Chapter 9: Weewillmeku

Peony's B&B. September 29, 2005. Thursday evening.

For Maia, the séance had been her trial by fire. She'd been terrified the shaman or Peony would notice something connecting her to Electra. It had barely been twenty-four hours since Maia severed the link. According to Electra, she was now mortal, but she hadn't had a chance to test it. When the shaman hadn't commented on anything, Maia felt a weight lift off her heart.

After the men departed, Peony took the cauldron back to the kitchen. Maia also stood up. "I'll be right back," she told Chloe. "I'd like to check on Sam." Once she was in their room, she could use his pocket knife to cut her finger. If the wound didn't disappear within seconds, she'd have confirmation.

"Could you hold off for a few minutes?" Chloe asked. Her eyes looked anxious, making Maia's fears resurface. "I have a confession to make, and I hope you won't be upset. I probably should have checked with you first."

Maia sat back down, hiding her unease over what Chloe might have done.

"I asked Peony if there was any way for us to summon a common ancestor, and she's willing to try. She's preparing the infusion now. Please say you don't mind."

Maia felt the panic rise up in her throat once more. When the shaman's spirit left her, she could have burst into tears with relief. Now she was torn between happiness that Chloe hoped to confirm their blood relationship and abject terror she'd discover Maia's secret.

Peony reentered the room, carrying the cauldron, and placed it on the table. "Aren't you curious, Maia? I'll close the door so no one else will know of our experiment."

"I don't have any brothers or sisters," Chloe added. "I'd like to learn as much as possible about our common heritage."

All of Maia's relatives had died long ago. Would Peony be able to summon one of her brothers? Her mother? She blinked back unexpected tears, her emotions threatening to engulf her. Chloe's eyes looked bright as well. Maia swallowed and turned to Peony. "Thank you for your offer. I'm ready."

Peony smiled at them, her positive energy radiating onto Maia like a warm hug. "You should hold hands and relax. As I explained to Chloe, since I don't have anything personal from a shared ancestor to use, it's impossible to predict who may appear." She retrieved Airmid's Garden from the locked drawer in the bookcase and placed it on the table next to the cauldron. Maia breathed in the scents of yew and rose coming from the cauldron. Where had Peony found meadowsweet? It had grown in the fields outside her home in Connacht. She let her mind drift.

Peony began chanting softly an invocation in Latin to their ancestors.

The air grew heavy as mist swirled around them. The steam rising up from the cauldron began to coalesce into the figure of a woman. She was dressed in a robe of buttercup yellow, her long auburn hair worn in a braided plait down her back. The woman approached Maia, and their spirits became one. Maia knew immediately who she was—Airmid. She spoke in the ancient Irish of Maia's childhood, her family. Tears flowed down Maia's cheeks as images formed in her mind.

Airmid then left her and entered Chloe. Chloe's face gazed upon Maia in new recognition. What was she telling her?

Peony continued to chant as she watched. A moment later the spirit vanished.

"Oh, my," Peony said, collapsing into her chair. "I think we all need a glass of wine after that. I have dandelion wine in the decanter." She went to the buffet and poured three glasses. "Do you know who that was?"

"Airmid herself," Chloe said, still looking dazed. She tightened her grip on Maia's hand. "Our line goes all the way back to her. She traced the family through Harriet Beaufort, Bridget Bishop, medieval Irish witches, and finally through druids. She called us her daughters." She turned to Maia. "Is that what she expressed to you?"

Maia nodded, unable to express her emotions in words. Airmid was the great-grandmother she'd never met. Her mother had mentioned her, but Maia thought she was simply speaking in general terms. Airmid confirmed the relationship and embraced her as a daughter. She seemed to know about her past—she referred to Maia living in exile—but there was no hint of criticism. Maia doubted anyone else would feel the same way.

"What will Dean say?" Chloe asked, a shadow crossing her face. "Not only do I have witches in my family tree, but I'm descended from the Irish goddess of magic." She exhaled noisily. "This could be the final straw."

"We don't have to mention she's a goddess," Maia suggested. "Many believe she was an ancient druidess who later became worshipped as a god."

"That sounds good," Chloe agreed, taking the glass Peony offered her. "After Astrena, none of us wants to hear about any other goddess."

"I'll second that," Peony said, lifting her glass. "To Airmid and family ties!"

Later that evening somewhere in the bowels of the Columbia tunnel network.

