Chapter 4: Rendezvous with an Eidolon
Electra's mansion. November 5, 2006. Saturday evening.
It was midnight. Surely Electra's little dinner party was done by now. Crowley had materialized in Electra's bedroom, just in case. It wouldn't do for Cheekbones and his pals to see him.
The room was empty. Not even Scarbo was around. Electra had probably sent him to torture whoever she was currently feeding on. Crowley walked into the hallway and silently descended the stairs. Music was playing but there were no other sounds. Electra had been in a Beethoven rut recently. It amused her to play music composed by her various victims. The kitchen was quiet, indicating the caterer and his crew had already left. Crowley checked the salon, the conservatory, the orchid room. Had Electra gone off with Cheekbones to Neverland?
She better not have. The last thing they needed was to arouse the suspicions of the Winchesters. Especially after what he discovered about Henry Winslow. The hackers Crowley employed at Riffs had proved their usefulness yet again, and the news was unsettling in the extreme.
It was no coincidence that Henry and Dean looked so much alike. The hackers had discovered why. Henry's great-great-grandfather was named Seth Winslow. He was a secretive type. Disappeared from the family records in 1902. They thought he'd died, but they were wrong. Instead, he'd joined the American branch of the Men of Letters, changing his name to Seth Winchester and deserting his family in the process.
The Men of Letters were anathema to demons. A global secret organization of scholars, they were the sworn enemies of anyone supernatural. The only saving grace was that they held hunters in almost equal contempt. Their headquarters was in London. Crowley was only too familiar with their despicable ways.
A century ago, several chapters existed in the States. Seth joined one in Baltimore. Everyone believed that the American chapters had been decimated in the 1950s, but what if that wasn't true? Henry worked for a family-run company named Winston-Winslow. The name was generally abbreviated to Win-Win. Should it really be called Win-Win-Win? The company was run by a bunch of psychologist-investigators. They fit the profile of Men of Letters to the last letter, and Henry was in the same mold. Win-Win could be a super-branch of the British organization, using data mining to pose an even greater threat to Crowley's comfortable way of life.
And now Henry and Dean were meeting. The absolute worst case scenario was upon them. Hunters had formed an alliance with the scholars. It was enough to make a demon puke.
This afternoon they were spotted at Riffs. Never had Crowley been so pleased he'd set up one of Electra's pure-bloods to run the club. Jeremy took full advantage of the sophisticated camera surveillance system to monitor patrons at all times. His thralls tracked snippets of conversation, and their reports only served to aggravate Crowley's concern. Henry and Dean were caught discussing their family trees, sharing personal information.
Meanwhile, oblivious to the impending catastrophe, Electra was making goo-goo eyes at Cheekbones. Perhaps Maia knew a way to divert Electra onto another target before it was too late. If the paint-pusher were harmed, the wrath of both the hunters and Men of Letters would rain upon them. Even a goddess could be swept away.
Crowley saw a light on in the library. He opened the paneled door and stopped in his tracks. Maia was stretched out on a couch, passed out or unconscious. "What's wrong with her?"
Electra looked up from her book. "She's fine. She's sleeping it off."
"Can't hold her liquor? I didn't think she was invited to the party."
"She wasn't. Maia was showing evidence of conflicted loyalties. I took care of the problem."
Bollocks. Maia was his source for better understanding Electra. "May I ask, Radiant One, which means you used?"
"Maia knows too much about us," she said coldly, not answering him directly. "She consorts with hunters, interferes with my protégés." She glanced at him. "If you want the details, I quarantined her knowledge about Astrena behind a wall which she can't access. All she remembers is that I'm her older sister Electra. The bio I built of her being adopted by my parents remains. Her first memories are when she was a young girl living with me and the fictitious parents I invented." She shrugged. "Once she's reinstated as a handmaiden, I'll restore her memories, but March is still several months off."
"What does she know about me?"
"You have no cause for concern. Maia thinks you're a business associate who is enamored with me. She has no knowledge of your actual work. She'll wake up in an hour. Her only memories of the party will be what I left intact."
