Derr_Megan_-_Dance_in_the_Dark Read online

  Johnnie scowled. "There is a bloody list about who is and who is not—" He cut himself off and tamped down on his anger. "We are going to Belle City." He really did not want to share that information, but he was not stupid—if he pushed back too hard, his father would follow through on the threat to drag him home and lock him up.

  "We three?" Bergrin asked.

  "So far as I am concerned, it is a party of two, but I suppose you will do as you please."

  Bergrin smirked, and tugged on the brim of his cap. "Yes, Highness."

  Turning sharply away, Johnnie strode to the other end of the bar, where the poker game had disbanded in favor of another round of oohing and aahing over the finalized blueprints which had arrived two days ago. Micah looked up with a smile. "Who's your heavy-hitting witch friend?"

  "This is Rostislav Petrov."

  "Oh," Walsh said. "I know that name. You're the one they call the Cursebreaker."

  Rostislav laughed. "The very same." He held out a hand to each man in turn, as they went through introductions.

  "He has brought us a case," Johnnie said as the introductions wrapped up. "Over in Belle City."

  "Oh?" Peyton asked.

  "Yes," Johnnie said, and held out his hand to Rostislav, who obediently handed over the newspaper. Opening it, Johnnie spread it out on the table and spun it so they could all read.

  "That's a selkie or I'm a cat," Peyton said after a few minutes. "Poor woman doesn't know it, I'd wager my best vodka on that."

  Johnnie smiled. "Correct on both counts. Rostiya and I are going to Belle City to find him."

  "The abnormal sector there is clustered around the docks," Walsh said. "I started out a beat cop there, long before I knew anything about abnormals. It's rough trade for normals, even rougher trade for abnormals. They trade in imps, goblin food, and even worse. Place got shook up a few years ago when some demon consort tore through it, but it's seedier than ever now, I hear."

  "Good to know," Johnnie said. Goblin food—that meant humans, most often normals, were being sold to the goblins who loved nothing better than a nice slice of tender human.

  Imps were the poor man's genie: powerful enough magically to do damn near anything. They sold for extremely high prices on the black market. Any place that dealt in worse than slavery and illegal foodstuffs … Johnnie grimaced at the thought. It was certainly nothing he needed to be concerned about—and he most definitely did not need a bodyguard—but it was bothersome.

  "Call if you need us," Micah said.

  "I will," Johnnie replied. "Rostiya, I must go back upstairs to get my things."

  Rostiya nodded, and they headed back up to Johnnie's rooms where he pulled on a brown blazer to match his pants, a brown fedora and long brown coat, and a paisley scarf that was a duplicate of the brown, cream, and pink paisley pattern of his vest, the same shade of pink as his tie.

  Pulling on cream gloves, he picked up his cane again and said. "Shall we?"

  "Always so immaculate and pretty, Johnnie," Rostislav said in amusement.

  Johnnie ignored him, and simply gripped the arm Rostislav held out, keeping firm hold as Rostislav cast his spell. Travelling by abnormal means was so much easier than normal. Johnnie was ever bitter at his own inability to travel by such means.

  They arrived in Belle City in front of a bakery, the smell of fresh bread and cinnamon washing over him, mixing with the less pleasant odors of a busy city street. "The woman and her husband live a few blocks that way," Rostislav said, pointing. "This was the closest I could get, working from my memories of the city. They've got some nice beach front property; it must have cost a small fortune."

  "My father's beach houses certainly cost a tidy sum each," Johnnie said. "Lead the way, then."

  Looking amused, Rostiya obeyed. "So do you think you have a little shadow?"

  "No doubt I will eventually," Johnnie said sourly. "I do not know the extent of Bergrin's abilities. He definitely has magic, but that is all I have been able to determine. Hopefully it will take him some time to follow us here, and then find us."

  "Hopefully," Rostislav agreed. He glanced around the street corner on which they stood, then said, "This way." They walked another ten minutes, as the houses grew more and more sparse, until they reached the beach front proper, and the small smattering of mansions overlooking it. "Oh, there she is. How handy," Rostislav said, and pointed.

  A woman stood on the edge of the beach, the tide lapping at her ankles as it raced up the beach. She was dressed in a blue and green sundress, with only a heavy cardigan to ward off the chill, a wide-brimmed straw hat protecting her face from the sun. Though she must be nearly forty, she was prettier by far than all the girls half her age who struggled for the grace and poise this woman naturally possessed. She turned as she heard their approach, eyes widening slightly as she took them in. "You're not more reporters."

  "No, madam," Johnnie said. "I am a private investigator, of sorts."

  "Of sorts?" she asked, seeming uncertain whether to be amused or annoyed.

  Johnnie nodded. "I do not charge for my services, and I take only those cases that interest me."

  She laughed, sad and tired, but irrepressible hope flickered in her eyes. "Of what interest is a runaway husband? Millions of people every year wake up to find their spouses gone."

  "But very few lose them because of a stolen necklace," Johnnie said quietly.

