Work Text:
You walk into the fourteenth gondola of the Ferris wheel at exactly two-fifteen p.m., entirely unsurprised to find Sylus already sitting on the far end, a pack of mini powdered donuts from the booth near the spinning teacups beside him.
“Good afternoon,” he says pleasantly, crimson eyes tracking your movements as you settle on the bench in front of him. His suit is impeccably pressed and impossibly black—probably something bespoke. And he wears it comfortably despite the heat of the early summer afternoon. You try not to dwell on this fact as you smooth out the crinkled fabric of your cotton sundress over your thighs. This is a business meeting after all.
“Good afternoon,” you return, keeping your expression neutral as you do a slow sweep around the confined cage of the gondola. Nothing appears to be amiss, although with Sylus, you’re never sure.
With a slow creak, the Ferris wheel begins to turn, taking the both of you ten, then twenty feet off of the ground.
“I spoke to our client this morning,” he begins, before taking a bite of donut. “I believe we’ve nearly reached a deal.”
You observe as he licks the remaining powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. You’ve been here before and you understand the game—any sign of weakness will no doubt result in a swift defeat. You steel your expression into something hopefully close to boredom.
“He’s willing to work with me for at least thirty more years of life, a C-suite level job, and the model from the luxury watch billboard downtown as his wife,” he continues, as if he can’t essentially visualize the setup of your approach. Seconds pass and you’re already a quarter of the way up the Ferris wheel.
“That seems like a lot to ask of you,” you begin, leaning towards him. You feel the hairs on your arms raise, no doubt triggered by your sudden proximity to the demon. “Will you really do all that, just to spite me?”
He pauses before waving his hand. The bag of donuts vanishes. “Do you have a better counter-offer?”
You lean back, feeling the car rock slightly with the movement. At this height, the boardwalk looks like a miniature playset.
“You know I can’t interfere,” you shake your head. “Free will and all.”
“Can’t,” Sylus repeats, his gaze across the rise of your shoulders to the soft down of your wings, “is not the same as won’t.”
You set your mouth in a tight line.
“Aren’t you tired of losing to me, kitten?”
The pet name hangs in the air, not unlike the metal cage he has you in now—not unlike the metal cage he’s put himself in with you.
“I am not losing anything,” you lie. “I am simply here to try to persuade you to do the right thing.”
“Which would be?”
“To let this man lead a normal life, bereft of an undeservingly-high income and luxury watch models,” you say primly. Even you think you sound a touch too unsure for this interaction.
The Ferris wheel creaks to a halt, just before the apex.
“That sounds terribly boring,” he muses. “Is doing the right thing always so boring, sweetheart?”
You ponder this for a moment. “Yes.”
“And if I did choose to do the right thing,” he says, choosing to indulge you. “What good would that do for me? What would I have to gain from playing by your rules?”
You begin to move again, your car creeping closer and closer to the wheel’s peak.
“Salvation,” you say simply, the words on your tongue before you can think to hold it. “The opportunity to repent and be welcomed back into—”
“Salvation?” Sylus breaks in, still impossibly smooth. Your fingers twitch against the cracked plastic upholstery of the seat, but you keep your composure otherwise. “Would you have me ask for forgiveness?” he asks, amusement practically dripping from his tone.
“Would you have me get on my knees in front of you and beg?”
You keep your gaze aloft and try not to allow the image to pervade your mind. “I—I would not ask you to kneel in front of me.”
The demon leans back in his seat. The smirk he’s wearing hints at the fact that you might be losing this interaction, but at this point you’re not even sure what game is being played at the moment.
“That’s a shame,” he says, with a sigh to really sell it.
You lick your lips and watch as he tracks that movement as well. A glance outside informs you that your car is now at the apex of the wheel, with the sprawling city on one side and the endless ocean on the other.
“Is there anything I can say to…to get you to reconsider?”
The floor beneath you rocks steadily as the operator brakes once more.
“How many souls have you lost to me in the past century?” he cocks his head. “A dozen? A dozen and a half?”
“Sixteen,” you correct. “You’ve led sixteen souls astray and I don’t believe that any of them believed your services were worth the cost in the end.”
