AIMÉ

They pulled out the table to sit down together once the Chinese came an hour later, and just as Aimé sat down, he heard a distant yowl from outside.

“You get it,” he said to Jean-Pierre, he was cutting into one of the cactus fruits Aimé hadn’t seen before, a juicier once that didn’t have the same strange creamy centre the dragon fruits did.

“Aimé,” complained Jean-Pierre, and Aimé sighed, getting to his feet and moving to the door. Peadar ran in, but a familiar streak of white followed quickly at his heels, and Aimé tried to grab for Peadar before he could get away, but Peadar was already sprinting under the dining table and into the kitchen, dribbling blood as he went.

“In ainm— Peadar!” Colm growled.

“Haven’t heard that one before,” said Aimé, grabbing Snowman under her arms and lifting her clean off the ground, even as she hissed and growled at him for daring to touch her. He let out a sharp noise of pain as one of her back feet dug into his arm, squeezing her tightly to stop her from wriggling free, but she only dug in harder. “You little bitch,” he snapped, looking where to toss her down so that she wouldn’t chase after Colm and Peadar, who had disappeared through the side door.

“Give her here,” said Asmodeus, scooping Snowman from his arms, and Aimé watched the way he held her, gripping loosely as the scruff of her neck so that she froze like a rabbit, ears back. She seemed to consider scratching De, but Aimé could see her think better of it, and as Colm kept shouting at Peadar, Asmodeus disappeared, presumably to return Snowman to her home, and Aimé looked at his arm and made a face.

She’d gouged a heavy scratch into his arm and the blood that bubbled to the surface was thick and darker than he’d like, and Aimé kept his arm high as he stepped around the counter to run it under the sink. Jean already had the first aid kit out.

“Do I need stitches?” he asked Jean-Pierre.

“Only through your mouth,” said l’ange with a sort of forced casual air, tugging Aimé by the wrist so that the scratch in his forearm was directly under the flow of the tap. Aimé winced at the sting of the cold water. “If it doesn’t scab I’ll stitch it – it’s a larger gash than I’d like, I grant you, but I think it will coagulate itself if you leave it a moment. Are you up to date on your tetanus vaccinations?”

“Tetanus?” Aimé repeated, feeling panic rise in his chest, and Jean-Pierre let out a dismissive sound, wiping antiseptic soap over the cut and making him let out a grumbled sound of pain. He tapped his foot on the ground to keep himself still as Jean-Pierre held his wrist in place and flipped off the tap and replaced the antiseptic wipe with a bandage pad and wrapped it in gauze.

“I’ll give you a tetanus shot,” said Jean-Pierre, but Aimé was too distracted to respond: Jean-Pierre’s hands were rapid tying up the bandage around his arm, so quickly Aimé almost felt like his vision should blur to see it.

“Does Snowman have tetanus?” Aimé asked.

“It’s a precaution,” said Jean-Pierre comfortingly, cupping Aimé’s cheek and brushing their noses together as Aimé wiggled his fingers, but when he tried to put his arm down Jean-Pierre caught him by the elbow and pushed his hand back up, and obediently, Aimé kept his arm in the air. “She’s an outdoor cat and she plays in the earth, that’s all.”

“Does Peadar need a tetanus shot?” Aimé asked, gesturing to the blood on the floor, a mix of his own and what Peadar had tracked in.

“I don’t think that’s Peadar’s blood, actually,” said Jean-Pierre, and Aimé felt himself frown until he turned to look at Colm, who holding a cheerfully purring Peadar against his chest with one arm, his fingers wrapped around Peadar’s furry chest, and his other hand was smeared with blood.

Aimé turned on the sink for him, and as Colm came to put his hand under the flow of the sink, Aimé put soap on his hands for him as Jean-Pierre took the cat, although his own hands were still damp from washing his own a second ago.

As Jean-Pierre wiped Peadar’s mouth and the blood off of the ruff of his chest, Aimé watched Colm wash his hands.

“Another bird?” he asked, although he was genuinely relieved that Peadar didn’t look at all harmed. He cared about the little bastard, and Peadar was showing no shame at all, kneading into the sofa and against Jean-Pierre’s knees, purring proudly.

“Rat,” said Colm. “It was already dead, so I’ve put it aside, I’ll toss it after dinner. Another theft, I think. Peadar’s not as good at hunting as Snowman, needs to steal someone else’s kills. No wonder the two of you get on so well, Jean.”