  The woman lifted a hand to touch her throat where the necklace had once been, tears falling down her cheeks. "He loved me, I cannot believe I was wrong about that for twenty years, not after all we have been through—" She burst into tears, sobbing into her hands.

  "There, there," Rostiya said, moving forward and sliding an arm across her shoulders. "Is your house the blue one? Let's go inside, then." He continued to soothe and comfort her, as they went inside her home. He sat her down at the kitchen bar and prepared a cup of tea after a couple of minutes of searching around.

  The woman laughed softly as she cradled the hot mug in her hands. "It is the height of stupidity to let strangers do all that I have let you do, yet being around you is similar to being around Mark. I'm not sure why. Thank you for the tea."

  "Of course," Rostislav said.

  "I do not believe your husband is gone because of the necklace," Johnnie said, quietly grateful that the crying had stopped. He removed his hat and set it on the counter. "Not the way you think. Your name is Pearl, yes?"

  "Yes," Pearl said softly. "My family has always been involved with the sea. My father does research pertaining to jellyfish. My brother owns a cruise business. Family legends hold we started out as pirates. I met Mark when I was seventeen, vacationing here visiting friends while my father did his research. Five hours after we met, Mark gave me that necklace and told me that it meant he would grant my every wish. He didn't have much money, then, and my parents were furious I would take up with a poor boy with nothing to his name but a leaky fishing boat. He owns his own fleet now, and we just bought this house last year. It's our fifth one, because every time I get bored with one house, he obediently buys me one that's bigger and grander.

  "My every wish, he's always granted, and he never once minded that I'm a spoiled brat. I like fine things, expensive things, and I'm used to getting them. I have never denied I am spoiled rotten, but Mark never minded, no matter what I demanded, because he always knew I loved him best." Tears began to trail down her cheeks again. "I guess losing that necklace was too much for him, but I swear—I didn't mean to—I'd give up all of this just to have him back. He's gone, and it's all my fault."

  "It is not your fault you were mugged," Johnnie said.

  Pearl sniffled. "I suppose. I mean, I know. I volunteer at the aquarium three days a week, and every evening I walk home, the same way, the same times. It's a safe stretch, though; there have never been any problems. I tried to get away, but I just couldn't. You should have seen his face, when he realized my necklace was gone. It was like someone had died." She pressed the heels
of her hands to her eyes. "I've never seen him look that way, not in all the years I've known him. I just don't understand."

  Johnnie could feel a headache coming on—there was nothing quite as difficult as telling a normal there was so much more to the world than they had ever imagined, and they had to do it now by telling her that her husband had likely been sold into slavery.

  Rostislav motioned to him. "Why don't you go start at the docks, Johnnie? I'll finish up here."

  More than happy to leave the tricky matter to Rostislav, Johnnie nodded and stood. Replacing his hat on his head, he tugged at the brim in farewell and departed. A quick call was all it took to bring a car, and as he slid into the back seat, Johnnie said, "To the docks."

  "Begging your pardon, sir," the driver said, looking at him in the rearview mirror, "but you don't look the sort what should be going alone to the docks."

  Johnnie smiled, amused. "I am safer than a pup who smells like blood and old booze, and is still sporting Pit wounds. To judge by the teeth marks on your wrist, I would say you wound up on the wrong side of a goblin. Take me to the docks, little wolf."

  "Yes, sir," the driver muttered, and drove off. Twenty minutes later, they pulled to a stop in front of a coffee shop that looked like it was in business only because it bribed the health inspector. "Be careful, man," the driver said.

  "I will, thank you," Johnnie said, and tipped him. He turned toward the docks—and swore.

  Bergrin smirked, and tugged on the brim of his baseball cap. "Highness."

  "Go away," Johnnie said, and strode past him, headed toward the docks proper. When Bergrin fell into step beside him, Johnnie ignored him.

  "You could just accept it gracefully, Highness."

  "My name is neither Highness nor Prince," Johnnie said. "I do not require a babysitter."

  Bergrin sighed. "Look—I have better things to do with my time than dance attendance upon you—"

  "Then do them."

  "But you're not the one paying me, and you're not the one who will cut off my balls and make me eat them if you so much as nick yourself shaving."

  Johnnie rolled his eyes and did not deign to respond to that. "So I am stuck with you, no matter my feelings on the matter?"

  "No matter our feelings on the matter," Bergrin said. "You could just go home like a good little Prince and stop this whole rebel against daddy thing."

  Too furious to respond to that without losing his temper, Johnnie settled on pretending Bergrin simply was not there, and turned his full attention back to the mystery at hand. If Mark had been taken to be sold off to some abnormal as a magic slave, then he probably was being sold at auction. There were private sales, but auctions brought in more money. The likeliest place for such auctions would be the Pits. His driver had been a fighter in the Pits, so they were local. So small a city, however, would not have the full range of Pits. Likely they had only A through C here; D-Pits attracted a great deal of attention, more than such a small city could endure without attracting the notice of normals.

  So probably one of the warehouses around the docks hosted the Pits. He was jarred from his thoughts when Bergrin groaned. "I hate that look in your eyes, Prince."

