Chapter 8: Wicked Game
"Dean and Sam discovered a zombie who was running toward the campus on 118th Street," Neal said, tossing his rubber band ball into the air. "They lost it when it ducked into an alleyway. Dean figures it slipped down a manhole cover."
Peter swatted Neal's feet off his desk. The rubber band ball, the feet on the desk—they were both running jokes that these days Neal played with greater frequency. His justification was that they helped Peter relax. What with the zombies, a leech-man running amok, Neal's bondage to Astrena, and the Mansfelds on the loose, Peter had so much to stew about, the worry lines on his forehead were threatening to become permanent.
The news about Weewillmeku had spread throughout the team, but Hughes advised against informing anyone else until and if there was clear evidence. That didn't keep the bullpen from joking about Willy, Manhattan's version of the Loch Ness Monster.
"Are they sure it was a zombie?" Peter challenged. "How do you recognize a zombie if you run into one?"
"Good question. That's what I asked Mozzie. Sam told him there are several different types of zombies and the ganking method is different for each one."
"Ganking? If you're going to use hunter lingo at the Bureau, you better supply the team a glossary."
Neal shrugged. "With the type of foe we're facing, the term is appropriate. Sometimes it's a stake through the heart, or it could be a silver bullet. Who knows what's deadly to Lenape leech-zombies? Firewater maybe? Sam told me their gait is odd—a distinctive awkward lope." Neal got up and demonstrated the shuffle, holding his arms out like boards and pacing stiff-legged around Peter's office.
Peter snorted. "You look like a bad imitation of Frankenstein."
"That's not my fault. I'm simply imitating what Mozzie did. Of course, the most obvious clue is the leech mouth." Neal opened his mouth wide, forming a gaping circle, and tilted his head to one side just as Jones knocked on the frame of the open door.
Jones quickly formed an X with his hands. "Back off, demon scum!"
Neal faked a lunge but stopped before Jones got any ideas about retaliation.
"Simmer down, leech-zombie!" Peter ordered, trying to sound stern through his laughter. Mission accomplished. The worry lines were gone.
"More zombies I take it?" Jones asked.
Neal filled him in. "Did you hear anything about the missing students?"
"That's why I'm here. Quint Worland, Travis's friend, thinks he saw the same man he'd earlier spotted talking with the first missing person. I'm going to Columbia to interview Quint this afternoon." He turned to Neal. "I can give you a lift home."
"Good idea," Peter said before he could respond. "You're supposed to be home anyway, working on that Renoir forgery."
A sensitive subject. He'd much rather be at work, away from thoughts of Astrena, but he didn't want to admit it. "Thanks, I could use the extra time to get ready for my date."
"Where are you and Bianka going?" Jones asked.
"Back to Riffs. I intend to wear her out so she won't be interested in other games afterward."
"Don't count on it," Jones warned.
"I haven't staged an interruption yet," Peter said. "You want me to be the one to call you?"
"Sure. Make it around ten. That will be late enough for me to convince her how passionate I am without getting into trouble." Electra had called him in the morning and invited him to an art gallery reception that evening. It would have made an ideal excuse for Bianka, who would have readily understood and commended him for taking advantage of the opportunity. But then Bianka would have wanted to see him afterward.
Electra didn't appear to mind when he mentioned having other plans. She would be at the festival and mentioned they'd likely see each other there. An assistant was bringing books from the bookstore in New Haven to be sold in the Wicca tent. Electra suggested taking a break to discuss art, and Neal was inclined to accept the offer. She was an expert on the Impressionists. She could be on Goya as well.
#
Electra sighed as she rolled the dinner cart outside the entrance to her suite. The cuisine couldn't make up for the humiliation of being rejected by Neal yet again.
She was in a foul mood and she knew it. This wasn't going according to plan. She'd been prepared to be magnanimous once he accepted her invitation. He'd had enough of a lesson. She'd rein back Scarbo and lighten up on feeding off him. She might even allow him several more years of productivity.
But he sealed his fate when he declined. The boy was such a disappointment. Lacking the creativity to develop his own style, he was forever copying the works of others. She'd bent over backward, excusing the Monet he'd painted at Jenny Jump State Park as a mere amusement, but Scarbo reported a long list of other copies, including works by Vermeer, Degas, and Matisse.
She'd never met anyone who transformed from one artist to another so readily. She'd renewed her acquaintance of Van Gogh and Goya through him. For a brief moment, she'd been tempted to make him her instrument to savor the delights of other artists who had long ago succumbed to her. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, for instance. How she'd enjoyed being his muse. What would Neal produce as the Pre-Raphaelite master?
