A Demon for Midwinter Read online

  Upon arriving, he stared at his building for a moment before heading in. Expensive, lavish, everything he could afford. Royalties and past record sales ensured he’d be set for life; he didn’t have to do the terrible holiday album, suggested brickwork and glass. He could spend his remaining years throwing parties and drinking the best alcohol and retiring to a tropical island. He didn’t have to work.

  He didn’t have to keep trying to write songs. To pick up a guitar. To fall head over heels into music like the echo of heartbeats: life singing through veins, running under skin.

  He took the elevator up to the penthouse apartment, and regarded his door blankly for a moment; it offered no wisdom, so he sighed and wandered in. Boots off. Jacket tossed over a chair. Scotch at the ready. The good stuff. Necessary.

  He hadn’t been able to write well lately either. And lately was a stretch. He hadn’t been able to write.

  But that wasn’t the current problem, which made a change, which was nice on the one hand and horrific on the other. Justin, he thought. Injured kindness welling up behind normally delighted eyes. Bleeding internally because all that genuine old-fashioned niceness shouldn’t ever collide with an empath in a stiletto-sharp mood.

  Glass in hand, he fell into a chair and mourned aimlessly at his apartment. The apartment, being inanimate, was baffled but tried its best. Vintage brick walls. Framed posters of long-ago shows, his and others. Memories and mementos. A fridge full of produce he sometimes tried to cook, when he felt like he should. His guitars, the three he’d kept, silently poised in stands along one wall.

  Starrlight had fallen apart over a decade ago, after poor Tommy’d overdosed on pink crystal and they’d not been able to settle on a good replacement drummer and Reggie’d been getting tired and sick of being, in his words, just the bass guy; he’d been wanting out, and Kris himself had said words, and Reggie’d said words, and the problem with alcohol and drugs and projective empathy was that it got too easy to push, too easy to make his friends feel the way he wanted them to feel…

  Reggie’d finished out that tour, being a man who kept promises even when made under duress, and had quit on the spot after the last show.

  Seven years previously, when he’d heard that Reggie’s first wife had passed away, he’d managed to find a phone number and called. He’d apologized, first of all, straight off. Reggie had taken this surprisingly well, or at least hadn’t hung up on him, and they talked more these days.

  Kris had always wanted stardom. Fame. Extravagance. A name in lights, a mark on the world. They’d been young and wild as comets, back then. Like the dazzle of the city, coming on in the backdrop of his penthouse windows. Applause ran up out of the past and roared before disappearing: crowds and screams and heat, festivals and theatres and pyrotechnics dwindling to ash.

  After the implosion of the band, their previous manager’d handed Kris’s solo contract off to Aubrey Records, embezzled half a million dollars, briefly disappeared, and resurfaced deceased: another overdose, another loss. And the record company, having a single third of a legendary and legendarily volatile rock band thrust upon them, had politely and deferentially plopped him into the lap of their newest bright-eyed young hire, responsible for discovering and handling the almost-famous—or, in this case, the once-famous—artists. Who managed to make every one of those artists feel valuable and appreciated and encouraged.

  And Kris had insulted him. To his face. And thrown emotions in that face.

  Funny, that. Justin had clearly felt what he was feeling. Had said as much. But…

  One of those dangers of empathy—one he knew too well—was the ease of influence. Justin had been annoyed, obviously. The memory stung, not soothed by the efforts of mellow scotch. But he hadn’t been pushed into Kris’s sharper mood. Hadn’t shouted back or gotten sarcastic or vicious in turn. Had simply walked away.

  Either his empathy seriously was getting old along with the rest of him, or Justin had…some sort of…way of not being affected. Which would be even more unusual, though undeniably useful in a profession requiring dealings with musicians and agents and entertainment lawyers and managers.

  Maybe that was Justin’s particular magical skill. Not minor weather-working or levitation or five-second precognition. A wild talent. A kind of natural resistance.

