by Jane Kindred
the Seraphim.
It had seemed natural at the time; they had no right to be in the
world of Man, and I, with the birthright of my angelic order, would
send them back. In the aftermath of the events, the enormity of the
peril I had faced struck me full force. The Seraphim were sent to
destroy me, or to return me to Heaven, which amounted to the same.
Had I stopped to think before acting, I was certain we would all be
dead.
If Belphagor was right and the Seraphim returned, would I be able
to send them away again if the means by which I did so the first time
was still a mystery? Now they were prepared for me, they might not
be so easily commanded, if commanding indeed was what I’d done.
Until this morning, I would not have believed it possible for a
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Seraph to harm one of the House of Arkhangel’sk. They were our
sworn protectors, but now they served my cousin, and I was in his way.
I stroked my ring finger, aware for the first time since my fall of the ring’s absence. Legend said the stone, forged of celestial ice, protected us from our own protectors.
Had I given the ring to Helga for safekeeping? I could not
remember removing it. My exodus from Heaven was a fevered dream,
disturbing and best forgotten. All of this confused me, but the strange light formed of my element with Vasily’s fairly stunned me. That his
fire had somehow mended the damage done to my shade when it
returned to me on the train seemed logical, because the damage was
magical. It had not truly happened to me, though it now felt more real than any other moment in my life. Those last thirty seconds of memory
while my shade’s form was destroyed were a white-hot brand burned
into my heart.
What had been done to the demon Vasily, though, wasn’t mere
magic. He’d been tortured, slowly, his tissues inexorably destroyed by a force akin to his own element. Water, even elemental water, could
not restore burned flesh. Something else had.
Despite his weakened state, Vasily resisted help, but he could not
get to the car on his own, and so Belphagor and I made our way down
the stairs nearly carrying the large demon between us. Only then did
he confess he couldn’t see.
His eyes, too, had been horribly burned before my radiance
touched him. The intensity of the Seraphim’s radiance was much
greater in the world of Man than in Heaven, and Vasily must have
been forced to look upon them to sustain such damage. As with the
rest of his tissues, his eyes appeared whole, as if they had never burned, but their function was not fully restored. Unable to see the wired
connections beneath the dashboard of the car without feeling for
them, he finally admitted he saw only vague shapes and could make
out no details.
Belphagor became very solicitous, insisting that Vasily lie down in
the back seat of the vehicle with a blanket salvaged from one of the
bedrooms. Vasily protested, declaring he was only a little lightheaded, but Belphagor was firm. By the time we reached the outskirts of the
THE FALLEN QUEEN 81
city, the powerfully built fire demon was asleep like a child.
I watched the scrub rushing past the window, fascinated by the
small wooden houses appearing here and there along the highway.
Belphagor called them dachas, rustic cottages where city-dwellers
retreated in the hot summer months. We were headed toward one
of these, he said, but one well hidden from the highway. Some were
little more than huts made of plywood, while others were charming
summer houses with white wooden carvings hanging from the gables
like the icing on a gingerbread house.
We drove far enough to reach true darkness. I watched the
lavender shades of twilight steal across the sky above the taiga with a kind of awe, as if I had never seen a sunset before.
“It gets into your blood,” said Belphagor. “The White Nights. Like
a drug.” He stared forward at the road. Lit by the pale, blue glow of
the gadgets on the dashboard, a day’s growth of beard gave his jaw a
more rugged look than usual. He was almost handsome, for a demon.
I nodded and leaned back against the seat. “Thank you.”
Belphagor lifted his eyebrow, the silver spike through it catching
the flash of the setting sun. “For what?”
“Keeping your promise. You’ve both risked your lives.”
The demon’s attention flicked briefly from the road.
“Not for you,” murmured Vasily from the back seat, awakened by
our voices. “For the money.”
Belphagor’s lips twitched. “Maybe a little bit of both.
The dacha sat at the end of a dirt road hidden from the highway
by a dense covering of trees. We wound through the darkness, the pale
circles of our headlamps showing only vegetation until the sudden
appearance of a man bearing an earthly weapon. Belphagor stopped
and waited while the armed man approached his window.
“Kto vy?” He shoved the barrel of his weapon through the open
window and jabbed Belphagor in the chest.
Belphagor answered him in the angelic tongue. “We’re fellow
travelers. Belphagor and Vasily—and Malchik.”
The man glanced in the backseat and then peered in at me. “Your
reputation precedes you,” he said to Belphagor. He grinned, clasping
his hand in greeting. “Trust the Prince of Tricks to lead the angelic
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youth astray. This one hasn’t even got down on his cheeks.”
“Just an apprentice,” said Belphagor.
“Whatever you say.” The demon gestured with his weapon to
wave him on.
I studied Belphagor’s profile. “Why did he call you a prince?
You’re not even Host.”
