A Demon for Midwinter

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

He woke the next morning to the shriek of his ringing phone. It complained insistently about not being answered; Kris blinked, whimpered as sunlight hit his eyeballs, whimpered again as his back protested about having spent the night on the couch, and flailed for electronics. “H’llo?”

“Did I wake you up I’m so sorry and also I wanted to say I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to snap at you,” pleaded Justin’s voice, in a rush.

“What—” Kris lurched more upright, stared wildly at the clock, cringed. Ten-sixteen in the morning. And Justin had called first. To apologize.

To apologize—?

“I’m really sorry,” Justin said, miserable and hurried. “That was unprofessional of me and I know you were stressed and I shouldn’t…I should…well, I should be. Um. Professional. Like you said. I have to go but I wanted to say that? And also I could call you later? With some possible tour updates? If that’s okay?”

Kris’s heart, shriveled old beast that it was, broke. Skewered by sunlight and the words I should be professional.

He got out, just in time, “Wait, no, hang on—” Justin didn’t hang up, so he kept babbling. “Don’t say you’re sorry, it’s not you, it’s my fault and I meant to call you this morning and say—s**t, Justin, I’m seriously sorry. I’m a bloody moron and I was frustrated and I took it out on you and that’s not—I didn’t mean it, I swear, you are my friend, I know you are. Ah. I hope you are. Please?”

Justin was actually laughing, albeit fleetingly, by the end of this speech. “Wow. I never imagined hearing Kris Starr beg me for forgiveness…”

“I will if you want.” On his knees. On his old creaky knees at Justin’s boot-clad feet. Where his poor cracked heart already lay. “I didn’t…do to you what I…I didn’t hurt you, did I? With, um…”

“You managed to hurt my feelings,” Justin said, “but you didn’t mean to, and I shouldn’t’ve walked out on you, it’s fine—”

“No, I mean—” He bit a lip. Tasted the hangover on his tongue: scotch and whiskey and coffee, thick and stupid. “I didn’t make you leave…? Are you all right?”

“Oh.” A pause, a shuffling: papers, by the sound. “That…no, um, you didn’t. I’m—that’s not something you need to worry about. Thanks for asking, though. Kris, I really do have to go—”

“Can we get coffee?” What did that mean? Not something he needed to worry about? Was there something?

“I’m in end-of-quarter meetings all morning. Mr. Aubrey wants to yell at us for the profit margin decrease. I’m making myself late to a budget discussion to call you.”

Kris tried again. “Lunch? After you’re done?” Stripes of sunbeam, dazzling and golden, flirted with reflected clouds on his floorboards. The day would be golden too, the brittle crisp hue found in the crunch of leaves, in the harvest-orange curve of pumpkins on an autumn afternoon. “Whenever you’re free.”

“Um…I should be done around three. That’ll work, I can tell you about the possible tour dates in person…where should I meet you? Witch’s Brew?”

“I’ll come over,” Kris promised. “Meet you at the office.” And he held his breath. They both knew how he felt about that building.

“Oh,” Justin said again: startled but pleased. “If you—yes, I mean yes, that would be—thanks. You might have to wait a few minutes if we’re running late.”

“Not a problem, babe.” He put on the rock-star flippant accent for effect; earned another laugh. “You did say you wanted Kris Starr to apologize. I am.”

“You already did.” Justin’s tone got more affectionate. “I’d take the apology from Christopher Thompson, too, you know. And of course we’re friends. You don’t have to say please.”

I love you, Kris thought, sitting on his sofa with lines on his face from the cushion, with that generous forgiving heart on the other end of the line: he knew it to be true. I love you, I’m in love with you, I have to say it—

Instead he quoted, as a reply, “If that’s what it takes, baby…I’m saying please, I’m saying we, everything that you want to hear…if that’s what it takes, baby, I’ll be here…”

Justin started snickering, said, “Did you just sing your own song at me as an apology,” and then jumped in to sing along. “I’m saying white picket fence, I’m saying summers without end…oh baby, if that’s what it takes…”

“I’m saying please,” Kris finished. He’d made Justin laugh out loud. His heart put itself back together and danced to the tune of twenty-year-old ballad-rock. “Should I let you go? Budget whatever?”

“Oh f**k. Yes. Sorry. I’ll see you at three. And I’ve got your song in my head, so that’ll make spreadsheets more interesting—”

They got off the phone, mutually entertained. Not repaired, not completely. Kris couldn’t take back his own temper-tantrum, couldn’t rewind time. But he could show up with coffee. He could come to Justin’s office and make that gesture.

Ten-thirty, he thought. Hours to kill. They sprawled out like glass: flat and heavy and dangerous, clear as day and inexorable as eternity. And he was old enough to be Justin’s father, theoretically speaking at least, and no reason in the world presented itself for any hope.

He meandered into the kitchen. He made more coffee. He added scotch to vanquish the dull throb behind his eyes. Clouds unfurled like streamers across the sky, beyond windowpanes.

He didn’t know anything about love. How could he? He’d only ever loved fame: the high, the adrenaline rush, the flushed and giddy whirl of success. He’d never even found someone to settle down with, the way Reggie had not once but twice. Only music.

Justin liked music.

Clutching coffee, wearing yesterday’s clothes, he took a step toward his guitars. Drawn by some unnamed mysterious tide.

I think I’m in love, he’d said to Reg. He’d meant it half in truth and half an exaggeration; when he shut his eyes and pictured Justin’s face he remembered how hollow he’d felt, how panicked, when he’d known those wide eyes had gotten hurt—and hurt because of him.

He didn’t want to lose Justin, and that was selfish. But he didn’t only want that; he wanted Justin Moore to never be hurt, by him or by anyone else. He wanted to do whatever he could to make that true.

His fingertips brushed the neck of the closest guitar. A classic: he’d played it at sold-out shows and in studios, conjuring bestselling records.

The dreadful holiday album required a digital background track. He was only singing revised lyrics over previously recorded tunes.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in window-glass as he turned. He stopped, disconcerted for a moment, then recognized himself.

Loose brown hair in shaggy waves, one or two stray grey flickers but mostly not. Eyes the kind of brown that was nearly black, which a few interviewers and roadies’d described as soulful, expressive, soft, and poignant, and on one memorable occasion puppyish. Tiny lines fanning out at the corners, but not too deeply so. The face of a man who’d spent a life touring and drinking and sleeping in hotel rooms, but he’d stayed in shape because that’d been part of the image: s*x appeal and glamour on stage. Not unattractive, or not exactly; attractive perhaps to a certain segment of the population that’d be aging right along with him.

Tired, he thought. Beaten down by time, back from a taste of godhood, shuffling around with mortals again. Definitely, yeah, mortal.

Justin Moore, on the other hand, was twenty-eight and beautiful, the kind of beauty that turned heads and stole breath away, but up close became warm and inviting rather than intimidating or cold. Lovely from the inside out, and that’d be what passersby noticed, when they noticed, when their gazes landed on him on the street or in a café.

He had known Justin for four years; he did not, he understood, know enough about Justin. He’d never learned to listen. Better at pushing. At pulling the world along with his desires.

He knew that Justin had younger siblings, though he couldn’t recall how many or how old. He knew that Justin’s father was a Starrlight fan; he knew that Justin himself loved music history, especially rock history, and adored punk bands and classic rock and roll, and would find something nice to say about even the newest overproduced electronically-altered nightclub hit. He knew that Justin had a degree in journalism from a university with an extremely impressive name; he knew those last facts not because his manager went around announcing them but because they’d talked about media contacts once and on an entirely separate occasion an alumni association’d called about a fundraising drive. The name had shown on the screen; Justin had silenced the call and explained, “Sorry, it’s the alumni people, I’ll call them back later. You were telling me about songs you’d want on a compilation album, go on?”

He stuck his head and then, when this was insufficient, himself into a very cold shower for a very quick few minutes. Tried not to picture that smile. That youthful brilliant eagerness gathered up and directed his way.

They’d talked about a best-of collection, that day. It’d happened; it’d sold well and continued to sell. Kris hadn’t worried about money for years.

Best of, he thought. Best of the past. What used to be. Has been.

He put on jeans and a lightweight silky shirt and his leather jacket. He had an image. If anyone cared.

Justin had told him he didn’t have to finish the dreadful holiday album. If he truly wasn’t happy.

Justin needed a job, which meant he needed to work with artists who actually made money, which meant artists who weren’t seriously considering a rejection of the whole concept of Midwinter and holiday cheer and happiness in general.

Kris looked at himself in the mirror, threw on a couple of leather bracelets and some eyeliner—he was seeing Justin, and he was vain enough to want to resemble the rock star he might’ve once been in those young eyes—and went out, yanking the door shut behind him.

When he arrived at the recording studio Steve made an exaggerated production out of checking the calendar. “You’re not scheduled to be here today! What is this new ambition? Did you make a Midwinter resolution, did some other empath make you feel guilty, or what?”

“You don’t know any other empaths.” Kris stole one of Steve’s donuts. Breakfast of champions. Of burned-out candleflame once-stars. “We’re rare and special. Like bloody unicorns, mate.”

“Those are mine. And how do you know I don’t know another empath? I’ve seen a unicorn, too.”

“You want it back?” Kris looked at the donut. Took another satisfyingly large bite. “We’ve all seen your American unicorns. They live in Central Park and f**k with tourists who don’t remember that unicorns have a sweet tooth. Cheeky bastards.”

“Are you only here to eat my food and insult our proud New York City wildlife? I’ll feed you to the fairy alligators. Where’s your prettier nicer other half?”

This hurt. Bruises over bruises, deepening. “He’s in meetings all day. And not my other half. Look, have you got a space I can use, or not? I want to get something done so I can show him.”

“Ah, so it is about him.” Steve heaved himself out of his chair. It creaked wearily, relieved of bulk. “In that case, yeah. Love opens doors and all that.”

“I’m not in—he’s not—” He gave up. Futile, apparently. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it’s not. Come on, you can use room three for a couple hours.”