But no, he was too inappreciative. His days of mocking her would soon end.
She checked her coiffure in the mirror. She had no idea what one wore to a rock club but had opted to jazz up her suit with a lace camisole shell. Jeremy was the model son. Crowley believed he had the best potential of all the pure-blood vampire princes, and she'd grown to concur with his assessment. She hoped a visit would calm her outrage.
With a snap of her fingers, she transported to Jeremy's office upstairs at Riffs.
"Mother, I'm honored," he said when she materialized. The calm coldness of his baritone quieted her overheated emotions.
Crowley was lounging on Jeremy's magenta velvet chaise lounge, a glass of Scotch in his hand. Electra graced him with an approving nod when he stood up and bowed at her arrival. Crowley was an expert at the art of groveling.
She turned to her pure-blood. "I haven't visited you in a while, my darling." She wasn't about to admit she was bored and lonely. "How are our affairs progressing?"
Jeremy strode over and kissed her cheek. "You'll be pleased. May I offer you a drink? He glanced at a row of crystal decanters on the cocktail cart. "I have a sculptor, a pianist, and an up-and-coming novelist."
"The pianist will do," she said, her mood improving by the second. She took a seat next to Crowley.
Jeremy poured a generous amount of blood into a snifter and gave it to her. "Drasko attended to this one personally."
Drasko was Crowley's lieutenant. Originally from Slovakia, he'd been turned as a college student in Heidelberg. He now ran the identification theft operation for Crowley. Drasko was young and attractive. He'd developed into an excellent campus recruiter.
Crowley had convinced her to go along with what he called the Crowley Doctrine. It consisted of culling out the common fang riffraff and replacing them with a few highly skilled and educated vampires. Some specialized in computer hacking. Others were artists and musicians who worked the college and art scenes to supply Electra with blood.
Crowley's approach was a triumph. By reducing the number of vampires to the bare minimum, the chance of discovery was remote. Maintaining strict discipline over their activities ensured a focused operation.
As Electra reclined on the chaise lounge, sipped the blood of a truly promising pianist, and listened to Jeremy's report, her spirits lifted. He was as ruthless as her. Unlike Lutar, no infatuation would ever cloud his decision-making.
Her eyes drifting around the room, she glanced at the bank of surveillance monitors displaying the club below. One of the cameras was aimed at the stage. She froze when she saw who was singing. Neal, in skintight leather pants and an open-collared shirt, was playing an acoustic guitar while crooning lovesick lyrics.
"What's the name of that song?" she demanded, pointing at the monitor.
A half-smile flitted across Jeremy's face when he saw Neal on the monitor. He listened for a moment. "'Wicked Game.' "
How dare he? He should be singing to her, not to the trollops in the audience making moon eyes at him. "Who's he with?"
Jeremy performed a quick scan of the monitors. "Bianka's in the crowd. She must be his date."
"Has anyone been able to identify the other blonde he's been seen with?"
"Not yet," Crowley said, "but rest assured neither one can compare to your beauty."
She nodded, somewhat mollified. Crowley had arranged for Bianka's mugging. She could still taste the joy she'd felt from drinking her blood. Thanks to Crowley's thoughtfulness, she was able to torment the child whenever she liked.
Discovering that Bianka was an artist was a delightful surprise. It made Electra's feeding all the more pleasurable. Like Neal, Bianka focused on imitating the works of others. But whereas Neal could morph into another artist's persona, she remained on the outside, a mere copyist. It would be no loss to the world of art when Electra consumed her.
When Neal finished his song, he left the stage. Electra strode from one monitor to another, following his movements. He stopped at a table where Bianka was smiling a greeting at him. Electra felt her lips curl upward. She was going to enjoy this.
#
Neal slid into a chair next to Bianka. "Did you like the song?" he asked in a low, throaty murmur as he nuzzled her ear. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. He planned to advance the steam factor at Riffs but delay leaving the club till it was time for Peter to call him.
She placed her hands on his face and drew him even closer. Her eyes were smoldering coals. "I promise never to break your heart like the girl in the song."
When she pulled out of the kiss, Neal suggested they dance. The guitarist who'd followed him was singing "Breakaway." Bianka's hands were all over him. If she wanted to break away from the game she was playing, she was showing no sign of it. The kiss they'd interrupted at the table recommenced with even greater intensity.
He'd drawn up a mental list of limits beyond which he wouldn't go. Bianka gave no indication of having made a similar list. He was feeling more lightheaded by the moment. Was this the curse acting on him, or his own feelings about the con? Whatever it was, his nausea was steadily increasing. Had the time come for the mono excuse?