Had Electra already struck? Was Armageddon at their doorstep? "Did you enjoy your time with Cheekbones?" he ventured cautiously.
She scowled at Maia. "Not as much as I'd hoped."
Crowley breathed easier. Little mouse must have thwarted her. It didn't sound like Electra had reestablished her link, but he'd soon find out.
"It's all for the best," she continued. "Something even more delicious came up. I knew there was a reason I wanted Neal's artist friends to visit me, but the prospects are so much better than I anticipated!"
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal delegated himself to be the designated driver for the trip home. The others were so absorbed in discussing the project that no one even commented on him having made the decision for them. The film would be another short feature. Keiko and Richard dreamed up horror sequences while Aidan conducted a monologue on special effects. Travis seemed to be lost in his own science-fiction world.
Gradually the chatter slowed and the pauses lengthened. By the time Neal crossed the state line, his passengers were all asleep. He let them doze till they arrived at Columbia. Aidan and Keiko were the first to be dropped off since they lived in an apartment building near the campus.
No one appeared to be suffering from any hangover symptoms, and Travis took over the driving responsibility after they reached June's place. Had the group's drowsiness been caused by the wine or was it an aftereffect of the creative brainstorming which had taken place? Electra's soirées at her bookstore had been described as the modern equivalent of the literary gatherings popular in France during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Did something similar take place during dinner?
Neal wasn't particularly tired when he got back to the loft but it was after midnight. He texted Sara since she was probably already asleep. Before going to bed, he researched the Tudor Crown on the web. If there actually was a connection to Charles Ireton, there was a slim chance it could be discovered in New York City. Would Mozzie believe Ireton had buried it in the tunnels? In that case, the extraterrestrials he was convinced had visited the tunnels might have carried it off.
It was midmorning by the time Neal awoke. As soon as his eyes focused, he checked his phone for messages but there was nothing from Sara. Neal wasn't concerned. She might have overslept and was running late. He knew she'd call from the airport once she checked in.
But as the morning advanced, he still didn't hear from her. All his attempts to contact her went to voice mail. Conceivably she could have gone on an earlier flight. But at the very least, she would have texted him from the airport. The last time he'd heard from her or Mozzie was yesterday afternoon when they planned to go into the tunnels.
Was it time to sound the alarms?
Janet hadn't heard from Mozzie either, and he wasn't answering any of the numbers Neal tried. This was Sara's first trip to the tunnels. Mozzie wouldn't have led her into a hazardous area, but what if Sara persuaded him to venture into one of the old brick tunnels?
Richard and Aidan would be willing to help in a search, but Neal couldn't expose his friends to the risk of confronting an eidolon. Peter and El were probably on the road back to New York, but there was nothing Peter could do from the car, and Neal didn't want to wreck the ending of their anniversary trip unnecessarily.
This was the time to follow office procedures. Jones was Peter's second-in-command and the go-to person when Peter was unavailable. Neal picked up his phone and dialed Jones's cell.
"Yeah, Caffrey, what's up?"
"I've got a favor to ask. I hope I'm wrong, but Mozzie and Sara could be in danger. They planned to explore the Columbia tunnel system yesterday evening, and I haven't been able to reach either one of them all morning."
"You think the ghost got them?" Jones leaped to the assumption that Neal was trying to avoid.
"Or they had an accident in the tunnels. Sara was supposed to fly out at noon from LaGuardia Airport to Atlanta. The plane should have already taken off." Neal named the airline.
He heard the scratching of a pen. "I should have something for you within the hour," Jones promised.
"I'll call Dean. He may have heard something from Mozzie."
"Don't go into the tunnels alone."
"I won't," Neal assured him.
The Winchesters had been on campus the previous evening but hadn't seen Mozzie and Sara. They agreed to meet Neal in front of the university's main library. By the time Neal met them, Jones had come through with a report from the airline.