“I steal nothing,” said Jean-Pierre primly, but Aimé didn’t miss the ice in it. “If you can’t kill a man before I can, Colm, that’s to do with your inefficiency, not mine.”

Colm scoffed, and he turned Aimé’s arm toward him where he was holding it up in the air. The bandage was a little pink, and by no means did it feel like the wound was healing yet.

“You don’t think he’ll need stitches?” he asked Jean-Pierre, and Aimé groaned.

“I’m about to get my kit,” said Jean-Pierre, pushing Peadar off his lap, and Asmodeus came in, now without Snowman to hand. “Did the Agarwals scold him?”

“They did indeed,” said Asmodeus idly. “Enjoy our bit of community theatre, Benedictine?”

Benedictine had not moved from her chair for all of this: she sat back in her seat, her knees spread apart, a bottle of beer in her hand, and she grinned at them, raising it in a toast.

“Very entertaining,” she said cheerfully.

She didn’t look at all surprised, and Aimé watched the slight smile tug at her lips.

“Is it always like this with them?” he asked, gesturing with his healthy arm, and Benedictine laughed.

“With you too, now,” she said, and Aimé shook his head.

The blood was seeping through the bandage, dripping down his arm, and Asmodeus took him by the shoulders and pushed him back toward the sink.

Jean-Pierre brought a lamp down with him to work by, and once Colm had spread cling-film on the kitchen counter, Aimé half sat on a chair at the counter and laid his arm down over the plastic, and as Jean-Pierre washed his hands again he cut off the bandage with Jean-Pierre’s surgical scissors, grabbing another piece of surgical padding, holding it down hard against the cut.

“You said you wouldn’t lie to me,” he said quietly as Jean-Pierre crossed around the table, taking up a needle. “You knew first glance I’d need a needle in me.”

“Perhaps I have faith in your powers of coagulation,” said Jean-Pierre. “Do you want an analgesic?”

“For two or three stitches? No, don’t waste it.”

Colm glanced up from the table, making to get up. “I can—”

“I don’t need that, either,” said Aimé, waving his other hand. “I’ve had way worse than a cat scratch.”

“You’ve got a few, really,” Jean-Pierre pointed out, touching his fingers over the various grazes around the deeper cut. “I think she got you with her back claw. It’s longer than the others – she uses it to climb.”

“Good for her,” muttered Aimé, and wrinkled his nose as Jean-Pierre slid an antiseptic wipe over the cut again. Like he was with the bandage, Jean-Pierre was quick, smooth, and efficient: Aimé felt the pinching pain of the needle slide through his skin, the pinch, the pull, the dull pain mixed with the sharp. “Bet your work is much neater than the last doctor who sewed my wrists shut.”

“My work is unparalleled,” said Jean-Pierre, snipping off the end of the thread and stroking over the stitched wound, making sure it was properly closed, before getting another bandage. “But I must confess a certain gratitude to my predecessor.”

Aimé laughed quietly and extended his fingers, clenching them slightly.

“You want the injection in your arm or your backside?” asked Jean-Pierre.

“Dealer’s choice,” was Aimé’s reply, and Jean-Pierre smiled at him, taking up the syringe from the tray and leaning forward to push up Aimé’s arm. Looking past Jean-Pierre, Aimé could see that Peadar was sprawled on his back on the sofa, still looking pleased with himself.

It hurt, probably a little worse than the stitches, although it didn’t last long, and he lifted his arm up for Jean-Pierre to bandage his arm again.

“You can do it yourself,” said Jean-Pierre.

“I like how you do it,” murmured Aimé, and l’ange’s smile was all pretty teeth as he took up the gauze. Again, his hands moved quick, sudden, easy. “Merci. Vraiment gentil, docteur.”

“Fuck yourself,” said Jean-Pierre.

“Now?” asked Aimé, and Jean laughed, pulling Aimé’s hand up to his mouth and kissing the scars on his wrist before he kissed the centre of the bandage.

The others had been talking as they ate, and when they sat down again at the table, Asmodeus reached across and put his hand in Jean-Pierre’s hair, fingers combing through it.

Benedictine, unlike Jean-Pierre, was actually eating from the Chinese – she had a few wontons, although Aimé noticed she’d crumbled away half the batter on each one, but mostly she ate rice and plucked some of the beef from Colm’s plate as well eating fruit.