  Kris had never actually heard of anyone human who could do that—some pixie-types could, and most demons, but the less said about those the better; no demon stories ever ended well. Some people claimed to have impenetrable personal shields, but those people tended to be the sort who spent their lives practicing meditation and isolation on mountaintops—but that didn’t mean it was impossible. Two months ago an infant’d shown signs of localized telekinesis, when previously everyone’d believed magical talents showed up at puberty. So Justin probably wasn’t impossible either. Maybe. Conceivably.

  He drank more scotch.

  Justin might not want to talk about it. If he really could deflect magic, he might become some sort of test subject. A lab rat. An adorable one.

  This thought was in all likelihood the fault of the scotch. Conspiracy theories, government projects, demon underworlds coming to life, Justin’s open-book face keeping any sort of secret. As if.

  The scotch burned low and fierce and hot as nagging guilt: you hurt him, it said, and he’s your friend, your only friend because you’re a washed-up aging rock star who doesn’t know anything about new underground punk-witch bands, and you told him to go away.

  He got up and found a refill. The oncoming evening ached, built of old city bones and dull rainclouds. Thunder came back, but halfheartedly. His guitars looked at him with tired reproach.

  He thought about storms and tunes and remorse, but he was tired too. No room left to turn emotion into song. Nothing good.

  After a while he felt guilty enough and lonely enough that he picked up the phone. Justin hadn’t called; wouldn’t, unless he had news or a question. Because Kris’d fucked that up too.

  He put the phone down. Then he picked it up again.

  Reginald Jones, once upon a time Reggie Rocket, answered just before Kris would’ve given up. He sounded jauntily out of breath, all the way from California. “Hey, mate, I was in the tasting room, what’s up, then?”

  “I think I’m in love with my manager,” Kris announced, and pressed cool scotch-filled glass against his forehead and shut his eyes.

  “Really? Blond and pretty? Boy or girl? And did the love part happen before or after you hopped into bed together?”

  “Come on, that’s unfair.”

  “It’s a serious question.”

  “He dyes it different colors, and no I haven’t shagged him, thanks for the faith in me. Also he hates me now.”

  “Must be some kind of record. Most of us hate you two minutes in.”

  Kris made a very rude gesture at the phone. “Up yours, Reg. I need advice.”

  Reggie, upon retiring from music, had gone off to California, bought a vineyard, and begun experimenting with wine and reconnecting with all five children. He’d won multiple prestigious awards for the wine and had eventually talked two of the kids into joining the business. Kris, who’d never suspected that a passion for viticulture lay behind his bassist’s glittery eyeliner, had watched this respectability with some bemusement and some other emotion that wasn’t quite envy.

  He didn’t care about wine and vineyards. He didn’t have children that he knew of.

  But something nameless twinged in his chest whenever Reggie sent him bottles of port and invitations to visit over the holidays. He’d gone once. Happiness had radiated everywhere. Sunshine bouncing off rolling California hills. Tangible. Isolating.

  He wondered suddenly what Justin did for Midwinter. Whether Justin had someone turning to him, smiling and kissing him hello, when he came home from a long day dealing with difficult artists.

  “I’m not sure what I’m giving you advice about,” Reg said, over the phone. “Do you want to shag him? Do you want
to apologize to him? Do you want an expensive bottle to send him when you beg for forgiveness? Or do you just want to get drunk and complain?”

  “He’s bloody twenty-eight—”

  “Ah, an infant.”

  “—and happy and patient and brilliant and nice to everyone and I want to touch his hair. I want him to stay happy always.”

  “Great woodland gods,” Reg said, “you are in love with him.”

  “And he’s pissed at me.”

  “What’d you do?” This question might’ve contained layers—they both knew exactly what he’d once done to Reggie—but didn’t, because Reg had forgiven if not forgotten, and had moved on. “I’m assuming it was your fault.”

  “Oh, it was all my fucking fault.” He closed both eyes. Tipped his head back against the chair. “I’m a complete bastard and I told him he didn’t actually mean it when he said he was my friend and then I told him to go home and leave me alone.”

  “Not only a bastard, a patronizing bastard. That’s a shit thing to say to someone who still puts up with you, y’know. Poor kid.”

  “God, you’re making it worse. He’s not a kid. I’m not his fuckin’ dad.”