Mozzie hummed an aria from Don Giovanni, as he crept along the familiar tunnel. "Madamina, il catalogo è questo" was one of his favorites, and he was feeling as lighthearted as Don Giovanni's servant Leporello. Neal was healed, the marsh was saved, Weewillmeku would soon be appeased, and Mozzie had spoken twice with a shaman. It was time to return to his other studies.

When Quint called, asking to meet in the tunnels that evening, Mozzie agreed enthusiastically. Quint was a bright apprentice. He showed great promise. Really a most fortuitous suggestion of Travis for Quint to be placed in his SETI subgroup. Not all the members were believers in the importance of tunnel slime as an indicator of extraterrestrials on Earth, but Quint had early on showed remarkable open-mindedness. In some respects, Quint reminded him of Neal when they'd first met—a sponge eager to absorb the lessons Mozzie cared to impart.

Yes, he saw great promise in young Quint. Someday in the distant future, the lad might be the disciple to carry the message forward in Mozzie's footsteps. Quint was a little shorter than him, but that shock of red hair made them about equal in height. His new apprentice had never mentioned his family and appeared to be a loner—something to which Mozzie could also relate.

Off in the distance, he spied another headlamp. Quint had arrived. The designated rendezvous location was in one of the old brick tunnels close to Buell Hall, the only surviving building from the pre-university period.

Quint had become his partner in tunnel exploration, taking over for Neal who claimed to be busy with other projects. Mozzie suspected Peter's influence in Neal's professed lack of interest. Ever since that regrettable instance when Neal nearly died in the tunnels after being poisoned, his enthusiasm for spelunking had waned. But no such constraints for Quint. He had the zeal of the newly converted.

"Hey, Mozz!" Quint's grin widened. "Hope you're ready for a deep dive. I believe I may have discovered a new species of slime!"

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Mozzie extracted a specimen bag from his jacket pocket and carefully scraped off a few milliliters of the amber-colored ooze. "If this proves to be a unique type, you should have the privilege of naming it."

Quint pondered the request, giving it careful consideration. "Quime, perhaps?"

Mozzie rolled the word on his tongue. "Excellent choice! I'll label it in the lab. Do you mind if I head back? I should perform tests while the specimen's fresh."

"Not at all. I think I'll explore a little longer."

Quint watched Mozzie recede into the tunnels. He'd never divulged where his lab was, but Quint knew about his bunker. Scarbo had discovered the location. Someday it could prove useful.

The discussion with Mozzie had taken longer than he'd expected. How anyone could find slime so fascinating was a mystery. Scarbo should have already arrived. Quint walked the short distance to the manhole, removed the lid, and dropped down.

And there was his little pal. Scarbo's bulging yellow eyes and rat face were unmistakable. With his gray clothes, gray cap, and gray face—if ever there was a creature meant for the tunnels, it was Scarbo. Quint had enjoyed introducing him to the network. It provided a convenient place to teleport into without fear of discovery.

Scarbo doffed his cap and gave a low bow. "My lord Thanatos, I'm honored."

Quint saw his greedy eyes scan his hands. It had been so easy to coerce him to his side. The mushrooms of Oblivion were delicious. They satisfied all your cravings while giving you dreams of infinite pleasure. Addiction was a small price to pay. "What news do you have of my sister?"

"Astrena informed me she won't need my services tonight for Caffrey."

"Did she explain why?"

"No, and this is the second night in a row." He leered up at Quint. "I'd tortured him the previous evening. A few more nights and I would have driven him insane. She didn't explain why she canceled."

Quint reached into a pocket and pulled out a single mushroom. The coral cup glowed softly in the obscurity of the tunnel. Scarbo snatched the mushroom from his hand. With one flick of his long tongue, he sucked it into his mouth.

Electra's mood swings were difficult to understand. First, she'd been enraptured by her new protégé then she wanted to finish him off. Had she changed her mind once more? Perhaps she'd been living with humans so long, she was experiencing a midlife crisis. He could exploit that.

Quint had been bored out of his mind. Tormenting ghosts grows stale after a few millennia. When he'd finally discovered how to access the upperworld, it was like he'd been reborn. Finding Electra was trivial. A bookstore owner—what a farcical notion. But that gave him an idea. What she did, he could too. Her bratty handmaiden Maia was a student, a cover which worked equally well for him. Since Electra was apparently concentrating on New York City, he'd chosen Columbia for his playground. He'd known Scarbo since Electra hooked up with the dwarf demon in Rome. In those days Scarbo worked for them both. And the fun they'd had with Nero . . . Ah, now that was the true Golden Age.