“So,” said Aimé. “L’ange says you’re a lawyer.”

“We’re all l’ange,” pointed out Benedictine.

“Nah,” said Aimé. “Not like he is.”

Jean-Pierre’s cheeks turned a delicate pink, and he smiled as he looked back to his food. Colm made an exaggerated gagging sound, and Aimé laughed, kicking him under the table.

“Disgusting,” agreed Benedictine, and Aimé grinned, pouring more wine for Asmodeus as well as himself. “I am a lawyer, mostly my bills are paid by property disputes and civil proceedings between blans, but I do pro bono work on the side.”

“Whites?” repeated Aimé.

“Rich people,” said Benedictine. “White, most of them, but not all. I work in Port-au-Prince, so there’s more of them than elsewhere.”

“Thought we hated the rich,” said Aimé.

“We, he says,” said Colm dryly.

Aimé sniggered, as Benedictine said, but she was looking at him with interest, studying him like he’d said something interesting. “You don’t know what we do,” she said musingly, taking a sip of her beer.

“I know you kill people,” said Aimé. He struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he said, “Fierce revolutionaries, all of you.”

“Where did you find him?” she asked Jean.

“In the park,” he said.

She clucked her tongue, laughing, and shook her head. “Let me guess, Aimé. You think that my brothers, they go from this house, they kill people because they hate the rich or the influential. You think they impart justice, they act as executioners, and no thought further is made of it. This is correct?”

In the same way that Jean and Colm did, Benedictine had a strong accent, and he didn’t know if it was right for Port-au-Prince, if it was a common accent, if it was a rich one or a poor one, if she sounded like Colm, like Haiti’s equivalent of a culchie, or if she sounded like Jean-Pierre, prissy and superior, educated in the city. It was Haitian, he was pretty sure, but even that he wasn’t certain on, because he didn’t think he could tell the difference, if someone pressed him, the exact difference between a Haitian accent and a Jamaican one or a Trinidadian one, if he listened to them blind. He thought he could tell them apart, but would be able to explain why?

He didn’t think so.

The fact that he didn’t know, he realised, bothered him, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask – not because it was impolite, which he guessed it was, but because it wouldn’t satisfy him, to ask. He didn’t want to rely on Colm telling him – he wanted to know, himself, wanted to be able to hear it, wanted to be able to tell himself, without anyone holding his hand.

“I don’t know,” said Aimé. “I know they kill people. I know they compare points, after. They think it’s a game, both of them. I believe they think it’s important – I also believe they think it’s fun.”

Neither Jean-Pierre or Colm looked upset that he said this, and if they had, he wouldn’t have taken it back. Colm was listening intently, but there was amusement showing on his face as well, his lips shifted in a slight smile, and Jean-Pierre was smiling without shame, sipping at his fruit juice.

“It’s both,” said Benedictine. “But it isn’t just their game. In this matter, I am my brothers’ general, Aimé. I give them their marching orders, I choose their targets. From time to time, they may take on something else, but it is me and my team who decides the bulk of their work.”

“Work,” said Aimé dryly, and he wasn’t as disgusted as he would have been, once upon a time, wasn’t quite as haughty or superior as he knew he’d have been, months ago. “You kill people – maybe they deserve to die, I don’t know. Child traffickers or politicians or whoever else, I don’t fucking know.”

“You have him between your legs all this time,” Benedictine asked Jean-Pierre, again, without looking at Aimé, and Aimé was reminded of the way Doros and Aetos had spoken about him back at Halloween, “and you teach him nothing?”

“I’ve told him the concept before,” Jean-Pierre said, shrugging. “He may not have applied the knowledge.”

“Aimé,” said Benedictine. “You see a monarchy before you, and you wish to tear it down. Who do you kill?”

“All of them,” said Aimé. “That’s the answer you want?”

“It’s a good answer,” said Colm, and Benedictine laughed.

“Who do you kill first?” she asked. “The king? His wife? Someone else entirely – the duke, a courtier, the president, who?”

“His direct descendants,” said Aimé slowly, remembering what Jean-Pierre had told him when they were talking about Rupert, and when Jean-Pierre looked at him approvingly, he shifted slightly in his chair. It was hot that he approved – it shouldn’t have been. “You muddy the waters for the line of succession. That way, when the king dies, everything takes longer.”

“It’s like a tower of dominos,” said Benedictine mildly. “Let them fall, and they go down one by one, predictable, a line of cause and effect. But take out a few key pieces and you can make the whole thing come apart at once, collapse like Babel.”

