The Armies of Heaven (19 page)

Chetyrnadtsataya
: En Passant

Standing in front of Dmitri’s building at two in the morning on the dusty track that passed for a sidewalk, Belphagor leaned in close to the intercom. For once, it was actually functional. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, but it’s urgent.”

Dmitri had obviously been deeply asleep. “You get reception in Raqia?”

“No, Dmitri, I’m downstairs. Let me in.”

After a blank pause, Belphagor heard the phone rustling against something as if it had been put into a pocket.

“Dmitri?”

More rustling sounds followed, and then a light came on above the staircase, revealing through the thick glass panel next to the door Dmitri’s silhouette shuffling down the four flights in his
tapochki
. He pushed open the door and stared in bewilderment at the apparent group of hooligans standing behind Belphagor.

“Lyosha,” Belphagor prompted the angel.

Loquel removed his hood and dark glasses so his silver hair fell over his shoulders and his eyes glowed in the dark.

“Bel, what on earth?” Fully waking in the cool night air, Dmitri stepped back and held the door. “Hurry up. This isn’t a safe house anymore.”

After the Virtues followed Belphagor upstairs to Dmitri’s apartment and filed inside, Dmitri shut the door and leaned back against it. “What are you doing here?”

“We came to talk to the Night Travelers. But right now I need to know where to find the
Angliski
Nephilim.”

Dmitri looked from the Virtues to Belphagor. “I don’t understand.”

“I think they’ve taken Love.”

“From Heaven?” exclaimed Dmitri.

Belphagor was growing impatient. “Not from Heaven, from Nevsky Prospekt. There’s apparently someone masquerading as one of the Malakim among the Travelers, and he’s been asking about Love. Someone with a British accent. And now she’s missing.”

“So you wake me up in the middle of the night to ask me about
Angliski
Nephilim.” Dmitri walked through the open double doors to the living room and sat down on the couch. “That makes about as much sense as shit in a blender. Someone you think has a British accent might have talked to someone who knows Love and you immediately think
Angliski
Nephilim have kidnapped her again.”

“The name he’s using is Micah.”

“Oh.” Dmitri picked up a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Belphagor, mumbling around his as he lit it. “There’s a pretty notorious Nephil named Micah from the
Angliski
clan.” He shook out the cheap cardboard match before he burned his fingers and handed the cigarette to Belphagor to light his own.

“It’s more fun the way Vasya lights them for me.” Belphagor winked as he passed it back.

“Well, we can’t all be hot, Seraph half-breeds.” Dmitri took a drag.

They grinned at each other and embraced as if they hadn’t parted under the worst of circumstances.

Belphagor regarded him as he sat back with his cigarette. “How are you holding up?”

Dmitri shrugged. “A lot of sleeping. Because when I’m awake, I accidentally make breakfast for two and call Lev’s cell phone when I’m out to ask if he wants anything at the market.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dmitri tapped off his ashes into a cauldron-shaped ashtray. “Lev bought it,” he said at Belphagor’s raised eyebrow. “The perfect accoutrement for the urban terrestrial demon.” He glanced up at the Virtues still standing in the foyer and murmured under his breath in Russian. “Will you tell them to sit down or something? I feel like I’m at my own funeral.”

Belphagor nodded to them. “Sit anywhere you like.”

The Virtues looked about at the mostly empty living room. A few sat on the floor, while the others went to the adjoining kitchen and sat at the table. Loquel curled up at Belphagor’s feet.

“
O, nyet
,” said Dmitri.

“
O, da
.” Belphagor grinned. “
Ya treniruyus yevo
,” he added.
I’m training him.

“
Khrystos
, Bel.”

“Everyone needs a hobby.” He took a drag on the cigarette. “So. Where do I find the
Angliski
?”

“What makes you think I know where to find them? They’re supposed to be in hiding.”

“Yes, they’re supposed to be. Yet one—notorious, as you note—is wandering around St. Petersburg getting fairly well noticed. And you say this isn’t a safe house anymore. Which seems a little odd to me, considering you’re the Grigori chieftain. It also seems a little odd it was so easy to find you. You’ve never stayed in one place this long. So putting two and three together, I’m guessing you’re not the Grigori chieftain anymore.”