Suddenly Bianka pulled back and swallowed hastily. Her face turned white as she looked at him with anguished eyes. "I'm sorry . . ." Gulping convulsively, she quickly placed a hand over her mouth. With one last agonized look, she fled the dance floor.
#
When Neal arrived back at the loft, he peeled off his jacket and collapsed on the couch. Never had the quiet comfort of his quarters seemed so appealing. The nausea was gone but had left him exhausted. After a few minutes, he summoned up the energy to retrieve a glass of water. Dragging himself back to the couch, he pulled out his cell phone.
After one ring, Peter answered. He must have had the phone right next to him. "You can relax," Neal assured him. "I'm alone."
"I'm not due to call you for an hour. What happened?"
"Bianka got sick."
"Again?"
"It looks like another bout of stomach flu. I don't think she ever fully recovered from the first case."
"This is karma for her trying to con you. It will give you a good break. Once she starts to feel better, you can claim you came down with the same thing."
"Agreed." Neal was beginning to feel better. No need to mention the brief episode to Peter. He was worried enough as it was.
"You're at home, right?"
"Yeah, just got back."
"That's good. Stay there. There's been another murder. The body was found a few hours ago on 135th Street near Riverside Drive."
"Leech marks?"
"Yeah, I'll give you the details tomorrow after the fencing competition." Peter paused. "You're still planning to participate, right?"
There was a note of uncertainty in Peter's voice that Neal took pains to dispel. "I'll be there," he said confidently. Aidan was counting on him. If he stayed up late tonight, he could probably avoid a recurrence of the Marquesa.
Sara's Apartment. Saturday evening.
Sara clinked wine glasses with Neal. "I should send Bianka a thank you card. Yesterday I'd pictured myself dining alone—probably eating takeout in front of the TV while trying not to think about the two of you on a date. Instead, I get you for the entire evening." And hopefully the night as well.
Neal's smile broadened. "I should sign my name to that card too."
He'd texted her late the previous night with the good news. She'd been so delighted to hear of Bianka's relapse that she decided to go to Neal's fencing competition that morning. If anyone asked about her presence, she was prepared to explain that Keiko had asked to keep her company. Sara had become friends with Aidan and Richard during the U-boat con. She was there to lend her support to all of them.
When Peter showed up, she reminded herself that like the fencers, she couldn't lower her guard. She'd expected Travis but assumed he'd be much more interested in watching Richard's bouts than her. Peter was in a different category with nothing much escaping his sharp eyes. She didn't think she gave anything away.
This was her first time to watch Neal fence. He competed in sabre, and to her eyes his performance was flawless. Normally Neal participated in épée as well, and from the way the team struggled, they could have used his help. Aidan and Richard were both aware of the health issues. Neal had already grumbled to her that Aidan insisted on him taking frequent breaks during practice sessions. The strategy was successful. There were some tense moments, but the team eked out a victory. Last year their team was undefeated. Aidan was hoping for an unprecedented second year.
During the bouts Neal didn't participate in, Sara paid more attention to him on the sidelines than the fencers. As he exchanged comments with the team members, she caught that look of longing. Soon he might not be able to compete at all.
When she and Neal decided to date in secret, she'd never anticipated the present situation. Their initial challenge had only been to conceal the truth from their friends. Now Neal faced a potentially life-threatening challenge during the middle of a con. Christie had warned him that if his condition continued to deteriorate, he'd have to enter the hospital for what could be a protracted stay. How could Sara possibly act as if she was "just a friend"?
"Is the wine acceptable?" Neal asked. "You seem a thousand miles away. I hope it wasn't the fish. If you come down with what Bianka has—"
She laughed. "That's not happening. And the flounder was exceptional." Neal had picked it up at the seafood market on the way over. She'd supplied a chanterelle frisée salad and lemon gnocchi courtesy of the gourmet takeout shop on Amsterdam Avenue. She now considered the place her private chef when Neal wasn't available. Someday she'd learn to cook, but as long as that shop was around, it wouldn't be anytime soon.
"It's not the murder, I hope."
Sara shoved her concern deep within her. Neal needed her to be bright and positive. "No, but I'm surprised the police were able to keep the leech wounds out of the news reports."
"It can't last much longer now that there's been a second murder with the same type of injury. One of the tabloids is already blaring alerts about zombies in Morningside Heights. Fortunately for us, all zombie sightings have been at night. They won't hinder the festival. Have I mentioned how glad I am that I can go with you rather than Bianka?"
"Yes, about ten times at last count, and please continue! Since the entire Columbia crowd will be there, I'll simply be one of many friends."