Asmodeus didn’t say anything, but he picked up the wine bottle and poured the last of it into his glass.

“That’s the work we do. We are adjacent to the Embassy, me, a handful of other angels in Haiti, others in other countries, cities. We do our research on certain networks of people – organisations of power. Monarchies, governments, companies, criminal enterprises, too. We pick on certain areas of weakness, the better to destabilise the whole.

“It is a process that occurs in parts: research is done, spies and double agents used if necessary, so that we can be best aware of certain pressure points. Some of them are disgraced or made to leave their posts, others are killed. Once an organisation is unsteady, communication within it disrupted, its walls weakened, we pick off the rest. We pick it apart, we cannibalise it. We make use of the resources, or pass them out to those who need them, strengthen the communities that have been harmed.”

She talked like a lawyer, Aimé thought. Or— Maybe she didn’t, he didn’t know: she talked like someone who was good at talking, who was good at explaining things in ways that people could easily understand.

Aimé liked her.

“A strong community,” said Benedictine, “is the strongest defence against a concentration of power.”

“Communism,” said Aimé.

“Mm. Anarchy. Socialism. Communism. There are a lot of ideological labels you might use, a lot of theory. You might find in me both my brothers’ strengths and defects, Aimé – like Jean I have read my theory, I have studied, but like Colm, I see that theory has its limits.”

“That make you the chief or the guide?” asked Aimé quietly, and watched Benedictine raise her chin slightly. “I thought you were the general.”

“He reads books,” she said, once again, to Jean-Pierre.

“He’s serious,” said Jean-Pierre, gesturing with his chin for her to look at Aimé instead of him, and Aimé felt a kind of warmth in his chest, a sense of certainty, security.

“I am wild,” replied Aimé, and he reached for Jean’s hand across the table when l’ange smiled at him, interlinking their fingers.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” demanded Colm, and even Asmodeus laughed, although his quiet chuckle wasn’t as obvious as the rest of their laughter.

“It’s Hugo,” said Benedictine.

“Right,” Colm muttered. “Aimé know you fuck him?”

“I figured it out,” said Aimé dryly, and Jean-Pierre squeezed his hand before leaning away, wrapping his arms around Peadar as he hopped into his lap to keep him from climbing on the table. “So how many angels do this?”

“Not too many,” said Benedictine. “A few hundred of us. We don’t end empires, we don’t even take on too large targets.” She glanced at Asmodeus as she said this, and Asmodeus set down his wine glass, drumming elegant fingers against its rim.

“There is support for this particular movement of angels within the Embassy,” said Asmodeus quietly, “but there is no official support of it. Were there to be, it would destabilise a lot of dealings with magical governments, organisations. We are in many ways, Aimé, our own nation, a tribe of sorts, and are treated as such, but we are also individuals who Fall individually. The Embassy is in many ways more similar to a union than a government – and yet again, like a village council. We are both small and large, sprawling and contained, and within our boundaries – if there are boundaries – there are as many differing opinions, worldviews, beliefs, as there are without.”

Asmodeus was solemn as he spoke, his eyes for a moment appearing to be very distant as he paused, and then he met Aimé’s gaze, and said, “Comparisons are made between angels and human diaspora, or to vampires, or to fae, or demons, even. But all of them, even those latter two, are native to this planet – the dimensions change, layer, but they are all of the same earth, or parallel. We’re extra-terrestrial, Aimé, in the most literal sense of the word: because of this nature of ours our position anywhere is precarious, no matter how powerful we might sometimes feel we are.”

This last was said quite sternly, Asmodeus’ expression severe, and Aimé was fascinated at the response it garnered.

Colm hurriedly stood up from his seat, beginning to take up empty plates to put in the sink, and Benedictine focused on drinking her beer, rummaging in her pockets for a lighter. Jean-Pierre didn’t look away like they did, but looked straight at Asmodeus, and Aimé watched the expression on his face, his lips downturned, his brow furrowed.

It wasn’t just shame in that face, but pain, and after keeping his brother’s gaze for a few seconds Jean-Pierre gathered Peadar up in his arms and buried his face in the back of his neck.

Aimé stood to start packing the leftovers away, passing the empty plates to Colm behind him.

“Must you?” asked Jean-Pierre darkly.

“I don’t have to,” said Benedictine. “But I’m going to. Share, De?”

