Notes: Witches' Sabbath is the second story in the series Crossed Lines, a fusion of White Collar with Supernatural. Although it can be read as a standalone, it will make more sense if read after the first story in the series, Whispers in the Night. See the notes at the end of the chapter for more information.
In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Witches' Sabbath takes place in May 2005 after the events described in Raphael's Dragon. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is thirteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. Additional notes are at the end of the chapter.
Chapter 1: An Ill-Starred Day
House in the Woods, New Haven, Connecticut. May 11, 2005. Wednesday morning.
The sunlight streaming in through the stained glass window signaled the need to depart. With a moan, Maia stroked his face with her fingers, tracing his lips. Sleep well, Sam. Till tomorrow.
She dissolved his image in her mind and opened her eyes. Folding back the mauve satin sheets with a languorous hand, Maia rose from the bed. She still had plenty of time before she needed to leave for Yale. Before slipping on a rose silk kimono, Maia paused to gaze at her body in the full-length mirror. What would Sam think of her? What would it be like to seduce him in person?
Musing over that delicious idea, she strolled down the oak staircase. She half-expected Electra to be waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, but her sister was nowhere to be seen.
Maia walked over to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of blood from the crystal decanter. She took her glass into the library where she found Electra bent over the library table. She'd already dressed for the day although she wasn't due at the store for another hour. Maia drew close to see what she was studying so intently. The Goya painting Witches' Sabbath. Of course.
Electra turned her head to look at her. Maia's hair was still tousled from the night and she hadn't bothered putting on makeup. Electra smiled knowingly. "Pleasant dreams?"
Maia sank into a velvet chair and stretched out her bare legs. "The best."
"Who was it? The French sculptor?"
Maia nodded. Electra wouldn't be pleased to hear she'd been visiting her new protégé. "Has the time come?"
"Yes. All the preparations have been made."
"Will you go on the journey?"
"No, I ordered Alcyone to be my emissary. She needs something constructive to do." A frown crossed Electra's face. "I've heard disturbing reports recently. Alcyone's grown unfocused." She rose and perched on the armrest of Maia's chair. "Fortunately I don't have to worry about you." She stroked her hair.
"Sending Alcy to New York is hardly a punishment. I could go in her place."
"No, she needs the discipline."
Maia stood up and walked over to the painting. When she'd first seen the version Goya had painted for public display, she was outraged that he'd represented them as old, wizened hags. But Electra was unsympathetic to her complaints. She told Maia she'd insisted that Goya paint them as guajonas. Spanish witch-vampires. Really. Electra's sense of humor could be trying.
Maia was beyond annoyed, but Electra was amused by the joke. She'd kept the original painting for her collection. There they were—the sisters in all their radiant beauty. And now their demon-goat would join them.
Federal Building, New York City. May 13, 2005. Friday morning.
"The Dutchman's vanished."
Neal liked to think he was not a suspicious man. A broken mirror didn't fill him with terror. He walked under ladders without a second thought. He admired the beauty of black cats with nary a shudder. So when Friday the 13th dawned, he didn't rummage through his cupboard for a rabbit's foot.
But when he walked into the White Collar bullpen that morning to be greeted by Peter with the news of the Dutchman's disappearance, he began to believe that there might be something to the superstition after all.
Curtis Hagen was an art forger and counterfeiter whom the FBI had been pursuing for over a decade. He was so elusive that Peter had dubbed him the Dutchman. Like the Flying Dutchman, he disappeared into the fog after each crime. At long last, thanks to a team effort guided by Neal's own brilliant insights, they'd succeeded in capturing him last month in a warehouse in East Harlem with a stolen nineteenth century bond and a priceless painting by Raphael in his possession. Evidence was seized proving that Hagen was creating forgeries of the painting and selling them off as originals. He was also in the midst of counterfeiting the bond. The case was ironclad. He was incarcerated at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. They'd even succeeded in convincing the judge that he was too much of a flight risk to be released on bail. There was no way Hagen could escape them now.
Wrong.
Or maybe not?
Neal eyed his boss warily. Peter had been known to play practical jokes before. Not many, true. Neal could remember only one time he'd been fooled. That was when Peter had banished him to File Purgatory while the team finished preparations for a surprise party in Neal's honor. But that didn't really count. Peter routinely banished him to File Purgatory. He simply had a justifiable reason that time. "You're not trying to pull my leg, are you? It's Friday the 13th, not April Fools' Day."
