by K. L. Noone
“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 fuck,” 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 fuck would I let you leave—” He stopped. Justin’s eyelashes were wet. Easy tears, drawn out by alcohol and exertion and overworked emotion. “Oh, shit. 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 sou
nd and stirred against him. “Where…what did I…oh, fuck, 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.”