  “You wouldn’t mind being his daddy,” Reg pointed out. “Look, you’re just gonna have to apologize, mate. Surprised he didn’t haul off and punch you one. I would’ve. If you’d sent me home.”

  “No, that’s the other fuckin’…weird…thing. Also never say that again, the first bit, fuck no. But I didn’t. Send him home.”

  “You said you told him to go,” Reggie said carefully, “and you know you can…push people, if you’re upset…”

  “Yeah, I know—shit, I’m sorry again, you know I’m—but I didn’t. I know I didn’t. I might’ve, but I didn’t.”

  “What?”

  Kris gritted teeth. “He didn’t just accept it and do what I said. Even if I did push him, I don’t think I did, but even if I did it didn’t take. He left, but because he wanted to. I’m sure.”

  “He didn’t just—”

  “Start walking away and shake it off and decide to keep going? No. He wasn’t even mad at me—well, no, he was, he is, but not like I was. Not the same mood.”

  “That shouldn’t be possible,” Reg observed, which unhelpfully echoed Kris’s own conclusions. “Not as strong as you are. ‘S why we always had such good live shows. Maybe you’re getting old.”

  “Thanks for that. How’s Holly?” Reg’s second wife had degrees in landscape architecture and environmental design plus a magical talent for coaxing plants to listen. She tolerated Kris with the good humor of a partner who knew her husband would never again run off to follow an old bandmate on the road.

  “Splendid and smarter than I am, as usual. You coming by after Midwinter? We’ve got five out of seven collective offspring plus eleven million grandbabies running around, but we can make room. Bring your impossible kid, I’m curious.”

  “He’s not my—that sounds even worse. You’ve made it worse. He’s my manager. He was sort of my friend.”

  “And you love him.”

  “And I think I might maybe possibly be in love with him, yes.”

  “Then you need to apologize. I know you can. I believe in you. Call the kid. Tell me what happens. I need the details.”

  “Go make grapes into juice with your bare feet or whatever it is you do. Leave Justin alone. I can’t call him.”

  “Philistine. See if I ever send you foot juice again. Also, his name’s Justin? And why not?”

  “He’s working and I’m already drunk enough to call you.”

  “Fair point. Call him in the morning.”

  “Maybe,” Kris conceded, exhausted. His bones hurt. His head would hurt too, if he didn’t manage to eat something. Midwinter decorations twinkled in green and gold, out in the city, separated from him by a pane of penthouse glass. Views of the world from a distance. “I don’t know.”

  “Kris.” Reggie’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “You don’t deserve to be alone. You know that, right?”

  “I didn’t call you to be my fucking therapist, Reg.”

  “You called me for advice. Which you’re getting. Because some of us care about you. Even when you’re a complete and utter twat. Now put down the scotch, eat something, and call your cute little mysterious Justin in the morning and say sorry like a decent human being. He’ll forgive you.”

  “How do you know?” Pathetic, hopeful, clinging.

  “I did,” Reg said, “and you said he’s a good kid. Your friend.”

  After this phone call ended, amid desultory promises of future visits and keeping in better touch, Kris drifted to the kitchen. Gazed at bananas, bell peppers, bread, other foods beginning with other letters of the alphabet.

  He made coffee. Black and sweet. He did not have coffee creamer or interesting flavors; Justin liked nuttiness and caramel.

  He fell asleep watching a television special on classic bands of the eighties and their long ago peaks. Where are they now, he thought. In at least one case, drinking whiskey-spiked coffee and passing out on a penthouse sofa with a mobile phone clutched in one hand.

  Rain spilled like grief from the building’s eaves, and slid like tears down the big glass windowpane, as he closed his eyes.

  Chapter 2

  He woke the next morning to the shriek of his ringing phone. It complained insistently about not being answered; Kris blinked, whimpered as sunlight hit his eyeballs, whimpered again as his back protested about having spent the night on the couch, and flailed for electronics. “H’llo?”

  “Did I wake you up I’m so sorry and also I wanted to say I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to snap at you,” pleaded Justin’s voice, in a rush.

  “What—” Kris lurched more upright, stared wildly at the clock, cringed. Ten-sixteen in the morning. And Justin had called first. To apologize.

