Dance in the Dark

by Megan Derr

  The sorcerer sneered at him. "You talk big, dog, but all men fear death."

  "I have nothing to fear," Bergrin reiterated. "But, by all means, give it your best shot."

  The dragon snarled and lunged—only to crash into the cage that held Johnnie, snarling in fury. But even as it turned to try again, the dragon screamed in fury and absolute agony.

  Johnnie's eyes went wide as he saw Bergrin drop the body of the dragon's owner, the man's throat sliced open. He had never seen so much blood.

  Tearing his eyes away from the grisly sight as Bergrin dealt with the dragon, he watched the sorcerer approach him. "How did you know we would be here?" he asked.

  "You're smart," the sorcerer replied. "After being brought up to date on everything, I knew you would come this way in due course." He lifted a hand, and Johnnie sneezed, realizing that part of the man's power came from a ring on his right middle finger. The sorcerer murmured something, and power rippled over Johnnie.

  "My, my," the sorcerer said. "It's true. There is no touching you, not when the spells are that old and cast by Solomon's line. I suppose I will have to return—" He cried out in sudden pain, and Johnnie jerked, wondering when the hell Bergrin had killed the dragon, and how neither of them had noticed.

  Bergrin grabbed the sorcerer by the hair, yanking his head to the side at a painful angle, then said in a soft, quiet voice, "You will not be returning, ever." But rather than kill him there, Bergrin abruptly threw the man against a closed door, so hard the man went through it, then followed him inside.

  Then all Johnnie heard was a terrible scream, followed by an even more terrible silence. At his feet, the spell cage fractured, then faded away. Johnnie looked up again as Bergrin reappeared, blood-spattered and bruised, his mouth a grim line, his eyes dark. Johnnie looked at him, stepped closer, and started to reach out—but then was not sure he should, or even could.

  "Are you all right?" he asked instead.

  "I'm fine," Bergrin said. "I'm sorry I led us right into a trap; I should have seen it."

  Johnnie shook his head. "Forget it. They obviously knew how to make certain you did not. We need to go see my father, and figure out what in the hell is going on, once and for all." He started to reach into his pocket to pull out his phone, when Bergrin abruptly stepped forward and grabbed hold of his arms again—but instead of shaking him, power flared, and they vanished.

  They reappeared in the entrance hall of his father's house.

  "I did not know you could do that," Johnnie said, hastily letting go before he did something stupid like continue to hold on.

  Bergrin shrugged. "I don't advertise it."

  Johnnie nodded, then turned and motioned to the servant passing down the far hallway. "Where is my father?"

  The servant jumped, obviously not having expected anyone to call him. "Uh-the-the main library, Master Johnnie."

  "Thank you," Johnnie said, then led the way there.

  Ontoniel sat in a chair in his favorite corner of the immense, two story library of his home, reading a book that was probably written in French.

  "Father," Johnnie said tersely. "Would you like to explain to me why the sorcerer who just attacked us—"

  "What—!"

  Johnnie nearly had to shout to be heard over Ontoniel's angry cry, "Why did he call me a dream child?" When Ontoniel fell silent, he pressed on. "Why did a nightmare curse rebound when it struck me? Why do I not dream? What is going on!"

  Ontoniel said nothing, but for a moment he looked every bit his six hundred thirty odd years.

  "Why?" Johnnie demanded.

  Sighing, Ontoniel motioned them both to sit. "Tell me what happened," he said.

  Though he did not want to delay getting his own answers, Ontoniel's tone brooked no argument. Johnnie recounted their attempt to go see the imp. When he finished, Ontoniel lapsed into silence again. When he finally spoke, his tone and face were grim. "I would be much happier, Johnnie, if you moved back home. You are much safer here."

  "No," Johnnie said. "What am I?"

  "Awake? Nothing," Ontoniel said wearily. "As you are now, you are one hundred percent normal—minus, perhaps, your exceptional beauty."

  Johnnie frowned. "Awake?"

  "Should you fall asleep and dream, or somehow otherwise access the dream plane, then in the dream plane you would likely take on more of your mother," Ontoniel replied. "She was a succubus, brought from the dream plane by your father." His voice turned flat as he continued, "It was the first and last good spell he cast."

  "What—" Johnnie's mind reeled. "I am—my mother—"

  "Your mother was a succubus. I never knew the details of how they met and managed to grow close. I do know that the Consort of Sable Brennus had a hand in it. I know that shortly before you were born, they decided to give up abnormalcy and live quietly as normals, and asked if they could live here in my territory."

  Bitter anger filled Ontoniel's face as he went on. "But did they? No. He slunk back into alchemy, like an addicted fool, desperate to recreate the greatness he achieved in pulling your mother out of dreams. Your mother would not put her foot down and stop him—

  "And it cost lives, and I ordered him to stop before more were lost. By then, of course, it was too late. They used my wife to kill your parents, and spared your life only because they had no choice. You want to know about real parents, John? They were too selfish to give up the one thing that most endangered their lives—and they died leaving you in even greater danger."