“We’re all ‘Host.’” He drove forward on the gravel, his face hard.
“What do you think demons are, trained apes? I assure you, we’re all
the same under our clothes.”
I blushed. What was under his clothes was certainly not what was
under mine. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that you couldn’t be
from a noble house. You’re Fallen.”
“You don’t need to tell me what I am.” He pulled up before a
wooden structure with a sharp, pointed roof and an overhanging
veranda that looked as if it might topple the building. With a twist of his wrist that might have been demon sleight of hand or just disengaging
the wires, he stopped the engine. “You’ve led a very sheltered life,
Nenny.”
“You shouldn’t call me that,” I reminded him.
“Yes.” Vasily sat up and hooked his elbows over the top of the
seat. “You shouldn’t call Malchik that.” There was clearly some deeper meaning to his words I couldn’t fathom. “Prince of Tricks is a nickname Belphagor earned in Raqia. Call it a term of endearment.”
The door opened at the top of the wooden stairs and a stocky,
bearded demon raised a hand to him. “Come in! Come in, my friends!”
We followed our host up the stairs, supporting Vasily between
us, into a primitively appointed cabin decorated with bright swatches
of red and white embroidered cloth. There were at least half a dozen
demons sharing the space, and except for Boris, who had met us o
n the
drive, and Nikita, who led us in, I could not remember all their names.
We lowered Vasily onto the cushions of a wooden couch, but he
refused to lie down when he discovered drinks were being poured.
Instead of the ubiquitous tea, it was a red liquid served in short, clear glasses. Nikita poured a round for everyone while another demon
brought out a tray of smoked fish and potatoes.
“Cranberry vodka.” Belphagor handed me a glass. “Homemade.”
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This meant nothing to me, but I realized how parched I was and
I drank it quickly, though it was a bit sharp going down. Nikita and
Boris laughed, falling over themselves to pour me another.
“Chtob vse byli zdorovy!” One of them touched his glass to mine with a loud clink.
I glanced at Belphagor, but he merely smiled and passed me a
plate. If it was poison, I supposed it would be no more gruesome a way to die than any other I had imagined at their hands, and so I drank
and ate.
The vodka had a pleasant warmth to it, and on such an empty
stomach, the simple food was like an angelic feast. I soon relaxed into my chair, letting the harrowing day slip away into past experience.
I hardly noticed when the talk around me switched from angelic to
Russian, with “Malchik,” interspersed into the conversation, the only
word I recognized.
As the evening wore on, Vasily became more animated. At one
point, he stood, holding onto the edge of the couch, and began to
recite a long passage of Russian verse, his hand waving spiritedly with his drink. Though I couldn’t understand the words, the demon’s rough
voice was surprisingly evocative, and the meter and rhyme of the verse rolling off his tongue was nearly breathtaking.
“Yevgeniy Onegin,” Belphagor said to me. “Pushkin. Famous
Russian poet.”
“Da, Vasily… our dyemon Onegin,” said one of the demons to a chorus of laughter.
“Nyet! Pushkin!” Another demon raised a toast. “Look at his
beard. Looks just like him. To the Pushkin of Purgatory!”
Vasily ignored this and continued his recital, raising his glass and
taking a drink at the end of each stanza while the others cheered. More drink poured, and I realized this vodka was some kind of alcoholic
beverage. I’d been allowed to drink wine and champagne, but we’d
never had anything stronger at the palace. It made me lightheaded,
but it soothed me more than anything I had encountered in this world.
As Vasily finished his verse, Belphagor produced a handful
of cigars, and more cheering and drinking ensued when Vasily
demonstrated his firespirit ability by lighting them for the others on
84 JANE KINDRED
the end of his tongue. The demons passed one to me and I waved it
away, contributing to their amusement.
Vasily’s gift was again put to use in lighting a fire in the fireplace, but the gust of breath he exhaled to stoke it left him coughing and
pale, and Belphagor stepped in at last.
“That’s enough for you, my friend.” He helped Vasily to his feet.
“Off to bed with you.” Belphagor led him toward the back of the dacha, swaying against him, and more cheering in Russian and laughter from
the demons followed.
I leaned back in my chair and stared into the fire, mesmerized by
the flames dancing like Seraphim before me. I had acted once without
being fully conscious of the danger they posed—and would pose again,
if Belphagor was right. However my element had managed to dispel
them, they would be ready for it the next time and I would not have
the luxury of beginner’s luck. My presence in this world had nearly
cost Vasily his life, and two of their friends had lost theirs in earnest. If the Seraphim found us again— when they found us again—I could not let them harm anyone else, Fallen or not, because of me. I determined
then in the bravado of drink that when they came again, I would go
with them willingly. I was the Grand Duchess Anazakia Helisonovna
of the House of Arkhangel’sk, and I would…
I lurched to my feet, suddenly aware of the churning fish and vodka
in my stomach. I used one of the crucial Russian phrases Belphagor
had taught me. “Gdye tualyet?”
