by K. L. Noone
A Demon for Midwinter
By K.L. Noone
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2018 K.L. Noone
ISBN 9781634865920
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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For everyone who encouraged, supported, and put up with me rambling about classic rock and chicken soup—this exists because of you!
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A Demon for Midwinter
By K.L. No one
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Kris Starr stepped out of the recording booth, decidedly did not swear under his breath, and found his manager waiting for him. As usual, Justin’s not-quite-human cinnamon gaze held only cheerful amusement. Any critique stayed hidden behind that effortlessly casual pose, long legs stretched out and one shoulder casually propped against the wall.
Kris sighed, “That was hideous, wasn’t it?”
“Hardly hideous.” Justin handed over lavender-infused Earl Grey tea, Kris’s scarf, and Kris’s phone, which he’d left in a taxicab that morning and had more or less written off for good. And, being brilliant and competent and properly organized in all aspects of Kris’s life, added, “Three inquiries about possible shows—none paying you enough, we can do better—one message from someone by the name of Tiffanie asking whether you remember her from the Gardens, backstage, in nineteen-ninety-two, and also your father called asking for money again. I handled it, I just thought you should know.”
Justin technically worked as an A&R person—Kris had never been sure of his exact title, only that it involved artists and repertoire and contracts and signing of new talent and development of albums—at the legendary Aubrey Records, but as the newest and youngest hire, he’d been essentially shoved into the role of managing the aging rock-and-roll disaster that was the latter half of Kris’s career, and had never once complained. Had stuck with him even as the fans and the performances and the music dwindled into shadows. Had bounced into their first meeting with wide eyes and impressively fluffy violet-edged hair and a grin: I grew up on your music, my dad loves Kris Starr and Starrlight, I wanted to sing like you when I was younger, is it true you wrote “London Always Comes Too Soon” about Nick Peters of Smokescreen?
Justin Moore was fifteen years younger than Kris Starr, who’d once been Christopher Thompson, born on a council estate in a far-off dreary corner of England. This thought occasionally depressed him. Mostly it made him smile, in a kind of distant wistful way. He couldn’t dislike Justin for it; no one could, anyway. Like disliking rainbows, or kittens, or cloudless sunshine.
“It was hideous,” he said again. “Not…clicking.”
Steve wandered out from behind sound-mixing equipment. Gave him a critical once-over. “You’re not wrong, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”
Steve Rosen owned the near-mythical New York City recording studio he’d borrowed for this session. Steve was also an old—emphasis on the old, Kris’s brain noted—friend. This meant that, yet again Kris did not swear at him for unhelpful commentary. Not out loud, anyway.
Steve suggested, “Maybe you can come back tomorrow?” and turned lights off with a wave of his hand. Like most people, Steve had a bit of magic, in his case more kinetic: enough for localized gestures, nudges, coaxing of the world in his immediate vicinity, which because of his size tended to be a lot of vicinity. “Go out. Get drunk. Get laid. Whatever inspires you, man. Get that fire back.”
“You could call Tiffanie,” Justin said helpfully. His expression was exquisitely noncommittal, though they’d known each other for four years and Kris knew perfectly well that he wanted to laugh. Those otherworldly eyes, made even wider and prettier by coal-black eyeliner, said so.
He grumbled, “We’re not calling Tiffanie. Or Tammy. Or Tyler. Or anyone,” and ducked outside. Leather jacket like armor against the world. Elderly armor. Bruised. Hands clutching a to-go cup with tea in it, because Justin thought of things like that.
New York City glittered like a fairytale beyond the studio walls. Tall buildings and the offices of dreams: recording studios, publishing houses—the familiar baronial spires of the Randolph House media empire spiked upward like runaway arrows—and vibrant museums and festive parks. Statues and bas-reliefs on buildings. George vanquishing the demon-worm. Hannah Clarence, the weather-witch who’d helped build the city’s harbor. Various unicorns. The unicorns looked smug, in the way of magical creatures who knew their own value. The ones on the bank down the street’d been decorated with ornaments.
Holiday season had landed upon them, unicorns and all. In eye-watering color. Barreling down like a runaway train made of tinsel and spruce and harvest pies. Not everyone celebrated Midwinter the same way, of course, in this twinkling mosaic of a city, but most did. Reaffirmations of life in the midst of long nights. Joyous riotous bonfires and roasted apples and dancing. Thanks to God, or the gods, or whatever higher power someone believed might’ve once given mankind the gift of magic, to make it through the night. A woman on the corner was selling chestnuts, a sweet drift of roasted scent through oncoming evening lights.
He kicked a small pebble on the street, just because. It landed in a puddle left over from the afternoon’s drizzle and glared at him reproachfully. No patience for aging rock stars and their existential discontent.
Justin appeared at his elbow. “Leave the poor earth elementals alone, would you? I’m sorry about mentioning your exes. Not the right timing.”
