Dance in the Dark (3 page)

As a result, they seldom bothered to incorporate wards against normals in their many and varied defensive spells. All the wards and spells blocked all levels of magic and mischief—except good, old-fashioned normal mischief.

Reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, he extracted a suitable lock-pick and made quick work of the penthouse access. Tucking the lock-pick away again, he pushed the button and leaned against the back wall as he rode to the topmost floors with a slight sneer on his face.

The doors opened without a sound a moment later, and he stepped out into the first of the three floors. This floor was the living room, dining room, kitchen, and a beautiful patio complete with garden and fish pond. He knew from two previous visits that the second floor was equal parts library and museum; all the long-lived abnormals had a penchant for books, antiques, pieces of the long years behind them. The top floor was Jesse's exclusive domain. It obviously contained his bedroom, but beyond that, Johnnie did not know. No one else went there, ever.

Crossing the room, he slipped into the study and immediately found what he sought. In one corner of the room was a large, round oak table, stained dark.  The table top was not wood, however, but set with black chalkboard. On one end of it, pieces of chalk were neatly laid out. A sorcerer's table.

At present, the board was currently covered with an extremely elaborate spell cage. Not as complicated as sorcery, but damned close. But then, Rostislav was an excellent witch.  Johnnie felt the usual twinges of bitterness and jealousy. Being the adopted son of a Dracula only made him more acutely aware of all the special abilities he did not possess. He was quite literally nothing, minus that his last name was Desrosiers.

The closest he would ever come was to read and watch and learn.  He would never be able to make a spell circle that would work, but he could read them as well as any sorcerer.  A lifetime of relentless study was the only reason he was able to hold his head up in a room full of people who would be his superiors if not for his surname.

On the table before him was a spell cage: a double circle of intricate, high-level runes woven together to trap whatever object was placed inside the empty circle within the inner band of runes. Rostislav had been extremely thorough; breaking it should have been extremely difficult for anyone other than Rostislav.

Johnnie studied the circle more closely, examining every meticulously chalked rune, every stroke and curve. It was perfect, exquisite work, except … he bent over the table as far as he dared, hands carefully braced on either side of the circle, looking more closely.

There.

A break in the inner circle, no wider than the edge of a razor. That would have been enough to ruin the spell cage and render it ineffective. But … once a circle was set, or activated, breaking it was not as simply as smearing the chalk—protections against such things were automatically put into all spell circles. In order to sabotage it, the break must have been done before the circle was activated. Even Rostislav might not have noticed such a minute gap. Johnnie probably would not have, had he not been looking for a flaw.

Rostislav should have been looking for flaws as well. Hmm. Knowing Rostislav, and knowing Jesse, no one else would have been anywhere near this room when the shoes were brought out and the work done.  Rostislav would have done all the work, obviously, but Jesse would have insisted on observing.

Once they realized something had gone wrong, Rostislav would have gone over the cage with a fine-toothed comb. He should not have missed the flaw; he was a better witch than that. Johnnie was not being told something. "Man is practiced in disguise; He cheats the most discerning eye," he quoted softly, and turned away from the useless spell cage, picturing Rostislav in his elegant suit and the perfectly matched shoes.

He remembered Rostislav and Jesse tucked into that dimly lit corner while people danced and laughed around them, oblivious.

What was the game? Why bring him into it, and yet not into it? Why would Rostislav lie to him? That upset him the most. Why would his friend lie to him?

Frowning in thought, he left the study and strode to the windows in the living room. Beyond the lights of the casino and hotel was a great deal of nothing. Here and there where the moonlight slipped through the clouds, he could see the never-ending motion of the sea. Otherwise, it was only black. The casino was in a carefully selected middle of nowhere; even the locals who worked in the casino were either abnormals who lived there, or normals who lived at least half an hour away.

The Last Star drew hundreds of thousands, and the taxes Jesse paid to the Dracula were no small part of the reason that the Desrosiers territory was one of the wealthiest.

Leaving the window, he strode back to the elevator—and halted halfway, the glitter of gemstones just catching his eye.  He knelt and reached under the couch, picking up a ruby bracelet he knew well; he had given it to Rostislav two years ago as a birthday present. It was a long standing joke between them that he always gave Rostislav such nonsensical, ostentatious gifts.

Kneeling in front of the sofa, he could now smell traces of Rostislav's citrusy cologne … as well as traces of
exactly
what he had been doing on Jesse's sofa. Johnnie sneered as he stood. So the vampire was definitely around, figuratively
and
literally, with Rostiya.

Why? A vampire caught in such dalliances with a human would turn himself into a laughingstock. Even a vampire as powerful as Jesse stood to suffer, and suffer greatly, for committing such a taboo. What did Rostiya stand to gain from such a hopeless arrangement, whatever the precise nature of the arrangement may be?

Nothing. Nothing but pain.

Hitting the button for the elevator, Johnnie stepped inside and hit the down button, brooding as he returned to the lower levels. When the doors opened, he left the elevator slowly, still lost in thought. He stopped halfway, deciding that he did not want to confront Rostislav until he knew for certain what was afoot.

Turning around, he returned to the elevator and rode it up to the select floors housing the suites. Though he had made no plans to come here, and would not have come except it was Rostislav who had asked, his father and brother were frequent visitors and so Jesse always kept their suite reserved and ready.

It opened immediately to his keycard, the lights flicking on as they sensed movement. Removing his jacket and tie, he strode to the bar tucked into the corner of the room and poured vodka over ice in a crystal rocks glass.

He had just taken a sip when all the lights went out, leaving him in absolute dark. His skin prickled, and on the air was the sudden scent of myrrh and musk roses. Someone was in the room. That should be impossible. The room was so heavily warded a demon would sweat trying to break through. None but the Desrosiers and Jesse could walk in here without permission.