Dmitri shrugged. “It seemed a little pointless.”

“Who’s in charge now?”

“Nobody, really. I didn’t step down. But nobody gives a damn about it all anymore, Bel.”

“Nobody does or you don’t?”

Dmitri shrugged again and lit a second cigarette from the butt of his first. He’d never been much of a smoker before.

Belphagor sighed. “So what’s happening with the Nephilim?”

“Officially, the
Angliski
are cut off. Officially, I could send a few Grigori after this Micah and take whatever action I like against him for showing his face in St. Petersburg.” He ground out the cigarette butt in the cauldron while smoking the other. “Unofficially, the
Angliski
are viewed as heroes by a lot of the Fallen around here.”

“
Heroes
? Kidnapping an infant makes you a hero?”

“For joining the Social Liberation Party and defying Heaven.” He exhaled almost angrily, though Belphagor had said nothing to criticize him yet. “Look, Bel, there are a lot of demons who believe these stories about ‘Bloody Anazakia,’ and they’re sick of angelic rule.”

“But you know the stories aren’t true.”

Dmitri shrugged.

“Are you going to tell me you think my little girl is an abomination?” Belphagor demanded. “After knowing Anazakia? After knowing Vasily, for Heaven’s sake?”

“Of course not. But Vasily, according to you, isn’t even a demon.” Dmitri flicked his barely smoked cigarette into the ashtray, avoiding his eyes. “When I committed the Exiles to come to your aid, it was because the Fallen help the Fallen.”

Belphagor ground out his cigarette carefully and stood, offering his hand to help Loquel up from the floor. It took a nearly supernal effort to keep his temper controlled. “Just tell me where to find Micah and you’ll never have to be bothered with any filthy angel-lovers again.”

“Belphagor—”

“The fucking
Angliski
, Dmitri! Before something happens to Love!”

§

Tyr was furious when Micah gave him the order to stop. They’d spent several minutes arguing in English, while Love huddled on the floor beside the daybed, too afraid to move. Eventually, Tyr stormed off into a back room and slammed the door.

Love had taken her cues from Micah, using half-truths along with the information he supplied when she pretended to hesitate, contriving a believable story about Vasily and the Iriyan Guard sneaking Ola and Azel out of Arcadia to return with them to Iriy. Micah seemed pleased. He’d even given her a kiss on the top of her head when she finished answering his questions. The gesture had reminded her of Kirill and she’d burst into tears, overwhelmed, and confused by his kindness. Micah had wrapped a blanket around her and told her to rest, and before she knew it, she’d fallen asleep. But the respite had been temporary.

Micah dragged her from the bed a few hours later, shaking her angrily. “I am very disappointed in you, Love.” His eyes had gone nephilic black, like slick pieces of obsidian. “You’ve made me look quite foolish for trusting you. I transmitted your story directly to Heaven, where your friend Vasily and his Iriyan Guard were engaged in battle with the Liberationists. It seems Vasily himself met with Helga and demanded to know where the children were.”

Love stood trembling before him, forced onto the balls of her feet as he seized her between both hands. “I tried to tell you I didn’t know where they were.”

Micah turned and pressed her into Tyr’s waiting arms. There wasn’t even time to cry out before Tyr swung her about and slammed her head against the half-open door of the kitchen. Stunned, she slipped to the floor against the threshold, one arm up to fend off Tyr, but it was Hera who picked her up by the hair and hauled her inside. When Micah appeared in the doorway, Love tried to speak, but Hera slapped her and growled, “Shut up!”

“I’m afraid the time for civil discourse is over,” Micah agreed. “You’ll think Tyr is a lamb when Hera has finished with you. She’s been champing at the bit for this opportunity. If you’re able to speak afterward, I’ll be waiting in the living room.” He closed the door and Tyr stepped in front of it with his arms folded while Hera took a knife from the counter.

“Please.” Love edged away from her across the floor, her head swimming. Hera had crazy in her eyes. “I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you the truth.”

Hera advanced on her. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you lied your little pikey mouth off.” Love tried to stand, but everything went blurry and then Hera was in front of her pulling Love’s head back by the hair, forcing her to look up as she traced the bruise on Love’s cheek with the tip of her knife. The stony blue eyes went black. “And maybe you shouldn’t have murdered my brother.”