A couple of hours later, Kris was tired and mildly depressed but strangely exhilarated, like the letdown after a show that’d been good but not great, like a lyric recorded just before he thought of what more it could’ve been. He was doing this for Justin; he was doing something, and that set off pensive mutters of fulfilment and glum satisfaction along his bones. Martyrdom, he decided. To the tune of “Midwinter Looks Good On You,” and “Little Black Solstice Dress.”

He hated himself briefly, except he didn’t, because he was trying to do this for Justin, which should make him a better person, which would make Justin happy, which would consequently make Kris happy, but then that swung around to being selfish again.

“Not bad,” Steve called from the neighboring room. He’d been setting up the backing tracks, doing the behind-the-scenes engineering and mixing work, flipping switches and dials with and without physical hands. “You good, or you want to knock out one more? You’re doin’ something interesting with the projection, the empathic kind not the voice, it’s not empty like yesterday, I just don’t know what the hell it is. Did I say interesting? I’m interested, so that’s good.”

“Um,” Kris said. “Right, interesting, whatever.” The clock informed him that two in the afternoon was rapidly approaching, and he did some swift calculations. Time to stop for coffee, time to get to Justin’s office, and he wanted to be early…

He didn’t feel quite done; he didn’t feel satisfied. Some kind of itch, an emotion under his skin waiting to get out.

Justin had, he was pretty sure, worn a smoke-blue vintage Pictsies shirt a time or two. Pioneer punk. Classic.

He started humming, quietly. And then singing, once he’d got the words yanked out of his brain’s storage crates.

No instruments, no backing. No real plan. Flying with it. Himself and his voice and “Here Comes My Man,” and oh it felt right, it felt good, it felt—

Even when he tripped over a verse, even when he started again, he wanted to laugh. Filled up by light. Radiant.

He thought about Justin’s eyes, enormous and enthusiastic and richly textured as holiday treats. About Justin singing along with him, voices mingling and messy and matching, that morning.

“Outside there’s a wind that’s blowing, inside a fire waits for you…” Steve, on the other side of the glass, opened his mouth, shook his head, said nothing and made a go on gesture.

“Outside there’s a storm that’s growing, inside I’m looking out for you…” He wasn’t looking at Steve. Wasn’t looking at anything in the room. “You’ve been gone so long, so long…you’ve been gone so long, but now I say, here comes my man, oh, here comes my man…”

He didn’t try anything fancy. No splashy embellishments or pirouettes. Sticking close to the original: to the tune, to the words, which were a vow and a hope and faith rewarded, a partner coming home at last.

He let the last repeated chorus fade. Opened his eyes, unsure when he’d closed them. Looked up, looked over at Steve: coming back to earth, faintly embarrassed, knowing it’d been unpracticed and spontaneous and likely ludicrous, himself deciding to put on an impromptu a cappella show on the spot.

“Holy s**t,” Steve breathed, hushed. He was gazing at Kris as though they’d met for the first time. They’d known each other on and off for fifteen years. “Tell me you’re putting that on the album. Tell me that. Please.”

“It was just a…” He waved hands about vaguely. “Thing. Idea. We’d have to see about permissions and get copyright people involved and I’d have to sing it properly, no, come on, nobody’d even care—”

Steve was staring at him.

“What?”

“You,” Steve said slowly, “you don’t think anyone would care? If they heard what I just—what you just—I barely even have a heart, ask my ex-wife, but you made me fuckin’ cry, Kris.” His eyelashes were damp, leaving wet patches on big cheeks. “I’m not sure whether I love you or hate you, but it’ll sell.”

“I didn’t do it to try to sell it.” He came around into the other room. Equipment batted digital eyes at them, electronic recording flirtation. “I didn’t—”

“No,” Steve interrupted. “No, you did it for him.”

That truth went through him like a spear of rainbows; he stopped, staggered by the impact, overjoyed and lost simultaneously. “Yes,” he said, and he knew that Justin could never know, because Justin Moore did not need the unrequested weight of Kris’s love on those cheerful uncomplaining shoulders. “You can’t share it.”

“Oh holly and oak,” Steve said, and not in a flippant way, either; Kris had never known, in fifteen years, that Steve swore by the old-fashioned sacred groves when seriously shaken. “You can’t ask me that. You can’t ask me to take that and just sit on it. I love this business as much as you do, and that—”

“As a friend. Please.”

“Kris…” Steve sighed. Given the bulk, this was a long slow ripple of a process, the surrender of continents. “Not forever. Until you say so. Or until you die or something, and then it won’t matter. Okay?”

“Fair enough, mate.” They shook on it, an impulse; Kris nearly hugged him instead, but they’d never been the hugging sort of friends. The moment quivered on the brink but did not bleed over.

The afternoon wrapped itself around him as he left, clear and bracing as autumn diamonds. Sunbeams bit like glass underwater: transparent, inviting, pointed. Kris tucked himself further into his jacket. He didn’t mind walking—he generally had an undefined submerged shark’s-fin of worry about his empathy and strangers on the subway—but he wished he’d brought gloves. Or a thicker shirt. Less style, more substance.

Which was the problem, wasn’t it, he sighed; and ducked into Witch’s Brew, where the sympathetic girl behind the counter did not recognize Kris Starr in any way other than as a loyal customer. She had a swirl of tattoo running up one arm, a suggestion of earth-magic under a university-logo shirtsleeve and the apron; she asked him where Justin was, and cooed happily when Kris explained that he was on a quest to bring coffee, in fact, to Justin. Her expression suggested that this was an act of vast and magnificent romance. Kris sighed once more, internally. If only. If it could be.

He collected two holiday-flavored pecan praline mochas, and braved the pointy sunshine again.

As always, the Aubrey Records offices made him feel shabby and inadequate. Tall walls sniffed at his jeans and leather with glass and steel disdain; spiky modern lines pulled color out of the universe and turned it grey and white. Kris resisted the urge to check for footprints behind himself; he knew the snow-blank flat floor bore a dirt-resistant charm, but he could never shake the sensation of having tracked in unwelcome boisterous emotion, trailing guitar-strings, untidy make-up, fraying-at-the-edges jewelry.

The receptionist, pale and chilly and designer-smooth as her desk, called Justin’s office for him. No answer. “Did you have an appointment, Mr. Starr?”

“Yeah. Yes. Um. Sort of. He said he’d be done around three?”

Her gaze went on a fraction too long: taking in his jeans, his age, his leather bracelets, his eyeliner, both coffees. “You’re free to wait down here.”

“Come on,” Kris attempted, “you know me. I’ve been here. It’s five to three. Can I go up?”

“I shouldn’t let you without confirmation.”

“I told him I’d bring coffee.”

She considered this. Her hair was so tightly wound, platinum-blonde and flawlessly pinned up without a ripple out of place, that Kris wondered whether it was real. “He’s been in meetings all day.”

“So coffee would help?”

“He did tell me you’d stop by, but he didn’t think you’d come up, he said you’d likely rather meet him down here and go out…”

Knife to the ribs. Scalding coffee over bare ungloved skin. Other anguished metaphors. But of course Justin would think so. Justin knew he hated the building, and had no reason to think Kris would be any better behaved than the day before.

He swallowed past the cracked lump of heart in his throat. “I’d like to apologize to him properly.”

“For what?” She studied him with professional interest: not unintrigued, but undisturbed. “He didn’t say anything about that.”

“Look,” Kris said, “I’ll wait down here if you say so, but you do know me, I’m a client, he told you I’d be here—”

“Very last-minute.”

“—and I’m trying to make it better.”

“What are you trying to make better?”

“What? Things. Us. His day. I don’t know. Please.”

Something in that plea must’ve worked; she relented. “He’ll appreciate the coffee. I’ll unlock the doors to the elevators for you.”

“Thank you,” Kris said, and meant it, and even gave her a smile because he meant it. She batted long eyelashes as if unsure what to do with this expression, but buzzed him through the glass doors to the elevator bank.

Justin’s office sat partway up the tower and peered out over bustling cityscapes; it wasn’t one of the largest, given his relative position in the hierarchy, but wasn’t the smallest either. It possessed standard windows and comfortable chairs and what Kris assumed was exactly the permitted amount of punk-kid decoration, enough for personality, nothing offensive. A signed Black Sun poster, the one with the simple eclipse logo, hung behind the desk; Justin must’ve taken his laptop, but Kris knew it had Phantom Fighter and Girl Fawkes stickers on the back. A pen with orange troll hair lay sideways on sturdy corporate walnut; a sticky note that Kris shamelessly read upside-down said remember to ask Mike about merchandise at the Buccaneer Festival!

He hoped Justin hadn’t needed the sticky note.

He checked the clock. Three exactly. Well, Justin had said around then; might be a few minutes.

He wandered across to the windows. Watched New York City at Midwinter for a while: twinkling lights, grey sidewalks, vent-steam, tourists and shopping-bags and big coats. Tapestries of humanity on the move, in and out of each other’s lives. This area was upscale; he couldn’t read labels this far up, but in a few cases certain shades of blue or pink wrapping proclaimed the expensive origin of purchases.

He realized belatedly that he could’ve left one coffee-cup on Justin’s desk. They were warming and also occupying both his hands.

A shadow landed at the door. He turned and discovered a shiny polished example of human affluence: tall and broad-shouldered and built of well-dressed muscle, with blond hair and a heroic jawline and two white tea-scented to-go cups dwarfed by a large grip.

“Hello, then,” Kris said, because he had a reason to be here and he refused to be intimidated by towering successful Americans in fitted executive-style suits. His battered leather and jeans hugged him reassuringly. “Are you looking for Mr. Moore? He’ll be in in a few, he said.”

The new arrival c****d his head, took effortless possession of the situation and the office and the faded rock star waiting there, and laughed. “Mr. Moore. Doesn’t suit him, does it? Not that boy.”

Kris felt his eyebrows shoot up. Prickles down his spine. Instant sizzling dislike, and he couldn’t even say why. “He’s a professional acquisitions and repertoire manager. You’re in his office. Who’re you, again?”

