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Illya hated the Christmas season. It wasn’t just the blatant commercialisation, or the horrific jingles, or the widespread idol worship. In a world where human belief still had currency, Christmas and its depressingly formulaic portrayal of the seraphic form meant permanently manifested wings that folded heavily if apologetically against Illya’s shoulders. Fluffy, white, giant wings.
It put Illya in a bad mood. And when he was a bad mood, he hunted Napoleon.
New York’s resident demon was not, of course, really named Napoleon, just as ‘Illya’ was by no means a seraphim name, but a century or so ago the names had stuck, somewhat to Illya’s annoyance. He wasn’t even sure how it had happened. He had been transferred to New York from the Moscow territory, ostensibly as a reward, though Heaven was never kind with its rewards where the First Children were concerned. Napoleon was a far more slippery adversary than the old demon Illya had slain in Moscow. Replaced now, of course. The war never ended.
The unseasonal snow coated Brooklyn in a faint dusting that was briefly pristine. Illya glanced down at the street, Edaenic spear in hand, the hated wings outstretched, balancing him against the edge of the building. Time had given Napoleon the habits of a cat, and Illya had learned them all. There was a faint bass rumbling deep below, from an underground jazz club, winding into applause as the last song ended.
“You don’t write, you don’t call,” an annoyingly familiar voice drawled from behind Illya, “and whenever we actually do meet, you try to kill me. You’ll hurt my feelings, sweetheart.”
Illya pivoted, a snarl curling at his lips. Napoleon stood close to the roof vent, in his current chosen form: a fairly tall human male, handsome and broad-shouldered, with slicked dark hair and a lazy, beckoning smile, dressed in a sharply fashionable suit tapered down at his hips, so dark that the fabric seemed to ripple against the night sky, like an angular gash in prime reality.
Napoleon sighed as Illya lunged, sidestepping at the last moment, then the air distorted as Illya snapped the haft of the spear around, catching nothing. Napoleon reappeared on the edge of the building, balancing on his heels; from his shoulders unfurled great, ink-dark wings that were as empty as his suit against the sky, neither feathers nor furled leather. His gaze lingered over Illya’s wings, a look of pure avarice.
“I must say, darling. Christmas suits you.” Napoleon laughed, skipping back over the edge, avoiding the stab of Illya’s spear by inches. “It’s a compliment.”
“Stop running,” Illya snarled. “Fight.”
“It’s the season of love, forgiveness and terrible fruit pudding,” Napoleon protested, ducking under another swipe and darting away. “Besides, you’re not coming at me seriously.” He smiled, with the sharp edge of dark humour. “After all, this building’s still standing.”
Beneath Illya’s feet, there were a hundred and fifteen human souls, most of them tainted, but not irreparably. He could feel their warm energy, buzzed with alcohol and joy and holiday cheer. The music was good, perhaps. “We could go out of the city.”
“You’ll have to catch me first,” Napoleon said cheerfully, and then, annoyingly, began to sing in a purring baritone. “And all the angels in Heaven shall sing, on Christmas Day—”
“Shut up,” Illya snarled, stalking closer.
“We do this every year, darling,” Napoleon affected a deep sigh. “You chase me up and down New York and give up in the morning. Bit of a waste of time, isn’t it? It’s the season of love and giving. You could be trying to push a few souls closer to salvation. Easy work, with all the donation drives out there.”
“Getting rid of Hell’s agent in New York would work just as well.”
“London’s agents have a truce, you know,” Napoleon said, not for the first time, and wistfully.
Illya scowled. He’d never been fond of Aziraphale. “So?”
“Life could be a lot easier for the both of us—”
“No.”
“—if we got used to each other,” Napoleon continued blithely. “It’s been such a very long time, and besides—”
“No.” Illya angled into striking range, and Napoleon disappeared with a flick of his dark wings, reappearing on the opposite corner of the building.
“—I’m getting rather tired of you repeatedly ruining Christmas,” Napoleon said mournfully. “It’s my favourite time of year.” He smiled as Illya’s wings flared automatically for balance, and again, his gaze lingered.
“Good! So. Fight.”
“All right, darling, since it’s nearly Christmas.” Napoleon pouted, a singularly ridiculous expression on a creature as old as human time. “Tell you what. Let’s make a deal. Spend Christmas with me. If you get to the end of the day without trying to kill me, we can decamp afterwards to a venue of your choice and do what you like.”
“But?” Illya asked dryly. “If I try to kill you?”
“I suppose the deal would be off, and you’d have to try and corner me again next time,” Napoleon smiled, all teeth.
