by Megan Derr
"You were beautiful," Bergrin finally said, clearly lost in the memory. "You and Rostislav stood at the top of those stairs like royalty. You made a pretty pair, like night and day. I could not take my eyes off you. Then, a few minutes later, you came toward the bar and sat right next to me, only one stool between us. I could not believe it. I smiled at you, and was going to talk to you—"
"But Jesse showed up," Johnnie said, remembering. "I recall it. There were four people at the bar—two masked, two unmasked. You were one of the unmasked. You were wearing all black. But I had quickly determined none of you was Cinderella. Then Jesse came up and asked me to dance." He slid Bergrin a look. "A little while later, I was molested in the dark."
Bergrin pulled his cap down low over his eyes. "I still cannot believe I did that. And kept doing it."
"Neither can I," Johnnie said. "Then again, I can't believe I kept letting you do. Really, you should be fired, like my father clearly failed to do."
Bergrin tugged at his cap again. "He said the only reason he did not fire me—or kill me—was that he knew real heartbreak when he saw it. He told me to take a few days off, then talk to you again."
"I think my father cannot help interfering the way you cannot help stalking."
"I'm not a stalker," Bergrin said hotly.
Johnnie lifted his brows. "You secretly follow me around, then used your job to follow still more closely, and made a habit of molesting me in the dark. I would say you qualify as a stalker."
"I did a hell of a lot more than molest," Bergrin muttered. "I can't help that you're more addictive than any drug on the planet."
"Good answer," Johnnie said. "Besides, it is not like I ever really protested any of it."
Bergrin smirked. "No, you definitely never—ow! Stop hitting me!"
"No," Johnnie said. "Where are we going?"
Shooting him a look, pointedly rubbing his chest where Johnnie had just smacked it with his cane, Bergrin motioned. "It's just over there, couple more blocks down."
Johnnie looked where he indicated. It was a small apartment building, four stories high, forming a sort of 'U' around a tired looking private courtyard. In the center of the courtyard was a broken fountain in the shape of an apple tree.
Beside Johnnie, Bergrin was staring intently up at one corner of the building. The apartments looked to be about five across at the wide part of the U, and the sides were about two apartments wide, five deep. Johnnie kept watching Bergrin, trying to let him do whatever it was he was doing, but curiosity eventually got the better of him. "Grim—"
"Hmm?" Bergrin asked, the faint glowing of his eyes fading as he turned to look at Johnnie.
"What is it you see, exactly?"
"It's hard to explain," Bergrin replied. "But—demons see what they call 'energies', what others call 'auras'. Basically, the different energies that make up a person, and attach to them over the course of their lives. Different groups tend to have predominantly one color—normals have a neutral sort of cream, vampires are most often red, abnormal humans green, so on and so forth. Demons see these energies on each person; it's how they read people, the reason they are hard to trick, how they so often know the best way to kill. I see … further than that, deeper than that, and I can see not only the energies of a person, but I can see where else those very energies have been. I can see one person, and then who else that person has been with, affected, what they've touched. I see the energies in greater detail, and in more places."
"Huh," Johnnie said.
Bergrin smiled at him. "For example—you are technically normal, on the mortal plane, but there are absolutely no normal energies in you. Instead, you're a rainbow of colors. Greens, reds, splashes and touches of other colors. Um—lately, a good deal of black is clinging to you, and that's actually becoming part of you."
"I wonder why," Johnnie said, giving him a look.
Making a face, Bergrin continued, "Here in the dream plane, there's a good deal of pink on you, from your mother, I guess. I'm surprised that element of your nature has not affected you more."
"It has—did—" Johnnie stopped, then tried again. "Those bogeymen, I could feel they wanted me. I probably could have—" Drained them, he finished silently, not able to say the words. "But I do not know how to use my … abilities. I do not really want to know, honestly. Hopefully I never need to do—that."
Bergrin made an odd, growly sort of sound, then yanked Johnnie close and kissed him roughly, reminding Johnnie of so many kisses in the dark. "If you need a fix, incubus, all you have to do is say."
Johnnie nodded. "Trust me, I will say—though I do not feel that odd pull or awareness when I touch you, and I know you want me."
"It could be because I'm your lover," Bergrin suggested. "Incubi don't feed on their mates, typically. They can, but they don't."
"I have no interest in feeding on anyone," Johnnie said, cringing away from the idea, then added quietly, "The only one I want is you."
"Well, me you have," Bergrin replied. "Speaking of that, and energies, you're so soaked in my black that anyone who can perceive such things will know—"
"Exactly who is sleeping in my bed?" Johnnie finished for him, amused.
"Yes," Bergrin muttered.
"So are energies all you see?"
"Like I said, it's hard to explain, and it changes slightly depending on the plane. I don't see half so clearly on the mortal plane, where I am mostly my father, as I do here—and I see better still on other planes. Right now, I can see traces of your energy, or rather your mother's, lingering here. It's faint, but true." His eyes started to glow again, as he focused on things only he could see. "A back corner apartment, I think."
