Dance in the Dark (7 page)

Micah eyed him, cautious but also amused. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but he had an awful lot in common with you."

Johnnie smiled in amusement and quoted, "As long as there are rich people in the world, they will be desirous of distinguishing themselves from the poor."

Micah flushed. "I didn't mean—"

"No offense was taken, I assure you," Johnnie said. "So a wealthy abnormal, well-dressed and arrogant. Human?"

"A witch," Micah clarified. "I'm fairly certain he's up to some sort of darker magic, and thinks the cane will help, but I don't know for certain."

"He would not be the first witch to try and cross planes," Johnnie said. "You refused to give him the cane, and so he resorted to other methods."

"Yes," Micah replied, and drank more of his beer. "Every day he came back and tried to get it—money, pretty promises, and finally threats. I kept refusing. Then, three weeks ago, my wife never showed up for work. All I found when I rushed home was a note informing me that until I handed over the cane, I would never see her again—except her apparition comes to me every night, and simply sits in her chair, from ten to two. Every night, for those four hours, I sit there and try my damndest to learn something, anything, but …" He did not bother to finish the sentence.

He did not need to finish it. Apparitions were ‘ghosts' of the living, most often appearing under times of duress.  Some of the more dramatic stories involved apparitions appearing when the person had been buried alive, or was otherwise so trapped. They could also be forced to appear, in situations like Micah's, to wear down the victim. Forcing apparitions was hard work, however, even for a talented sorcerer. For a witch, it would be even more difficult.

Johnnie took another sip of his vodka, then another, before he stood up. "Let us go see your home, then."

"What—" Micah cut himself off and only nodded, finishing his beer, then stood and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. He shrugged into it, then said, "Of course. I live about five blocks away."

Johnnie nodded and strode to where his own jacket and coat hung, pulling them on and then going to the bar to fetch his journal. 

"You don't mind walking, do you?" Micah asked.

"Not at all," Johnnie replied.

"I'm coming, too," the imp said. "No way should you be trusting another fucking noble, Micah. I don't trust him."

Johnnie smiled, slow and razor sharp, then said, "To stop a demon, ask another demon." It was part of an old abnormal saying, in reference to the more powerful supernaturals. The entire phrase went, "To stop a werewolf, get a witch/To stop a witch, get a sorcerer/To stop a sorcerer, get a vampire/To stop a vampire, get a dragon/To stop a dragon, get a demon/To stop a demon, get another demon."

"You're a normal," the imp said scathingly.  "Suits and manners and arrogance don't make you abnormal. I want to know what does make you abnormal, and makes you think you should be here at all."

"Tell me thy company, and I'll tell thee what thou art," Johnnie said. "I am what I am, accept it or not. Your opinion means nothing to me. Micah, let us go."

Nodding, Micah led the way out and then north five blocks, until they were well out of the city and into the outlying townhouses. He stopped in front of a house that was blue and white, complete with a white picket fence, a pretty little stone path leading up to the house, lined with rosebushes the entire way.

Johnnie eyed all the flowers thoughtfully, pausing on the stone path leading up to the house. "You said you had protections on the house?"

"Yes," Micah replied. "It's perfectly safe—"

"What of the yard?" Johnnie asked.

"No," Micah replied. "Not really. It's damned hard work, maintaining wards and all outside. The only things I've done out here are spells to help Lisa's roses."

Johnnie smirked, and indicated the rosebushes lining either side of the walkway. "Once upon a time there were three women who were cursed, turned into flowers in a field. Over time, though, one of them was able to return to her own home at night. Then, one night, shortly before she had to return to the field before daybreak, she told her husband that if he came and picked her that afternoon, she would be forever free of the curse.

"And so that afternoon, the husband went to the field and looked upon the three flowers. They were in every way exactly alike. After a moment, the husband picked one of the flowers, and then he took his wife home."

Looking over his shoulder, Johnnie said to Micah and the imp, "The question is, how did he know which flower was his wife?"

They looked at him as though he had lost his mind, and Johnnie laughed softly. Cupping one of the roses on the bush which had caught his eye, he bent to smell it. The faintest hints of magic tickled his nose. "It rained heavily last night. I remember the sound of it, starting when I went to bed at eleven. When I first woke up at one-thirty, I could still hear it, but by the time I got out of bed after two, it had stopped. Yesterday's weather report said that it stormed here. These rosebushes all show signs of it—broken stems, strewn leaves, the soil in which they are planted is still quite damp even now, and in the curls of petals where the sun cannot reach, water remains. Except this one bush; it looks as though it has not been affected by anything for days."

He released the rose he held, and turned to face Micah. "Someone turned your wife into a rosebush, which is clever. It could have been done so quickly, no one would have noticed a thing, and being so close to the house means the witch does not have to force the apparition to travel a great distance. Being close to the house also means that the residual magic of the wards kept you from feeling the magic emanating from this rosebush. "You or your friend can, I am certain, break the spell easily enough."

Looking stunned, disbelieving but so painfully hopeful, Micah reached into his jacket and extracted what was often called an alchemist's travel kit. It contained all an alchemist needed to do the most basic and common of spell work. He knelt in front of the rosebush—

"I would not do it quite yet," Johnnie said. "There is something rather curious about all this, that I do not think you have realized."

Micah frowned, and reluctantly stopped what he was doing. "What do you mean?"

"A sorcerer or a witch might be able to change the shape of something, but it would require a spell circle, and as whoever it was changed her here, there should be evidence of a spell circle on location—but I see no chalk, no remains of work in the grass and dirt, nothing.  Not many abnormals are so magically powerful they can change the shape of something. Demons certainly, a good enough necromancer or sorcerer … and imps."

