Vasily had returned.
Belphagor smoothed his hand over his waistcoat and felt the purse
beneath it snug against his heart. It was more than enough to settle
his outstanding accounts with the young demon. He ran his fingers
through his hair, straightened his waistcoat, and thanked Paimon
before he slid out of the booth.
Approaching the bar, he drew up a stool with a nod to the
bartender. “Absinthe.”
Vasily turned his head. “Son of a succubus,” he growled in a hard,
gravelly voice that gave the impression he’d never quite gotten over a childhood bout of laryngitis. “Take it elsewhere.”
Belphagor smiled. “I’ve missed your honeyed tongue.” He
watched the bartender pour ice water over the cube of sugar in the
slotted silver spoon perched atop the green liqueur. “When did you
get back?”
“None of your damn business.” Distance, it seemed, had not made
Vasily’s heart grow fonder.
“Fair enough. What brings you to The Brimstone, then?”
“It’s a public den. I don’t need your permission.” Vasily downed
the steaming drink as only a firespirit could. “I came with some friends.
I told them there were better dens over in the Devil’s Doorstep, but
they insisted on wasting their crystal here.”
“Devil’s Doorstep?” Belphagor shook his head and started
to make a comment he realized he’d regret. He glanced over at the
growing commotion at the gaming tables. The Ophanim had focused
on one of the players, and the resisting demon was dragged to his feet.
Always unwise to provoke an Ophan’s touch. “Not those friends, I
hope.”
Vasily glanced around and swore under his breath. He ducked his
head back down over the bar, obviously trying to be inconspicuous—a
ludicrous proposition where Vasily was concerned.
THE FALLEN QUEEN 23
Belphagor considered his options. If he was going to attempt what
he had in mind, he couldn’t do it alone. Not and keep an eye on the
angel. And he was running out of time.
“Might I suggest you throw in your lot with a better class of
player?”
Vasily made a harsh sound, no doubt meant to be a scornful laugh.
“If you mean yourself, you’re out of your mind. You lost credit in any game you hope to play with me a long time ago.”
Tossing back his absinthe as if it were whiskey, Belphagor noted
the heightening altercation at the tables and Vasily’s increasing
discomfort. It was clear Vasily would have gotten up and left if he’d
dared. The drunken demon resisting arrest began shrieking at the
painful contact with the Ophan, shouting loudly about tyranny and
revolution.
Belphagor set down the empty cordial and took the cigar stub
from his pocket, effecting nonchalance. “What would you say if I told
you I have my debt to you in full, right here in my shirt?”
“I’d say it’s rubbish.”
“It’s all rubbish, Vasya. But this sort of rubbish pays bills and buys kegs of nectar.”
He held the cigar between his teeth expectantly, one eye on the
Ophanim. They were thoroughly engaged in the fortuitous distraction
of Vasily’s “friends,” but it wouldn’t do to be caught with a pouch of crystal equivalent to the net worth of the Demon District in his pocket.
Vasily ignored his unspoken request for a light.
“What’s the matter?” he asked between his teeth. “Cat got your
tongue?” Belphagor flicked the tip of the cigar upward pointedly. “Or
are you deliberately being rude to get a rise out of me? Because it
might be working.”
With a furious glare, the demon stuck out his tongue, the tip
narrowed to a glowing point. In spite of his demeanor, it was a trick he loved to show off. Not every firespirit could do it.
Pleased that he could not only still make him furious, but
simultaneously goad him into unwitting submission, Belphagor lit the
cigar on Vasily’s red-hot tongue, sucking heat from the smoldering
leaf. “Every last facet. On my honor.”
Vasily laughed without mirth and shoved Belphagor’s shoulder,
nearly toppling him from his stool. Belphagor considered his next
move. It was now or never. With the cigar suspended between his
fingers and his cheek propped on the heel of his hand, he baited the
hook.
“I could sweeten the pot for your help on a job. It may be
dangerous, but pay’s as good as it gets.” He flicked his gaze toward the second pair of Ophanim entering The Brimstone, presumably to take
custody of the brawling demons at the gaming table. “And I get the
feeling you may need another way out of here.”
Vasily’s eyes narrowed. He took the cigar from between
Belphagor’s fingers and puffed on it. “What sort of job?”
“Ransom,” said Belphagor in a voice that wouldn’t carry. “One of
the Host.”
§
When Belphagor returned to the back room, the angel sat
motionless on the edge of the bed beside her governess, her eyes
blank, and red from more than ruby oil. Vasily took position by the
door, arms crossed over his broad chest, and Helga observed him with
mistrust. He gave no indication whether he was guarding the door
from what might be without or barring those within from reaching it.
She rose, twisting her bloody cuff. “I’ve given her a draught. She’ll
travel, but as one asleep.”
