Dance in the Dark (15 page)

"Good for you," the man said. "I don't give a damn."

Johnnie smirked, and murmured, "The employer generally gets the employees he deserves." He pulled out one of his business cards, and flipped it to the guard. As always happened, the man's eyes popped wide open, and he hastily opened the door.

"I will take that card back," Johnnie said, and when the man made no move to return it, reached out and plucked the business card from his fingers.  He motioned to Bergrin with his cane. "He is with me."

Inside, it was just as foul smelling and looking as he had anticipated. Bergrin made a face. "If I'm not able to get it up for my date tonight, Prince, I'm going to kill you myself." He removed his baseball cap and shoved it away inside his old, beat-up corduroy jacket, then raked a hand through his shaggy, curly brown hair in a futile attempt at taming it.

"You could always resign," Johnnie said.

"Perish the thought, Prince."

Biting back choice words that would only encourage him, Johnnie walked on until he came to a man directing the flow of people. "Auctions."

The man stared at him, saw money, and asked, "What are you in the market for?"

"Help around the house," Johnnie answered.

"That way, down the hall, yellow door off to the right," the man said, then turned to help the next person.

Nodding, Johnnie walked on. The yellow door, when he reached it, was guarded by a brawny werewolf in a black tank top. The muscles were most certainly impressive, but the haggard, angry face was decidedly less so.  The wolf glanced at Johnnie with disinterest, but his eyes sharpened as he looked at Bergrin.

Leaving them to their staring contest, Johnnie walked on into the auction room. It was a small, amphitheatre style; he could see where they had removed the cage and other such elements that turned it into a fighting ring. The air was thick with the stench of blood, piss, expensive perfume, fancy cigars, and cheap cigarettes. There was also so much magic in the air that Johnnie sneezed three times into a handkerchief be barely pulled out in time.  Pulling the brim of his fedora low, he took a seat in the first row, grimacing when Bergrin almost immediately joined him.  "I fail to see what you think you will accomplish here—"

"Besides the incurrence of my father's wrath and the loss of your balls?" Johnnie cut in. "I want to see what is on the market, who is buying, and quite possibly if a selkie is up for sale."

"He was kidnapped three weeks ago," Bergrin said. "He's long gone."

Johnnie shook his head. "No, I do not think so. Auctions are hard to arrange—the people, the goods, the space, the money. On average, they are held once a month, and sometimes only every two months. I was not even certain there would be an auction today, except it is the end of the month, selkies are not often captured, and the woman I spoke with said something about today being a particularly busy day. Taken together, that means an auction.  However, if we did happen to miss him, then this will at least provide an opportunity to deduce who might have purchased him.

Bergrin sighed. "I suppose you have theories on that as well."

"Not really," Johnnie said. "My money would be on a collector, since as I said, selkies come up rarely. However, any alchemist or witch with sufficient funds would find a selkie of interest." He looked over the small crowd of potential buyers, grateful that his eyes were long accustomed to the dark.

Wealthy men and women, though several looked more like stewards sent to stand as proxy for their employers. By the look of them, not a single person present would be able to outbid him easily.  Ontoniel had always been very generous in seeing his sons had more than sufficient funds, because once they came of age they were largely responsible for their own finances.

Johnnie had taken particular care in learning finances. Unless he did something phenomenally stupid, which was impossible, money was no object. He glanced toward the arena where the auctions would be held, and saw from the equipment being set out by assistants that money was to be by wire transfer. That made things easier.

Bergrin shifted impatiently beside him, but Johnnie said nothing. He was just starting to get bored himself, though, when the lights went down and the bidding finally began. Johnnie listened with disinterest to the opening comments, and the information rattled off about the first item up for bid—but his attention was arrested as they dragged the imp in question out onto the arena floor.

He was in a terrible state; clearly the imp had not gone down without a fight. One horn was broken—that would decrease the value—a wing was torn, and he was bandaged in half a dozen places. They had not even given the imp clothes to wear; he stood shivering beneath the harsh spotlights.

Johnnie's anger grew as around him the other men and women began to bid with an air of privileged boredom.  The bidding went on, his anger increasing as rapidly as the price. When the bidding finally seemed to stall out at $100,000, Johnnie called out, "$200,000."

A startled silence fell, then the auctioneer called for more bids. When none came, he closed the bidding. Johnnie leaned over and murmured several numbers in Bergrin's ear. Without ever saying a word, Bergrin stood and moved to the tables where money was to be paid. While Bergrin did that, Johnnie turned his attention back to the bidding, where another imp was on the block.

He bought that one as well, and every abnormal to come after that. Finally, the auctioneer announced the final bid of the evening—a selkie, middle-aged but in extremely good health, strong physically and magically, handsome and quiet, should not be too hard to train.

The bidding on Mark started at $25,000. It quickly climbed to $200,000. Selkies were less powerful than most other abnormals, but they were rarely seen on land and because they excelled at hiding their skins, hard to capture.

When the bidding seemed to settle at $300,000, Johnnie raised it to $600,000.  Across the room, a man raised it to $750,000. Sneering, Johnnie took the bidding to an even million.

"Just who the hell does he think he is?" The man across the room loudly demanded, shaking his head in refusal when the auctioneer looked to him to raise the bid. From the seat above him, a woman in a sleek gray suit bent and murmured something in his ear, causing the loud-mouthed man to blanche and fall silent.

Johnnie winced to think what his father would do to him when he learned that Johnnie had just dropped a cool two million buying up would-be slaves. Because no matter what he did, his father would find out—between the other bidders and his bodyguard, there were too many people who would love to chat with his father right now.

The bidding wrapped up, and Bergrin returned from where he had remained by the payment table to see that only the proper amounts of money changed hands.  "They said they'll have your goods waiting by the loading dock out back."

