Dance in the Dark

by Megan Derr

  He swallowed against the wave of sadness and shame that washed through him. He would yell at himself later, but right now he had to focus.

  Ontoniel was meticulous. He might have destroyed all of Tommy's papers and such, but he would have kept what he needed to ensure Johnnie's safety. But where would he keep them?

  The desk was enormous, a modern L-shaped desk but designed to look antique. All the drawers were locked, and heavily warded with magic—including against normal tampering, Johnnie noted with frustration, as he was magically zapped in warning with every drawer he tried.

  Frustrated, annoyed that Ontoniel clearly knew him far too well, Johnnie sank back into the chair and fought despair. There had to be something, damn it all. He would find it.

  Thoughts of finding, of course, immediately led to thoughts of Bergrin, but Johnnie was not going down that path. But memories of the night when everything had changed spurred him to look around his father's study with the eyes of a detective, rather than the eyes of a frantic son.

  But it was still the eyes of a son that drew him to the chair where he most often preferred to sit, in the chair before the massive stained-glass window. It gave a clear view of the rest of the room, and provided plenty of rainbow light by which to read—not that he had ever simply kicked back and read in Ontoniel's sanctuary.

  What would Bergrin immediately see, with those sly, unknown tricks of his, that Johnnie would take longer to notice? He glanced around the room again, but his eyes kept returning to his little corner. Was something about it actually nagging him, or was it simply that he was drawn to the familiar comfort of it? Because he did not like sitting in Ontoniel's chair—it felt too much like he was accepting Ontoniel was going to die.

  Hastily standing up, he strode over to his corner, but did not sit. He continued to frown at it, thinking. Something was bothering him, he decided, but what and why now? He had sat here a thousand times and never noticed anything; hell, he was the only one who ever sat here. Everyone else used the leather chairs in front of the desk, or the sofa and chairs in the little seating area arranged in front of the bookcases.

  No one else ever bothered to sit all the way over here, where it was easier to see without really being seen. Out of the way. The few times he had been called in here, growing up, he had preferred this corner. In fact, he realized suddenly, it had not always had a chair. It had been added later, but he could not honestly remember when. But he remembered being younger, and called in here to get reprimanded—but Ontoniel would often be on the phone, or speaking to Elam first, and Johnnie would stand over here and wait, anxious and afraid, for his turn.

  To distract himself, he had examined everything about the corner. The stained glass window, the intricate squares of paneling that ran along the bottom edge of the entire study but were most visible here. Each panel depicted the elaborate triad of roses that was the Desrosiers crest. He had traced them over and over, memorizing the pattern, until he had known it in his sleep. He had thought Ontoniel would be impressed he knew the family crest so well, but Johnnie had never worked up the nerve to tell Ontoniel. It was only one of many stupid, pointless things he had done, because he had lived in terror for so long that he would lose his second family, too.

  He slumped in his chair and raked a hand through his hair. He had been good at this sort of thing, once, or at least stubborn enough to delude himself. Could he not do it just one more time? He looked around the study, trying to think, to see, but nothing presented.

  Sighing, he stood and then knelt by the panels he had traced a thousand times—and sneezed hard as he bent close to one. He sneezed again, and reached for his handkerchief, before realizing with a grimace that he had already used it thoroughly.

  Tossing it aside, he sneezed against his sleeve, then tried to focus on the panel. Definitely magic upon it, but so tightly confined to just the panel that he had never noticed it mingled with the low level of magic perpetually running throughout the house.

  Reaching out, he felt all over and along the panel carefully. It was a rich, dark, red-brown color, meticulously cared for over the years, dusted and oiled, lovingly maintained like every other piece of the house. Ontoniel took great pride in his home, and would not tolerate anything less from his servants.

  It was only on his tenth pass, as he was growing so angry he was tempted simply to fetch an ax and hack the thing apart, that he felt it. A slight shift in a small bit of the fancy ivy pattern that bordered the panel. One of the leaves. It took him a couple more minutes to figure out how exactly it twisted—but when it finally moved, and revealed a keyhole behind it, Johnnie cried out for joy so loudly that Ontoniel would have given him a Look.

  He stood up and half-ran, half-tripped his way to the desk where he had left his lock-picking tools. Scooping them up, he returned to the secret keyhole and hesitantly tried his picks—and almost started crying from relief when magic did not push him away.

  Ontoniel had seen this panel was warded, but he had not warded it against Johnnie's tricks.

  It took him only a few minutes to pick the lock, and another minute to pull the panel open to reveal a small, secret cabinet. It contained nothing but a small stack of papers and a folder—and, he noticed belatedly, a pair of rings.

  He took everything out, then after a moment's consideration, took it all back to Ontoniel's desk. The rings clinked together as he sat, and Johnnie reached out to pick them up. They … they were obviously wedding rings. Simple, the sort of rings a middle-class couple would be able to afford. The woman's ring had only a single small diamond set in gold. The man's was a plain gold band. Ontoniel had these? But why, and why had Johnnie never seen them? He had no mementos of his family minus a single album of photos his parents had kept, and which had not been destroyed along with everything else.