But he didn't have to wait for Peter's denial to know this was no joking matter. His grim face made the answer abundantly clear. "The prison director called me this morning. When the guard performed his routine check this morning, he discovered Hagen was missing. There's no explanation for what happened. Hagen was recorded in his cell during the night check." Neal could see Peter's jaw tighten as he suppressed his anger. "I'm heading over to see them now. Want to come along? You're an escape wizard. Maybe you can spot something."
The Metropolitan Correctional Center was only a few blocks away. Within minutes they were standing in Hagen's empty cell. The Dutchman had been held in a maximum security section of the center. Since he'd been cooperating, his lawyer had been able to negotiate additional protection and a reduced sentence. The terms were exceptionally sweet for someone who'd built up such a record.
Why would Hagen throw it all away? That was the question Neal asked himself as he studied the spartan furnishings. He didn't find anything in the cell to enlighten him. Hagen was an artist, but he'd left no sketches or doodles to give any hints to his mindset. Neal gloomily looked around the cell, scanning the space for clues.
"Eww."
"What?" Peter demanded. "If you poke around a toilet, don't expect it to smell like jasmine and lilacs."
"Yeah, but rotten eggs? And this isn't coming from the toilet but his bed." Neal knelt down along the baseboard. "Correction. Not the bed but the floor. What is this? Sulfur?"
Peter knelt down next to him, his nose wrinkling as he examined the powder. "Sure smells like it." He reached inside his case for a specimen bag and collected a small sample. The guard stood beside them, looking perplexed. "Was the cell treated by an exterminator?" Peter asked.
"Not to my knowledge," the guard replied, "but prisoners complain of roaches. It could be pest bait."
"That may account for it," Peter said, but he didn't look convinced and neither was Neal. He'd never heard of any roach powder that contained sulfur.
Their next stop was the prison control room and a review of the camera feeds. To speed up the chore, Peter and Neal worked alongside prison officials at separate monitors. Thirty minutes into the review, Peter cried out, "Here's the answer!" and he jabbed an accusing finger at the monitor.
Neal had Peter play it back for him. Unbelievable. The feed showed Hagen sauntering out with a woman. They strode straight past the guards, the checkout desk, and out of the building with no one even looking at them. It was as if they were invisible. Hagen was wearing his orange prison jumpsuit. The woman was slender, almost as tall as Hagen, and clad in a dark maroon and black Victorian steampunk dress with maroon military coat. Her dark hair was pulled back into a chignon, and she wore an elaborate silver Venetian mask which covered most of her face. She had her hand on Hagen's arm, loosely guiding him.
"Were the guards all drugged?" Neal stared at the prison officials in disbelief. They were obviously as perplexed as he and Peter. No one could come up with a rational explanation.
When Neal and Peter met in Peter's office after their return to White Collar, they still hadn't come up with anything that made sense.
"My best guess is an Invisible Man potion," Neal confessed. "Do you want me to ask Mozzie about it? He's an expert on drugs. Perhaps he's heard of something."
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but go ahead," Peter replied. "But if Hagen had been rendered invisible, why did he show up on the camera feed? Perhaps all the prison guards were drugged. That sounds even more like a special request of Mozzie. If anyone knows how to drug a prison guard into oblivion, it would have to be him. I'm sure I don't need to remind you about his experiments last month."
Neal shrugged acknowledgment, but his thoughts were going in another direction. Someone had mentioned sulfur recently. . . . "Of course! Last month when we were in Buttonwood—"
"Stop!" Peter ordered hastily and rose to close the door to his office.
Neal made no attempt to hide his smile. Obviously Buttonwood was still a sore subject. Understandable. If Neal had acted like Peter had there, he would be sensitive too. It wasn't only Peter who'd been struck down by a curse which turned him into a dork. Mozzie and Dean Winchester had been affected as well, but knowing he wasn't singled out brought Peter little comfort.
When Neal showed Peter and El the photos that Mozzie's girlfriend Janet had taken of that unforgettable weekend in South Jersey, he'd never seen El laugh so hard. Neal's reassurance he'd never ever show the photos at work did little to calm Peter's completely unfounded suspicions.
Neal took a breath and sought to calm the waters. "You have no need to feel embarrassed. Most of the men in Buttonwood were acting the same way, although I'll admit the three of you were among the most entertaining. Lucky for you, Dean's brother Sam and I were smart enough not to let ourselves be infected by malevolent will-o'-wisps."
Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I wouldn't act so smug. Who had to be rescued from blood-sucking vampires?"
Neal shook his head. "That's beside the point. When Sam and I were on stakeout in the swamp—two courageous hunters determined to rescue the men of Buttonwood by dispatching the swamp spirit to the dark regions from whence it had come—"
"Your point, oh mighty demon-hunter?" Peter said, barely stifling his sigh.