Johnnie nodded, spinning his cane in his hand. "Then let us go pick them up." He pulled out his cell phone and hit the button for his car service. "Send three cars," he said, and gave the address. "Yes, I said three. What I did not do was ask you to question me. Thank you."

Returning the phone to his pocket, he strode from the arena, back through the building, and around to the loading dock, Bergrin a silent shadow at his side. They were stopped halfway around the building by a group of disgruntled men, including the one who had loudly demanded to know who the hell Johnnie was. "So, what?" the man demanded. "You think because you're some Dracula's kid that you can just come in and buy up everything?"

Smirking, Johnnie replied, "He who pays the piper calls the tune."

"What the fuck does that mean?" one of the other men muttered.

"It means yes," Bergrin said, stepping forward, pushing Johnnie slightly back. "Back off unless you want trouble."

The man sneered. "I'm not scared of you."

"I will show you fear in a handful of dust," Bergrin quoted.

"What's with all the stupid, snotty lines?" Another man complained.

Movement caught the corner of Johnnie's eye, and he turned his head slightly to see that his cars were arriving. Turning back to the group of men, he said, "I do not to have time for this. If you are offended by the fact I have more money and power than you, by all means take it up with my father. Bergrin, we go."

Bergrin nodded and stepped forward, the men parting around him. Johnnie walked on—and saw too late the man that came up from behind him. He brought his arm up to deflect whatever attack was coming, other hand going to the catch on his cane—but then the spell struck him.

In the next moment Bergrin moved, but almost immediately he froze again, a long knife dangling loosely in one hand. "What the fuck?"

Johnnie was equally confounded. He should not be standing unscathed. "The spell rebounded." That should not be possible. Noise distracted him briefly, and he saw that the rest of the men had fled. They were likely in no hurry to find out what else might rebound. Well, at least that solved one problem, even if it created others. He glanced back at Bergrin.

Bergrin glared at him. "So I take it you
don't
have magic defenses no one mentioned to me?"

"No," Johnnie replied. He knelt alongside the man who had tried to attack him. Magic filled his nostrils, stirred goose bumps on his skin.  The man was twitching slightly, as people did when they dreamed; his mouth was twisted in a grimace of fear.

"Nightmare curse," Johnnie murmured, eyes sliding to meet Bergrin's equally pensive gaze. "Why would they try to cast a nightmare curse? That is a parlor trick, a child's prank."

Bergrin scowled. "I'd rather know why the fuck it
bounced off you."

"Yes," Johnnie agreed, and rose. "I suggest we figure it out later."

"For once, we agree," Bergrin replied, and stood, sheathing the knife from wherever he had pulled it. He grabbed Johnnie's upper arm and dragged him along.

"Unhand—"

"Save it," Bergrin snapped. "This is my job and I'm doing it, Highness. If I must knock you out to do it, I will."

Johnnie rolled his eyes, but let himself be dragged along like an invalid. At the back of the warehouse, the seven abnormals he had purchased stood waiting. They had been given clothing, thankfully. They eyed him warily, but before Johnnie could reassure them he did not keep slaves, more men came rushing up from behind them. Bergrin shoved Johnnie toward the nearest car, then drew his wicked-looking knife again and lunged, steel flashing beneath the streetlights as he attacked the closest of the half-dozen men.

Swearing as he slammed into the car, Johnnie whipped around, and brought his cane up. "Get in the cars!" he called to the huddled abnormals. He turned to face the men coming at him, springing the release on his cane and drawing his sword just as one of them swung a knife. Steel rang against steel as he caught it against his sword.

The man was abruptly ripped away, and Bergrin towered over him and snarled, "Get in the car!" Taken aback by the tone, the flash of something—anger? Fear?—in Bergrin's hazel eyes, Johnnie got in the car. As he slammed the door shut behind him, he heard screams of pain that were like nothing he had ever heard before.

Then there was abruptly nothing but silence.

Another moment passed, and the cars were moving. Johnnie punched the button to drop the glass between the passengers and the driver. "Where is Bergrin? My bodyguard?"

"He said go, Master Johnnie," the driver replied. "He was clearly not going to tolerate anything but 'yes, sir,' so I said 'yes, sir,' and drove."

Johnnie closed the glass again, then sat back in his seat and sheathed his sword. He fumed silently, scowling at his missing bodyguard. What was Bergrin doing, staying behind like that? How melodramatic, and he would only exacerbate it all later by heaping on the 'I told you so'. Johnnie really wanted to do something violent to the bastard, but of course he was nowhere to be found now because he was stuck fighting, and Johnnie hoped he was not dead. Was all of this really because he had spent money?  That was too illogical to believe, and so he must deduce the real reason.             

The spell, the answer had to be in that stupid, waste of time spell they had tried to cast on him—and which had rebounded. Why in the hell had a spell rebounded?  That should only happen if there were heavy wards upon him, or if he had some relic that served essentially the same purpose. Neither was the case, unless there was something he did not know.

But that was unlikely. His father was over-protective, but he would not have spells cast on Johnnie without telling him because it was extremely dangerous for a person not to know the spells cast upon him, and therefore what people might try to do.

A nightmare curse was a cheap little trick used to scare normals and annoy abnormals. It was not fun, but generally being forced to endure a nightmare for a short period of time was
only
annoying. So why bother? As displeased as those men had been, the entire affair had not been worth all that had just transpired.

"Um—sir?"

Johnnie stirred from his thoughts and glanced at the man who had addressed him. Around his neck, the man wore a collar, from which dangled a gold necklace sealed in a warded mesh bag; so he was close to his skin, but not able to actually use it. 

"You are Mark," Johnnie said.