by K. L. Noone
“Don’t change. Don’t even think about—you look incredible.” He meant this with more force. It came out soft because he’d forgotten how to breathe. “This. You. Yes. Nail polish?”
“I thought about finding earrings to go with it, but I hate having to re-pierce things.” Justin scrunched up that nose. Kris’s body thought this was even more attractive, unfortunately so given the tightness of current attire, and also began wondering about the things in question. Ears, obviously, yeah. Other things? More? Elsewhere? “I told you piercings stay if they’re iron, and they do, but if I take them out everything heals, and I haven’t had any in for…almost six months. I’ll do them all again sometime, but not tonight.”
“I can buy you earrings,” Kris said. “All the jewelry. Anything. Anything you want. More suits. Please. Ask me for something.”
Justin laughed. “What did you need? You called me. And you look amazing too, I forgot to say, but you do. Like a storybook prince, except the modern kind. The kind who’d show up at an art gallery and buy the whole gallery because you said you liked one painting, and then whisk you off in a private jet to a personal castle.”
“A castle? And…ah…what did I…oh. Tie. Yes? No? I’m starting to think I don’t own a tie.”
“An opulent lavish castle. Indoor plumbing. Enormous bathtubs. Giant beds. Fireplaces with rugs in front of them.” Justin put his head on one side, evaluated Kris’s outfit, snapped fingers. Slim silver tie. Unfussy. “It’s mine, not from a store. If you were wondering. It’ll work. Maybe a nice dungeon too. A good fantasy castle should have a dungeon. But the fun kind.”
This time Kris’s brain completely and irrevocably headed south. Himself wearing Justin’s tie. Justin talking about dungeons. The fun kind.
He tried to adjust posture. Hoped that his demon was inclined to be kind about any overheard leaking empathically carried desires.
Justin had heard him. And tucked that smile away into the corners of that expressive mouth, small but visible, and tied the tie for him. Hands moving. Competent and dexterous and so close. Kris felt dizzy.
“There. Done.” Justin smiled more but took a step back. This reestablishment of space kept Kris metaphorically and about two inches from literally falling at his feet. “Should we go?”
They should. He took a breath. Dinner. With people. With Wilhelmina Randolph. And her husband. Right.
And Justin, while inarguably and gloriously flirting with him, had taken that step back. Wanting, but slow. Careful about this. Wanting Kris to be careful with him.
They’d popped back to Kris’s apartment that afternoon, after a long lazy morning of family and recovery and breakfast foods and coffee. Circling wagons of love and defense. Shields and support, shaped in syrup and cat-petting and the twins appearing with a brand-new scarf, grey with little silver flecks and woolly and cozy for winter, and tossing it at Justin. He’d instantly put it on.
James and Kris had both raised eyebrows that direction. Eddie had shrugged and said, “We could’ve exactly matched his old one, but we didn’t want to,” and Andy had said, “You can get anything delivered overnight if you know the right people,” at which point Kris had been afraid to ask any more.
The interview had continued circulating. Reactions ranged from unconditional acceptance of Justin’s side of the story to skepticism about both sides to a general shrug. A minority defended David’s actions—a demon had seduced him, demons couldn’t be trusted, the world needed to know and not be tricked—but the majority of voices were at least mostly in Justin’s camp. Some variations of you still shouldn’t’ve lied to him or your employer, but also a lot of what he did was worse, no one deserves to be hurt for what they are, we believe you, we hope you’re okay. Not bad; better than they could’ve hoped, overall. Justin had stopped reading the comments.
A few of his friends had called. Anna, who fussed over him on the phone and offered to bake and send banana bread; Kris couldn’t quite picture that tightly-coiffed platinum style producing anything from an oven, but Justin said thank you, so he supposed they’d find out. A few names he didn’t know, friends in the industry. Brendan “Chaos” Alvarez, Incantation’s dark and smoldering heartthrob front-man, who called from New Zealand and demanded loudly enough to be heard by everyone, “If I’m gonna be part of your coming-out story I at least want it to be true, the last time we hooked up was years ago, but I will so jump back in bed with you, J, you’re fuckin’ awesome, and also why the hell didn’t you tell me, you think I’d care?”
