Dance in the Dark (12 page)

"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.

Johnnie scowled. "You are an Enforcer." In his father's territories, the closest the abnormals had to abnormal police were his father's Enforcers. But no one knew who they were, or even how many there were, save for the Dracula and the Alucard. They wore no uniforms, had no real known headquarters, but they were always there, shadowing around the city, upholding the Dracula's law.

G-man's hand flashed out, knocking Jack hard, and he then let Jack fall unconscious to the floor.  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a badge: the Desrosiers triple roses, surmounted by a pentacle with an 'E' in the middle. "Enforcer Bergrin, Master Johnnie," he said with a smirk that livened up his plain-pudding features.

Johnnie swore. "You better not have been ordered—"

"To watch you?" Bergrin interrupted. "Yes, I'm afraid. You showed up the first time, I had to report it. You showed up the second time, I was put on bodyguard detail."

Swearing again, Johnnie yanked out his phone and hit the speed dial for his father.

"John?"

"I do not need a goddamn bodyguard," Johnnie snarled.

Ontoniel laughed. "So my Enforcer played his hand. That means you were in danger."

Johnnie snapped, "I was fine."

"You have always been capable of defending yourself, Johnnie, but I am not bending on this matter. The dangers you have encountered are piddling things, and I am not going to leave you to face even worse alone. Whatever you might think, you do not have the experience. You will tolerate the Enforcer, or you will be dragged home and locked in your room. Am I clear?"

Johnnie snapped his phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. He shoved Bergrin—G-man, whatever his name was now—out of the way. "I do not require a babysitter." Not waiting for a reply, he stalked through the bar and up the stairs to his new accommodations. He would sleep, and tomorrow he would begin to pack his things, and he would be damned if he tolerated a babysitter.

Johnnie laid his cards down on the scuffed tabletop and tossed back the last of his vodka, then said, "Fold." Over at the bar, Peyton looked at the empty glass in query. Johnnie nodded yes, as Walsh claimed his winnings and Micah gathered up the cards to shuffle them.

Across the table, Nelson pulled out a small cedar box, extracted a cigar, and passed the box around the table. Johnnie took one, amused. The same cigars were in his father's study; he knew exactly what they cost. He doubted Nelson had paid that price.  Once his own was properly lit and sampled, Johnnie asked, "So did you pay full price for these?"

Nelson snorted his own amusement. "I paid for them, but that's about all I'll say."

"I see," Johnnie said, smirking. He thanked Peyton, who had arrived with his drink. "Deal the cards, Micah."

"As you command," Micah said cheerfully, but his hand froze in the process of tossing Johnnie his third card, eyes on the door, where everyone else's had gone.

Johnnie did not bother to turn around—he would know the scent and feel of that magic anywhere. It was like sunflowers and snow, a contradiction in scents that suited their owner perfectly. Footsteps drew closer to him, but Johnnie ignored them. He set his cigar aside, took a sip of vodka, then finally dragged his eyes slowly up to meet the familiar blue eyes quietly watching and waiting. "Rostislav."

"Johnnie."

"What do you want?"

"To talk."

Tossing back the rest of his vodka, Johnnie stood and said, "Upstairs."  He led the way to the back of the bar, scowling at Bergrin, slumped his corner like the harmless, lazy bar bum he pretended to be and not the odious, obedient to the Dracula only, aggravating babysitter that he was.

Leading the way up the stairs, he opened the door, motioned Rostislav inside, then closed it again behind them and locked it. "So talk."

Rostislav did not immediately reply, but strolled around the living area, filled now with all the furniture from Johnnie's sitting room. He glanced into the open doors of the scaled-down library and the bedroom, then turned slowly around to face Johnnie again. "So it's true—you left Ontoniel's house. Why in the world are you living
here?"

Johnnie was really getting sick of that question, even if he could see Rostislav was merely amused. "What do you care?" he asked coolly. "How is life with Prince Charming?"

"Fine," Rostislav said with a sigh. "It's not the same without you. I swear, Johnnie, I never meant to sacrifice you. It never occurred to me."