Quint returned his focus to the present. Scarbo's tongue was licking around his mouth for any lingering trace of the mushroom. "What about Maia? Did you discover if she knows about Jeremy?"

Scarbo sniggered. "She has no idea he's one of Astrena's pure-bloods. The sisters aid in their creation but don't see the final product. Astrena grows increasingly mistrustful."

"Does she now?" Astrena's paranoia would make her easy prey to torment.

Quint had been waiting a long time for revenge. Now that he'd discovered how to escape from Oblivion, he could take his pleasure at will. She thought her empire was secure. He was about to prove how wrong she was.

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"Neal, I don't care what you're doing, let me in!"

Neal strode over to the door while continuing to plead his case with Peter on the phone. "I'm dressed. I'm ready to go. You need me." He slid back the bolt and opened the door to an irate Mozzie who buzzed in like an angry hornet.

"You're right, I need you well." Peter's voice was a concrete barricade. "Your job is making that happen. Bureau agents and NYPD are scouring the campus. Dean's searching too. Let us handle it."

"But you don't—"

"No buts. I'm glad your fever's down. Keep it that way and don't make mine go up. Goodbye."

Neal glared at the silent phone. He could meet them there. There had to be some way he could help.

"What happened?" Mozzie asked, wide-eyed. "Was Weewillmeku found?" Neal had already changed into jeans and a turtleneck. He should be helping Peter, not languishing in a room with floral wallpaper.

"Diana and Jones are missing. They'd gone to Columbia to interview Quint early yesterday evening. Christie was working the night shift. She didn't realize Diana hadn't returned till she returned home this morning. She tried to call her and got no answer. That's when she called Peter."

Mozzie sagged like a bag of potatoes into a chair. "What did Quint have to say?"

"They left him at seven o'clock. The Bureau has agents on campus, but so far they haven't found anyone who's seen them. Jones had taken a Bureau car which is equipped with a GPS tracker. The car was found in a parking lot near Quint's dorm." Neal resumed his pacing.

"And where are you going?" Mozzie nodded to the duffel bag on the bed.

"Home. Chloe gave me clearance. I'm fever free. Peony tested me once more, and there's no trace of the link. I can resume my life."

"Is your coordination back?"

Neal hesitated only a second. "More or less. I haven't crashed into any walls lately. I've got to do something. I can't just sit here."

Mozzie frowned. "I'm sorry, mon frère, but the suit's right. Realistically, what could you hope to accomplish? The police and feds are quite capable of searching for witnesses. Have you heard back from Christie?"

He shook his head. "She hopes to have the blood test results back tomorrow. Peter refuses to allow me to return to work till she's given the okay."

"So we wait," Mozzie said philosophically. "One step at a time. You're free of Astrena. We've saved the marsh. My contact told me Columbia's already begun researching names. I suggested a Lenape name. Muscota has a nice ring."

"What does it mean?"

"'Place in the reeds.' Weewillmeku would approve." He lowered his voice as if he were worried Willy was listening in. "Who do the feds suspect?"

"The official suspect is the person Quint saw talking to the students. If there's a criminal ring recruiting on campus, they may have targeted Quint as well."

"It's a bad business. Still, Diana and Jones may be better off with a crime syndicate than leech-mouthed vengeance seekers. Peter didn't banish you from the sunset ceremony, did he?"

Neal shook his head.

"Good. I'll help you move back to the loft. You can distract yourself by working on the Renoir—wasn't it supposed to be done?—then I'll pick you for the evening ritual."

"What will you do during the day?"

"I'll sniff around Columbia for leads. Lady Suit and Wetsuit are my friends, too."

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Crowley parked his BMW sedan in the boathouse parking lot by the sports complex. It was a cold, damp start to the day, and he indulged in a moment of grousing over why Electra had insisted he inspect her new project. Her foundation would manage the donation. One of the staff could have easily performed the chore. But Crowley would keep his complaints to himself. Electra was increasingly dependent on him as her eyes and ears, a reliance he carefully nurtured.

He removed the lens cap of his camera and began snapping photos. The marsh to be saved was a tiny bit of land—nothing like the vast bogs around Canisbay in the Scottish Highlands where he grew up. That brought him up short. Why had he even thought of his birthplace? Was this Maia's doing? Were her notions of clans and fealty messing with his head?

