Dance in the Dark (19 page)

Today, though, he seemed as dark and gloomy as the weather, as everyone else who was sick of the unending rain. He wore dark denim jeans and black work boots, a tight-fitting, long-sleeved, black t-shirt, over which he had pulled a black leather jacket. Even his baseball cap, usually blue and white, had been exchanged for a rather new-looking one. It was all black, the front stitched with a cartoonish looking grim-reaper, complete with flowing robes, scythe, and bright red eyes. It was ridiculous looking.

"Nice hat," Johnnie said. "Is that new?"

"Yes," Bergrin said, scowling, looking defensive. "My mom gave it to me for my birthday."

Johnnie had prepared a taunting response, but the unexpected words drew him up short. "Your birthday? When was your birthday?"

"Yesterday," Bergrin replied shortly.

"Hmm," Johnnie said. "I suppose it is better than knowing you picked it out yourself."

"Shut up," Bergrin said, "or I'll shove you into a puddle and ruin all that pretty, expensive silk you're wearing, Prince."

Ignoring him, Johnnie retrieved his umbrella from its hook on the wall and said, "Shall we, babysitter?"

"After you, Highness."

Bracing himself, Johnnie threw open the door and dashed for the car Peyton had called while Johnnie got dressed, Bergrin close on his heels. Throwing themselves into the car, Bergrin pulled the door shut while Johnnie told the driver where to take them.

"About an hour drive, sir," the driver told him.

"That is fine," Johnnie replied. He glanced at Bergrin and said, "So what do you know about draugr?"

"The after-goers, those who walk after death," Bergrin replied, tugging on the brim of his cap. "The draugr wake when those things and persons they love are threatened. They also wake when forced to, most often by a sorcerer or magic user of similar caliber. Death-black and corpse-pale; the longer they wander, the stronger they grow.  One of the few creatures which can naturally shape-shift, if allowed to grow that strong, though their forms are limited to cat and raven. To destroy a draugr, one must decapitate it and then burn the remains. The normals have a popular story that recounts the defeat of one terrible draugr, called
Hrómundar saga Gripssonar."

Johnnie looked at him in surprise, something about the way Bergrin spoke making his skin prickle. Then he realized what was odd about it. "You said that beautifully. The Old Norse was perfectly pronounced."

Bergrin actually looked embarrassed. "Uh—I was crazy about mythology as a kid. Normal, abnormal. The Norse stuff was my favorite."

"I see," Johnnie replied. "Here I thought you must have spent your formative years learning how to skulk and impersonate drunks."

Bergrin bared his teeth. "Instead of learning how to sip tea and the difference between silk and linen?"

Johnnie smirked. "Incidental lessons. My primary focus was learning how to ignore bothersome shadows."

"What a coincidence; I was learning how to be a bothersome shadow."

Johnnie made a face, and removed his fedora, setting it aside with his umbrella and cane on the seat beside him. When, he wondered, had he and Bergrin slipped from open hostility to almost friendly banter? It drove him mad, but he could not seem to stop.

"I wonder what I am getting us into today," he mused aloud. "With alchemists, it could be everything or nothing."

Bergrin grimaced and said, "Philosophy is odious and obscure/Both law and physic are for petty wits/Divinity is basest of the three—/'Tis magic, magic, that hath ravished me."

Johnnie looked at him, reluctantly impressed. "Quite so. History is rife with magic users who could not leave well enough alone, many of them alchemists." Something flickered across Bergrin's face, a flood of emotions too tangled and quickly gone again for Johnnie to properly catch them all—but he saw pain, and love, and something he thought was loneliness.  He swallowed, and tried to pretend he had seen nothing. "You said your father is an alchemist, yes?"

Bergrin nodded. "Not a very good one. He likes thinking and writing about it more than actually doing."

"Where do your parents live?" Johnnie asked, more startled than he knew he should be to hear about something as common as parents from Bergrin.

