A Demon for Forever

by K. L. Noone

  “Wonderful,” Justin said, purely innocuous and innocent, and caught Kris’s hands and guided them to his own wrists. “Surprise. For you.”

  “I thought tattoos didn’t work on you.”

  “Kathi over at InkWitch figured out a way. Charmed ink and iron particles.” Justin made a face. “Stung like all the hells. But it’s healing.”

  “Are you sure it’s—”

  “Kris, you’re worrying.”

  “You get tattoos without me.”

  “You know I’ve wanted one for years. And you hate needles. The only tattoo you have is mine, and that isn’t even one.”

  “And you’re letting Kathi experiment on you,” Kris grumbled, but Justin had looped a leg around his waist and was rocking hips against his, and the distractions were immediate and mind-blowing.

  Justin was right about him and needles. He’d always been petrified of them. Even in the most reckless heedless rock-star days, he’d harbored fears about broadcasting all of those emotions across multiple city blocks, and had never gone near a tattoo parlor.

  The demon claiming-mark Justin left on him had been set and reset enough times that it lingered: a phantom of gauzy shimmery red over his skin, Justin’s fingerprints pressed into Kris’s forearm. It would fade eventually if Justin didn’t renew it; it meant protection, a signature, a promise. He was Justin’s human. Other demons would know.

  That was all he needed. And it made him smile, every time he caught a glimpse.

  The next morning he did make a phone call. And an appointment. Because his demon wasn’t the only one who could arrange surprises.

  It’d be a good one. He knew it would be.

  Chapter 4

  As autumn set in, as New York prepared itself with big cozy sweaters and colorful umbrellas and long scarves, their invitations went out. A Midwinter wedding. The season they’d fallen in love, or acknowledged being in love, and saved each other.

  Anna phoned to ask whether they’d booked a photographer yet because she’d been going down wedding checklists and hadn’t seen anything about it. Kris said, “Hang on, we’ll call you back,” and went and found Justin, who was halfway through assembling a massive pot of what’d be homemade spaghetti sauce. “Ah. Can we even have a photographer?”

  He wanted to. He hadn’t realized just how badly until right this second. He wanted pictures of himself and the man he loved on the day they stood up to proclaim that love.

  He knew it’d be tricky. Demons were notoriously difficult to capture on film. Magical interference. Fuzziness. A lot of pictures of Justin, unless he was deliberately putting on the most human of his faces, came out as very attractive blurs of color.

  Justin set down garlic. “I didn’t realize you were that concerned about it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. I can hear it. Sorry, I meant to tell you, but we hadn’t quite worked it out yet. It’s promising, though.”

  “What is?”

  “Kelly and James and Stephanie have been working on interdimensional photographic developing methods,” Justin said, and Kris’s heart skipped a beat, because Justin’s engineering-genius family—stepmother, oldest younger sibling, and said sibling’s fiancée—could do just about anything they aimed that intimidating intelligence toward. They collectively already held patents on the experimental dimensional gateway technology, and the levitating high-speed rail transport system.

  Justin went on, “They’re trying to get the focus to work. One of Kelly’s grad students has a wild talent, in tune with light and the spectrum or something, it’s more technical than that but don’t ask me to explain. They’ve had me and Aunt Raissa pop over for some test pictures. They’re coming out better and better. So we can probably have pictures, if you don’t mind my brother taking them with a university-property physics-lab camera.”

  “I don’t,” Kris said. “I mean I don’t mind. I mean…thank you. And them. That’s…thanks, love.”

  Justin, who still had garlic on his fingers, leaned against Kris; Kris kissed his temple.

  “I was going to tell you once we’d gotten it a little more refined,” Justin said. “Maybe next week.”

  “I trust James to take pictures of us,” Kris said. “I like your brother. And…”

  “You like the idea of having pictures of us,” Justin said. “Together.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know,” Justin said. “Me too.”