“She’ll need more than a somnambulant.” Belphagor took his
straight razor and a tin of soft soap from beside the stone basin and
drew up a stool to the side of the cot.
Helga stepped between him and the girl. “What is that for?”
“Her disguise.” He sighed at her hesitation. “If you won’t trust
me to do my job, there’s no point continuing. You want her spirited
out of the Firmament and her identity kept hidden? Red eyes won’t
do it. She’ll be recognized in an instant unless those who seek her see something they aren’t expecting to see.” He set the razor and tin on
the stool, pushed Helga aside, and pulled the girl to her feet.
The drugged angel moved sluggishly, yet without protest. Her
governess gave a sharp cry of indignation, but made no move to
interfere when Belphagor plunged the girl’s head into the basin of
THE FALLEN QUEEN 25
ice-cold water. Hauling her up by the hair, he thrust her trembling
onto the cot, but she made no sound. He ran a thick dollop of soap
through her tresses and took up his razor, handing the tin to Helga
before he sat and centered himself before the girl. His strop hung on
the wall beside him, and he dragged the blade across it a few times
before raising it to the angel’s head. When Belphagor gripped her by
the hair and drew the blade across her scalp, Vasily had to step in to restrain the governess.
“I expect you’re wondering why I don’t just cut it short.” Belphagor
watched the thick curls of honey gold drop to the floor. “But this is
precisely what won’t be looked for.” The corner of his mouth turned
up at the sight of the naked skin he was revealing. When this precious angel was herself again, sh
e would be horrified.
The girl sat small and vulnerable before him when he’d finished,
hands folded in the lap of her grey silk gown. She probably thought
such a plain gown beneath her cloak would go unnoticed in Raqia, but
it stuck out like a pearl in a sack of dung marbles.
“Can’t be dressed as a noble, either.” He spun her by the shoulders
to face the wall and ran his fingers through the hooks at her back.
When he slipped the fabric from one shoulder, Helga grasped his wrist.
“You’ll show her respect,” she demanded, her voice firm and
commanding as though she had forgotten herself until this moment.
“She is not some Raqia demonslut!”
Belphagor stared her down. “I’m not your servant, nor hers.” He
flung her hand away. “There are no nobles in Raqia.” The dress slid
down of its own accord and the angel sat trembling in her corset of
cream satin and bone. Such finery the Host hoarded in places few
likely ever saw.
Belphagor took a black, button-down shirt from the wooden box
that served as his wardrobe and tossed it at Helga, followed by an old pair of pants, threadbare at the knees, that he’d meant to throw out.
“Dress her yourself, then. But you’ll get no respect of modesty
from Vasily or me.”
Resuming his position by the door, Vasily flashed his menacing
grin in solidarity while Belphagor grabbed another set of clothes
for himself, garments more appropriate for their destination than
26 JANE KINDRED
waistcoats and cuffs, and began to undress.
Helga yanked the curtain across with furious force, but it provided
little privacy. When she began to lower the shirt over her charge’s head, Belphagor clicked his tongue against his teeth in disapproval.
“I think you’d best leave the corset, don’t you? Doesn’t look the
sort of thing too many own.”
Helga sighed and loosened the laces before unhooking the
knobs along the busk. Belphagor stared ahead defiantly, but when
the precious garment came away and revealed defenseless flesh, he
found himself taken aback. Beneath the curves and cushions of satin,
lace, and shape-forcing bone, this “Nenny” was little more than a child.
Watching Helga gently tug the girl’s arms into the sleeves of the shirt, Belphagor felt almost ashamed at his own callousness.
“Step it up,” he growled, buttoning his pants. “We haven’t got all
day.”
The angel stood before them presently, her vacant eyes seeming
to hold back a violent storm of misery. Belphagor thrust a woolen
cap over her bare skull and outfitted her with an old coat Vasily had
produced from his pack.
“There.” He stepped back. “Nothing left of your Nenny, now, is
there?”
For safety’s sake, she would not be called Nenny again. It was
a pet name, obviously, but even a pet name from a governess could
give a fugitive away. Belphagor would simply call her “boy,” as it was the impression the waifish child gave now. It hardly mattered. She
responded to nothing and did anything she was directed. It was a
useful potion her governess had given her.
Helga engulfed the angel in an embrace. “Keep her safe,” she
pleaded, wiping tears from her eyes.
With a curt nod, Belphagor patted the pouch of crystal beneath
his shirt while Vasily took hold of the girl’s arm.
“I’ll send for her as soon as I can,” said Helga. “How will I reach
you? Will you take her to Vilon or Zevul?”
“Neither.” Belphagor handed her a smooth stone. “This will call
me from anywhere.”
It was time to reveal his ace in the hole. He kicked aside the rug
THE FALLEN QUEEN 27
and set his hand against the bare panels of wood, murmuring under
his breath. A brass handle appeared, and he pulled open the trap door.