“I’ll partake,” said Asmodeus, standing to his feet, and although Jean-Pierre was sulking as Peadar rushed out of his lap, hopping up on the sofa to try to look over the counter to see if Aimé might share any of the leftovers, he bent to kiss the top of his head. “I’ll get rid of the smell,” he promised.

“You won’t,” said Jean irritable.

A hand slid down Aimé’s lower back, cupping his ass, and he thought it was Colm taking the piss until the cigar came into view.

“My brother make it so you can’t?” asked Benedictine, her fingers sliding into his back pocket, and he took her hand by the wrist, pulling it free.

“Better not,” said Aimé, and Benedictine laughed as she leaned back from him. It was a great smile, gap-toothed and wonderful, expressive.

Every angel he met had a face that just asked to be painted.

As Benedictine drew away, Aimé’s gaze flitted down to her arse, which well filled out her trousers, tailored to her hips and legs. It was a good arse, big—

And Jean-Pierre’s hand was around his throat, crowding him back against the counter, their chests together, so that he was looking down at Aimé. He looked furious, lip curled back in a snarl, and Aimé tugged his arm down to make it easier to lean up and kiss him.

Jean-Pierre rewarded him with a bite, but it wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, and it was good, bruising, possessive in a way Aimé had already learned to like.

“You’re mine,” Jean-Pierre reminded him.

“She touched me,” said Aimé.

“But you looked at her.”

“Colm, did I think about touching her?”

“No,” said Colm.

“No,” agreed Aimé.

Jean-Pierre slid his hands down Aimé’s sides, squeezing his hips. “She touches my things,” he said. “She knows it upsets me.”

“Am I one of your things?” asked Aimé.

Jean-Pierre looked at him like he’d said something ridiculous, and Aimé snorted before kissing him again.

*     *     *

AIMÉ

“Tell me what the Hugo thing was?” Colm asked very quietly that morning on the stairs when Aimé came out of Jean’s room, still drying off his hair. Jean was already downstairs, and Aimé guessed that was why Colm was asking now.

“It’s from Les Misérables,” said Aimé. “I compared Jean to one of the students before, that’s all. But there’s a bit where one character says, “Be serious,” and the other one says, “I am wild.” That’s all. It wasn’t a big thing you missed or anything.”

Colm grunted, giving a stout nod of his head.

“It’s not a big deal,” Aimé said again. “I know you don’t read as much, and the book’s a brick, no one cares you haven’t read it.”

Colm gave Aimé a thin, flat smile. “You don’t care,” he said quietly, still speaking lowly. “Bene and Jean do.”

“You want me to say something?” asked Aimé, and Colm actually blinked at him, surprised, and then the seriousness kind of went out of him a bit, his shoulders loosening.

“We all gang up on each other,” he said. “A little. It’s okay, I can look after myself. I just don’t like not knowing.” Colm patted Aimé’s arm, and Aimé nodded, following Colm down the stairs.

Jean-Pierre was in the kitchen, picking at a fruit plate, and Asmodeus was scooted forward on the chair closest to the fire, and Benedictine was sitting back between his knees, scrolling on her phone as Asmodeus carefully braided her hair, regularly dipping his fingers into a tray of something on the little table next to him and working it into the hair.

Benedictine has thick hair – Aimé didn’t know much about hair in general, didn’t think he’d be able to braid Jean’s hair without someone teaching him how, but how Asmodeus did it with Benedictine’s hair, which was made of extremely tight, thick coils, he didn’t know.

“You’re not doing them tight enough,” said Benedictine.

“I have been braiding hair far longer and far thicker than yours since millennia before you Fell,” said Asmodeus dryly. “And in far thinner braids, I might note – once I put the braids together, they will be tight, I’m leaving give on purpose—"

“I know,” said Benedictine. “I’m not saying do it as tight as you can, I’m just saying, you need to do it ti—”

“Do you want one of the white boys to do your hair?” asked Asmodeus. “I’m sure Colm has improved since last he tried.”

“He can’t have gotten worse,” said Jean-Pierre, and Colm shoved him in the back of the head as he picked bacon and sausages out of the fridge, making him laugh.

“Thank you, Asmodeus, please continue,” said Benedictine pointedly, and Asmodeus dipped his fingers in the tray, working something through the braid and continuing to work.

Aimé was watching closely, he knew, but he didn’t think about whether he was staring until Benedictine looked up at him.

