Dance in the Dark

by Megan Derr

  "What did you deduce?" Walsh asked, curious.

  "Peyton told me earlier that he was in a band," Johnnie said. "The lead singer resented the band's breaking up. One of the band members went on to run a bed & breakfast, just outside of town. Acts of violence that randomly hit that place as well as this one? It could be coincidence. However, the upscale bar and the steakhouse are owned by one person, which means only three people are being affected, and we know for a fact that the owner is friends with the man who runs the bed & breakfast. So we have Peyton, Roosevelt, and Cat's lover all being harassed and their properties vandalized."

  "But, Cat doesn't own them," Peyton said, frowning again. "His lover does."

  "Hitting the school where Cat works would draw too much attention," Johnnie replied, "and teachers do not make a lot of money. The four of you became a band because you were united by hard times. I would not be surprised if your friend reappeared here shortly, looking to restart his band, or perhaps he is simply exacting revenge."

  Micah shook his head. "How did you even think to make that connection?"

  "If the attacks were truly random, more buildings in the vicinity would have been hit," Johnnie said. "As that was not the case, the attacks must be personal. We needed only to determine why." He turned back to Peyton, "This all would have been discovered sooner if you had contacted your friends, or your friends had called you."

  Peyton shrugged. "We weren't tight man. I mean, Cat and Roosevelt were old friends, but otherwise we just worked together, you know? I'm downscale to their upscale, so it probably didn't occur to them. Didn't occur to me. They may yet call, and I could always dig up their numbers if I had to."

  "Not yet," Johnnie said.

  "So what do we do?" Micah asked.

  "I think we will wait until he approaches Peyton," Johnnie said. "Unless, of course, there is another incident, in which case we will have to find him and end the matter." He stood up, picking up his journal and cane. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and speed-dialed his father, ignoring the anxiety that fluttered in his chest.

  Ontoniel answered the phone, which meant his assistant must be on break. "John?"

  "Father," Johnnie replied. "We need to talk."

  "About what?"

  "A great deal," Johnnie said. "I am downtown. Where shall I meet you?"

  "The Garden," Ontoniel said. "Half an hour."

  "Forty-five minutes," Johnnie said, and hung up. He turned to Peyton and the others. "I will be gone a few hours." He pulled out his card case and extracted one of his own, sliding it across the bar to Peyton. "Call me at that second number should you need me."

  Peyton snorted in amusement and tucked the second card away with the first. "Oh, the money I could make selling your private line. I'll give you a ring should I need, but I doubt anything else will happen today."

  Nodding, Johnnie said, "Call the Humming Bird and tell them to send my driver, if you please." Laughing again, Peyton obeyed. Johnnie left the bar and strode upstairs. In his future bedroom, he saw that G-man had already neatly arranged his clothes in the closet, with the cases holding his shoes and accessories stacked neatly on the floor.

  He perused his choices. The Garden … that limited him to the turquoise and the red. As he was dining with his father, and they would not finish until roughly midnight, the red would most suit. Stripping off his clothes, he pulled on black slacks with a slightly stiffer cut than the ones he had just discarded. His shirt was a crisp, sharp white, over which he pulled a vest of deep crimson with a subtle crown and roses pattern. Then he knotted a black silk tie embroidered with the Desrosiers triple-rose symbol, with a tie pin and cuff links of rubies set in gold.

  Over all he pulled on his formal black wool coat, which fell to just below his knees. Lastly, he pulled on a black fedora with a gray band, then retrieved his cane and went back downstairs. He strove to ignore the looks everyone gave him as he returned to the bar.

  "Fancy, fancy," Heath drawled, grinning. He lifted his wine in a mock toast. "Enjoy dinner with the Dracula." Johnnie glared at him. Heath only snickered.

  Nodding a farewell to the others, hoping he had not just lost his new partnership, Johnnie left the bar and slid inside the car that stood waiting with door open for him. When the driver was situated, Johnnie instructed, "To the Garden, please."

  They reached the fancy restaurant in the heart of uptown several minutes later. The lobby was true to the restaurant's name, all exotic plants, stained glass in matching floral patterns, and even the floor was composed of rich green tiles with subtle floral touches.

  "Master Desrosiers," the maitre d' greeted. "Your father called; I've arranged his favorite table. Right this way." He snapped his fingers at one of the doormen, who came forward to take Johnnie's coat and hat.

  "I will keep the cane," Johnnie said, when the doorman tried to take it as well. Bowing off, the doorman vanished and Johnnie was led to Ontoniel's preferred table—up on a dais and shaded by plants, tucked into one corner of the room. It was the perfect place to see without being seen. Johnnie sat down and immediately told the waiter who appeared, "Vodka rocks. Also bring a scotch, neat."

  He sat down and stared at the runes on his cane, trying to compose in his head what he would say to his father. There was no easy way to announce he was moving out—and to an area of which Ontoniel was sure to disapprove.

