by Megan Derr
Johnnie looked at him in surprise, something about the way Bergrin spoke making his skin prickle. Then he realized what was odd about it. "You said that beautifully. The Old Norse was perfectly pronounced."
Bergrin actually looked embarrassed. "Uh—I was crazy about mythology as a kid. Normal, abnormal. The Norse stuff was my favorite."
"I see," Johnnie replied. "Here I thought you must have spent your formative years learning how to skulk and impersonate drunks."
Bergrin bared his teeth. "Instead of learning how to sip tea and the difference between silk and linen?"
Johnnie smirked. "Incidental lessons. My primary focus was learning how to ignore bothersome shadows."
"What a coincidence; I was learning how to be a bothersome shadow."
Johnnie made a face, and removed his fedora, setting it aside with his umbrella and cane on the seat beside him. When, he wondered, had he and Bergrin slipped from open hostility to almost friendly banter? It drove him mad, but he could not seem to stop.
"I wonder what I am getting us into today," he mused aloud. "With alchemists, it could be everything or nothing."
Bergrin grimaced and said, "Philosophy is odious and obscure/Both law and physic are for petty wits/Divinity is basest of the three—/'Tis magic, magic, that hath ravished me."
Johnnie looked at him, reluctantly impressed. "Quite so. History is rife with magic users who could not leave well enough alone, many of them alchemists." Something flickered across Bergrin's face, a flood of emotions too tangled and quickly gone again for Johnnie to properly catch them all—but he saw pain, and love, and something he thought was loneliness. He swallowed, and tried to pretend he had seen nothing. "You said your father is an alchemist, yes?"
Bergrin nodded. "Not a very good one. He likes thinking and writing about it more than actually doing."
"Where do your parents live?" Johnnie asked, more startled than he knew he should be to hear about something as common as parents from Bergrin.
"In Sable Brennus' territory, just outside the city proper," Bergrin replied. He seemed to hesitate, then continued with, "It's an old house, a little cottage type place that's belonged to my dad's family for generations. My dad is only the second abnormal to come out of the family, and the first one was a great-great-great Uncle who was declared insane and locked away.
"I see," Johnnie said. "That is unfortunate."
Bergrin shrugged. "At least my dad was smart enough to keep his mouth shut."
"So how did you wind up all the way out here? Brennus' territory is hours away by plane ride, days away by car."
Bergrin laughed. "Why do you live above a seedy bar?"
"I concede the point. What does your mother do?"
"Mostly, she just stays at home with my father, but she used to find things. Family business, I guess."
Nodding, Johnnie tried to think of something else to say, but he could not come up with any other questions to ask that did not seem too intrusive. He did not know why he had asked the ones he had, except he was always curious and Bergrin was unusually forthcoming. "My father was an alchemist, as well," he finally said, though he was not quite certain why.
Bergrin raised his brows. "I thought your parents were normals, though I suppose I only know the same stories all the nosey gossips know."
Johnnie smiled briefly at that, and admitted, "I did not know until very recently myself. My father only told me about—" He broke off, annoyed with himself over the clumsy sentence, "My father only told me a short time ago."
"Yet you have no alchemical ability?" Bergrin asked.
"No," Johnnie said. It was not unusual, though. Of all humans capable of some measure of magic, alchemists were the weakest. They relied heavily on components, supplemental magic by way of science, rather than pure, internal force like more powerful magic users. It was not unusual for the ability to miss generations, or fade out completely.
"What about you?" Johnnie asked. "You have magic, but I cannot tell what you are."
"I'm good at finding things," Bergrin said.
Stifling his disappointment, not even certain why he was disappointed, Johnnie asked, "So what do you most often find?"
Bergrin did not immediately reply, but eyed Johnnie pensively. "People, mostly, but objects too—books, magical items, jewelry, whatever."
"I guess that explains why I am ever stuck with you," Johnnie said.
In reply, Bergrin only smirked. Johnnie made a face, and looked out the car window, where he could see nothing but the odd bit of light bouncing off water to show waterlogged trees and dark buildings.
Shortly thereafter, the driver pulled to a stop in front of a barely visible, two story little home. "We've arrived, Master Johnnie."
"Thank you," Johnnie said. Bergrin slid out of the car first, and Johnnie followed after, sending the driver off to await his call. The front door, when they reached it, was locked. A quick examination proved all the doors and windows were locked.
"We could break in through the back door," Bergrin suggested. "Since I doubt you will take no for an answer. In this weather, no one will hear the noise."
"I have a less noticeable method," Johnnie replied. "Keep that umbrella over me." Kneeling, he examined the lock as best he could in the porch light, then reached into his jacket and pulled out his lock-pick set. Selecting the appropriate tools, he set to work. Only a couple of minutes later he stood, and tucked the tools away again. He turned to face Bergrin, braced for a lecture—and drew up short at the look of open approval.
"Well, well, the pretty Prince continues to be full of surprises. Where did you learn to pick locks?"
