Shield of Fire (A Bringer and the Bane Novel) (37 page)

Paimon went back to his pudding. “Anyway, they’ve got a death warrant for whoever the poor sod is they’re looking for. Some ‘agitator.’ They’re all over the District right now.” He gave Belphagor a significant glance. “There’s a pair of Ophanim stalking the back alley as we speak.”

So much for slipping out the back.

There was, of course, one other possibility. If he let Paimon in on his ace in the hole, he might agree to help smuggle the angel out.

Belphagor opened his mouth to take Paimon into his confidence when a flash of color across the room caught his eye. Belphagor started out of his seat and then fell back. The rest of The Brimstone might have burst into flame around him at that moment and he wouldn’t have noticed.

At the far end of the bar, an unmistakable shock of deliberately matted, magma-red locks spilled over a set of broad shoulders—were they broader than they had been?—like a river of molten iron. The burly young demon they belonged to sat drinking from a smoldering clay cup, eyes focused on the wall behind the bar with the air of a man who wished he was anywhere but where he was. Below sideburns of a more natural red that braced most of his hard jaw, metal glinted for an instant in the smoking candlelight. A row of thin spikes pierced the flesh of his neck.

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.

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 motion-less 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 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, she 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 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 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 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.