  To apologize—?

  “I’m really sorry,” Justin said, miserable and hurried. “That was unprofessional of me and I know you were stressed and I shouldn’t…I should…well, I should be. Um. Professional. Like you said. I have to go but I wanted to say that? And also I could call you later? With some possible tour updates? If that’s okay?”

  Kris’s heart, shriveled old beast that it was, broke. Skewered by sunlight and the words I should be professional.

  He got out, just in time, “Wait, no, hang on—” Justin didn’t hang up, so he kept babbling. “Don’t say you’re sorry, it’s not you, it’s my fault and I meant to call you this morning and say—shit, Justin, I’m seriously sorry. I’m a bloody moron and I was frustrated and I took it out on you and that’s not—I didn’t mean it, I swear, you are my friend, I know you are. Ah. I hope you are. Please?”

  Justin was actually laughing, albeit fleetingly, by the end of this speech. “Wow. I never imagined hearing Kris Starr beg me for forgiveness…”

  “I will if you want.” On his knees. On his old creaky knees at Justin’s boot-clad feet. Where his poor cracked heart already lay. “I didn’t…do to you what I…I didn’t hurt you, did I? With, um…”

  “You managed to hurt my feelings,” Justin said, “but you didn’t mean to, and I shouldn’t’ve walked out on you, it’s fine—”

  “No, I mean—” He bit a lip. Tasted the hangover on his tongue: scotch and whiskey and coffee, thick and stupid. “I didn’t make you leave…? Are you all right?”

  “Oh.” A pause, a shuffling: papers, by the sound. “That…no, um, you didn’t. I’m—that’s not something you need to worry about. Thanks for asking, though. Kris, I really do have to go—”

  “Can we get coffee?” What did that mean? Not something he needed to worry about? Was there something?

  “I’m in end-of-quarter meetings all morning. Mr. Aubrey wants to yell at us for the profit margin decrease. I’m making myself late to a budget discussion to call you.”

  Kris tried again. “Lunch? After you’re done?” Stripes of sunbeam, dazzling and golden, flirted with reflected cloud
s on his floorboards. The day would be golden too, the brittle crisp hue found in the crunch of leaves, in the harvest-orange curve of pumpkins on an autumn afternoon. “Whenever you’re free.”

  “Um…I should be done around three. That’ll work, I can tell you about the possible tour dates in person…where should I meet you? Witch’s Brew?”

  “I’ll come over,” Kris promised. “Meet you at the office.” And he held his breath. They both knew how he felt about that building.

  “Oh,” Justin said again: startled but pleased. “If you—yes, I mean yes, that would be—thanks. You might have to wait a few minutes if we’re running late.”

  “Not a problem, babe.” He put on the rock-star flippant accent for effect; earned another laugh. “You did say you wanted Kris Starr to apologize. I am.”

  “You already did.” Justin’s tone got more affectionate. “I’d take the apology from Christopher Thompson, too, you know. And of course we’re friends. You don’t have to say please.”

  I love you, Kris thought, sitting on his sofa with lines on his face from the cushion, with that generous forgiving heart on the other end of the line: he knew it to be true. I love you, I’m in love with you, I have to say it—

  Instead he quoted, as a reply, “If that’s what it takes, baby…I’m saying please, I’m saying we, everything that you want to hear…if that’s what it takes, baby, I’ll be here…”

  Justin started snickering, said, “Did you just sing your own song at me as an apology,” and then jumped in to sing along. “I’m saying white picket fence, I’m saying summers without end…oh baby, if that’s what it takes…”

  “I’m saying please,” Kris finished. He’d made Justin laugh out loud. His heart put itself back together and danced to the tune of twenty-year-old ballad-rock. “Should I let you go? Budget whatever?”

  “Oh fuck. Yes. Sorry. I’ll see you at three. And I’ve got your song in my head, so that’ll make spreadsheets more interesting—”

  They got off the phone, mutually entertained. Not repaired, not completely. Kris couldn’t take back his own temper-tantrum, couldn’t rewind time. But he could show up with coffee. He could come to Justin’s office and make that gesture.