by Megan Derr
Turning back to him, Bergrin smiled—a slow, happy, real smile the likes of which Johnnie had never really seen. "I did. Not sure that I will be allowed to keep you, but I did find you."
"You are keeping me," Johnnie said in his best Desrosiers voice.
Bergrin leaned close, so that their noses were all but touching. Johnnie thought he was already getting used to those unusual eyes. "Yes, Highness."
"How long have you meant that as an endearment?" Johnnie asked quietly, wondering why he had never noticed before.
"Always," Bergrin said. "I tried to mean it as an insult, to put up a barrier, but … well, I fail at being intelligent where you're concerned."
Johnnie could think of no reply to that, except to take the kiss he really wanted, and so he did.
Bergrin groaned, and bundled him close, and Johnnie really could not think of anything better than finally having Bergrin. "I really should still be punching you," he managed when they broke apart to breathe.
In reply, Bergrin only resumed kissing him—mouth, cheeks, jaw, forehead, as if he could not get enough, and Johnnie was not going to protest. "Whatever you want, Johnnie. Just so long as you never send me away again. I just want to be with you, no matter in what role."
"Mine," Johnnie said. "I do not want a secret lover." Bergrin nodded, and kissed him again, but after a moment, Johnnie pushed him away. "Speaking of secrets—I believe you still have two, and I want them."
"Two?" Bergrin asked, but Johnnie could see Bergrin knew exactly what he meant.
"Yes, two," Johnnie replied. "What are you? And what is your damned first name?"
In reply, Bergrin merely smirked. "Come now, detective. Are you telling me you have not figured me out?"
Johnnie scowled at him, but pondered it. "You entered my father's home without trouble, and the first time we met," he glared at Bergrin, "you were not impeded by the wards. You walked over that spell cage which trapped me. So, magic does not affect you. I think, perhaps, it does not account for you. Whatever you are, you do not fear death. You can teleport with ease. And somehow, someway, you can cross to at least the dream plane."
"All planes," Bergrin said. "I can access all planes."
"You do not exist," Johnnie whispered, as one entry and one alone came to him, from his bestiaries of mythical creatures.
Bergrin ducked his head, tugging on his cap, and Johnnie stared at it. "Once upon a time," Johnnie said, "there was a poor woman who had two children. The youngest had to go every day to fetch firewood. One day, when she had gone very far, another little child appeared to help her. The child helped the girl carry firewood home, but then simply vanished. The girl told her mother all of this, but the mother did not believe her. One day, the girl brought home a rose, and told her mother what the strange child had said—that when the rose bloomed, the child would return one last time. The mother put the rose in water. One morning, she went to wake her daughter, and found she had died in the night. But there was a smile upon her face, and the rose on the table was in full bloom."
"A pretty story," Bergrin said, "if fanciful."
"So-you—you are what—a grim reaper?"
Bergrin laughed. "More like a shepherd."
Johnnie hit him.
"Stop that!" Bergrin said, rubbing his arm.
"Baby," Johnnie hissed. "So you are death?"
"Half death," Bergrin replied. "That's why my eyes are only strange here. In the mortal plane I'm mostly my father's son, though my powers are quite extensive. But on every other plane, I am mostly my mother's son, and practically all of her comes out in me. I can maintain my shape, but the eyes I cannot control."
"Dark is as day to mine eyes," Johnnie quoted softly. "That is why you can see so well, no matter how little light there is."
"Yes," Bergrin said.
"Death as something with a corporeal form is not real," Johnnie said. "Even amongst abnormals, you are a myth!"
Bergrin smiled ruefully. "My father is a crappy alchemist, like I told you—like he told you. But, he got upset one night, was totally despondent at the bashing he always took from his peers and crap. Decided he'd summon an angel and show them all."
Johnnie winced.
"Exactly," Bergrin said. "He fucked up. Instead of summoning an angel, he got my mom. Very long story short, they fell in love. I don't need to tell you how bad it would be if the wrong people ever got hold of me or my mom."
Nodding, Johnnie said, "I like your eyes. They are … eerie, but pretty. Your hazel eyes are prettier, though."
Of all things—the very last thing Johnnie expected—Bergrin turned red. "Whatever," Bergrin mumbled, then said more clearly, "No one can hold a candle to you, Johnnie."
"I am an incubus," Johnnie said. "I cheat."
Bergrin cupped his face. "That only accounts for physical beauty."
Johnnie swallowed. "Shut up."
Laughing softly, Bergrin kissed him and Johnnie really wanted to kill him for keeping them from doing this for so long.
Several kisses later, he finally asked, "So what is your name?"
Bergrin turned red again. "I would really rather prefer not to mention my stupid name."
"Fine," Johnnie said tartly. "I will keep calling you Eros, in front of everyone."
"That would probably be better," Bergrin muttered, then glared as Johnnie hit him again. "Ow! How about I start beating you?"
"I have already been beaten today," Johnnie said haughtily. "Clearly, you are still in need of one."