"Sam helped pass the time by giving me a few pointers in demon lore. Supposedly powdered sulfur is a sign that a demon was present."
Peter sat in stony silence for a moment. "You want me to believe a demon was involved with Hagen's disappearance?"
"You'd rather stick to the Invisible Man theory?"
Roadside Motel, Fishkill, New York. May 13, 2005. Friday morning.
Dean Winchester emerged from the shower, grabbed a towel to dry himself off, and strolled into the bedroom. "Hey, Sam,—"
He stopped. Sam was still asleep, sprawled face down on the bed. Dean checked his watch. Still technically morning. He'd thought the noise of the shower would have awoken him. They'd gotten back from burning the bones over ten hours ago. That was the freakiest ghost Dean had seen in a long time. And the stinkiest. Just because the man was killed in a fishing accident was no excuse for his ghost to smell like a fish kill. Fish kill in Fishkill, Dean repeated, chuckling inwardly. He should call Chloe up and suggest that for a story. He hadn't talked with her in a while. That was a come-on line she probably hadn't heard.
After that first promising encounter in Buttonwood, he and Chloe had gone nowhere fast. They'd talked a few times on the phone. She was struggling to find time to research witch lore for her novel. The technical writing assignment she had was giving her fits. Last time he called, she had to cut it short for a business call. Just as well. The demon hunting business had been going full throttle.
Dean watched his brother and winced. He'd hoped Sam's sleep issues were a thing of the past. After seeing his girlfriend Jessica go up in flames, nightmares and flashbacks had been a routine occurrence for quite a while. Granted, not an easy thing to get over, but Sam had done it. Then he had the vision vibe going on with the yellow-eyed demon, but that was also a thing of the past. So what was up with the dude now?
Fat chance of Sam telling him. No, he'd much rather pretend he was feeling fine and deny everything. Didn't he realize how transparent he was? Avoiding sleep till he was so wrecked he had no choice and then crash in the car or bed, muttering nonsense.
What chick was he dreaming about? 'Cause it had to be a chick, right? If he didn't snap out of it soon, Dean would have to ask their friend Bobby about it. In some respects, Bobby seemed more like a father to Sam than their own dad had been. Maybe Bobby could get Sammy to open up.
Dean studied him. It simply wasn't natural to wake up after sleeping for ten hours looking more exhausted than before. Or was it? Those moans didn't sound like moans of pain. Dean smiled. He'd have to fix Sam up and soon.
Sam's phone rang on the bedside table. Dean walked over to catch it, but it'd already woken Sleeping Beauty. Letting out a huge yawn, Sam rolled over and sat up, blinking his eyes. "Yeah?" he mumbled into the phone. "Sure, I remember . . . How's the art scene? . . . Oh, really?" As Sam listened, he grabbed a pencil and started scribbling notes. "Yeah, you did right. Tomorrow morning okay?"
Dean tried to piece together what was going on from his comments. Who did they know from the art world? Only one person that he could recall—Neal Caffrey. That case in Buttonwood. The swamp spirit. Being turned into a dork was not the most uplifting moment of his life, but it had led to him meeting Chloe, or Cecilia Hepburn as she was known to her urban fantasy fans. That dude Neal worked for—Peter Burke. Mr. Law and Order. He'd turned out okay in the end, too. Surprisingly open-minded when it came to vamps and a connoisseur of cars, he'd give him that. He'd met worse feds in his life.
Plus Neal's friend Mozzie had been more than grateful for their help, supplying them with several professional-grade IDs and credit cards. Given that usually the only thanks they got from saving someone's ass was a grudging promise not to prosecute, Dean had chalked up the experience as one of their better moments.
"What did Neal want?" he asked when Sam hung up.
"A prisoner disappeared from a detention facility."
"So? It's called a prison escape. Happens all the time. We've done our share."
"Not when the dude walks straight past the guards without them even noticing him. He was accompanied by a masked woman dressed in black."
"Catwoman? Have they been staying up late, watching Batman reruns?"
"Neal swears not," Sam said with a grin. "This woman must have looked like someone out of The Wild, Wild West. She wore a long military coat and a fancy silver mask. Neal found sulfur in the cell."
"Sulfur, huh?"
"He's also promised free food, beer, as well as a place to stay. We don't have another case at the moment."
"No mention of rotting fish, I hope?"
"Not a word."
Dean shrugged. "Free food, no rotten fish? Let's do it."
Metropolitan Correctional Center, New York City. May 14, 2005. Saturday morning.
"They're late," Mozzie grumbled.