"She wasn't on the flight," Neal said. "Jones checked all the other flights to Atlanta to confirm that she hadn't taken another one."
"Still no word from Mozzie?" Dean asked.
Neal shook his head. "Peter called. He's already back in town. I filled him in and he's on his way." Neal had already moved beyond the point of worrying about wrecking Peter and El's anniversary weekend.
"Dean and I took turns patrolling around Buell Hall yesterday evening," Sam said. "We didn't see anything suspicious."
"Did you have any luck finding the cemetery where Ireton may be buried?"
"The most likely cemetery is a site called the Uptown Trinity Church Cemetery. It's about forty blocks north of here on Riverside Drive. Several of the wealthier patients were buried there."
"We've been unable to find anything which could be the dude's soul-object," Dean said, grimacing. "The building was emptied of furnishings before the reconstruction work, and, man, there's nothing there. No paintings. No bric-a-brac."
"Diana checked with the university," Neal said. "They claimed there were no historical items from the nineteenth century at Buell, but Sara discovered a record confirming that Ireton was a resident, so it's the most likely place to find something."
Dean and Sam didn't reply. What could they say? A soul-object could be anything that had belonged to Ireton. It might have been discarded when the plasterboard was removed. If the object couldn't be found, there'd be no stopping his ghost.
They walked the short distance to Buell Hall. Campus police were keeping it under constant surveillance. Before Neal could pull out his badge, Sam already had his out. The glow of having a legal ID apparently hadn't faded.
But IDs weren't what was needed. When the security guard tried to open the front door, he couldn't insert the key into the lock. It was as if the lock had been sealed by a solid metal plate.
"It wasn't like this yesterday," Dean said, scowling at the door, and turned to the guard. "Did you do anything to the locks?"
"Not me." He pulled out his cell phone and called the office. According to the official records, nothing in the building had been tampered with.
Neal crouched to squint through the keyhole. There was nothing visible clogging the mechanism, but when he inserted a lock pick, he encountered the same barrier.
"We could ram the door," Sam suggested. But even with the weight of all four of them against the door, it didn't budge.
The back door to the hall was similarly sealed. The hall had several casement windows on the ground floor. They should be easy enough to open, but they were locked in place as well.
"Let me test a theory," Dean said, pulling out a heavy-caliber handgun. "Stand back and take cover." He waited for them to reposition themselves around the corner. He then aimed the gun squarely at one window, fired, and quickly ducked. The bullet ricocheted off the glass and struck a tree trunk.
"That hall's been sealed tighter than a bank vault," Dean said grimly.
Was tomb a better description? With Sara and Mozzie already dead inside? Neal swallowed back the panic that was rising in his throat. He saw Peter striding toward them and the knot inside him loosened just a bit.
"Diana and Jones wanted to come too," Peter said, "but I told them to hold off till we know more about what we're dealing with. They're on standby."
"As are Richard, Travis, and Aidan," Neal said, "but with a ghost stalking the passages, I can't take the risk of them being underground."
"By rights, we shouldn't let you come with us either," Dean asserted. "You've never confronted a ghost."
"And you've never squared off against an eidolon," Peter countered. "The tunnels we'll be in are restricted for a reason. They're dangerous, and that's ignoring supernatural threats." He faced Neal. "Did Mozzie give any indication of where he was taking Sara?"
"He was taking her on a tour of the safe areas—the signature room and the legal corridors—but she might have asked to visit one of the older brick sections."
Peter frowned. "Then they could have had an accident anywhere."
"Not likely," Neal insisted. "Mozzie wouldn't have knowingly exposed Sara to any risk."
"So we're talking ghost involvement," Dean said, cutting to the chase.
"I was inside Buell yesterday afternoon," Sam said. "Something happened to cause the eidolon to ward the building overnight, but it might be unrelated to their disappearance. The guard is sure no one entered the building."
"There could be an entrance to Buell from the tunnel," Neal suggested. "The building has a basement. An old entrance could have been sealed off. Can ghosts teleport?"
