She somehow used the fringe of feathers that decorated her arms to snuff the flame as she danced, and with the last of it still burning, Phera snaked toward the crowd and presented herself to be extinguished by some lucky patron. Aryn swallowed as Phera’s eyes settled on her. There was no time to be bashful or Phera could be scarred. The dancer knelt over Aryn’s lap and arched back with her feathered arms poised like wings across her crown, a trail of violet running from her navel to the dark patch of hair between her legs and another circling up around one sharp-peaked breast.
Aryn ran her fingers down the smooth flesh, smothering the flame and pausing over the moister heat below it while reaching with her other hand for the fire teasing over Phera’s breast. Before she could close her hand over it, however, Phera rose toward her, placing her breast before Aryn’s mouth. She made a sound of pain as Aryn hesitated, and Aryn dove forward and smothered the flame with her tongue. Phera sighed and pressed in close, running her feathers down Aryn’s back, moving against her until Aryn took her in her mouth and sucked.
Aryn closed her eyes, sliding her hands around the muscled back and holding the dancer’s smooth body close, the hard nipple still hot against her tongue, and then Phera pulled back with a whispered laugh and took her body away.
“Don’t be greedy, little boy.” She winked and stroked her feathers down Aryn’s temple and throat before she twirled away.
The man to Aryn’s right grinned and nudged her in the ribs, and several others slapped her on the back as the show ended. “First time?” asked one of them, and Aryn nodded, not trusting her voice. But it wasn’t. She had watched Phera from the back of the crowd dozens of times, and only tonight had scraped the coin and the courage together to pay for a seat on the cushions that circled the stage.
The Garden of Earthly Delights was a high-class establishment among the many lesser names that jumbled for space and clamored for attention in the district of Raqia known as the Devil’s Doorstep. It was the lesser end of the celestial plane, where the peasant class of the Fallen was relegated to its ghetto. But the Garden drew a more exclusive kind of clientele than the average den of iniquity. Young men of means among the angelic class who spent their school holidays in Raqia as a lark were its frequent patrons. And Phera was its main attraction.
Aryn slipped back into the crowd, her tongue still tingling from whatever accelerant Phera had used. It tasted sweet and peppery at the same time. She wandered out into the cold night, still feeling the soft slope of the dancer’s belly against her palm and the downy tuft of hair she had dared to slip her fingers into to touch the heat of Phera that had nothing to do with flame.
She stumbled into someone coming out the side exit as she rounded the corner. Aryn ducked her head, mumbling an apology and then pulled back in surprise as a firm hand grabbed her around the wrist. Eyes like a mink’s were laughing at her from inside a hooded cloak. She had stumbled into Phera.
“Watch where you’re going, boy,” she chided. Her hand was still on Aryn’s wrist. “What house are you with?”
“House?” Aryn took a conscious step back, her heart thudding in her chest. “I’m not with any house. I’m from Raqia.” Aryn let out a hiss of surprise when Phera let go of her wrist and slapped her.
“Do I look like a fool to you? Do you think I don’t recognize one of the Host? You highborn angel boys come here slumming to get your dicks in the dirt, and you think the stupid peasants can’t tell the difference. Then you go back to the heights of Elysium, laughing about the nasty snatch you bought for a tinker’s coin.”
“I’m…” Aryn couldn’t very well tell her what she was really doing here; that she’d stolen her brother’s clothing to sneak out and watch Phera dance every night since they’d seen her at the demon faire at Ma’on.
“Not what? Old enough for demon pussy?” Phera’s eyes were reflecting the torchlight on the street with an odd, amber hue, and Aryn lost the last bit of sense she might have had.
“You’re a real firespirit,” she breathed.
Phera blinked at her and the glints of burning embers in her pupils disappeared. “Oh, boy. And you’re a real virgin, aren’t you? How old are you? Does your daddy know you’re here?”
Aryn backed away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” She turned around and headed back toward the main street before Phera could see her cheeks blazing hot enough to rival her act. What an idiot. You’re a real firespirit.
“Hang on,” called Phera after a moment, hurrying to catch up to her. “Come on, kid, wait a second.” She caught Aryn by the sleeve and Aryn shrugged away. “I’m the one who was rude. You didn’t deserve that.” Phera sighed. “Look, this is a dangerous neighborhood for you to be walking around alone in at night. Why don’t you come with me to the auberge where I’m rooming and get some breakfast until it’s a little lighter out here.”
“I’m not a child,” snapped Aryn, turning toward her finally. “I know my way around Raqia.”
“Well, maybe I’d like an escort,” said Phera with a toss of her glittering hair. “Or aren’t you a gentleman?” Phera’s condensed breath glowed dimly as it hung in the air before her, a reminder of the heat she had generated in the club.
Aryn put her hands in her pockets. “I guess.”
“You guess you’re a gentleman?”
“I guess I can give you an escort,” sighed Aryn in exasperation.
Phera winked and tucked her arm through Aryn’s. “This way,” she said, turning them back toward the alley where Aryn had stumbled into her. The alley was unlit by torches and the cobblestone beneath their feet was pitted and cracked, with patches of dead grass poking up through holes where stones had been dug out and carried off as if demons had picked at it like birds robbing for their own nests. It was a far more dangerous-looking place than the main strip of the Devil’s Doorstep, and Aryn found herself worrying for Phera that she had to walk this route after dancing for the liquored rabble back at the club.
Liquored rabble of which Aryn was one. It had taken three shots of Raqia Redeye to get up the nerve to buy the full-price ticket. Phera pressed in closer to her, and Aryn felt her palms sweating in her pockets despite the cold. The dancer’s sleek curves melted into her through the cloak. Aryn wondered if she wore anything beneath it.
Phera stopped at a brightly lit stoop and nodded her head toward the door. “This is the house,” she said, waiting for Aryn to open the door like a gentleman. Aryn hurried up the steps and pulled on the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. “You have to knock,” said Phera, coming up behind her. Aryn blushed. Of course you had to knock. As she raised her hand to do it, the door flew open.
“What business do you have here?” demanded the house matron, and then saw Phera behind her. “Ah, it’s you, dear, sorry. I heard voices and thought it was that damn angel riffraff again. Think every house in Raqia’s a den of iniquity.” She looked Aryn up and down as Phera led her in. “Where’d you pick up that one? A little wet behind the ears, ain’t he?”
“Hush, Myra, he’s just here for a bite to eat and to keep me company.”
The front hall of the house was equipped with a long table and half-a-dozen boarders—dancers like Phera home after a late shift—were already seated at it, devouring a simple meal of biscuits and gravy despite the hour. Phera dragged Aryn to it and pulled off her hood as she sat on the end of the bench and scooted in.
“Sit down,” she said. “They don’t bite.”
Myra was already ladling gravy onto plates of biscuits and tossing them down in front of them. Aryn sat and accepted the plate, wondering if she ought to pay the woman now or afterward, and how she was supposed to know what it cost. She had little left after the extravagance of the ticket. Her family might be Host, but they were no noble, moneyed house, just simple textile merchants who dealt with the lower echelon of Elysium—and often, of Raqia. Her father wasn’t particular. Coin was coin.