"You can see through walls?"
"I can go through walls," Bergrin replied, and led the way into the building and then up the stairs. "It's just taxing, if I do it too long. Only ghosts can really do that sort of thing with zero effort."
"Hmm," Johnnie said. "You would make a fascinating study, even if I could not ever publish it."
Bergrin glared at him. "I am not your lab rat."
"Not even if I paid for it?" Johnnie said, his meaning clear.
"Maybe," Bergrin conceded.
Johnnie snickered, but his amusement faded as they reached the dull, flat, poorly fleshed out apartment that was all that remained of his parents' first home.
Except that as they passed from the kitchen and living area into the one bedroom, it became fully fleshed out. Like Ontoniel's study before, every minute detail was filled out.
"This should not be possible," Johnnie said. "Only my parents would remember this room with such clarity."
Bergrin said nothing, but the set of his mouth said he clearly knew something.
"What?" Johnnie asked, and when Bergrin did not reply, snapped, "Tell me."
"This is a dying dream, or a death dream," Bergrin said reluctantly. "It means that your mother came here while she was dying, probably slipping out of consciousness and into the dream world. When she died, she was still here, and her dying energy … cemented this. It will probably remain here, exactly like this, for a long time."
"I see," Johnnie said, and looked around the room. It was a worn out, run-down apartment, but effort had been made to cheer the place up and make it a home. The walls had been painted a calming blue, with blue and yellow curtains at the single, small window. An old, full-size bed took up most of the room, with a bureau, two night stands, and an old chair the only other pieces of furniture. The blankets and sheets on the bed matched the curtains.
The night stand on the right side of the bed was cluttered with alchemy books, an old pair of reading glasses, and a man's watch. The other one held a wedding picture and a romance novel. Next to that night stand, an old blue upholstered chair was shoved in the corner. Books were piled on it, covering a range of subjects.
Johnnie realized he remembered most of them—library books, he recalled. His mother had gotten them from a library when they were throwing away old b
ooks to have space for new. He had never realized she had gotten them so long before he was born.
One in particular drew him, and he went to the haphazard stack, moving several aside to get at the one he sought. "I remember this book," he said softly.
Bergrin moved to his side. "I did not see it until you touched it."
Johnnie barely heard him, attention only for the book. It was an old, sorely and heavily used, barely held-together edition of Grimm's Fairytales. It had been published, he knew without having to look, in 1917. By the time he had been old enough to read it himself, the poor thing was mostly just a bunch of loose pages kept together by a large rubber band over the cover, removed only when someone wanted to read the stories. His mother had held the book dear. "She used to read this to me. I had forgotten that until now."
"It holds a great deal of her energy," Bergrin said. "But, like I said, until you picked it up, I could not see it."
Nodding, Johnnie flipped the book open—and nearly dropped it in surprise when he saw that a hole had been cut in the pages. Someone had hollowed the book out. And there in the hole was something wrapped in a woman's scarf. Silk, Johnnie realized. He wondered if it had been a gift, once, from his father to his mother.
Pulling the wrapped object out of the book, he set the book aside and then began to unwind the scarf. When it was unwound, he dropped it to the floor and focused all of his attention on the object in his hands—a cheap, plastic compact with a poorly imitated tortoiseshell pattern, and lettering too faded to tell the brand of makeup.
"Surely not," Johnnie muttered, and opened it.
The smell of make-up powder was faint, but there, though the powder itself was long gone. In its place, someone had used paint to write runes of protection, preservation—and in what must be his mother's blood, marks to carry the compact into the dream plane.
"That's the magic mirror?" Bergrin asked.
"I suppose we are about to find out," Johnnie said, and then recited, just because it seemed the thing to ask, "Looking-glass upon the wall/Who is fairest of us all?"
The mirror, cloudy until then, shimmered—reminding him briefly of Bergrin's eyes—and then, of all things, showed him an image of Bergrin.
One of Johnnie's favorite memories, in fact, of after he had woken up in Alec's house, and Bergrin had strode into the living room, barely dressed, bruised and battered, somehow irresistible and unforgettable.
"So who is fairest of us all?" Bergrin asked.
"You," Johnnie said, and closed the compact, slipping it into his pocket.
"Ha ha," Bergrin replied, looking hurt.
Johnnie moved closer to him, titling his head up to meet the strange eyes. This close, he could just barely smell the myrrh and musk rose scent on Bergrin's skin. It made him feel warm—hot—and like his skin was too tight, too small, too confining. "The mirror does not work; it shows me what I think is most beautiful."
Bergrin stared at him a moment, then flushed and shook his head. "Then clearly you need more than just reading glasses."
