by Megan Derr
Johnnie frowned pensively at his book, then quoted, "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" He looked up. "I will need better books. Where did you hear this tale of the succubus turned human?"
"Ages past, and I believe I was still buried somewhere in Eastern Europe at the time," Ontoniel said. "I cannot even recall who told me. More than—" A knock at the door made him pause, then call for the knocker to enter. The door was opened by a servant, who stepped toward them and extended a letter to Johnnie.
Rostislav? But even as he thought it, Johnnie dismissed it. Letters were not Rostislav's style. If he had any interest in seeing Johnnie, he would simply have shown up somewhere, sat down next to Johnnie, and ordered a beer. If had been nearly two months now since his falling out with Rostislav; there definitely was nothing coming from that quarter. Accepting the letter and thanking the servant, he examined it. Cheap paper and ink, and he was immediately caught by the name on the front of the envelope—Johnnie Goodnight. Opening the envelope, he pulled out the letter.
Johnnie,
I'm sure this is presuming. I send a letter to be as discrete as possible, since I know enough about vamps to know that would be appreciated.
I don't have any right to ask, but I also don't have anywhere else to turn for help. You helped Micah out, and so I was kind of hoping you'd help me. These past two weeks, someone has been harassing me, vandalizing the Bremen, roughing up my customers. I think someone is trying to shut me down, but I don't know who or why. None of my efforts to figure it out have come to anything.
Any help you can offer would be appreciated, and I would certainly pay you back to the best of my ability.
~Peyton
Johnnie folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope, then tucked the envelope into an inner pocket of his black and silver checked vest. He stood up. "I am sorry to depart so abruptly, Father, but there is a problem requiring my attention."
"Who would ask? What problem? Is it Rostislav—"
"Not Rostiya," Johnnie said, then could have kicked himself for using the diminutive of Rostislav's name, as though they were still friends and he could still do that. "This is something else entirely, and a trifling. My presence is not required here today, anyway. It will give me a good reason to stay out of the way. If I am to be absent overlong, I will send you word. Thank you for assisting me with my puzzle." He pulled his jacket down from where he had hung it on a hook near the door, smoothing the black fabric into place, adjusting his dark aquamarine tie. Then he tucked his reading glasses away and retrieved his cane from where he had propped it against the table.
Striding to the house phone at the edge of the buffet table, he picked it up and said, "A car, please. Tell Lila to see that an overnight bag is packed for me. I will require the sapphire, forest, dark crimson, and turquoise ensembles. Thank you."
Ontoniel frowned. "Where are you going? It is not like you to simply run off."
"Someone needs my help," Johnnie said, "and you know I like a good mystery. I cannot imagine I will be gone longer than a day, two at the most." Departing, he strode to the front door and pulled on the coat a servant held out for him. He slipped outside, and waited patiently as the car was brought around and Lila brought his clothes and travel case, packing it all in the car with utmost care. "Thank you, Lila."
"My pleasure, Master Johnnie," Lila replied, smiling at him. She was the only other person permitted to touch his clothing, and only because she had taken care of it when he was still too young to know what he was doing. Closing the trunk, Lila bustled back into the house—pausing to give a hasty bow as Ontoniel suddenly appeared on the steps.
"Father," Johnnie said, pausing just in front of the car door being held open by a servant.
"I do not like this gallivanting off," Ontoniel said.
Johnnie considered his reply, and finally settled on, "Please all, and you will please none. We are both unhappy with my current state, father. At least by doing this, I will be happier with myself."
In reply, Ontoniel only sighed. "I should forbid it, but I will only order you to take utmost care in regards to what you say and do. They are not married yet, and I will not have you jeopardizing the engagement with this eccentric behavior."
Johnnie nodded and managed to say, "I have no interest in seeing Elam's future demolished; most definitely not by my actions. Good day, father."
"John."
Sliding in the car, Johnnie waited impatiently as his driver was sternly admonished by his father. Finally, however, they were off, and he gave orders to take him into the city. The four hour journey was interminable; once whetted, his appetite for a mystery ached to be sated.
When they finally reached the city, however, he resisted the temptation to have his driver take him straight to the bar. The less his father knew, the better, and Johnnie was no fool—the servants were required to report everything to Ontoniel.
Once the car was out of sight, with instructions to deliver Johnnie's belongings to his family's city lodgings, he quickly left the heart of downtown and made his way north to the more derelict sections, headed straight for the Bremen.
When he reached it, the acrid smell of smoke was the first thing to greet him, though it was clear the fire that had caused it had been extinguished. The second thing to greet him was a collection of startled, disbelieving faces. They were all the same, minus one backstabbing imp—the young vampire, Micah smiling in greeting, the two men at the pool table, the man in the corner with baseball cap pulled low, the witch at the bar, and Peyton. "Johnnie!" Peyton greeted eagerly, breaking into a smile. "You—did you get my letter, then? I cannot believe—thank you for coming!"
