Dance in the Dark (21 page)

"—I swear to god, you need to be knocked upside the head! Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"No, I don't," Bergrin said bitterly. "But I'm telling you right fucking now to leave it alone."

"You need to tell the—"

"This discussion is over, Pop."

"It's a long way from over."

Johnnie hovered in the doorway, reluctant to break in when he saw that Alec and Bergrin were practically toe to toe and all put poised to start swinging. At some point, he saw, Bergrin had showered and dressed as well.  He wore stonewashed jeans, now, and a light green shirt that did startling things to his hair and eyes—and really, Johnnie thought tiredly, did he need to notice such things? Did he not have enough problems?

Alec started to say more, but then saw Johnnie. "My, my, boy. No wonder Ber calls you 'Prince'. If I didn't know better, I'd bet my life savings you were a vampire."

"Thank you," Johnnie said, unwilling to be rude to Alec, though normally such comments irritated him because he would never truly be anything like a vampire.  "Am I interrupting? I apologize."

"No," Bergrin said, shooting his father a look. "We're done."

Alec looked as though he strongly disagreed, but let Bergrin have his way.  He smiled at Johnnie instead. "I reheated the broth from last night, and today I actually had time to make fresh bread. It's in the kitchen, we can eat there while we talk. It's much warmer than the dining room."

Johnnie nodded and followed them into the kitchen, taking the seat Alec indicated at a large oak table that was as worn but well cared for as everything else in the house.  Alec set a bowl of blue and yellow porcelain in front of him, and a matching plate piled with slices of fresh, warm bread.

Directly across from Johnnie, Bergrin was making short work of his own food. He smirked at his father. "If you weren't such a good cook, Pop, you'd be a much better alchemist."

Alec rolled his eyes. "I think that, in the long run, it is better for the world that I am a better cook." He laid a hand on the journals and letters he had set nearby on the table. "Now, as to your mystery, Johnnie."

"Yes?" Johnnie asked. "What do the journals say?"

Sighing softly, Alec said, "This will actually take quite a bit of explaining, and some background. I have lived in this city my entire life. When this house was first built, it was the only one for miles around. Now, it is the oldest in the little neighborhood it inhabits.  Ber tells me that he told you I was an oddity in my family; minus my unfortunate ancestor, I am the only abnormal. But, I grew up aware of my abnormal neighbors. My two best friends growing up were of alchemist-caliber, and as they got older that is what they became. Their names were Mike and Tommy."

He smiled wryly. "I confess, I mainly became one because that was all I knew, growing up alongside them. While I am passable, my friends were much better. Anyway, we drifted apart as we finished school and moved on, though for awhile we kept in touch.

"Almost thirty years ago now, I learned that a woman had entered Tommy's life. He had never mentioned a word about it before, but suddenly I received a letter from him telling me he was married.  I wrote to Mike, asking him about it, but he didn't know where she'd come from either.  A few months later, I received another letter. It was several pages long, but explained one very simple thing—Tommy and his wife were going to live as normals for the safety of their child. They didn't want their son or daughter growing up facing all the dangers and peculiarities that came with being abnormal.

"After that, I never heard from him again. Figured he dropped off the face of the earth exactly as he'd wanted. I should have looked into it more closely, but by that point my own life was in upheaval." He smiled warmly at Bergrin, as his thumb rubbed across his wedding ring in such a familiar way, Johnnie doubted Alec knew he was doing it.

"The point of this story, however," Alec continued, "is that Tommy did not quit his alchemical studies the way he had said he was going to, and he might have lost touch with me, but he kept in touch with Mike. The letters, unfortunately, are nothing but reports that Mike later transcribed into the journals. I had hoped they would offer up more information, but it looks like Mike kept them only because he was still working to transcribe the ones in the bundle.

"It's all frustratingly vague, but my understanding is that Tommy accidentally made something he should not have made, and he and Mike were trying to figure out what the hell to do about it. What he made, I wish I knew, but they very carefully do not say. The information they left was for me to figure it out eventually, I suppose, but never explicit enough for anyone else to piece it together. However, one of the letters does seem to indicate he destroyed it. I hope he did. Accidents in alchemy almost never have a happy ending." His face softened briefly, and Johnnie rather thought that Alec had made a mistake, and it
had
ended happily.

But, he was far more concerned with all that Alec had just told him. His chest felt tight, made it hard to breathe.  It felt like he was freezing and on fire all at once. "You said the one who tried to give it up—his name was Tommy?"

"Yes," Alec replied, frowning in confusion.  "Tommy Fitz."

"What—what was his wife's name?"

"I don't remember," Alec said. "It was a bit unusual, I remember that. I think it began with a 'C'."

"Cordula," Johnnie said, closing his eyes briefly. "Her name was Cordula. They—they must have changed their surname when they moved to Desrosiers territory. Excuse me." He stood up and fled the kitchen, fled the house, finally stopping when he reached the large, wrap-around porch, falling into a porch swing around the side of the house.

He stared blindly at the rain, thinking numbly that it was strange the rain was falling as hard here as it had been back home. Except, he recalled, Brennus was a storm demon, so such weather was the norm here.

Secrets, he thought bitterly. He hated secrets.  His own parents had started the tangle of lies when they had tried to be something they were not. Ontoniel was obviously keeping their secrets still.

Then there was Eros.

Something flickered in his mind, a voice he loved and loathed, speaking to him, but then it slipped away like quicksilver and Johnnie was left with only a headache.

His parents. They had fled Brennus territory, changed their surname, and started a new, normal life. Except it would seem his father had kept secrets of his own, and not given up his alchemy after all. But what had he made, and why were men only now trying to obtain it?  Johnnie frowned in thought, clinging almost eagerly to the mystery, gratefully shunting other problems to the side.

