Chapter 1: Sympathy for a Demon
Blue Crescent Jazz Club, New Orleans. Sunday, April 2, 2006.
"She bloody well didn't deserve it!" Crowley slammed his glass onto the cocktail table, causing the Scotch to slosh onto the polished mahogany surface.
Jeremy exhaled slowly, stood up, and retrieved a bar towel with the liquor cart. After he mopped up the splash, he silently held out his hand for the cut-glass tumbler.
"Make it three fingers this time," Crowley ordered. It was truly unfortunate that demons couldn't get inebriated. He'd feel better if he were sozzled out of his skull.
"Drasko will report back soon." Jeremy's carefully modulated Oxford-English accent was a soothing balm on Crowley's blistered soul. "I should leave to greet the club's patrons. Will you be all right?"
Crowley dismissed him with a careless wave of his hand. The stuffed peacocks in Jeremy's office could be the recipients of his outrage.
Up to two nights ago, Crowley's life in New Orleans was as smooth as the Glencraig he drank. Jeremy Sangford, one of Astrena's pure-blood vampire princes had become a respected figure in the French Quarter scene with his jazz club earning rave reviews. Crowley divided his time between the club and Rana's house of discreet pleasures. The brothel provided a banquet of straight and queer delights for every taste, and Crowley feasted on all of them. His ID fraud business was thriving with Drasko once more managing the vampire hackers. If Crowley were a pessimist, he would have predicted it couldn't last.
Rana's demise made him realize how fond he'd grown of her . . . and her bed. Two nights ago Crowley had made a surprise appearance in her bedroom only to find her meatsuit sprawled on the satin sheets, her throat slashed. The demon inside her had disappeared without a trace. Perhaps she'd merely been banished back to Hell . . . same difference. She wasn't here.
Most likely hunters had gotten to her, but how? Mortals couldn't usually harm demons. Had hunters acquired an angel blade or some other demon-killing knife? Was the attack on Rana the opening salvo in a new war?
The door to the office opened and Drasko stepped inside. The slim lines of his face looked unusually somber.
"What did you find out?" Crowley demanded.
Drasko sat down beside him on the Victorian settee. "I checked with some of our contacts on the East Coast. Everyone's going into hiding. Demons—your demons—are being slaughtered at an unparalleled rate."
An anvil crashed into Crowley's gut. "Who would dare commit such an outrage? Who was even capable of it? Hunters? The Men of Letters?"
Drasko shook his head. "Even worse. Abaddon's back. The word is she's no longer content with ruling Hell. She's set down a marker on Earth, and her first targets are your associates."
Bollocks. It wasn't supposed to be this way. "Are you sure?" Crowley demanded. "Abaddon hasn't been on Earth since 1958." That was the year she believed she'd wiped out the Men of Letters in the States. He knew better. The Men of Letters had simply gone even further underground, using the cover of the investigative firm Winston-Winslow.
"There's no doubt, sir. Vampires captured one of her demons last night and tortured him for the truth. Abaddon heard whispers that the American branch of the Men of Letters wasn't destroyed after all. We succeeded in ferreting out the truth and she must have as well. Her demon claimed she's come to Earth to finish the job."
"So why is she picking on me?" Crowley asked aggrievedly.
"I'd hoped you could tell me. The demon we captured claimed that Abaddon is going after all those that work for you, and then she's coming after you. Once that's done, she's taking on the Men of Letters." Drasko raked a strand of long hair behind one ear. "We're all going to have to go underground, but that's only a temporary haven. Do you know why she's targeted you?"
Crowley downed his Scotch in one gulp. "I ruled Hell before she usurped it." His words trailed off as he reflected on their history. "Perhaps she's afraid that I've grown too powerful."
"And she's ordered the competition to be eliminated?" Drasko nodded slowly. "Since she's no longer in Hell, she could worry that you'll take advantage of her absence to seize the throne."
"Abandon the pleasures of New Orleans for fire and brimstones?" Crowley scowled. "The flames of Hell must have fried her brain."
"I wonder how she heard about Win-Win," Drasko mused. "We only just discovered the truth."
Crowley wasn't about to raise his hand and admit his complicity. Although, honestly Rana was the one to blame, not him. She'd been the one to suggest they leak word about Win-Win to Abaddon. Rana instructed one of the demons working for her to leak the news to one of Abaddon's minions in New Orleans. The idea, which initially had sounded bloody brilliant, was that Abaddon would return and get rid of Crowley's Men of Letters problem. She wasn't supposed to target him too.
He'd faced off against Abaddon before. It had been one of those humiliating experiences he had absolutely no desire to repeat. Give up the comfortable lifestyle he'd painstakingly acquired? Not happening. And being banished back to Hell to grovel as a fifth-class demon was unthinkable.
Desperate times called for extraordinary measures.
#
When Neal returned to June's at the end of the workday, the downstairs was quiet. June had mentioned she planned to attend a play with friends. Tonight it would be just him and Bugsy in the mansion.