"Some can," Dean admitted, "but I doubt he could teleport both Mozzie and Sara with him. Do you know if any tunnel connects to the building?"
"There's nothing documented but I should be able to get us close. If there's an entrance, I'll find it." Neal added confidence to his voice to mask his fear. The previous victims had been found inside Buell. Were Sara and Mozzie already in a coma? The ghost had teleported them one at a time into the building. How had he overwhelmed them? Were they already branded? Peter was demanding details from the Winchesters. Neal forced himself to pay attention.
"What happens if we confront it?" Peter asked. "How can we fight back?"
"I have a shotgun loaded with rock salt. Sometimes salt will cause a ghost to vanish." Dean pointed to a large nylon gym bag at his feet. "We also brought along a couple of iron pokers. If you strike a ghost with anything made of iron, they disintegrate for at least a couple of minutes. That often provides enough time for you to regroup."
"But no guarantees with an eidolon," Sam warned. "We've never faced one. They may not have the normal weaknesses. According to the Coptic monk's manuscript, we have to spear the soul-object with a silver knife to make it disappear permanently."
Dean picked up the bag. "Got that."
"We figure we better burn the bones too," Sam added. "That's the normal procedure to destroy a ghost. If we're lucky, it may keep the eidolon from ever making a return visit from Oblivion with some other soul-object."
"That's where Diana and Jones can help," Dean said. "We're pretty sure we've pinpointed the cemetery." He turned to Sam. "You could meet them there. It's a large place. Searching through the tombstones will take a while."
"And if you're going to exhume the coffin and burn bones, you better have an FBI presence," Peter cautioned. "I'll give them a call."
When Sam left for the cemetery, Neal took the others to the nearest legal tunnel entrance which was located in Avery Hall. It wasn't far from an opening into a restricted area that the others could manage. He wasn't worried about Dean who'd already patrolled the tunnels with Mozzie, but this was Peter's first time to explore them.
"I'm sorry to drag you into this," he told Peter as they walked through the legal corridor.
"This wasn't your fault," Peter said. "Somehow I knew this day would come, but I wish it wasn't under these circumstances. I thought about contacting campus officials, but obtaining permission on a Sunday to access restricted areas would have eaten up too much time."
Their access point to the restricted area was a manhole cover, concealed behind a steam conduit. The low passageway made them walk stooped over but they only had to go a few yards before Neal pointed out another manhole. This was a significant drop. Both Peter and Dean eyed it uneasily. Mozzie had shown the Winchesters a different access point, but it was much further away. Neal didn't want to risk any delay.
"There's a ladder you can hold onto," he pointed out. "I'll go first and help you at the bottom." They were finding out why tunnelers called their activity spelunking. The tunnels had much in common with underground caves.
Once they were safely through, they were in a brick-lined passageway, one of the oldest of the system. Neal had plotted Buell's location on his tunnel map. GPS didn't work underground, and the others were relying on his inner compass. It had stood him good stead in the labyrinth of the Louvre attics. He was counting on equal success here.
When they arrived at the location where Mozzie initially found the ectoplasm, Dean paused to take a reading. He showed them the results. "This is a high spike, even though there's no slime. My bet is the eidolon was here." He passed out the pokers to Peter and Neal.
That was better than thinking more could have escaped.
The tunnel was lined with large pipes almost two feet in diameter. Openings to side passageways were difficult to spot. Mozzie wouldn't have taken Sara into a dangerous area, but the eidolon could have dragged them anywhere, especially if they were unconscious. They were all using their headlamps to spot side outlets. The victims at Buell had been beyond help. If Ireton had taken Sara and Mozzie, what chance was there of them still being alive?
After twenty minutes of exploration, Neal found the first positive sign they were on the right track. He pointed it out to the others. "Tunnelers often leave tags. This is the one Mozzie uses." He shone his headlamp on the design made with a felt-tip pen.
Peter's brow wrinkled. "A dot and concentric circles? What's that supposed to mean?"