“I’m his—”

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting—” Justin came flying through the door, a whirlwind of ruffled blue-black hair and official-looking agendas and enthusiasm. He’d dressed up for the day’s meetings: still stylish dark jeans, doubtless acceptable in the music business, but topped with a simple blue button-down shirt and a slim-fit blazer with sleeves rolled up. Rock and roll with a day job. Punk music putting on a corporate show. “Kris, if you want—oh, David!”

“Thought I’d surprise my sweet boy,” David purred, and set one tea down and stepped in and grabbed Justin’s wrist and tugged him into a kiss that went on long enough to make Kris certain that it was a display. Justin kissed back and seemed willing enough to be manhandled, but Kris was watching; the now-named David caught his eye for a second, letting his captive go.

David, upon extended inspection, was also older than Justin: not quite Kris’s own age, but late thirties, heading toward forty, he guessed. This answered at least three questions regarding Justin’s romantic inclinations, two of them promising but at least one in a way that utterly depressed his heart. Justin liked men, and older men; Justin was quite visibly not single.

“Sorry,” Justin apologized once more, pink-cheeked and breathless. His hair was falling over one eye, tumultuous sapphire against cinnabar and acorn-dust. “David is my, um, well, he’s my—”

“Boyfriend,” David cut in smoothly. If Kris’d possessed hackles, they’d be rising. “I brought you tea. I thought you could use a little pick-me-up, seeing as it’s likely to be a stressful day. Your receptionist remembers me.”

Kris looked at his own praline mocha offering. Resisted the urge to hide both coffees behind his back; didn’t know what to do with hands, elderly guitarist hands, holding disposable Witch’s Brew cups.

“Oh…thank you.” Justin looked from his boyfriend to Kris and back. Then took one of each beverage, set both on his desk, picked up the tea again, and took a sip. “That’s really nice of you.”

“Looking out for you,” David said, all affable teeth and outward fondness. “And also this guy was in your office.”

“Hey,” Kris said. “Kris Starr.”

“Oh, yeah, you were in a band, right? Back in the day? And you’re one of my boy’s clients.” David dismissed him with a nod. “Justin, you ready to say yes yet? I’m waiting.”

“No,” Justin said, expression shifting to mildly stressed, one hand running through hair. “David, this is Kris Starr of Starrlight; Kris, this is David, um, David Ross, he’s a lawyer, he does complicated things with corporate taxes for a living. David, I asked you to give me time to—”

“I always tell you not to worry about understanding what I do, sweetheart,” David said, “but you know that’s why you need me, right, so I can help?” And then, to Kris, “He is adorable, isn’t he? We met down at Velvet, you know the club, right? And he was on the dance floor, wearing these absolutely sinful skin-tight pants, just begging someone to come up and grab his ass—”

“I wasn’t really,” Justin said, in the tone of someone who’d long ago given up on this argument but would attempt it for Kris’s sake. “It was Anna’s birthday and she’d just broken up with her boyfriend and I was trying to be good company and I wasn’t looking for—”

“You were, sweetie, and it worked. I had to have him,” David confided, “I’m sure you know how that works, right? Pretty little things on tour, eyes across a crowded room, all that? And you just have to take them home.” I took this one home, his eyes said. I made him mine. The spark of defensive malice glittered: David didn’t consider him a romantic threat but wouldn’t tolerate rivals for Justin’s attention. “And six months later he won’t move in with me. I keep asking, but he wants to be independent.”

“That’s not—” Justin stopped, shook his head, gave up. “Can we talk about it later? Please. Kris is a client and we do have a meeting scheduled. I’m glad you stopped by, but I really am working.”

“Anything you want, but you’ll make me happy as soon as you say yes.” David kissed him again before leaving: deep and possessive, a declaration. Kris would’ve put ears back and hissed if he’d had any feline genes.

Justin came back and sank down on the corner of his desk, flustered, blinking, hair and jacket-collar mussed from the kiss. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know he’d be here.”

“Since when,” Kris said, unearthing words around the gut-punch of shock and resentment and envy, “do you have a—a lawyer attached to you?”

“Since six months ago?” Big autumn-daydream eyes gave him a wounded look. “When I was late to brunch and you said I looked like I’d just gotten laid all night and I said, well, actually, and you changed the subject?”

Right. Yes. He’d not wanted to know any other details. Any hands on Justin, any other person sparking that delighted pixie smile. Unfamiliar lurching in his gut at the idea. In retrospect, should’ve been a clue.

He didn’t like David. He knew this was unfair.

“He brought you tea,” he settled on, which was at least factual.

“Um…” Justin now looked horribly guilty. “I don’t mind tea as such, but…”

“But you like coffee better?”

“He buys ridiculously expensive health-nut teas,” Justin defended weakly, “and so it’s not cheap, and it honestly is nice of him to bring me some, even if it’s not my favorite…they all sort of taste like grass in hot water…”

“I won’t tell him if you won’t.” He nudged the praline-mocha confection across the desk. “Go on.” He was also sure that the boyfriend-gesture wasn’t anywhere near sweet. It had nothing to do with Justin himself, and everything to do with displays of dominance.

Justin eyed the hot water and grass, then the gently steaming swirl of nutty chocolatey caffeine, and then dove for the mocha. “Thank you for this. Seriously. Like heaven.”

Like watching you drink coffee, Kris thought. Like watching you smile. “Want to get out of the office? I’ll get lunch. My turn.”

“Yes please.” Justin poked papers into a stack on his desk, considered his shut laptop in its bag, stretched, finished off half the mocha. “I’ve been inside all day. If I have to listen to one more person tell me that my bands should just be working harder on promotion, so we can take bigger cuts from their tour profits…”

“Oh gods. Let’s go.”

“Sometimes I miss being a journalist.” They took the elevator down. Justin waved at the receptionist; she melted out of ice and waved back. The nameplate on her desk said Anna Lyle, Kris noticed.

Sun played tag with clouds on the sidewalk; frosty air nibbled fingertips and noses, making dragon’s breath out of exhales. “I mean, I like being able to afford food and rent, and I love working more directly on behalf of artists, especially new ones we can really do something for…”

“But you miss being a writer?” He had paid attention enough to know that much: Justin’d started out as a freelance contributor to magazines from the extravagant punk-zine Spike to the magisterial Stone. He’d made a lot of contacts and a lot of friends; even Kris had come across his name a time or two in bylines. “Or not having to sit in on budget meetings?”

Justin laughed. “Both. But I would’ve never gotten to work with you—with, um, all the artists I’ve—I love the organization part, I honestly do. Signing people, giving them that break…tour dates and venues and album promotion and keeping everything spinning, all the balls in the air, juggling…sometimes I wish I still had the time to write, though. Making something. Stories.”

“You could take time off.” They wandered down the block, boots on pavement, crispness in lungs. Midwinter decorations danced in storefronts: holly, mistletoe, tinsel snowdrifts, and curious wrens painted on glass. “And if you went back to writing you’d have a ready-made audience. People’d be excited to hear from you again.”

“No one’ll remember a kid journalist from the underground punk scene from four years ago.” Justin hopped out of the way of a pile of city slush, came back. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’d read your writing. Your…David would.” Like poking a wound. Couldn’t help it.

Justin huffed out a breath, too wry to be a laugh. Turned his face away. “He might.”

“Why don’t you want to move in with him? Is it because he has appalling taste in tea?” Or because he brings you what he wants you to drink, instead of what you like, he did not add.

“It’s….no, it’s not, but it totally is appalling, that’s a great word…there’re some things that I haven’t told—never mind. I can’t. That’s all. Can we move on from my love life? I did have news for you.”

Kris wanted with his entire soul to say no, stay on this subject, what things haven’t you told him? Have you told me? Will you ever tell me? But Justin was asking, a hint of a plea in those eyes. “Go on, then. Tell me your news.”

And that was relief, coming up like sunrise and sugared biscuits. “I don’t know if you know Brendan “Chaos” Alvarez, from Incantation? You must know Incantation, after that last album anyway, ‘Broken Pearls’ has been everywhere on the radio, but my point is that they’re going on tour after Midwinter and I called Bren, he’s sort of an ex, I mean we had a thing one time way back when I was writing that profile on them for Spike, but he’s also a Starrlight fan and he would love to have you open for them? At least for the East Coast leg?”

Kris paused mid-step. Processing. Caught out of motion.

“I know it’s an opening act,” Justin hurried on, clearly thinking the silence meant some apology was required, “I’m sorry, you deserve better, of course you do, but we can get you second billing and it’ll be great exposure, Incantation’s huge right now, and they’re fans of yours? And Bren’s a good guy.”

Incantation’s latest release had gone platinum. Beyond. Record-shattering. They were young—relatively young, Kris mentally edited; they’d been around in the underground scene for a decade before hitting the mainstream—and attractively pretty, all four of them, and had a reputation for hardworking solid musicianship as well as stellar pyrotechnic live shows.

They were a bit too new-wave pop-punk for his usual tastes, but “Broken Pearls” had been inescapable, and he’d concluded it wasn’t half-bad, angry and melancholy and introspective at once. And being on tour with them would be a massive boost to his career: visibility, relevance, an audience that wasn’t county fairs and shoebox venues and aging die-hard desperation.

And Brendan “Chaos” Alvarez was evidently Justin’s ex. Or something. A one-time thing. While writing a profile piece. And Justin missed being a journalist sometimes.

“I mean, if you don’t want to,” Justin said. “I mean I could call him back and say no? I mean I thought you might—but if you’d rather not, or you don’t like them—”

“No! I mean yes! Yeah, sure, I’d—yes, I would. Um. Tour. With them. You—” Justin had called an ex and asked for a favor. For Kris’s career. “Thanks.”

“Oh, that’s an easy one. No problem.” Justin peeked into the window of a clothing shop as they passed, momentarily interested in holiday purses. “That shade of green is frightening, isn’t it? I had green hair for a while. Before I met you, I think. Not that kind of green, though. Do you actually know Incantation? I’ll get you some of their records if you want.”