Bergrin glared so fiercely then that Johnnie almost recoiled. "Those fucking spooks will not be beating you again, that is for certain."
Johnnie stared at him, startled by the vehemence of his tone. Then he remembered the way the men had screamed, how terrified the one had looked, before he had finally died. "What did you do to them?"
"It is the lot of those of us called Death to find those souls which go astray," Bergrin said, and his voice picked up that Eros-timbre, that hot-toddy voice Johnnie loved. It made him shiver. "We travel the planes, looking for the souls which lost their way. We see souls, can touch souls—something no other creature can do without suffering. I show them their own souls, and that is something no one so foul can ever endure. It always kills them. Painfully," he finished flatly, and then his white eyes seemed to ease some, and he looked again at Johnnie. "No one is allowed to hurt you."
"Certainly I cannot think of a better babysitter than death," Johnnie said dryly. "But I still am lacking a name."
Bergrin groaned. "All right, all right. My mother—uh, she was summoned once before. A very long time ago, by um. The Norse. They called her a Chooser of the Slain."
"Your mother was thought to be a Valkyrie?" Johnnie asked with a laugh. "How fascinating."
"Yeah, except she's obsessed," Bergrin muttered, "and my idiot father let her name me, so now my name is Grimnir."
Johnnie blinked—then laughed. "You are a grim reaper named Grim?"
"We aren't reapers," Bergrin said hotly. "If you ever use my name, I'll kill you."
"I am allowed to call you Grim," Johnnie decided.
"No one—"
"I am," Johnnie repeated, then just because he was not above fighting dirty, added, "Eros."
Bergrin glared at him. "I really do not like you."
Johnnie smirked. "Whatever you say, Grim. I cannot believe that is your name."
"It's one of the names of Odin," Bergrin said defensively. "My mom—she means well, but she's—well, you're always making fun of my hat. She thinks it's cute. She thinks my name is cute. I think she just likes torturing me."
Laughing, Johnnie curled his fingers into the front of Bergrin's shirt and titled his head up in blatant invitation. "They are both very cute, Grim," he assured.
"Shut up," Bergrin muttered, and took Johnnie's mouth.
"I cannot believe it is you," Johnnie said softly when they parted. "I cannot believe you are here."
"Yeah, well, I can't believe you're kissing me," Bergr
in said, and took another quick kiss as if to reassure himself. "Speaking of here, though—what is going on? What the hell happened after I left?"
Johnnie tensed as he was abruptly reminded of everything he had neglected, ignored, since seeing Bergrin again. "I screwed up," he said, withdrawing, tensing—only to be yanked forward and held. Johnnie froze in surprise, then abruptly relaxed. Being held was nice, he thought, resting against Bergrin's chest, soothed by the weight of the arms wrapped around him—still reeling from the realization that Bergrin was back, and his, and he did not think he would ever grow used to it.
"Tell me what happened," Bergrin said. "Whatever it is, I can fix it."
"Arrogant," Johnnie said. "Like I said, I screwed up. I have just over two days left to find wherever my mother hid the magic mirror my father made, or she will kill everyone she put to sleep." Slowly, he explained to Bergrin everything that had happened since he had left.
When he had finished, Bergrin said. "We need your father, then."
Johnnie frowned.
"Ontoniel will know where she hid it," Bergrin continued. "I could try to find it on my own, and probably would eventually, but getting Ontoniel would be faster. If we can wake him, we can find the mirror, and destroy the damned thing."
"But if we tamper—"
"Only from the outside, right? If we can find him here in dreams, then we can wake him from this side, and he will be able to tell us where to find the mirror so we can destroy the damned thing. Then I will find that bitch and destroy her."
Johnnie nodded. "So where do we find my father?"
Bergrin snorted in amusement. "Honestly, detective, where a King is always to be found—in his castle. You should know that. Why are you over on this side of town anyway?"
"Because," Johnnie snapped irritably, "I was alone and had no magical ability to simply find things and I had to find the mirror—"
Bergrin cut him off with a soft kiss. "I'm here now, yeah? I can help where no one else can."
Johnnie hit him again, then turned away, looking around the street. Spotting his cane, he went to fetch it, calling over his shoulder, "It took you long enough."
"Stop hitting me," Bergrin groused. "Come on, Highness, let's go find his Majesty." He took Johnnie's hand, and they vanished.
They reappeared in Ontoniel's home—or, an attempt at it. It seemed gray and washed out, like an unfinished image, really. "Why is the house like this?" Johnnie asked, looking around at the gray walls and floor, the random bursts of color and detail.
"Fewer minds dream of this place, think of it," Bergrin replied. "The more minds, the clearer the image. The dream plane is … complicated, and if you ask me far more dangerous than even hell. I hate the dream plane, but all too often this is where souls wind up."
Johnnie turned from examining an oddly intriguing, incomplete version of one of his favorite paintings, and looked at Bergrin. "So you actually do that? Go find lost souls?"
