The Fallen Queen

by Jane Kindred

  and even with his blurred vision, he could see her pale cheeks burning with self-incrimination.

  “No one fucked anyone, Vasya.” Anger and amusement competed

  in Belphagor’s voice.

  “Then why is the suka in bed with you?”

  He had pushed Belphagor too far. Anger clearly won out;

  Belphagor raked his fingers through the dark spikes of his hair in a

  gesture with which Vasily was all too familiar. It was a diversion from an impulse to strike him.

  “Watch your mouth.” Belphagor’s voice was a low warning.

  Vasily was almost eager for a physical confrontation. “Or what?”

  Belphagor stared at him for a long moment and then turned to

  the girl. “If you need to use the toilet, do it now. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  She took the hint and wriggled out from between them.

  Vasily glowered in defiance. “What do you mean, leaving? We

  just got here. There isn’t a more secure safe house within five hundred miles of this place.”

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  Belphagor crossed his arms over his chest. “After they got her so

  drunk she could barely stand, Boris assaulted Malchik.”

  Vasily tried and failed to hide his surprise. “Raped her?” He

  whispered the word, as if giving it only half form made it less ugly.

  “Not quite. I managed to stop him before he did more than

  manhandle and humiliate her. But you can bet that little slip of an

  angel has never been touched by a man before. And she certainly isn’t

  going to be touched by me. I can’t imagine why you think I’d have sex

  with a girl.”

  Vasily smirked. “Some people do, Beli.” The name slipped out

  unbidden, but to good effect, and Belphagor’s demeanor relaxed. “I’m

  sorry,” said Vasily, something else that seemed to have escaped his

  tongue without consent.

  “So am I.” They were no longer discussing the current misunder-

  standing.

  The door creaked, announcing the angel hovering in the hallway,

  uncertain whether to come in. Vasily broke the spell and went to the

  door. She hung back, and he felt a bit ashamed of himself. Yesterday

  she’d saved his life, and this morning he’d repaid her with a jealous

  tantrum.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, uttering for the second time in a morning a

  word that rarely passed his lips, and sidestepped her to take his turn at the outhouse. Between his hangover, the persistent numbness in his

  limbs, and the fact that everything more than a foot away from him

  was a formless blob of color, he was sure he would find it eventually.

  When he joined Belphagor in the kitchen to gather supplies, Boris

  made an appearance to put water on for tea. “Must’ve had too much

  vodka last night,” he said with chagrin. “Can’t even remember how

  I got this.” He touched the swollen, purple mark on the left side of

  his face. Belphagor rarely hit anyone in anger. Vasily was sorry he’d

  missed it.

  Belphagor stepped up into the other demon’s face. “Pashol na

  khui.”

  Boris reddened. “No, fuck you, Belphagor. You bring a damned

  angel to the dacha, pretend she’s your ‘boy.’ What the hell are you up to?”

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  “What I’m up to at the moment is saving your ass. I’m leaving.

  And I was never here. And if you value your pathetic life, you won’t

  mention this visit that never happened anywhere near demons or

  gypsies—or anything else that happens to drop in.”

  Boris didn’t back down. He clearly thought the advantage of

  height made him more impressive, but he didn’t know Belphagor.

  “Just what else might drop in?”

  Belphagor pulled his shirt down from his shoulder, exposing the

  blackened flesh. There was no need to explain what had done it. “Why

  do you think Vasily can barely see?”

  “You’re right,” said the bearish Nikita from the doorway. “You

  were never here.”

  §

  A number of things had become clear to Belphagor since the

  Seraphim’s attack. The stakes in this game were much higher than

  he’d thought, the “usual suspects” of the underground were of no

  use to them at this level of the game, and the supernal nurse hadn’t

  contacted them as promised because she’d never intended to. In a

  word, he’d been played. She had probably offered such a large purse to inspire the greed that would make him the perfect patsy, knowing he’d

  attempt to get more. She hadn’t wanted the girl hidden, she’d wanted

  her permanently lost.

  The game had changed.

  What they needed now wasn’t a quid pro quo with the terrestrial

  players, but protection by the upper echelon of the demonic vory v zakone—like the Russian crime syndicate, they looked out for their own. The problem was that the higher up you went, the harder they

  were to find. That is, unless you’d slept with one of them.

  Belphagor headed for Moscow. From what he’d gleaned since

  he’d been back, it was where his old friend Dmitri lived these days. He was the go-to vor, an influential member of the elite Grigori—and it had been too long since Belphagor had seen Dmitri’s lover, Lev.

  Putting out feelers among the usual channels of the underground

  had been a waste of time—time they clearly didn’t have. He was going

  straight to the source. If they could find Dmitri before the Seraphim

  returned and picked up their trail, and if Belphagor could persuade

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  him to arrange for Grigori protection, they might have a chance.

  They were on the road less than an hour when the car began to

  sputter and shake in protest.