He jogged up the stairs to the loft. The door to his apartment was closed but a streak of light could be seen at the bottom. He was sure he hadn't left any lamps on, but the thought of a visitor wasn't unsettling. Gone were the days when Neal had to worry about some foe from his past lurking in the shadows. Thanks to the draconian security system installed by Mozzie, there was no chance of unwelcome drop-ins. Aside from June and her staff, only Peter, Mozzie, and Henry had keys, and out of that group, only one didn't believe in advance notice.
Neal tried to turn the doorknob but found it locked. Odd. Mozzie wouldn't normally lock himself in unless he was feeling unusually paranoid. What conspiracy theory gripped him at the moment?
Neal fished the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He stepped inside and the welcoming smile on his face turned to shocked surprise.
"It's about time, Cheekbones. I was growing bored with always winning."
Sitting on Neal's couch, the chessboard in front of him on the cocktail table, was Curtis Hagen. No, not Hagen, Crowley. A demon. On his couch. Drinking his wine. And where did he get off calling him Cheekbones?
"Well, don't just stand there like a goopy-eyed fish. Come and join me. There's a little left to the claret." Crowley scowled. "I'd thought a man of your refinement would have Scotch as well. I'm disappointed in you, Cheekbones."
"Don't call me Cheekbones." Exasperation trumped what should be terror at seeing a demon in his loft. The guy had the same snarky British accent as Hagen, but he was dressed better. The coal-black suit fit him well. The dark burgundy shirt was a bit excessive . . . "What are you doing here, Crowley?"
He heaved a much put-upon sigh. "What does it look like? Waiting for you, of course. Do take a seat and relax. I'm not here to kill you. Unless, that is, you insist."
He didn't appear very threatening. His eyes weren't blazing lumps of coal. If anything, he looked weary and hungover.
The last time Neal saw Crowley was eight months ago in a castle in West Virginia. A pure-blood vampire had captured Peter and Dean and wanted to kill them. Crowley argued for a less radical fate. In September, Crowley, along with Diana and Jones, had been held a prisoner of the leech-man. Afterward, Diana had described the scene to Neal in vivid detail. Despite liberal doses of snarky comments, Crowley helped them escape. Was this a demon with a soft spot for White Collar? More to the point, could he be conned? Neal was about to find out.
Neal poured himself a glass from the half-empty bottle, pulled up a chair next to the cocktail table, and surveyed the chessboard. "The white king is in danger of being checkmated. I assume that's you?"
Crowley studied him for a moment. "Why don't you think it's you?"
"Because you wouldn't be here unless you wanted something from me."
"Don't get uppity, Cheekbones."
Neal exhaled noisily. "If you want my help, call me Neal."
"Now, don't sulk," Crowley said, frowning. "You should like the nickname. Most of mine are far worse."
Tempting as it was to ask about what those other names were, Neal shoved the thought aside. He picked up the white king. "If this isn't you, who is it?"
"I believe you have a cousin named Henry," Crowley said nonchalantly.
How did he know about Henry? Had Crowley been spying on him? But then, Neal really had no idea what demons were capable of besides that they could teleport. He was suddenly tired of playing games. "I do. What is your interest in him?"
Crowley picked up the black queen. "Henry's about to be attacked by Abaddon. I promise you the results will not be to your liking." He used the queen to brush the king onto the floor.
"The only Abaddon I know of is an angel in the Book of Revelation." Neal frantically cudgeled his brains for any recollections but came up empty. He longed for Mozzie and his encyclopedic memory.
Crowley dismissed the idea with a flick of his fingers. "Abaddon is no angel. She's a Knight of Hell, a first-born demon created by Lucifer, and one of the most powerful of the lot."
"If she's so powerful, why haven't I heard about her?" Neal protested. It was growing increasingly difficult to think of Crowley as a demon. He seemed so ordinary.
Crowley scowled. "Because she rules over what is rightfully my domain—Hell, you twit."
At last, we're getting somewhere. Crowley has a grudge on the lady. Neal didn't believe for an instant she really ruled over Hell. He wasn't at all convinced that Hell existed, but if Crowley wanted to rule over it, it was fine with him.
"Why is she interested in Henry?"
"It's his own bloody fault. His family should have left well enough alone. Abaddon despises the Men of Letters. She thought she'd exterminated them in 1958. When they decided to regroup as Winston-Winslow, they signed their death warrant." He shrugged. "It took her a while to figure it out, but it was inevitable."
Neal stared at him in disbelief. "Win-Win is a front for the Men of Letters?"
"Don't play me, Cheekbones. It's unbecoming. Unless . . . " His eyes narrowed. "Didn't Henry tell you?"
Could Crowley possibly be right? Neal wouldn't put it past the firm to have some dark secrets, but he was positive Henry wasn't aware of any connection to the Men of Letters.