Maia had confided that she grew up in Ireland in the first century BC. Why had Electra gone to the bother to abduct her when the temples in Greece must have been full of eligible nymphs? The only reason he could think of was that her parents were powerful druids. That raised the possibility he and Maia were related. His mother Rowena liked to boast she was descended from druids, and there was no doubt her powers were formidable. Still, her claim didn't mean much. Rowena liked to boast about everything.

One thing was certain. Celtic blood ran in both Maia and Crowley's veins, and that made them blood relations of a sort. Astrena had elevated her to be her sister. Could she make him a god? The thought tantalized him. And now Thanatos had entered the picture. Crowley hadn't thought she feared anyone, but plainly he had some hold on her. What was it? Crowley knew she had the power to place vampire souls in orchids, but apparently, Thanatos could as well. Was he really the one responsible for severing the links or had Maia the mouse done the deed to save her moose? It was very suspicious. And all that meant more leverage for Crowley.

The work on the sports complex was going at full tilt. Electra had paid a handsome sum to save the marsh. Her reward would be the gratitude of Columbia and the local Wicca coven. If he could discover how she channeled their gratitude into power, he could establish an empire with or without her. That thought set a fire in his belly to quench any morning chill.

A sudden gust of wind caught the flap of his jacket. Accompanying it was a fishy smell which assaulted his nostrils. He spun around to see a creature in front of him. A hairless, naked, slimy gray monster of a man with odd webbed feet. His mouth was open like a sucker fish. What kind of demon was this?

Crowley waved his hand to cast him off, but he wasn't quick enough. The monster seized his neck in its mouth. An instant of piercing agony and his world turned to paralyzing fog . . .

"Hagen, answer me!"

Crowley awoke with a splitting headache to the grating sound of some woman yammering at him. He had no intention of responding, especially to someone who used the name of his meatsuit. He wondered vaguely who knew about Hagen, but it wasn't worth the bother of opening his eyes until the drill hammer stopped. His neck was on fire from that leech freak. How dare he treat Crowley, the King of Hell that way? He'd pay for his insolence, although at the moment how Crowley would accomplish it was unknown. Where was his bloody Scotch? Where were his minions?

"He's still out, Diana. There's no point." The man's calm voice was a relief from that harpy. He could share Crowley's Glencraig.

"He's faking it. I saw his eyes blink. Hagen or Crowley, or whoever you are, open your eyes!"

Simply to quiet her, he finally complied. He was in a decrepit, graffiti-scrawled interior. It appeared to be an abandoned meat-packing facility. Multiple levels. Opposite him, swaying from meat hooks, were eight people wrapped up like cocoons in ropes and grimy tarps with only their heads sticking out. He looked up to see he was hung up like a side of beef as well. Not a comforting thought. Who had him on their menu?

Most of the wretches appeared unconscious, asleep or dead. Scratch that. One definitely dead. But the other two—they were alive and kicking . . . or trying too. On the young side. They seemed vaguely familiar. "Have we met?"

"Warehouse in East Harlem ring a bell?" the woman asked, raising an eyebrow. "A Raphael forgery? Goya bonds?"

"You're with Dick Tracy!"

The guy next to her furrowed his brow. "We're FBI agents."

Exasperated, Crowley heaved a sigh. "I know that, Flattop. You work for Peter Burke—a Dick Tracy if ever there was one. I don't believe we were formally introduced."

"I'm Special Agent Diana Berrigan." She jerked her head to Flattop. "He's Special Agent Clinton Jones. We know all about you."

"Is that so, Breathless? What is it exactly you know?"

Flattop looked at him warily. "Supposedly you call yourself Crowley now."

She looked at him dismissively. "They say you're a demon, but you don't look like one."

"What were you expecting? A red face and horns?"

Breathless glared. "If you are, why are you a prisoner? See, Jones, I told you he couldn't be a demon."

Crowley rolled his eyes. No respect for one's elders anymore. Which would be preferable? Teleporting out of here or setting them on fire? Breathless would be first, just so he could have some peace.

Crowley twitched his fingers under the tarp and . . . nothing happened. He tried again with the same results. Forget the bonfire, it was time to exit stage right. He focused . . . and nothing. Bloody hell, he'd been neutralized.

"What's the matter?" she jeered. "Lost your magic powers?"

