"But of all the senses," Johnnie quoted, "sight must be the most delightful. Is that all you ever plan to do? Steal pleasure in the dark and vanish again when sated?"
Eros brushed a soft kiss across his mouth, then recited, "Stolen sweets are always sweeter/Stolen kisses much completer/Stolen looks are nice in chapels/Stolen, stolen, be your apples." Another brief kiss, and then as suddenly as that, Johnnie was alone again.
He swore softly in the dark, the only shred of light the sliver between the closed door and the floor. "The pleasure is momentary, the position ridiculous, and the expense damnable," he quoted with a sigh, furious with himself but not as sorry as he should be. If it was the last thing he did, he would figure out the mystery of Eros—and
he
was not foolish enough to let the candle wax drip.
Pushing away from the wall, he fixed his clothes and combed his fingers through his hair. He had just reached the bedroom door when he heard footsteps in the living area beyond. Pulling the door open, he saw Peyton. "Oh, there you are," Peyton said. "Micah and Walsh are back."
"Good," Johnnie said. "Actually, Peyton, there was something else I wanted to discuss with you."
Peyton looked at him, faintly puzzled and a little worried. "What's that?"
"I was wondering if you would take me on as a silent partner," Johnnie said. "I will front the money for the renovations you want to do, as well as the repairs you need to make now, if you cut me in on the profits and give me the rooms upstairs."
Peyton's jaw dropped. "What—but—
why?
You—you're the son of the Dracula, Johnnie. Why would you want to bother with this crumbling dive?"
Johnnie fought the sudden, crushing, unexpected weight of disappointment. He drew himself up. "Of course if you are not interested—"
"You get haughty when you're upset, don't you?" Peyton laughed. "It drops over you like a blanket, or maybe like a switch got flipped. I didn't mean no, I only meant you could do so much better than this place."
Relaxing slightly, Johnnie shrugged and said, "I like it here. I would like it to remain open. I would like to see it do well."
Peyton grinned, "Then by all means. The rooms are yours, man. I'll dig out all my plans and paperwork and crap."
"Send it all to this man," Johnnie said, and pulled out his card case. Flipping briefly through it, he extracted one for his lawyer. "He will take care of everything."
Laughing, Peyton took the card and put it in a pocket of his jeans. "Sure thing. Never had a fancy lawyer to do all the work, before."
Johnnie shrugged. "It is convenient. If we are to be business partners, he will be our lawyer as well. At some point we will all have to go to dinner. Now, however, I want to know what Micah and Walsh have learned."
Peyton nodded and led the way downstairs, back into the bar proper. Walsh and Micah were at the bar nursing beers; they looked tired but triumphant. "Hey, Johnnie," Micah greeted.
"Hello," Johnnie said, and sat at his own seat. "What did you find?"
"Three other places have been hit recently, vandalizing and harassment of customers, just like Peyton. The weird thing is that each has nothing to do with the other—this place, a bed and breakfast just outside of town, an upscale bar on the west end, and a fancy steakhouse on the east end. We only found about the steakhouse and the B & B by sheer dumb luck," Micah said, and finished his beer, motioning Peyton for another one.
Johnnie latched onto that last bit. "What dumb luck? Tell me precisely what you learned, leave no detail out."
Micah nodded around his beer, but Walsh spoke before he could set it down. "We left here and started working our way south, stopping at every bar, restaurant, and other dives we came across. Someone in the Blue Dove tipped us to the bar uptown, heard it from a friend of his who worked there. The manager at the upscale bar, Blood & Lace, told us they'd been having the same problems Peyton's been having—broken glassware, fires, harassed customers, a few other things.
He
told us that the owner of Blood & Lace also owned a steakhouse on the other side of town, and
it
had been having the same problems. So we went there, and the manager there told us something else—"
"That a friend of his, who owned a bed & breakfast, was also having the same problems," Johnnie said.
Laughing and shaking his head, Micah said, "How did you know?"
"Deduction," Johnnie said. "Peyton, that friend of yours who was a teacher—does he have a lover or spouse who is in the restaurant business?"
Peyton frowned in thought. "He was dating a manager at a diner we haunted for ages. They'd been going out for months when we split; they were still together when we went our separate ways. What was his name, Roger? Something like that. He had ambitions to own his own place. He always was jealous I beat him to the punch on this bar."
"What did you deduce?" Walsh asked, curious.
"Peyton told me earlier that he was in a band," Johnnie said. "The lead singer resented the band's breaking up. One of the band members went on to run a bed & breakfast, just outside of town. Acts of violence that randomly hit that place as well as this one? It could be coincidence. However, the upscale bar and the steakhouse are owned by one person, which means only three people are being affected, and we know for a fact that the owner is friends with the man who runs the bed & breakfast. So we have Peyton, Roosevelt, and Cat's lover all being harassed and their properties vandalized."
"But, Cat doesn't own them," Peyton said, frowning again. "His lover does."
"Hitting the school where Cat works would draw too much attention," Johnnie replied, "and teachers do not make a lot of money. The four of you became a band because you were united by hard times. I would not be surprised if your friend reappeared here shortly, looking to restart his band, or perhaps he is simply exacting revenge."
Micah shook his head. "How did you even think to make that connection?"
"If the attacks were truly random, more buildings in the vicinity would have been hit," Johnnie said. "As that was not the case, the attacks must be personal. We needed only to determine why." He turned back to Peyton, "This all would have been discovered sooner if you had contacted your friends, or your friends had called you."
Peyton shrugged. "We weren't tight man. I mean, Cat and Roosevelt were old friends, but otherwise we just worked together, you know? I'm downscale to their upscale, so it probably didn't occur to them. Didn't occur to me. They may yet call, and I could always dig up their numbers if I had to."