#
Mozzie used his key to let himself into June's house. Neal should be home by now. He probably hadn't had dinner yet. They'd go out and celebrate. It was unfortunate Janet was tied up with a theater production. Still, this would be a chance for him and Neal to have a night on the town, just like the old days. Dinner at La Palette would be an excellent way to start the festivities. Then Mozzie would have a second celebration with Janet at her apartment. The pheromones would be zipping through the air like miniature versions of the TARDIS. Surely, selling a script was worth two days—or rather, two weeks—of festivities. Mozzie's smile was starting to make his jaw ache. His script was sold to Doctor Who. It would be in production sometime this summer.
"Neal, get ready to—" The words died in his throat when he opened the door to the loft. "Hagen?"
Hagen scowled. "No need to be insulting."
Neal shook his head forcefully. "This is Crowley."
"As in . . ." Mozzie waved his hand to finish the thought. His knowledge of demon etiquette was woefully lacking. Did demons like being called demons?
Crowley brushed the fingernails of his right hand along his lapel. "That's right, Cueball. As in King of Hell and demon of your worst nightmares." He shrugged. "At least up to recently when Abaddon arrived."
Mozzie sat down at the dinette table near the open bottle of wine. A new bottle would soon be needed. "You're referring, I assume, to Abaddon the Destroyer, the Angel of Death?"
"You can skip the angel part, but otherwise you're spot on."
"Supposedly Abaddon is on a mission from Hell to destroy the Men of Letters," Neal said. "She believes they're hiding out at Win-Win."
Mozzie snapped his fingers. "I knew it was concealing secrets!"
"So Henry didn't confide in you either?" Crowley grimaced. "Typical for that bunch of prats. Surely you're aware that Henry's one of the Winchesters."
"We weren't positive," Neal hedged.
"I do hope I'm not dealing with idiots. Hagen held both of you in rather high regard."
"You have his memories?" Neal asked.
"Yes, and don't get me started on him. The paint-pusher can be a bloody pain. The Men of Letters should concern you much more. Abaddon believed she'd wiped them out in 1958, but one man thwarted her. Henry Winchester, to be precise. He's the Moose and Squirrel's granddaddy."
Neal gave him a puzzled look. "Why Moose and Squirrel?"
"Bullwinkle and Rocky the Flying Squirrel," Mozzie interjected. "I'm right, aren't I?"
Crowley eyed him appraisingly. "Not bad, Cueball."
"That must mean I should call you Boris," Neal quipped.
Crowley grimaced. "Don't get cocky, Cheekbones, or I'll start calling you Natasha."
Mozzie didn't waste time comparing his characteristics to the Dick Tracy character Cueball, although he would have made an intriguing Boris . . . For another time. Instead, he rifled through the genealogy files stored in his brain. Henry Winchester was the same generation as Graham Winslow, making him Henry's great-uncle.
Neal frowned. "If she's seeking vengeance on Henry Winchester, wouldn't she go after Dean and Sam?"
"They're hunters. Not so easy to kill. The Men of Letters, though, have the reputation of being wimps. Besides, your cousin's the one with the connections to Win-Win."
Neal frowned. "You still haven't answered why you're being so helpful."
Mozzie's initial reaction was to squelch the questions. Why risk irritating a demon? But curiosity trumped caution and he remained quiet.
Crowley glowered for a moment, fingering the black queen's throat as if he was looking for her jugular. "Because she's after me too. I demand protection. You and the FBI owe me. Didn't I save your hide when Alcy wanted to snuff you out? Only a few months ago, I rescued Breathless and Flattop from blood-sucking zombies. It's payback time."
Neal stared at him, speechless, for a moment. "You want us to take out a Knight of Hell?"
"Didn't I already make that clear? Of course, I do. You're the FBI. Your duty is to defend the nation, and I promise you with Abaddon on the loose, no one's safe. She'll start with Win-Win, but that won't satisfy her. If you don't get rid of her now, you'll be facing a horror worse than the Apocalypse."
#
Seemingly, any fear of demons Mozzie might have possessed had quickly dissipated. How could it compare with the news of a secret conspiracy of scholars hiding out within the bowels of Win-Win? Neal groaned to himself. Having one friend who was a conspiracy nut was bad enough. Now that said friend and a paranoid demon were feeding off each other's theories, there was no telling what extremes they would go to.
Mozzie lapped up the tale of Abaddon like a kitten drinking cream. Meanwhile, Crowley appeared to glow from his adulation. Neal surreptitiously pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.
Crowley drained his glass of wine and stood up. "Next time I'm here, I expect to be supplied with Glencraig. I've told you all I know." He raised his hand as if to snap his fingers.
"Wait," Neal called out. "How can I contact you?"
Crowley heaved a brief sigh and pulled out a business card from his shirt pocket. "You can leave a message at this number, Cheekbones. Don't bother me unless it's important."
Neal glanced at the card. It was blank except for a telephone number.
With a snap of his fingers, Crowley vanished.
Notes: How much trouble is Henry in? Will Crowley play nice? The answers are in Chapter 2: Lady in Black.
In 2021, I revisited this story and expanded its content. Please note that some of the reviews no longer match the chapter references.
Introduction to Crossed Lines for new readers: 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. 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 fifteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. The Crossed Lines page on our blog has more background information about the series.
Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
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