"Sometimes, not often," Bergrin replied. "I feel them more now than I used to, though. Being … Death, or whatever, is equal parts being angel and demon. My mother did not have form until, like an angel, she was summoned and given form. But like a demon, it takes my dad as her 'anchor' to keep that shape, and stay as human as she will ever be." He pointed to his eyes. "Her eyes are like this, even on the mortal plane."
"That is why I did not see her, that one day at your father's house. You could not risk me meeting her—but your father said he thought I would meet her soon."
"Um—" Bergrin rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. "My father figured out I, um, had more than a professional interest in you. Then he bullied the whole sordid tale out of me, and went off on me. That's the argument we were having when you walked in."
Johnnie shook his head. "You really should have listened to your father."
"That's funny, coming from you, who defies his father at every possible opportunity."
"I do not defy my father at every possible opportunity," Johnnie said. "I merely resent that he wants me always near to hand, and sets babysitters upon me." He turned away, headed toward Ontoniel's study, adding, "Even if the babysitter is good in bed."
Bergrin's laughter chased after him, followed a moment later by the man himself. "So does that mean I am allowed back in the bed?"
"That depends entirely upon who else you save, Red Riding Hood."
"Huntsman," Bergrin said.
"Yes, Grim," Johnnie said, then reached out to grasp the doorknob.
Bergrin came up behind him, reaching around to grasp his wrist. "Don't do that."
Johnnie froze, then let go of the knob. "Why not?" He glanced at the door. "It is different. Sharper—it looks exactly as it should. Why?"
"This space has been overtaken by dreaming," Bergrin said. "Whoever is dreaming, and we obviously know who, knows this place well enough to fill out every detail subconsciously."
"That would definitely be my father," Johnnie said. "So—what? We cannot go in?"
"We cannot charge in and disrupt the dream," Bergrin said, and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. "But we can watch, and wait for the right opportunity."
Johnnie just looked at him. "So we wait out here? For what?"
"I didn't say we were going to wait out here," Bergrin said. "Don't let go of my hand."
"All right."
Bergrin smiled, and Johnnie sneezed as the scent of myrrh and musk roses surrounded—the smell, he realized, of Bergrin's magic at its strongest, or when he was not banking it.
Johnnie startled as he realized he could barely see Bergrin—like a ghost, he was completely translucent. But it was not until he glanced at their clasped hands that he realized he had gone translucent as well. "No wonder you are so good at sneaking around, and no one would ever think to account for death in their spells. This would also explain why you always follow me so easily."
"Yes," Bergrin said. "My mother says that once, a long time ago, people did account for death in their spells. Life, she said, was much more dangerous back then. But, over time, they attributed more and more to superstition, to the unfounded fears of the primitive and uneducated. So, it is much easier to be me now."
"Stalker," Johnnie muttered. "You are nothing more than an abnormal stalker."
Bergrin did not reply to that, only tugged on his cap with his free hand, then said, "Come on, let's get this over with." He stepped toward and then through the door and it was the wildest thing Johnnie had ever seen—until he did it himself, skin prickling and it seemed so wrong.
He started to ask a question, then recalled he should not. He looked around the office, frowning thoughtfully. It was different than the study he knew; some of the paintings were different, his little corner did not have its chair. The books were different, the curtains …
Beyond the windows flashed thunder and lightning. Rain drummed against the window panes, and combined with the single lit tiffany lamp in the room to give the entire place a horror-story ambiance. Movement caught his eye, and Johnnie turned to see that Ontoniel sat at his desk.
Johnnie's eyes widened with dismay. Ontoniel looked awful. Hair, usually so neatly combed, was disheveled, falling over his fingers where his head was buried in one hand. His other hand was curled lightly around a snifter of brandy.
His arms were the worst. Every now and again, Johnnie would catch a glimpse of the scars, but Ontoniel almost never rolled up the long sleeves of his shirts. Here, in this dream or nightmare, the wounds were fresh—evidence of the blood-crazed madness consuming his wife.
Blood-craze was the fear of all vampires; a disease that seemed to come from nowhere, creeping up and creeping up, until there was no denying its presence. Blood-craze was the gradual loss of the ability to process human blood and turn it into what was needed for the vampire to live. Johnnie had only ever read about it, because it was extremely rare that vampires would talk about it at length with anyone not strictly necessary. Over time, the vampire's body simply forgot how to use
human blood. To counter this, in the early stages, vampire blood could be used as a refresher, a reminder—a starter, and the body could copy that.
But over time, it grew worse and worse, until the only way to keep the afflicted alive was to feed them vampire blood.
Unfortunately, the craving for human blood never went away. It too grew worse and worse, as the body increasingly wanted something it could no longer have. It would not have been hard, the night Johnnie's parents died, for someone to kidnap Sariah and manipulate her into the feeding frenzy that killed his parents.
To judge by the surroundings, this dream was of a time when Sariah had still been alive—but later on, when Ontoniel would have been feeding her his blood almost exclusively. The wounds on his arms were too fresh for it to be otherwise. Johnnie could not fathom what a nightmare that must have been, and he winced, thinking of the argument he and Ontoniel had gotten into, not so long ago.