“Purple.”

“What?”

“Your hair. When I met you. Pink and black the week after that.” It’d been a delicate pink, a sunrise-and-springtime pink, around the edges: midnight-waterfall black fading to a fringe of roses. “I listened to the Enchantresses, too. Found ‘em online. Not bad.”

“Oh!” Turning to him, Justin was breathtaking: youthful eagerness and beauty. Kris forgot to exhale, pinned like a trophy on a corkboard by lust and love and hopeless adoration. “Oh, that’s awesome, they’re so good, they deserve to be so much more famous, did you like—”

Traffic skidded. Brakes squealed. A scream rang out, shrill and sharp.

They both spun toward the intersection. A stroller rattled, running away, sliding in front of a truck. Green light glowed; the mother dropped packages and ran, but—

Justin caught breath, flung out a hand, made a tugging gesture—

The baby landed in his arms, yellow duck-patterned blanket, wailing face and all. It took one look at him, and screams turned into astounded hiccups.

The world stared too. Equally astounded.

That hadn’t been simple telekinesis. Might’ve been, but hadn’t.

Justin, cradling the baby, said, “Shh, you’re fine—” and then looked up, and looked at Kris, and went utterly pale, insofar as that was possible under the smoke and brimstone of demon-skin.

Justin mostly looked like himself, even as a demon. That much was true.

Justin also had a flickering shimmering aura, the sizzle of heat over pavement on a hot day, distorting the air around him; the afternoon tasted of fire and barbecue. His eyes had turned even redder, and his skin had an eerie sheen; the blue highlights in his hair had vanished, burned off. The strands curled and coiled: still partly black, but black and red and gold and rippling, coals burning low and hot and kissed by wind. He even had a tiny ephemeral suggestion of horns.

His lips moved. The words might’ve been no, or oh f**k no, or Kris’s name.

No one else moved. A frozen tableau: café patrons, window-shoppers, pedestrians, gawking motorists on city streets.

The mother ran: across the street, up to Justin, up to the demon holding her baby; and she staggered and trembled and held out arms and pleaded, “Please—”

“Demon,” whispered a man at the corner café.

“Demon,” breathed the girl next to him.

“I’m so sorry,” Justin said, trembling—a demon shaken by notice—and pushed the baby into its mother’s arms, and took a breath—

Kris didn’t think, didn’t stop to process, only moved. Instinctive. Grabbing Justin’s hand.

They rematerialized in a back alley: the one immediately behind the café, in fact, complete with Dumpsters and a scruffy tomcat, which hissed and fled. Justin tripped over an apple core, shook Kris’s hand wildly, and demanded, “What the hell were you thinking—you could’ve—” His hair crackled, distressed.

“What the hell was I—what the hell were you—you weren’t going to leave me behind!”

“I could’ve dropped you into a brick wall! Or—or that Dumpster!”

“But you didn’t!” They were shouting. More shouting was happening down the street. Demon rumors spreading. Justin had faded back to mostly human, with a tinge of crimson under skin and eyes and fireflower hair; Kris was still holding his hand. Neither of them had let go. “Is your hair on fire?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?”

“It’s an important question! I care if your head’s burning!”

“It does that on its own—” Justin risked a quick peek down the alleyway. “I can probably only teleport us both one more time. Two, maybe, but I might pass out.”

“Are you okay?”

Justin stared at him. Opened his mouth, shut it, shook his head. “How are you not concerned about the whole demon part?”

“You didn’t answer the question!”

“I’m only half! Everything’s harder!” Justin had carried on staring at him. “Shouldn’t you be turning me in? Or asking whether I’m about to abduct you to the demonic underworld?”

“Are you?”

“No!”

“We’re good, then!” Kris yanked his voice down to a reasonable level. Some part of him was shrieking and gibbering in terror—demon, oh f**k Justin was a demon, a real demon, scourge of legends and gruesome cautionary tales—but a much larger part was taking a shockingly rational and simultaneously romantic view of the situation, in which he and Justin were in this together. And Justin was holding his hand. “We should get out of here.”

“Yeah, but—” Justin flung helpless glances around the alley. The Dumpster shrugged at them with last night’s Chinese food: no assistance. “I don’t even—where would we—and I just showed everyone my face—Kris, they all saw me, I can’t breathe—”

“Yes you can!” Hands on Justin’s shoulders. Support. Firm even while terrified. Justin felt human. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing more so than panicked gulps of air, that light body trembling in his arms. “You’re fine. You’re okay, I’ve got you, come on, nobody’s here yet, I’m here, you can breathe. With me. In and out. Please.”

He didn’t think about a demon having an anxiety attack in an alleyway amid Dumpsters and rubbish-heaps. He saw Justin, breathless and clinging to him, while yells about search parties and undertones of pitchforks clattered in the background. “Please. You can breathe, I know you can, one more time, come on, in and out…”

Justin, shivering, managed to draw a breath. Then another. “We should…I should get us out of…I can’t think…”

“You said things were harder? But you can move us?” At the nod, he continued, thinking fast, “You can get us to my place?”

“I…think so.” Justin had continued leaning on him, but seemed marginally steadier: given direction, given assistance. “I’m usually okay getting to anywhere I’ve been, or anyplace I can see…oh f**k, Kris, I’m so sorry about…yes, I think I can drop us in your living room. I’ll try.”

“Go on, then—”

The world swirled. Vertiginous and rushing, melting and merging and falling away. Kris had once liked teleportation—he’d had one or two friends with minor telekinetic talents that extended to location-hopping—but had in later years decided that lurching disorientation, even if brief, wasn’t worth saving five minutes of travel. Most people had extremely short ranges, so there wasn’t much point to it other than showing off.

Justin evidently didn’t have a range limit. But then: demon. Right.

Justin stumbled over nothing. Caught Kris’s shoulder for support. White-faced under the wavering heat-flare that surrounded him, disturbing penthouse atmosphere. I might pass out, he’d said; Kris grabbed him and eased him down onto the sofa. His abandoned scotch-and-coffee cup from that morning wobbled at them when he bumped the table. “Justin? Justin! Say something!”

“I’m fine…” But trembling. Shock. Reaction. Kris snatched a blanket, some designer gift he’d resolutely ignored, off a chair. “Thanks.”

“Your hands are cold.”

“That’s not…that’s just being scared.” Justin huddled under the blanket. He looked younger, despite the scent of bonfires and caramelized sugar, despite the inhuman scarlet glint in those eyes. He looked desperately unhappy, and beautiful, and like someone trying with all his strength not to fall apart. “I don’t know if they got a good look at me. I don’t think so. It was too fast.”

“Don’t,” Kris said, “don’t worry about it, I can deal with the media, I’ve done it for years, stay put, I’ll get you a drink,” and ducked into the kitchen for the good scotch. His own hands shook slightly when he picked up the bottle; he reminded himself to breathe. Justin. In his apartment. On his sofa. A demon. Half demon.

A half-demon who’d just saved a baby.

Who loved classic rock and sugary nutty coffee.

Who needed his help.

He came back out, handed over a cut-glass tumbler, and said, “So you’re a demon, then, does that mean you know what happened to Elvis? Did he really get carried off by fifty succubi?”

Justin laughed, exhaustedly. Consumed a large gulp of scotch. Shut both eyes, and opened them again. “Not as far as I know, though it’s one possibility…how’re you so calm about this?”

“I don’t exactly see you as the type to go round nicking anyone’s immortal soul.” He plopped down on his couch next to the blanket-wrapped half-demon he was in love with. “Tell me if you are, though. Mine’s not worth much these days, but I could let you have it cheap.”

“You’d be surprised how much you’re worth.” Justin drank more scotch. Looked at his glass in some bemusement, as if only now realizing he had it. “I’m sorry about panicking. I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” Kris said, and got refills, “you look completely one hundred percent, sure, let’s pretend that’s true. Want anything else? Coffee? Food? I don’t have any appalling healthy tea, sorry, only Earl Grey.”

“…you’re not scared?”

“I saw what Reggie once did to a hotel toilet in Glasgow. You’re not even close.” Light words, batted about like petals on a breeze; covering over yawning cracks in the foundation of the earth. Justin—his Justin, sweet obliging Justin Moore, made of long legs and playful hair and sunbeams—was a demon.

Demon was a misnomer, in fact. Humans tended to apply familiar labels to the magical realm, especially magical creatures; leprechauns weren’t products of Celtic myth, and gnomes would bite your ankles if referred to as lawn ornaments. But demons, oh, demons…

The term had got plastered onto the collectively less savory magical beings sometime in the fifth century, and like most outside terminology, provided a good catch-all phrase while simultaneously reducing near-infinite diversity to zero. Demons came in many shapes and sizes, from the Elvis-rumor succubi and incubi to sandstorm ifrits and crawling arachnids; they did collectively, however, possess two traits in common. Firstly, they dwelt, like most purely magical beings, in a space not quite human, a kind of parallel world between raindrops and mirages; in the case of demons, this had become known as the underworld.

Secondly, demons were inimical to humanity. They fed on human energy—not exactly a soul, but similar enough—and they had a propensity for deals, twisted bargains, seductions, and general mischief. They didn’t all want the same things, but it was true that they tended to be the wickeder fairy types; this had contributed to the legends and lore and perpetual distrust.

Demons existed in stories. In rumors. In tales told to frighten children: don’t go outside in the dark, don’t make deals with strangers, don’t accept a visit to the underworld, beware of men with red eyes, they’ll steal your soul…

He asked cautiously, sitting close enough to reach out if his demon looked wobbly again, “How does the half bit work?”

“My mother was a demon. Well, what you call demons.” Justin’s voice was tentative. Wary. Afraid of the reception. Kris inched closer. “My father’s human. He’s a history professor. He teaches at Youngstown, upstate, he specializes in the development of human-otherworld relations and political science…my stepmom’s human too. And also a professor. Physics. She’s an empath, but more receptive, not projective like you. They have four thoroughly human kids. Who’re great. And I’m, um, me.”