  Johnnie looked at him, too stunned to think—by what he was hearing, by Ontoniel's anger, the comment about Sariah. "What—what danger am I in, exactly?"

  "He didn't destroy it," Bergrin said, his face a thundercloud. "He didn't destroy it, and I'd bet my fucking life it's hidden where only Johnnie can get to it."

  "Yes," Ontoniel said quietly. "They kept Johnnie alive because they realized at the last moment that Cordula had hidden the object somewhere on the dream plane. I think they would have stolen Johnnie that night, except they realized it would have been fruitless—because the only unselfish thing your damned parents did was see that a spell was cast upon you that blocked all access to the dream plane."

  "That is why I do not dream," Johnnie said. "Can the spell be broken?"

  Ontoniel shrugged. "In theory, yes, but the reality is that the spell was placed on you before you were even born."

  Johnnie winced. "I see." A spell which had been placed on him while he was still in the womb … that made it as much a part of him as blood and bone. That was why no one ever sensed magic on him. It was too much a part of him. If someone tried to remove the spell, there was a very good chance the trauma of it would kill him.

  "So what is this fucking object they want so badly?" Bergrin asked.

  Ontoniel shook his head. "That, I can honestly tell you I do not know. I do not even know who is behind the hunt, though I have kept watch over the years, hoping the culprit would somehow reveal himself."

  Johnnie felt too many things to sort them all out. He was an incubus? But only when asleep? His parents had been murdered—"But I thought it was an accident, that your wife—"

  Old pain and guilt cracked what little remained of Ontoniel's carefully stoic expression. "I loved—still love—Sariah deeply. She was my other half for nearly four hundred years. She began to go blood crazy after three hundred and fifty years. That last night, I simply needed a break." He closed his eyes, pressing the tips of his fingers to his forehead. "I loved her, and I wanted her to get well, but there is no cure for blood madness. After nearly fifty years of taking care of her, I just wanted a break—"

  He broke off, and Johnnie bit back his own urge to speak, knowing it was not the time.

  After a few minutes, Ontoniel resumed. "I arranged with Jesse to have her stay a couple of days in his casino. Magic, at least strong magic like transporting someone, exacerbates the condition, so I arranged for a car to take her there. All seemed well—but not an hour after her departure, I received a c
all from my then Captain of the Enforcers." He fell silent again, then finished, "Three days later, I buried my wife, and I have tried ever since to let the entire damned tragedy die with her."

  Johnnie had been ready to say a hundred things a moment ago—now he could think of nothing. "Father—"

  Ontoniel let out a sharp, short laugh. "Do you know how long it took me to get you to call me that? I doubt you even remember how determined you were to dislike me, and have nothing to do with me. To this day, I do not know what finally changed your mind."

  "You bought me a book," Johnnie said softly, for he remembered it very well. "It was not one I had to borrow from this library or steal from Ellie, or sneak into the stacks of books being bought for the household. It was just for me."

  He had been so damned happy, he had run off to his room to read it and wound up crying all over it. The pages to this day were wrinkled where he had gotten them wet. He had thought it meant he belonged, fit in. That one stupid book, bought just for him by Ontoniel, for no good reason at all. He had thought it meant he really was a son, and had a family again, and belonged.

  A party a week later had shattered that illusion, but by then he did not know how to stop referring to Ontoniel as 'Father'.

  "A history of famous supernaturals throughout normal history," Ontoniel said, looking amused, more like himself. "That book was primarily about thieves and other such persons. Why do I think I am to blame for your lock-picking skills?"

  Johnnie jerked in surprise, and whipped around in his seat to glare at Bergrin—

  "I didn't say a word," Bergrin said, holding up his hands. "Wherever he learned it, it wasn't from me."

  Johnnie scowled at Ontoniel. "How?"

  Ontoniel only smirked. "A father always knows."

  Johnnie made a face.

  "On that note," Ontoniel said more seriously. "You need to close this case you are on."

  "But—" Johnnie bit the protest off, though he hated doing it, and simply asked, "Why?"

  Ontoniel looked at him in surprise, then smiled briefly with rare, open approval. But the smile faded away again as he explained, "Seven women are dead, so far as you know. But I knew what else to look for—eleven women are dead in total, because of the experiments in plane crossing, and I fear it is probably too late to save the last one. They were all killed roughly a month apart."

  "And Phil's case came to her about a month ago," Johnnie said, gut twisting. "She is dead, or will be soon. Damn it. What—what did you look for?" But before Ontoniel could reply, he answered his own question. "Early failures."

  Ontoniel nodded. "Yes. I will say the early results were decidedly unpleasant. I may drink blood, but that does not mean I enjoy the sight of it in all situations."

  Johnnie slumped in his seat, suddenly feeling tired. He had thought … what? That he would feel better? More included? By finally knowing the secrets he had a right to know, that he would better belong?

  But it seemed secrets worked as well as books at giving him a proper place.

