by K. L. Noone
“Please.” Justin leaned into him more. “I want you with me.”
“Then I’ll be there.” He had no clue what he’d wear or do or say. But Justin wanted him. “Do you…want to call her? Do you want me to?”
“I can’t,” Justin said again.
“Yeah you can, come on, we’ve just said, she wants you to—”
“I mean I can’t.”
And Kris recognized belatedly that his demon was shaking: overwhelmed and on edge. He said Justin’s name, trying for an anchor amid kitchen-light and home.
“It’s too much. At once.” Justin’s face was pale in a way Kris did not like; he remembered an alleyway, a revelation, panicked gasps for air. “I can’t—Kris, I can’t do this—”
“Yes you can.” He had hands on Justin’s shoulders; he slid them up to cup his demon’s face, getting huge eyes to focus on him, only on him. The rest of the family faded away, insignificant for now. “You can do this, love, you saved me, come on, we both know how much work that one took, you can do anything. Look at me, that’s good, you’re here, you’re fine, I’m here too, you can feel me, right? Focus on that.”
Justin managed to nod, though unevenly and with too-swift breathing.
“You’re fine,” Kris said again, holding him, wrapping him up in emotion like a shield, burning with valor, etched with crimson and a demon as a crest. “You’re okay. One thing at a time. I’ll call Reggie if you want, and we’ll find out what’s next, yeah?”
“Hey, bro.” James had appeared in view, and took Justin’s hand and put something into it—a pen, Kris thought, solid and silver and tangible and undeniably present. “Deep breath, hold it, count with me, okay? Down from ten? Good, you’re doing great, one more. You can feel this, right? Tell me about it. Sensation. What you’re feeling, your body, right now.”
“It’s your pen,” Justin said faintly. “The nice one you use for calligraphy. Heavy. Smooth. I’m doing better. Thanks.”
“Hang onto it for a minute,” James said. “No rush.”
Kris found himself looking at Justin’s oldest younger brother, and evidence of practiced therapeutic coping techniques and physical anchoring, differently. “This happen a lot?”
Justin shook his head, but without talking.
“Nah,” James said. “Well, sometimes. My working hypothesis is it’s a sort of collision of instincts that sets off the anxiety. He could snap and send us all to a different dimension, and he’s making himself be human really hard instead, and it just sort of falls apart, in his head.”
“I do not fall apart,” Justin protested, running fingers half-consciously along the stolid unmoving shape of James’s pen. “I only…it gets hard to think. Or breathe. Not that that’s a medical diagnosis.”
“I looked up some stuff, a while back.” James shrugged. Other family members were watching with concern, but a restrained version, loving tidal waves practicing the art of not rushing in. “Your instincts’re pretty good. Anchors, focus, breathing, all that. Hey, want to tell me why you have a new thing that’s not a tattoo?”
“That would be me.” Justin tipped his head against Kris’s shoulder. “There’s a story. Tell you later.”
“Sure. When you want.”
“Kris…” Justin found reliable ground. “One thing at a time, you said.”
“I did.” He wanted to kiss those courageous lips. Wanted to offer more words: how brave Justin was, how strong, handling everything the world and his ex-boyfriend could throw. “Can one of those things involve your aunts and nightmares and a very specific target?”
“They’d do it, too.” Justin’s smile was thin as glass but true as light, falling through windowpanes, caressing bare floors. “But I’m not sure…it’d only prove him right, wouldn’t it? If demons showed up to torment him?”
“You are too nice,” muttered Eddie.
“He didn’t say we couldn’t come up with something,” mused Andy. “We’re human.”
“That’s logical…” Justin’s father had come around the table, within reach if needed, and crouched down to make eye contact. “But I wish you didn’t have to think that way. I’m sure I’m supposed to be the rational one, as your father.”
“And I’m your son,” Justin said. “Sorry, Dad, I learned it from you. Kris, can I ask you to call Reggie? For me?”
“Said I would, didn’t I?” He ran a hand through Justin’s hair. It sent fire-loops up to hug his fingers. “What do you want me to say?”