Johnnie acknowledged the words with a nod, and removed his coat and jacket, hanging them on the hooks by the door before moving to the bar and taking the same stool in which he had sat before. Reaching into his vest, he pulled out Peyton's letter. "I did receive it. Your bar smells like there was a fire in the kitchen; the fire is related to your note."
The words were more statement than question, but Peyton nodded in answer anyway. "Yeah, it's only the latest problem plaguing me." He slid a crystal glass across the bar toward Johnnie.
Nodding in thanks, Johnnie took a sip of the chilled vodka, then said, "So tell me everything."
Wiping his hands off on a rag at his waist, double-checking his other customers were set, Peyton moved closer to Johnnie and began to recount his problems. "Started just a few days ago. Small things at first, orders going missing, shit in the alleyway torn up. Then a few of my regulars here were harassed on the street, advised to stay away. Yesterday, I came in early like always and found every last piece of glass in the place completely shattered, minus the windows. The guys pitched in and helped me clean up, else I'd still be working on it. This morning, the stove caught on fire when I tried to use it. Barely got out of the way in time. If not for Walsh," he motioned to the witch at the end of the bar, "I wouldn't have a bar. I'm afraid that soon harassing my regulars will turn into assaulting them."
Johnnie drummed his fingers on the bar. "You have no idea why someone would do this? An angry customer? A competitor? Someone interested in buying you out?"
Peyton laughed. "Buy me out? This place ain't worth that much effort. I love her dearly, but she was barely making ends meet when I bought her off Lynette five years ago. I make enough, but I don't make a lot. When I first bought it, I renamed it and had all sorts of plans for it, but I haven't been able to get anywhere with them. Nobody would want this place, not unless they went forward with my plans or some of their own, and frankly there are better spots in the city."
He did not have to bother saying that most of those better spots would not be available to a lone wolf who had probably been kicked out of his pack. Given he had said his last name was Blue, though, and all the trouble that pack had endured over the past several years … but even with the Dracula granting him citizenship,
some people would never unbend.
"What were your plans?" Johnnie asked, curious.
"To buy the empty building next door, expand the whole place, add a stage. I'd get more business with a larger dive that did live music." He shrugged. "It's definitely not going to happen now, not when I've got glassware to replace and a kitchen to redo. That's why I wrote to you; I need this to stop before I'm left with nothing."
Johnnie nodded. "I will certainly do my best. If no motive is immediately present, then we must widen our scope. Have you heard of anyone else having such problems?"
Peyton stared at him in surprise. "Hadn't thought of that."
"Then we shall start there," Johnnie said, not relishing the thought, because it would get back to his father that much faster that he was slumming around solving mysteries.
"I can do that," Micah said. Johnnie frowned, because wandering around town might be a bad idea, but he was capable of it. Micah sat down next to him and grinned. "They're more likely to talk to me than you, Mr. Fancy."
Johnnie rolled his eyes, but conceded the point. "The help would be appreciated. In the mean time, I will see what I can learn from the fire and the other attacks."
Micah stood, then motioned to the witch at the far end of the bar. "Come on, Walsh. You can help, you know the east corner better than I do."
Rolling his eyes, Walsh never the less finished his beer and stood up, raking back his shaggy black hair and shrugging into an old, beat up, brown corduroy jacket. Waving to Peyton, he nodded to Johnnie as he passed, pulled on an equally worn flat cap and followed Micah out of the bar.
Turning back to Peyton, Johnnie asked, "May I see the kitchen?"
"You can have the run of the place," Peyton said. "Whatever you need."
"Thank you," Johnnie said, and stood up. He stopped as he turned away, and turned back again. "I do not suppose someone would be willing to fetch my belongings? I brought them along, in case this took me longer than a few hours, but I was forced to leave them at my rooms in the Hummingbird Building."
Peyton snorted in amusement. "Sure. You want the upstairs room again?"
"If that is possible," Johnnie said.
"Of course it's possible," Peyton replied. He turned and called out, "Hey, G-man. Wake up!"
Over in the corner, the dozing man stirred. He sat up slowly and shoved back his baseball cap, revealing a rather plain-featured, clean-cut man. His eyes were still foggy with sleep as he grumbled out a rough, "Huh? What?"
"Run me an errand, man," Peyton said. "Hoof it to the Humm-B and fetch the belongings of Johnnie Goodnight."
"Give them this," Johnnie said, and held out one of his business cards, his signature on the back so they would know it was definitely upon his request.
G-man blinked at Peyton, then at Johnnie, then slowly stood up. He removed his hat, raked his hair back, then shoved the cap back on. "Fine," he grunted, "but I want a beer when I get back." He did not wait for an answer, just took the business card and left
Peyton chuckled at Johnnie's expression. "G-man is always like that; don't mind him. He's a huge help around here."
Johnnie shrugged. "It makes no difference to me. I appreciate his assistance. The kitchen?"
"Through that door. Call if you need me."