"He told me Australian shamans used it to reference honey."
Peter snorted. "I should have known."
"Any sign of Sara?" Dean asked.
"I bet this is her tag. Mozzie would have suggested she leave something." Next to Mozzie's symbol was scrawled a semi-arc at a 45-degree angle with two upward concave slashes. There was no doubt in his mind that Sara had made it. He'd designed it for her as a secret signature.
"Any idea what it's supposed to be?" Peter asked.
"A bird," he said softly. "Those two upward lines probably represent wings." He resisted the urge to stroke it. She'd asked for a bird because her Arkham character was linked to a mockingbird. Was she now caged somewhere with Mozzie? Or perhaps they'd managed to elude the ghost and were hiding somewhere waiting to be rescued. He flailed to find other hopeful possibilities. The worst case scenarios were staring in his face.
Peter clasped his shoulder. "We'll find them, and they'll be alive. It's been less than twenty-four hours. We need to head on."
Neal nodded, not trusting his voice. Dean had moved further down the tunnel, clambering over pipes to get a better view, a reminder Neal should do the same.
One branch after another turned out to be a dead end. By now they were all drenched in sweat from the oppressive heat. They'd brought along water bottles, but they were fast emptying. The legal tunnels were far above them now. An occasional scurry alerted them to the presence of rats, but they were seldom seen. Another time Neal might have joked about what else could make that kind of sound but not now.
"If we don't find an outlet soon, we'll have to take a timeout and regroup," Peter said, his face blackened by grime.
Neal didn't argue, but there was no way he'd abandon the search.
Dean indicated a dark opening behind a pipe. "We haven't checked this tunnel yet."
Neal scrambled forward. The passage looked promising. It was on an incline, angled steeply upward, daring him to hope it would lead to the basement of Buell Hall.
Peter swept the ground with his headlamp. "See those streaks? They could indicate something or someone was dragged over the bricks."
"And not just that," Dean said. "There's orange-colored ectoplasm along the sides." The slimy substance glittered in the beam of his headlamp. They'd found their eidolon.
With bent backs, they hiked up the low passage. Neal's thighs burned from the exertion. The others must be feeling it as well. No one spoke as they dug deep into their inner reserves. And the payout was ahead—a ramshackle wood door at the crest of the incline. The planks making up the door had cracks in several places.
Before Neal could open it, Dean grabbed his hand. "Here's the drill," he ordered. "I go in first. If Ireton's there, the best we can do is drive him away, but it will only be temporary. Until we find its soul-object, rock salt and iron won't hold him for long."
"If this does open into the basement of Buell, it must be a sealed-up section," Peter warned. "I inspected that basement and there was nothing resembling this."
"Suppose a room had been walled off," Neal said, excited at the possibility. "That could be where he's been lurking. His soul-object could be there too."
"A solid wall means nothing to ghosts," Dean added. "They can pass right through them."
Dean pulled out his sawed-off shotgun from his backpack and took a breath. Neal tightened his grip on his iron poker and noticed Peter doing the same. With a nod to them, Dean cautiously tried the door knob. The door was unlocked. It creaked open with minimal effort.
Whatever room they were in was as pitch-black as the tunnels. There was no sound. No eerie howls. The air smelled stale and musty. If it was a sealed up cavity, the only air would be what came in from the tunnels.
All speculation was cast aside when they caught sight of the two bodies. Sara and Mozzie were lying motionless on the floor. The slime coating glistened in the light from their headlamps. Neal's heart leaped in his throat as he crouched next to Sara. Her eyes were closed. Her pallor looked extreme underneath the slime. He felt for a pulse, holding his breath.
"Mozzie's alive," Peter said. "It looks like we got here in time. How's Sara? . . . Neal?"
Neal mastered his voice. "She's alive too. No blood. She must be bruised, but between the slime and the grime, it's hard to tell. No sign of a brand."
"I don't see one on Mozzie, either."
"That means he plans to return," Dean cautioned as he studied the walls of the small room. "We better find that soul-object fast."