“Right now, just…just find out what she wants. If there’s any sort of…schedule, or a plan, or…if she’s sure she wants to do this. I’ll say yes, I’m saying yes, I think—I think I have to, but…”
“You want me to find out details? I can do that right now.” He had fingers wrapped around his mobile. Had Justin tucked under an arm. The family watched him. Rain battered walls and eaves and ground, beyond the kitchen oasis.
Oh, well, Kris Starr thought: time to be a hero, and maybe this is what heroism looks like. Responsibility. When someone asks. Making a phone call.
Reggie answered instantly and without preamble, impatient. “So what do you think? Here, I’ll let you talk to Will, she’s the brains in any case—”
“Call me Will again,” said the cool aristocratic voice of the Randolph media empire, “and we shall have words, Reginald, about your vineyard expansion plans and no longer available land. Is this Mr. Starr, or Mr. Moore, or both?”
“Ah.” Kris had them on speaker; Justin waved a hand, which might’ve meant anything. “You’re talking to me, but…he’s here too. Ah, it’s just Kris, um, if you want.”
“How is he doing? I imagine it’s been a difficult day.”
James was looking at Justin. Justin was clutching the pen again and looking at the phone. The rain eavesdropped in sympathetic streamers across the closest windowpane, and carried tales down to wintry ground.
Kris said, “He’s doing…about as well as you’d think. And thanks. For the support.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He saved my grandson. That’s the least we can offer.” She let the last word hang in the air: tantalizing gleams of possibility, breakable as silver thread. “I’d like to offer more. And to say thank you, first, naturally.”
Justin, to everyone’s surprise, cleared his throat. “Thank you. For saying it. You don’t have to—I’d’ve done it for anybody—but thank you.”
“And hello to you, Mr. Moore. You do sound far more polite than those stories would suggest. Tell me, what are you doing about them?”
This time Justin shook his head, apparently not wanting to handle that one. Kris jumped in without a plan. “We were just discussing that.” His accent had decided to get more childhood rough-edged London. Possibly out of fear: Willie Randolph had scolded his bassist into submission. “Did you have any ideas?” And now defense-mechanism cheekiness. Oh gods.
“As a matter of fact I do.” Unruffled as a sip of white wine, as a flat cloudless sky; that kind of self-confidence would never be rattled by brash upstart punk rock. “The best way to handle stories of that nature is to tell your own, and quickly. Not to respond to him directly—and not in any way suggesting you’re taking it personally—”
It was personal. Couldn’t get more so. Kris gritted teeth.
“—but to point out calmly that you’ve never harmed anyone, that you’ve been here for years without harming anyone, and your ex-partner is, shall we say, overreacting in a way that makes us deeply concerned for his mental health. I expect some of those stories are untrue, and if you have proof, that would be helpful.”
Justin looked at Kris, then at the screen, and then back at Kris. Kris raised eyebrows at him. “Not a bad idea.”
“You’re talking about doing an interview,” Justin said. “Going on record.”
“Yes, dear. With me.”
Reggie, in the background, said something that sounded like, “Holy shit—” and then made a noise that suggested someone’d kicked him. “No, but with y
our name on it, your reputation, Willie—Kris, Kris’s sexy demon kid, you need to say yes to this—”
Justin’s father and stepmother traded glances. Then nodded: yes, we’re okay with this, it’s an answer, you can. Justin caught this, as he’d been meant to. His hair twisted into curls, looping through emotions. “I know who you are. I don’t…I don’t know if I could…there are parts I’m not sure I can talk about…”
“The more open you’re willing to be, the better,” Willie decreed across distance and mobile connections, firm with experience, “but I promise to be kind. As a favor. The second part of which is, would you and Kris like to come by for dinner? Charles and I will be back in New York tomorrow, and of course you’ll be busy Thursday, with that radio interview and all, so we’re happy to see you tomorrow night.
“Tomorrow night,” Justin echoed, in a voice too shell-shocked to wobble. “Kris?”
“Ah. Yes?”