"Not yet," Johnnie said.
"So what do we do?" Micah asked.
"I think we will wait until he approaches Peyton," Johnnie said. "Unless, of course, there is another incident, in which case we will have to find him and end the matter." He stood up, picking up his journal and cane. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and speed-dialed his father, ignoring the anxiety that fluttered in his chest.
Ontoniel answered the phone, which meant his assistant must be on break. "John?"
"Father," Johnnie replied. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"A great deal," Johnnie said. "I am downtown. Where shall I meet you?"
"The Garden," Ontoniel said. "Half an hour."
"Forty-five minutes," Johnnie said, and hung up. He turned to Peyton and the others. "I will be gone a few hours." He pulled out his card case and extracted one of his own, sliding it across the bar to Peyton. "Call me at that second number should you need me."
Peyton snorted in amusement and tucked the second card away with the first. "Oh, the money I could make selling your private line. I'll give you a ring should I need, but I doubt anything else will happen today."
Nodding, Johnnie said, "Call the Humming Bird and tell them to send my driver, if you please." Laughing again, Peyton obeyed. Johnnie left the bar and strode upstairs. In his future bedroom, he saw that G-man had already neatly arranged his clothes in the closet, with the cases holding his shoes and accessories stacked neatly on the floor.
He perused his choices. The Garden … that limited him to the turquoise and the red. As he was dining with his father, and they would not finish until roughly midnight, the red would most suit. Stripping off his clothes, he pulled on black slacks with a slightly stiffer cut than the ones he had just discarded. His shirt was a crisp, sharp white, over which he pulled a vest of deep crimson with a subtle crown and roses pattern. Then he knotted a black silk tie embroidered with the Desrosiers triple-rose symbol, with a tie pin and cuff links of rubies set in gold.
Over all he pulled on his formal black wool coat, which fell to just below his knees. Lastly, he pulled on a black fedora with a gray band, then retrieved his cane and went back downstairs. He strove to ignore the looks everyone gave him as he returned to the bar.
"Fancy, fancy," Heath drawled, grinning. He lifted his wine in a mock toast. "Enjoy dinner with the Dracula." Johnnie glared at him. Heath only snickered.
Nodding a farewell to the others, hoping he had not just lost his new partnership, Johnnie left the bar and slid inside the car that stood waiting with door open for him. When the driver was situated, Johnnie instructed, "To the Garden, please."
They reached the fancy restaurant in the heart of uptown several minutes later. The lobby was true to the restaurant's name, all exotic plants, stained glass in matching floral patterns, and even the floor was composed of rich green tiles with subtle floral touches.
"Master Desrosiers," the maitre d' greeted. "Your father called; I've arranged his favorite table. Right this way." He snapped his fingers at one of the doormen, who came forward to take Johnnie's coat and hat.
"I will keep the cane," Johnnie said, when the doorman tried to take it as well. Bowing off, the doorman vanished and Johnnie was led to Ontoniel's preferred table—up on a dais and shaded by plants, tucked into one corner of the room. It was the perfect place to see without being seen. Johnnie sat down and immediately told the waiter who appeared, "Vodka rocks. Also bring a scotch, neat."
He sat down and stared at the runes on his cane, trying to compose in his head what he would say to his father. There was no easy way to announce he was moving out—and to an area of which Ontoniel was sure to disapprove.
He had finished half his vodka before Ontoniel arrived, exactly on the one hour mark. Sitting down, Ontoniel ordered their food, then sipped at his scotch. Though it did nothing for him, Ontoniel liked to drink it for the sake of some nostalgia he had never explained past saying it had to do with an old friend.
They said nothing until the soup arrived, blood broth for Ontoniel, a lobster bisque for Johnnie. After several sips of broth, Ontoniel finally said, "What is this about Johnnie?"
Johnnie looked at him, then finally simply said, "I am moving out."
Ontoniel said nothing, only continued to sip his broth. Johnnie worked on his own soup, knowing better than to push or press. They finished the soup, and it was taken away and replaced with the main course. Ontoniel waved his off, but Johnnie accepted a swordfish steak, potatoes and vegetables. Oddly, amidst the high-quality drinks and food, all he could think about was greasy pizza and the old, scuffed bar.
"Why?" Ontoniel finally asked, breaking the silence, drawing Johnnie back to the matter at hand.
"Because the house should be free for Ellie to build his own family. He does not need his eccentric little brother underfoot, especially as more and more guests arrive. I should find my own feet."
"Where?"
Johnnie hesitated, for this was the sticky point. "I have some rooms above a bar down on second street."
"No," Ontoniel said. "I have places aplenty, you are not living in the damned slums."
"
You
have places," Johnnie said. "I do not want to live in
your
houses. I want to live in a place that is mine."
"Some tacky dive owned by god alone knows what?" Ontoniel demanded.
"Owned by a lone wolf with a gold citizen pin," Johnnie countered. "He wears Dracula gold, so you approved his presence here, despite his lone status. He cannot, therefore, be all bad. Anyway, I am to be a silent partner in the bar. We will begin renovations the moment the paperwork is signed and the weather warms up enough to permit it."
Ontoniel shook his head. "If your reason is to help your brother, I fail to see how moving to live in practically the slums is helping."
"I am doing it as much for myself as for Ellie—and I am not using my real name, if that reassure you any. I have no plans to embarrass the Desrosiers."
There was a beat of silence, then Ontoniel said quietly, "You are using your birth name."
"Yes," Johnnie said. "I cannot promise it will always work—"
"You should be careful," Ontoniel cut in. "You are in a position of great power and authority as my son. Using your birth name will deflect some attention, but not all of it. People still remember that name, that tragedy. That alone could draw more attention than you like, and out of my immediate sight—"
"I will take care," Johnnie said.