"In Sable Brennus' territory, just outside the city proper," Bergrin replied. He seemed to hesitate, then continued with, "It's an old house, a little cottage type place that's belonged to my dad's family for generations. My dad is only the second abnormal to come out of the family, and the first one was a great-great-great Uncle who was declared insane and locked away.

"I see," Johnnie said. "That is unfortunate."

Bergrin shrugged. "At least my dad was smart enough to keep his mouth shut."

"So how did you wind up all the way out here? Brennus' territory is hours away by plane ride, days away by car."

Bergrin laughed. "Why do you live above a seedy bar?"

"I concede the point. What does your mother do?"

"Mostly, she just stays at home with my father, but she used to find things. Family business, I guess."

Nodding, Johnnie tried to think of something else to say, but he could not come up with any other questions to ask that did not seem too intrusive. He did not know why he had asked the ones he had, except he was always curious and Bergrin was unusually forthcoming. "My father was an alchemist, as well," he finally said, though he was not quite certain why.

Bergrin raised his brows. "I thought your parents were normals, though I suppose I only know the same stories all the nosey gossips know."

Johnnie smiled briefly at that, and admitted, "I did not know until very recently myself. My father only told me about—" He broke off, annoyed with himself over the clumsy sentence, "My father only told me a short time ago."

"Yet you have no alchemical ability?" Bergrin asked.

"No," Johnnie said. It was not unusual, though. Of all humans capable of some measure of magic, alchemists were the weakest. They relied heavily on components, supplemental magic by way of science, rather than pure, internal force like more powerful magic users. It was not unusual for the ability to miss generations, or fade out completely.

"What about you?" Johnnie asked. "You have magic, but I cannot tell what you are."

"I'm good at finding things," Bergrin said.

Stifling his disappointment, not even certain
why
he was disappointed, Johnnie asked, "So what do you most often find?"

Bergrin did not immediately reply, but eyed Johnnie pensively. "People, mostly, but objects too—books, magical items, jewelry, whatever."

"I guess that explains why I am ever stuck with you," Johnnie said.

In reply, Bergrin only smirked. Johnnie made a face, and looked out the car window, where he could see nothing but the odd bit of light bouncing off water to show waterlogged trees and dark buildings.

Shortly thereafter, the driver pulled to a stop in front of a barely visible, two story little home. "We've arrived, Master Johnnie."

"Thank you," Johnnie said. Bergrin slid out of the car first, and Johnnie followed after, sending the driver off to await his call. The front door, when they reached it, was locked.  A quick examination proved all the doors and windows were locked.

"We could break in through the back door," Bergrin suggested. "Since I doubt you will take no for an answer. In this weather, no one will hear the noise."

"I have a less noticeable method," Johnnie replied. "Keep that umbrella over me." Kneeling, he examined the lock as best he could in the porch light, then reached into his jacket and pulled out his lock-pick set. Selecting the appropriate tools, he set to work. Only a couple of minutes later he stood, and tucked the tools away again. He turned to face Bergrin, braced for a lecture—and drew up short at the look of open approval.

"Well, well, the pretty Prince continues to be full of surprises. Where did you learn to pick locks?"

"I started by reading about it in a book," Johnnie relied, disconcerted by praise from so unexpected a source. "Curiosity got the better of me. It has proven to have its uses."

Bergrin smiled. "I do not think I want to know all the times you have made use of it. Strange, no one ever mentioned the ability in their reports."

Johnnie scowled. "Reports?"

Snickering, Bergrin pushed the front door open and slipped inside. Still glaring, Johnnie followed. The house was a disaster; it had been torn apart quite thoroughly. Shelves, tables, and chairs had all been overturned. Papers, knick-knacks, and other miscellany covered the floor. The contents of an enormous desk had been strewn across the study, nearly covering the carpet. The workshop was a mess of broken glass, spilled liquids, powders, and dried herbs. Closing the door to the workshop, Johnnie strode back to the study. He stood in the doorway, examining everything carefully. At last he said, "I do not think they found what they wanted."

