Dance in the Dark (6 page)

Ontoniel nodded. "Next week. She is coming with her family to stay for the weekend. I expect both of you to present yourselves at your very best. None of your usual walking around buried in books and sheet music, no gallivanting off on your strange riddle-solving trips, Johnnie, and none of your moodiness, Elam. You both know what I expect. This is the rest of your life, Elam. Treat it accordingly. John, I want them to admire you and regard you as the fine addition to the household that you are, so do not hide away with your books."

Johnnie bit back anything he might have wanted to say to that, and said only, "Yes, Father."

"Yes, Father," Elam echoed.

Unable to bear another moment, Johnnie said, "I will have to begin looking for a suitable gift for the bride to be, as well as one for the newly betrothed couple. If you will pardon me, Father."

"Of course," Ontoniel replied, but absently, already focused on lecturing Elam further.

Married, Johnnie thought bleakly as he left. Elam was getting married. Bad enough that Elam barely noticed him, bad enough he could not break his love for Elam no matter how hard he tried—now he would have to live here and watch as Elam married and had children, raised his family. At least, Johnnie thought, being normal had the advantage of a short life.  He would not have to endure the misery for centuries, merely several decades.

He stopped halfway back to his library, the entire house suddenly stifling. Turning around, he took the stairs quickly, returning to his room to fetch a proper jacket and a light-weight coat. He was going out, and he would stay out for as long as possible.

When he was ready, he called downstairs to have a car brought ‘round. He went downstairs and to his library, retrieving his journal and the bestiary. He lingered a moment longer to write a note for Lila to deliver to his father, then finally departed.

Outside, his personal chauffer waited patiently beside a dark gray car, sleek and elegant, not as ostentatious as the limos. The chauffer held the door open, then closed it behind Johnnie before walking around the car and sliding into the driver's seat. "Where would you like to go, Master Johnnie?"

"Into the city, please," Johnnie replied, staring out the window as they drove down the long drive.

"As you wish."

‘The city' was four hours straight north, technically at the heart of his father's territory. But Ontoniel preferred his privacy, and so lived four hours away from the city where he conducted most of his business and social engagements.  When Johnnie travelled with his family, the distance did not matter. By himself, however, the four hours must be driven.

He did not particularly mind most of the time, content to be alone with his thoughts; right then he definitely was not, but hopefully the bestiary would distract him a bit. He really did not want to find himself thinking about Elam the whole time. His gut twisted, and he snatched up the bestiary and pulled out his glasses, desperate to distract himself from the pain. Why, he thought miserably, staring at a page discussing firebirds but not at all comprehending it. Why must he love someone he all too often did not even like? Why must he love someone who did not even care enough to hate him, merely regarded him as an annoyance to be endured?

Why, he wondered with growing despair, did he not have anyone to turn to? Because Rostislav had counted him amongst those things which could be sacrificed and Johnnie could not forgive that. He stared out at the landscape, the ocean and field passing by, muttering to his reflection in the window, "I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top."

"Did you say something, Master Johnnie?"

"Only to myself," Johnnie said. "My apologies. Notify me when we are a quarter of an hour away."

"Yes, Master Johnnie."

Thanking him, Johnnie looked again at the bestiary in his lap and made himself actually read it. Unfortunately, even forcing himself to read slowly and meticulously, he finished the book well before they reached his destination. Stifling a sigh, he stared out at the scenery and tried to solve the riddle of his mysterious, so-called admirer.

Heat struck, sudden and unexpected. Perhaps he was spending too much time alone, of late, if being all but assaulted in the dark left him flushed with stirrings of reluctant lust. Shaking his head at himself, he muttered, "Insanity is often logic of an accurate mind overtaxed."

Except he was not overtaxed. Quite the contrary—he was bored out of his mind and frustrated by problems he could not solve. Normally, Rostislav would appear with some puzzle or mystery for him; he had been good at distracting Johnnie and giving him interesting ways to apply all the things he knew.

But he refused to think about Rostislav, just like he refused to think about Elam. Restless, irritable, he waited impatiently for the trip to finally end. Just when he thought he could not endure a single minute more, his chauffer spoke. "Fifteen minutes away, sir."

"Drop me off downtown, by the fountain," Johnnie said. "Retrieve me there in the morning at nine o'clock."

"Yes, Master Johnnie."

Twenty minutes later, Johnnie stood alone in the heart of the city. There were places aplenty he could go; no door was closed to a Desrosiers. But he did not want the clubs and restaurants and fancy suites and cocktail bars. He was sick of it all, sick unto death. All he wanted right then was to avoid the life that was currently making him miserable.

Abandoning the heart of downtown, he walked the streets aimlessly. People looked at him askance, especially as he reached the more questionable portions of the city, but no one bothered him. It was close to five when he finally grew sick of walking and started looking for a place to rest for a bit.

He was at the very edge of downtown, well away from any of the ‘safe' portions of the city. It could be dangerous  for abnormals. Normals who happened to be in the city steered clear, kept away by pure instinct.

Crossing the street, he met the eyes of three vampires watching him with obvious intent. They wore small silver pins on their jackets, in the shape of a triad of roses. Visitors, rather than citizens of the territory. "Gentlemen," he said, and smiled with stiff politeness as he kept walking, hiding his smirk as he saw surprise ripple across their features as he effortlessly resisted their Venus flytrap beauty. He had not gone three steps past them when they moved, one blocking his path in front, the others coming up at his sides, hovering just so to block his retreat. Johnnie smirked.

"What are you?" the ringleader asked.

"Only a normal," Johnnie said.

"You're lying, pretty boy," said one of the others, reaching out to touch Johnnie's hair.