  Belphagor managed to keep the engine running until they reached

  Novgorod proper, but the verdict from the mechanic when they finally

  found one wasn’t encouraging. The alternator needed to be replaced

  and the part had to be ordered, which might take a week. Or a month.

  Neither bribery nor influence changed the mechanic’s answer.

  All they could do was lie low while they waited, and not get

  noticed. Belphagor cursed the Soviet-era bucket of bolts. Being

  stranded in the middle of a quaint Russian berg was the last thing they needed. The Seraphim might regenerate and return to the world of

  Man at any moment. The only thing they had going for them now was

  that since no one knew they were here, the Seraphim had no way of

  tracking them.

  In the meantime, he’d have to see if he could make discreet

  inquiries about the local underground. It was the only way to get

  word to Dmitri; there was no phoning someone in the top tier of the

  terrestrial Fallen—not even if you’d slept with him.

  They found a comfortable hotel, where Belphagor used simple

  misdirection to pay for the room with sheets of newsprint cut to the

  size of thousand-ruble bills. The trick wouldn’t have worked in St.

  Petersburg, but here there was less suspicion, and less vigilance. But it wouldn’t work for long.

  White, classical columns framed windows overlooking the

  Volkhov River and the red walls of the ancient Dyetinets, the fortified kremlin of the old city. Lunch was being served on the upper veranda,

  and Belphagor secured a table with a view for the three of them,

/>   realizing after they sat that a view would mean nothing to Vasily. He

  watched with a certain sense of possessive pride as Vasily’s wild hair and piercings drew curious looks from both staff and visitors. The hair hadn’t been quite so red or so wild when Belphagor had first met him,

  but he’d always stood out in a crowd. So much so that his attempt on

  Belphagor’s purse had been absurd—though Belphagor had always

  suspected, or at least hoped, Vasily knew and had picked him anyway.

  Vasily sat back in his chair with his cup of tea. “What are you

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  staring at, old man?”

  “Same thing everyone else is.”

  “Do you think I’m putting us in danger?”

  “I might have picked a less conspicuous traveling companion,” he

  admitted. “Just try to resist the urge to fling your eggs at the heads of little old babushki or dance naked on the table.” He grinned at the mental image of the latter. “Seriously, though, I doubt anyone will be looking for a person of your description. I’m sure they think you’re

  dead.”

  “I thought I was, for a bit.” Vasily leaned forward across the table.

  “Malchik, on the other hand,” he said quietly in Russian. “They have

  positive confirmation now that we brought her to the world of Man.

  And they know what she looks like. They’ll be looking for a boy.”

  The angel watched them, Belphagor noted, aware of being talked

  about.

  “I’ve thought about that,” Belphagor replied in the same tongue.

  “But I’m not sure what we can do about it. For the moment, I think

  she’s better off as a boy.”

  “Or maybe you like her better as a boy.”

  “Bozhe moi. I am not interested in Malchik.”

  Intent on spreading jam on his toast, Vasily was making a poor

  attempt to hide a smile. He was obviously trying to get a rise out of

  Belphagor; it was a nostalgic feeling.

  “But she’s interested in you.” Vasily lowered his voice, though the

  angel couldn’t understand the Russian words.

  Belphagor made a conscious effort not to look in her direction.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re her hero now. Haven’t you noticed the way she looks at

  you?”

  Belphagor laughed. Vasily was toying with him. “You’re being

  ridiculous.” But Vasily looked serious. “Come on, now, Vasya. She’s

  scared to death of me. I stripped her and shaved her head and dragged

  her away from everything she knew to hold her for ransom. I’ve been

  nothing but authoritative with her. She couldn’t possibly… ”

  “Some of us prefer authoritative,” said Vasily.

  “Bozhe moi.”

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  §

  The following day, Belphagor took Vasily, despite vehement

  protests, to a doctor of ophthalmology. If they were going to be hostage to the mechanic and the faulty alternator, they might as well make use of the time. The doctor declared the firespirit permanently myopic and gave him a prescription for spectacles, which Vasily vowed not to wear.

  Belphagor kept a wary eye on the angel over the next several days

  while they holed up in the room to avoid attention. He picked up some

  playing cards to pass the time and discovered the girl had learned a

  trick or two in her time in Raqia. She was unfamiliar with poker, but

  once he’d taught her the rules, she could hold her own against both of them, winning more hands than he expected. But she stayed close to

  Belphagor, looking to him for approval and attention. Vasily was right.

  Belphagor also kept an ear to the ground, and so far there was

  no indication the Seraphim had returned to the world of Man. He’d

  slipped a crystal facet to the bellboy in exchange for news of the

  unusual, along with discretion about who was staying in the room.

  He had rightly surmised the boy had gypsy blood, and though his

  people weren’t part of the underground, the boy knew of the secretive

  organization and managed to arrange a meeting with one of them on

  the eve of Ivan Kupala.