"I don't think Dean's ever driven in Manhattan," Neal said, checking his watch. "He may have taken the wrong turn off FDR Drive." They were standing on the east side of the correctional center next to the entrance to the fenced-off parking lot for prison officials. Peter was already inside. Neal suspected Peter knew what was going on but was staying clear of it so he could plead ignorance.
There had been only one snag when Neal contacted Sam. The problem wasn't with him or Dean. It was Baby. Neal heaved a much put-upon sigh. Until he'd met Dean and Sam, the only one in his life who needed special handling was his friend Mozzie. His conspiracy-wired brain was convinced the feds were under orders to toss him in lockdown at the first opportunity and throw away the key. The fact that Mozzie had amassed a fortune in finder's fees for helping Neal on cases did little to ease his fear of entrapment.
Now in addition to Mozzie there was Dean's prized '67 Impala, Baby, to pamper. Dean was on the point of rejecting driving to the center until Neal promised Mozzie would stand watch over his car. And, of course, Mozzie couldn't do anything as straightforward as babysit a vehicle. He insisted on making a con out of it. So now Mozzie was dressed in the garb of a prison employee, his creative soul assuaged.
"There they are," Mozzie called out triumphantly, and motioned for Dean to pull up alongside him. Opening the door for him, he said, "Welcome to Gotham. Never fear, Baby is under my protection for the duration." He added with an unholy look of delight, "This will be a new experience. I've never driven an Impala."
"Hold on a minute," Dean protested. "No newbie's touching my car. You can show me where to park."
Neal and Sam stood aside and let the parties argue it out. When Mozzie played his trump card of threatening to withhold future fake IDs, Dean finally relented.
Peter was waiting for them at the security barrier when they entered the building.
Dean flashed his badge to the guard. "Special Agent Ford, and this is —"
"They're with us," Peter interrupted, stepping up quickly.
"May I?" Neal asked and inspected Sam's badge. "Special Agent Hamill, is it?"
Sam smiled. "Mozzie thought you'd appreciate the reference."
"I didn't hear that," Peter said. Neal could tell from the twitch in the corners of his mouth he wouldn't give them any grief either.
Together they reviewed the camera feed. "We spoke with the guards who were filmed," Peter said. "They remember the other events that are shown on the feed, but draw a blank on Hagen. They swear he wasn't there and insist the video must have been doctored."
"We were on the scene within five hours of his disappearance," Neal added. "The guards were all tested for drug use and checked out clean. No hallucinogens or any other drugs."
Dean eyed Sam. "You thinking what I am?"
He nodded. "A spell most likely." He turned to Peter. "Zoom in on that woman. What's that she's wearing around her neck? Some sort of pendant or amulet?"
While they studied the image, Peter retrieved a couple of photos from his briefcase. "We made stills of the woman and the pendant. We've been trying to trace it. Do you recognize it?"
Sam shook his head. "It looks ancient but I haven't seen it before."
They proceeded to search both the cell and the route Hagen and the woman had taken. Peter insisted they wear gloves, something Dean chafed at, grumbling that as long as there was no blood, what was the point.
"What's the connection between sulfur and demons?" Neal asked Sam as they overturned Hagen's bed.
"You don't understand what demons are, do you?"
"Not really. I know they're evil, and that's about it."
"Demons were once human souls, but they've been tortured in Hell by Lucifer and other demons. Since they come from Hell, they secrete sulfur. The stories of Hell being fire and brimstone aren't myths. They're real. Brimstone is another word for sulfur. It's a byproduct of the volcanoes that continually erupt."
"The whole nine yards of torment, suffering, and pestilence," Dean added. "Hades is a deep fryer on a cosmic scale."
Sam ran his finger along the seams of the mattress. "And there's a direct relation between the amount of sulfur residue and the strength of the demon. From the amount of sulfur found in Hagen's cell, the demon who visited here was a powerful one."
"Are witches the same thing as demons?" Peter demanded.
"Not necessarily," Dean said. "Witches also start off as being human. They may have trained with a witch or have special powers, but they're still human. Some witches—the most powerful ones—become demons by making a deal with one to acquire power in exchange for their souls."
It was hard to take the guy seriously, as he matter-of-factly discussed how a person could become a demon or witch. But Neal never used to believe in vampires either. And the way Hagen had managed to become invisible to a prison full of guards was no laughing matter.
It took an hour, but they finally found what they were looking for. Sam discovered it taped to the bottom of a trash can which was inside the front door to the prison. He held up the small leather bag for them to see. "This is a hex bag."
Peter strode over to place it in an evidence container. "You believe this is what caused the prison staff not to see them?"
"That's right, and see these scorch marks?" Dean pointed to blackened residue on the painted wall. "I'd lay odds this is where they teleported out of here."