§

“Wings,” Belphagor instructed the Virtues, standing before the apartment building Dmitri had sent him to after reluctantly making a few calls. “But be careful about it. Don’t draw attention to yourselves.” He wasn’t certain how wings of fluid stone might be used in a fight, but they were about to find out. He shrugged his own from within his shirt—something far easier for his element than theirs, as his could move through porous objects—but kept them tucked within his leather duster. The Virtues’ baggy shirts and hooded jackets rippled with the powerful wings yearning to be released, but for novices, they managed to keep them fairly well in check.

Belphagor worked his elemental magic on the lock and led them into the entryway, instructing the Virtues to wait out of sight until he needed them. He found the first-floor apartment and kicked the door open. A bearded Nephil rose indignantly from his seat in the living room, but there was no one else in sight.

“You must be Micah.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Belphagor.”

Micah laughed. “The Prince of Tricks, come to rescue his nanny. I’d heard you were scrawny. What do you plan to do, airspirit, breathe on me? Maybe huff and puff and blow my house down?”

“I prefer ‘wiry.’ And I thought I’d just kick your ass.”

Micah laughed again, and then flew at him in a blur of movement, sinewy nephilic wings fully extended in an instant. Belphagor held his breath while Micah ploughed through the space he’d been solidly occupying and slammed into the wall behind him.

He breathed out, solid once more, and regarded Micah with a half-smile. “Huff.”

Micah scrambled to his feet. “Coward.”

A muffled cry came from behind the door to Belphagor’s right and he yanked it open. A pair of blond Nephilim had Love against the kitchen table. The male held Love down with one hand on her neck, while the female was poised with a knife against Love’s bared back as if she meant to carve her up.

Belphagor grabbed the closest object and swung, cracking the cast-iron skillet against the side of the male Nephil’s head. The Nephil staggered backward and dropped to his knees, slumping sideways onto the floor.

“Sukin syn!”
The woman came at Belphagor with her knife and he hesitated only a moment before swinging again and knocking her into the counter. The knife flew out of her hand and spun across the linoleum as she joined the Nephil groaning on the floor.

Belphagor drew Love away from the table, straightening her clothes, and an angry oath escaped him at the sight of her bruised face. “Oh, sweetheart.” He held her close to his side and turned to Micah, who stood staring him down. “And you call
me
a coward?”

“That was Tyr’s doing,” said Micah disdainfully. “I don’t believe in hitting women. But Love knew the consequences when she refused to answer my questions.”

“Let me get this straight. You think letting your goon beat up a woman for you makes you
less
of a coward.”

“Shut up, demon,” Micah snarled. “I don’t need lessons in cowardice from a
pedik
.”

Belphagor lowered Love into a chair and stepped toward Micah. “I suggest you take back those words.”

Micah laughed in his face and Belphagor threw off his coat and let his wings spread. They flew at each other, stirring the air as they grappled together. As this was Belphagor’s element, it was to his advantage. Micah, like most Nephilim, was tall and sturdily built, with a strength neither his human nor angel progenitors possessed, but Belphagor’s lithe frame made him quicker and more flexible. Belphagor lifted himself into the air, forcing Micah to rise with him. The Nephil’s weight became more of a hindrance as they wrestled off the ground, and Belphagor spun him with a twist of his wings, knocking him into the far wall.

Love cried out a warning and Belphagor turned to see the Nephil Tyr charging toward him with blood running into his eyes. Tyr struck him like a blind bull, knocking over the lamp beside the daybed and shattering the bulb as well as knocking the wind out of Belphagor. In the darkness, a flash of purest silver streaked across his vision accompanied by a tremendous thunderclap, and Tyr struck the ground.

Loquel stood palely luminescent before him, the edges of his open wings dripping blood. He’d boxed Tyr’s ears.
“Gospodin.”
Loquel helped Belphagor to his feet. “We saw the room go dark and we thought you would need us.” The rest of the Virtues hovered in the doorway. They’d all removed their shirts to avoid the pesky problem of figuring out how to raise their wings through the collars.