  He had finished half his vodka before Ontoniel arrived, exactly on the one hour mark. Sitting down, Ontoniel ordered their food, then sipped at his scotch. Though it did nothing for him, Ontoniel liked to drink it for the sake of some nostalgia he had never explained past saying it had to do with an old friend.

  They said nothing until the soup arrived, blood broth for Ontoniel, a lobster bisque for Johnnie. After several sips of broth, Ontoniel finally said, "What is this about Johnnie?"

  Johnnie looked at him, then finally simply said, "I am moving out."

  Ontoniel said nothing, only continued to sip his broth. Johnnie worked on his own soup, knowing better than to push or press. They finished the soup, and it was taken away and replaced with the main course. Ontoniel waved his off, but Johnnie accepted a swordfish steak, potatoes and vegetables. Oddly, amidst the high-quality drinks and food, all he could think about was greasy pizza and the old, scuffed bar.

  "Why?" Ontoniel finally asked, breaking the silence, drawing Johnnie back to the matter at hand.

  "Because the house should be free for Ellie to build his own family. He does not need his eccentric little brother underfoot, especially as more and more guests arrive. I should find my own feet."

  "Where?"

  Johnnie hesitated, for this was the sticky point. "I have some rooms above a bar down on second street."

  "No," Ontoniel said. "I have places aplenty, you are not living in the damned slums."

  "You have places," Johnnie said. "I do not want to live in your houses. I want to live in a place that is mine."

  "Some tacky dive owned by god alone knows what?" Ontoniel demanded.

  "Owned by a lone wolf with a gold citizen pin," Johnnie countered. "He wears Dracula gold, so you approved his presence here, despite his lone status. He cannot, therefore, be all bad. Anyway, I am to be a silent partner in the bar. We will begin renovations the moment the paperwork is signed and the weather warms up enough to permit it."

  Ontoniel shook his head. "If your reason is to help your brother, I fail to see how moving to live in practically the slums is helping."

  "I am doing it as much for myself as for Ellie—and I am not using my real name, if that reassure you any. I have no plans to embarrass the Desrosiers."

  There was a beat of silence, then Ontoniel said quietly, "You are using your birth name."

  "Yes," Johnnie said. "I cannot promise it will always work—"

  "You should be careful," Ontoniel cut in. "You are in a position of great power and authority as my son. Using your birth name will deflect some attention, but not all of it. People still remem
ber that name, that tragedy. That alone could draw more attention than you like, and out of my immediate sight—"

  "I will take care," Johnnie said.

  "If you were interested in taking care," Ontoniel said, "You would not be moving out to live in one of the worst parts of the city. I do not like it."

  Johnnie nodded. "I knew you would not, but it will not stop me."

  Ontoniel sighed. "I know. I never told you this, and perhaps I should not now, but I met your mother on three occasions previous to her death. I can honestly say that you are at least as stubborn as she."

  "What—" Johnnie said, staring at him, jolted by the fact Ontoniel had known his mother, and all the ramifications of that. "How—that is not possible. We were a completely normal family."

  "No one living in my territory is completely normal, other than those in the bronze district. Your family did not live there."

  Johnnie stared at him, feeling as though the rug had been yanked out from beneath him. "I do not understand. I am completely normal; there is not one single drop of abnormal in me."

  "They left the abnormal world behind," Ontoniel said. "They wanted to be normal—they wanted you to be normal."

  "I see," Johnnie said, and he did. It was far from unheard of for abnormals to try and live completely normal lives, free of the magic and treachery and further complications that filled the abnormal world. Humans, especially—the alchemists, witches, sorcerers—tried to retreat to normalcy, when they found that the new level of the world they had discovered was too much to bear.

  So they walked away, tried to go back to life before they knew the monsters were real. But, once aware, it was hard to live blind again. Most still settled in supernatural territories, and simply tried to live on the fringes of it, safe and as normal as they could manage.

  "Who—who was what?" Johnnie demanded.

  Ontoniel grimaced, but said, "Your father was an alchemist. They never told me, but my impression was always that your father managed some experiment that terrified them. So they gave it all up and gained my permission to live here." He sighed. "Then my wife…"

  They both winced at that, perfectly mirrored expressions. Ontoniel hastily moved on. "I am ordering you to leave the matter alone. You know all there is to know about your parents now. If you insist upon moving out, to live in this slum bar of yours—and I very strongly protest it and will continue to do so—then I insist upon contact information and I want you to call once a week. You will also visit at least once a month. Lastly, if I ever demand your return home immediately, you will do so without question."

  Johnnie wanted to argue, but he knew better. "Yes, father. Thank you."

  Waving the words aside, Ontoniel asked, "So what are you going to do, owning a bar and living above it?"

  "It is something new to learn," Johnnie said. "I will of course continue my studies and translations." He hesitated, then slowly added, "I was thinking I might devote more serious attention to solving mysteries and such. You said I could not, living at home, with the wedding looming, but well away I see no reason I could not pursue that path."

  Something flickered across Ontoniel's face; it was sad and pensive and too many other things for Johnnie to pick them all out. "You seem determined to put yourself in danger, Johnnie."