Peter stood up. "We're trapped as long as we stay here. We'll have to tear down walls, do whatever's necessary to make an exit. Being chased back into the tunnels is unacceptable."
Neal didn't want to leave Sara, but he forced himself to examine the room. It may have served as a storeroom at one time. It was about fifteen feet square with a couple of old bookcases on the wall and a roll-top desk. There were a few items on the bookcase. The desk was locked, but it was trivial to open with a lock pick. The drawers were crammed with papers, fountain pens, and office supplies.
Dean had been studying the wall opposite the entrance to the tunnel. "Peter, take a look at this."
Peter shone his light on the dingy plasterboard and felt along the surface. "This section's been patched. You can feel the mud is uneven."
"That's my bet as well. It may have been a panel which opened into the basement."
"Meaning someone sealed it, then exited through the tunnel. Mozzie's theory of Ireton being a conspiracy theorist could be right. Someone made a secret room out of this."
"It's time to open this sucker up," Dean said, taking his poker to the wall. The two of them started hacking at the plasterboard with their pokers.
"Should I smash everything in the desk with the silver knife?" Neal suggested.
"Can't hurt," Dean grunted and stopped to toss him a knife.
Peter directed Dean to punch holes in a circle large enough for them to squeeze through. They were then able to kick the plasterboard free. Dean crawled through first. "It's the basement, all right."
A screech blasted the air from the opening, making Neal's hair stand on end.
"We got company!" Dean yelled.
Neal darted to the opening, but Peter shoved him back. "You got your job. Find that soul-object! We'll deal with the ghost." Peter gave him an extra push then followed Dean through the hole.
Neal tackled the desk once more. There were only papers in the bookcase. The desk had to contain the object. It was supposed to be something personal. He kept watching for signs of life from Sara and Mozzie, but none of the slashes he made with the knife were effective.
The sounds of the struggle were loud in his ears—the shouts, pops of gunfire, clanks of pokers. The men appeared to be leading the ghost away as the sounds receded. Or had they been overcome as well? Would the eidolon ignore them and return to finish off his victims?
In desperation, Neal yanked out the drawers and scattered the contents on the floor. One item caught his eye among the old containers and tin boxes—a gold oval pendant. The gold case was engraved with the letters H and I in elaborate tracery. Neal pried it open to see the miniature of a man in armor. He hated to disfigure it, but he had no choice. He hacked at the circular clasp with his blade, hoping that would be enough.
He paused to shine his headlamp on his friends. When Sara moaned, Neal rushed to her side as Mozzie also began to stir.
She held a dazed hand to her forehead. "Where am I?"
"With me. You're safe now." Neal said, realizing she must be blinded by his light. He flung off his helmet.
"Neal?" Her hand reached up to touch his face as he bent forward to kiss her.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Peter gritted his teeth and swung his iron poker as if it were a baseball bat. The rock salt in Dean's shotgun was minimally effective against the ghost who'd sprung out of nowhere. Although the salt slowed him down momentarily, it also seemed to enrage him even more.
He and Dean were attempting to lure Ireton away from the opening. Their only chance rested with Neal destroying his soul-object.
The ghost opened his mouth and with a roar blew a cloud of orange gas straight at him.
"Stay away from it!" Dean yelled. "That gas could be what knocks people out."
Peter darted to the side while Dean blasted him with more rock salt. When Ireton staggered back, they charged toward the stairs as if they were trying to escape. With a terrifying yowl, the ghost leaped in front of them and blasted them with slime.
The sticky goo coated Peter's face. He couldn't see and began to flail blindly with his poker.
Then, as quickly as it started, it ended. With a final howl, Ireton dissolved in front of their eyes.
"Is he really gone or is he simply regrouping?" Peter asked, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Dean pointed at the large pool of ocher-colored slime on the floor. "That's all that's left of him." He pulled his cell phone out. "Got a voicemail from Sam. If he burned the bones, you've seen the last of Charles Ireton."
