"A dog howled. Weird became the night."
— Langston Hughes
Chapter 1: Painting under the Influence
Neal lifted his brush from the canvas and stood back to study the painting.
A damp wind seeped through the cracks in the stone walls of the chamber, causing the wax tapers to flicker. His eyes burned from painting at night, but the Marquesa had a luminous radiance that he could capture only by candlelight.
Her boudoir was decorated in the latest style. Neal doubted Napoleon had bestowed more luxurious appointments upon Josephine. The daybed was tented with dark maroon velvet hangings which were suspended from a gold gilt crown. The silk sheets were tinted a soft mauve that turned chestnut in the unilluminated shadows.
The Marquesa wore an empire gown of white diaphanous silk, designed to enhance rather than conceal. Her smile invited him to lounge beside her. He'd posed her with a lyre, which she occasionally strummed while he painted. When her graceful fingers plucked the strings, he yearned to take the place of the lyre. He resisted the urge. The painting must be finished tonight. Resolutely, he focused on the canvas . . .
"You've toiled long enough, mi amor," she remarked, twirling a long strand of flaxen blond hair which hung in a loose curl between her breasts. "Come sit beside me." By now the tapers were mere stubs. Soon he'd need to replace them.
"Only a few more minutes," he pleaded, pausing to stretch his paint-smudged fingers. A drop of ocher paint had fallen on the white ruffle of his shirt sleeve. He glanced down at his wine-red doublet. No smears on it, fortunately. She'd urged him to strip off his shirt. But if he stood in front of her, clad only in his silk breeches, he knew what the result would be. It had already happened far too often.
A scrabbling sound interrupted his musings. He glanced up to see a shadow dart behind the bed hangings in the corner. Too large to be a cat, what was it?
"Neal, answer me!"
He felt his shoulder being shaken. Neal turned from the canvas to see Mozzie in front of him. The boudoir was dissolving into mist. The Marquesa had already vanished.
Neal looked down, shocked. Gone were his silk doublet and breeches. He was clad only in sleep pants. The easel was real enough. And there was his portrait of the Marquesa, mocking him. He must have been painting for hours. He couldn't stop now. If only he closed his eyes, she'd return to him.
Mozzie shoved him into a chair. "Don't move. I'll get you a glass of wine."
"When did you get here?" Neal raked his hair off his forehead. His dinette table was littered with paint tubes. That portrait he'd made . . . It looked like a painting he'd seen by Goya.
"A few minutes ago. I stopped by on the way to the Emporium. How long have you been painting?"
Neal had no memory of when he started, but bright sunshine was now pouring through the skylight. According to the clock in the bookcase, it was already ten o'clock.
"Forget the wine, I need coffee." He stood up to fill the kettle.
"Stay where you are. I can make it. You still haven't answered me." Mozzie retreated to the kitchenette and reached into the cabinet for a bag of coffee beans. He measured out a scoop for the grinder. "It's Astrena, isn't it?"
Neal nodded glumly. He was once more fully in the present reality, no longer in some Spanish palace. Just his luck to be on first-name terms with a Greek goddess. And if it had to be a goddess, why couldn't it be Aphrodite? Instead, he was bound to Astrena, goddess of witches and vampires.
Up to a few months ago, he hadn't even heard of her, but now she'd established a psychic link to both him and Sam Winchester. According to the lore, Astrena connected with her victims by drinking their blood. Once the link was in place, she could enter their minds at will—implanting dreams and feeding off their life force. She must have been gorging herself on him all night.
Mozzie turned on the gas burner. "I hold myself partially responsible. If Janet and I hadn't taken it into our heads to enjoy the spring frogs of Buttonwood, none of this would have happened."
He was right but Neal didn't blame him or his girlfriend. Mozzie couldn't have known that the swamp in South New Jersey contained not only a spirit capable of inflicting curses but a nest of vampires. Neal and Sam had been captured and somehow wound up being donors to Astrena.
"Were you dreaming that you were Goya? He's rumored to be one of her victims."
"I guess." Neal went into the kitchen to retrieve the French press. Mozzie had picked an espresso roast from the cabinet. Good choice. He needed all the help he could get to remove the cobwebs from his brain. He still longed to continue painting.
"I'm familiar with Goya's works, but I've never known you to forge them." Mozzie returned to the easel. "Your technique is masterful. Anyone would think this is an undiscovered original." He paused, his eyes assuming a glazed expression—the look of a connoisseur spotting an undiscovered treasure at a flea market. A new business opportunity was taking hold.