“You’re you, yeah, I’d be traumatized if you up and turned into Reggie.” He wanted to put his arm around those shoulders. Wasn’t sure if it’d be wanted, if it’d be too intimate, if Justin’s hair genuinely was on fire and would nip at his shirt. “So your mum went back to the—” Justin’d said otherworld, not underworld. “—home? Her home?”

Justin’s smile frayed like broken threads, crooked and sad and trying to hold on. “No. She’s, well, she died when I was three. I don’t remember her much.”

“Oh f**k,” Kris said, aghast, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” and then gave up and did put the arm around him. “I’m so sorry, love.” He wasn’t sure where that’d come from, but Justin exhaled and leaned into his hold, unselfconscious as a kitten seeking comfort. The hair wasn’t even hot, only pleasantly warm, like being tickled by daylight.

“It’s all right.” Justin sounded tired but not offended; Kris hadn’t hideously overstepped. “We can heal a little, small stuff, I mean minor demons can—she wasn’t one of the, the great powerful ones, and I’m not even that. But we’re mortal. Car accidents happen. Stupid everyday crashes, on a wet road…but it’s not like I knew her very well. I miss her, but it’s not like missing a person, more like missing the idea of her. If that makes sense. Kells—Kelly, my stepmom—is fantastic, though.”

“Yeah. Um. I’m still sorry. Can I change the subject? And ask about your hair?”

“Which would be why I dye it.” Justin tugged a strand of smoldering obsidian-and-ember into his face, peered at it critically. “I can’t exactly walk down the street like this, can I…”

“I don’t know, I sort of like it. Very punk-rock. Fire and melodrama.” Which earned a weary half-hysterical ghost of laughter. Warmth brushing Kris’s throat, along the collar of his shirt. He rubbed Justin’s back through blanket-armor. “How’re you feeling? Any better?”

“I think so.” Bonfire eyes regarded the second-time emptied scotch glass with surprise. “I might end up very drunk. At four in the afternoon. On your sofa.”

“Hey, you’ve had a rough day.”

Justin actually giggled, far too adorable for a sound that was almost certainly the product of shock and tiredness and alcohol. His hair restyled itself in loopy flames; most of the other side-effects seemed to have dissipated. No more translucent diaphanous horns or heat-shimmers. “You mean the morning budget meetings, or outing myself as a demonic creature from the otherworld? I need more scotch, I think…what’s your wi-fi password?”

“No, love, sorry,” Kris said, and took Justin’s phone away. “I’ll check the internet. You rest.” He could deal with scandals if necessary. He’d survived enough in the past.

Justin picked up Kris’s second glass and finished it off. Then looked up at him. Bright hair and vulnerable softness. Trusting him. “Let me know how bad it is?”

“I promise.” He put the arm back around his demon. Held his own mobile high enough that Justin couldn’t see the screen. He could check on their behalf. He could find out, and tell Justin as much, and help handle the situation.

He wanted to help. He wanted to make this all right, to make it go away, to keep Justin safe and protected. A rush of unaccustomed tenderness blossomed deep inside: Justin needed someone. Needed him.

Justin put his head on Kris’s chest. Closed his eyes.

Kris opened up various social media sites, mentally offering prayers to any god listening. Midwinter was about year’s end and new beginnings, after all, and maybe this worked, because—

“Huh.”

“Hmm,” Justin said, half asleep but needing to hear it.

“Could be worse. Not nothing, but no one’s caught on it’s you specifically.” He lowered the screen. Let his demon see for himself. “Why’re they all so…”

“Blurry?” With a yawn. “Which is how I feel. We never made it to lunch, did we…um, we don’t show up in photographs well. In pictures. Demons. In my case it works fine when I’m being human, but…”

“Not when you’re…” He didn’t have a good ending to that sentence. He skimmed over various posts again. Reactions ranged from panic over a supposed demon rampage in New York City to breathless speculation about what a demon wanted with either a baby or a kidnapped past-his-prime rock star—he winced at that one and hoped Justin hadn’t read that far—to a few cooler heads noting that the demon appeared to have rescued the baby and had indeed given it back unharmed before vanishing. But none of the hasty phone snapshots’d come out; demon magic turned Justin’s shape into fuzzy furry vaguely humanoid blobs on camera.

Nobody’d bothered taking a picture of Justin before the incident. He might dazzle like a male model, fashionable and striking, but wasn’t a celebrity, only another young man in a stylish-casual blazer and punk-rock boots. Kris, at his side, might’ve been recognizable to fans if there’d been any looking. Otherwise he was merely Justin’s unremarkable older companion, shaggy brown hair and ordinary time-worn face and faded jeans.

He set the phone down. “I think you’re safe, honestly. No one’ll recognize you. Will anyone be wondering why you’re not back at the office? Do we need to come up with an excuse?”

“Um…” Justin curled more tightly into Kris’s body, under the blanket: a snail-shell of emotion and long legs and crumpled flame. “We’ve got some time, they know I was taking you to lunch…or dinner, at this point…no, I should be fine. They won’t expect me to come back in before closing, and half my job’s going out at night anyway, shows and all that…as long as I get some things done tomorrow…”

Kris privately decided on the spot that if necessary he’d call and persuade the judgmental receptionist that Mr. Moore had come down with horrific food poisoning, and offered aloud, “We’ll see about tomorrow when we get there, then. How’re you doing? Would me ordering us dinner help?”

“Food?” Justin contemplated this idea. “Maybe. I’m so sorry about this, taking up your couch, making you take care of me…you don’t have to feed me too, I can, um, I should go…leave you alone…”

“Like hell you should. You can’t even sit up on your own, why the f**k would I let you leave—” He stopped. Justin’s eyelashes were wet. Easy tears, drawn out by alcohol and exertion and overworked emotion. “Oh, s**t. I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you, no I don’t want you to leave, come here.”

He cuddled Justin through the brief tempest. Rubbed his back, told him he was fine, promised not to swear at him. Justin, clinging to Kris’s shirt—getting tearstains on silky fabric, but that was no problem, he’d sacrifice worse—sniffled, choked on a hiccup, explained, “I don’t want to cause trouble…”

“As if you could. Is that why you’re so nice? Because if you lose your temper you could banish us all to unspeakable torment?”

“No.” Justin swallowed down one more hiccup. “I just think it’s nice to be nice. To people. And I can barely teleport. I can’t banish anyone. Well…I’ve never tried. Kris, I’m so sorry, I lied to you, I lied to everyone, I lie about myself all the time…” This turned into another round of tears. Kris didn’t quite know what to do, and settled for holding him, not letting go.

He’d never been the responsible one. He’d been a star. A meteor. A comet of rock-and-roll party nights and chart-topping hits and celebrations. And then he’d indirectly caused the demise of the band, and then he’d settled in alone, way up high in his penthouse apartment with his waning reputation and his pretty-eyed manager…

Justin’s crying tapered off slowly. Gradual smaller sobs. Kris kept arms around him, wriggled around to check. “Justin? Love?”

No answer. Breathing, though, and more regular; Justin’d cried himself to sleep, he realized, exhausted and tipsy and scared and safe enough to collapse. Oh, he thought. Oh, love.

He adjusted weight. Stretched a leg along the back of his sofa; nestled heavy sleepy demon-weight into the spot, kept secure against his body.

In the newfound quiet the aftermath set in.

Panic hit, but only mildly, a single brick rather than a half-ton. A demon. A demon who could steal his soul. Legends crawled down his spine. Skittered along arms, raising hairs.

A demon who wanted to go round being nice to people. Who worked with musicians and artists every day. Who made lives better, opened up doors and opportunities, found Kris’s scarf when he left it in a recording studio.

Justin would almost certainly be fired, and worse, if this news broke. Nobody’d trust a demon; no one’d believe an artist hadn’t made a deal for fame and fortune, and never mind that Justin worked with clients no one else wanted, bands on their way up or down.

Tear-tracks lay like silver across demon cheeks. The afternoon pooled into evening, the thick syrupy golden hour of sunset. A moment of transition, of boundaries shifting.

He knew Justin. He’d known Justin for years. He’d never seen anything to make him believe that those open hands were waiting to snatch someone’s soul.

He cared about Justin. He’d finally figured out as much. Had said so to Reggie on the phone: he’s the kindest person I know, he’s patient, he’s passionate, he’s beautiful. Kris’s life would be infinitely sadder without that enthusiasm and sweetness; the idea of losing even Justin’s friendship hurt. The knife from earlier twisted in his gut again. Opened up and bleeding.

Justin had a boyfriend—of a despicable and blatantly unworthy variety, but undeniably existent—and clearly didn’t love Kris back. Not in that way. More like a parent, no doubt. Someone to cling to for support. Not even that; Justin had, he recalled, been assigned to babysit him. Riding herd on the increasingly irrelevant but still profitable prima donna.

He could at least be a friend. He was here now, and he could be here; he would be, he vowed silently. He wasn’t quite sure how, not having had much experience at being helpful, but he’d try.

Food, he thought. Justin had said that might help. It should; Kris knew nothing about demon physiology, but knew too much about stress and hangovers and overexertion. He poked at his phone one-handed.

He ordered the fanciest possible pizza, chicken and peppers and pesto and artichokes and everything else he could think of; and then he added a normal pepperoni, and then plain cheese, because he couldn’t remember what Justin liked. Failure. Toothmarks on his bruised and inadequate heart.

The pizza person informed him about delivery charges and extravagant amounts of money. Kris sighed, told him they had the credit card on file, and agreed that no reasonable customer would hold them to the thirty-minute guarantee during Midwinter traffic.

He got off the phone and became all at once very aware, cradling Justin’s sleeping form, that he’d made some kind of unconscious decision. Demon or not, he loved this boy.

I’ll order pizza for you, he thought. I’ll put a blanket over your shoulders. I probably shouldn’t’ve given you three glasses of scotch on an empty stomach after you said you were already exhausted. I’m thoroughly awful at this loving someone concept, I’m sorry, I wish I could do better. I wish I could be better. For you.