"The place must be warded," he muttered.

"Yeah, yeah. A likely story."

Crowley jerked his head toward Flattop. "Were you also attacked by a bald overgrown leech?"

"You mean Weewillmeku?"

"Say again?" A monster he hadn't heard of? This demanded an investigation. Before he could quiz them further, he heard a shuffling sound overhead. "What's that?"

"Zombies," Breathless muttered, her expression growing grim. "They dragged you in here. We saw one feed off that man." She nodded toward the bearded old-timer. He looked drained of blood. Poor doofus. Even Crowley felt a tiny twinge of pity for the bloke.

A hulking, vaguely male shape lumbered down the stairs. Tatters for clothes. Blood streaming out of his eyes, his mouth appeared to be permanently frozen into a round cavity much larger than any human—or demon—could possibly make. One of Wee Willie's thralls, no doubt. Since when did Wee Willie become such a pain in a demon's ass? Up to now, the only Wee Willie Crowley knew of was in a Scottish nursery rhyme. This monstrosity was no bedtime story.

The zombie headed straight for the last victim in the line of captives, a woman who appeared unconscious. He leaped upon her, his mouth clamping onto her face.

The sucking sounds were the worst. No finesse at all. If Crowley could just cut himself free, he'd show them what a slaughterhouse really looked like.

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"Stop pacing," Mozzie urged. "He'll show up."

Neal ignored him. Everyone else had already arrived at the designated rendezvous spot—the parking lot by the Columbia boathouse. Chloe had picked Neal and Mozzie up in her Mustang. Dean brought Maia, Sam, and Peony in the Impala. But there was no sign of Peter's Taurus. Sunset would fast be upon them.

Peter had texted he'd be there, but there was currently a higher priority. Diana and Jones had been missing for close to twenty-four hours with no additional leads. When Peter's car screeched into the lot, Neal exhaled with relief. For once, he wouldn't tease him about his speed-demon habits.

"No news about Diana and Jones," Peter said, jumping out of the car and forestalling Neal's questions. "The only updates are discouraging. We've heard of one more missing person."

"The sun is practically on the horizon," Dean said, cutting in. "Let's do this. If nothing happens, I'll go back on patrol." He was carrying a shotgun. Sam had one as well.

Mozzie scowled at the weapons. "Your firearms send the wrong signal. We're trying to smoke the peace pipe, not further inflame Weewillmeku's anger."

"Humor us," Peter retorted, pulling out his gun. "For all we know, he may consider it a sign of respect."

Chloe and Maia walked to the river's edge and clasped hands. The clouds which had been present in the morning had dissipated, leaving a clear sky with only a light breeze. The women began murmuring the supplication, their voices growing more powerful as they chanted in the ancient tongue. Peony strode over to stand behind them. She didn't add her voice to theirs but grasped their free hands to form a tight triad.

Neal held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the river. They'd brought binoculars and were scanning the water for any sign of movement.

Suddenly they were cast in darkness. A black cloud had appeared out of nowhere and was directly overhead, growing steadily in size. That light breeze was now a stiff wind. Soon the river itself began to churn and seethe.

A clap of thunder caused Neal to jump. It was immediately followed by the crackle of lightning. One bolt after another etched the sky and plunged into the river.

"What the hell," Peter muttered. "Rain wasn't called for in the forecast."

Sam stared upward. "This is no natural phenomenon. Look at the shape of that cloud."

The cloud had coalesced into a gigantic ring with lightning erupting from the edges. So far no rain. Whatever force was at work was more intent on a sound-and-light show. The hair of the women was standing on end from static electricity. Even the men's hair was showing the effect, especially Sam.

Letting out a curse, Dean dropped his shotgun and shook his hand. And not just him. Peter and Sam flung their guns to the ground, too.

"Electric shock!" Peter yelled over the wind which was now howling. "Drop anything metal. We need to seek shelter."

"No!" Peony commanded. "The chant must continue."

The women's voices carried high over the peals of thunder. The air itself felt charged with some unseen force as they all nervously waited.

Then, as if a switch had been flicked, the wind stilled. A column of water began to rise from the near shore, directly in front of the chanters. Floating in the center was a creature. Bald, smooth-skinned, his mouth gaped open in a large circle. For a long minute, he hovered in the liquid column of water, his eyes fixed on the women.

Mozzie swallowed. "Weewillmeku." His voice was a barely audible whisper.