  Forcing himself to set them aside, he next focused his attention on the folder. It was plain, made of good, heavy stock dyed dark brown. Opening it, he saw immediately it was a formal case report—or rather, he realized after a moment, a copy of one.

  The first page was a printed form, the top portion of it listing several things which had been filled in by whoever had written the report. Whoever it was had a brisk, tidy hand. Case Number: 041 (Sweet Dreams), Primary Detective: Chris, Secondary Detective: Doug. Client: Cordula, Summary: Man trapped in dreams. Resolution: Case solved.

  Johnnie drew a sharp breath as he realized he was reading about his parents. As he read, he realized the case was about how his mother had finally entered the mortal plane, after his father was nearly killed by a rival succubus.

  He set it hastily aside, the whole thing suddenly too much. It was not what he was looking for, anyway. Except, as he picked up the first of several pages of loose paper, he realized perhaps the old case was more pertinent to the present than he realized.

  Because those names kept coming up—Chris, Doug. He knew those names. Chris was the Consort—Phil's boss. Doug was another detective. But he had seen them somewhere else, too. The first piece of paper he picked up was a detailed explanation of the spell that had been cast on Johnnie, elaborating on what it would do, how long it would last, and what could happen if it was ever removed.

  A later letter, from someone named Jed, detailed the love spell which Ekaterina had mentioned, and about which Johnnie had surmised. It had not actually been a proper love spell, he saw, reading the letter. Ontoniel had wanted him protected from such things, as he was not entirely convinced the threat was gone forever. By infatuating him with someone—his brother—he would be unharmed but safe from the tampering of others, until the spell should naturally cancel upon his actually falling in love.

  Johnnie tried to be angry, but he was simply too damned wrung out. He no longer cared what Ontoniel had done to him. He just wanted his father and everyone else back.

  Who was Jed? The sorcerer? But other than that one letter, there was nothing more about him. Johnnie read through all the papers, but at the end of it all the only sure bit he had t
o go on was that Chris had been the initial mastermind in all of it—rescuing his father, helping to bring his mother into the mortal plane, helping them move to Ontoniel's territory and later setting them up with Jed.

  Mixed in with the various papers was a single business card for one Sable Brennus. On the back of it, however, was Chris' name and a single phone number. It was a starting point, and he could do nothing but hope that it took him to this Jed he obviously needed to find.

  Pulling out his phone, he quickly punched in the number, sick with anxiety while it began to ring.

  After the fifth ring, just as he wanted to scream in frustration, a sleepy, husky voice said, "White Detective Agency."

  "Hello," Johnnie said. "I apologize for calling at so terrible an hour—"

  "So you do realize it is two in the morning?" the man asked, voice dry with amusement.

  "Yes," Johnnie snapped, losing what patience he had managed to retain. "I am all too well aware of the hour, but it is a matter of life and death. Unless you relish the idea of being party to the death of the Dracula Desrosiers and his family, I suggest you cease with your ill-timed attempts at humor and provide some genuine assistance."

  There was a startled silence, then a soft laugh. "Yes, my lord," the man said teasingly. "One moment, I will fetch Christian." Johnnie heard the man set the phone down, and could just barely hear him speaking to someone else.

  After another minute or so, another voice came on the line, sleepy sounding but more alert and markedly more serious than the first. "This is Chris. What's wrong?"

  "My name is Johnnie Desrosiers," Johnnie said. "I do not know if you remember me—"

  "Of course I do," Chris said, suddenly sounding completely awake. "Your parents were good people. Phil mentioned you yesterday, and I finally realized her 'friend Johnnie' was you. What's wrong? Phil and Zach went to help you with a case tonight."

  Johnnie laughed, because otherwise he would simply lose his mind. "They were—they are—they tried but everything has gone wrong."

  "I'll come right over—"

  "No!" Johnnie screamed desperately into the phone. "You cannot. If you enter this house, you will fall under the same curse. She put a Sleeping Beauty—"

  "Meet me outside the house, then," Chris said. "I'll fetch you, and you can tell me everything, and we'll figure out what to do."

  Johnnie started to tell him that there was no time, that he needed to talk to Jed, but all that came out was, "All right."

  The phone went dead, and he closed his own, then rose shakily to his feet. Gathering up all the papers, he strode to the main entryway and pulled out a leather case to put them all in. Then he pulled on his coat, hat, and retrieved his cane.

  Outside, he locked the door—then turned around and jumped, seeing someone who had not been there a moment ago.

  He was handsome, if dressed in clothes that clearly had seen better days and needed to be retired. Blue, blue eyes, tousled gold hair, and the power of a demon poured off him in such strength that Johnnie once more found himself sneezing so hard he thought he would break something.

  "Johnnie Goodnight," Chris said softly. "You have grown up well—but I can see this is neither the time nor the place. Come on, we'll go to my place and figure it all out."

