by Megan Derr
"A serial killer?" Johnnie asked, setting aside his surprise that Phil was a detective—with an agency and everything. He sincerely doubted that, as 'generous and open-minded' as his father might be, that Ontoniel would ever allow him to do something so formal and final as open an agency.
"Yes, I suppose so," Phil replied. "The problem is the nature of the murders. We say murder, but honestly we are not entirely certain what is killing them." She sat back in her seat, and folded her arms across her chest.
Johnnie's skin prickled as the thrill of a mystery rushed over him. "What do you mean?"
"They look as though they died from exhaustion," Phil said. "According to all the accounts, each girl was last seen going to bed, or in bed, or otherwise asleep. Three were in their beds, two fell asleep on their respective couches, one was last seen in a bathroom preparing for bed, the other in the kitchen getting a midnight snack before going back to her room. Four were wearing pajamas, one was dressed only in panties and a camisole, two were still in their day clothes. Yet upon discovery of the bodies, all were in dancing dresses, complete with hair, makeup and shoes. All witnesses say it looks like they had gone to a party, but they know for a fact the women had done no such thing. They also looked as though they had been at their parties for hours and hours—the dresses showed extensive staining from sweat, their hair was matted, makeup a mess, and their shoes were nearly worn straight through."
"That is peculiar to say the least," Johnnie said, then quoted, "There was once upon a time a King who had twelve daughters, each one more beautiful than the other. They all slept together in one chamber, in which their beds stood side by side, and every night when they were in them the King locked the door, and bolted it. But in the morning when he unlocked the door, he saw that their shoes were worn out with dancing, and no one could find out how that had come to pass."
Phil's mouth quirked with dry amusement. "Indeed, Johnnie. It gets worse. Each of the girls belonged to a special club, and like a sorority, they stay members for life. It's called the Princess Society."
Ontoniel and Johnnie both jerked in surprise at the same time.
"But—that is headquartered here," Ontoniel said. "My late wife was a member. I still donate large sums of money to it every year. Why am I only now hearing about these murders?"
Phil looked at him and said, "I doubt anyone has made the connection until now. I have been on this case for just over a month, and it was only a few days ago that I found the connection between them. These women are scattered all over the United States. Only sheer luck led me to discover the other six, and it is quite possible I simply have not found others. If these were normals, I think I would have found them much faster, for their membership in the Society alone should have drawn them together faster…"
"But abnormals are notoriously private," Johnnie finished. "So strange a death, and probably all on the higher end of the social scale, they preferred to hush it up and deal with the matter discreetly."
"Yes," Phil said. "That is the crux of it." She looked at Ontoniel. "The moment I found the connection between them, I contacted you to schedule this appointment."
Ontoniel nodded. "I thank you for the courtesy."
Phil smiled, slow and mischievous. "Courtesy nothing, dear Dracula. I knew from various rumors that your son was a fair hand at detective work himself; I was hoping for both a connection to get me into the territory and a friendly face to assist me with the work."
Ontoniel laughed, then smiled at her, the friendliest Johnnie had ever seen his father with someone he had only just met. "Well played, then, my dear. But as it happens, I may be able to offer you some help myself. My son's fiancée, Lady Ekaterina Salem, belongs to the Princess Society. Perhaps she can offer you some information you do not already possess?"
"Yes, quite possibly," Phil said, smiling at him. "That would be splendid. Thank you."
Nodding, Ontoniel hit another button on his phone.
"Yes?" Elam asked, his curt voice chilling even through the phone.
"I would like you and Ekaterina in my study immediately," Ontoniel said, then hung up.
Johnnie's mouth quirked in amusement, but he said nothing. A couple of minutes later, Elam and Ekaterina arrived. They made a beautiful couple, Johnnie thought—then his breath caught in his chest in surprise as he realized what he had just thought.
And, more importantly, how he had not been troubled by the thought at all.
He looked at Elam again, but saw only a mildly annoying elder brother. Elam was beautiful, cold, a perfect match to his stunning fiancée. Only months ago, Johnnie had fled because it tore him apart to see Elam go to someone else.
Now … now he simply did not give a damn.
What did that mean?
"Ekaterina," Ontoniel said. "I am sorry to disturb you. My son and his friend here are cooperating on a case, one that appears to involve the Princess Society."
Ekaterina's brows rose in surprise, but she only moved to sit in the chair before Ontoniel's desk, next to Phil. Ontoniel made the proper introductions, and Phil recounted her case. When she was finished, Ekaterina digested the words in silence for several minutes, absently smoothing back her perfect, straight brown hair with long, elegant fingers painted with violet nail polish.
Finally she said, "I knew all those women. I did not know all seven of them were dead." She fell silent again, looking sad, but then continued, "Three of them were several years older than me, two were my age, two were younger. I knew them all, as I said, but only in passing. I am not certain what help I can offer, but I will certainly do what I can."