Nikita laughed and came to my side to lead me to the outhouse. I
barely made it to the toilet and expelled everything I’d ingested. The numbing of the alcohol, however, had the advantage of making the
experience relatively painless and forgettable.
With eager attentiveness, the residents of the dacha continued to
refill my glass, speaking to me in Russian and grinning at my helpless shrugs. Under the influence of the drink and the fire, I soon nodded off to sleep, happily numb, until a rough hand against my mouth woke me.
THE FALLEN QUEEN 85
Desyatoe: Ya Vas Lyubil
Vasily fell asleep in his arms the moment they hit the bed.
Belphagor traced the spikes at his neck with his thumb. Splitting up
had been stupid. If the angel took flight again, they would pursue her together. The forces against them were too great to risk alone; they
needed the safety of numbers, even meager ones.
He pressed his lips against the thick locks tumbled over his arm
and was arrested by the sound of a cry from the front of the dacha. It was muffled and cut short, but it was the frightened voice of the angel.
Vasily was out cold and didn’t stir when Belphagor shoved him
aside and leapt over him. From the hallway, he saw Boris straddling
the chair by the fire. All he could see of the girl were her thrashing legs and the belt of her jeans dangling loose.
He crossed the room in three strides and yanked Boris up by the
collar, eliciting a yelp of surprise. The angel stumbled from the chair and hitched up her pants. Her face seemed to war between fear and
anger before she burst into tears.
Belphagor shook the demon. “What in the name of hell is wrong
with you?” He looked around at the others standing about. “What is
wrong with all of you?”
Boris pulled his collar away from Belphagor’s fist. “I wasn’t
hurting her.”
“Then why is she sobbing?” With the fist Boris had freed,
Belphagor knocked the drunken demon to the floor.
Boris looked up at him with a mixture of guilt and anger, rubbing
86 JANE KINDRED
his reddened jaw. “Your ‘Malchik’ is a girl.” He seemed to think that
explained it. “I was just verifying.”
Belphagor looked to the angel, swaying on her feet. “Did he—?”
His face reddened. “Did he ‘despoil’ you?”
The angel shook her head, wiping at her cheeks with a curled fist.
“He touched me.” She took an unsteady breath. “With his fingers.”
“I told you, I was just verifying.” Boris started to get up.
“I’d advise you to stay down.” Belphagor regarded him with black
fury, and the demon sat back on the floor. “The dacha is supposed to
be a safe house.” He looked at the others standing like sheep against
the walls, unresponsive.
“Not for angels,” said Boris, and then cringed when Belphagor
made a move toward him.
“For the Fallen,” Belphagor snapped. “I’m sick of these stupid
distinctions. Angels or demons, there’s only one way to get here. We’re all Fallen.” Belphag
or took the unsteady angel by the arm. “Malchik is under my protection.”
The girl was weeping again when he closed the bedroom door.
Belphagor looked around, not sure what to do with a weeping
angel. “You’ll sleep with us.” He sat on the bed. “Here in between us.
No one will touch you.”
The offer was more effective than he expected. The weeping
stopped immediately, and she sucked in her breath with a slight recoil, as though he’d suggested she sleep in the mud, but when he held
out his hand, she took it and climbed into bed. Belphagor pulled the
coverings over her and Vasily, with just enough blanket to reach his
own left shoulder. Despite her air of angelic aloofness, the moment
she was asleep, the angel curled against him with the trust of a child.
§
They might have left the White Nights behind, but the sun was still
up early in Novgorod Oblast. Vasily stretched his limbs, remembering
the comforting arms of Belphagor around him as he’d fallen asleep.
But the body beside him was not Belphagor’s.
Vasily rolled over and squinted in the sunlight streaming through
the window. He could just make out the form of the angel lying in the
bed, face buried in the hollow of Belphagor’s shoulder. He felt his
THE FALLEN QUEEN 87
inner fire combusting. What the hell had happened after he’d passed
out? Belphagor had never been able to be faithful when they were
together, but Vasily had never seen him with a girl.
There was a first time for everything, he supposed. Vasily
wasn’t particular about a lover’s sex. On a visceral level, he almost
preferred women because the emotional connection wasn’t so strong.
But Belphagor had been his first and maybe only love, and for Bel
to disrespect him this way while he was asleep in the same bed was
beyond the pale.
Vasily sat up and yanked the blanket back, intending to embarrass
them, but both Belphagor and the angel were fully clothed. She shrank
from him as if he’d raised his hand to her. He supposed it had entered his mind.
Belphagor yawned and pulled his arm out from under the angel to
prop himself up. “What’s going on?”
“I thought you might tell me. How drunk were you that you
fucked her with your clothes on?”
Her hand went to her belt buckle, hanging open by the sound of it,