Neal moved quickly to quash it before Mozzie got carried away. "We are not opening up a side operation," he said firmly.
"It never hurts to have backup plans in place. We need to store all your 'under-the-influence' masterworks. Once Chloe removes the spell, the enchantment will be broken."
"That can't happen soon enough." Dean's girlfriend was fast becoming an expert on herbal potions. She was testing concoctions in hopes of finding a cure.
"I can understand you're not thrilled with your situation," Mozzie acknowledged.
That was putting it mildly. He and Sam had speculated in their gloomier moments that Astrena probably hastened the deaths of many famous artists, musicians, and writers—among them Van Gogh, Mozart, Titian, Shelley, and Beethoven. How many other artists had suffered the same fate?
"You told me about the time you dreamed you and Astrena were chatting with Mozart. That was a few weeks ago. Have you had any other visits?"
"Last week in France," Neal admitted. "I dreamed I was Van Gogh living in Auvers-sur-Oise. I didn't have my artist supplies with me so I couldn't paint anything. I can't remember ever having felt so frustrated."
"Then this may cheer you up. I found a message from Bobby on the cell phone I reserve for the Winchesters. That Irish hunter Finnerty—the one who's been looking for the herbal guide Chloe wants—believes he's found it."
Mozzie's news was better than coffee. Chloe had discovered a promising reference to a book written by Harriet Beaufort in the early nineteenth century. The obscure text was not listed in any catalog. Since Harriet spent much of her life in Dublin, the Winchesters had asked Finnerty for help.
"Is that why you came to see me?" Neal asked.
"Not exactly," he hedged. "I returned from France yesterday to find Janet in quite a state. She has a new cause, meaning I do, too."
And that means so do I. Neal watched uneasily as Mozzie placed a canvas tote on the dinette table and pulled out a stack of flyers.
Janet was a costume designer who incorporated her love for the natural world in her designs. Her interest in insects had led Mozzie to adopt the cause of the yellow-faced bee. Her desire to experience spring frog choruses had led to their vampire encounter. What had she adopted now?
"I found Janet's apartment a beehive of activity," Mozzie said, his eyes twinkling at the reference to his beloved bees even as his expression quickly grew serious. "The marsh must be saved!" He pulled open the lapels of his worn corduroy jacket to reveal a t-shirt emblazoned with "Save Our Marsh" in bold letters. The slogan was displayed over a scene of ducks swimming through grassy reeds with a dragonfly skimming overhead. Neal detected Janet's style in the design.
"What marsh?" he asked before he could stop himself. At work, they were in the middle of an op to capture the master art thief Klaus Mansfeld and his brother Rolf. The new term at Columbia University had started two weeks ago, and he was already up to his eyeballs in coursework. He'd just spent the night being manipulated by a goddess. Did he really need another complication in his life?
Clearly, the answer was yes.
Mozzie frowned as he handed Neal a flyer. "You go to classes at Columbia and yet you're ignorant of what could be the environmental catastrophe of the century." He paused to shrug. "At least that's what Janet assures me."
If ever there was a sign that Janet and Mozzie were soulmates, it was their mutual penchant for adopting causes and exaggerating their significance. Although physics was not in Neal's skillset, even he could tell that Janet and Mozzie were like two atomic nuclei. Once their interests fused, they could generate enough energy to start a chain reaction leading to the inevitable atomic explosion. Neal braced himself as the faint outlines of mushroom-shaped clouds appeared on the horizon.
These days, Mozzie was better informed about Columbia than Neal. He appeared to spend at least as much time there—both above ground and in the tunnel system—and had accumulated a collection of aliases with associated ID cards, ranging from a Bosnian exchange student to a professor in the astrophysics department.
"Lay it on me, Mozz. What did the university do now?"
"It's not entirely their fault. Sports enthusiasts and their false gods share in the responsibility." Mozzie was not an admirer of any team sport. He gave Neal's fencing club a pass and Neal didn't disagree with him that the bouts were more closely related to chess than football. "Alums with more sense than money have pressed the university to enlarge the athletic complex next to Inwood Hill Park. Work began a couple of weeks ago. I've been so preoccupied with the U-boat con, I haven't been here for Janet, but I'm now prepared to focus like a laser beam on it."