Something had changed, he surmised. Something new had come to light, that provoked the seekers into action.  Or perhaps it had taken them this long to figure out that his father had spoken to someone, and who that someone was. He could not be sure, though, Johnnie thought irritably. He simply did not have enough information to paint a clear picture.  He was stumbling around in the dark, and what good had that ever done him?

His body tightened with memories of all the good that had been done to him in the dark, but Johnnie forced those thoughts aside. Frustrated, he cradled his head in his hands and tried to think. Normally, he was good at that. Why did it seem like he was falling apart now?

Just the facts.

Someone had raised a draugr, provoking it to go after its 'treasures.'  But the draugr had not in fact led them to the real gems—the journals and letters hidden in the secret compartment. Johnnie had found them, and subsequently been attacked.

The journals were written in a code that only Alec would be able to easily read—and apparently only Alec ever stood a real chance of figuring out what Tommy had accidentally created. The two dead friends had known whatever Tommy had made was dangerous, or at least problematic, but important enough they had left clues for a friend. Yet Mike had hidden them away, or maybe he had simply died before he had been able to send them off.

What had Tommy created? Why was it all only coming to light now? Because Mike had died only recently? Had he managed to repel all attention in the matter while he lived?  Johnnie's head throbbed, and he grimaced in pain.

Why had no one ever told him about all this? Had his father really done or made something that important? What? Damn it. They were his parents, damn it, he had a right to know what they had really been.

The door opened, but Johnnie ignored whoever had come to talk to him. "So you are Tommy's son," Alec said. "I feel I should have figured that out. All G—Ber told me about you was that your parents were killed and Dracula Desrosiers adopted you."

Johnnie nodded.

"Your father was a good man, for what it is worth. Quiet, I believe he took up teaching.  He was a good alchemist, better than me. He had a knack for creating magic-infused items."

Latching on to that, Johnnie asked, "So he probably created a relic of some sort? Do you have any clue as to what it was?"

"No," Alec said. "I was nothing like them, not even close. My greatest moment in alchemy was a fluke, a one in a billion chance that could only ever be done by mistake. It brought me something I never thought I would have, but after that I swore off real alchemy for good.  Your father, however … I was truly surprised to hear that he was giving it all up. I am not at all surprised to learn he went right back to it."

Johnnie nodded, but said nothing.

"As to what he made, it could be anything—literally. Your father chased the impossible relics like damn near every alchemist under the sun, and I doubt he ever gave it up. He liked tinkering with them too much." The impossible relics; magical items that were written about again and again, but simply were impossible to make. They were nearly as sought after in the abnormal world as the ability to cross the planes at will.

As in so many things, the wants and wishes had found their way into stories, passed down through the generations until they seemed only stories, and like the Cinderella slippers, no one really knew if it was the stories or the wish for impossible things which had come first.

The tale of twelve princesses who travelled to another world, where they danced the night away—the ability to cross planes at will. Snake leaves—the ability to bring the dead back to life. A mirror that could answer any question put to it. Fish that granted wishes, objects and foods that granted immortality, geese that laid golden eggs, the ability to turn straw into gold; the list of absurdities went on and on.

Only stories, but they were enough to inspire generations of magic users, especially alchemists, to try to create them anyway. History was rife with the tragedies which too often resulted. It did not really surprise Johnnie that his father might have been amongst those fools. Was it better or worse that he had been killed by a blood-crazy vampire before his own obsessions had killed him? "So the journals only contain copies of my father's experiments?" Johnnie asked, just to break the silence.

"Yes," Alec said. "I think that they believed I could follow them, that I would attempt it far enough to learn what Tommy had made, but I have not done real alchemy for nearly thirty years. All I do now is silly stuff, parlor tricks. But recreating his experiments does not mean I would ever recreate his mistake, or mistakes, and so I'm not quite certain why they wrote it all out in my code. But, perhaps with more time I can figure it out. Whatever it is, I really do hope they destroyed it."

"That would be too easy," Johnnie said. No alchemist ever destroyed a creation, especially not one which caused this much trouble. He would have to speak with his father, Johnnie thought.  Ontoniel would have answers, but getting them would be no easy task. Johnnie was not really looking forward to the conversation.

Did this all tie back in to the way that spell had rebounded, he thought suddenly. Perhaps his birth father had done something to him. But if that were the case, why would Ontoniel not simply say? Because Ontoniel knew what it was, damn it.

"You look as though you are drowning in your thoughts," Alec said softly.

Johnnie grimaced. "I think I am, but I will sort them out. I must speak with my father, I think, to learn anything about my birth father."

"At that, I think you must be going soon. Ber was on the phone, speaking with your father, I believe." Bergrin was speaking directly to his father? Usually people dealt with his father's secretary. Precious few were the individuals who had Ontoniel's direct line.

Johnnie tucked the thought away for later, and simply nodded. "I thank you again for your hospitality, and most especially for your assistance—and your patience. It is in extremely poor taste to arrive uninvited and injured, and I have not much improved since. But it is nice to have met you; Bergrin is a great deal like you."

"He's even more like his mother," Alec said with faint smile.

"I am sorry I did not get to meet her," Johnnie said, meaning it. Having met the father, he was even more curious to meet the mother.

Alec smiled more widely. "I believe you will meet her eventually. There is no need to fall back on formality with me, and you are always welcome here, Johnnie."

They both turned as the door opened, and Bergrin joined them on the porch. He wore a brown leather jacket and the silly cap his mother had given him, and held out Johnnie's coat and hat. "We need to get going, Pop. Sorry to bleed, eat, and run. If you see Mama before I do, give her my love."