  Johnnie lifted one brow. "No 'case' I have ever solved has involved danger."

  "Such a line of occupation always runs into violence," Ontoniel said sharply. "That little dagger I gave you will not protect you from everything, and neither will that cane sword. Try not to do anything too foolish, Johnnie. Even my name will not save you from everything."

  "I will be careful," Johnnie said stiffly.

  Of all things, Ontoniel smiled—only the barest bit, just the slightest upturning of one corner of his mouth, but a smile all the same. "Your mysteries always find you, I am certain that trouble will follow in their wake. When do you plan to move?"

  "Soon," Johnnie said. He should really wait until the renovations were done, but he was too impatient, and he wanted to do it before he changed his mind or something prevented it.

  Ontoniel grimaced. "Very well; I will inform you if I alter my decision about permitting it."

  Johnnie bit back his initial response to that, not wanting to make a tactical—fatal—error. Their main course was taken away, and dessert brought. Tense discussion over, and far more smoothly than he could have anticipated, he shifted the conversation to Ellie and the wedding, ten months away now, and by the time dessert was finished and drinks brought, they were discussing books and articles they both read.

  It was, Johnnie realized with surprise, nice.

  *~*~*

  It was just past midnight when he returned to the Bremen.

  "Hey, Johnnie," Peyton greeted. "Didn't expect you back this soon. Family discussions usually last forever."

  "My father was called away," Johnnie replied. The bar was almost completely deserted; besides himself, only G-man remained, slumped in his corner, a half-finished beer in front of him, baseball cap pulled down low. To all appearances, he was fast asleep. Johnnie wondered if he had anywhere to go, but did not ask. "How was everything here?"

  "Quiet all night. Cat called, of all things. I told him I'd been having trouble, too, but he didn't seem to make the connection, just noted it was weird we were all having problems. Roosevelt called too, about an hour ago, and I asked him about Jack. Said he hadn't heard from Jack in years, but there were always rumors that he had wound up in a big city not too far from here."

  Johnnie nodded. "I think he will show himself soon; tonight, tomorrow, not longer than the day after tomorrow. It would not surprise me to learn he needs a band, and is clinging in his desperation to how good the four of you used to be together. People often cling to the past when everything else seems to let them down."

  Peyton sighed. "Man, we were always up front about not wanting to do it forever. It was just a way out of a hole, for us. We always told him that, and he said he understood, but I guess he wanted to believe we would change our minds." He shrugged.

  "For what a man would like to be true, that he more readily believes," Johnnie quoted.

  In reply, Peyton only sighed again. "Would you like a drink, Johnnie? Oh, I dug out all my paperwork and such, and sent it on to your lawyer."

  "I got a call from him," Johnnie said, "and told him what to do, what we want. He will move the necessary funds to a new account and set up access for both of us. I will probably move in over the next few days, though I no doubt will have to move again when the renovations begin."

  Peyton laughed. "Whatever, man. We'll see how it plays out when we get there. I can't believe you're doing this—especially this dive, especially with me."

  Johnnie shrugged. "I like the Bremen." He started to say more, when the door opened.

  At the bar, Peyton froze in obvious shock. But in the next breath, he was smoothly pulling a beer and sliding it across the bar to the new arrival. "Long time no see, Jack."

  Jack coughed, then sipped the beer, before finally saying, "You too, Peyton. How's life?"

  "Rotten, but I think you know that," Peyton replied coolly.

  Jack frowned. "Come again?"

  Johnnie spoke before Peyton could, "You are ill, your clothes are in poor condition, you are thin enough that you clearly have not eaten properly for a long time. Your hand is bandaged, and you smell like burn cream. You also smell like chalk, the classic tell of a sorcerer or a witch. You also reek of magic, and very strongly, which means you have either cast a very strong spell very recently, or have used a great many spells over the past several days—probably both. You also have a cut on your left forearm that is bleeding through bandages and your shirt—did you have to break into the steakhouse, the Bed & Breakfast? Bloody & Lace? Or did you have to be on location to break the glassware of one of them, lacking the familiarity to do it from a distance?"

  Jack stared, pale-faced, anger in his eyes. "I beg your fucking pardon?"

 
"You have been vandalizing the various establishments of your former band mates," Johnnie said. "Are you hoping to get them back?"

  Jack snarled and shoved his beer off the bar, forcing Peyton to jump back. He lunged for Johnnie—

  —Only to find himself grabbed by the throat by G-man. Johnnie jerked in surprise, nearly dropping the dagger he had half-pulled from his hidden sheath. "You have admitted to your crimes by your actions," G-man said. "Why?"

  "They ruined my life," Jack said bitterly. "I wanted to ruin theirs."

  "Next time, be more clever about it," G-man replied. "For assaulting citizens of the Desrosiers territory, and attempting to harm his son, you are under arrest."

  "What—" Peyton exclaimed, dropping the pieces of glass he had just picked up.