Dance in the Dark (39 page)

Bergrin glared at him. "I really do not like you."

Johnnie smirked. "Whatever you say, Grim. I cannot believe that is your name."

"It's one of the names of Odin," Bergrin said defensively. "My mom—she means well, but she's—well, you're always making fun of my hat. She thinks it's cute. She thinks my name is cute. I think she just likes torturing me."

Laughing, Johnnie curled his fingers into the front of Bergrin's shirt and titled his head up in blatant invitation. "They are both very cute, Grim," he assured.

"Shut up," Bergrin muttered, and took Johnnie's mouth.

"I cannot believe it is you," Johnnie said softly when they parted. "I cannot believe you are
here.
"

"Yeah, well, I can't believe you're kissing me," Bergrin said, and took another quick kiss as if to reassure himself. "Speaking of here, though—what is going on? What the hell happened after I left?"

Johnnie tensed as he was abruptly reminded of everything he had neglected, ignored, since seeing Bergrin again. "I screwed up," he said, withdrawing, tensing—only to be yanked forward and held. Johnnie froze in surprise, then abruptly relaxed. Being held was nice, he thought, resting against Bergrin's chest, soothed by the weight of the arms wrapped around him—still reeling from the realization that Bergrin was back, and his, and he did not think he would ever grow used to it.

"Tell me what happened," Bergrin said. "Whatever it is, I can fix it."

"Arrogant," Johnnie said. "Like I said, I screwed up. I have just over two days left to find wherever my mother hid the magic mirror my father made, or she will kill everyone she put to sleep." Slowly, he explained to Bergrin everything that had happened since he had left.

When he had finished, Bergrin said. "We need your father, then."

Johnnie frowned.

"Ontoniel will know where she hid it," Bergrin continued. "I could try to find it on my own, and probably would eventually, but getting Ontoniel would be faster. If we can wake him, we can find the mirror, and destroy the damned thing."

"But if we tamper—"

"Only from the outside, right? If we can find him here in dreams, then we can wake him from this side, and he will be able to tell us where to find the mirror so we can destroy the damned thing. Then I will find that bitch and destroy her."

Johnnie nodded. "So where do we find my father?"

Bergrin snorted in amusement. "Honestly, detective, where a King is always to be found—in his castle. You should know that. Why are you over on this side of town anyway?"

"Because," Johnnie snapped irritably, "I was alone and had no magical ability to simply
find
things and I had to find the mirror—"

Bergrin cut him off with a soft kiss. "I'm here now, yeah? I can help where no one else can."

Johnnie hit him again, then turned away, looking around the street. Spotting his cane, he went to fetch it, calling over his shoulder, "It took you long enough."

"Stop hitting me," Bergrin groused. "Come on, Highness, let's go find his Majesty." He took Johnnie's hand, and they vanished.

They reappeared in Ontoniel's home—or, an attempt at it. It seemed gray and washed out, like an unfinished image, really. "Why is the house like this?" Johnnie asked, looking around at the gray walls and floor, the random bursts of color and detail.

"Fewer minds dream of this place, think of it," Bergrin replied. "The more minds, the clearer the image. The dream plane is … complicated, and if you ask me far more dangerous than even hell. I hate the dream plane, but all too often this is where souls wind up."

Johnnie turned from examining an oddly intriguing, incomplete version of one of his favorite paintings, and looked at Bergrin. "So you actually do that? Go find lost souls?"

"Sometimes, not often," Bergrin replied. "I feel them more now than I used to, though. Being … Death, or whatever, is equal parts being angel and demon. My mother did not have form until, like an angel, she was summoned and given form. But like a demon, it takes my dad as her 'anchor' to keep that shape, and stay as human as she will ever be." He pointed to his eyes. "Her eyes are like this, even on the mortal plane."

"That is why I did not see her, that one day at your father's house. You could not risk me meeting her—but your father said he thought I would meet her soon."

"Um—" Bergrin rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. "My father figured out I, um, had more than a professional interest in you. Then he bullied the whole sordid tale out of me, and went off on me. That's the argument we were having when you walked in."

Johnnie shook his head. "You really should have listened to your father."

"That's funny, coming from
you,
who defies his father at every possible opportunity."

"I do not defy my father at
every possible opportunity,"
Johnnie said. "I merely resent that he wants me always near to hand, and sets babysitters upon me." He turned away, headed toward Ontoniel's study, adding, "Even if the babysitter is good in bed."

Bergrin's laughter chased after him, followed a moment later by the man himself. "So does that mean I am allowed back in the bed?"

"That depends entirely upon who else you save, Red Riding Hood."

"Huntsman," Bergrin said.

"Yes, Grim," Johnnie said, then reached out to grasp the doorknob.

Bergrin came up behind him, reaching around to grasp his wrist. "Don't do that."

Johnnie froze, then let go of the knob. "Why not?" He glanced at the door. "It is different. Sharper—it looks exactly as it should. Why?"

"This space has been overtaken by dreaming," Bergrin said. "Whoever is dreaming, and we obviously know who, knows this place well enough to fill out every detail subconsciously."

"That would definitely be my father," Johnnie said. "So—what? We cannot go in?"

"We cannot charge in and disrupt the dream," Bergrin said, and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. "But we can watch, and wait for the right opportunity."

Johnnie just looked at him. "So we wait out here? For what?"

"I didn't say we were going to wait out here," Bergrin said. "Don't let go of my hand."

"All right."

Bergrin smiled, and Johnnie sneezed as the scent of myrrh and musk roses surrounded—the smell, he realized, of Bergrin's magic at its strongest, or when he was not banking it.