A nuclear-fueled laser beam. When Mozzie began shoving the paint tubes aside, Neal leaped to their rescue and capped them. With one last look at the Marquesa, he dismantled his impromptu Goya studio. Perhaps an ecological disaster was just the distraction he needed. He could clean his brushes while Mozzie filled him in.
"It was Chloe's coven who initially alerted Janet," Mozzie said, following him into the kitchen.
Neal knew that Chloe had joined several Wicca covens as research for her urban fantasy novels. She was currently staying at a B&B run by Peony Mirliton who was head of the Silver Cauldron coven. "Is Janet now a member too?"
"Not only Janet but your cousin Angela as well," Mozzie said nonchalantly, filling two mugs with coffee and handing him one.
"When did this happen?" Neal asked, dismayed. He'd been trying to shield Angela from anything having to do with the paranormal or the occult since her misadventure in Shepherdstown. Angela had come within a hair's breadth of being seduced by a vampire. Neal had kept the existence of vampires a secret from her. In hindsight, that might have been a mistake.
"Did she neglect to tell you? You know how these things go. Angela met Chloe in the kung fu class that Maggie runs at the Aloha Emporium. Afterward they had a late breakfast at the Emporium. Conversation spun from one topic to another. You really should sit in sometime. It's quite enlightening."
An image flashed through Neal's mind—not of the Marquesa, but Mozzie, surrounded by Maggie, Janet, Chloe, Diana, Keiko, Angela, and Sara.
"The Silver Cauldron organizes field trips to Inwood Hill Park," Mozzie continued. "I've gone there on many an outing with Janet."
Neal was also familiar with the site. It was bordered on the north by the Harlem River where Angela's boyfriend Michael rowed as a member of Columbia's crew. The Harlem River Regatta was held there every June.
"The coven declared war when construction of the university sports complex began. On the edge of the area to be developed is a fragile estuary where freshwater and saltwater ecosystems mingle harmoniously together. We have the testimonials of several leading biologists to confirm its value. Unique glacial geological formations will be wantonly destroyed if development proceeds. But the powers at Columbia are determined to sell the marsh to pay for this outrageous temple to musclebound athletes."
Neal gradually tuned Mozzie out as he wiped his brushes on rags. Not that he wasn't a friend of nature, but construction had already started. The property being redeveloped currently contained an old parking lot and a few derelict warehouses. It wasn't like Columbia was cutting down an ancient redwood forest.
"Neal, are you paying attention to me? You're not back in Spain, are you? Because if you are, stop cleaning those brushes and get back to painting!"
"I am not with the Marquesa!" Neal huffed. "I heard every word. You said the construction crew found some old potshards."
"Not just random bits of pottery but priceless artifacts from the Lenape. They're the Native American tribe who lived on this island before the Colonialist overlords forced them out."
Interesting. Apparently, Mozzie now lumped early European settlers with the industrial complex and the bureaucratic establishment under the ever-expanding umbrella of The Enemy.
"The university dispatched an archaeologist to investigate the site, but he didn't find it worthy of preservation. He should be disbarred!"
"I don't think you can dis—"
Mozzie cut him off with a slap on the dinette table which nearly toppled his coffee mug. "Mark my words. Nothing good will come from this. Do you know there are ancient sacred caves in Inwood Hill Park only a few minutes away? The native spirits will exact vengeance. That sports complex will be cursed."
Neal winced. "No more talk of curses, please."
"Ah, yes," he acknowledged, making a face. "I didn't mean to rub salt in the wound." He continued in a slightly lowered tone. "We intend to use—"
"Wait a minute. You said we. Are you now a member of the coven too?"
"Peony made such a compelling case, how could I resist? I'm the first wizard they've ever had. And you know what an authority she is on potions." He frowned disapprovingly. "You shouldn't be upset. I'm helping Peony and Chloe find something to cure your and Sam's affliction. A little gratitude, please."
"Sorry, Mozz. I appreciate all your efforts."
He blew away his apology. "Nothing will distract me and my Wicca sisters from educating the world about the crime being committed. We'll hold a war strategy after we've purified ourselves during the rite of Mabon."
"What's that?"
"The autumnal equinox, of course. Drink more coffee. Your brain's still addled if you don't know what Mabon is. I got back from Paris just in time. It will be a small ceremony. We're holding it in Inwood Hill Park. You're welcome to join us."