“Bren—” Justin attempted, both entertained and wincing on behalf of the enthralled familial audience.
“Wait, never mind, I do care! You know what that would’ve done for my reputation, satisfying a fucking sex demon, you know how cool that’d make me sound? Can I tell people details now? And I’m seeing you when we’re out there, right, and you’re gonna tell me everything, and is there anything we can do?”
Justin had been laughing, then, though the laughter held more than a hint of tears. Kris hadn’t known how to feel. The mix of envy and jealousy and arousal and gratitude twisted into serpents, around his heart.
Justin was evidently fucking awesome in bed. Brendan knew this for a fact. Bren had called to offer anything he or Incantation could do, which given their current level of fame and legions of fans might actually be of some use. And Kris Starr was apparently still on to join them for the East Coast tour, which Justin confirmed before hanging up, after some low-voiced amused back-and-forth and a clearly private inside joke about a carrot.
Kris had gritted teeth and put on a practiced interview smile. Justin had sat down beside him, patted his arm—right over scarlet fingerprints, where they lay under a sleeve—and borrowed a sip of his tea.
His demon-aunts had vanished, off to collective seductions and soap-operas. They’d made Justin promise to call them if need be, and Mara had run fingers along Kris’s arm above iridescent marks and smiled. “You’re good for him.”
“You want him to use more of your…” Powers? Sexual allure? Inheritance? “…abilities.”
“I want him to want things. To do something about it.” She’d shrugged; heat-waves spooled outward in the air, briefly distorting the appearance of a chair, a wall. “I want him to know that he can want you. We’re also planning to burn down David Ross’s apartment. Not with him in it, as much as I’d like that.”
“You’re what?”
“Don’t fret, sweetie. It’ll be an obvious accident. Nothing traceably demonic. A salamander infestation. Unfortunate coincidence. If he tries to blame it on Justin he’ll look deranged; that infestation’s already there, other people’ve reported seeing them in the complex, we’re only going to encourage them to congregate in a certain spot.”
Kris had glanced around: no one had overheard. “Just don’t hurt anyone, yeah?”
“We won’t,” she said, “he wouldn’t like it,” and went over and kissed Justin on the cheek and vanished in a cloud of bonfire-smoke and the scent of autumn leaves, heady and rich.
Baby Isabella had said happily, “Good plan!” and hugged Kris’s leg. Kris had stared very hard at her indeed; she’d giggled and toddled over to hug Justin, who absentmindedly picked her up.
Like hell you only talk to cats, Kris had thought. He’d wondered what she might become, in a few years; he’d set a hand over claiming-marks, on his skin and under his sleeve, thinking of belonging and of a kiss.
In the present he made the gesture again, unthinking, only an impulse. Standing in his bedroom. Wearing Justin’s tie.
His demon, made of firelight and indigo nights and hope as tangible as teacups and sofa-cushions, reached out. Set his own hand over Kris’s arm. “I told you it’d fade.”
It had. About a day, he’d guessed; that’d been spot on. Dwindling, dispersing. “You were right.” His arm felt empty without it.
“If you want…” Justin tapped fingers in place, watched them move. One, two, three, four. “I could…it’s not a ba
d idea if I, um, renew it…it’s a little bit of protection, you know, it’s practical…I could put it wherever you want, oh gods I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, you know what I mean, never mind, the first one wasn’t even your choice, you wouldn’t want—”
Kris rolled up his sleeve. Became a willing offering. “Reggie always did try to tell me I needed at least one tattoo.”
“You don’t have any, do you?”
“Petrified of needles. Complete coward. Would’ve made everyone in a three-block radius start crying and then faint. I think a demon-mark should be enough for the rock-star image, don’t you?”
His bedroom, a portrait of messy sheets and haphazard jewelry and Justin’s bag perched securely at the foot of the bed, agreed. Limned in evening getting-ready light, it beckoned them on.
“It won’t hurt,” Justin said softly. His hand lay over bared skin. “But you’ll feel it.”
“So will you,” Kris said, equally soft. He touched Justin’s fingers, reaching across with his other hand: guitar-calluses and his heart.
