The Armies of Heaven (17 page)

Belphagor sighed and tore himself from his reverie as he watched the moonless sky overhead. With less fanfare, each of the Virtues had discovered their wings when he’d stood Loquel before them to let them see. The initial release was always a painful one, but it had been impossible for them to resist once they’d seen Loquel’s transformation. Belphagor hadn’t simply been using colorful speech; there was a reason celestials fell, encapsulated in this moment of painful, ecstatic self-discovery. It remained to be seen whether the Virtues could maneuver with their wings intuitively.

He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. Over the tops of the cemetery trees, twelve stunning pairs of alabaster wings soared aloft, glowing softly with their own luminescence. The dull, baggy clothing Belphagor had dressed the Virtues in did little to dampen the splendor.

The angels lighted with varying degrees of aplomb among the crumbling tombstones, leaving their wings extended as Belphagor had instructed, for maximum effect. They also removed their caps and dark glasses, uncovering their shining hair and eyes, and even without their wings, they would have been an impressive demonstration of Heaven’s splendor. The Night Travelers gathered around them, looking duly awed.

Belphagor smiled. “I present our representatives from the Virtuous Army of the Princedom of Aravoth.”

For the first time this evening, Pyotr Alexeyevich was speechless.

“The Night Travelers welcome you,” said Alexei with a humble bow.

Elena observed them cautiously. “You say they’re representatives of the Virtuous Army. What does that mean, exactly? And how many are they?”

Gereimon, who’d taken the role of platoon leader since the death of Sar Haniel, answered. “We are Virtues, angels of the Third Choir and the Eighth Order. There are seven thousand in the Virtuous Army of Aravoth.”

“Seven thousand Virtues fighting for the true queen of Heaven,” said Belphagor. “And another seven or eight hundred Host from one of the armies of the Firmament joined our cause as we marched on Elysium. We expect the desertions from Aeval’s forces to continue, as we expect to siphon off some of Helga’s once the Fallen have a chance to see Anazakia.”

Elena looked thoughtful. “And the numbers for Aeval’s army? And the revolutionary forces? How many are they?”

“The Supernal Army numbers some twenty thousand troops,” he admitted. “We don’t know how many of the Fallen Helga has been able to recruit to fight, though we know in addition to the Fallen, she also has a small number of the Host on her side.”

“Those are not encouraging odds.” Pyotr sounded almost disappointed.

“Still,” said Elena. “It is far more than we expected. Or were led to believe.” The elegant older woman shared some silent communication with Alexei and nodded, pulling her hood over her hair again. “We will reconvene to hold another vote on the alliance and let you know what we’ve decided.”

“But let me remind you again,” said Alexei, “that should we vote to break our alliance with the Malakim and restore the alliance with the Fallen, the Night Travelers will respect whatever decision the terrestrial Fallen make about which faction to support. We cannot persuade them Anazakia is more worthy of the throne than young Grand Duke Azel. As before, an alliance merely means we assist the Fallen in ways that require human intervention—in exchange for protection when it’s needed. Our decision will also depend to a great degree on the perceived viability of either side in the celestial war. It may be cynical, but I don’t wish to give you false hope. If the Parliament of Night Travelers determine that we cannot hope for the success of the Fallen’s champion, we would be fools to re-ally ourselves with them at this time.”

“Understandable.” Though the number of conditions being placed upon allegiances was disheartening, he could hardly blame them. Who wanted to face Aeval’s wrath if she emerged victorious? Still, the lack of faith from all sides was depressing. “If the underground is reestablished,” he promised, “I’ll do my best to persuade the Fallen they’ll fare better under Anazakia’s rule than any other.”

As the Night Travelers turned to slip back into the shadows, Belphagor called out to them. “There’s one other thing I’d like to ask your help with.”

Elena still eyed him with cautious mistrust. “We will consider it.”

“If you could use any contacts you might have to help me find Love—Lyubov Andreyevna—she’s been missing since this morning and I’m very concerned about her.”

“Missing?” exclaimed Elena. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

Pyotr stepped out of the shadows and in the pale luminescence of the Virtues’ wings Belphagor thought he appeared to be blushing. “I may have an idea about that.”

Elena’s brow knitted as she waited for an explanation.