Neal wiped his hands on a towel. Catching up on lost sleep began to sound like an excellent idea. Mozzie and his causes did have one benefit, though. The Marquesa was no longer beckoning to him. She'd been shoved aside by his chatter about Chloe and the marsh. Picturing Mozzie as a wizard would drive any goddess away.
When the link had first been detected, Peter had been concerned about possible repercussions to the con they were running. He'd insisted Neal inform the team. Diana's partner, Christie Vintner, was Neal's doctor, simplifying matters. What other doctor would have even bothered to listen to the idea that he was being influenced by a psychic connection?
Christie had been surprisingly sympathetic. Even Diana, who ordinarily never missed out on an opportunity to mock him, was giving him a pass. After the Van Gogh episode, Neal went in for more tests. Christie called him yesterday with the results. Perhaps that was why he'd been dreaming of the Marquesa.
Haverstraw, New York. Sunday morning.
Dean Winchester replaced the cap on the gasoline can and took a moment to scan the woods. He and Sam were standing beside an open grave in a small forgotten cemetery in the Hudson Valley. Nobody saw them unearth the coffin. No one witnessed them salt and burn the bones of one born-to-be-mean spirit. The ghost had been a serial killer in his first life and his second one as well. And he'd almost been the end of Sam.
They'd spent the past five days in a small town in upstate New York. They couldn't bring back to life the three people who'd died, but they could ensure that the ghost wouldn't return to harm anyone else.
Dean exchanged looks with Sam. "You wanna be the one to dispatch him?"
He nodded. "I was trying to think of something decent to say about the guy."
"Seriously? Like thank him for trying to spear you with a javelin?"
Sam shrugged. "Yeah, I know you think it's stupid. But I figure everyone's got at least a little shred of decency."
"Not this guy, Sammy."
"You're probably right. So . . ." He exhaled and lit the match, tossing it into the grave. "Goodbye."
They watched as the fire caught hold and blazed. Salt and burn—the only way to purify a corpse so it could never come back, never be appropriated by a demon . . . or a goddess.
Dean sneaked a glance at his brother. Sam was leaning on the shovel, exhausted from what should have been a trivial task of unearthing the coffin. The ground wasn't baked hard like some graveyards. He shouldn't have even worked up a sweat.
Over the past three weeks, Sam had been on the highway to total collapse. He was living on coffee to stay awake. When he dozed off, he was tormented by dreams he couldn't remember but left him wasted. This job was the final straw.
"Where are we going next?" Sam asked.
"The hospital."
Predictably, Sam grimaced at his answer, but even more telling was that he didn't relinquish his hold on the shovel. "Not that again," he muttered.
"Yeah, that again. Let the docs pump you with meds. Make you sleep. Then we'll see."
"You can't hunt alone."
"If it's something I can't handle, I'll call Bobby. You're no good at hunting right now and you know it."
Sam let out a huff to register his dissatisfaction, not that it was necessary. Dean knew he wouldn't agree without a fight. But this was one argument his older and wiser brother was determined to win.
"Going to a hospital's not the answer," Sam protested. "They have no way of removing the spell. Besides, you already had me checked out. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong."
Dean reached for his phone.
"Who are you calling?" Sam asked suspiciously.
"Bobby. Maybe he can talk sense into you." And provide a safe place for you to rest. Bobby had been staying at a house in New Jersey belonging to a fellow hunter. He'd probably go along with Sam hanging out with him. He could give Sam some research to do so he wouldn't feel useless.
"You boys keeping out of trouble?" Bobby asked when he answered. His growl indicated he knew Dean wouldn't tell him if they weren't.
"More or less. You gonna be around for a few days?"
"Nah, I'm leaving as soon as I throw a few things together. Rufus has a witch in Delaware he needs help with. If you're not far away, could you stop by? I got a message from Finnerty that the book Chloe wants—Airmid's Garden—should arrive tomorrow. I figure you want to get it to her right away." He pitched his voice to a low rumble. "How's Sam?"
Dean glanced over at him. He was still slouched over the shovel, staring into the fire. "Not good."
"Sam's strong. He'll hold it together till a cure's found."
Dean wished he had Bobby's confidence. "We'll swing by your place and stay till the package arrives."
When Dean told Sam about the book, his only response was to nod absently, still lost in his head.
Dean checked the grave. The bones were already blackened. "That fire doesn't need us. Let's go sit under the tree and I'll give Chloe a call." He was glad to see Sam didn't raise any objections.
