Dance in the Dark (5 page)

"Wouldn't you do the same damned thing?"

Johnnie turned back toward the door, not deigning to look at Rostislav as he replied, "Elam would think better of me if I conformed more. If I stopped dabbling in my mysteries, if I ceased to speak with you of my own free will, if I spent more time helping him and father instead of following my own whims and desires.  Yet I have done none of those things, so the answer is no. I would not have done the same damned thing."

"So like a vampire, to expect everyone else to bend to him," Jesse said. "I meant what I said downstairs. It takes us decades to achieve the cold, arrogant pride that you wear so easily after twenty-six years. If vampires look down upon you, it is because they are jealous you are already superior in so many ways."

Ignoring the comments, for that was all the attention they deserved, Johnnie said, "You are both fools."

"God damn it, Johnnie," Rostislav said. "Don't be this way. We're friends.  I won't let you break it off."

"You made your choice," Johnnie snapped, "and apparently part of that choice was lying to me, and sacrificing our friendship. You are the one who did the breaking. The next time you decide upon so mad a scheme, keep in mind that house arrest means losing
everything
."

He pushed the door open and left before anyone could speak, feeling angry and hurt and miserable—but he would not bend. Perhaps love was worth any and all sacrifice, but that love was of no comfort to those who
were
sacrificed.

Turning slightly to close the door, he caught a glimpse of Jesse holding Rostislav tightly. They looked beautiful together, and miserable together, and for a moment Johnnie almost wanted to say something comforting. 

Instead, he closed the door and walked away, reciting in quiet, bitter tones, "There they go, there they go. No blood's in the shoe. The shoe's not too tight. This bride is right."

Johnnie knew it was going to be a bad day when he woke up in the dead hours of the morning and was unable to go back to sleep. He stared at the ceiling for several minutes, anyway, willing himself to go back to sleep before at least conceding defeat.

Climbing out of his enormous four-poster bed, he padded naked across the hardwood floor of his bedroom and into the cold-tiled bathroom.  It glowed a faint blue-white from a small nightlight plugged in near the door. Not bothering to turn on the overhead lights, he simply headed to the shower and turned it on. Another pale, blue-white light turned on as the water started, all the light Johnnie needed and wanted.

When the water was hot, he slid into the shower and closed the glass door behind him. Steam billowed over the top of the door, making the dark tiles glisten in the dim light. Beyond the splashing of the water, there was no sound.  The clock on his nightstand had read 2:17 AM when he had finally climbed out of bed.

He wished he could go back to sleep. It was all the more frustrating for not having a reason for his sleeplessness; not even something as trivial as nightmares could explain it, for he did not dream, or at least never remembered dreaming.

Even worse, once he was awake, he did not sleep again the rest of the day. He had never managed to take even a nap.  Reaching out, he snagged his soap and washed thoroughly, rinsing off and then washing his hair. He had never really had to bother with shaving. Finally he dragged himself from the shower, shutting off the water and pushing open the door. He grabbed a towel from the hooks off to the right, and toweled off lightly before returning to his bedroom.

Crossing the room, he went into his dressing room and reluctantly flicked on the sharp, bright overhead lights.  Looking over his not inconsiderable wardrobe, he weighed his options, taking into account who might be visiting, what he would be doing, where he might go, if he would be back in time to change into evening dress or if he would have to dress in something to accommodate night and day …

But his day was supposed to be a quiet one, and his father had announced no visitors for the day. Johnnie had no visitors, not since his only friend—

Sharply dismissing that thought, he focused on his clothing and finally settled on dark gray slacks with black pinstripes, a dark, smoky lavender shirt and a vest to match the pants. From his jewelry case he chose a set of amethyst cufflinks.  He set the matching tie pin aside, then went to his tie racks, pulling down a paisley-patterned tie in shades of gray and purple.  He tied it in a Full Windsor, then arranged it properly with the vest and fastened the tie pin in place.

Going to the drawers and shelves for shoes and socks, he pulled out black for both and finished dressing. Lastly he combed his hair, and dabbed on a bit of his cologne, hints of apple and opium wafting through the room.

Leaving his bedroom, he walked down the hall, then down the winding stairs, and finally toward the northeast corner of the house, passing by the main library to his private library just off it. Throughout most of the house, the lights were set to work automatically. Johnnie hated it; any room that was exclusively his, he controlled the lighting himself.

Even here, in his library, no lights came on and he most often chose to use only the barest amount required.  As the room had no windows, to protect the books, he often required a great deal of light, but he contained it to where he was working.

He moved through the absolute dark with ease, as familiar with his library as he was with his own reflection. Reaching the chair where he had been reading just a few hours ago, he turned on a rose patterned Tiffany lamp.

Sitting down, he picked up the book he had been working through the past week, as well as his reading glasses. Sliding them on, he began to read. The book was, for all intents and purposes, a bestiary of abnormals. Naturally abnormals resented such a thing, but it was infinitely useful to normals who were dragged, willingly or otherwise, into the supernatural world which teemed below the surface. He owned several such compendiums, but this one was by far the most thorough and reliable. Obtaining it had been a nice dent in his savings, but the expense had been worth it. Every book he owned was worth it.

Granted, too many of the abnormals listed had nothing by them save
little or nothing is known,
but it still contained more information than any other bestiary he had obtained. He was reading it from beginning to end, despite the fact he had the contents all but memorized. Despite his efforts, in this and a few other books, he still could find no clue as to the stranger who had stolen two kisses in perfect dark.

Kisses he still remembered with crystal clarity, though he tried to forget them, be repulsed by them. It was the mystery of it that got under his skin, the audacity of it.  "What lies lurk in kisses," he muttered to himself. He wanted to know who would dare treat him in such a manner, and laugh at the idea of facing consequences.