  * * * *

  The invitations they’d picked out were tiny works of art, luxurious swirls of color and texture. Justin, who knew a calligrapher—Justin knew a lot of people with a lot of skills—had asked her to handwrite addresses of friends and family, though she’d need a detailed list sent over along with the box of stationery. He and Kris settled in on the sofa to come up with that; Justin did the typing, in a spreadsheet, which was probably Anna’s influence. Kris kept getting distracted by the weight and the reality, touching invitations, feeling the shape of them.

  Their wedding. Happening. So right.

  The sofa was supportive, and Justin’s toes were adorable in green and black striped socks, and a cool pale thread of autumn sunshine wove through fire-hair and throw pillows like music. It shimmered in guitar-strings and half-heard notes. It spun light into the fading steam from Justin’s afternoon coffee and Kris’s tea.

  The day hummed like sugar, drawn out, delicious, extending forever. For the rest of their lives, just like this. Celebration, affirmation, a coming-together.

  And a party. With those friends. With that family.

  Kris, holding an invitation, looked up and over at Justin. His demon looked back, having heard the unspoken pulse of emotion, the decision.

  “I’m glad,” Justin said.

  “He won’t come,” Kris said. “Or he’ll bring the tabloids.”

  “And either way it’ll be our day,” Justin said. “Nothing’ll make that anything less than fantastic.”

  “I love you,” Kris said, and pulled up his father’s address.

  * * * *

  Justin’s tattoo, at last completely healed and finally revealed, proved to hold shooting stars. Two of them, in dark crimson ink. Flying over pale skin, in unison. Swept up together in the joy, the freedom, the wild ecstatic leap into the universe ahead of them. “For Kris Starr,” Justin said. “The person you made for yourself. And then there’s me. Me being with you.”

  “I love it.” Kris traced a finger around the design, still new and plainly pleasurably sensitive, from the tantalizing way Justin shivered. “I love that you’re always with me. That we’re who we are, together.”

  * * * *

  “You’re smiling,” Justin said, sleepy and contented.

  “I’m looking at you,” Kris said reasonably, and ran a hand along his demon’s back: bare skin, as usual more hot than standard human, cuddled up against him in bed. “How’d you even notice? You can’t see me from there.”

  “I can feel you, though. All pink and fuzzy. Like that pillow I bought.” Justin, head on Kris’s shoulder, nudged a kiss into Kris’s collarbone. Kris’s whole body tingled with happiness. “My empath. You’re happy.”

  “I am.” He was. They were. Here in their penthouse, settled under blankets, amid a chilly night full of clouds and laughter and luminous sex, they were wonderful. “We’re getting married in three weeks.”

  “Yes.” Justin pushed himself up a bit, not enough to dislodge the cuddling; he met Kris’s eyes. His own were more cinnamon and smoky at the moment, as was all the demon-flame hair; he hadn’t bothered wrapping the more human disguise around himself. His fingernails and teeth held just a hint of sharpness, his tiny horns were more solid than usual, and he was beautiful: utterly himself, thoroughly loved and cherished and contented in the aftermath of sex and closeness. “About that. I wanted to ask you something.”

  And Kris had no doubts about Justin or their future, no doubts about their love; no, that was certain and true as the weight of his demon atop him, he knew
it, but he did want to know if something wasn’t right about the preparations, if Justin needed or wanted something else, if this day wasn’t going to be everything his other half had dreamed of—

  “Anything. Just ask.” He kept arms folded around Justin’s slim waist, pleaded, “I can get you anything. Rock star, empath, lots of money, entirely willing to shout at people, just let me know.”

  “It’s nothing you need to fix!” Justin kissed him for it, though, so Kris figured that was a success. “I only thought…I had something in mind, but then I thought, well, what if you didn’t like it after all, and then I thought maybe I should ask…”

  “If it’s something you want, I’ll love it, love.” With some tighter hugging: “You know that.” Anything Justin wanted, forever. Anything, for this bright-eyed exuberant fire that’d sparked Kris’s weary heart back to life. “Tell me.”