"We'll take the bag back to the lab and have it analyzed," Peter said. He looked at them dubiously. "You want to come along?"
Dean grimaced. "That's a joke, right?" Neal smiled at Dean's reaction. It reminded him of Mozzie. At least Dean didn't seem intimidated by the thought, simply bored.
"You'll need to give us the details if you expect us to help," Sam cautioned.
Peter nodded. "We should be able to obtain preliminary results later today."
Dean pulled Neal aside. "Any ideas on how we could productively spend the next few hours while we're cooling our heels?"
"We're not far from the Bowery. There's a place on Forsyth Street—Sal's Billiards. You can always find a game going on." He stopped to check where Peter was, but he was off talking to a prison official and couldn't hear them. "Poker games are in the back. Mozzie can show you the way. He and Sal are old friends. The food's not bad either. Keep your receipt. Peter can expense it."
"Thanks." He turned to Sam. "You coming?"
Sam hesitated. "Actually I thought I'd hang out with Neal. I may be able to help on the analysis and I'd like to learn more about Hagen. How did he become acquainted with such a powerful witch?"
Peter returned as he was talking. "Good question. That's exactly what I want to know, too."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Sam accompanied Dean back to the Impala. When Mozzie heard about Sam's plans, he insisted on preparing him for the upcoming ordeal. In dark sepulchral tones as if he were alerting them about the coming Apocalypse, he warned Sam of the evils awaiting him at government overlord central, aka the Jacob Javits Federal Building.
The building was a short walk from the Correctional Center and gave Sam a chance to gain an impression of the area. It wasn't often that he had the chance to visit an urban center like New York. The glass skyscrapers soaring into the sky were an alien world compared to the dusty small-town streets he normally trod.
When they arrived at the White Collar offices, Peter said he'd work on the official response to Hagen's disappearance and requested they take the hex bag to the forensics lab. Sam would have bet Neal wouldn't have called it a hex bag when he filled out the requisition form, but Sam would have lost. The lab technician didn't even bat an eye. Not the reception Sam would have gotten from the usual sheriff he had to deal with. Still, he had to hide his grin when he observed the care with which the technician opened the bag. It was if she expected to find either a live grenade or a venomous coiled snake ready to strike.
Instead, the bag contained an old coin, a wilted flower, and a bone. Neal obtained photos of the items before they left and told Sam they could wait in his niche on the White Collar floor. The niche was a spot Neal had been allocated in the IT lab to conduct his art authentication work. On a Saturday, it was surprising to see how many people were at work. He and Dean weren't the only ones who went without weekends.
Neal rolled a chair over for Sam. "Welcome to my world." He'd posted sketches and cartoons on a whiteboard. When Sam asked about the cartoons, he said most were of the White Collar team. He named some of the people, including Peter's boss, Reese Hughes.
The cartoons were irreverent snapshots of his colleagues. It was a world of camaraderie which gave Sam a twinge of envy. What would it be like to work for a boss? He already knew what a disaster it would be for Dean. Sometimes Bobby acted a little like one, although he complained they treated him like their servant. From the cartoons Neal had on his wall, Bobby didn't bear much resemblance to Hughes, which brought up the question what must Hughes think of those cartoons?
"What exactly is a hex bag supposed to do?" Neal asked, breaking into his thoughts.
"You can think of it as a type of charm which is used to cast a spell. Usually it contains multiple types of objects like this one does."
"Can you tell what kind of spell it is by analyzing the items inside the bag?"
"It doesn't work that way. Often a powerful witch casts a separate spell on each ingredient. They combine inside the bag to make an even stronger spell. But we may get an idea of where the bag was made based on its ingredients. What can you tell me about Hagen?"
"He's a British art forger and counterfeiter. Until we caught him a few weeks ago, he'd been in the business for about fifteen years. Peter nicknamed him the Dutchman because he was so difficult to catch and we didn't know who he was. A few months ago we finally identified him through some forgeries he'd done. Lately Hagen's been working for an international criminal group called Ydrus. He'd struck a deal to cooperate in return for a reduced sentence and special protection. When he first disappeared, we suspected Ydrus had gotten to him, but I don't know of any witches who work for Ydrus."
Sam didn't chuckle and pointed out, "You were the ones who called him the Dutchman."
"That's right and after a job he'd disappear into the fog like the Flying Dutchman, but we had no reason to believe he was being aided by witchcraft."
Sam shrugged. "How would you have known? I wouldn't dismiss the possibility."