“… Twelve hours,” Illya conceded grudgingly. Napoleon was many things, including a complete pain in the aether when he wanted to be, but he didn’t break his word.
“Come on, darling. I said a day. Midnight to midnight, that’s traditional.”
“Eleven hours.”
“… Fine,” Napoleon sighed theatrically. “Twelve hours. Nine in the morning?” He rattled off an address in Brooklyn. Illya nodded curtly, and Napoleon grinned at him, wolfishly pleased. Then he vanished.
Alone on the roof, Illya folded the spear into nothing, and pressed his hands into the brown jacket that he liked to wear, frowning out over his city. If this was a trap, he would be ready.
#
Napoleon greeted him at the door to the brownstone townhouse with a bright smile, a blue apron worn over a white dress shirt and trousers, his sleeves folded up to his elbows. “Exactly on time. Good morning.”
Illya shrugged, folding his wings tightly against his back as he followed Napoleon into the house, the door locking itself behind them. The air smelled of butter and caramel. “Morning.”
“Make yourself at home, I’m almost done. I must say,” Napoleon said, as he wiped his hands down over his apron, “I actually thought that you weren’t going to show.”
“Why?” Illya asked bluntly, even as he circled around the kitchen and sat in an armchair, pulling his wings awkwardly over the armrests. “If this works out, you will be dead in twelve hours.”
“Ever the optimist.” Napoleon bustled back into the kitchen.
Illya looked around, now curious. It was a neat, seemingly human house, rather stark, the way humans seemed to like their houses nowadays, with polished concrete walls hung with brightly coloured art, and a pale marble floor interrupted with angular-patterned black and white rugs. The furniture was glass and steel and oak, sleekly minimal. Books were shelved into recesses in the concrete wall, arranged by spine colours, probably unread. A black steel spiral stairway led up to a mezzanine, and then up to a second floor. Behind the open living area was a Japanese garden, with a little water feature, a bamboo clock keeping time.
“Like the house?” Napoleon had noticed his interest.
“What did you do to the owner?”
Napoleon chuckled. “It’s my house. Might’ve changed it here and there over the years, but no, I didn’t steal it or murder some human for it, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Illya sniffed in open disbelief, but said nothing. Breakfast was eventually served: pancakes, hash, bacon, truffled eggs, sauteed vegetables and mushrooms, along with tea and coffee. Illya didn’t have to eat, nor could he usually be bothered to, but he grudgingly took a portion and had a cup of coffee. Napoleon smiled, annoyingly smug.
“You try to live like a human,” Illya said, absently cutting his pancake into neat, perfect squares.
“And you don’t, I see.”
“What is the point? I am not human.”
“One could say that understanding humans helps you learn how to influence them more readily.”
Illya narrowed his eyes. “By… keeping a house? Cooking? Eating?”
“Eating’s one of the great pleasures of human existence.”
“Nonsense.”
“Ah, sweetheart,” Napoleon said, with mock sadness, “there, you’re proving my point. The old-fashioned approach to the souls business might’ve worked when there were rather fewer of them out there, not to mention a great number of them who actually believed in the Heaven and Hell business. Now you have to be subtler.”
“And how has that worked out for you?” Illya curled his lip.
“If you haven’t noticed all that I’ve done this year, darling, then there’s no explaining it to you,” Napoleon said cheerfully. “But, shall we say, the next four years is going to get rather darker for a lot of people.”
Illya frowned, suspicious. He had noticed that people had been fractious recently, even for New York, but he didn’t usually pay attention to what the humans were up to, save where it involved his personal projects. He made a mental note to find out. “So. We have breakfast. Then?”
Instead of answering, Napoleon looked avidly at his wings. “That happens every year, doesn’t it?”
“Obviously.”
“Because of Christmas decor?”
“Yes?” Illya said testily.
“It suits you. I almost pity the humans. That they can’t see you.”
“I don’t like them,” Illya said shortly. The wings were pressed clumsily against his back and the marble floor, pinions everywhere.
“Your wings, or the humans?”
“Both,” Illya conceded, with a sharp smile.
“That’s where we differ. I like humans,” Napoleon confided, with a faint smile. “I like how complicated they are. How illogical, at the best of times. The smallest human child to the oldest grandmother all wear chaos. Whether it’s buried inside, layers down, or worn close to their skins.”
“Funny way to show that you like them,” Illya said pointedly. “Damning them to hell.”