“Not an elemental. Only a rock.” He finished off the tea. Slumped against the recording studio’s blank stone. Let the wall hold him up. Forty-three years old, and he felt every one of them. Plus more. Double. “Am I being ridiculous? I’m being ridiculous. Ridiculous holiday album idea. I’m turning ‘You Light My Fire’ into ‘Light My Midwinter Bonfire.’ It doesn’t even work with the rhythm.”
“Well,” Justin considered judiciously, “I won’t say I’m complaining about you recording anything, but ‘Baby, It’s Harvest Time’ did seem a little confused as far as metaphors…”
“I’m a failure. I’m a washed-up ancient relic, and I’m a failure.”
“You’re the voice—and face—of arguably the most successful and most sparkly band of the last several decades.” Justin took away the empty to-go cup, tossed it—accurately—at a trash bin, and then held out a small white paper ba
g. “Chestnut? And yes, present tense. People know who you are. You had an impact. You made a difference. For a lot of fans, and for people who love you.”
Kris stared at the bag. Wondered when chestnut acquisition’d happened. Justin hadn’t left his side, right? Or had he been too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice, and Justin’d had time to wander down to the corner, buy seasonal delicacies, and come back?
He was, he concluded, a terrible, self-absorbed, melodramatic person. He accepted a chestnut. “Why do you put up with me? You have other people to work with. Less pathetic. Less old.”
“I get paid to be here. And more importantly I can tell friends that Kris Starr buys me cappuccinos at Witch’s Brew Coffee. Which you do.” Justin tossed him a smile. His hair was growing out of shorter fluffy length and into sapphire-tipped tumbles, these days; black and blue fell next to one eye in a shining perilous swoop. Kris had always found him beautiful in a sort of abstract far-off way, like admiration of modern art or morning dew: young and exquisite and untouchable.
Right now, oddly, he wanted to touch. Wanted to reach out and brush that fall of blue-black out of sparkling cinnamon eyes.
A connection. A stretch across a void. That smile.
Which he’d seen before, and somehow had never seen before, not quite this way or under this light, something he didn’t understand that shifted the world under his feet. That world became one in which he could want to run fingers through Justin Moore’s hair.
Tangible. Physical. Messy.
The fact of sudden inexplicable lust wasn’t exactly new. He knew himself and all the desires of his past.
What was new was Justin. And the way Kris wanted to keep looking at him. As if, out of nowhere, he’d seen his manager for the first time, brand new. Another ordinary evening on a city street, the taste of chestnuts lingering on his tongue, a glance, and suddenly—
And suddenly what?
Nothing. Couldn’t be anything. Never could be.
Age. Depression. A business relationship in the way. He didn’t even know whether Justin liked men. He didn’t know who or what Justin liked, in fact, other than now-classic rock—which he’d gotten from his father, oh hell—and slim-fit jeans and bright colors and eyeliner and mascara. He guessed that the eyes were a nod to some pixie or sylph in the family tree, but Justin didn’t talk about himself in any detail, and he’d never seen any evidence of actual magic.
Which, he realized belatedly and also for the first time, was strange.
Most people did have touches of magic. The lamentable Nick Peters of the infamous Starrlight song had been able to conjure fire: not much, only tiny sparks like firecrackers, but it’d made for great displays on stage. On the evening’s New York street a little girl, holding her mother’s hand, was levitating merrily while getting chocolate on her face. And Kris himself…
Justin, not keeping up with this distracted sideways train of thought, plainly felt that circumstances required more reassurance. “Honestly, it’s not hideous. It doesn’t feel like you’re happy, which is a problem, yeah, considering it’s you. But it’ll sell. People love Midwinter sentimental fluff, and Starrlight’s still a big name.”
“Me,” Kris said, and sighed again. His brain seemed to be stuck on questions about Justin today. About the fact that apparently he liked chestnuts, and brought along hot tea without being asked after a recording session, and also had very touchable hair.
“I don’t feel the happy,” Justin explained, evidently assuming that clarification was required, “and you know your empathy has trouble anyway when it’s not live, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to depress everyone at their Midwinter parties, so maybe we can work on that? Not calling yourself hideous would be a good start.”
“I’m not sure I’m even an empath anymore. Tired. Worn out. Antique.”
“You were always a better projective talent than you were receptive.” Justin put his head on one side. Stray curls of hair met the breeze and drifted happily upward. His jacket was also leather, but punk-rock stylish, more form-fitting, and above all newer; Kris hid a wince. “You could make crowds laugh, or cry, or hold their breath, or sing along…we all felt what you feel.”
“You shouldn’t’ve even been at those concerts. You’re a kid.” He started walking, mostly to be in motion. Heading half-consciously for Witch’s Brew. More of those hazelnut cappuccinos. Habit.
Justin kept up effortlessly. “Dad took me to the final reunion show. It was a father-son bonding experience. Magical. Look, my point is, maybe you should reconsider the holiday album. I know they’re pressuring you to do it, nostalgia and themed sales and all, but I can tell you hate it.”