He thought: there’s a line there. A note.

He caught a tune trying to shape itself in his head. A plaintive melody. Brave in hopelessness, self-aware and sacrificial. His fingers wanted his guitar.

He found himself humming. He didn’t have all the words, but that didn’t matter; he had the idea of it, the outline, the sketch. Simple and unadorned, a love-song without expectation. No frills.

He couldn’t get up, and the room grew dimmer as the sun went down, but he recorded a tiny piece of himself humming the tune via his mobile’s microphone, capturing mood and notes. He couldn’t disturb Justin.

Who made a drowsy kittenish sound and stirred against him. “Where…what did I…oh, f**k, it wasn’t a dream…”

“No,” Kris said, watching him sit up, feeling the space as he moved away. The blanket puddled around his waist. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Justin yawned. Rubbed hands over his face. Batted coal-fire hair away. “Were you singing?”

“No. How’re you feeling?”

“I could’ve sworn…maybe it’s the headache.” Accompanied by an unfairly precious nose-scrunch. “I’m also starving. Um, will you be bothered if I…sort of…make the headache go away?”

“I ordered pizza. Give it about…twenty more minutes. Whatever you need to do, I’ve got a guest toilet and a shower and aspirin—”

“No, nothing like that, I’m not going to go throw up in your toilet or anything—” Justin’s expression was priceless: unfathomable distress at the suggestion that he might inconvenience his host in more ways. “I just meant, um, I think I told you we can—I can heal a little if I let the other side come out, and you’ve already seen—but if you’re uncomfortable—”

“No, go on!” Too quick, jumping on the words, but the distress eased; his demon said, “Thanks.”

“No worries.” Kris paid attention, fascinated. This time he was prepared, and the tiny transparent horns were less disconcerting and more charming. Sundown air rippled like gauze, veils of heat that did not burn; Justin’s skin flushed redder, then pale again. He didn’t hold onto the other visage for long, letting it slide away; he opened his mouth to say something, most likely another apology.

Kris said, “Better? And is that a good hangover cure, because believe me I’d’ve put up with a lot worse to get rid of those on a tour bus.”

Justin laughed. He did look better, sleep-rumpled, more awake, hugging one knee with thoughtless flexibility, boots kicked off. His socks were striped: green and black. “It’s great. Good for corporate lunches, too. Everyone thinks I never get the next-day hangover, and I do, but I can make it go away.”

“Please.” Kris held out hands. “Share your demon secrets.”

“I don’t know how it works!” Justin waved hands back at him, a theatrical sorcerer’s gesture. “Everything sort of resets. I can still get hurt, and if I don’t have a chance to switch aspects it’s just like being human, I’m totally mortal. It’s hell on tattoos and piercings, by the way. I found that out when I was nineteen. I had plans, absolutely spectacular art, we even got started, you should’ve seen it, I wanted a whole sleeve…”

“What happened?”

“I, um, tripped over somebody on a dancefloor, broke my ankle, hopped into the closest restroom—this was at, oh, the third club of the night, as far as I remember—and I switched in and out and fixed the ankle but lost everything else. I told you, it resets. Piercings stay if they’re iron and I don’t take them out, but the second I do…” One more handwave. “Poof. I never went back to my tattoo guy. Couldn’t explain.”

“I know so many people who would be so envious right now.”

“The problem is I end up losing the hair dye too and then I’m stuck like this.” Justin poked his hair. It leapt up in friendly fire-tendrils. “It’s a good thing I can teleport. Get myself out of club bathrooms and back home. Summon new dye kits from the store. I always leave money, I’m not going to steal anything.”

“You are,” Kris told him, “utterly, profoundly amazing.” True. “So what else can you do? Besides teleport and heal and conjure up cosmetic products—don’t do anything if it’s going to hurt!”

“Small stuff won’t.” Justin had lifted a hand in preparation, but paused, ears pink but willing to jump in. His expression said he couldn’t quite believe the interest but wanted to. Kris wanted him to, too. “I’m only half, remember, and moving big things kind of tires me out, but I can show you…”

“Oh yes,” Kris said. “Yes yes yes. Go on. Show off. I’m giving you permission, it’s my apartment, go crazy, don’t do anything that’ll tire you out more or I’ll, I don’t know, what don’t you like? Never mind.”

Justin dissolved into laughter. Kris was too excited and letting it show, but he couldn’t help it. He’d discovered that he could rescue someone, that he could be a refuge and not a burden, that he could make Justin smile.

Plus, he’d never seen proper demonic magic. Curiosity rampaged.

“Okay.” Justin held out a hand. “I can only summon things I’ve seen before, or if I can see it on the spot, or if I know exactly what it looks like, from pictures or something. Distance isn’t a problem unless I’m already tired. So…”

A finger-snap. A hand that’d been empty now less so. Holding Kris’s scarf from the day before. Grey fabric fell over slim fingers like water.

Kris applauded.

“This one’s a little harder…” Justin sent the scarf back wherever it’d been—the bedroom floor, most likely—and got a little line of concentration between eyebrows.

A gingerbread latte in a Witch’s Brew cup steamed gently in his hand, cheering them on.

“Here.” Justin handed it over. “That one’s trickier because if they don’t have any already made I have to conjure it. Plus I leave money, so it’s an exchange. Push and pull. You can have this one.”

“We can share—you can conjure coffee, what the hell, what are you doing working in the music business, you should be a bloody billionaire—”

“Name something you want.” Justin’s eyes danced. “Anything. Um. Nothing I can’t picture. Sorry.”

“Hang on, let me think…” Possibilities abounded. But he refused to hurt Justin, so nothing large, nothing requiring effort—but nothing so easy as to be an insult—“Did you ever see a copy of Sailfish’s Heavens to Betsy record? On vinyl? Would that work? I lent mine to a friend, decades ago, never got it back.”

“I did, and I think I can even get yours.” Justin radiated conspiratorial excitement at him: a demon allowed to play, forgetting masks and public scrutiny. “You used a picture of it in the album cover for Shooting Starr, the one with the collage of all your band’s collections, remember? I have that album, which means I’ve seen your copy of Betsy, so as long as it still exists, just give me a minute to come up with the details…”

Thirty seconds later, a battered first-edition record landed on the table. It flopped down comfortably, smoking slightly, and beamed at them. It even had the torn left corner and the beer-ring stain.

“Oh sweet Mithras,” Kris said, to it and to Justin. “How are you—how can you do this?”

“It’s—”

Pizza arrived. The front buzzer went off, with the annoyed press of a delivery person who had other Midwinter stops to get to. Kris got up without thinking and opened the door and accepted pies, hot and cheesy and decadent; when he turned around Justin had become a lump of blanket.

“Sorry,” said the blanket. “Hair. Demon. I wasn’t sure whether he could see me from the door.”

“Fuck.” Sheer horror: not only at the narrow escape but at the fact that Justin had to think that way every day. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even—dammit.”

“No, it’s fine.” Untidy hair and big holiday-spice eyes reemerged and came to help with pizza-boxes. “Are those artichokes? I love artichoke on pizza.”

Kris felt an unreasonably large bubble of pride expand in his chest. “You can have all of it.”

“Do you not like it? Did you order that one for me?” Justin paused to consider three large pizzas. “How many people are we feeding?”

We. The bubble got bigger. Fonder. “I…like it too…but you need it more. I’m good with anything really. Except anchovies. That’s not on.”

“Agreed.” Justin waved a pizza-slice at him. “And we’re sharing. You said. Oh wow this is perfect, thank you, I needed food.”

Kris watched in amusement as the first slice disappeared, and then thought about why Justin needed food. Guilt hit like a vinyl-shaped dump-truck. “Tell me if you need anything else. More pizza. Coffee. Anything.”

Justin paused halfway through the defenseless second slice. “Are you worried about me?” He had sauce on his fingertips and a coil of blanket at his back; he looked like someone barely old enough to drink, someone who should be tucked up at home with hot cocoa and fluffy marshmallows to toast. “I’m not even tired anymore. You asked for something easy. I just like pizza. Did you want me to answer the question, earlier?”

“The—oh. Yeah, if you don’t mind talking about it. How does this—” He gestured vaguely, inarticulate. “—work?” The roughly ninety-eight percent of the human population who had magic normally developed one specific strength, generally through some kind of affinity: for weather-patterns, for emotion, for physical objects and items. Justin seemed able to do nearly anything, albeit with some limitations of energy.

“I can tell you as much as I understand,” Justin said around an oversized bite. “I haven’t exactly studied, y’know, demonology. So this is based on sort of just being one. This is really good, you should have some, otherwise I’ll eat it all, please.”

Kris gave in and picked up a slice. Couldn’t refuse. “Sounds like grounds for expertise to me.”

Justin blushed for no readily discernable reason. “Um. Maybe? No. Anyway, you know demons sort of…feed on mortal…life energy. Souls, if you want to get metaphysical. Which is why all the bad press. But they can’t just pounce on you and start sucking, there has to be an exchange, an agreement, one of the rules for how transference works…”

“Okay…”

“So if you’re going to tempt someone, you have to be able to get them what they want. Very Mephistopheles.” Justin explored the pepperoni pizza, presumably having decided to leave the artichokes for Kris, who’d mentioned also liking them. “I personally, being half human, can’t reach across the infinite span of time and space or whatever. Limitations. I don’t eat souls, but I do get tired, I can only summon whatever I can visualize clearly, and I can only teleport to places I’ve been or have a clear picture of. I also look human. Most of the time.”

“And you save babies.”

“I’m not…” Justin put down the pepperoni slice, one bite gone. Said quietly to it, not looking at Kris, “Don’t think I’m a good person. I told you earlier that I lie to everyone. About myself. I don’t do anything to change the way people think about demons even though I know good ones exist. Like my mother. I hide in music and I’m scared a lot and I get drunk and sleep with tax lawyers I’ve just met at a club and I lie to him too, every day…don’t tell me I’m any kind of hero.”