“Will you do mine next?” he asked, and Benedictine laughed as Asmodeus gave him a sardonic look.

“Grow yours out, and we’ll give it a try,” he said in a very dry tones, and Aimé dropped back onto the couch. “It’s a hair product that I was taught to make a very long time ago,” he said, when he saw Aimé looking at the tray. “Keeps the hair soft.”

Aimé nodded slowly.

“Can I ask a question?” he asked.

“Always,” said Asmodeus.

“I’m white,” said Aimé. “Colm and Jean are too?”

“He blind?” asked Benedictine, but Asmodeus only gave him a strange, distantly baffled look, as though he didn’t understand the question.

“I mean, you’re all angels,” said Aimé. “Doesn’t that supersede everything else?”

“Not at the airport,” said Asmodeus, arching one eyebrow. “Or anywhere else, for that matter. You, Bene?”

“Seems like people notice, yeah,” said Benedictine, and Aimé leaned back, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “What, you think we don’t count?”

“I guess I thought it wouldn’t matter,” said Aimé. “I mean, people are scared of angels, they respect you. Why would it matter what colour you are?”

“Because we live on Earth?” asked Benedictine. “You think Colm and Jean-Pierre are Irish and French, you think I am Haitian – but you don’t think I’m Black?”

“I don’t know,” Aimé said.

“You don’t know much,” said Benedictine.

“No,” Aimé agreed, and she laughed, but she still looked annoyed, and as he got up to pour himself coffee, he brought the cafetiere over to refresh her and De, too. “You’re right. I guess I just didn’t think about it like that, with the thing about you guys being aliens.”

“Race is a social construct,” said Asmodeus, not looking up from his work. “But that doesn’t mean it fails to have influence over our interactions – angels are not exempt from that, any more than sorcerers or vampires or anyone else. We have what appear to be human bodies, and the features of these bodies are recognised, interpreted, just as any human’s are – often, with prejudice.”

“It’s part of how Colm and I can be useful to Benedictine,” said Jean-Pierre, resting his chin on his hand and sprawling over the kitchen counter. “More so, used to be, especially a little in Haiti, during the Revolution, the US, other places.”

“Him especially,” Colm said. “I look Irish, used to be more of a problem. He’s a Nazi poster boy.”

“You’re gonna let him say that,” asked Benedictine, watching Jean, “with where he’s coming from, Nazi-wise?”

Aimé watched Jean-Pierre frown, stiffening, watched him turn to glance at Colm as Colm stood up straight, and said, a little more loudly than he was going to, “So you just Fall in a random body of a random race?”

“I wasn’t aware humans were given access to design options that we were not,” said Asmodeus.

“I don’t mean that, I know you don’t pick,” said Aimé. “But like. George, right, he looks Indian, and he fell this year, fine, there’s plenty of other Asian people in Ireland, but Pádraic and Bedelia look Indian, and Pádraic Fell like, nearly a thousand years ago. So, does he look like other Indian people who were in Ireland or around here at the time, or did he Fall in the wrong place, or what?”

“People have always travelled more widely than you might think,” said Asmodeus, shrugging his shoulders. “I believe at the time the monks assumed him to be from a far-off land, but times were different. I’m not saying he didn’t face ever face prejudice, but you’d have to ask him about it. The world has always been the same size, but the extent of it a person saw used to be so very modest, until recently – people would rarely know the whole of what we now think of as a country, let alone other countries.”

“Do you think that angels are based on human bodies or vice versa?” asked Aimé.

“Subject of fierce debate,” said Asmodeus.

“What do you think?” asked Aimé. Benedictine’s irritation seemed to have faded a little, because she was attending this conversation with interest, but it didn’t seem to Aimé like De was going to answer, and before he could, Jean interrupted.

“We’re all made in the image of God,” said Jean-Pierre.

“Does God have two wings and a tight—”

 “Aimé, I’ll fucking smack you,” said Colm sharply, and Aimé drew off, leaning back on the sofa and spreading his hands even as Jean-Pierre grinned at him, and Benedictine laughed quietly as Asmodeus finished one of the thick braids, starting on another.

“Does it hurt?” asked Aimé.

“Not the way he does it,” said Benedictine. “It’s supposed to.”

“It doesn’t need to,” Asmodeus said quietly, hands still smooth and quick as he worked through her hair. “You know I don’t like to hurt you.” Benedictine reached back, patting one of her brother’s ankles, and he leaned her head slightly to the side, giving Asmodeus a better angle.