"I started by reading about it in a book," Johnnie relied, disconcerted by praise from so unexpected a source. "Curiosity got the better of me. It has proven to have its uses."
Bergrin smiled. "I do not think I want to know all the times you have made use of it. Strange, no one ever mentioned the ability in their reports."
Johnnie scowled. "Reports?"
Snickering, Bergrin pushed the front door open and slipped inside. Still glaring, Johnnie followed. The house was a disaster; it had been torn apart quite thoroughly. Shelves, tables, and chairs had all been overturned. Papers, knick-knacks, and other miscellany covered the floor. The contents of an enormous desk had been strewn across the study, nearly covering the carpet. The workshop was a mess of broken glass, spilled liquids, powders, and dried herbs. Closing the door to the workshop, Johnnie strode back to the study. He stood in the doorway, examining everything carefully. At last he said, "I do not think they found what they wanted."
"I agree," Bergrin said, looking amused.
Johnnie shot him a disgusted look. "You already found what we are looking for."
"Yes, but to be fair, I am good at finding things."
Annoyed, Johnnie examined the room again, then strode to the bookshelves built into the far wall. They went floor to ceiling, wall to wall, made of a heavy, sturdy, dark-stained wood with a hint of red to it. The centermost set of shelves were all covered by doors set with stained glass, meant to swing up and down, and lock into place.
Someone, likely the draugr, had broken the glass, the locks, literally torn the doors from their hinges, then pulled all the books and papers inside off the shelves and cast them to the floor. Someone else, to judge by the excess of wet and muddy prints, had come along and retrieved the very same items.
Dismissing the special shelves, Johnnie moved to the other shelves; in particular a set of three shelves where practically none of the books had been disturbed. The books here were a mishmash of scientific journals, personal journals, history books, and herbalists. Pulling all the books off the shelves and stacking them neatly on the floor, Johnnie next tested the actual shelves. Unsurprised to find them loose, he pulled them off and propped them against wall. He studied the bare wall remaining, reaching out to touch, looking for a hidden release.
He jerked in surprise when something pressed up against him from behind, sending a
frisson of awareness through him, slicing down his spine, making his muscles tighten in anticipation—
But then he saw Bergrin's hand join his own on the wood, pressing in two places, and the section of wall popped out the slightest bit. Drawing a sharp breath, wondering what in the hell was wrong with him, Johnnie pulled the panel all the way open.
Inside the hidden cache were three journals and a stack of letters tied with twine. The hot thrill of secrets uncovered poured through him, making him forget all about the odd, confused moment where Bergrin had stood so close.
Taking the letters and journals, he pulled out his phone and summoned his car. Moving to the front hall, he tucked all but one of the journals under his arm. "Written in code," he said, unsurprised. Alchemists—any magic user who kept such journals, which was nearly all of them—always used code. "It could be some time before I break it; this looks particularly complicated."
"Oh?" Bergrin asked, mildly curious as he came up and glanced over Johnnie's shoulder. He swore loudly.
Johnnie turned his head slightly, quirking one brow. "Is there a problem?"
"I know this code—I mean, I can't read it, but I know whose code it is, and it's not that of the dead man."
"Then whose is it?" Johnnie asked.
"My father's," Bergrin replied. "Why the fuck is another alchemist using my dad's code to write his journals? Not even I can read my dad's journals."
Johnnie closed the book with a snap. "The answer to that is obvious—so he could be certain that someone he trusted, and only the person he trusted, could read whatever he has taken such pains to hide." He smirked. "I guess this means you are taking me to meet your parents."
Bergrin rolled his eyes. "Excuse me one moment, Highness. I apparently need to make a phone call."
Snickering, Johnnie sat down on the steps leading upstairs and pulled out one of the letters. They were old, to judge by the date on one. Twenty-odd years old. The envelopes were unmarked, save for a single letter – M – on the front. Another letter – T – was on the back. So the letters had likely been sent by magical means.
They, too, were written in the same code as the book. At a glance, it looked like T had been relaying to M some of his experiments. He wished he could read it, but it took him weeks, if not months, to translate such journals. There was still a small pile of them in his library, just waiting their turn.
Folding the letter, he slid it back into the envelope, then replaced it with the others. He clearly would need to figure out the identity of 'T', but if they had been using the code devised by Bergrin's father, then likely he could tell Johnnie who T was. Johnnie wondered what all of this was leading—
He jumped as the door slammed open and four men spilled inside, jerking to his feet even as he took in two wolves, a human, and … his blood turned cold as he watched the fourth turn into a dragon. Johnnie turned, but tripped over himself on the stairs, stumbling hard, but refusing to let go of the journals and letters. He regained his footing and bolted up the stairs—
Only to be yanked back down, head slamming so hard into the stairs that for a moment, everything grayed out. He struggled to his feet, to get his bearings, protesting helplessly as someone drove a fist into his gut. He dropped like a rock, unwillingly letting go of the items to which he still clung.