While Dean called his brother, Peter went back to check on Neal and the others. When he looked through the opening, Neal was giving an excellent imitation of Prince Charming kissing Snow White. Mozzie was sitting on the floor, seemingly none the worse from his nap. Ignoring Neal and Sara, he was sorting through the papers on the floor while muttering to himself.
Peter smiled and backed off. Was this the confirmation of what he'd hoped for? Ever since the rescue operation in Hungary, he'd wondered if Neal and Sara were dating in secret. Was Alicia someone Neal had dreamed up to throw the matchmakers off track? But Neal and Sara had kissed—a lot—for various cons. They were good friends, and she'd nearly died. Peter had witnessed Neal give a similarly passionate kiss to Bianka outside the FBI building before he knew she was a spy. He later said the kiss meant nothing. He once told Henry he was simply open with his feelings and warned him not to attach much meaning to any display of affection. Peter was so out of his area of expertise, he'd be hard pressed to say what the correct answer was.
If Sara was Alicia and they were dating, Peter wasn't about to be the one to upset the apple cart. He was content to have Neal tell him when he was ready.
"You okay in there?" he called out and counted to twenty before crawling through the opening. Stupid question. By Sara's look of bliss, she was fine, and Neal was more than fine.
"Neal was catching us up on what we missed," Sara said, looking flushed.
I bet. "What was the soul-object?"
Neal held out a miniature portrait. "This resembles a painting I found of Henry Ireton, Cromwell's general. It must have been a family heirloom."
Mozzie looked up. "Suit, do you realize what we have here?"
"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."
"A secret meeting room for the New York branch of the Illuminati!"
Dean stuck his head through the opening. "Having fun, kids? You'll be happy to hear the bones are burned. Sam found the grave. Diana and Jones had to chase a couple of cops away, but all's good. They're on their way. No victims upstairs and the building's no longer sealed."
While Mozzie continued to rummage through the papers, Sara explained what had occurred. Unfortunately she had few details she could share. "The ghost attacked us so swiftly, we had no chance to react. He was venting some sort of orange gas. The next thing I knew Neal was leaning over me."
Both she and Mozzie claimed to have no aftereffects from the ordeal except for an urgent need for showers and food. Peter waited for Mozzie to tease Neal about the Prince Charming maneuver, but he didn't. Further confirmation that Sara was Alicia and Mozzie was aware of the con? Or was it a signal that Mozzie knew better than to attribute any significance to it? Probably, it was simply that Mozzie was too wrapped up in his secret society theory to pay them any notice.
By the time Diana, Jones, and Sam arrived, Travis was on his way with a forensics team. They'd be in charge of collecting the ectoplasm. Peter had also called for EMTs to confirm Sara and Mozzie didn't need to go to the hospital for their showers.
"There we were overlooking the Hudson River, burning bones," Diana said. "That will make my yearly list of highlights."
"Newbie enthusiasm," Dean muttered. "Trust me, after you've done a hundred, it gets old."
"One less ghost to come back in the world?" Jones countered. "That's worth a celebration drink at the bar. I'm buying." He paused to scan them. "Maybe tomorrow. After you're no longer dripping goo."
Mozzie didn't let a little thing like slime dampen his enthusiasm for sorting through old records. Come to think of it, being slimed was probably his dream come true.
As for Peter, he was anxious to return home and get cleaned up. Neal's offer of a shower first was appreciated, but he'd manage with plastic bags on the upholstery. His anniversary girl was waiting for him, and Neal and Michael weren't the only ones who could nail the Prince Charming role.
"Found it!" Mozzie waved a paper in the air excitedly.
"Found what?" Neal asked.
"Proof that Charles Ireton was a member of the Illuminati! This paper is written in their code. Now all I have to do is decipher it and then—" Mozzie clamped his mouth shut and glanced at them furtively.
The agent in Peter immediately sensed trouble ahead. "What do you expect to discover?" he demanded.