  Gods above, he really hated the stupid, mocking names Bergrin used. "What look?"

  "The one that says you've reached some logical conclusion that's going to lead you into doing something stupid."

  "Stupidity is the result of not thinking," Johnnie quoted. "I have thought very carefully."

  "The need to be right—the sign of a vulgar mind," Bergrin quoted in reply.

  "It is not enough to have a good mind; the main thing is to use it well," Johnnie countered. "I use mine very well, and my deductions tell me I am going to the Pits."

  Bergrin heaved a long sigh. "Do you even know how stupid an idea that is? You don't even know where they are."

  "You probably do, though," Johnnie said. "Not that I intend to waste my time asking you. I do not require your help. I do not require you at all."

  "But you're stuck with me, Highness."

  "The game is not over yet," Johnnie said icily, and stalked off to go in search of the Pits. It did not take him long to figure it out, either. A half-hour of observation, and a brief conversation with a woman who thought him pretty, and he was on his way.

  "I really do not think the son of a Dracula should be visiting the Pits," Bergrin said sourly.

  "I really do not care what you think," Johnnie said. "We will not find Mark by avoiding the Pits."

  "It is not your balls on the chopping block, Highness," Bergrin said. "I like my balls right where they are, if it's all the same to you. If you did not insist upon doing things like this, you would not require a bodyguard."

  Johnnie motioned impatiently with his cane. "I have never had a bodyguard before."

  Bergrin smirked. "Are you sure about that?"

  Spinning sharply away, infuriated beyond all reason and how he hated the way Bergrin smirked and taunted and relished rubbing salt in Johnnie's wounds. Ignoring Bergrin as he reappeared at Johnnie's side, Johnnie strode to the side entrance of a dilapidated looking warehouse where the Pits were located. The guard there eyed him, clearly trying to decide if Johnnie was a buyer or a joke. "I require admittance," Johnnie told him.

  "Good for you," the man said. "I don't give a damn."

  Johnnie smirked, and murmured, "The employer generally gets the employees he deserves." He pulled out one of his business cards, and flipped it to the guard. As always happened, the man's eyes popped wide open, and he hastily opened the door.

  "I will take that card back," Johnnie said, and when the man made no move to return it, reached out and plucked the business card from his fingers. He motioned to Bergrin with his cane. "He is with me."

  Inside, it was just as foul smelling and looking as he had anticipated. Bergrin made a face. "If I'm not able to get it up for my date tonight, Prince, I'm going to kill you myself." He removed his baseball cap and shoved it away inside his old, beat-up corduroy jacket, then raked a hand through his shaggy, curly brown hair in a futile attempt at taming it.

  "You could always resign," Johnnie said.

  "Perish the thought, Prince."

  Biting back choice words that would only encourage him, Johnnie walked on until he came to a man directing the flow of people. "Auctions."

  The man stared at him, saw money, and asked, "What are you in the market for?"

  "Help around the house," Johnnie answered.

  "That way, down the hall, yellow door off to the right," the man said, then turned to help the next person.

  Nodding, Johnnie walked on. The yellow door, when he reached it, was guarded by a brawny werewolf in a black tank top. The muscles were most certainly impressive, but the haggard, angry face was decidedly less so. The wolf glanced at Johnnie with disinterest, but his eyes sharpened as he looked at Bergrin.

  Leaving them to their staring contest, Johnnie walked on into the auction room. It was a small, amphitheatre style; he could see where they had removed the cage and other such elements that turned it into a fighting ring. The air was thick with the stench of blood, piss, expensive perfume, fancy cigars, and cheap cigarettes. There was also so much magic in the air that Johnnie sneezed three times into a handkerchief be barely pulled out in time. Pulling the brim of his fedora low, he took a seat in the first row, grimacing when Bergrin almost immediately joined him. "I fail to see what you think you will accomplish here—"

  "Besides the incurrence of my father's wrath and the loss of your balls?" Johnnie cut in. "I want to see what is on the market, who is buying, and quite possibly if a selkie is up for sale."

  "He was kidnapped three weeks ago," Bergrin said. "He's long gone."

  Johnnie shook his head. "No, I do not think so. Auctions are hard to arrange—the people, the goods, the space, the money. On average, they are held once a month, and sometimes only every two months. I was not even certain there would be an auction today, except it is the end of the m
onth, selkies are not often captured, and the woman I spoke with said something about today being a particularly busy day. Taken together, that means an auction. However, if we did happen to miss him, then this will at least provide an opportunity to deduce who might have purchased him.

  Bergrin sighed. "I suppose you have theories on that as well."

  "Not really," Johnnie said. "My money would be on a collector, since as I said, selkies come up rarely. However, any alchemist or witch with sufficient funds would find a selkie of interest." He looked over the small crowd of potential buyers, grateful that his eyes were long accustomed to the dark.

  Wealthy men and women, though several looked more like stewards sent to stand as proxy for their employers. By the look of them, not a single person present would be able to outbid him easily. Ontoniel had always been very generous in seeing his sons had more than sufficient funds, because once they came of age they were largely responsible for their own finances.