Helga gaped at the dark opening onto the stairs beneath and
yanked the angel back. “You will not fall with her!”
“You have a better idea?” He jerked his head toward the door.
“There are half a dozen Ophanim in the gaming room alone. They
have the usual back way covered. The entire District is crawling with
them. She goes down the hole, or you may as well open the door and
march her straight into their unpleasant hands.”
At the sound of pounding on one of the doors down the hall, the
governess jumped.
Vasily pulled the girl away from her, his face grim. “We’re wasting
time.”
Helga stepped back reluctantly, hands twisting in the fabric of her
cloak, and let Vasily steer the angel into the darkness.
Belphagor palmed the vial he’d pilfered from Helga’s pocket
earlier and tugged on his cap. “We’ll wait for your call.” He climbed
down onto the steps and pulled the trap door shut. There was no way
now for her to object or pursue him. Once closed, the door no longer
existed above. Heaven tolerated these small works of magic within
the borders of Raqia. Without its underbelly, after all, there would
be nothing with which the righteous Host could compare itself and
resolve itself pure and superior.
Descending into the grey fog of a damp stone staircase, Vasily
went ahead of them and blew into the darkness. Smoke rings emerged
from between his lips to illuminate the path. Belphagor’s specialty
was illusion, not illumination. As an airspirit, he could work both the spoken incantation and projections to cloud the mind. It proved useful at the wingcasting table—at least where the novice player or slumming
Host was concerned. Most of the Fallen saw through his small-time
tricks, but the angel had fallen easily for his game of obfuscation.
When serious assets were at stake, however, he was a straight player,
a master of the game, and never played a game he wasn’t confident
he’d win.
He watched the angel following Vasily into the belly of hell
without question. It was a useful spell indeed he’d lifted from that
28 JANE KINDRED
governess. There was no telling how long it would last, but for now,
the girl was peacefully compliant. When she came back to herself, she
wouldn’t be pleased with what he’d done to her. Nor would she be by
what else he planned to do.
He’d promised to hide her, but he hadn’t promised to return her
for the price Helga had given so easily. If the angel’s servant could
be entrusted with such carrying cash, there was much more to be
had for her return. And if the governess didn’t come through, there
were terrestrial factions who would pay handsomely for information
guaranteed to upset any number of celestial applecarts. If Belphagor
played his cards right—and he never played them wrong—he might
come out of this endeavor a wealthy demon.
The red glowing light of Vasily’s exhalations floated down the
stone steps before them, spiraling deeper into the solid realm. This
conduit facilitated the travel of the damned from one hell to another, as Heaven regarded it.
Below them lay the bleak, dreary kingdom of Man.
THE FALLEN QUEEN 29
Tritya: The Train to Hell
from the memoirs of the
Grand Duchess Anazakia
Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk
We moved forward in a grand carriage like none I had ever seen. I
could not imagine what beasts pulled it at such a rapid pace. Through
glass windows, the shadow of our conveyance rushed over the ground
beside the deep azure of a lake I did not recognize, stretched beneath a pale predawn sky. Aspen and wildflowers hugged the lake’s rocky
shore, and all around it, spruce-carpeted mountains stretched into the hazy distance. It was the loveliest and most desolate of visions.
I lifted my head, realizing I had slept against the shoulder of the
person next to me. A vague sense of unease and wrongness tugged
at the edges of my consciousness. When I tried to place my traveling
companion, disquiet fluttered like a bird trapped in the dark attic of my head but could go no further.
Beside me, my seatmate opened ebony eyes in which the pupils
drowned. Out of the dark bog of his gaze a piece of unanchored
memory floated to the surface. I had lost to him at cards—a game I
had played in a den of iniquity in Raqia—and lost spectacularly until
I had not a single crystal facet left. Why I was traveling with a demon, and one who’d taken my last facet, I couldn’t fathom. The momentary
clarity seemed to drift away as soon as my mind snatched at it, leaving nothing but a fog of pain.
They’ll be looking for you, and they will show you no mercy. The words curled toward me out of the emptiness, unattached to anything
30 JANE KINDRED
save an overwhelming surge of horror and despair. But I remembered
the anxious face of the one who’d spoken them. I remembered my
nurse, Helga. And the other words she’d spoken, too horrible to bear.
A violent wave of sickness rolled over me in their wake, and with
a quick motion, the demon caught me at the back of the neck and
thrust my head between my knees so that I vomited at my feet. He
held my head down though I tried to twist away from him in misery
and humiliation.
“You’ll keep it to yourself,” he growled low at my ear, the stubble
on his face scratching my cheek. “No weeping or wailing. No crying out names. I’ve been paid dear to keep you hid, and I’ll not have you give us away with a fit of self-pity.” He shook me, fingers pinched beneath my ears. “You do as I tell you if you value your life, no questions asked.
Understand?” When I gave a fair approximation of a nod he released