Neal stopped to consider. "I suppose you could be right. If it had happened once, there wasn't anything to say it hadn't happened before. But I can picture Peter's reaction if I told him the reason Hagen was so successful was witchcraft." Neal's eyes widened and he slapped the edge of the desk. "That's it! I'm an idiot. Why didn't I think of that earlier?"
"You want to clue me in?"
"When I started working on the case earlier this year, I examined a couple of forgeries we suspected the Dutchman of having made. One of them is called Witches' Sabbath. Are you familiar with it?"
Sam shook his head. "But with a name like that, you've got my interest. Tell me about it."
"It was painted by Francisco Goya in the late eighteenth century. He created a series of six paintings on witchcraft." Neal pulled up a photo of the painting on his computer. "In Witches' Sabbath, the devil is represented as a goat. He's surrounded by a group of disfigured witches. Goya treated the same theme in one of the Black Paintings."
Sam studied the photo. "What are the Black Paintings?"
"They were murals he painted for his house. He'd never intended to exhibit them. After his death, they were transferred to canvas. By the time Goya painted them, he'd grown totally deaf. His works had become bleak and dark. Goya himself was plagued by an unknown illness and feared he was growing insane." Neal paused and considered for a moment. "I was going to ask Hagen why he was so interested in Goya but never had the chance. He also counterfeited a bond which contained an image of a Goya painting."
"Do you know if any of Hagen's other forgeries had a connection to the occult?"
Neal considered for a moment. "He also forged a painting of Salome by Titian. It depicts the head of John the Baptist on a platter. I suppose if you thought John the Baptist was a vampire . . ."
"Yeah, that does sound like a bit of a stretch. It could have been a symbolic depiction."
Neal eyed him curiously. "How far back does vampire lore go? Not that I'm saying John the Baptist was one, but could he have been?"
"According to Bobby, yes."
"He's your hunter friend, right?"
"Bobby's much more than that. He's a combination of surrogate dad, mentor, consultant, and backup. He's hauled our asses out of the fire more times than I can count. Bobby's the expert on vampires. After our encounter with the nest in New Jersey, we realized we needed to bone up on them. Up to a few months ago, vamps appeared to be almost extinct, but lately there's been a resurgence of reports, particularly in the Northeast."
"And you say vampires were around during the time of Christ?"
"Even before then. There are legends of vampire-like beings in ancient Greece, Mesopotamia, even in ancient Egypt. When did Titian live?"
"The sixteenth century. He spent most of his life in Venice. Had an exceptionally long lifespan for the time—around ninety years by most estimates. That may not be that long by vampire standards."
"These days it could be. Hunters have made a major dent in the population. Eventually we'll do the same with this latest outbreak. I've read reports that Venice was a hotbed of vampire activity in the sixteenth century. Corpses from that period have been found with their jaws forced open by a brick. It was a common misconception that you could kill a vamp that way."
Neal powered on the computer at the next workstation for Sam to use.
Sam looked at him questioningly. "The FBI won't be upset I'm using their computer?"
"You're safe. I logged you in as a guest. You have access to the internet but none of our internal files."
Sam read up on the other witch paintings by Goya and the Titian painting while Neal was checking some foreign language websites. Neal was right when he said Goya had gone dark side. It was tempting to think the artist may have had personal knowledge of demons.
"Do the Spanish have any vampire legends?" Neal asked.
Sam thought a moment. "There's something called a guajona I've heard about." He pulled up the Wikipedia page. "She's a female vampire who also has some witch characteristics. I guess you'd call her a hybrid. Supposedly a guajona looks like those hags in Goya's Witches Sabbath painting. She usually doesn't kill her victims but leaves them in a weakened state."
Neal looked at him, startled. "You're saying a witch can also be a vampire? Isn't that cheating? I remember you said that some witches were demons, so you could wind up with a witch-vampire-demon? Please tell me I'm wrong."
"No such luck. For instance, a witch could be turned by a vampire then strike a bargain with a demon to acquire additional powers." Sam's words trailed off as he considered the implications. "I've never encountered a triple-barreled threat like that. She'd be one nasty character."
"I've been trying to discover if Goya painted any vampires. He made a series of etchings . . ." He turned to his computer and searched around. "Here it is—The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters. How's that for a title? And there's another painting called Exorcism with what could be vampires."
Sam pulled up his chair to view the etching. It showed bat-like creatures surrounding a sleeping man.
"Do vampires actually turn into bats?" Neal asked.
Sam chuckled. "As far as I know, they don't. At least we've never heard of any that do. I don't suppose you know anything in Hagen's background to link him to anything weird or mysterious?"
"No, but the man was only identified in the past few months, so it's hard to know what he might have been into. Satan worship is not out of the question. In his plea bargain, Hagen confined himself to revelations about Ydrus. He didn't mention any personal obsessions and we didn't think to ask."