"I agree," Bergrin said, looking amused.

Johnnie shot him a disgusted look. "You already found what we are looking for."

"Yes, but to be fair, I
am
good at finding things."

Annoyed, Johnnie examined the room again, then strode to the bookshelves built into the far wall. They went floor to ceiling, wall to wall, made of a heavy, sturdy, dark-stained wood with a hint of red to it. The centermost set of shelves were all covered by doors set with stained glass, meant to swing up and down, and lock into place.

Someone, likely the draugr, had broken the glass, the locks, literally torn the doors from their hinges, then pulled all the books and papers inside off the shelves and cast them to the floor. Someone else, to judge by the excess of wet and muddy prints, had come along and retrieved the very same items.

Dismissing the special shelves, Johnnie moved to the other shelves; in particular a set of three shelves where practically none of the books had been disturbed. The books here were a mishmash of scientific journals, personal journals, history books, and herbalists. Pulling all the books off the shelves and stacking them neatly on the floor, Johnnie next tested the actual shelves. Unsurprised to find them loose, he pulled them off and propped them against wall. He studied the bare wall remaining, reaching out to touch, looking for a hidden release.

He jerked in surprise when something pressed up against him from behind, sending a frisson of awareness through him, slicing down his spine, making his muscles tighten in anticipation—

But then he saw Bergrin's hand join his own on the wood, pressing in two places, and the section of wall popped out the slightest bit. Drawing a sharp breath, wondering what in the
hell
was wrong with him, Johnnie pulled the panel all the way open.

Inside the hidden cache were three journals and a stack of letters tied with twine. The hot thrill of secrets uncovered poured through him, making him forget all about the odd, confused moment where Bergrin had stood so close.

Taking the letters and journals, he pulled out his phone and summoned his car. Moving to the front hall, he tucked all but one of the journals under his arm. "Written in code," he said, unsurprised. Alchemists—any magic user who kept such journals, which was nearly all of them—always used code. "It could be some time before I break it; this looks particularly complicated."

"Oh?" Bergrin asked, mildly curious as he came up and glanced over Johnnie's shoulder. He swore loudly.

Johnnie turned his head slightly, quirking one brow. "Is there a problem?"

"I know this code—I mean, I can't read it, but I know whose code it is, and it's not that of the dead man."

"Then whose is it?" Johnnie asked.

"My father's," Bergrin replied. "Why the fuck is another alchemist using my dad's code to write his journals? Not even
I
can read my dad's journals."

Johnnie closed the book with a snap. "The answer to that is obvious—so he could be certain that someone he trusted, and
only
the person he trusted, could read whatever he has taken such pains to hide." He smirked. "I guess this means you are taking me to meet your parents."

Bergrin rolled his eyes. "Excuse me one moment, Highness. I apparently need to make a phone call."

Snickering, Johnnie sat down on the steps leading upstairs and pulled out one of the letters. They were old, to judge by the date on one. Twenty-odd years old. The envelopes were unmarked, save for a single letter – M – on the front. Another letter – T – was on the back. So the letters had likely been sent by magical means.

They, too, were written in the same code as the book. At a glance, it looked like T had been relaying to M some of his experiments.  He wished he could read it, but it took him weeks, if not months, to translate such journals.  There was still a small pile of them in his library, just waiting their turn.

Folding the letter, he slid it back into the envelope, then replaced it with the others. He clearly would need to figure out the identity of 'T', but if they had been using the code devised by Bergrin's father, then likely he could tell Johnnie who T was. Johnnie wondered what all of this was leading—

He jumped as the door slammed open and four men spilled inside, jerking to his feet even as he took in two wolves, a human, and … his blood turned cold as he watched the fourth turn into a dragon. Johnnie turned, but tripped over himself on the stairs, stumbling hard, but refusing to let go of the journals and letters. He regained his footing and bolted up the stairs—