“Excellent. We’ll discuss our other offer then. As far as interviews, are you available today? This afternoon?”
Justin threw a desperate look at Kris, caught in the hurricane. “I’m not busy…so yes, I guess…not as if I have a job…”
“Yes, and we’ll discuss that too. Is it true that you can’t be captured on video? I’d love to see you live, but of course if that’s not an option we’ll work around it.”
“I can if I’m being more human,” Justin said. “Wearing the disguise. But if the point is not wearing the disguise…”
“Yes. I see. Give us an hour or so to make arrangements, and I’ll call you back at four o’clock, your time? Is this a good number?”
“It’s Kris’s phone,” Justin said. “But…sure. It can be.” Kris did not object. He was fairly certain he knew why. Justin agreed to the interview and the time, and said goodbye; Reggie got back on the line and said, “Kris?”
“I don’t know whether to kiss you or shout at you, mate,” Kris told him. Justin was looking pale again, under the burning hair. “But thanks.”
“Any time, you know that,” Reggie said, which Kris had not in fact known, or had not let himself believe: that Reg was still enough of a friend for this, after everything. “So I’m guessing you don’t know your Midwinter plans yet, as far as visiting.”
Kris had to laugh. “Things’re a bit up in the air, looks like.”
“Well, we’re here for anything you need,” Reg said, and when they got off the phone Kris gazed at the blank screen for a second or two, thoughtfully, and then got back to Justin.
Who said, wry and self-aware and weary, “Kris, do you still have Melinda’s phone number? I’ve got an hour and…if you don’t mind, can I ask…”
“Oh. Yeah. Here.” He’d put it in his mobile. He thanked every god ever that he’d done so. Especially given that phrasing. Permission, Justin’d said. David had been in charge of granting that. But Justin had asked. Recognizing his own needs. “Are you—”
“It’s sort of preemptive.” Justin added Mel to his own contacts; his fingers were quick, thin and graceful, young and wounded and staying upright. “I think I’m doing okay but I want to talk to someone before I…before I do this. Go public. And she already knows me a little, and I trust her. It’s not only about the demon part, either. If it was I think I could handle it better. But if I have to talk about David…”
“Go on.” Kris drew him in for a hug; pressed a kiss—sure of desire but suddenly unaccustomedly shy in front of their audience—to the top of his head, and let him go. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Justin smiled at him and went. Kris would’ve fought a thousand monsters for that smile.
“So,” Kelly said.
“So, indeed,” Bill said, to Kris. “You have interesting friends.”
“Reggie has interesting friends,” Kris said. “And your son saves babies.”
“He’s a good person,” Bill said. “He’s always been that. I assume he’ll ask for privacy for the family, and it’ll come out anyway. It always does.”
“I’m sorry,” Kris said. “I’m so sorry. Me being here won’t help the story not be bigger—I know I’m not exactly—”
“Justin brought you home.” That was Kelly. “And he’s writing again. And we’ve seen him smile. For that we can forgive you whatever you did to the carousel unicorn.”
Kris figured out after a second that she was teasing. He’d been ready to throw himself on her mercy and apologize for all his past newsworthy misdeeds.
“So you think we’ll be okay?” James had reacquired his pen. He looked as if he wished he hadn’t, in case his older brother needed the material focus-point. “The family.”
“We can handle it,” Bill decided. “If he does this we’ll have most of the media on our side, and you know how much that matters. There might be some comments, but what can they prove he’s ever done? As far as our positions, they’d have to show that he somehow interfered with research, student evaluations, the tenure review process…in terms of his job, the worst he ever did was sleep with a few people who—”
“Bill,” Kelly said, with a nod toward the twins.
“We know Justin likes sex,” said Andy. “And toys. And being tied up. Sometimes in a dress.”
“I had,” Kelly said, to no one in particular, “until now, spent decades in this family without discussing my children’s sex lives in quite this degree of detail.”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Eddie said. “We’re not having sex with anyone. James is, though.”
James fumbled the pen. “This is so not about me!”
“I trust you’re being responsible,” Bill said tiredly. “Do you have any questions about anything?”