Justin swallowed, nodded, and let heat bloom under his fingertips, across Kris’s forearm: twinkling vermilion connection drawn up into being. Swirls of fingerprints, unique as the boy creating them.
If it did hurt at all, the hurt lay only in the surety of the moment: so pure and clear and splendid that the world might shatter if tapped, built of ruby wings and immanence.
Kris touched one of the marks after. Tugged it in a small circle, in place. “You said you can feel it if I play with it.”
“Like you’re touching me.”
“Really?”
“Not like—like—I don’t even know! It’s like getting my attention, I said. Tapping my arm. It’s not a corresponding spot exactly. No, I don’t know what it’d do if I did it to your—”
“You said it, not me. What if you did, and then I played with it?”
“Oh, come on! That’s unfair.” Despite the protest, Justin’s hair rippled: flames incontrovertibly excited. “I don’t know what I’d feel. I’m thinking about it. I’m going to be thinking about it all evening. And we need to go.”
Kris gave him an expression that couldn’t quite be the famous seductive Kris Starr smolder, not quite the beckoning backstage and panties off; he threw in a hint of that because it felt right, but he was too damn happy to pull it off. He wanted to laugh; he wanted to toss Justin into bed and answer that hypothetical about demon-magic and intimate places; he wanted to tease Justin with every terrible innuendo he might’ve once come up with on stage or in an interview or doing banter for an audience, because it all felt so silly and wondrous and new. Himself and the world.
Justin said, “For the record, I’m not objecting to the bed part.”
“You—”
“I’m saying yes. After dinner, because we’re already nearly late. When we’re back. If you still want me.”
“If I—you would want to—only if you do, if you feel—”
“Kris,” Justin said, “from the Realm of Perilous Sex Demon Whatever, remember? I like sex. And I—I like the way you feel. The way you make me feel. So yes, I feel. I want you.”
“Oh,” Kris said, blindsided by happiness and desire and the sudden throb of his arousal, stiffening in response to that emphatic yes. “Oh.”
“We are going to be late.”
“Right, yeah…”
“Come on.” Justin took his hand. Held on all the way to the penthouse’s elevator, and for the ride, and down to the waiting car.
Night air nipped at noses and ears, Midwinter-cold and lit up with festive golds and greens and white snowflakes and pine branches. New York sparkled: a cacophony of old and new, pale pavement and dusty brick, shopping bags and camera-flashes belonging to tourists and locals alike, brought to life by the holidays. Their car shone polished and black and expensive; Justin gave a happy little bounce upon sliding in across leather. “This is awesome.”
“Glad you like it.” He’d called to arrange it—and paid an obscene amount of money, but then he had an obscene amount of money, and he wanted to spend it on Justin, so that was okay—that afternoon, after they’d arrived in his apartment. Justin had admitted rather apologetically that he couldn’t transport them over to the Randolph estate; he’d never been there or seen detailed enough photographs, and while distance wasn’t a problem visualization was. He could get them back home after, but not the other way, not yet.
Kris didn’t mind. Justin had limitations; that made him more human, less all-powerful, still amazing. The person Kris wanted, and wanted to know more about, everything, from his magic to his favorite eyeliner brand to whether he liked strawberry or raspberry jam best and why.
He kept on learning more. He never wanted to stop.
Justin had found the mini-bar. “Champagne?”
“Go on.”
“Are we celebrating? What are we celebrating?”
“You, I think.” You being free. You being happy. You saying you want me, you feeling safe, and you letting me see it. Letting me see you.
He’d committed extra money for complete discretion from their driver. The man so far had earned his fee. No batting an eye at Kris Starr and the New York Demon. Only a straight-faced professional nod and confirmation of address; not unfriendly, though. And anyway he’d likely seen worse, given his profession.
Kris squashed a few thoughts about other tipsier party-night travels. The past. An old life. Not irrelevant. But staying where it belonged.
They whisked through city streets, carried off to dinner and a fairy godmother and an unfolding future.
The ancestral Randolph home stood up behind iron gates and regarded them as they arrived. It sat in the most exclusive part of the city, surrounded by old money and whispers of leather and bronze and aged wine and cut crystal. It loomed with some bafflement at rock-and-roll interlopers.
