Derr_Megan_-_Dance_in_the_Dark Page 5

  "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 repli
ed. "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."

  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?"