“They never do, sweetheart. It’s all about the sale. And as for what you could say to me…” a precarious pause fills the brightly painted gondola and you feel as if you’ve finally noticed the trap you were about to step into. “Well, I don’t believe there is anything you could say,” he muses. “Do on the other hand…”
“Sylus,” you warn and his smirk only grows with the use of his name.
“I would not have you do anything improper, my dear seraphim,” he assures. “At least nothing you do not wish to.”
You bristle, poking at his words to try and find the hidden meaning. “Then what—what would you have me do in exchange for this man’s soul?”
The crimson of his irises burn into your own. “It’s unfortunate,” he begins, “that I only get to meet you under these circumstances. Even a few years is enough for me to long for your presence.”
“I hope you are not thinking of conducting your business deals with my clients with greater frequency,” you frown. You’re aware that you’re now walking directly into the trap, but a part of you is curious to see just how stuck you can truly get.
“No,” he says, waving his hand dismissively as if the idea wasn’t even in the realm of possibility. “I would, however, consider moving out of your territory entirely,” he offers.
“You would?”
He flashes his canines with a stomach-turning grin. “I would.” he nods.
“If you would meet me once, every year, for one full day.”
The trap has been veritably sprung now, ensnaring you in such an unexpected way that you can only blink in response.
“Here?” you ask, dumbly.
“It could be here,” he continues. “Or it could be on the beach, or a nice restaurant. It could even be at a very nice chalet in the Swiss Alps.”
“What would you—?” your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I’m not sure that I have anything that you would want.”
He stands up and the car rocks in response to the movement. As he nears, the Ferris wheel comes to life again and you steel yourself, managing to keep your chin raised as he brings his face down to hover just two feet in front of yours. Your skin begins to tingle as the nature of his presence begins to clash with your own.
“I’m unsure of how I can make this more clear,” he says, before placing a hand on the cage, just behind your head. The prickle over your cheeks grows to a near-burn and your halo begins to quiver unsteadily.
“I want you, my dear angel,” he purrs, his voice just above a whisper. “In exchange for every soul I have snatched from you, in exchange for every soul I will undoubtedly tempt away from you in the future, in exchange for everything—I only want you.”
A shiver wracks your corporeal form and the realization that this deal was never about a 30-something year-old burnt out accountant who’d recently gotten into the occult finally hits you with the force of a tsunami. Around you the air is now visibly shimmering and the smell of ozone begins to fill the gondola.
“Sylus,” you warn again, as the bolts outside of the car creak and groan.
He pulls back, just enough for the whole structure to stop shuddering.
“Well,” his gaze travels down from your eyes, to the rise in your throat as you swallow, and all the way down to your hands, now tightly-clenched over the fabric of your skirt, “what do you think?”
“I think,” you start, pushing down the odd, crawling feeling in your chest and planting your toes harder into the corrugated steel floor, “that you are an excellent salesman.”
The demon remains unmoved.
“I also think,” your eyes drop to the fine silver links of a chain around Sylus’s neck, “that I cannot accept this offer under any circumstances.”
You hear his grip on the metal gate behind you release as he draws himself to his full height.
“So our client’s poor, tortured soul is forfeit?”
“Like I said,” you say, meeting his gaze once more, “that is entirely up to you. If you do not wish to seek salvation and if I do not wish to be—to be yours—then I believe what happens next is entirely up to you and our mortal acquaintance.”
Sylus makes a small, thoughtful noise. “You know that I will see you again,” he asserts, “potentially sooner than you’d think.”
“I know,” you nod.
“And at that time—and every time after that—I will continue to make you the same offer.”
“I know,” you repeat, revelling slightly in the disappointment that flickers across his features. Your gondola slows to a halt, just above the loading area.
“It’s such a pain to draw up contracts,” is all he says, driving your most recent defeat home, before vanishing entirely. The lingering traces of ozone dissipate shortly after and your physiology seemingly returns to normal.
The only evidence that your meeting had ever occurred is the slow rocking of the car from the sudden loss of Sylus’s weight, and the small bag of donuts, which has now re-materialized on the bench beside you.
Sighing, you take the bag and pop one in your mouth, chewing as you replay the setup and the steps you’d voluntarily and involuntarily taken that had led to yet another loss at Sylus’s hands. You’re sure that writing the report will take longer than the last two combined.
However, as you lick the stray sugar from the side of your thumb, you can’t help but feel that this is the closest you’ve ever been to winning.