Johnnie reached out slowly, carefully, and set his drink back down upon the bar. He could see nothing; it was the most absolute dark he had ever experienced. Even the windows gave no light, though he knew very well that lights from the casino and the parking lot should have been filtering through the curtains. "Who are you?"

No answer immediately came, but Johnnie did not lower himself to repeat the question. There were eyes upon him; he could feel them like a touch. He could always feel eyes upon him. "So you are the infamous human child of the Dracula Desrosiers?"

Johnnie said nothing.

Fingers slid down his arm, warm through the fine linen of his shirt, curling briefly before dropping away, and Johnnie only just barely kept himself from showing any reaction. The man was behind him, and had not once made a single sound until he spoke.

Definitely a man, to judge by the hot-toddy voice, the shape and feel of those fingers.  They touched him again, those fingers, and Johnnie spun sharply around, the back of his hand swinging up and cracking hard—

But only against the hand that caught his. The hand that did not let go, but only lightly squeezed his fingers, then held fast. "Unhand me," Johnnie said, voice cold. "You have no business touching me, or being here at all, and I will not tolerate it."

"In all the places I've been," the man said, "never have I encountered one as breathtaking as you."

Johnnie froze, momentarily startled by the words.

"Beautiful, elegant, graceful, but also cold, haughty, and proud.  You could be a vampire but for the lack of fangs."

How much easier his life would be if he did have the fangs, Johnnie thought. "You will explain to me your purpose here. Fangs or not, I am a Desrosiers and you will unhand me and tell me who you are."

Soft, deep laughter brushed across Johnnie's face, smelling like some sort of sweet, fruity candy. "I saw you and was captivated. I wanted a closer look."

"There is not much to see in the dark," Johnnie replied.

"Not for you, perhaps," the man replied, squeezing Johnnie's hand again—then his thumb brushed over Johnnie's bottom lip.

Johnnie jerked his head back and hissed, "Do not touch me." He attempted to glare at the man he could only feel and hear and smell, but to judge by the soft laughter, he failed completely.

"You're too beautiful not to touch," the man replied, but abruptly let Johnnie go.

Johnnie flexed the fingers of his suddenly free hand, wondering why it felt so strange. It tingled, as though it had fallen asleep and was just beginning to wake up. So too his lip, he realized. He frowned and lifted his other hand to touch his lips.

All the while, he felt the presence of the stranger, but he refused to ask again who the man was. Instead, he asked, "What do you want?"

"To be with you in hell," came the reply.

Johnnie jerked in surprise, not having expected that reply at all. He had never encountered anyone besides Rostiya who could quote Russian poetry. Intrigued now, though he knew he should be frightened or at least angry, he gave the next spoken line of the poem. "It would seem your words/Bode neither of us any good."

A hand cupped his chin, the man's thumb rubbing along his lip again. "Tell me how men kiss you. Tell me how you kiss."

The words hung there in the air, thick and heavy, and Johnnie could not quite repress an unexpected shiver.  He asked again, though he hated to lower himself, "Who are you?"

"An admirer," the man replied. "I admired you standing beneath the hard shine of the lights. I admired you dancing across the floor. I think I admire you most here in the dark, where I and I alone can see you."

"How can you see me?" Johnnie asked, before he could bite the question back. "How well can you see me?"

"Perfectly," the man said. "Dark is as day to mine eyes."

Johnnie frowned at that. Nearly all supernaturals could see well in the dark, but he knew of nothing which could see
that
well, except perhaps ghosts. This man was no ghost. He did not know what the man could be, and that annoyed him. He should know. The stranger must be exaggerating, and his magic was simply good enough to overcome the wards. "Why can I not see you, then? Why must I remain in the dark? Afraid that if I know your face, you will be made to suffer the consequences of your actions?"

The man laughed. "Consequences? No. I've nothing to fear from consequences."

"Then why—" Johnnie was cut off by soft, warm lips, a mouth that tasted like sticky-sweet fruit candy. He tried to draw back, offended and infuriated, but one hand cradled the back of his head, sank gently into his hair and grasped a firm hold, while the man's other arm wrapped around his waist and held fast. The man took his mouth more firmly, plundering it with a boldness that no one would
ever
dare display towards a son of a Dracula.

Johnnie did not mean to react—he did not want to encourage the abominable behavior—and yet he realized after a moment that he
was
responding. Why, he thought suddenly, could he not be kissed this way by Elam?

The stranger pulled away the barest amount, drawing a breath. His lips ghosted softly over Johnnie's, then his tongue was lapping where his lips had just been, and then Johnnie was being kissed thoroughly again, and even thoughts of Elam momentarily fled.

When the second kiss ended, the stranger drew back. Johnnie drew a breath to speak—then realized he was alone. Orange-yellow light slipped through the curtains, a sliver of light peeked from the bottom of the door. Johnnie licked his lips, tasting a stranger on them. No one dared treat him in so crass and familiar a manner.
He
chose who to kiss, and when, and how. He licked his lips again, tasting fruit candy and a hint of dark beer.

Annoyed with himself, he resisted an urge to lick his lips a third time and picked up his vodka. Draining the glass, he set it down again and went to retrieve his jacket and tie.  He restored his clothing quickly, and checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror.  Johnnie scowled at his reflection, and smoothed his mussed hair. Unfortunately, he could do nothing about the fact that it was clear he had just been well and thoroughly kissed. A rush of sudden, unexpected heat washed through him.

Johnnie turned sharply away from the mirror, furious with himself. He was angry, and only that. Whatever else he was or was not, he was a Desrosiers, the youngest son of a Dracula. He would not tolerate such insults upon his person.