A Demon for Forever

Chapter 1 Kris Starr had not previously expected to marry a demon. In fact, he’d never expected to be getting married at all. The demon part—or rather the half-demon part; Justin was after all half-human—had arguably been the least surprising. He propped a shoulder on the old barn door and watched Justin for a minute: content just to lean there while his other half plus his oldest friend roamed around the vineyard’s antique refurbished wedding venue, with the backdrops of vine-clad hills and ocean-blue California sky. Justin’s hair stood up in fiery loops—he’d gradually been dying it less, letting his heritage be visible—and his hands made big excited gestures, explaining something about backdrops or centerpieces or maybe demon aunts to Reggie. Kris’s former bass player, sleeves rolled up over tattoos, laughed and answered: expertise about owning this vineyard and working with wedding parties, maybe, or a joke about how much wine they’d need, or some teasing about Kris himself. Kris didn’t mind. He let the door hold him up and didn’t follow, only staying put as sunshine snuck in to heat up the side of his face: making friends with a scruffy time-battered rock star in jeans and a New York Astral Queens casual long-sleeved band shirt under a weathered leather jacket. Kris Starr, once upon a time Christopher Thompson, dismal failure as a dishwasher in a London pub and public school dropout, was shorter and quieter than most people thought; Kris in public sometimes still bothered with the rock-and-roll persona when it seemed to be expected and because he was vain enough to like the way he looked in eyeliner and a few necklaces, even at a certain age, and also because throwing the name around let him take Justin out to some exclusive restaurants and rare book shops. Anything for his demon. His gorgeous, courageous, brilliant demon. The person who’d looked at Kris Starr, tired old rock star, and seen someone worth believing in, first as a manager and then as a friend and then as a lover, and now— A bird or two chirped. A whistle sang through the day. A rustle of leaves danced. The vines and barn-sides got a little brighter, clearer, dipped in gold. “Hey,” Reggie called his way, “keep your s*x thoughts to yourself, my grapes don’t need to hear that!” “Your grapes love it!” Kris yelled back, but rather guiltily got a better handle on empathic projection. One reason they’d always had such good live shows. Capable of filling a stadium. Of sweeping everyone up in the exhilaration, the elation, the energy. He’d tried for a long time after Starrlight’s musical implosion to not use it at all. Justin had smiled at him and told him that the emotion felt good. That, with that demon heritage, Kris projecting came across—tangible, a brush or a kiss of desire or fear or hope—but the influence, the suggestions, didn’t work. Kris mostly believed that, because it was mostly true. Justin had also said that it might work. Kris was on the stronger side of the magical scale—most people had just enough talent to flip a switch or light a candle—and Justin was half human; he’d said once, amused and honest, if you were really trying and I wasn’t paying attention, I think you’d win… Kris had sworn, horrified, never to try. Justin had had enough hurt. Enough of someone making him into a person he wasn’t, and a love that came with conditions and became rage when feeling betrayed. Justin these days did not talk about his ex much. That was fine with Kris, though he sometimes wondered whether Justin missed, not David—gods, no; he was sure of that much—but the stability. The lawyer’s job and generally put-together life. A life that didn’t come with an aging disaster of messy rock legend empath who did not know how to share a flat with someone on a permanent basis, who’d just last week tried to make breakfast and burned both eggs and toast, who’d once got high and traded a silver Stratos guitar for a bag of Sparkle and a bottle of champagne… But Justin loved him. He did not quite know how, or why; he sometimes still stopped in place, amazed by the sight of fire-hair in their penthouse kitchen or youthful black leather boots kicked off in an entryway or smoky nutmeg-spice eyes above a pile of books. Sometimes he had to take a breath. To think that this was real: this was all real. Justin Moore loved him, and Kris had somehow proposed—in a tumultuous tangle of words on a sofa, amid sunshine and the aftermath of s*x and discussions of a future, a new album and Justin’s current music-history book editing project—and Justin had said yes. To him. Yes. “Kris?” Justin bounced over, all long legs and wide eyes and blue nail polish with tiny sparkly stars. He wasn’t really short enough to fit himself under Kris’s arm, but did anyway, landing a kiss on the corner of Kris’s mouth; Kris stopped leaning on the helpful barn and put both arms around him. Justin said, “There’s that really incredible view from up on the hill—Reggie says they do ceremonies up there all the time—or we could use the barn for everything, ceremony and reception and—but also I’m flexible, if you’d rather look at other venues, closer to home in New York or back in London or—” “I’d be mortally offended if you did it anywhere but our place,” Reggie put in dryly, hands shoved in pockets, greying ponytail flipping briefly upward in the breeze. “Nah, you know I get it, whatever you two want. Whatever gets Kris Starr actually married.” Kris, around Justin’s back, made a gesture at him that would’ve earned a thrown punch in the council-estate streets where they’d grown up. Reggie laughed. “Love you, mate.” “Yeah, you too.” He looked at Justin. “What do you want?” “Anything,” Justin said, soft and earnest. The flames of his hair did a slow curl and flare, certainty in motion. “Anything, anywhere, with you. I do like the idea of being here—the past, the present, room for everybody, which we wouldn’t have at my parents’ house—but if you’ve pictured our wedding differently…” Reggie snorted, then turned the sound into a cough. Justin turned that way. “You’re the one who offered. And got excited about Midwinter decorations, for the time of year.” “Sorry,” Reg said. “It’s just. Kris. Picturing a wedding. Any wedding. You know he used to tell me marriage was boring compared to going on tour, right?” “How many times have you been married, again?” Kris grumbled. “Also I was young and stupid. And also you agreed with me. And also I was right about you and Jenny Wray and being terrible for you—” “I’ll resign as your best man if you bring up Jen one more damn time,” Reggie muttered, not seriously. “She threw a knife at my—” “Oh, I remember reading about that story,” Justin said, and both aging rock stars winced. “But she missed. And, Reggie, Holly’s lovely. And you’re happy being married.” Reggie melted into a cozy domestic puddle the way he generally did when his current—and from all appearances forever—wife’s name got mentioned. They adored each other and all their shared offspring, who filled up the sprawling family house with siblings and half-siblings and nieces and nephews and even grandchildren, these days. “I am. Say the word and she’ll work her magic on whatever plant-related decorations you two want, she’s so brilliant at that, even if you decide to do this thing on the other side of the whole damn world, Kris.” “And we’ll love it,” Justin promised. “Whatever she comes up with.” “I told you once you should marry him,” Reggie said to Kris. “Glad you listened. He’s got good taste.” “I didn’t listen to you,” Kris said. “I was thinking about it anyway. Before you said.” “You were?” Justin asked. “Since when?” “Yes,” Reg said. “Since when?” The birds sang again, a merry trill of sound. “Shut it, all of you,” Kris said, but he was smiling; the wry happy emotion bubbled up through veins and heartbeats, in the feel of Justin’s fingers slipping into his and the solidity of the earth under his feet. He was getting married. To Justin Moore, his demon. Here at the award-winning vineyard his former bass player now owned, making plans for a Midwinter wedding with California sunshine on his face. “Yeah, Reg, okay, we’re in. Here.” “You are?” Reggie beamed at him. “Justin likes it here at your place,” Kris said. “So do I.”