  “Well…” Justin got a little flustered and happy, though that might’ve just been Kris trying to broadcast love and want and profound affirmation his way. “You know I’m wearing a suit for the actual ceremony…matching yours…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d thought about doing this as a surprise, but…just in case…I was thinking of, um. Changing. For the reception. Because…look, gendered clothing is a human idea anyway, and I like the way I look in skirts and corsets, I know you know that, so, um, I was out with Anna for her last dress fitting and there was this gorgeous dress with all these ruffles and sparkles and that sort of high-low hem and also corset laces and Anna said I should try it on and then they had these lace-up tall boots and anyway I’m not technically human so it shouldn’t matter what I wear and also I thought I did look good and then I thought maybe you had a different vision of our wedding that doesn’t have me in a dress plus, um, kind of kinky white leather boots and so maybe I could just not change out of the suit after all if—”

  “Justin,” Kris jumped in, since his demon didn’t appear to be pausing for breath, “I love you.”

  “Um,” Justin said, not exactly uncertainly. “I know.”

  “I love you.” He put a hand up, touched the corner of Justin’s mouth, did not flinch from pointed teeth, slid the hand up to play with fire-hair, to stroke one gauzy semi-translucent horn. Justin shivered against him; that felt nice, Kris knew. Not outright erotic in the way some other anatomy decidedly was, but sweet and safe: the self Justin hadn’t shown anyone, places that’d been so lonely, never touched or caressed by a lover. Not until Kris.

  Sometimes that struck him all over again with the force of it. This gift of a man, this wonderful magical brave person, here in his arms. Loving him.

  Him. Kris Starr. After everything.

  But Justin Moore had looked at him and seen someone worth trusting.

  He breathed, “I love all of you. Everything that’s, y’know, you. The person I want to marry. Come on, you’ve seen some of those old photographs of me in that leopard-print bodysuit on stage, you think I’d care if you want to wear a wedding dress? You want me in one too? You can take me shopping tomorrow. You can pick it out, I’ll wear whatever you want, just point me to something.”

  Justin had started laughing by the end of this, soft and mildly embarrassed about his own emotions, blushing but whole body more relaxed against Kris’s, where they lay pressed up against each other. “You don’t have to! I like you in suits. Though the leopard-print is definitely an idea…”

  “I’ll find a recreated version if you want?”

  “Not for our wedding. Maybe later. But…thank you.” Justin drew a breath, let it out, leaned down to brush a kiss against Kris’s mouth. “Thank you.”

  “For what, liking you in skirts and kinky boots and a corset? Not exactly a hardship, love.”

  “For…being you. For everything. Everything I ask you for. You’re perfect.”

  Kris snorted.

  “You are,” Justin said, fierce and sure, hair and eyes radiant. “You’re perfect for me.”

  “So I’m guessing I don’t get to see you in your dress right now, if it’s a surprise?”

  “You can be surprised.” Justin kissed him again, swung a leg over him, shifted their bodies together. Kris’s spent cock promptly decided it would like a round three, at least some attempt at one; Justin, of course, had that lovely inhuman almost non-existent refractory period, and could come and come again, possibly via Kris’s mouth or hands another time or two…

  Justin finished, words and lips nuzzling Kris’s mouth, jawline, throat, “You can practice for the wedding night, though, right now,” and Kris laughed and pulled him closer, kissing him back, answering, “Yes.”

  * * * *

  The week before the wedding stretched out and compressed all at once, taut and poised and interminable. Nothing would really change—they already lived together and loved each other—but also everything would.

  That ceremony. That symbol. Public commitment. Themselves, on display. Making a statement.

  Midwinter decorations filled up New York. Green and gold, silver and blue. White and holly-berries: a celebration of the midpoint of the season, one of those ancient tipping-points between the magical and the human.

  Kris liked that idea. A change. A shift. But still recognizable, like a turning-over of a year. Himself and his demon, getting to say husband.

  They left for California, which was also decorated: a palm-tree and ocean-blue fantasia of Midwinter, glittering in fairy-lights and the twining green tendrils of Reggie’s vineyard. Kris held Justin’s hand on the plane, out at dinner, walking through graceful trails in stolen moments away from the bustle of guests and coordination. They slept wrapped up in each other, and Kris woke every day with even more certainty, if that was possible. The rest of his life. With Justin. Yes.