“I’m surprised that you’re as successful as you are,” Napoleon said, ignoring Illya’s jibe. “Given that you don’t even like people.”
“Salvation can be made efficient,” Illya said curtly. “My personal opinion doesn’t matter in the scheme of Heaven.”
“Angels,” Napoleon said ruefully, though his gaze slid over Illya’s wings again, just before he changed the subject.
#
“Did you plan this?” Illya asked, during the intermission. They were on a rooftop, somewhere, the penthouse of some beautiful hotel, guests in a select little concert. The six piece band was decamping for a break, and the other guests were wandering around the rooftop garden or disappearing off into the penthouse proper. Illya stayed seated.
“I might have,” Napoleon allowed, lounging in the chair beside him. “You do only try to assassinate me at regular intervals.” He grinned, clearly amused. “Didn’t enjoy the concert?”
“It was not so bad,” Illya said grudgingly. “How did you know?”
“That you like music? I wish I could say that it was something that your kind share, but if anything, most of them show even less of an interest in anything man-made than you do. I’ve seen you,” Napoleon elaborated. “Sometimes you sit on certain buildings when a gig is on. Listening.”
Illya hadn’t noticed Napoleon’s presence. His instincts had to be slipping. “It’s not a trap,” Napoleon said finally, when Illya stayed silent.
“Oh?”
“I really will go somewhere with you in twelve hours, all right? The Sahara or whatever.” Napoleon said, a little tiredly. “Rest assured.”
“This is a poor deal,” Illya probed. “Even for you.”
“Ouch.”
“So what are you trying to get at? You are an old demon,” Illya conceded, “and fairly powerful, but I am one of the malakhim.”
“Yes, I know. In a straight-out fight, I don’t really stand a chance.” Napoleon had the gall to smile mischievously. “Against a big, strong angel—”
“So why? Do you think you can hide from me, away from New York?” If they fought somewhere open and desolate, it would be a hunting game, if Napoleon chose to flee, one that Illya would most likely win. He had won such games before, against stronger foes.
“Probably not,” Napoleon admitted, still unperturbed. “But I’ve made my peace with that.”
Illya stared at him, suspicious, but before he could ask, the band returned, noisily taking their place, and soon it became too busy for questions.
#
Understanding human art was difficult, partly because it took a real effort to tamp down on all of his nonhuman senses, to bring down the focus of his being to a narrow, mortal perspective. In the silent gallery, Illya tried, if only because Napoleon seemed so visibly… happy, for want of a better word. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was closed on Christmas, its vast halls empty. The painting before them was colourful, with dramatic blue and white swirls for a sky, rich brushwork depicting a field of golden wheat and trees.
“During his life,” Napoleon said out aloud into the silence, “van Gogh only sold one painting. Or so people like to say. It’s not true, of course, he sold at least two. I have one. Still, in life, he wasn’t a successful artist.”
Illya frowned at the painting. “I see why.”
“You don’t like it?” Napoleon sounded amused.
“Too much pain went into its creation.” The painting was ringing with it still, even after well over a century.
“That’s why I like it,” Napoleon conceded. “Some of the pieces in here are dead, just a collection of paint patterns. Few of them were crafted with enough emotion to outlast their creators, and this is one of the best of them.”
“Is there a point to this exercise?” Illya asked flatly. This was the second museum of the day. Night had fallen outside, and he was conscious that time was slipping away, inexorably. Soon they would fight, somewhere. Illya was a little disoriented to realize that he wasn’t looking forward to it as much as he thought he would be. Something about being around a demon corroded common sense.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Napoleon said, with a touch of irritation that surprised Illya. Napoleon’s sly, graceful calm had always seemed unbreakable. “I happen to love this place. And if this day is going to end in barbarity then it would be remiss of me not to come here. One last time.”
“… You think you’re going to lose,” Illya said slowly.
“As you said. You’re malakhim. I’ve done very well for myself over the years, but I don’t hold any illusions about what I’m capable of.”
“Then why?” Illya asked, confused. “Why make the deal at all?”
“Because I’m tired of being in love with you,” Napoleon said bluntly, and smiled grimly when Illya blinked at him in sheer bewilderment. “Believe me or don’t believe me, suit yourself.” He looked away, his hands in his pockets, exhaling. “Come on,” he said, in a more normal tone. “There’s more to see.”
Demons could love? Ah, but many of them were once angels themselves, or wrought of human souls, forged darker. Illya couldn’t tell which of the sort Napoleon was. It was difficult to measure, the older a demon was, let alone one as old as Napoleon. He was silent as he followed Napoleon around the gallery, not bothering to look at the art. Eventually, Napoleon glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Stop thinking so loudly.”