“Shouldn’t you be trying to promote my career choices?” He waved a hand. Watched lights, just coming on, flicker over the gesture: not a concert’s megawatt light show, not dazzling superstar lasers and spotlights. Only everyday holidays. Feet squarely on winter pavement. On the ground. “To support anything that’ll make a profit? For you, the record company, whatever.”
Any reasonable target of his tone would’ve been offended. Justin scrunched up that nose at him, not taking it personally. “You’re my client. I’m here to help. I’m trying.”
This was unfair. Kris wanted to stomp his feet and shout at something or somebody, or throw a proper rock-star tantrum, petty and elaborate and gratifying. Justin was being patient and compassionate and tolerant and lovely, matching annoyed strides down city pavement, and—
Lovely?
He’d known Justin for four years. He’d never thought, not seriously—he’d thought, yeah, fine, he’d admit that, he’d wondered sometimes, but he’d never really—never wanted—
Last-gasp winter sunlight sliced through brittle air. Caught the edge of a cheekbone, a flutter of blue-black hair. Decorated smooth skin and long eyelashes with pale gold.
Justin’s phone made a sound. A snippet of some pop-punk tune Kris didn’t know. Justin also made a pleased little sound, and answered the text. “Sorry, I’m just confirming some contract details for the Enchantresses. You know the Enchantresses, right? If not you should, I’ll send you something, they’re right on the verge of breaking out, totally awesome, all five of them are related and they’re all witches and—”
“Why are you here, anyway?” Justin didn’t have to come in for recording sessions. Had a job. Other musicians. Who sent him texts. While he was walking next to Kris.
Where he didn’t need to be. He had a small tidy office in a tall modernist chunk of building surrounded by other corporate towers. Kris had been in it exactly once, the day they’d been introduced. Had hated the building and demanded, like a petulant child, that they meet elsewhere for lunches and discussions from then on.
“Because I’m helping you?” Big autumn-spiced eyes got very bewildered. A confused puppy being nudged away by a boot. A too-kind, too-attractive puppy. Oh, hell. “Because we’re friends?”
“I’m your job. You must have better things to do. Don’t the Enchantresses need you? Or some other on-the-verge almost-famous groups?”
“I don’t have anywhere to be until later, and I can do most of that from anywhere as long as I can answer the phone—and that’s not fair, come on, they’re great, you were there once too—”
The final dying sunbeam ran away behind a cloud. The sidewalk turned grittier somehow. Darker. More ugly. Kris, who knew perfectly well that he was being awful and nasty and unfair, and who couldn’t seem to stop, snapped, “So you do think I was great once.” Why why why was he growling at Justin? Because of the texting? The awful holiday album? The way he couldn’t help wondering whether that stylish leather jacket had warm enough lining, and could he offer his own, just in case?
“I think—” Justin stopped, bit his lip, crossed arms. He was nearly Kris’s height but built more lightly, a woodsprite or a dryad, slim and long-legged, though with runner’s muscle under the jacket. He did not look fragile, but he did look hurt. “You know what I meant. And I can feel—I ca
n tell you’re not happy, you’re broadcasting it across like three blocks. Can we talk about it? Did I do something to upset you?”
“No. You—” You said we were friends. We’re not friends. You’re twenty-eight and you’re assigned to babysit me and I’m a washed-up has-been and I’ve only just realized that you’re everything nice and good in my life and I think I want to kiss you and instead I’m making you practically break down in tears on a street corner.
Kris genuinely loathed himself, for a split second, with dizzying despair. “You should go home. Or back to your office. Wherever. You can get more done if you’re not hovering over me, can’t you? Or is that part of your job too?”
Justin’s chin trembled, then set stubbornly. “Is that really what you think? That I spend time with you because the company told me to keep an eye on their longest bestselling asset?”
“Did they?”
Their eyes met. Justin said, extremely quietly, “Yes they did, but, and this is the truth, I would’ve anyway, because I like talking to you, most of the time,” and Kris understood suddenly that this was Justin angry, this low simmering calmness that hid whole pools of emotion; he understood as well that he might’ve said something unforgiveable.
He opened his mouth. Justin said before he could, “I think I am heading back to the office, actually, and I’ll be over at the Palace playing talent scout tonight, so call me before then if you need anything, I’ll answer, it’s my job.”
“You—”
Justin vanished into the nearest subway entrance. Kris stared at the dark opening in growing dread, and then ran, but was accosted by a balding fan in a Sparkle Tour ‘89 t-shirt and a pen waved at his face. By the time he disentangled himself, Justin had gone.
The subway entrance snickered at him with concrete complacency. The fan wandered off with untroubled satisfaction, having either not noticed or not cared about a rock star’s preoccupation with empty air.
In utter despondence and the full awareness that his autograph’d likely be on sale on the internet the next morning, Kris went home.