Chapter 2
So he did. He believed it hard. And he let the soothing fall like a weighted blanket over distressed shouting crowds.
Sirens sounded. Emergency relief. Assistance. Kris, holding the fear of thousands of shaken fans in one empathic hand, turned to his husband.
Who breathed, “This is the last—there’s no one else trapped—” as two more bodies materialized away from the rubble. “They can check to be sure but—I think—that’s it—nothing else’ll come down, I moved everything that felt dangerous—”
“You’re incredible,” Kris told him, stepping closer, reaching a hand out to touch him. A few people, grouped in a knot of rescue at the base of the stage, began applauding. They’d all seen what Justin had done. “You’re brilliant, love—I thought you had limits, I didn’t know you could do that much—”
“Yes…well…” Justin’s face was white, Kris realized abruptly. Fire-hair had grown duller. Eyes more brown than glittery cinnamon. “I can’t, actually…”
“You what?”
“I dohave limits,” Justin admitted, a ghost of usual teasing; and then put a hand up to touch his face, and looked surprised, swaying.
Red, Kris thought, though the thought did not take shape for a horrified blank second; but the red was blood and not fire, because Justin’s nose was bleeding, and Justin’s eyes were closing, and Justin’s whole body gave way all at once, collapsing into Kris’s arms—
No. No. Kris felt the scream like a whip-crack across the night, searing its way out of his soul.
He heard gasps, and a few cries and moans; he grabbed the empathic projection and held on tightly, metaphorical magical hands shaking. Justin would tell him to get it under control; Justin saved people; Justin wouldn’t want anyone else hurt…
Justinwas hurt. Limp and white and unresponsive in Kris’s arms. Justin’s head fell against Kris’s shoulder; his eyes did not open. One hand dropped to the stage, and lay there.
The stage where he’d just been standing—alive and upright, on both feet—in a seventies rock-band T-shirt and skinny black jeans, the same ones he still had on, laughing and waiting for Kris to pull him into an encore, a song, full of anticipation—
Dark ruby stained the pale blue logo of the shirt. Justin’s hair and cheekbones and even fingertips were simply human: magic emptied out, leaving ordinary nails without lightly pointed claws, and the regular ginger sort of human hair, pale red and wavy and lifeless. He’d dyed it all sorts of colors, once, not letting otherwordly fire peek out; Kris had loved the discovery, when they’d first tumbled naked into bed, that Justin was in fact more or less a redhead.
Right now Justin was more human than Kris had ever seen him: burned out, drained, younger and fragile. He lay in Kris’s arms without moving or opening his eyes; he was breathing, chest going up and down, but he did not react when Kris clung to him, pleaded with him, called his name.
A burst of materialization and brimstone scorched the air. Three slim pillars of flame crackled into existence and resolved themselves into three of Justin’s aunts, all sparks and teeth and claws and hissing. A paramedic who’d started toward the stage froze in place; the rest of the band had been hustled away by security, leaving instruments, being taken care of.
Kris and Justin, in a tangle of stunned limbs and bodies, remained in place. Kris cradled Justin, shook him, tripped over love and anguish and words. “Justin—Justin, love, wake up—open your eyes, you can do that, you have to do that for me, please—please, stay with me, look at me, Justin, please—”
All three demons threw themselves down beside their nephew on the scuffed stage; Aunt Raissa’s glamorous blue evening gown tore in a rip of silk. Aunt Mara, who tended to be the spokesperson, commanded, “We’ll handle this—” and spun to face Kris. On both knees, in jeans and a very ordinary green shirt, wearing fire in eyes and voice and claws, she grabbed Justin’s unmoving hand and defied the apocalypse with pint-sized familial ferocity. “What happened?”
“He—”
“He saved them,” Mara said over him, “didn’t he? Oh, stupid, stupid ridiculous human heart—oh, Justin. Come on, come on, pet, wake up. Wake up for us.”
“We felt it,” said the third of Justin’s favorite aunts—he had around fifty, though only three or four had taken an active interest in raising the half-human child of the sister who’d died in the human world—and looked up, uncertain. Kris had only met Ylse perhaps three times; he knew she liked human soap operas and romance novels and lacy sundresses. Right now her eyes were bright and scared. “We felt him, clearer than ever, like he’d reached over and touched our world, like a portal—and then we couldn’t feel him—Mara, he won’t wake up and I think he’s feeling worse…”
“He saved everyone.” Kris could barely talk. Clutching Justin. On a stage. While demons knelt and touched bare colorless skin and made miniature fire-flares sizzle in the air. “He…I know he’s…he’s only half…not as strong…”
Justin hadsaved people before. That cat. A baby. Five residents of a burning apartment building, once. He’d admitted to Kris that that’d been hard; he didn’t have boundless resources, he was part human, and his human body wasn’t built to channel that much otherworldly power. He’d fainted in an alleyway, he’d said, after rescuing the people; he’d awakened with a splitting headache.