“Steph and I talked to Justin,” James said. “Which, okay, under the circumstances, you don’t have to say it, but he’s great at advice for other people. We’re good.”
“And you seriously want to be part of this family,” Eddie said to Kris. “We know you do. We can hear you.”
“Not saying I don’t,” Kris said. “Although if you tell anyone outside this room anything about Justin’s sex life I will personally go round and persuade your algebra teacher that you deserve extra homework for whatever’s left of your school careers. Look, Bill, Kelly, is there any way I can help? I’m sort of famous. And I have a good lawyer, or I used to, back when we worked out royalties and financial details for the band, after we split. And I’d—I mean, I want to. To do something.”
The twins had gone quiet, impressed into silence. Even the rain let up: fascinated and listening to this attempt at maturity and respectability and heroism.
Isabella emerged from under the table, giggled at him, and said, “Justin!”
“Yes,” Kris said to her. “For Justin.”
In the eye of the storm, the world got brighter, then.
And then it got literally so. Three sleek demon-women crackled into existence, becoming instantly the most real pieces of the room, scarlet and topaz heat putting dull everyday stovetops and cupboards to shame. They dazzled like witchcraft, and left searing imprints behind eyelids, beautiful and sharp as dreams.
Kelly took a step in front of her children. The twins took steps to the side so they could see, and crossed arms. James gulped. Bill said, “Here, and now, in this house—”
“Oh, stop,” said the demon on the right, and perched on the table, swinging legs. She was wearing the same jeans, though a different shirt, this one with a glittery dragon on it, picked out in purple and bronze. “We’re here to help. Hey, Kris.”
“Mara,” Kris said. “And…Ylse and Raissa? Didn’t Justin say he’d put up house-wards?”
“I love that you remembered.” She beamed at him. “I told you he was adorable. Our baby’s first human, look.” The other two, respectively lounging against a wall and claiming a bar-stool, made happy cooing noises. Might’ve been pigeons, if pigeons had pointed teeth and wicked eerie beauty. “We’re not going to do nothing, are we?”
“We could reveal all of that ho
rrible man’s horrible secrets,” contributed the one on the bar-stool. “Or I could seduce him, and have his secret baby, and then Raissa could pretend to be me and seduce him, and then we could accuse him of betraying us with our twins, and—”
“It’s not one of your soap operas,” Mara said. “Bill—” A whole history passed between them, in that glance: a sister, a love, and loss. “Justin wants to be human. You’re human. So tell us what to do.”
“I still like the secret baby idea,” grumbled the soap-opera aunt. “He’d be devastated.”
At this point Justin flung himself into smoky existence in the kitchen, panting, phone in hand. “What the actual hell—I knew I felt something get past my—”
“Oh, pet, you know you’re not that strong.” The one who by process of elimination had to be Raissa, who’d shown up in a black silky evening gown—she had some sort of toy senator, Kris remembered—came over and patted his arm. “We stay out as a courtesy. What have you done to your hair?”
The hair in question was now brilliant tropical-sky pink. Tousled. Curling. Recently dyed and drying. Human, for a given colorful style of human. He’d not bothered or else not got round to doing the eyebrows to match; they shone like sunset. But the overall effect was less fantastical, more ordinary, than it’d been for days.
It wasn’t only the hair. Couldn’t be. Whatever glamor Justin used, whatever diminishment of aspects of himself—the browner tint to eyes, the prettiness that was more earthbound and not supernatural—he’d put it back into place.
This version, back in hiding, pierced Kris’s heart. He missed the other Justin. The one who did tricks with fire and smiled when told he resembled his mother.
“Don’t look like that,” Justin said, getting breath back. “It’s on purpose. Mel had a plan. I’m not going to keep it like this.” He’d taken Kris’s hand, twining fingers together. “Aunt Mara—all of you—”
“We’re here to help,” his aunt said. “We keep saying so.”
“Justin,” Kelly said, in the voice of someone trying very hard indeed to stay calm, “would your aunts like coffee, or—or a drink, or snowball cookies?”