The world started graying out again as someone kicked him, struck his face, and said something he did not catch. Someone screamed. Johnnie struggled to get control of himself, but his head throbbed and he felt as though he were going to be sick. Another scream, like nothing he had ever heard in his life.
It all became too much, and Johnnie finally passed out.
*~*~*
He stirred briefly, drawn from unconsciousness by warmth. Arms, he thought hazily. Someone was holding him. He could not seem to muster the strength to open his eyes, but that was all right. He liked the dark. Johnnie pressed deeper into the warmth, murmuring in approval when the arms tightened.
"Johnnie? Are you all right?" An urgent voice asked.
There was power in that voice, Johnnie noted. There was also something familiar. Scents he knew teased at him, but he could not quite catch them. He would know the hot-toddy quality of that voice anywhere, though. "Eros?" Johnnie muttered, and then fell back into unconsciousness.
*~*~*
Johnnie groaned and tried to lift a hand to his aching head, only to find his arms were trapped by something. Cloth. He dragged his eyes open and saw he was lying on an old couch, covered by an afghan.
He did not recognize the house. Sitting up slowly, annoyed by just how much effort that entailed, he looked around. It was a small, cozy sort of room, filled with old but well cared for furniture, more knick-knacks than he could count, afghans, pictures, paintings, little bookcases stuffed nearly to the point of overflowing.
He froze as a picture on the end table nearest him caught his eye. The man in the picture might have been Bergrin, save he was several years too old Bergrin was obviously the little boy standing next to the him. So, he was in Bergrin's house?
What had happened? His head throbbed, and Johnnie bit back a cry of pain. He swung his legs off the couch and tried to stand. When the world tilted alarmingly, he thought better of it and sat back down. He could not remember what had happened. Johnnie gingerly touched the place where his head throbbed, feeling a knot. He had hit his head on the stairs, he recalled. Men had come, attacked. Why? He could not remember. They had beat him.
Then what?
Johnnie simply could not remember.
Sound drew his attention, muffled voices, then he heard someone in the hallway, coming towards him. Bergrin filled the archway between the living room and the hallway, and Johnnie's thoughts stuttered, stopped. A nasty bruise had forced Bergrin's right eye mostly shut. It glistened wetly, like some sort of ointment had been smeared on the bruise. His left upper arm was heavily bandaged, and there were long scratches on his rather impressively-muscled chest that Bergrin had not bothered to treat past washing them. Bergrin's curly hair was a mess, going in at least twenty directions, and he wore loose sweatpants that only barely clung to his hips.
Johnnie swallowed, unable to deal with this new perspective on his bodyguard. Shaking himself, he asked, "What happened?" He scowled at the raspy, unsteady quality to his voice.
"You don't remember?" Bergrin asked, a slight frown on his face.
Johnnie shook his head, then winced. "Not really. Men came in. They attacked me. I hit my head. Then nothing."
Bergrin's frown deepened. He turned his head, and called down the hall, "Hey, Pop! Bring a glass of water!" Down the hall, Johnnie could just hear a muffled reply. Bergrin walked into the living room, shoved the discarded blankets aside, and sat down next to him. He was warm, Johnnie noted. How had he never noticed all the heat Bergrin radiated?
Dismissing the strange observation, he asked, "So why are we here?"
"Safe. Familiar to me, but not to anyone who might try to come after us. Plus, I knew once you were awake and functioning, you would demand to come here anyway."
"You are hurt," Johnnie blurted, then wondered what in the hell was wrong with him. Clearly the hit to his head had addled his brain.
Bergrin grunted, looking briefly annoyed. "I got cocky. Remind me never to get cocky where dragons are concerned. I haven't been hit like that in years. Those fucking tails come out of nowhere." He twisted slightly, and Johnnie noticed the massive bruise spread across a good portion of Bergrin's back.
"But, you're safe now, Johnnie," Bergrin continued. "I told your father what happened—I had no choice—"
Johnnie nodded."It is fine. What did he say?"
"Several rather interesting words I've never heard the Dracula use," Bergrin said, smiling briefly. "Beyond that, to keep you out of sight and safe until he found some bodies in need of having their heads removed."
Johnnie made a face, but he was prevented from replying by the appearance of an older Bergrin. Gray peppered the man's brown curls, and gl
asses framed his hazel eyes. He had a thin scar on the edge of his chin, curving along the bottom of his cheek. He wore a brown sweater and worn jeans, and held out a steaming mug to Johnnie. "I thought this might be better than water."
"Thank you," Johnnie said, accepting the mug. "You are clearly Bergrin's father. I am sorry to have intruded upon your home like this."
The man laughed. "My son is right, you do have a very pretty way of speaking." He snickered when Bergrin scowled. "You're no bother, my boy. I'm glad you seem all right. How is your head?"
"It is fine," Johnnie said, then hid a grimace of pain by sipping what proved to be chamomile tea.