“The Malakim have expressed a great interest in her because of her close connection to the angel child.” Pyotr nodded to Belphagor. “Your little girl.”

“And?” He felt his temper rising again.

“And there is one Malak in particular who happened to ask me about her today, a Malak who poses as an Orthodox monk and a prophet—and lives with Lyubov Andreyevna’s mother.”

Elena’s eyes narrowed. “You told one of the Malakim we were meeting to discuss the alliance?”

“No, no,” Pyotr assured them. “I said nothing of the meeting. He mentioned in passing he’d heard she’d just arrived in St. Petersburg and I merely confirmed it. He seemed keen to meet her. Obsessively keen.”

Alexei’s frown mixed displeasure with worry. “Which Malak?”

“He calls himself Micah. He’s an Englishman.”

The flesh on the back of Belphagor’s neck prickled with apprehension. “Englishman? An English angel?”

“I…” Pyotr’s cheeks had definitely gone red. “I assumed he was, from his accent. But I wasn’t thinking. Of course he couldn’t be if he’s a celestial. Perhaps the accent is a put-on.”

“Or perhaps it’s not the accent that’s put on,” said Belphagor grimly. It was now more urgent than ever that they reestablish the underground network. He needed to know what had become of the
Angliski
Nephilim and he needed to know now.

§

“There’s no need to be alarmed.”

Love blinked under the glare of a bright, incandescent bulb.

“No one has touched you while you slept and we have no plans to harm you unless you give us a reason to.”

She sat slumped against a daybed in a small apartment, dark except for the single bulb in the bare lamp beside her. Someone had taken her shoes. Love tried to sit up and the room spun around her. “I don’t feel very good.” She clutched at the fabric of the bedspread beneath her.

“Use this.” Micah pushed a metal dustbin toward her with his foot.

Love lurched forward and retched into the bin, grabbing onto the sides to keep from falling. She felt as if she’d been swilling vodka all night and had woken hung over and still half drunk. Only it wasn’t morning, it was night and she hadn’t gone to sleep, and it was her breakfast she was losing from who knew how many hours ago.

“When was that?” she murmured when her stomach finally stopped heaving and she fell back against the daybed.

Micah gave her a towel to wipe her face. “You’ve been out about twelve hours. Nadja got a little carried away with your tea.”

“That bitch,” groaned Love, and Micah laughed. She focused on him, straddling a kitchen chair turned the wrong way and leaning his elbows over the back. Though he wore a short beard for his part as a monk, he no longer wore the robes.

He handed her a bottle of carbonated water and inclined his head at her look of mistrust. “Hasn’t been opened.” Love broke the seal and drank it gratefully. “Feeling better? Would you like a little something to eat? Bring her some
pelmeni
,” he barked over his shoulder at a man and a woman standing behind him in the kitchen doorway, both pale oaken blonds like Zeus had been. He kicked the dustbin across the wooden floor toward the woman. “And get rid of this.”

The woman cursed in English and took the dustbin into the water closet to dump it before retreating to the kitchen, banging cupboards and drawers.

“Hera’s still bent out of shape about Zeus.”

Love glanced at him. “Hera?”

“Younger sister. He thought it was cute when she chose her name after him, but they were always…unusually close.” He chuckled when Love recoiled. “I’ve never asked. Tyr, on the other hand, never got along with his brother.” He smiled in Tyr’s direction. “He also doesn’t speak a word of Russian. They say he’s hung like a bird.”

Love stifled a laugh and pulled her bare feet under her on the bed, feeling more at ease with Micah despite herself.

“How’s that
pelmeni
coming?” he called into the kitchen.

“Poshol v pizdu!”
Apparently, Hera’s Russian was significantly better than Tyr’s.

“Looks like it’ll be a while.” Micah winked. “Now, Lyubov—Love, sorry. We’re going to have a little conversation. We’ll start with something easy. You came to St. Petersburg with someone. I already know who it was. Just confirm the name for me.”

Love shrugged, having no idea where he was going with this. “Belphagor.”

Micah smiled. “Excellent. Now, then. You didn’t travel alone.”

“No,” said Love tentatively.

“Remember, I’m fully aware of your arrival. You’re just telling me what I already know.”

“We came with some angels,” she said, not understanding this game.