He put her on speaker so Sam could hear her. A scheme was forming. There was a good chance he could persuade Sam to stay at Peony's B&B. Chloe's landlady was squirrelly, but she'd taken a liking to both him and Sam. She'd probably offer a special cursed rate they could afford. More importantly, she could keep an eye on Sam when Chloe was at work.
Chloe was so excited when she heard about the book that she offered to punt work to pick it up.
"No need. We're in the area. I can drop off the book and Sam, too." Dean explained the situation, ignoring Sam's embarrassed grunts. "Do you know if Peony has any vacancies?"
"I don't need to check. I've been trying to persuade Maia to come down and had reserved a room for her. She mentioned that she needs to do some research in the Rare Book Library at Columbia University. That's not far from Peony's. I suggested she come down this week so she could celebrate Mabon with us. If she hears Sam will be here, she'll come for sure."
In more ways than one. Sam's girlfriend Maia was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time, and she apparently felt the same way about him. The kid already had a goofy look on his face from hearing the news.
Maia was a grad student at Yale. She'd become friends with Chloe through the local Wicca coven. As a general rule, Dean stayed away from anything Wicca. It conjured up images of women making daisy chains in the meadow. This time, though, he was giving Maia and Chloe a pass. Chloe's heroine in her urban fantasies was a Wiccan. Maia was in the doctorate program at Yale, studying the classics. Her interest in the pagan group was more academic. Maia had been the first woman Sam was interested in since his girlfriend died. Reason enough to like her.
"This will be the first time for the Silver Cauldron to conduct a ceremony for the autumnal equinox," Chloe said. "We'll hold it in a park north of Columbia University. Several of the university students have joined the coven."
"Dean, you should stay too," Sam suggested. "A city as big as New York must have some malevolent spirits."
"Great idea!" Chloe seconded. "But no need to look for a job. Dean, haven't you always wanted to lead a group of warriors into battle?"
"Do it all the time. Except it's just me and Sam."
"That's just it. This is your chance to fight alongside hundreds. Well, maybe fifty. Angela's not sure of the exact number."
"Angela? Are you talking about Neal's cousin Angela?"
"That's right, and now coven sister Angela."
Dean snorted. Neal must love that. Dean had helped him and Peter rescue her from a vampire several weeks ago. Neal had insisted that Angela not be told that vampires exist. If Neal weren't cursed already, he'd certainly feel like he was now.
"Angela's one of the organizers for a Renaissance festival the university is holding north of Columbia University. As part of the activities, they're going to stage a LARP." When Dean didn't immediately respond, she added, "Are you familiar with the concept? It's an acronym for live-action role-playing. Participants wear costumes and stage mock battles. You'll like it. This LARP will be of the Battle of Shrewsbury."
Sam was snickering. Dean decided to play along. "Isn't a shrew a type of mouse? You better not be asking me to put on mouse ears."
Sam broke into a laugh. "The Battle of Shrewsbury is one of the most famous battles in English history, doofus. It took place in the early fifteenth century between the forces of Henry IV and rebels led by Henry Hotspur."
For the first time in weeks, Sam was looking genuinely relaxed and happy. Weren't they due a break? Sam was still well enough to enjoy the festival. How much longer would that last? More to the point, if Chloe didn't come up with a cure, how much longer would Sam be alive?
There'd been precious few moments to act like goofballs when they were kids. Sam was excited to take a week off, see his girl, and have some fun. That sounded good to Dean, too.
And maybe, just maybe, they'd catch a break, and that book would provide the cure.
"So which commander would I be?" Dean asked. "Hotspur? I like the sound of that."
"He lost the battle," Sam pointed out.
"Not if I'm the leader."
Notes: In 1624 the Lenape people of Manahatta sold their island to the Dutch for 60 guilders worth of trade goods. Inwood Hill Park is at the northern tip of Manhattan. The forested park has caves used by the Lenape. The marsh also exists and is next to the Baker Athletics Complex. I've taken liberty with the dates and details of the construction. During the actual construction, no Lenape pottery fragments were found at the site. As for the marsh, I'll have more about it at the end of the story.
Harriet Beaufort, the author of the book Chloe is interested in, is a historical character, but the herbal guide is fictitious. The Medieval Festival in New York City is a real event, but so far Columbia hasn't held a Renaissance Festival on the following day.
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
Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website