The creature raised both arms high into the sky and howled, an ear-splitting prolonged roar which lasted for several seconds. Neal heard an explosion somewhere behind them. He turned his head to see dense smoke rising from a building south of their location.

The column of water began to lift once more, quickly rising to the level of the cloud. With one final crackle of lightning, the column disintegrated. As suddenly as it had formed, the cloud vanished, leaving the sky clear once more.

Chloe and Maia stopped chanting. "He acknowledged our prayers," Maia said, gazing upward and looking awestruck.

"They're right," Peony confirmed. "I can feel Raincloud's presence even here. Weewillmeku has been appeased."

Peter shrugged. "I'd rather have firm evidence."

"Will that do?" Neal pointed to the building behind them. A black pillar of smoke was pouring out of it and rising high into the sky where it too quickly disintegrated.

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Crowley was all about torture, but he'd always preached the virtue of being on the giving end. No bloody leech-mouthed moron was going to make a sacrificial lamb out of him.

The first zombie had left after it gorged itself but now another one had taken its place. This one was a woman. She probably hadn't looked much better when she was human. She headed straight for a man in his early thirties who was hanging lifelessly in his shroud. Breathless said she'd been able to talk with the bloke earlier last night. He'd been attacked by Wee Willie in Inwood Hill Park.

Crowley attempted to teleport once more with the same dismal results. Flattop's feeble struggles weren't successful either. For one brief moment, Crowley wished Cheekbones were here. Hagen said he was an expert escape artist. They could use a Houdini. After all Crowley had done for Cheekbones, the kid owed him a save.

A deafening explosion shook the building. Bollocks. Crowley coughed and shook his head to get rid of some of the debris which had fallen from the ceiling. Adding insult to injury he was now covered in a thick layer of dust.

The zombie was lying lifeless on the floor, showing that every disaster had its silver lining. A dense column of black smoke rose out of her body and appeared to pass through the ceiling. What was left of her looked like a bag lady. Grimy, her clothes in tatters—she was, as expected, not much of an improvement but at least blood was no longer flowing out of her eyes.

Flattop stared at Crowley. "Did you do that?"

"Much as I'd like to claim credit, it wasn't me."

Breathless was eyeing the column of smoke apprehensively. "Did she catch on fire?"

"No, more's the pity. That smoke was the zombie essence inside her." Crowley looked up at the hook suspending him and decided to give it another try. He was going to take that explosion as a hopeful omen. One blink was all it took. Instantly the rope holding him to the hook snapped and he fell to the ground. Not the most graceful landing but he wasn't going to be picky. With a twitch of his shoulders, the tarps fell to the floor and Crowley was a free demon once more. He stood up, dusting off his suit. Flattop and Breathless were exchanging worried looks. What would he do now?

Crowley took a moment to scan the group of people still suspended from hooks and hesitated.

"How about setting us free?" Flattop suggested. "We didn't harm you."

"You couldn't if you'd wanted to," he sneered. He raised his hand, reveling in the power coursing through his veins. Which one should he take out first?

"You might need our help someday," Breathless said. "Hagen was no killer. We don't have any evidence that you are either. For that matter, we don't have proof of any crimes you've committed. If you vanish, you'll prove you're not Hagen, so we can't charge you with his crimes."

She made an interesting point. Should he cut Dick Tracy's agents some slack? But if he killed them all, there wouldn't be any witnesses to him having been there.

Flattop was looking rather pathetic. Breathless was so covered in dust, inflicting further damage didn't have much appeal. His meatsuit had liked Caffrey. He believed he'd gotten a square deal from Dick Tracy and his minions.

Crowley groaned to himself. Was he going soft? This was all Maia's fault. Her silly notions about clans and families were messing up what should be a simple hack and dispatch. But if Crowley didn't kill them, he'd win points with her. She could help him with Thanatos, put in the good word with Erebus. Killing Flattop and Breathless wouldn't gain him much, but if he let them live, they'd tell Caffrey and the Winchesters. They'd spread the word to other hunters. That was one good thing about hunters. Live and let live was their policy. If Crowley didn't go on a killing spree, he wouldn't be hunted. Now that the hunters were forming an alliance with the Bureau, a little discretion could provide big rewards.

"Let it not be said I can't be generous." With a snap of his fingers, Crowley freed the remaining hooks from the cables, resulting in a gratifying crash of bodies onto the floor. He blinked to loosen the tarps. They could manage the rest on their own. "Remind Dick Tracy he owes me." Disappearing into the ether had never been so satisfying.