“How long has it been?” Indirectness had never really been in Illya’s nature, even if he could manage subterfuge if he had to. “Since you felt that way?”
“I don’t remember,” Napoleon admitted, though that was a lie: he sounded rueful again.
“Years?” Napoleon had been a part of Illya’s existence for over a century, and with a dull start, Illya realized that he couldn’t quite imagine New York without Napoleon, no more than he could imagine the Silver City empty of angels.
“Does it matter?”
“Why this? Why now?”
“It’s not,” Napoleon said wearily, “a trap, all right?”
“I didn’t say that it was,” Illya shot back. “I am just curious.”
“Sweetheart,” Napoleon stalked closer, step by step, grinning when Illya held his ground instead of backing off, “better creatures than me would bet their lives to spend a day with you.” His hand drifted over to Illya’s wrist, lightly, and when Illya didn’t jerk back, stroked up playfully to Illya’s elbow.
Illya frowned, reaching over, and despite his instincts, pulled Napoleon close, copying human gestures. Napoleon’s eyes widened, his free hand curling over Illya’s shoulder for support, but instead of instinctively pulling back, as Illya thought he would, he sighed, and leaned in to the embrace, his hand tipping up to Illya’s cheek.
“It’s a nice gesture, darling,” Napoleon murmured, “but I know that you’re pretending.”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” Napoleon’s hand dropped away, and on impulse, he petted up Illya’s back, instead, to the first flush of great feathers. The sensation was a little ticklish, a little… pleasurable. Illya forced his expression to stay impassive, even as his wings twitched open, flaring slightly. “Hell’s breath. You’re beautiful.”
Illya sniffed. “I’m an angel.”
“Even for an angel,” Napoleon said, his cheeky smile returning, though it was halfhearted: there was wonder in his smile, worship in his touch. “You’re perfect.”
“There’s an hour more to go,” Illya murmured into Napoleon’s ear. “What else did you want to do with me?”
Napoleon actually shivered. “It’s not fair, darling, you asking me such questions. Who’s meant to be the tempter?” He pushed his hips forward, a pointed answer that rode up against Illya’s thigh.
Maybe it was Christmas, or the wings, or Napoleon’s possibly corrosive presence, but Illya found himself feeling reckless. “Stop wasting my time, Napoleon. Your day’s almost up. What else do you want?”
“Since you’re being so gracious about it.” Napoleon didn’t immediately take them elsewhere, though. Instead he glanced up, still hesitant, and his fingers pressed lightly over the back of Illya’s head, pulling him down. Humans kissed this way, Illya thought, as their lips met. It wasn’t so bad. Pleasant, even, in its way. And worth it, at the end, to see how glazed Napoleon’s eyes got, how he gulped in air that he didn’t need. “I didn’t expect this,” Napoleon said finally.
“I know. That’s why I asked.”
#
Napoleon was still hesitant once they got to the bedroom in his townhouse, but it was only for a moment. They folded themselves into bed, against each other, a poor fit, given who they were. Still, it was easy to pretend, at least for Illya. He let Napoleon worship his wings, stroking their arcs, kissing wingtips, massaging muscle that Illya didn’t need to fly. He let Napoleon kiss him again, strip him, ride him. They made the hour breathless with pleasure. It was Illya’s first taste of damnation, and perhaps Napoleon’s first taste of Heaven.
Spent, Illya lay on the bed after, wings everywhere, while Napoleon got them cleaned up. Then he let Napoleon curl close, his wings wrapped around the both of them, quiescent.
“Hour’s over,” Napoleon said softly, subdued. “Pick a place.”
“To decide matters once and for all?”
“If you like.”
Illya stared up at the ceiling. “Would you even fight?”
“I don’t think I agreed to that.”
He closed his eyes. “Then what fun will that be?”
There was a long silence, as Illya lay still, trying to enter the meditative trance that passed as sleep for angels. Then Napoleon said, cautiously, “So we’re… not going to fight?”
“You said I could pick a venue of my choice. This is not so bad. Of course,” Illya continued pointedly, as Napoleon sucked in a tight breath of surprise, “I could change my mind tomorrow.”
“You’ll have to catch me first, tomorrow,” Napoleon said cheekily, though he kissed Illya on the mouth, a lover’s kiss of secret promises. “I love Christmas,” he added expansively.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Illya growled, though he let Napoleon kiss him again, tenderly, in mortal fashion, a sentiment for the season.