  He had read that stupid book cover to cover every single day for a week straight. All these years later, he still had portions of it memorized. Back then, twelve years old and still with no real understanding of the new world in which he lived, he had wanted only to make friends, to find people who understood him. At that point in his life, he would not meet Rostiya for a couple more years.

  So he had tried to impress the few other children at the party by telling them everything he knew about them from what he had read, especially from the book his father had just bought him.

  That had not ended well for his nose, or his brand new tuxedo—or his freedom, after Ontoniel grounded him for a month for refusing to identify the bullies.

  Fourteen years after that, Johnnie still did not fit in well—not unless people were telling him he made an excellent imitation vampire.

  "I am sorry," Johnnie finally said.

  Ontoniel smiled, tired but genuine. "All I wanted for you, John, was a semblance of the normal life that your parents promised you, but did not give you. You have never made that easy. I do not like you at that bar, not while whoever nearly killed you seventeen years ago is actively hunting you again. At least lay low for a time, and please keep close to Bergrin. And when I finally order you to come home—"

  "I will," Johnnie said, and it did not seem so terrible a concession to make, suddenly, not when Ontoniel visibly relaxed at his words.

  "Thank you," Ontoniel said. "You do recall your brother's formal betrothal ball is in two weeks, yes? Try to stay out of trouble at least that long."

  Johnnie rolled his eyes, but nodded.

  Looking to Bergrin, Ontoniel said, "Keep him safe."

  "With my life, my lord," Bergrin replied.

  Ontoniel nodded. "Then go, I have things to do now. John, we will have dinner tonight, at the beach club."

  "Yes, father," Johnnie said, and rose. He and Bergrin left, silent and pensive as they waited outside for a car to pull up. Questions filled his mind, emotions pressed down on him. He finally had his secrets; something, at least, was no longer a mystery.

  Johnnie glanced up at the sky, and murmured softly, "And when they saw that they were betrayed, and that falsehood would be of no avail, they were obliged to confess all."

  Somehow, the victory felt very cold.

  Case 007: The True Bride I

  "Keep your hands there."

  "And if I do not?" Johnnie asked, but his attempt at defiance was ruined by his moaning, as Eros wrapped a hand around his cock and gave a hard tug.

  Eros chuckled. "Then I won't suck you off before I fuck you."

  Johnnie gasped as the hand began to move in earnest, Eros' mouth sliding across his skin. "My hands are where they should be—why is your mouth not?"

  Eros laughed again, then his hands were gone, and his mouth slid down Johnnie's body to replace them on his cock, hot and wet and talented.

  It took every bit of self control Johnnie had left to keep his hands gripping his headboard, and not fumble in the dark to sink his hands into Eros' hair. He was not quite able to hold back a cry as he came, absently grateful that he had noticed the time was three AM, because there would be no one downstairs to wonder why he was screaming.

  He was still gasping for breath when Eros spread his legs and thrust inside him, stealing what little breath Johnnie had managed to gather, drinking down his startled cry with a ravenous kiss. His tongue took Johnnie's mouth as surely as his cock thrust again and again into Johnnie's body, and Johnnie could only cling to the headboard for dear life.

  By the time they came, Johnnie was completely exhausted. Eros had appeared shortly after he had gone to bed, and fucked him until they had passed out in a sweaty tangle. Then, right around three, Johnnie had been woken up to be treated to a second amorous onslaught.

  Something about the entire night seemed unsettling. Eros was as passionate, as satisfying, as ever—but the desperate edge that always hovered seemed stronger and more apparent.

  Johnnie had given up asking questions and making demands. He was still trying to reconcile with all that his father had told him a week ago; he simply did not have the energy to face the mystery of Eros as well, even if he hated this secret above and beyond all the others.

  If lying sated and sweaty in the arms of someone he had never seen—and never would see—felt hollow rather than filling … he tried to convince himself at least the sex was something.

  *~*~*

  "Hey, Johnnie," a handful of voices greeted as he entered the bar.

  Johnnie returned the greetings, one brow quirked in the direction of Chuck and Nelson, who were cooing and all but fondling a brand new pool table. "That explains the booming and banging."

  "Sorry, Johnnie," Peyton said, bringing him a cup of tea. "Didn't mean to wake you."

  "You did not," Johnnie replied. "I did not sleep much."

  "Up late reading again?"

  "Yes," Johnnie said, because he was fairly certain Peyt
on did not want to hear that his lack of sleep was due to an excess of fucking. "Nice table."

  Nelson grinned. "You have excellent taste, Johnnie."

  "Clearly," Johnnie said dryly. He had told them to buy a new one, that was it. "Do I want to know how expensive my taste is?"

  A derisive snort came from the table behind him, as Bergrin said, "Whatever it cost, I would still lay good money that your wardrobe upstairs cost more."

  Johnnie reached out with his cane and struck Bergrin's table. "You are to be seen and not heard."

  Bergrin smirked, then went back to his coffee.