  They did not spend the night before the wedding apart. They’d talked about it, the way they’d talked about all the potential human traditions to incorporate. Justin had hesitated and then said, “…no?” in the way that meant he had something on his mind.

  “What do you need, love? Tell me.”

  “I don’t want to not have you with me.” Justin had sighed, one boot on in the hotel room, the other in hand: getting ready for the rehearsal and dinner after. Reggie’s caterers were phenomenal, as was the wine list. “I know it’s stupid. I just keep thinking…what if something does go wrong? What if something happens, what if someone doesn’t want Kris Starr to marry a demon, what if—if he—if David—is still angry with me and shows up and—”

  “He won’t. He won’t, I swear, and if he does I’ll be right here.” Kris put arms around him. Justin dropped the boot and held on, trembling a little, face tucked into Kris’s neck. Kris stroked his hair, rubbed his back, promised, “I’m a pretty good empath, y’know, I can make him think he’s a frog.”

  “Would you?”

  “If you want, sure.” He lifted Justin’s chin, got their eyes to meet, brushed at a wistful curl of fire-hair. It caught his finger and looped around and held on. “I’m here. And you’re here. And we’ve got security. And I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “Thank you.” Justin pulled a smile out of thin air, wobbly but full of conviction. “I really do know it makes no sense. We haven’t heard from him in so long, and the media’s been…weirdly positive, actually, remind me to ask Willie about that one. We’re okay. I’m okay. Sorry.”

  “No need.” Kris touched his mouth, finger over Justin’s lips; Justin kissed the finger. “Anyway, I like sleeping with you. So that works out all right for me, too.”

  Justin had laughed. And they did stay together, that night: not having sex, just curled up and holding on, feeling the warmth of each other, feeling secure.

  Chapter 5

  The day dawned clear as a fairytale, keen and clean and poised on the brink. Sunshine frolicked up over the vineyards to greet cool wintry air and fluttery gauzy ribbons, white and silver and deep reds and crimsons, garnets and scarlets, fire-colors that wove together and danced. Justin’s step
mother and James had done something that made the flames appear real, glowing, lifelike, even decently warm though not scorchingly hot. Kris, having been tugged away from his other half for photos with Reggie, kept trying to spot his imminent husband and couldn’t.

  Justin’s middle siblings appeared at his elbows, forming a dark-haired identical frame. Most of the family looked alike, though Justin’s siblings came minus a demon parent and with the addition of extra Filipino DNA; they all had similar builds and expressions and chins. The twins were extra-interchangeable, deliberately so, and proud of it. They’d approved of Kris ever since he’d correctly guessed Andy versus Eddie on the first try.

  Empathic talents were probably cheating. But then again they’d probably approve of that too.

  Andy said, “He’s excited.”

  Eddie said, “He’s thinking about you. And a surprise for later.”

  Kris said, “No eavesdropping.” The twins were also frankly frighteningly powerful telepaths, though only when in each other’s vicinity.

  “We’re not.” Teenage hands waved in unison. “We just wanted you to know.”

  “He loves you.”

  “He really does.”

  “And also everything’s safe and no one here feels anything but good.”

  “We thought you’d want to know that too.”

  “Thanks,” Kris said, and meant it.

  “No problem,” said Eddie, and Andy said, “Also if you ever hurt him we already have a plan for vengeance,” and they waved again, and wandered off.

  Reggie was nearly doubled over laughing.

  “Shut it,” Kris said, “they’re scary, okay? You don’t want them mad at you.”

  “Kris Starr,” Reggie said. “Afraid of teenage telepaths.”

  “They’re Justin’s family!”

  Andy reappeared. “Kris?”

  “What?”

  “Your dad’s here.”

  This time Reggie said, “…what?” because Kris couldn’t talk.

  “At least we’re pretty sure.” Eddie materialized too. “He feels like you, kind of, and also guilty, kind of, and also like he’s not sure he should be here. And he’s here alone. And also something tastes like beer.”