“It’s not unfriendly,” Justin decided. “More curious.”
“Are those gargoyles?”
“Earth elementals. I love the stained glass. Color everywhere.”
The mansion, hearing this praise, unbent itself. Got stonily pleased at the company. Justin had made a friend.
Willie herself answered the door—Kris had been expecting some sort of towering disapproving butler out of an old film—and greeted them with airy kisses and sincere enthusiasm. She left impressions of flowing silk and pearls, energetic and gracious; she looped her arm through Justin’s and led them through antique wood paneling and forests of portraits, each one likely worth more than Kris’s apartment. “We’re so very glad to meet you in person, and I hadn’t seen your hair properly, is that genuine fire? It’s lovely with your suit; have you looked at any of the new Monique winter formalwear line? Those designs would fit you beautifully, and we’ve got tickets to a fashion evening next month, if you’d like to join us. Of course we’re not being formal at all tonight, we thought we’d rather be comfortable, and it’s only us, Patricia and the baby are still out in California, but they’d love to see you as well.”
Wilhelmina Randolph, heir to and commander of her family’s vast media expanses, deployed words like choreography. Each casual chattering phrase had a purpose. Chosen for a reason, even if in this case the reason meant putting guests at ease. A vase shimmered at him from a display-stand in green and cream priceless corroboration.
Justin, being a writer, kept up with the dance. “It’s fire, but it’s not hot. Magical. I’ve never been to a Monique show, it’s tragic, I know, I love those oversized cardigans from last year, I have three. I’m not sure about the jackets, though, do you think the asymmetrical trend is going to last, or…”
This carried them into what Kris saw with relief was a smaller family-sized dining-room. Subtly expensive, written in countertops and kitchen hardware and artistic lighting, but closer to someplace he could picture sitting down and consuming food. Justin and Willie were having an animated discussion about scarves.
“Darling,” said a voice fr
om behind an open door, “you know my feelings on cashmere. Which wine am I looking for?”
“The ‘87,” Willie said, and went over to peer into the wine vault herself. “It’s right in front of you, dear, honestly. Have you seen Justin’s suit? You and he should have a chat about color in men’s fashion. Justin, Kris, my husband Charles.”
Charles Randolph, holding wine, resembled a painting of everyone’s favorite grandfather: grey-haired, twinkly, well-dressed, affable. He moved to shake hands, realized he was balancing bottles, put one in the crook of an arm, nearly dropped it, tried again. Justin caught the bottle this time. Charles beamed at him. “Oh…thank you. And thank you on behalf of our family. Young Will, that is, not my Will, he’s our first grandson, you know.”
Charles Randolph oversaw the art direction of several Randolph-owned magazines and had been a professional photographer in his youth. The jocular twinkling hid a razor-sharp knowledge of compositions, narratives, and angles.
And he smiled at Justin and Kris as if pondering the best way to capture artwork through a lens. Kris found himself momentarily startled at being included. He’d managed to forget his own recognizability.
“We’re so pleased you both could come. I know it’s short notice.” Charles started opening wine. “I’ve done the cooking—how do you feel about miniature steaks, and pesto risotto, and artichokes in champagne sauce?—because we’ve only just got back and had no time to order in and in any case I enjoy it. And Will’s never quite patient enough with risotto. Kris, may I ask a question? About ‘Ship of Fools’?”
Kris groaned. Justin laughed. Charles laughed as well and handed over a glass. “Of course I imagine you get asked all the time.”
“Well, look,” Kris sighed, and leaned a hip against the kitchen counter, “first, we were all sharing a one-bedroom flat and doing half the writing in bed, and by sharing I also mean whatever way of getting high Tom brought home, so there’s that, and also penguins are adorable…”
Light danced along wine glasses. Scents wafted, unhurried and cozy. Somewhere beyond mansion walls a world lurked, full of David Ross and rumors and an uncertain future. In here, someplace between more wine and compliments about the house and inquiries about preferred demonic cuisine and shared photos of grandbabies and youngest siblings, friendship happened.