Jack looked down at Kris’s grip. “Okay.”
They left The Other Place, and the whipping wind was different from when Kris was summoned to protect. This wind was, if possible, faster and howled with purpose.
When they arrived, Jack fell off balance and would have stumbled to the floor if not for Kris grabbing hold of his Beatles coat.
Then.
Chaos.
Kris and Jack did not land in front of Torres’s house but in the center of a smoke-filled room where quiet bass beats climbed the walls. Men and women in varying states of undress melted into several couches surrounded by ashtrays and needles.
Kris had seconds to take this in before someone shouted, “What the hell?” followed by the click of a cocking gun. Kris shoved Jack roughly to the ground. Jack must have understood, because he curled into the smallest ball possible and covered his ears as gunfire replaced the music—gunfire and screams.
Kris started swinging, and his massive fists made contact immediately and repeatedly. His punches broke faces and fractured skulls. After he disarmed a man in nothing but sweatpants, Kris had a gun and used it over and over. Bodies fell in limp piles on the floor. Screams of anger were quickly replaced by screams of fear as drugged out men and women first tried running, and then crawling for an exit. But Kris did not let them escape. These were bad people, and Kris felt it the way he sometimes felt evil radiating off small children. Yes, even they were capable, and Kris never had gifts for them beneath his coat.
When Kris heard a gunshot and felt a pinch on the back of his left shoulder, he turned to find a tall, slim man in a tacky suit holding a handgun, so big it looked fake. When Kris didn’t fall—when the man noticed all the bloody corpses in his living room—he gawked and shot again. This bullet hit Kris in the chest, right above his heart, but had no effect.
“You,” the man said as he kept his gun pointed at Kris but must have noticed the crouching body on the floor.
Jack.
The man Kris assumed was Bart Torres turned his gun on Jack, but Kris would not let Jack be hurt. He rushed forward, took hold of Torres’s skull, and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. His eyes exploded in a shower of red rain, and he was dead before he hit the floor. The only sound that remained was that of the continued waow-waow-waow of the background music’s beat.
Jack slid up the wall, hands clutching the plaster behind him, while he took in the carnage. He studied body after body, ultimately landing on Torres. He took deliberate steps forward and put his hand on Kris’s chest as he passed before looming over Torres and spitting down on the mangled corpse. He turned around and stared at Kris. He didn’t smile exactly but Kris thought a light burned in his eyes. Something like admiration.
They weren’t far from Jack’s apartment, and although Kris could have gotten them home much quicker, Jack said he wanted to walk. Outside, a light snow fell, so Jack buttoned his coat and hunched his shoulders around his ears. They didn’t speak. Kris strolled mutely at Jack’s side, studying Jack one moment and decorations on houses they passed the next. It was not a nice neighborhood, but even the destitute could have reason to be festive. At least they had their health or their families or even love. For some, that was enough.
Outside Jack’s apartment building, he stopped walking and turned so they stood chest to chest. Well, the top of Jack’s head came up to about Kris’s chin, but they stood facing each other.
Jack, with hands stuffed in his pockets, looked left and right. He didn’t lower his voice when he asked, “You killed Frank, didn’t you?”
Frank: Jack’s abusive “foster asshole.”
“Yes,” Kris said.
Jack nodded as if he’d known this, maybe all along. Maybe since he was ten. He glanced over his shoulder. “Uh, did you want to come upstairs?” He bit his bottom lip and toed at what would soon be snow-covered pavement.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Right. Yeah.” He gave an agitated nod. “Of course.”
Kris reached into his coat and felt the familiar magic. He removed a delicate silver necklace with an emerald at the end. The gem matched Jack’s eyes.
Jack took the gift without needing an explanation. He leaned back on his heels and forward, back and … he gave the side of Kris’s mouth a quick kiss before he retreated through the door to his building.
Kris watched through the glass until Jack’s dark hair disappeared. Despite the cold breeze, the small damp spot on Kris’s cheek burned.
There was no question: Jack Benson needed to be watched. Torres had been grotesquely taken care of, but what if Jack had other enemies? Who else might try to hurt the man who’d been hurt so much in his life already?
With Christmas so close, Jack did not seem concerned with the holiday. He did not acknowledge it at all. Kris would know. He spent several hours of each day in The Other Place inside Jack’s apartment. Jack didn’t know he was there. Jack couldn’t see him or hear him. Jack went about his daily business while Kris watched from behind the protection of his magic and learned things.
For instance, Jack never got up when his alarm went off. Like a hyper bird, Jack’s cell phone chirped every nine minutes for approximately forty-five before Jack actually rolled out of bed in a t-shirt and basketball shorts, short brown hair askew. He made his bed with meticulous detail and then made tea. Jack did nothing but glare at the kettle on the stove until it screamed, and he drank his tea with honey. He did not eat breakfast. He usually chugged his tea and disappeared to the bathroom to prepare for his day.
From what Kris had observed, Jack owned six Polo shirts, three hoodies, and two pairs of jeans that he rotated from day-to-day. He always wore the Beatles coat and his combat boots, and he always wore the silver chain from Kris, hiding its decorative emerald beneath whatever color Polo he wore that day. He left his apartment by 8 AM.
When Jack went to work at the rehab center each morning, Kris waited in Jack’s home. Like Jack’s wardrobe, the apartment was minimalist. There were no framed photos of Jack with friends, no art on the walls. There were some books—mostly textbooks about addiction and mental health. But, oh, the music collection.
Jack’s collection of records was immense. It took several minutes for Kris to find the Magical Mystery Tour album, but it wasn’t the one Kris had brought one Christmas so long ago. It did not tingle with his magic. Undoubtedly, that copy was long gone: lost in Jack’s moving from foster home to foster home. It was a miracle he’d retained the snow globe.
Jack returned from work between 6:30 and 7 PM every day. When he left in the morning, he smelled like his shower gel: something distinctly clean and male. When he returned home, he frequently smelled like vomit or grime. Sometimes, he took a second shower after work. Other times, he simply pulled a can of flavored seltzer water from his fridge, played music on his turntable, and melted into the couch with a heaving sigh. Jack was fond of heaving sighs.
In those moments, Kris sat directly at Jack’s side and watched him.
Jack was masculine but feminine. His tall, lean body; his walk; his talk—all masculine. But feminine in the prettiness of his features—the long, thin nose; huge, green eyes; and full bottom lip. He was somehow also intimidating and cute. Both. Intimidating in the way he bit back like an angry dog at men who would hurt him or others. Cute in his Beatles coat. Cute with his nose freckles. Cute when he sometimes danced absentmindedly while cutting up vegetables in his kitchen, hips going back and forth to whatever album he deemed appropriate for the day.