Dance in the Dark (37 page)

For a moment, Johnnie felt nothing but a sudden lance of shocking cold—like being hit by a cold freeze and suffering a particularly painful jolt of static shock all at once.

Then it felt like warmth spreading through him, a sip of brandy that warmed to the core.

But as he drew another breath, and the counter-spell began to undo a spell set nearly twenty-seven years ago, and the pain started.

Johnnie heard himself screaming, but he could comprehend nothing more than that, could barely understand that he was screaming. All he felt was the searing pain, like someone cutting him apart, burning him, shredding him, from the inside out.

He screamed and screamed and screamed, feeling pain, tasting blood, hitting something—he thought for a moment, somewhere in there, that he might have thrown up.

Then he just gave up.

*~*~*

Johnnie woke up shouting—and realized abruptly he was lying in his bed. At the Bremen.

What?

He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, grimacing as the pain of a headache caught up to him. He felt like shit. Stumbling out of bed, Johnnie slowly made his way to the bathroom, flicking on the light and looking in the mirror.

Which showed him nothing but a gray, misty, indistinct wash of colors.

Mirrors do not work on the dream plane
he remembered with sharp, nasty jolt. He—it—the counter-spell had worked. He was in the dream plane.

And now that he was aware, Johnnie began to notice all the little details he should have caught before. The apartment was almost perfect, but there were minute details missing, bits and pieces here and there. Like his mind had not been able to fill in all the details.

Johnnie shuffled through his memories, calling up all that he had read on the limited subject. The dream plane, he knew, was a composite plane. It was made of the memories of the dreamers, creating a world that was close to the other planes, but not like any of them—and it was always shifting, changing, as minds were added, subtracted, attention swerved. Of all the planes, the dream plane was the easiest for anyone to access—but that was largely because it was the most undeveloped, the most fragile, and therefore the most unstable.

Only the natural inhabitants were constants, creatures so strongly believed in that they took on a life of their own—or so it was said, but no one would ever be able to say for certain.

That, in turn, reminded him of what
he
was here.  
Incubus.

Mirror, he thought with another jolt, jerking his head back up to stare at the useless bathroom mirror. They did not work in the dream world, because everything in the dream world was subjective, uncertain, ever changing. Mirrors could only reflect reality, cold hard truth. People always saw what they wanted to see, though, but that was why mirrors did not work here—there was no cold hard truth to reflect.

But, Johnnie thought, a magic mirror would probably work just fine. If it had been brought successfully to this plane, then it had been rendered capable of that. So it would probably work here, however it
did
work.

Striding back to his bedroom, Johnnie looked around—and smiled in relief to see that his cane had come with him. No one and nothing in the dream plane would be able to manipulate or otherwise tamper with his sword stick here. All the rest of what he saw, what he wore, might be the workings of the dream plane, but the cane sword would remain untouched by all of it.

Leaving the apartment, he strode downstairs and through the bar, which proved to be deserted, and out into the streets of a city that passed muster at a glance, but failed miserably upon closer inspection. He could not believe he was actually here on the dream plane. Was he merely asleep—but no, the cane had come through, so after Jed broke the spell he must have simply vanished and wound up here.

At least he was not dead.

Johnnie walked the streets, trying simply to get comfortable with the idea he was on another plane. And he was an incubus here. What did that even mean? How would that affect him?

He would simply have to learn as he went, though, because he did not have the luxury of time to stop and figure it all out more methodically.

That also meant he needed to figure out where to go. But where would his mother have hidden the mirror? Johnnie realized then, just how little he knew about his birth parents. He had been dying to know their secrets, feeling entitled to them—but he did not even know the most basic things about them.

He had been grief-stricken when they died. A nine year old boy thrown into a nightmare world, who had found out in the worst possible manner that monsters were real. But then he had thrown himself into that world, desperate to please his new father, terrified that Ontoniel would vanish as well.

Where did they even live, Johnnie wondered. He had memories of that street, that house, his old friends. They had liked to play at the park at the end of the road. Cops and robbers, he remembered suddenly, and laughed. He had always been a cop. But where had that been?

All he knew was that they lived in the normal district. So he should head that way, and … what? Explore miles upon miles of streets in the hopes that he would stumble upon the right one? He sensed there must be an easier way to go about it, but damned if he knew it.

Stifling a sigh, he turned right at the next corner and briskly made his way out of downtown, headed towards the suburbs where, in the mortal plane, the normals of Ontoniel's territory all lived. He had walked for what felt like ages when he heard voices, jarring him from his thoughts. Until then, the world had been eerily silent.

"Hey, slut," one of the voices said, and then a handful of shadows separated from the dark edge of one building, coming toward him with hostility written into their every movement. Four of them, Johnnie saw, and scrambled to think what they were.

Bogeymen, he decided. The litter of the dream plane, but not to be underestimated. Their sustenance was the fear born of nightmares, as opposed to incubi who fed on lust, and baku, who were the carrion eaters of the dream plane.

Johnnie tensed as they approached him.

"This is our territory, slut," the ringleader said. "You can't come here."

"Passing through," Johnnie said coolly. "I have no interest in your territory."

"Something funny about him," one of the others muttered. Like all bogeymen, or at least like Johnnie had read, they were roughly human in appearance, but … oddly indistinct. Highly detailed shadows, nothing more. Somewhere in the dream city, people were dreaming terrifying, awful things—a bogeyman would find that, merge with the dream, and dine like a king.

If Johnnie were a true incubus, he would do something similar, but his venue would be lust, not terror.