  They’d arrived in Novgorod just in time for the midsummer

  festival—the feast of John the Baptist, according to the Orthodox

  Church, but in reality, a celebration of a far older deity. The festivities would provide the perfect cover for a meeting in plain sight, and

  it would do the girl good to get some fresh air. With young people

  engaging in revelry and the odd bit of mischief about town, she might

  have her only opportunity here in Novgorod to enjoy for one night

  what others her age took for granted.

  They ate at a restaurant inside the tower of the kremlin and then

  walked about to digest their meal, blending in with the tourists who

  came here from around the world to see the ancient fortress. The

  silver cupolas of the whitewashed cathedral of St. Sophia glittered

  in the twilight, and through the southern entrance to the kremlin,

  the Volkhov shimmered beside the river beach, where people were

  already gathering to celebrate. Belphagor bought honey mead from

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  a concession booth, and they wandered along the bank while the

  long sunset made its eventual way into the west. A bonfire glowed

  across the river, and a few intrepid—and inebriated—individuals were

  stripping down to their undergarments to wade out into the water to

  cleanse their souls for another year.

  Warmed by the mead, the angel expressed an interest in taking

  a dip in the river, and Belphagor encouraged her. He ordered Vasily

  to stay close to her while he took a trip to the restroom. It gave him just enough time to slip back inside the Dyetinets and meet the gypsy woman as arranged to give her a message for Dmitri Ilyich.

  “Sanctuary,” was all he said. She took the message with a nod and

  didn’t ask what he meant or who Dmitri was. Anyone in the gypsy

  underground knew perfectly well.

  The angel was coming back from the river when he returned.

  She’d gone out without her cap, and her hair was growing out in a halo of honey-mead curls. They would have to get her to a barber soon to

  shear that unmistakable color. His concern was further reinforced the

  nearer she came. Shivering and slight, with her clothes pasted to her

  skin, her true sex was obvious.

  Vasily had waded out behind her to make sure she was safe, and he

  plopped down beside Belphagor on the sand, spattering him with cold

  water shaken from his locks. His sex was obvious as well. Resisting

  the impulse to pull Vasily close and taste the wet skin, Belphagor

  concentrated on the young people jumping over the bonfire.

  “Who’s that?” Vasily grabbed his arm. “Is there someone with

  Malchik?”

  He followed Vasily’s squinting gaze. A young man was trying to

  speak to the angel. Belphagor stood, muscles tense. Realizing she

  couldn’t understand him, the boy took a garland of grasses and flowers from his head and put it on hers before walking away. Just a harmless

  suitor—which confirmed Belphagor wasn’t the only one who had

  noticed her appearance. She continued toward them, looking pleased

  with her crown.

  “You shouldn’t talk to strangers.” Belphagor scolded her like a

  protective father.

  “I didn’t sp
eak to him. I just shook my head at him when he spoke

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  to me, and he gave me this.” She sat next to Vasily, and he reached out and touched the fronds.

  “A garland.” He confirmed the shape with his fingers. “If you put a

  candle in it and set it afloat on the water, it’ll tell your future.”

  She frowned. “I already know my future.”

  “Perhaps not. Nothing is certain.” Belphagor regretted speaking

  when her eyes brightened at his words. He had to be more careful not

  to encourage her infatuation.

  The encounter with the youth made him nervous, and he decided

  it was time to call it a night. They walked back along the riverbank,

  the settling darkness pricked with shimmering candles carrying young

  girls’ wishes down the river in garland barges. The angel found an

  abandoned candle, and Vasily lit it for her so she could set the garland out to sea. With the sunlight fully vanquished, the firespirit was nearly helpless, so Belphagor took his hand to guide him. It would not be

  noticed in the dark. The silver rings on Vasily’s fingers pressed against Belphagor’s skin—a forgotten comfort.

  Later, lying awake beside Vasily in one of the two narrow beds, he

  stared at the ceiling. It was not yet midnight, but the angel had quickly fallen asleep after her invigorating swim. Vasily was quiet beside him, so Belphagor thought himself alone with his thoughts. He turned on

  his side to look at the younger demon and found him staring back in

  the dark.

  “You’re looking at me again, aren’t you, old man?” Vasily whispered.

  Belphagor’s breathing quickened. “I’d like to do more than look,”

  he murmured against Vasily’s neck and teased his thumb along the

  spikes, drawing a shiver from the other demon. “We never finished

  this.”

  “That was your choice.” Vasily’s lowered voice sounded huskier

  than usual.

  “Never,” Belphagor breathed, and dared to kiss him.

  “Mudak,” Vasily swore, but his hand slipped under Belphagor’s

  T-shirt, seeking the rings at his nipples. When Vasily found one and

  lowered his head to tug at it with his teeth, Belphagor breathed in

  sharply.

  “We shouldn’t,” he whispered, though his own hand was at the

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  buttons of Vasily’s fly.

  Vasily sucked the ring into his mouth with the heat of the firespirit