“Very good, Love. You’re doing just fine.” He patted her knee and she flinched. Micah lifted his hand and held it in the air. “Sorry. You’re jumpy. I don’t blame you. But I promise, you have nothing to worry about. I’m nothing like Zeus.”

Love colored.

Micah leaned into the chair once more, resting his chin on his folded arms. “All right. That was a warm-up. Now for something a bit more advanced. Why are you and Belphagor in St. Petersburg with twelve of the Heavenly Host?”

“We…” Love hesitated and Micah waited with a patient smile. He must have figured this much out himself. “We want to persuade the Roma that the Malakim don’t have their best interests at heart.”

Micah nodded thoughtfully and stared at her with an intense look she couldn’t interpret. Then he shook his head and before Love realized Tyr had even moved, he delivered a blow of blinding pain across her face with the back of his hand. She cried out in surprise while Tyr stepped back into the same expressionless stance in the doorway, his hands behind his back.

Hera appeared with a tin tray table and a plate of dumplings and set them before Love with a gloating look. Love’s eyes burned and blood trickled from her nose.

Micah took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. “That looks painful.” He appeared genuinely concerned. “I’m sorry you lied to me, Love. I don’t like watching a man hit a woman.” He scooted the tray in front of her. “Please eat. We don’t want you passing out on us.”

Ignoring the handkerchief, Love took the fork and began to eat, afraid to disobey, tears falling onto the plate.

Micah watched her closely. “Is it satisfactory? Do you want something else?”

“No, it’s fine.” She kept her head over the plate.

He sat back, apparently satisfied. “So, again. Why are you and Belphagor here with a troop of angels?”

Love stopped in mid-bite and looked up at him, and then her eyes darted to Tyr to make sure he hadn’t moved. “I wasn’t lying.” She swallowed her mouthful and cringed.

“But you weren’t telling me the entire truth.”

Love stared at him. What on earth did he want to know? He glanced at Tyr and she scrambled back against the wall, kicking out with her feet when Tyr grabbed her by the hair. The scuffle upended the tray table, and the plate of
pelmeni
soared across the room and shattered as it hit the floor. Sour cream splattered the wall and Tyr’s legs, and Hera laughed loudly, doubled over in the kitchen doorway.

“Pikey bitch,” said Tyr—two English words Love understood—and threw her back onto the bed. He flicked sour cream from the toe of his boot and yelled something at Hera that prompted an argument in their language, cut short by Micah with a loud command. Hera went into the kitchen without further discussion, while Tyr began picking up the dumplings and broken pieces of china.

With the handkerchief in hand, Micah swung off the chair and dabbed gently at Love’s bloodied cheek. She winced when he touched her swelling eye.

“What could be so important it’s worth letting Tyr mess up such a pretty face?” He frowned and shook his head. “I haven’t even gotten to the hard questions.” Micah wiped at her tears, which only made them flow faster.

“There isn’t anything else to tell. We brought them to prove there are genuine angels on Anazakia’s side so the Night Travelers will break their alliance with the Malakim.”

Micah sat beside her. “Now, see? How hard was that? You didn’t mention Night Travelers before and you didn’t mention anything about alliances.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Micah sighed. “Is that how it’s going to be? All right, Love. Let’s be perfectly clear. The purpose of breaking an alliance is to form an alliance with someone else, yes?”

Love nodded.

“And with whom do you want the Night Travelers to ally?”

“With the Fallen.”

“Which Fallen?”

“Which Fallen?” She glanced nervously at Tyr.

“Yes, Love.” Micah spoke patiently. “Which Fallen? Celestial? Terrestrial? Exiles?”

“Terrestrial, I suppose. Whoever it was with before.”

“That would be terrestrial,” he agreed. “Which includes the Exiles. Which includes us, despite our differences with the insufferably paternal Grigori. You see, we are all in agreement on one thing: the demonic community is no longer interested in allying ourselves with outsiders. Demons are for the demons, regardless of what a bunch of night-traveling grifters and fortune-tellers have to offer. And bringing a bunch of more-virtuous-than-thou angels along for the ride isn’t going to be persuasive to the Fallen.”

“And yet you’re spending your time pretending to be a Heavenly messenger to sow discord.” She bit her tongue, afraid this might piss him off, but Micah laughed.