"Whatever you can tell me about them would be useful," Phil said. "Their families and friends were not forthcoming, more interested in protecting the dead than in finding their killers."
Ekaterina pursed her lips in thought, then said slowly, "I do not think they were all terribly well-to-do families, if that makes a difference. They were part of the Princess Society, but in the last hundred years the standards for entry were greatly lowered. Only a little over a century ago, they would not have qualified for entry. It's a very old-fashioned sort of society, meant for the elite and only the elite, to see that certain standards and traditions are remembered, maintained. Abnormal society is, as you well know, very old-fashioned in many respects."
"Yes," Phil said. "This territory is one of the most advanced I've seen, in terms of abnormals who fully utilize technology. Back home, we do not really bother."
Johnnie said nothing to that; he was no small part of the reason his father strongly supported technology, and worked hard to see it was adapted to magic so that it could be utilized by abnormals, who in general tended to adversely affect such things. Completely lacking in magic, it was easier for him to employ phones and the like, than constantly rely upon relics and spells cast by others.
"Not to mention," Phil continued, "the way that the Dracula adopted a human child, which is not something I know ever to have been done in vampire history. You also surrendered a very old territory in Europe to move here to indulge your first wife, and I know you kept connections with the DeLovely family after they caused a scandal of their own."
Ontoniel laughed. "Making a female an Alucard, you mean? That is not so terrible a thing, and it is a scandal fourteen years old now. I will be interested to see who she finally marries, that is willing to play consort to a female Dracula. I believe the former Alucard Zachariah also works under the Consort Christian, yes?"
"Yes," Phil said, smiling. "Zach is currently working a case up north, otherwise he probably would have been the one to deal with this matter, as he is more familiar by far with the upper echelons of abnormal society than I."
"I sincerely doubt that," Ontoniel said, smiling at her.
Johnnie had never seen his father smile and laugh so much in the course of one afternoon, never mind at a complete stranger. Really, he just wanted to go back to the Bremen and play at normalcy for a bit.
"Anyway," Ekaterina cut in. "I do no
t know what the women had in common, past their membership in the Princess Society. They had nothing much in common, from what I remember. They have very different interests, were years—decades—apart, lived in different parts of the country—"
"I think we are focusing on the wrong thing," Johnnie cut in, losing all patience.
Everyone turned to look at him—Ekaterina and Elam in annoyance, Ontoniel with a faint smile, and Phil with amusement. Beside him, Bergrin made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. Ignoring him, Johnnie said, "The main problem here is not that they are all from the same Society, though that obviously will be pertinent later. What intrigues me more is the nature of the deaths, what they were wearing when they went to bed, what they were wearing when they were found dead, and the fact they were clearly exhausted to death. Do you know the tale of the Shoes That Were Danced to Pieces?"
"It's a fairytale," Phil said. "About princesses who snuck out every night to party so long and hard they wore holes in their shoes every night. I remember there were forests in it, of gold and jewels and something else."
"Mm," Johnnie said. "The mystery in the tale was always how the princesses managed to escape to sneak off to their party. They were sealed into their bedroom every night, with no way in or out once the bolts were thrown. A soldier manages to follow them, through a secret passage into another world."
"Plane crossing," Ontoniel interrupted. "That story has long been studied by abnormal scholars as a tale that secretly recounts a way to cross from the mortal plane to the dream plane at will. Of all the planes, the path from mortal to dream is the easiest to travel. Many plane scholars believe that if the trick of crossing from one to the other while awake could be achieved, the key to travelling all planes at will could be discovered."
Johnnie smiled at his father, taken by surprised. He had never known Ontoniel knew so much about such things. "Precisely. The tale of the dancing princesses is believed to contain a key to it, some secret code—or it could simply be a taunt, from the one who discovered it to those who read the tale and know what it means. It is largely believed that the 'princes' in the tale who lure the princesses into their world are not demons, but incubi."
"So we have seven women, all dead of dancing, and who had all gone to bed," Phil said. "You think they were pulled into the dream plane. But if they were pulled in while asleep, that is hardly impressive."
Spinning his cane, then rapping it sharply on the floor, Johnnie said, "Except they were found in their dancing clothes."
Phil rolled her eyes. "Duh me. I've been doing this for how many decades?" She frowned in thought, then said, "I think perhaps this problem is even bigger than I had first feared."
"I would agree," Ontoniel said.
"I think it sounds a fine mystery," Johnnie said, and rose. "I think I need to go speak with Micah. Come on Bergrin. Phil?"
Phil stood up, then turned to Ontoniel. "Thank you, Ontoniel, for all your assistance. I promise to see to it your son is returned in one piece, though I think the bodyguard there has the matter well in hand."
Ontoniel rose and extended his hand, kissing Phil's again when she placed her own in it. "I am happy I could help. Please take care of yourself, as well. Johnnie, come and see me when this is all over."