Nodding, Johnnie strode through the indicated door and into the kitchen. He wrinkled his nose at the stench, grimacing at the wreckage. Really, only the process of elimination and Peyton's comments about the fire starting with it, allowed him to identify the wreck as the stove. The fire had spread to the counters, the floor, scorched the ceiling … it was painfully clear that if Walsh had not been on hand to stop it, the fire could have very well succeeded in destroying the entire bar.
He knelt as close to the mess as he dared get and closed his eyes, breathing in the smells. Smoke, charred metal, melted plastic, traces of food and grease … and a hint of magic, so faint that he almost thought he was imagining it. There was the possibility it was traces of the witch magic which had stopped the fire, but he did not think so. He had smelled chalk and magic in the bar, so Walsh had probably used a spell circle to stop it. There was also the fact that the smell of magic seemed tangled with the fire, not laid over it.
So it definitely an abnormal behind the attacks. Not that it was a surprise, or narrowed down possible motives, but at least abnormals he knew. For all that he was technically one of them, he knew absolutely nothing about normals.
Opening his eyes and standing up, he looked around the kitchen and weighed his options. Walking toward the back, he opened the door and glanced out into the alley. He winced for his shoes and slacks as he noted the amount of filth and grime, but ventured out anyway. Reaching the dumpster, he used a handkerchief to open the lid and then lift out a trash bag that proved to be filled with broken glass.
Throwing the bag on the ground, he opened it and examined the shards of glass. Unfortunately, if magic had been used in the breaking, it did not show in the shards. But it would not, necessarily. Whoever was behind it all had needed to be present to set the fire, but had been good enough to break the glassware from a distance.
Frowning thoughtfully, Johnnie returned the bag to the dumpster, then picked his way gingerly through the muck and back inside. Once there, he found a clean place to sit down and tried to salvage his shoes. Damn it. He much preferred drawing room mysteries that did not get suspicious substances all over his person. When his shoes were as clean as they were going to get, he strode back out to the bar proper.
"Hey, Johnnie," Peyton greeted. "G-man just got back. I told him to take it all upstairs. Walsh called to say they found one other place, but were still looking around. I was going to order pizza, would you like any?"
Johnnie blinked. "What is pizza?"
Peyton's jaw dropped. "What do you mean—you've never had pizza?" Johnnie just looked at him, not bothering to voice what everyone was clearly thinking: that someone of his position did not eat the same things they did.
Over by the jukebox, the vampire snorted and wandered over to the bar. "You're stamped 'vampire elite' in sparkly fluorescent pink ink, pretty boy. The clothes, the airs, no concept of real food? Not to mention the pretty. There's only one normal I've ever heard of who could pass as a vamp noble, and his last name sure ain't 'Goodnight'."
Johnnie regarded him coolly. "So far as anyone here is concerned, that is my last name."
The vampire lifted his hands in surrender. "Hey, man. I didn't say it was a problem. It ain't. I'm just saying it's sad you've never had pizza." He extended one hand. "Name's Heath Rochester. Call me Heath."
Johnnie shook hands. "A pleasure to meet you."
Heath grinned. "You really could be a vamp; it's sort of spooky." Johnnie dismissed the words with a shrug. Heath smiled ever so briefly, as though amused by something, but only motioned to the guys at the pool table. "That's Chuck and Nelson. I think you more or less met everyone else. It's cool you came to help; don't know many of your lot who would."
His lot. Johnnie almost rolled his eyes at that, but in the end let it go.
"So, pizza?" Peyton asked.
"Totally," Heath replied, and clapped Johnnie on the shoulder. "Order up a good variety, Peyt. Let's see what our new friend likes." New friend, ha. It was unfortunate that both Heath and Peyton knew who he was, and chances were that if those two knew, by now everyone knew, and so he probably should not come here again.
But it had been nice, he realized with a sudden burst of sad wistfulness, not to be seen first as Ontoniel's adopted human—normal—son. He was regarded as a rich, haughty pretty boy here, but he had obviously left a greater impression in the way he had helped out Micah. He liked that.
Reclaiming his barstool, he took a sip of the vodka still sitting there. "It was definitely an abnormal who set the kitchen on fire. Given the nature of the attacks, I would say it was the attacker himself who did the fire, rather than hiring someone else to break in and do it. Hopefully Micah and Walsh will bring back useful inf
ormation."
Peyton sighed. "I hope so."
"So how did you decide on the name of your bar?" Johnnie asked.
Peyton grinned. "I can see you already know the answer. It was about six years ago, now. I'd just quit Blue because of crap that went down and was going to keep going down; that pack went bad a long time ago. Anyway, I was drowning my sorrows in beer with my last twenty when I met this guy named Jack. He'd just ditched a problem situation of his own, was looking to follow his dream of being a singer. I could strum a guitar well enough; it was about the only thing I hadn't yet pawned. He had a gig, was good at getting them, so we palled around together for a bit. Wasn't really my thing, but hey, it was better than moping. A couple months later, we met this guy Roosevelt. He did drums, needed a new band. He also had a bassist friend, called himself Cat. So we played for a bit together, did all right. It was my idea to call us Bremen Town, ‘cause it was a lot like the old story, yeah?"