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"By the time we got to the building, the smoke had dispersed." Neal paused to refill Sara's champagne glass. He and Sara were celebrating the end of the curse in the best possible way—in bed with a bucket of champagne on the nightstand.

"But the building didn't catch fire?" Sara asked. Her silk kimono was loosely tied. The griffin on her necklace dangled saucily in her cleavage, sparking flames of a different sort.

"No, we didn't detect any damage to the structure. It was an old meat-processing plant. After I provided lock-picking services, we went inside to find Diana and Jones in the basement. They were helping four other victims. Two deaths. The others will recover. Diana and Jones escaped without injury. The EMTs looked them over and allowed them to go home."

"Any word on the zombies?"

"One of them was with them at the time of the explosion. Diana said she collapsed on the floor, a column of smoke left her body, and she was human once more. We found her later wandering in the back section of the building. Dean said that dark smoke we saw outside the building was probably the accumulated essence of the zombies. Several other ex-zombies were scattered in other rooms, including the missing freshman from Columbia."

"Just think of the stories he'll tell his friends about his life in Hotel Zombie."

"They'll have to be inventions. None of them have any recollection of their lives as the walking dead, and so far no one's been able to shed light on how they were transformed."

Sara set her glass down on the nightstand and snuggled closer. "Aren't you surprised that Crowley didn't harm anyone?"

"Jones was particularly concerned that Diana's taunts had angered him." He chuckled. "She countered that the demon secretly enjoyed them, and perhaps she's right. Crowley apparently retains Hagen's memories. He told them to let Peter know we're in his debt now." That action made Neal wonder if Hagen was somehow exerting an influence on Crowley. An exchange of favors sounded like something the Dutchman would argue for.

"Why was Crowley in New York?"

"We can only speculate. Last time we saw him, he was in West Virginia, working with a pure-blood and a group of vampires who were engaged in identity fraud. Diana and Jones have been researching an upsurge of identity fraud activity in New York. Crowley could be involved with it. His presence also raises the possibility of a pure-blood somewhere in the vicinity."

She clasped his arm. "Tell me, you haven't been assigned to the case."

He smiled and kissed her. "Peter's already laid down the law for me not to pursue it. Diana and Jones exchanged numbers with the Winchesters."

"Thank you, Peter!" She leaned her head on his chest. "All's well that ends well."

"Except for Mozzie. None of his photos came out. Apparently, Willy is camera shy."

"I've seen videos of the lightning display. The thunderstorm which came out of nowhere and the spectacular waterspout which accompanied it are the lead items on all the news reports, but there's no mention of Willy having been seen."

"Mozz holds out hope that someone else got the shot. He's already talking about mounting surveillance cameras near the marsh."

She chuckled. "We no longer have any need to be jealous of Scotland. Willy may become as famous as Nessie. Gosh, Diana and Jones safe, Willy happy, you curse-free. What next, Matthew?"

"On to taking down the Mansfelds," he said, stroking her hair. "I hope you don't mind maintaining the masquerade for a little while longer."

She turned to face him. "Masks are like music—as all minstrels know. Shakespeare would remind us that since music is the food of love, we should play on."

"As you'd like it!" he laughed, delighted at her response. He suspected that this past week he hadn't been the only one who'd wished they could discard the Clueless con. But as long as he had to fool Bianka, they had no choice. Sara knew that too.

"That reminds me," she said. "Didn't you promise me a Renaissance date in costume?"

"I did indeed." He slipped the kimono off her shoulders. "Should we change?"

She smiled and drew her finger down his chest. "Eventually."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"Our best match yet!" Aidan whooped jubilantly as the fencing team walked off the piste. "If we can maintain this level, we'll get that second undefeated season."

Neal shared Aidan's confidence. They'd both competed in épée and saber. Richard was making strides on the foil. Peter, Travis, and Keiko had been there to watch. Neal hoped that his skill at fencing would help to allay Peter's concern about his fitness to proceed with the con. When their fan club walked up to offer their congratulations, they extended an invitation for lunch at the Blue Lion to celebrate.

During the walk to the pub, Neal told Peter, "Henry texted me from the Tokyo airport. He's en route home. He invited us to his loft tomorrow for dinner and wanted to know what kind of takeout you'd like."