"What—"

Johnnie ducked as the imp swung, then threw his arms out and caught the imp at the legs, sweeping the imp off his feet. Reaching into his coat, he pulled a small silver dagger and held it to the imp's throat. Without looking away from the imp, he said to Micah, "How long have the two of you known each other?"

"A-a-couple of months," Micah said, staring wide-eyed, looking confused and hurt and uncertain.

"Do not move," Johnnie said to the imp, "and I would not try magic if I were you, either. One nick of this dagger will cause you a great deal of pain."

The imp stared at him. "How did you know I was part of it?"

"I would wager you are all of it, actually," Johnnie replied. "The plan was never to hand the cane over to the wealthy man you pretended to be. I would wager that as Micah's friend, you eventually would have convinced him to give it to you for safekeeping or some such. Am I right?"

"How did you know that?" the imp demanded.

"You are an imp," Johnnie replied. "Any self-respecting imp would have seen that rosebush was false. I have no magical ability whatsoever and I knew immediately something about it was off.  It was also the way you encouraged him to give up the cane; that is not like any abnormal when it comes to objects of power.  Abnormals have killed and died to protect far less than a plane-crossing cane. The only thing I do not know is why. Perhaps you are not a free imp, as I first thought. Perhaps it is simply money."

The imp snarled at him. "Do you know how much someone would pay for an object which can travel the planes? The chance to unravel its making is worth a fortune."

"Money, then," Johnnie said lightly. "But you would not work for months to obtain something on the chance you could sell it, so you must have been paid in advance. Who is paying you?"

"That is none of your business," the imp snapped. "Kill me, go ahead, but I promise that you will regret it."

Johnnie threw his head back and laughed, then abruptly withdrew his dagger, sheathed it, and reached into his pocket to extract one of his business cards. He threw it on the imp's chest and stood up. "Take that, and give it to your master, and inform him that if I want to kill his imps then I will do so at my leisure and do not care if he takes issue."

Frowning, the imp sat up and looked at the card—then went pale. "You said your name was Goodnight."

"I lied," Johnnie replied lightly. "You may go, on the proviso that you never trouble anyone here again."

The imp fled.

Micah stared after him, then at Johnnie. "I—I don't even know what to say. I thought he was my friend."

Johnnie's mouth twisted with bitterness, and he agreed by saying, "An open foe may prove a curse/But a pretended friend is worse." He motioned to the rosebush. "I would save your wife, now."

Though he nodded in agreement, Micah made no move to do so. "Who are you?"

"Johnnie Goodnight," Johnnie replied. "But he will trouble you no more, though I suspect the cane you hide is worth a great deal of trouble."

Micah stared at him a moment, frowning pensively. He abruptly spun around, and strode toward the house, calling over his shoulder, "Wait one moment, if you please." Curious and amused, Johnnie obeyed. Three minutes later, Micah returned, holding a long, thin wooden box. Opening it, he presented the box to Johnnie. "This is what he wanted."

Johnnie took the cane, unable to refuse the offer, utterly captivated. It was precisely as Micah had described—smooth wood, painted black. The top of it flared out slightly, a solid silver handle carved all over with ornate runes. The very tip was silver as well, and though it was clearly old, it obviously had been well cared for over the years.

It also had a strange weight and heft to it. Studying the runes thoughtfully, Johnnie then pressed down on one of the runes and gave the top of the cane a sharp twist—then drew out the hidden blade, cutting the air sharply. "A cane sword. That does better explain why they so badly wanted it. A sword that can cross the planes is infinitely more valuable than a mere cane. Exquisite. Thank you for permitting me to see it."

"Keep it."

Johnnie paused, and looked at Micah, for once wholly and genuinely surprised. "It is a family heirloom. You have known me not more than an hour. Why would you tell me to keep it? I thought that you studied its secrets."

"I know how to make such items; my family has always known," Micah said. "We lie, because the price of the making is too high. I am sick of the damned thing. It nearly cost me my wife. It suits you; no one else who ever saw it deduced its true nature, but you figured it out in a matter of seconds."

"Then I thank you," Johnnie said. "I will keep it close, and promise that never will it fall into the wrong hands."

Micah waved his words aside. "Thank you for finding my wife. Nothing I can give you can repay that."

"We will call it even, then," Johnnie replied, and smiled. "I will leave you here, to restore your wife. I bid you good day."  Sketching a half-bow, he lifted his new cane in farewell, then turned and walked away, heading briskly back to the Bremen.

Removing his coat and jacket, he kept the cane and returned to the stool in which he had first sat. Without a word, the bartender brought him a vodka rocks. "Micah gave that to you."

"Yes," Johnnie said, sipping his drink. "He and his wife are fine now. The imp will not be returning." From his vest, he extracted his glasses and a pen. Taking another sip of his drink, he then began to write out all that had happened that day, recounting the ‘case' in detail.

He did not stop until he was finished and fully satisfied with the results. When he finally closed the journal and looked up, he realized the hour was late and the bar deserted save for himself and the bartender.

"You've been busy," the bartender said. "Did you want another drink?"

"Just water," Johnnie said. "You have a very nice bar."

"Thanks," the bartender said. "Name's Peyton Blue. It's taken me all night, but I finally remembered where I know your name. You're the adopted son."

Johnnie sipped the glass of water Peyton gave him. "I prefer to be called Johnnie."

Peyton nodded, and smiled. "Johnnie it is, then. Everyone who wanders into the Bremen is welcome."

"Thank you," Johnnie said. "Can you recommend a decent room for the night?" He really did not want to go back to his part of the city until tomorrow morning.

"You can have the rooms upstairs. Just threw out my last tenant, finished cleaning them up yesterday. They're good as new. Micah called while you were writing, told me all you did. For that, you can have the room free."