“Will you cut mine today too?” asked Jean-Pierre.

“You’re asking me?” Asmodeus asked, whistling under his breath. “Goodness. It is Christmas.”

Aimé breathed in some of his coffee, and coughed it into his sleeve.

“Help me make breakfast, Aimé,” said Colm, and Aimé pulled himself up from the sofa.

“Jean says you’re an artist,” said Benedictine.

“Yeah, I paint with oils.”

“Tell me about it.”

Aimé felt himself smile slightly as he glanced over to Benedictine, then turned to wash his hands as he answered.

It was nice, to be asked.

*     *     *

AIMÉ

It wasn’t the only time he was contracted as sous chef that day. In the late afternoon, Pádraic, Colm, Benedictine, and George went out on an afternoon fishing expedition together, and when Bedelia text to ask if he’d help her cook for tonight, he didn’t have anything better to do.

He liked cooking with Bedelia – she knew her way around the kitchen, seemed to know about six thousand recipes off the top of her head, different cocktails of spice mixes and seasonings. She was funny, too, a mix of cheerful and cutting, and she was patient when he didn’t know how to do something.

He was chopping vegetables as she folded pastries – they were a sweet thing with layered fruit and puff pastry, all made with homemade hedgerow jam they’d made in September.

“You glad for the holidays?” Aimé asked, and Bedelia nodded her head, not looking up from her work as she concentrated on putting her layers on top of one another, the very tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth.

“Yeah,” she said. “The workload’s a little heavier than I expected – I didn’t think anything could be worse than the stress of leaving cert, but I think I’m good at cramming. I’m not as good keeping everything spread out and even. Do you have that problem?”

“Not really,” said Aimé. “But I drank my way out of one degree and through another, so maybe I’m not a great reference.”

Bedelia laughed, picking up the jam again.

“It’ll get easier,” said Aimé. “The years will get heavier as you get more into your degree, but you’ll figure out what works for you too. And you can use Jean for a lot of stuff, too. You know he won’t think anything of giving you his flashcards or showing you how he does them.”

“I don’t understand how he remembers everything,” said Bedelia quietly. “It’s weird, you know – when I was a little girl, I knew that Daddy was old, older than everyone else’s parents at school, and not just the mundie parents, but the magical ones too. I always knew logically how old angels were – I’d seen the pictures, Asmodeus would visit, and I know some of Daddy’s old friends, too, other angels, fae, that are all… old. But now I think about how, you know, me and George, we’re both young, but I’m only nineteen, and he’s— he’s new, and we’re at the start of our lives, but they’ll just keep going. When Jean-Pierre helps me, I’m grateful, of course, but just that he’s done this so many times, that he keeps it all in his head, it makes me think my head’s going to crack in two.”

Aimé nodded his head, and Bedelia leaned back on her slippered feet, biting her lip as she looked at him.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Why?”

“Well, you know, you’re…”

He laughed. “Oh, I’m gonna die, and none of you guys will? It’s okay. Part of life.”

“Yeah, but here I am, complaining—”

“You’re not complaining, you’re saying it’s weird,” said Aimé. “It is, you’re right. Hurts my head too, sometimes. Jean’s nearly two-hundred-and-ninety. He’s lived my lifetime ten times over, more than. It must be weird, growing up and knowing that that’s gonna be you.”

“Do you think it’s nice, having what they have?” asked Bedelia, picking up her tray and balancing it on the flat of her arm as she pulled the oven open, and Aimé raised his eyebrows as he tossed more of the pumpkin into the pot, pulling a squash toward him to keep chopping.

“Who?”

“Colm and Jean,” said Bedelia. “And Benedictine, I suppose – Colm says they all Fell the same day.”

“I think it’s nice sometimes,” said Aimé. “Other times they try to kill each other.”

Bedelia looked thoughtful as she turned the dial on a little timer shaped like a rabbit, putting it down and pouring herself more of the elderflower lemonade Paddy made himself, and that Aimé kind of wanted to learn how to do.

“You must think it’s strange,” said Bedelia. “For them to have lived that long and still not know how to handle each other.”

Aimé laughed, pushing his glass forward so she could pour him some too.

“I think it’s strange,” she said.

“I think they try,” said Aimé. “You don’t think that’s enough?”