Their research moved from paintings to the coin in the hex bag and the pendant the woman was wearing. By the time Peter returned, they had something to show for their efforts.
"The official search for Hagen hasn't produced any leads," Peter said. "Are you faring any better?"
Sam nodded. "Dean will want to hear this too."
"We haven't had lunch yet," Neal said. "Sal's burgers aren't bad, and Peter, you'll like the beer."
Sal's Billiards. May 14, 2005. Saturday afternoon.
Peter hadn't heard of Sal's Billiards but had sometimes wondered where Neal went to keep his pool skills sharp. Sal's was only a few blocks north of the Bureau. Neal could even get in a quick game during the lunch hour. He apparently was a good friend of the owner. Mozzie was, too. Peter had a sudden desire to learn more about the place. Perhaps he should take up pool.
A middle-aged swarthy man with dark shrewd eyes called out a greeting to Neal when they entered. "That's Sal," Neal explained, giving him a wave. "Second generation Italian."
Dean had just finished a game. Judging by the satisfied look on his face, he also was pleased with the action at Sal's. "I'd buy lunch, but I recall someone mentioned free grub for our consulting services."
"The Bureau can spring for this," Peter confirmed. They commandeered a table in the cafe and called the waiter over.
"Sal's burgers are good," Neal said, "but his meatball subs are even better. Homemade Italian sausage on ciabatta with ricotta and mozzarella on—"
"Stop. You're killing me," Sam moaned. "We had stale donuts for breakfast."
Service was satisfyingly prompt and soon the table was covered with heaping plates of subs and frosted mugs of beer.
Dean smacked the ketchup bottle over his fries. "What was in the hex bag?"
"The coin is Celtic," Sam said. "I found another example online. Dates back to the first century."
"Is it typical to have such an ancient artifact in a hex bag?" Peter asked.
"Not really," Sam said. "Usually hex bags are a combination of a talisman, herbs, and bones. If a witch is targeting someone in particular, there might be something belonging to the person or a lock of hair, for instance. An ancient coin isn't that easy to come by. We've only seen one other similar case."
"What's the coin look like?" Dean asked.
Neal passed around the photo. "It's gold. There's the image of a flower on one side and abstract pattern on the other. I looked up Celtic symbolism online." He turned to Peter. "You'll like this. The Celts were big into astronomy. You can see stars and the moon on the coin."
Curious, Peter studied the photo more closely. "Those pinwheels might be a meteor or comet." He looked over at Dean. "What do you know about Celtic witches? Is there such a thing as Celtic witchcraft?"
"I've heard rumors about it, but nothing specific," Dean said. "Chloe may know more about it."
Peter groaned at the mention of her name. Chloe had unintentionally instigated the dork curse. He shuddered to think what she was capable of now. "Isn't there someone else?"
Dean frowned. "Are you still blaming her for Buttonwood? That was an innocent mistake. She had no idea the spell she cast would actually work. She didn't even know that she was casting a spell."
"You just proved my point." Peter's cell phone vibrated, cutting off Dean's rebuttal. It was the lab reporting the test results on the flower found in the hex bag. When he ended the call, he asked, "You ever hear of a small whorled pogonia?"
Dean sopped up marinara sauce that had dribbled out of his sub with his bread. "Are we talking plant, animal, or mineral?"
Sam was already researching it on his laptop. "It's an orchid."
"You mean like the purple flowers in corsages?" Dean asked.
"Not exactly. This is a native orchid." Sam quickly scanned the webpage. "Very rare. There's a picture of it. Not very showy. It doesn't look much like an orchid to me."
"The lab says the flower had only been picked two or three days ago," Peter noted. "That may help narrow down where the hex bag was made."
"What about the bones?" Neal asked. "Did the lab figure out where they came from?"
Peter nodded. "The bag contained two femurs and part of the skull of a wood frog."
"So we have a Celtic gold coin, a rare orchid, and bones from a wood frog." Sam shook his head uneasily. "Not the typical hex bag we normally find. This is no ordinary witch."
"We already know that," Dean added. "Teleportation? The invisibility spell she cast? We could be dealing with a major demon. I'll ring up Chloe. See if she knows anything about this flower." He took out a pad of paper from his jacket pocket, wrote down the name of the orchid, and walked over to an empty table in the corner of the cafe.
"Why couldn't he have stayed here to call?" Peter asked.
"He probably didn't want us to hear him go kissy-kissy," Sam said, rolling his eyes.
Neal grinned. "Is he still seeing her?"