"Nothing much." He shrugged. "Old meeting notes. I'm sure nothing interesting."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
"The Tudor Crown?" Sara's gasp was audible over the phone. "Can it possibly exist?"
Neal swung his legs onto the couch and took a sip of wine. "Mozzie thinks so. He's convinced that Charles Ireton wasn't insane. He was working undercover for the Illuminati while hiding out in Buell Hall. This was the Gilded Age in America. A lot of wealth. A lot of corruption. Mozzie believes the Illuminati were active in forming the first formal U.S. intelligence operations."
"He was telling me about his theory on Saturday. He makes a strong case. Intelligence offices were established in the Navy and Army in the 1880s, but he was vague about how a secret branch of the Illuminati could have anything to do with the military."
Neal shrugged. "There were members of Skull and Bones who were involved in their establishment. For Mozzie, that's a relatively small leap. The paper he found wasn't much help. It was a list of names and addresses."
"The quest for the Tudor Crown begins! I hope he finds it." She was silent for a moment. "Mozzie waxed rhapsodic about the catacombs in Paris before the ghost ruined our exploration plans. Tunnels may be in my blood now. Next time I hope you're along."
The global possibilities were endless—hidden passageways, long-lost treasures. Sara's encounter with an eidolon hadn't diminished her enthusiasm one whit. Henry was right. She was an ideal match for him . . . except for one glaring issue.
Sara might have taken the ordeal in stride, but he hadn't. If Peter hadn't been along, would he have been able to hold it together? She insisted that it was her fault she and Mozzie had been snatched by the ghost. She was the one who had pleaded to go into the old tunnels.
Neal didn't fault her. If it had been his first time in the tunnels, he would have felt the same way. And that was the problem in a nutshell. They thought too much alike. He knew if he tried to shield her, she'd have the same reaction he did when Peter attempted to wrap him in cotton wool.
So Neal clamped down on his tongue. He'd learned from his mistakes. He wasn't going to blow it with Sara as he had with Fiona. Sara wanted to be a partner, not a princess in a tower. No mollycoddling. Right.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
"Will my lord bring another eidolon to New York?" Scarbo asked.
"Not right away," Quint said. He'd met his skulking helper at the entrance to a brick tunnel from the 1860s near Pupin Hall. It was a branch Mozzie knew nothing about and Quint had no intention of telling him. The demon's question was one he'd asked himself. It had been an unpleasant shock to have Ireton's ghost dispatched so readily. He hadn't realized hunters knew about soul-objects. Unfortunate. He'd hoped to eventually snare Neal, not a random woman and Mozzie. But as a trial balloon, its first flight had been a success.
Quint's main objective had been met. Astrena knew he was back. Scarbo had been an excellent spy, eavesdropping on her discussions. Her unease would continue to grow, along with her concern over what his next target would be.
Scarbo was eyeing his pocket hungrily. Quint fished out one of the mushrooms and offered it on his palm. It pleased him to watch Scarbo devour it.
Quint had already hacked into Astrena's foundation's database. He could trace her actions, her trips to New York. This was just a warmup for his next performance. Mozart was one of her many victims who now resided in Oblivion. The composer had been thirsting for revenge for over two hundred years. He'd waited long enough.
Notes: Mozart's time will come in my next Crossed Lines story, Night Music. The Tudor Crown and the Winslow Winchester connection will be topics in future stories, as well as the short feature Aidan wants to make about Electra's stained-glass panels.
Thankfully the miniature Neal found didn't need to be destroyed. The artifact is back in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, England. It was painted by George Perfect Harding in 1649. There's a pin of it as well as one of the Tudor Crown on my Pinterest board.
Thanks for joining me on this adventure and special thanks to Penna for sharing her supernatural beta magic with me. I've been playing with ideas for this story for over four years, and I wrote about the experience for the blog. The post is called Columbia Ghost Story Sandbox. Next week I'll start posting the next Arkham Files story, Time Crystals. It includes Henry's introduction to the series. I hope you'll join us!
Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Columbia Ghost Story board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website