But you are, Kris wanted to argue. You with your burning hair, sitting on my sofa, eating your second-choice flavor of pizza. You’re twenty-eight and you’ve lost a parent and learned how to cope with demon horns and vanishing tattoos and you try to do the best you can for your bands and artists every morning, when you wake up. You rescue tiny infants when you know you’re putting your power on display.

You’re the kind of person who would be a hero, he thought. Human. Frayed edges. Afraid. Young and braver than I ever could be. A prince in a story, not a tidy sanitized tale but a full tangled tapestry of hurt and grief and love and compassion. Yes, a hero.

He wanted to write another song. A banner. A waving flag.

He said, “This’s why I can’t push you, right? Empathy?”

“What?” Justin didn’t look up. “Yeah. Most demons’re immune; I’m resistant, you could probably get it through if you tried long enough and hard enough, but it’d take a massive amount of effort.”

“But you can feel it. If I’m projecting.” Justin had said as much, outside the recording studio. “You know what I’m trying to get you to feel, what I’m feeling, it’s just that it doesn’t register as a suggestion?”

“Yes…” Justin nudged the pizza, making it slide across the box in a forlorn heap of cheese and meat and crust. “Does it matter? I mean, I guess it does, you deserve to know, I suppose I technically lied about that too.”

“You only never said anything.” He held out a hand. “Can I try something?”

Justin lifted his head. His eyes got confused when they landed on the outstretched offering. “Touching me won’t make a difference.”

“Not that kind of difference. Come on, I don’t bite, not even on stage.” He aimed for a smile; one edge of Justin’s mouth tilted up. “Trust me.”

“Why not,” Justin sighed, not exactly a resounding vote of confidence, but he did take Kris’s hand. His fingers were long and slim and graceful, curling around Kris’s own; Kris’s heart skipped a beat or two, fluttering in his throat, answering the call of sensation.

“Right,” he said, and took a deep breath, and pushed: not everything he was feeling, not the hidden secret glee at holding that hand, not the surety that this was love and he’d never understood it before, but everything else. His astonishment and delight at the magic. His admiration, pouring out like a stream, silver and true. His bedrock certainty that Justin was a good person, layered with every time Justin’d found his phone or believed in his career, stone after stone like pebbles shining in the sun, stories etched in geology and light. Awareness that no, Justin wasn’t perfect, nobody was perfect, but perfect was boring anyway, who had room for perfect in rock and roll…

He held it all out. Projection had always been his particular skill: empathy in the music, in concert venues or studio recordings, making listeners dance or weep. He couldn’t convince Justin to do anything, but he could offer this truth if it might be heard.

“Oh,” Justin said, astonished. Those eyes were huge, gazing back at him. Carnation and cinnamon, rose-stripes and wonder, lush and bottomless. “Kris, I—I don’t know what to—that’s not—the way you see me, I’m not—that sounds so ungrateful, this is so—I don’t know what to say. You mean it.”

“Every bit.”

“Then…thank you.” Justin kept gazing at him, lips parted, breathless. “I’ve never felt…my family tells me they love me, they think I’m great, all that, but with you…it’s different, feeling it…”

“So it helps?” And he couldn’t help the question. Couldn’t keep wistfulness out.

Justin’s cheeks went pink: sudden adorable honest shyness. “It does. But it’s—so much—you have no idea how much this feels like a fantasy I had—oh f**k not that kind of fantasy!”

Kris raised eyebrows. Deliberately.

“Um. You know.” Properly blushing now, with a desperate attempt at a never mind! shrug. That hand hadn’t left his. Kris’s fingers wanted to dance with glee. “I only meant—so you can’t laugh, okay, if I tell you this—I used to think, um, you would be a nice person to talk to? Being an empath? Being so open about, um, s*x and magic and—I know, I know, it’s the stupid lonely teenage kid daydream, when your idol comes down off the poster and really just sort of gets you—can we please forget I said anything. Ever. Any words. All my words.”

So many answers. So many unfolding worlds. So many fantasies.

His living room quivered with futures: myriad, vibrant, bewitching. Guitar-strings and a demon holding his hand. Artichokes on pizza and laughter and rock-and-roll trivia. His heart twirled; his body felt fifteen again too, clumsy inarticulate coruscations of want racing along veins.

Not that kind of fantasy, though. At least not that Justin was willing to admit to. And why would he? He had a boyfriend. He had a square-jawed successful lawyer of a boyfriend, who wanted him to move in.

Futures came crashing down. Knocked Kris and Kris’s heart back into the reality in which he was a past-his-prime once-star, and Justin was a twenty-eight-year-old classic-rock fan who might be his friend but also worked for the advancement of his career.

He summoned every ounce of stage presence. “All your words? Even the bit about liking pizza? Don’t make the pizza sad, love.”

Justin’s expression was indecipherable: not emotionless, but a study in confusion, as if thinking something else, as if figuring out a brand-new or very old concept, as if trying to say or not say more. He started a word, stopped. Started over. “Okay…we can keep the pizza part…we can’t have sad pizza…um. Thanks. For listening. To what I—thanks.”

“Speaking of.” Kris released slim demon fingers. Kept the cost from showing. No visible cracks. Only in the moment: a fracturing, a slipping away, a loss. “Want to hear something?”

Steve’d sent over a digital copy of the morning’s holiday-song recordings; he found his laptop and played them back for Justin, and valiantly did not cringe at his own voice. Echoes bouncing off walls. Hollow.

Justin, sitting up and nibbling pizza, listened with the critical ear of a talent manager and music reviewer. His hair fluttered in nonexistent breezes: coal-black and flame-plumes, waving. He got garlic butter on a fingertip, licked it off. He did not exactly look at Kris, though he did not exactly look away. “That’s better. You sound more like you want to be there. In the song.”

“I do listen to you, too.”

“It’s interesting, though…complicated…put on ‘Little Black Dress’ again. This new version, I mean, the holiday edit.”

Kris did, somewhat bemused. He knew Justin was capable and clever and good at his job, of course; he hadn’t been mentally prepared for the switch-flip from vulnerable trembling demon to professional critic.

He thought, without conscious connection between the two ideas: he uses music as a shield. Passion as deflection.

“It’s a song about s*x,” Justin said. “The original. Black dress, black boots, red lips, all that…the night you spend with her, and then you never see her again, but you never forget her, or that little black dress…when you did it live at the final reunion show you sold it on, um, the no regrets, wild night, mutual lust, sort of feeling. This one feels different. Different emphasis, different emotion. What were you thinking about?”

“Ah…” You. Wanting you to be happy. Knowing you’re too young and kind and good at heart for me. “I don’t remember. Steve’s donuts, probably.”

“No.” Justin hummed a bar or two, paused, head on one side. “I wish you had decent live backing, not prerecorded, for the sympathetic connection…anyway, no. This one’s still about s*x, it can’t not be with those lyrics—whether or not you changed it to ‘met her at a Midwinter party’—but it’s more about you letting her go. Or her leaving. It’s about one night when you know you won’t ever have more, and that’s her choice, and you’re singing it for her. That little black dress, black boots, red lips, and she’s walking out the door, and you wish she wouldn’t go but you won’t ask her to stay if she doesn’t want to, if she doesn’t want you…”

“Are you sure you’re not thinking about the donuts,” Kris tried.

“Kris.” Justin gave him a look eerily reminiscent of his least-favorite grammar-school teacher, if Miss Waterstone’d had flame-nymph hair and bonfire eyes and a talent for mapping out Kris’s soul. “It’s actually great. More complex. I love the bittersweet note there. It works well for Midwinter, too, in a weird way. About gifts and other people. When did you do this? You didn’t tell me.”

“When did I…ah, this morning. Steve had some free time. And I felt I owed you a decent apology.” He stopped the recording. “Needs some polishing, but we can have an album done in time for last-minute holiday sales if we rush.”

“You thought you owed me—” Justin shook his head. Light scattered across the sofa, pizza-boxes, the living-room wall. “So that’s what that is. Kris, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kris said hastily. “Did you think the bass came through well enough, or does it sound muddy to you?”

This turned into a minor discussion, with respect to the quality of the digital recording and laptop speakers. Kris ended up sending the whole package over, minus one very particular audio file from the end of the session, for Justin to dissect later, and then defended himself against gently teasing charges of plagiarism regarding the guitar-riff from “Fire in the Night” and Roger Leigh’s obscure early-sixties protest song “Black Heat,” which he had in fact entirely ripped off as a seventeen-year-old ambitious punk with nothing to lose, and refused to admit. “You’re too young to know about Roger Leigh!”

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong!” Justin fired back, grinning now, and went looking for decades-old activist-banner music on his iPhone. “You so did. If I can find it…”

“You’ll never prove it, copper.” He got out more scotch, considered this, rooted around in the fridge and found unopened ginger ale as well. Getting terribly legless did not sound appealing; one more golden lazy drink and amiable squabbling with Justin over rock history did. “And he’s passed away in any case. So there.”

“You heartless demon,” Justin said cheerfully. “And I should know. At least admit it to me in private. Come on. You know you did.”

“Might’ve. Beat Poets Society versus Mossy Hill.”

“Um…all-time best song, the Beat Poets’ ‘Love Love Love,’ but overall career, Mossy Hill. Don’t say I’m wrong.”

“‘Strawberry Wine’‘s better than ‘Love,’ but I’ll give you that one. Acceptable answer.”

“As if there’s another one. So that was you admitting it? I’m right about ‘Black Heat’?”

“We made it famous. Do you want that artichoke?”

“Yes. Oh—unless you do.” Justin would, Kris discovered, forever offer up the rest of his favorite pizza if the other person wanted it. He found this almost unbearably endearing, and had to take a bite of pepperoni to prevent his mouth from saying something revealing and fond.

Words danced around pizza-crust and scotch and ginger ale. Brightness in glass tumblers, in cardboard boxes, in the flash of Justin’s hands when sketching a point in the air. City lights twinkling beyond windowpanes, green and white and gold. The shiver of shock, not unpleasant, when he got up without thinking and grabbed the old-fashioned acoustic guitar to demonstrate a note sequence and realized that he’d not felt any hesitation at all.