Right now, he would simply settle for knowing his way around the dream plane—or to have someone with him who did. But even—

He cut the thought off. There was no one who could help him, and that was that.

The ringleader reached out and grabbed him—Johnnie gasped, and tried to jerk away, startled by all that single touch was telling him; the bogeyman wanted him, and Johnnie knew the best way to make it succumb to him.

He also felt a sudden, gnawing ache that he had not realized was there before. It was like being so wrapped up in his work he did not know he was hungry until he smelled food.

Johnnie wanted to feed. He tore away, shaken, stumbling back, desperate to get away until he could better understand this new, strange part of himself. He did not want to feed on anyone, especially not by fucking them.

"Holy shit," one of the others said. "He's a roamer."

A roamer—that was another word for a lucid dreamer.

"But he's an incubus, too," the ringleader said, and Johnnie could see the puzzlement on the thing's face, shadowy though it was. "Only the sluts look that fucking pretty."

Envy, Johnnie realized. The bogeymen were jealous, and hated that they wanted him too. Was it always like this for incubi? Had his mother faced such things?

"Let's just kill him," said the third one.

"Yeah," the ringleader agreed. "He's in our turf anyway."

Then, as simple as that, they lunged.

Johnnie managed to dodge the first swing, and he got in one good, solid hit before his cane was snatched away and the ringleader got a grip on him, throwing him into a wall that felt a lot harder than Johnnie thought it should.

He crashed to the ground, then fumbled to pick himself up, struggling futilely as he was yanked to his feet and punched hard in the gut. He dropped again, tears of pain blurring his vision, and cried out as someone kicked him.

Bullies, he thought bitterly. They did not change from plane to plane, it seemed—and it would also seem years later, in another world entirely, he was still a favorite victim.

Someone back handed him, and Johnnie tasted blood. All the lessons, all the schoolyard beatings he had overcome—and now he was right back where he started. He was so fucking tired of it; he had driven others back without ever having to lift a hand. He had learned how to stop the hits from ever coming.

He reached out, fumbling, catching someone in the face, then grabbed another, digging his nails in, holding fast—gasping in surprise as he felt
something
shift, a slight tug that seemed to move from him to his victim. Lust, control—he could feel something in his mind stirring, waking.

More terrified of that than bullies, Johnnie wrenched away and tried simply to run—but they caught him, and threw him down again, and he simply did not have the energy to keep fighting. Blood stung his eyes, and Johnnie realized someone had cut his face.

He flinched as one of them grabbed him, reaching by pure instinct to take the man's wrists, stop him somehow but he could not see well and he recoiled as that
tugging
feeling came again that he could not control—

And then someone screamed. It was a terrible, awful, gut-wrenching scream. Johnnie let go of the man he was holding to instinctively cover his ears—but then he realized he knew that scream. Or that type of scream.

He could also suddenly smell myrrh and musk roses. But that was impossible.

Then the man holding him was abruptly gone, and Johnnie fell back onto the street, disoriented and confused. He struggled to sit up and wipe the blood from his eyes at the same time, finally managing to get to his knees. His hands were wet and sticky with blood, and he could feel it drying all over his damned face—but he could see again.

But what he saw, he could not believe.

It…it was…but it
could not
be Bergrin.

He stood over the man who had been holding Johnnie, facing away. He held the bogeyman's face in his hands, as if staring at him—and the man's eyes were definitely meeting Bergrin's, but they were wide open and terrified, and he was screaming so loudly, and with such terror, that Johnnie could not begin to imagine what he was seeing.

Then, as abruptly as he had started screaming, the bogeyman stopped. Johnnie realized in the next moment that he was dead. Bergrin dropped the body—but then did not turn around.

Slowly, wincing at the aches and pains a beating always left, Johnnie stood up. "B-Bergrin?"

Bergrin did not turn around, though Johnnie saw his shoulders tense.

What was going on? "Bergrin—" Still Bergrin did not turn, and Johnnie finally snapped. "God damn it, Bergrin! Do not fucking ignore—"

Johnnie forgot what he was going to say, as Bergrin finally turned around. His eyes. Johnnie stared in disbelief, mouth open. Gone were the pretty hazel eyes he had so admired, so missed. Gone were his eyes entirely, replaced by … they looked like the eyes of fictional mystics, that sort of thing. They were completely and totally white—more like a pale, almost shimmery gray; unbroken, perfect, like his eyes had been replaced with orbs of frosted glass.

"I can't—I can't hide my eyes here," Bergrin said, sounding miserable. "The mortal plane I can, but—"

That stirred Johnnie from his trance. "What in the hell are you doing here! How are you here! Damn it, Bergrin—"

"I couldn't stay away," Bergrin said miserably. "A thousand times I've tried to stay away from you, Johnnie. You're not for me to touch—you're so far out of my league—but I—" He stopped and took off his cap, that stupid, silly grim reaper cap that Johnnie never thought he would see again. Bergrin raked a hand through his hair, then shoved the cap back, before finally saying quietly, "I could not stand that you thought I used you, meant to hurt you. I never—I would never want to hurt you, Johnnie. I just wanted a chance to say that, so I went back to find you, even though your father told me to wait a few days."

He sighed, then continued before Johnnie could figure out what to say. "I saw everyone asleep, and I found a spell key hidden in the green room. Then I realized you were nowhere to be found in the house, and picked up your trail. It took me awhile, to find you in my hometown." He smiled ever so briefly. "But I finally tracked you to the Tantalus, and then saw the spell circle, or what was left of it. When I realized you had gone to the dream plane, I came after you, but you didn't do it the right way, so it took me longer than I liked to find you."