Johnnie startled as he realized he could barely see Bergrin—like a ghost, he was completely translucent. But it was not until he glanced at their clasped hands that he realized he had gone translucent as well.  "No wonder you are so good at sneaking around, and no one would ever think to account for
death
in their spells. This would also explain why you always follow me so easily."

"Yes," Bergrin said. "My mother says that once, a long time ago, people
did
account for death in their spells. Life, she said, was much more dangerous back then. But, over time, they attributed more and more to superstition, to the unfounded fears of the primitive and uneducated. So, it is much easier to be me now."

"Stalker," Johnnie muttered. "You are nothing more than an abnormal stalker."

Bergrin did not reply to that, only tugged on his cap with his free hand, then said, "Come on, let's get this over with."  He stepped toward and then
through
the door and it was the wildest thing Johnnie had ever seen—until he did it himself, skin prickling and it seemed so
wrong
.

He started to ask a question, then recalled he should not. He looked around the office, frowning thoughtfully. It was different than the study he knew; some of the paintings were different, his little corner did not have its chair. The books were different, the curtains …

Beyond the windows flashed thunder and lightning. Rain drummed against the window panes, and combined with the single lit tiffany lamp in the room to give the entire place a horror-story ambiance.  Movement caught his eye, and Johnnie turned to see that Ontoniel sat at his desk.

Johnnie's eyes widened with dismay. Ontoniel looked awful. Hair, usually so neatly combed, was disheveled, falling over his fingers where his head was buried in one hand. His other hand was curled lightly around a snifter of brandy.

His arms were the worst. Every now and again, Johnnie would catch a glimpse of the scars, but Ontoniel almost never rolled up the long sleeves of his shirts.  Here, in this dream or nightmare, the wounds were fresh—evidence of the blood-crazed madness consuming his wife.

Blood-craze was the fear of all vampires; a disease that seemed to come from nowhere, creeping up and creeping up, until there was no denying its presence.  Blood-craze was the gradual loss of the ability to process human blood and turn it into what was needed for the vampire to live. Johnnie had only ever read about it, because it was extremely rare that vampires would talk about it at length with anyone not strictly necessary.  Over time, the vampire's body simply forgot how to use human blood. To counter this, in the early stages, vampire blood could be used as a refresher, a reminder—a starter, and the body could copy that.

But over time, it grew worse and worse, until the only way to keep the afflicted alive was to feed them vampire blood.

Unfortunately, the craving for human blood never went away. It too grew worse and worse, as the body increasingly wanted something it could no longer have.  It would not have been hard, the night Johnnie's parents died, for someone to kidnap Sariah and manipulate her into the feeding frenzy that killed his parents.

To judge by the surroundings, this dream was of a time when Sariah had still been alive—but later on, when Ontoniel would have been feeding her his blood almost exclusively. The wounds on his arms were too fresh for it to be otherwise. Johnnie could not fathom what a nightmare that must have been, and he winced, thinking of the argument he and Ontoniel had gotten into, not so long ago.

The door opened, then, and a servant slipped inside.

"I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed," Ontoniel said.

"Yes, my lord," the servant replied, "but I thought you would like to know that Mr. and Mrs. Goodnight are here, and have brought their son with them."

"The baby was born?" Ontoniel said.

"They would understand, my lord, if they had to come back—"

"No," Ontoniel said. "Of course I want to see them. Thank you. Bring them here at once."

As the servant left again, Ontoniel tossed back the last of his drink, then rolled down his sleeves and straightened his hair. Thought not quite as neat as usual, he looked much more like the Ontoniel that Johnnie better knew.

The door opened again, and Johnnie's eyes suddenly burned—somehow, it had not struck him what the servant had said. Mr. and Mrs. Goodnight.

His parents.

He knew them from pictures, from his few memories, but this was not the same. Not at all. He really did look exactly like his mother, but dark where she had obviously been fair. Johnnie did not realize how tightly he had been gripping Bergrin's hand until suddenly he was pulled back against Bergrin, an arm around him. Johnnie could not tear his eyes from his parents, the way his mother held him, little more than a pile of blankets in her arms.

"Thank you for seeing us, my lord," Tommy said.

"Not at all," Ontoniel replied. "I am happy to see you are settled, and that your son has made it into the world, alive and healthy. May I?"

Cordula beamed, and gently handed her son over. "Of course, my lord. After all that you have done to help us settle here, we thought you would like to see him."

"Yes," Ontoniel said, gently holding the baby, smiling ever so faintly. He moved across the room to the seating area, and sat down in one of the leather chairs, settling the baby more comfortably in his arms.  After a few minutes, he looked toward Tommy and Cordula, seated on the couch now, holding hands and watching Ontoniel holding their son. "What did you name him?"

"Actually—" Cordula smiled shyly. "After all that you have done, all the trouble you have gone to for us—for him—we thought it would be fitting if you named him, my lord. I mean, if you would like."

Ontoniel looked at them in genuine surprise. "Me?"

Tommy nodded. "We would be honored, my lord."

"The honor is mine," Ontoniel replied softly, and looked down at the baby again. "I think something simple and innocuous for you, something to help you live the normal life your parents want so badly for you." He fell silent a moment, then said, "John, I think. That suits perfectly."

Cordula smiled. "John it is."

Johnnie did not know he was crying until he realized he could no longer see. Ontoniel had named him? Why had no one ever told him?  He stared at the image, of Ontoniel holding him, talking to him, while his parents watched, until the image suddenly blurred and grayed—

"Wait here," Bergrin abruptly said, and let go of him, then surged to where the figure of Ontoniel was still just visible.

Everything shifted, changed—and Johnnie realized as the study started to fill in again that the whole thing was starting over.