He surreptitiously checked his phone a time or two. The New York Demon was trending on social media. Blurry pictures of a baby clutched in arms, distorted crimson fuzziness. Demons popped in and out of the general populace, of course, and this wasn’t an apocalyptic sighting, but sufficiently unusual to gather some traction. Chatter was happening, though not panic. He opted not to mention it.

Justin listened patiently to his efforts at distraction and sang along a little and argued with him both fearlessly and comfortably about random trivia. Justin had a pretty voice, untrained but young and clear and good at finding the right note; they ended up singing Midwinter carol-rounds over Kris’s guitar for a minute or two, until this devolved into forgotten words and laughter, and then had a genial debate over whether the anonymous lyricist behind the infamous Mithras Kiss animated musical epic, in which the band rescued its namesake from Midwinter demons and hiked to the North Pole and wrestled giant robins under mistletoe, had or had not been the legendary singer-songwriter Ian Gwynn. Justin argued for, based on lyrical similarities and turns of phrase; Kris argued against, based on the time he’d personally met an impressively drunk Ian Gwynn at a party and asked, at which point the legendary Ian Gwynn had made an extremely rude gesture and thrown up on his shoes.

“That’s not an argument as such,” Justin said, “that’s some sort of symbolic representation of the history of rock music, Ian Gwynn throwing up on Kris Starr. He didn’t say no.”

“It’s symbolic of massive amounts of vodka, you—you—journalist. His younger brother wrote most of his lyrics, y’know.”

“Really? I’ve never heard that, how do you know?”

“He told me. In bed.”

Justin choked on a sip. This was mildly satisfying. “Ian Gwynn?!”

“No. His younger brother.”

Justin found a napkin, glared, dabbed at splashes. “There’s scotch on my pizza. Are you sure he didn’t only say that to get young impressionable you into bed?”

Kris opened his mouth, found himself without a good comeback, caught the glint in Justin’s eyes: mischievous spice and candied sugar, red and brown stripes along the iris like pleated demon-silk. “We’re watching the bloody animated special, now. Just for that.”

“Fine by me,” Justin informed him sunnily, “I love that movie, I grew up with it, year after year, family tradition, oh wait, you wouldn’t’ve grown up with it, you were there way back when it was being filmed…”

“How old do you think I am?” He was finding it on Netflix. Justin moved pizza-boxes, curled himself up under the blanket on the couch, and then apparently thought nothing of settling in right at Kris’s side: a contented long-legged kitten nestling into a heat-source. Kris felt his brain derail. Right there, present and solid and sweet, and it’d be so easy to reach over, to put an arm around him…to take his hand, to hold that hand under knitted fabric…to press a kiss to the top of his head…

He forced emotions and limbs back into some semblance of control. Pushed play on animated melodramatic rockers and their Midwinter misadventures. Tried to focus on the part involving fruitcake as a gateway to the underworld.

He wondered what Justin, being half demon, thought about fruitcake mythology. Legend said that the everlasting nature would feed and placate magical underworld dwellers. He wasn’t sure whether asking would be tactless; Justin had claimed to love the movie, though. Family tradition.

They watched the members of Mithras Kiss battle holiday nonbelief and villainous Oak King minions. They both sang along to the hysterically bad musical numbers. Word-perfect.

“I actually like fruitcake,” Justin observed eventually, halfway answering that unasked question. “I know it’s a demon stereotypical whatever. I do, though.”

“Guess what you’re getting for Midwinter.”

“Quiet, they’re fighting the spider-ghouls with the power of electric guitars, I love this part…”

“You started it!” When they somehow shifted position simultaneously, his arm ended up at the back. More or less over Justin’s shoulders. The night hummed. Crackled. Charged with electricity like those guitars. Could Justin not feel it?

Half-human eyes were intent on animated heroes. Not glancing away. Not looking up.

Kris swallowed, ignored the ache in his chest, and left the arm in place. Moving now’d draw attention.

Time flew away. Snowflakes in blue-hued evening light. Dissolving.

As the film tumbled toward its tumultuous end, a thread of punk rock clashed with midwinter bells. Justin hunted for his phone, moved a pizza-box, ducked under the blanket. “Aha. Found you.”

“An unsuccessful escape?”

“At least I can summon it back when it runs away…it’s how I always find your phone…oh.”

“Oh?”

“Um.” Justin peered at the screen, peeked up at Kris. Even his hair seemed flatter. Less vivid. “David. Apparently he sent me three messages already.”

Kris had managed to thoroughly forget the existence of Justin’s boyfriend. From his expression, so had Justin.

“He’s never happy when I don’t answer…how is it already so late…Kris, I’m sorry, I should go…”

“Did you have a date, then?” Daggers to his heart. Twisting. Carving out bits and leaving him airless, trying to learn how to speak around a stab-wound.

But, he thought, Justin had chosen to stay with him. Even if there’d been a date.

The stab-wound didn’t go away, but the hurt eased a fraction, in a kind of lonely boy-with-a-schoolyard-crush manner.

“We didn’t have specific plans.” Justin was texting back, fingers swift. “I’m supposed to come over when I’m done…but he knew I was having late lunch, early dinner, whatever, with you…no, I’m not doing this to be inconvenient, honestly, what does he think…no, I don’t want to just forget it and not see him tonight, of course I don’t…sorry, sorry, you don’t need to be hearing all this, but I do need to go.”

“Hey.” He got up as Justin did. The blanket pooled on a sofa-cushion, abandoned, forlorn. Leftover pizza gaped worriedly from boxes. “Anything you need. Are you all right, though? Feeling well enough to—to go someplace?”

“I’m fine.” Standing so close, they were nearly the same height: eye to eye, breath to breath. Kris could count individual long eyelashes as they swept down and up; could see every stripe of color in those familiar eyes, rich loam and smoked rubies. “I’m not even tired. You—you bought me pizza. And gave me a place to—thank you. For everything.”

Kris said, “A place to thank me?” while those carved-out holes got bigger. His heart lay at those feet as they wiggled back into slim boots, and Justin would never know. “I said you didn’t have to. You don’t. Ah…your, ah, your hair, though…”

“Yeah, that.” Justin twirled a wayward strand of fire around a finger, let go. “I’ll need to pop into my place first. I still have some blue. Although…”

“Hmm?”

“I should tell him.” They regarded each other for a moment, dark brown human eyes meeting half-demon spice in Kris’s apartment. The film finished quietly in the background, unnoticed. “I should…it’s not fair to him if I don’t. Even if this time isn’t a story, even if it’s not public. I should at least tell him.”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it? Sharing that?”

“He wants me to move in.” Justin sighed. Fiddled with his phone, with those messages on it. “He says he loves me. Shouldn’t I…trust him? With me?”

He says he loves you, Kris noticed. Not you loving him. “Depends on whether you’re ready, I think. Not,” he added hastily, “that I’m good at relationship advice. Ask anyone. Ask Reggie.”

“You’re better than you think you are,” Justin protested, immediate and sincere, as if the response were instinctive. “But no, I should, right? I told you I was scared. I should try to be less scared. Braver. Like Mom. Like you, leaving home and starting the band, fighting for what you wanted…I can’t do it tonight, he’s already upset with me, but tomorrow. It’s Saturday and we’ve got the whole day together. I should tell him tomorrow.”

I was only fighting my own teenage idiocy about life and a refusal to get a proper job, Kris didn’t say. You’re fighting everyone’s preconceived notions. Fairytales about evil monsters. Soul-stealing. “If you think that’s best. For you, for…both of you.”

Justin nodded. Shuffled a foot around. “I should. Right. Tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Um…okay.” They stood face to face for longer than necessary; the pause ran away with the moment. “I should, um. Go. Then.”

“Sure,” Kris said again, automatically. “Justin?”

Those eyes came up to meet his far too quickly, as if waiting for a question. “Yeah?”

“You…I could…will I hear from you tomorrow? I know it’s Saturday, I know—I just, ah, the songs, if you have a chance to listen—”

“The album, right, of course, I can absolutely—”

They collided in mutual embarrassment; slid to a halt.

Justin said, “Of course I can. It might not be early—David might have plans, I don’t know—and if I’m going to tell him about me we might be busy for a while—but I’ll find time to listen and take notes and call you. Tomorrow.”

“That’s—thanks. Wait,” he tacked on at the last possible second, “not only that. I want to know if you’re, y’know, doing better. Eating enough pizza. I want to know how things go. If you do tell him. I care, yeah?”

This earned a laugh, and a hand raking through hair, and a glance away and back. More embarrassment, Kris thought; of course, of course this was overstepping friendship’s bounds. But Justin was smiling, if somewhat pink-cheeked. “Yes. Um. I can—I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I promise.”

“Sounds good,” Kris said, to save them both from dying of awkwardness. “Right. So. Good night? I’ll talk to you then?”

“Night,” Justin said, still smiling, an odd wistful quirk to that expression, and vanished. A pop of air rushed in to fill the void: demon teleportation, here and then absent, wish become deed.

The apartment shook itself out, unhappy, emptied, restless as a puppy whose owner’d gone out. Kris resisted the impulse to say I know, me too, I know, we’ll hear from him soon. His apartment did not belong to Justin.

Except that it felt like home when Justin was there. So maybe it did, and he did, and his heart did too.

He picked up pizza-boxes. They opened lids and beamed at him. He’d helped. He’d been here, and he’d helped. Kris Starr had fallen in love and helped someone. Like an animated holiday special, the musician and the demon, improbable and compelling as a fairy-story.

Almost like being someone’s hero. He liked that feeling.

And he laughed at himself and his delusions of grandeur, and went to put leftovers away. He hoped Justin was safe and warm and happy. He hoped Justin wasn’t coming home to an argument, or at least that there was also enough love to keep it a small one. He hoped Justin liked the songs.

He went to bed thinking about what Justin might say, what insightful critique or praise or silly teasing joke might be offered to him, and about what he might say back, in the morning.