"Shut up or I will hit you again," Johnnie said. "The mirror is subjective, rather than objective. That is why it works here in the dream plane, despite not being a true magic mirror." He laughed, feeling sad. "All that death, all the misery of late, for something which does not even work the way it should. I tried to tell her there is no such thing as a true magic mirror; no mere object can see everything. Every 'near success' of magic mirror making has resulted only in these subjective mirrors."
"Hell," Bergrin said, "that actually sounds more dangerous than a true magic mirror."
"They are," Johnnie said. "Snow White is not the only tale of a magic mirror, only the most common one—and over time they gave the story a happen ending, though that is not how the reality played out."
Bergrin grimaced. "I think I liked fairytales better when I believed they really did all end happily ever after."
"Me too," Johnnie said softly.
"We have the mirror," Bergrin said, "and obtained it more easily than I had dared hope. If we can just take care of that bitch, we can manage some sort of happy end of our own."
Johnnie grimaced, as Bergrin wrapped an arm around his waist. "Unfortunately, the hardest part is still to come."
"All I need is to get close to her, and she's dead," Bergrin said. "That's the easy part. For now, though, back to your father's house."
"I really wish I could cross the planes as easily as you do, by myself."
Bergrin smiled, slow and hot and promising. Johnnie shivered. He liked that smile at least as much as he liked Bergrin's simple, truly happy, smiles. "I could teach you," Bergrin said. "For a price."
Johnnie rolled his eyes, but splayed his hands across Bergrin's chest. "We will discuss it later."
"As you like," Bergrin said, and took them back to Ontoniel's home.
They appeared in the main entryway, and Johnnie simply clung to Bergrin for a moment, adjusting to the change. He wondered how long it would take him to get used to it. "I am never going to adjust to the shift," he said, when he finally felt he could stand on his own without falling over.
"I don't see that you'll have much reason to grow used to it," Bergrin replied, "unless you plan to spend a great deal of time in the dream plane. But, you do get used to it, trust me. On the bright side, you don't have to learn all the planes."
"How many are there?" Johnnie asked.
Bergrin looked sheepish. "I'm not sure, to be honest. I rarely go beyond all the usual ones that any book will list. My mom says that's a good thing. Even now, she prefers to be with me when I visit certain ones. 'Only twenty-nine' she says, is far too young for most of the 'darker planes'.
"Twenty-nine?" Johnnie said. "You are three years older than me?"
Bergrin smirked.
"Oh, shut up," Johnnie said, and turned away, leading the way back to the ballroom.
When they got there, however, it was empty—completely empty. Turning, Johnnie left the ballroom and headed to Ontoniel's study.
Rather than his desk, Ontoniel sat in a chair situated by the massive bay windows and the bookshelves, sipping a glass of blood wine and reading a book. One of his books, Johnnie realized. "That is the Sleeping Beauty study," he said.
"Yes," Ontoniel said, closing the book and setting it aside. "I did not think you would mind my borrowing it."
"Of course not," Johnnie said.
Ontoniel asked, "Did you find the mirror?"
"Yes, such as it is—merely a subjective mirror."
Ontoniel took the compact as Johnnie held it out, looking unsurprised, sad, and cynical. "After six hundred years, it is hard for anything to surprise me, but I am amazed at what people will do for things that will never exist." He opened the mirror and looked at it, then closed it again. "Let us finish this, so the others may finally wake up."
"Did you move them?" Johnnie asked.
"Yes," Ontoniel said. "My magic is minimal, but enough for that. I could not bear to leave them all on that hard flooring."
Johnnie nodded, then took the mirror back as Ontoniel held it out, and slipped it back into his pocket. He reached into another pocket and pulled out the business card Ekaterina had given him. He turned it over and over in his hands, pondering. "She will never let any of us live. She cannot afford to do so."
"It does not matter," Bergrin said. "Once I find her, I can kill her before she even knows I'm there. I do not think it will be difficult to pick up her trail. Hell, we could avoid calling her and try to find her my way. We have more than a day left—nearly forty hours."
"No," Johnnie said. "She has something more up her sleeve, I just know it. You did not see her, after she cursed everyone and forced me to do this. She hates me—hates all of us. She is very devious. Look at how long she has waited to get what she wanted."
"Call her," Ontoniel said. "So we at least know the next step, and can plan our next move."
Johnnie nodded, grimacing, and took out his phone. He punched in the number o
n the card, then waited while it rang.
Ekaterina picked up on the fourth ring. "Dear Johnnie, never say you have my magic mirror already?"
"Yes," Johnnie said. "Free them from the curse."
"Not until I have the mirror."
"Then come and get it," Johnnie replied, voice flat.
Ekaterina laughed. "Dear Johnnie, I am not so stupid as that. You will bring me the mirror to me at your childhood home. You will come alone. No tricks."
"Fine," Johnnie said.
"You have two hours to be here."
"Fine," Johnnie repeated.
"Oh, and Johnnie—"
Johnnie said nothing, merely waited.