"We can do better than that surely. He's got that fancy new grill. Has he even used it yet?"

"No, but Eric has."

"That doesn't count. How about I teach both of you the art of making the perfect Burke burger? My dad taught me. It's time for you to learn the secret ingredients."

"I'm honored," Neal said, touched at the underlying message. "We'll provide the meat, and you know Henry will insist on hitting the bakery for dessert."

"I have exacting standards for the patties," Peter warned. "I'll email you the recipe. The sauce is a house secret."

"Can El join us?"

"No, she'll be overseeing a wedding reception." Peter's face grew serious. "This will be a good time to discuss the upcoming op."

And make any needed adjustments. Neal didn't voice his concerns about Peter restricting his participation. As an expression of confidence, he disclosed, "I've already told Henry about the cure. I intend to give him the long version tomorrow."

"Good. We'll make dinner a celebration."

"Ding dong, the witch is dead?"

"And hope she stays that way. I've decided to place Jones in charge of the Crowley investigation."

Neal grinned. "So he'll be the one to oversee White Collar's X-Files operations—outstanding!"

Peter smiled at his enthusiasm. "Jones's exposure to the paranormal goes further back than the rest of us. I could make the case that his experience with ghost stories when he served in the Navy makes him eminently qualified."

"The past few days were a good initiation to some of the other creatures who lurk in the shadows. With his dedication, Jones is the natural choice."

"Plus he was the one who initially targeted the Dutchman. Crowley the demon will be even more elusive. We know Crowley's affiliated with pure-bloods and Astrena. Until we discover why he was in town, none of us should get complacent."

Neal nodded. "Dean's given me and Sam the lecture, as well."

"Then I know you won't argue that if you're injured, you'll have to be tested. That link could be reestablished."

When Neal started to protest, Peter shot him down. "I don't want to hear it. Until we know more about Astrena, that order's mandatory. We have no way of knowing how persistent she is." He smiled, reducing the sting. "There's an easy way to avoid retesting. Don't get injured."

"And the same goes for you, and Elizabeth, and the team, and Dean, and—"

He laughed. "A little extra caution for all of us is a good thing."

"Has Jones offered any thoughts on why Crowley didn't harm him and Diana?"

"It's odd, isn't it? When Crowley possessed Hagen at the witch-house in Connecticut, he appeared to spare us then set the house on fire. Dean thinks he may be working some angle."

"Or he may just like you? Diana mentioned he'd given you a nickname. You're Dick Tracy, she's Breathless, Jones is Flattop. I wonder what nickname he chose for me."

"Mumbles? Surely not Frizzletop." Peter snapped his fingers. "I know! Junior Tracy."

Neal broke into a laugh. "Hey, it's better than Lips!"

Notes: Thanks for joining me on this adventure, and a shout-out to Penna for providing awesome beta help!

Neal's reunion with Henry on Sunday will take place in my next Caffrey Conversation fic, The Musicians, but the characters have asked for some time off before that begins. Neal in particular would like to take a break to enjoy being curse-free. With that in mind, here's the upcoming lineup of stories with posting dates:

Shadow's Dream (Six-Crossed Knot series in the All Souls Trilogy fandom): November 28
The Red Chamber (Tales from the Library series in the Invisible Library fandom): December 5
Lion's Lair (Arkham Files): December 12 – January 16
The Musicians (Caffrey Conversation): January 30 – March 27

I saved the best news for last. ** trumpet fanfare **
Penna returns with a new Caffrey Conversation story in December!

A few notes about this fic: Neal would hate being called Cheekbones as Mozzie found out when he used the term to describe Neal in canon. In 2014, Columbia University created Muscota Marsh in partnership with the New York City parks department as part of the agreement to build its new sports complex next to Inwood Hill Park. While the description of the marsh is accurate, no Lenape artifacts were found and to my knowledge Electra was not involved in the funding.

The aria Mozzie hummed is the same one he had Neal train to the season 5 episode "Out of the Frying Pan." Now it's Mozzie who may be heading into the fire. His new pal Quint is actually Electra's brother Thanatos. That trickster will be ready to put his scheme into motion in the next Crossed Lines fic—Columbia Ghost Story—which I'll post in the spring.

Wishing all who celebrate a Happy Thanksgiving! If you'd like to spend it with Neal and his friends, they enjoyed Thanksgiving in The Queen's Jewels (Chapters 14-15).

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website