Belphagor held him down, his arm around Kae beneath the shirt, almost embracing him, and his grip firm in the pale hair.

  “No!” Kae growled, but his voice held panic. “No, I am not!”

  “The hell you aren’t. And it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” There was no mockery in his voice. “So I’m going to give you something else you asked for.” He took the leather pleti from inside his coat. “Though Heaven knows why.”

  With a step back, he yanked up Kae’s shirt and brought the leaded flogger down on him without warning—and without mercy. Admirably, the field marshal held his tongue, though his body shook with stunned agony. Belphagor waited several seconds to let the intensity sink in before striking him again. Kae gripped the edges of the trunk like a man lost at sea, holding onto it for dear life as Belphagor brought the pleti down in heavy, rhythmic strokes, splattering blood across the pale, angelic skin as it tore, and leaving immediate blue-black welts where the lead balls struck.