The wards and the vision were the thing. But the wards … the wards he had checked out. As he had already known, they protected the suite from everything, even those things normally neglected, ghosts and other such creatures, which were the only ones who could see in absolute dark with such perfect clarity.

So he had not a single clue as to who had taken liberties in the dark.

Irritated all over again, he focused once more on his reading. If this bestiary turned up nothing, he would resort to other books, though as of yet he had not decided what those would be.  He might have to go in search of the proper books, if nothing in his own collection or the household library proved useful.

He read the bestiary until the clock chimed five, then set it aside and moved to his work table. As tempting as it was to pursue the matter of the stranger relentlessly, obsession hindered more than it helped. A cool, collected mind served better than a feverish one.

Settling at the table, he opened his latest journal—then paused, scowling as he saw he had mistakenly opened it, not to a blank page, but to the last personal entry he had made. He used his journals for everything, from research to recounting his days to empty his mind, to whatever he fancied, really.  The last entry was an accounting of his assisting Rostislav.  In a moment of self-mockery, recalling the way Rostislav had called him a detective, he had given the entry a mock case number and name reminiscent of a bad detective novel.

That debacle had been three weeks ago. He had neither seen nor heard from Rostislav since; no doubt that was how Rostislav preferred it, tucked away in exile with his precious vampire.

Refusing to give in to the urge to throw the journal across the room, he flipped open to a blank page and marked it with date and topic, which was a continuance of his translations and studies of a set of alchemical journals he had acquired a couple of months ago.  He had found them by chance in a normal bookshop that purported to sell books pertaining to witchcraft and other such things that amounted only to normal nonsense. The books he had found amongst all the nonsense, however, were authentic, and sold for a pittance because they were old and poorly cared for, and the normals had believed them to be only junk.

As was typical of such journals, the alchemist had not put his name anywhere in it—at least, not anywhere or any way that was obvious. The contents were also written in a complex code. It had taken him the better part of a week to crack it, and he was still only halfway through translating the second of three books.

He would never be able to make practical use of what he was learning, but he had always liked learning simply for its own sake.  So he worked, and learned, making elaborate notes, until the door opened right as the clock began to chime six.

"Good morning, Master Johnnie."

"Good morning, Lila," Johnnie greeted, pausing briefly in his work to look up and nod at his favorite of his father's servants. "Thank you for the tea."

"Of course, Master," Lila replied. "Your father said to tell you that he'll be in the morning room around ten, and would like you to join him and Lord Elam there."

"Very well," Johnnie said, stifling a sigh and only smiling politely. "Convey to him that I will of course see them at ten." Nodding, Lila departed. Johnnie returned to his work, pausing only for the odd sip of tea. By the time the clock chimed nine thirty, he had managed to finish translating one more experiment. It was a more popular experiment amongst alchemists—the mystery of the Snow White Poison.

The exact nature of the poison used, no one knew, only that it was capable of killing nearly any and all abnormals. One of the greatest witches ever born had been killed by a single bite of poison-laced apple. Her death had been such a tragedy that the poison had forever after borne her name. Like every other alchemist who had tried to recreate the infamous poison, this one had failed, but Johnnie admired the effort and thought the man had clearly put into his work.

Sighing, he closed his journal, tidied up his work table, then slipped his glasses into their cloth case and tucked the case into a hidden pocket of his vest. Checking that every fold of fabric and strand of hair was where it should be, he left his library and walked through the halls to the main part of the house.

The morning room was heavily favored by Ontoniel Desrosiers, for it had been his late wife's favorite room. Johnnie hated the room for the very same reason; he wanted as little to do with the woman who had killed his real parents as was possible.  Things tended to get very awkward indeed when they were all forced to remember that he was a Desrosiers only because the late Lady Desrosiers had gone blood crazy and killed his parents, and Ontoniel had adopted him out of guilt.

His father and brother sat at the table in front of the bay window that took up most of the main wall. Ontoniel was reading the paper, while Elam studied pages of sheet music, humming softly beneath his breath. No doubt he was preparing for his recital next month; he did very little beyond play Alucard and his precious piano.

"Good morning," Johnnie greeted. "Father. Ellie."

Elam spared him a brief, withering look, and said nothing.

"John," Ontoniel greeted, folding his paper and offering Johnnie what passed for a smile with him. "How are your studies?"

"Well enough," Johnnie said cautiously, unpleasantly surprised. His father never asked about his studies. Vampires naturally admired knowledge and the pursuit of it, but Elam had informed him on several occasions that he had surpassed dedication and tipped over into crass obsession.  Johnnie ignored him, especially since he had more than once provided an answer or solution when no one else could. "What is this about?"

Ontoniel sat back in his seat, folding one leg over the other, sipping specially treated blood from a gold-rimmed teacup. "I have been in negotiations for some time to find Elam a suitable bride.  The matter was finally settled last night. We will be holding the betrothal ball in a few months. I wanted you to be the first to know."

Johnnie kept his voice under control, but only barely.  He looked at Elam, so beautiful it hurt, so out of reach it was crushing. "Congratulations, Ellie. Who is the lucky woman?"

"Lady Ekaterina Salem," Ontoniel replied. "It's a good family: respectable lineage, affluent, well-liked and admired. I believe she and Elam will be happy, and more than capable of handling the expanded territory the union will bring."

"I have not the slightest doubt all will be as you say," Johnnie said, managing to smile. He knew the name, but nothing in particular about them came to mind. That was all to the good, of course, because the less said the less scandal, but all the same… "I assume she will be visiting soon?"