"Of course," Johnnie said. "Our conversation is far from over. Lady Ekaterina. Ellie." Holding out his arm to Phil, Bergrin shadowing just behind him, Johnnie led the way from the study.
A servant stood waiting for them in the entryway, and helped them into their coats and hats. Outside, a car was already waiting, no doubt summoned by his father after they had left the study. "It is a four hour drive into the city," Johnnie warned Phil.
Phil only shrugged, and settled into her seat with a smile. "I wouldn't mind the break. I've been travelling all over kingdom come via magic for days straight. A nice car ride will not break my heart." She reached up and lifted the pixie still cradled on her shoulder, settling it into her lap. Swirling eyes stared at Johnnie and Bergrin, wings rustling restlessly, tiny little gargoyle hands making motions.
"Huh," Phil said, petting the pixie. "He continues to repeat that Bergrin is gloomy magic, and he says that Johnnie is 'better vampire'. I have no idea what either of those two things mean, and after so many years, I thought I'd heard it all."
"Better vampire?" Johnnie echoed. "I am not a vampire at all, how could I be a better one?"
"You are a normal, and only twenty six years old," Bergrin said. "Yet I know plenty have mistaken you for a vampire, and many vampires concede you do it better at twenty six they did at one hundred and twenty six."
Johnnie said nothing, merely turned his head and stared out the window.
Phil laughed softly. "So what does gloomy magic mean, then?"
Bergrin shrugged. "I have not the slightest; there is nothing gloomy about me."
Though Johnnie agreed, he did not say it.
Laughing again, Phil asked, "So who is this Micah we are going to see?"
"A friend of mine, and a regular at the bar I own and live above," Johnnie replied. "He is an alchemist who specializes in plane-crossing relics." He rubbed his thumb along the runes carved into the top of his cane. "We will see what he says about this, unless you have another expert in mind?"
Phil shook her head. "Not me. I know experts on any number of subjects; I'm even friends with a very powerful sorcerer and his angel. Plane crossing, though—that's powerful mojo. The closest I've ever come to that is probably Chris' Black Dog."
Johnnie glanced from the window at that, attention truly captured. "A Black Dog? Who is this Chris—you mean the Consort?"
"Yes," Phil said, giggling. "Chris worked a case a couple of years ago, where the ghost of this child was haunting some fancy little neighborhood of rich people. They'd let the child die of neglect, and the child turned into a ghost when he died. His agony was great enough to summon a Black Dog, and after Chris figured out the problem and punished the people in the complex, the Dog stuck with him. He's fascinated by the way Chris is half-ghost."
"I have heard that before," Johnnie murmured. "I did not know the veracity of it. That territory is on the opposite side of the country, and we have little reason to interact with Sable Brennus."
Phil grinned. "You're welcome to drop by anytime, just make sure you bring an umbrella. I heard you were there recently, weren't you?"
"Yes," Johnnie said, nodding toward Bergrin.
Phil looked toward Bergrin in surprise. "Oh? I did not know you were from my neck of the woods. Where do you live?"
"The historic district just outside the city. My father owns Shale Estate."
"Ah," Phil said, smiling. "It's a beautiful district. Shale Estate is the oldest house there, I believe. How remarkable; I did not even realize you were that Bergrin."
Bergrin shrugged. "We've always preferred to live quietly; my father is very private."
Phil nodded. "Of course." She turned to Johnnie. "Do you know his family history?"
"I know there are precious few abnormals in his family tree, and that they have been in Brennus' territory for a long time," Johnnie said, annoyed and not entirely certain why.
"They helped settled the territory, even before Sable arrived and staked a claim," Phil said. "They were the only law in the area for a very long time."
Bergrin shrugged. "If by law you mean shooting first, hanging second, asking questions later on."
"So babysitting runs in the blood, as well?" Johnnie asked. "You never mentioned your prestigious history of enforcing."
"That is because it amounted to very little," Bergrin said with a shrug. "It was a matter of survival. It hardly made us rich or famous, and it killed as many Bergrins as it did supposed criminals. All it amounts to is being able to say we're as old as the territory itself. I have always been more interested in the abnormal aspects of my family, rather than the normal."
Johnnie nodded. "Certainly it is the abnormal bits of one's family history that seem to cause
the most trouble." He frowned, pensive mood returning as he brooded over all that his father had said—and what he still refused to say.
What could Tommy have made that was so awful no one wanted to admit what it was? Had he managed to make one of the impossible relics?
No, that was illogical. They were called impossible relics for a reason. In situations like these, it was always that the alchemist had made something he had never thought of, and which he did not know how to accidentally make a second time.
He drummed his fingers on his cane, his other hand bracing his chin as he stared out the car window again.
"You look lost in some serious thinking," Phil said. "I haven't looked that unhappy since I broke up with my last serious boyfriend ten years ago. Abnormal men are even more annoying to date than normal, let me tell you."