“I don’t know,” she said, dusting her hands with flour to start working the dough for samosas. “I like them, I do – Jean helps me with class, he always messages me back if I ask him questions and Daddy doesn’t know. And Colm’s nice, you know, he’s the same way Daddy is – he fixes things, he listens to people, even if he doesn’t always look like he is. But I’m not stupid, Aimé – even if they don’t tell me, I can connect two and two, both of them scarred over as they are, and they know a lot about guns, bombs, and more than hurting other people, they fight and hurt each other. And they teach you.”

Aimé looked down at the knife as he passed it through the squash, slicing it into chunks. Even as he held the knife in his hand, he couldn’t help but think about the weighting on the blade, wonder how hard it would be to throw, think about where he’d have to put his weight on the handle to make sure the blade stuck the landing.

“I’m not going to kill anybody,” said Aimé, giving her a small smile, and did his best to ignore the slight tug in his stomach as he said it, finishing off the squash. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s about— race.”

Bedelia gave him a funny look, raising her eyebrows. “Okay?” she asked slowly.

“Well, I just, in case you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“No, Aimé,” said Bedelia, with her mild sarcasm that somehow still came off like sunshine, “if you want to ask me questions about race, you have to submit a written application. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t answer.”

“I feel like I pissed off Asmodeus and Bene.”

“Maybe you did,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “If you want to ask me about them, I can’t help you.”

“No,” said Aimé. “I just wanted to ask about… I don’t know, you know how you cook? All the stuff you know, did Pádraic teach you everything? Who taught him?”

“Oh,” said Bedelia, and he watched her relax, a little of the tension going out of her shoulders, and as she worked, packing samosas with neat, quick movements of her hands, she said, “No, he didn’t. I don’t think Daddy cooked that much before he had me – cooked fish sometimes, ate meat with other people, but that’s all. But when he had me, he asked for help with people he knew – other nurses, other people at church. You know the Agarwals, they’re your neighbours?”

“I know their cat,” said Aimé. “And I’ve met their youngest, Sushmita.” He’d seen her, at least, run after Snowman in the street.

“Well, Sushmita’s mother is Farida, and she started out as a nurse the year before Daddy left nursing, and then there’s Shruti and Devendra Goel, they worked in the hospital at the same time as him as well, and they all knew him – Daddy doesn’t talk much, but like all of us, he understands pretty much every language there is. He was worried, when De brought me to him, that he’d hurt my development, because he can’t talk much – he signs, and he says a little, but it’s hard for him to force it, you know. And I think he was scared of me not being around women, too – maybe he didn’t need to worry about it, because I always felt like he loved me enough, but he wanted me to be around other women, too.”

Aimé nodded his head, leaning his elbows on the counter to look at her.

“So when he had me, he asked Farida, Mrs Agarwal, to help, and she got the Goels to help too, and they kind of had this network and made me feel included. He knew everything about babies already, about development, feeding me, you know, but he organised playdates so that I could be around other kids, around human kids, and cooking, it’s important, you know, and so he asked for lessons, and they taught him, but when I was growing up, they’d teach me too, and I’d learn with their daughters.”

“That’s nice,” said Aimé softly, after a few seconds had passed, and he realised he’d been quiet. “That’s— That’s really nice.”

“That isn’t the answer you expected?” asked Bedelia, and Aimé shook his head. “Everyone does the same with George, you know. And you, too. It’s not the same as a kid, or anything, but it’s…”

“Yeah,” said Aimé, hearing the slight distance in his own voice and feeling strange about it, but not quite able to make it even out. “Community. Family. Doesn’t anyone ever ask where he’s from? Pádraic? Other Indians, I mean.”

“He tells people we have family in Jabalpur, in Madhya Pradesh. It’s true,” said Bedelia, and Aimé nodded, but he was aware he wasn’t exactly listening, that he felt a little weird. Warm, but in a way that made him feel uncomfortable, and he couldn’t quite focus.

It wasn’t the first time he felt like he wasn’t supposed to be there, with the angels.

Putting a packed samosa on a plate, Bedelia asked, “You okay?”

Aimé inhaled, and then nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said.

“We like having you here, you know,” said Bedelia. “All of us. Not just Jean.”

“I know. It’s… nice.” He couldn’t think of another word, and Bedelia didn’t ask him to.

“Yeah,” she said. “You want me to show how to do this?”

“Sure,” said Aimé, and came to stand across from her.