  He sounded so calm, so certain, steady, that Johnnie did not even think about, simply took the hand that Chris held out and let him teleport them away.

  They reappeared in a room that was elegant, classy, and simple. A black leather sofa dominated the space, facing a massive fireplace, in which a fire had obviously been recently lit. Windows ran floor to ceiling along the entire length of the room, looking out and down onto a rain-soaked city many stories below.

  Leaning against the windows, half in shadow, was a striking man with dark, wildly curly hair and eyes the color of thunderclouds. Unlike Chris, he was well dressed in dark slacks and a gray sweater. The magic and power radiating off him was so great that Johnnie went right back to sneezing. When he finally got control of it, he could only gasp out, "You are the demon lord Sable Brennus, are you not?"

  "Guilty as charged," Sable said cheerfully, moving toward them and immediately kissing Chris' cheek, ignoring the scowl that got him. "You are the one who just took me to task. Johnnie Desrosiers, formerly Johnnie Goodnight. That is a name I remember well, though I have not heard it in more than passing for over fifteen years."

  Johnnie could not think of a reply to that.

  "Sit here," Chris said, and took his coat and hat—but Johnnie would not relinquish the cane.

  Moving obediently to the couch, he slumped down in it and wished he could simply go to sleep.

  "Would you like something to drink?" Chris asked. "Coffee, tea…?"

  "Whiskey, brandy," Sable added more playfully. "Perhaps the best of both worlds, my housekeeper makes a mean hot toddy."

  Hot toddy—Johnnie bit back more sobbing laughter, burying his face in one hand. He would give anything to hear a certain hot toddy voice right now, anything and everything. "N-n-no," he finally managed. "I am fine. I-I apologize for the unseemly hour."

  "Forget it," Chris said. "Tell me everything."

  Johnnie looked up at him, staring for what seemed an eternity—then the dam finally broke, and he spilled out everything.

  At some point, Sable pressed a drink into his hand, but it was not until he finally finished recounting everything that Johnnie bothered to take a sip of it. Scotch, he noticed, and his eyes burned—it was his father's favorite kind.

  He took another sip, and by the third it actually managed to be soothing.

  "What a mess," Chris said with a long sigh, raking a hand absently through his hair. "I think you are right, unfortunately—getting Jed to break your spell and sending you into dreams is the most effective route, at least for now. We will work on other things, anyway, but she sounds like she was too thorough for anyone's peace of mind. If we truly cannot enter that house, then we cannot find the spell key to destroy it and break the curse. It sounds like it is rigged against tampering, anyway. So, you will have to go into dreams, if only to break the spells on them that way."

  Johnnie nodded. "But first we must break the spell, and there is every chance that doing so will kill me."

  "Maybe," Chris replied. "But this is Jed we're talking about. He's not your usual caliber of sorcerer. I will give him a call; he should be here by morning, and we can further discuss the matter."

  "No—we need to do this now—" Johnnie stood up, then abruptly sat back down again, feeling horribly dizzy and suddenly exhausted. He looked up at Sable. "What …"

  "Sleeping spells might not work," Sable said with entirely too much cheer, "but drugs work on everyone, and you need to rest. You can't save the world if you're exhausted."

  Johnnie glared at him, or tried, but it was suddenly so very difficult to keep his eyes open.

  The last thing he remembered was the sound of soft laughter, and two voices quietly talking.

  Case 009: Beauty in Repose

  Johnnie woke with a jerk, then slumped over, feeling groggy and heavy-headed. Where was he? Not the Bremen. Not his father's home.

  Father.

  He jerked up, memories flooding back, and remembered he was in the home of Sable Brennus. Voices drew him then, and he slowly stood up and turned, looking over the couch to where a group of men were gathered.

  Chris and Sable he recognized, but not the other three. One was a short man with red hair and freckles; harmless looking, but Johnnie had long ago learned to mark that unidentifiable something that designated an imp. Recalling all that Phil had ever said about her comrades, this must be Doug.

  The other two he did not know at all. Of the two, one was just barely taller than Doug, about even with Chris—definitely not as tall as Sable or the other man. He was quiet, studious looking, with glasses, mussed hair, and wearing a blue and black flannel shirt over a black t-shirt, and faded stone-washed jeans. Power radiated off him, and nearly made Johnnie sneeze, e
xcept this time he was braced for it.

  Nearby, the last man stood watching the studious one with open fondness. He was handsome, almost pretty—and there was an unmistakable collar around his neck. Of all the enslaved races, only one wore collars imbued with so much magic. "Angel," Johnnie said, too surprised to remember to be quiet.

  Almost as one, the five men turned to look at him.

  "You're awake," Sable said drolly.

  Johnnie glared at him. "You drugged me."

  "Children do not always know what's best for them," Sable said mockingly.

  "I do not think you have room to be calling anyone a child," Johnnie said coldly.

  Chris and Doug burst out laughing, and Chris slid his lover a smirk. "He has you there, Sable."