"That's not the right way to phrase it. Our paths crossed only one time since March, but he talks with her a lot on the phone. He claims it's in the name of research, but Dean's never been the one for research till he met Chloe."
"When did she become an expert on witches?" Peter asked.
"She's researching real witches for her new novel."
"She's in Salem now, soaking up the local atmosphere and witch vibes," Neal added. "So far there haven't been any reports of men turning into dorks or other weird spells. Maybe she's gotten her act together."
"You sound like you've been corresponding with her too," Peter noted.
"Not me," Neal corrected, "but Janet. Mozzie keeps me informed. Janet visited Chloe in Salem a couple of weeks ago. She said they visited some local bogs. Janet's collecting ideas for a new costume exhibit featuring damselflies."
"Does this mean Mozzie will soon be into witchcraft as well?" Peter asked, sensing another looming Mozzie disaster on the horizon. "Mozzie the Warlock? Let's switch the subject before I become even more depressed."
"How do you feel about devil worship?" Sam asked, "I researched the amulet around the witch's neck." He pulled out the photo so Peter could see it. "There's an image of a goat on one side. We found a similar item online. It's a Sumerian coin that's been fashioned into an amulet. The male goat or he-goat as some call it, has been appropriated as a symbol of a horned god—Satan or Lucifer."
"Do witches worship the devil?" Neal asked.
"Some do," Sam said. "It varies among covens."
Dean returned to the table. "I got through to Chloe. She's wrapped up her job in Salem. She'd heard of the flower. Confirms it's very rare. She checked her sources and the only place she found that's anywhere close is a wooded area near Simsbury, Connecticut. That's supposedly near Windsor. Chloe's joined a Wiccan coven. They call themselves the Alyssum Sisterhood. They're centered at Yale University in New Haven. She'll check with them to see if they have any contacts in Simsbury and will call me back."
Neal looked over at Peter. "You feel like another road trip?"
"I'd promised my wife I'd work on the bathroom remodeling. Windsor is about two hours away." Peter was torn. Heading off to Connecticut based on a flower? But he didn't have any other leads. He could hardly call in local officials to investigate a possible witch.
"Suit yourself," Dean said. "We have no such restrictions. If Chloe turns up something, I'm heading out."
"You know we don't have any other leads for Hagen," Neal added. When Peter didn't reply, he pursued his advantage. "This is work related. You can take comp time next week and work on the bathroom. El will understand. Didn't you tell me she was busy working on their community theater performance of Barefoot in the Park? That's where she is today, isn't she? She probably won't even notice you're gone. In any case, I have no house chores and after all the effort we put it to capture Hagen, I've no intention of missing out on our best shot of finding him." Neal turned to Dean. "Can I hitch a ride?"
"We're not a bus. You'd have to sit in the back, pay for gas, meals—"
"All right, you convinced me," Peter declared, "But if we go to Simsbury, it will be strictly by the book. We'll inform the local authorities and obey all the laws."
Dean raised a brow. "You want to tell the police we're hunting a witch?"
"Of course not," Neal said. "We'll explain we're chasing the Flying Dutchman."
Peter sighed. Here we go again.
Notes: Thanks for reading! The road trip to the wilds of Connecticut begins next Monday when I post Chapter 2: The Woman of His Dreams.
Sam is correct when he reports that the small whorled pogonia is rare. In fact, it the rarest native orchid east of the Mississippi. I've pinned a photo of it, the coin, and the amulet as well as other visuals to the Witches' Sabbath board of our Pinterest site where both Penna Nomen and I pin illustrations for our stories. I'll update the board with additional pins when I post a new chapter.
This fic is part of the Caffrey Conversation AU, created by Penna Nomen. Many thanks to the awesome Penna for volunteering her beta-editor help for Witches' Sabbath.
A few notes about references in this chapter: Peter fooled Neal in The Queen's Jewels. Maia was right to be offended by being depicted as a guajona. Guajonas are legendary creatures from Cantabria, Spain. They are described as blood-sucking disfigured hags. They attack adults and children at night but generally don't kill their victims.
As for the vampires of Venice, I wrote about them and Titian for our blog. Penna and I share a blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation, where we post about our stories and adventures in writing. FanFiction doesn't allow links in notes, but I've added links to both our blog and our Pinterest site in my profile. Spooks and witches have been on both of our minds recently. In her most recent post, Penna wrote about Harry Potter in Caffrey Conversation.
If you'd like to catch up with the AU, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen where Peter recruited Neal in 2003. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. My first story, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia University. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur.
Disclaimers: The worlds of White Collar and Supernatural are not mine, alas. Any depictions of real institutions and locations are not necessarily true or accurate.