He did not react to the touch, refusing to encourage them by showing his displeasure. Instead, he only laughed and quoted, "In heaven an angel is no one particular."

"Who are you?" the ringleader demanded again.

Johnnie shrugged, and slowly lifted his gaze to meet the vampire's eyes. The man was taller, more heavily built; they all were. It would not be hard for them to do whatever they wanted to him.  But he could see in their eyes that they had already figured out he was far more than he appeared. "Leave me alone," he said, "and you will not have to find out."

In silence the vampires withdrew, and Johnnie resumed his walking. Near the end of the block, just as he was considering turning around and taking a different street, a bar sign at the corner caught his eye.
The Bremen
it said, and the name appealed. Reaching it, he pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The bar had an old time pub feel inside, warm and discreetly lit, with old wood, leather, a fireplace in one corner and a beat up jukebox in the other, adding a touch of eclectic to the atmosphere.  He ignored the momentary silence that greeted his arrival, hanging his coat and jacket up at the hooks by the door before striding to the bar itself.

He slid onto a barstool and glanced surreptitiously around. The bar was mostly empty, eight people total including the bartender. Two men sat at a table in the center of the room, talking in low tones, a bit of anxiety in the voice of the human; the other figure was a free imp.  A young vampire stood at the jukebox; to judge by his appearance and manner he could not be older than eighty, quite possibly only around fifty.

Two more men stood at a pool table, lazily making shots and drinking beer. Another man was at a corner booth, baseball cap pulled down over his face, slumped in such a way that he was probably fast asleep. Johnnie could not tell what he was, or if he was anything at all. One other man, a witch of modest power to judge by the feel and smell, sat several stools down at the bar, nursing a beer and chatting quietly with the bartender.

The bartender, of all things, was a lone wolf. That was a definite rarity in vampire territory, but he wore a gold rose pin that said he was an approved citizen. "Vodka rocks," Johnnie said when the bartender came over to him, and slid money across the counter.  He set his journal on the bar, flipping it open and pretending to read while he eavesdropped on the imp and alchemist at the table a couple of yards away, draw by the agitated tone of the conversation.

The alchemist was clearly deeply upset by something, and the imp trying to soothe him without real success. "I'm never going to find her," the alchemist said, fighting tears. "He's taken her and every night he torments me with that fucking apparition—"

"It's just a stupid cane," the imp said. "Give him the damn thing, Micah."

"No!" Micah said. "I can't. If he's willing to do all this to get it, it's a bad idea to let him have it. I just don't understand, it doesn't fucking do anything. It's just a cane. And giving it to him doesn't mean he'll give her back."

The appeal of a problem to solve brushed along Johnnie's skin like a lover's touch. He took another sip of vodka, then said, "I beg your pardon, but who is ‘she' and what is this cane that somebody wants badly enough to resort to kidnapping?" Around him, the bar went still again. Johnnie merely took another sip of vodka and waited.

"Who the fuck are you?" the imp at the table demanded. "You're too high-priced for a dive like this."

Johnnie ignored that. "Someone has been kidnapped; by your wedding ring and the fact you are here and not at home, I would say a wife.  Given the trouble to which your assailant has gone to obtain an innocuous cane, I can only surmise it is not, in fact, innocuous. You are an alchemist, so the cane must be alchemical in nature, and useful to abnormals. To judge by the condition of your clothes and your exhausted state, I would say this has been going on for weeks. Your tormentor is obviously powerful and arrogant, and he is probably a witch, a sorcerer, or an alchemist."

The alchemist stared at him, then said, "Three weeks. My wife was kidnapped three weeks ago. He can't get into my house, so he took her while she was going to work. The cane is something of a family heirloom, given to my great great great grandfather, though it's of no real use to alchemists. Uh. My name is Micah."

"Shut up," the imp snapped. "Haven't you learned by now one of his ilk is never anything but bad news?"

Micah just stared at him. "I'll take whatever help I can get." He turned back to Johnnie. "Who are you, stranger? If you do not mind my asking."

Johnnie took another sip of his vodka, then stood up and moved to the table. At the last minute, he decided not to use his real surname, and on impulse reverted to the name he had given up shortly after turning nine. Extending his hand, he said, "Johnnie Goodnight."

"That name sounds familiar," the bartender said thoughtfully. "Dunno why." Johnnie did not bother to jar his memory.

The imp sitting with Micah sneered. "What do you care about our plight, Mr. Goodnight?"

"I like puzzles," Johnnie replied. "I am very good at solving them."

Surprisingly, Micah laughed. "That's as honest a reason as I've ever heard. If you want to amuse yourself by solving my problem, by all means have a seat. Can I buy you another drink?"

"That would be most generous, thank you," Johnnie replied. He sat down and made himself comfortable, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms over his chest.  "Start at the beginning and tell me everything. Leave no detail out, no matter how inconsequential it may seem."

The bartender came then with their fresh drinks, and Johnnie thanked him, handing over a generous tip because the man served excellent vodka, ice-cold even before it was put on the rocks, and served in crystal.  He took a sip, then repeated to Micah, "So tell me everything."

Micah nodded, and took a long swallow of his beer, then started to tell his story. "Two months ago a man came by, inquiring after this old family heirloom. It's a wooden cane, painted black, with a silver head carved with runes. According to family legend, it can travel across planes."

"I see," Johnnie said, seeing very well indeed. ‘Across planes' meant the cane could travel to every shadowy corner of the supernatural world—earth, hell, dreams, and so forth. Normally, items did not travel with a person; not even clothing. Rare was the object which could travel all the planes. "I take it the secret to making the cane was lost?"

"Yes," Micah replied. "That is how it came into my family's possession. It's always been our task to figure out the riddle of the cane's making."

"Tell me about the man who wants it."