He leaned across the dinette table, his blue eyes growing dark. "But with them, I won't be sneaking away to a secluded spot. I have a detailed map, courtesy of Angela. Several possibilities look promising. Are you going to let me see your costume tonight?"
"Nothing doing. You'll have to wait for tomorrow. Besides you haven't described yours."
He gave her a wicked smile. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Double entendres were reason enough to keep the Clueless con alive for a little while longer. Sara resolved to keep all dark thoughts buried deep.
She stood up to clear the table. "You cooked, so I'll wash. You mentioned that you wanted to call Bianka. This is as good a time as any."
"You don't mind?" Standing up, he took the plate from her and set it down on the table. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her close against his chest. His hands dropped lower as hers did. They slowly swayed to their own inner music as they kissed.
Reluctantly she stepped back. "Yes, I mind, but it's a necessary evil. Go ahead and call her so we won't have to think about her for the rest of the evening. You better use another room. Then she won't hear my kitchen clatter."
"I'll be in your bedroom, thinking of you throughout the call."
Sara raced through the dishes. Did Neal intend for her to eavesdrop? He left the door open. She took that as an open invitation.
A friend was letting her have the use of her apartment while she was on a teaching assignment in London. She'd appropriated the second bedroom. There wasn't room for much more than a bed, nightstand, and dresser. The bed lacked a headboard but she used several overstuffed pillows as a substitute.
Neal had taken his shoes off and was flopped on top of the taupe comforter. He'd propped up a couple of extra pillows to recline against as he talked with Bianka. When he saw Sara in the doorway, he silently patted the mattress and waved her over. When she slid next to him, he shifted position to mask the sound.
She laid her head on his shoulder. He began running his fingers through her hair as he professed his passion for Bianka.
"I know you're discouraged, but we'll make up for it on a future date."
Sara couldn't hear her reply, but Neal's commiserating sounds of sympathy led her to believe Bianka was describing her aches and pains. Was it wrong to hope she was suffering horribly?
"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" he asked . . . "I'm at home. I don't mind at all." He flashed Sara a mischievous smile and began singing "Wicked Game."
While he sang, Sara slipped her hands under his shirt and began massaging his back. He'd dropped several pounds since the previous weekend. She knew he was aware of the issue and was consuming protein bars and shakes to try to make up for it. She stopped herself. No dark thoughts tonight.
When he finally rang off, she said, "Do you know how sexy it is to hear you talk dirty on the phone?"
He began unbuttoning her blouse. "I know of something even hotter."
#
The alarm on his phone woke Neal up. He'd placed it under the pillow in the hopes it wouldn't disturb Sara, and it worked. She was still asleep, spooned next to his back. It was so tempting to stay in bed. But the clarions were sounding. The Battle of Shrewsbury would start in a few hours.
No nightmares bothered the woman beside him. There was enough light coming in from the window that he could make out her face, and she was smiling in her sleep. He hoped that was because of yesterday evening. Since June was away visiting her daughter, he'd risked staying overnight.
Sara stirred. He brushed a kiss on her lips before her eyes opened.
"Mmm." Her smile widened and she wrapped an arm around his neck to pull him down. The Battle of Shrewsbury could wait.
But the reprieve didn't last long. As soon as Sara remembered what was on tap, she yanked the covers off. They had a full day ahead where they could be together as friends and then he could spend another night with her.
He left to change into his costume at the loft. Mozzie and Janet were picking him up to go to the festival. Maggie Feng had also offered to chauffeur festival participants in her florist van. Sara, Keiko, and Aidan would go with her. Angela and Michael were probably already at the park.
Since Bianka wasn't attending, Neal decided to leave his guitar at home. He'd originally intended to use it as an excuse to slip away and see Sara. There was no need now. When they arrived at the park, Mozzie and Janet left to put the final touches on the "Save the Marsh" display next to the Wicca tent. Their supplies were already in place. They'd spent the previous day promoting the cause at the Medieval Festival. Members of Peony's coven were collecting signatures for a petition urging Columbia to turn the marsh into a wetlands preserve.
The battleground was located in a field below the Cloisters. By the time Neal showed up, the White Collar team was already in position. Dean and Chloe had been welcomed as fellow fighters for the event. Jones's costume had a distinct Klingon feel to it while Dean looked like he'd stepped off the Braveheart set. Diana and Chloe had seemingly bonded as Amazon warriors.
Neal didn't have much time to talk with Peter as the organizers were reviewing battle instructions. Relegated to the sidelines, he consoled himself by taking pictures. He was touched when Peter volunteered to pose for him.
"I never thought I'd see you looking so happy in a costume."
"It's actually a Viking outfit," Peter said in an undertone, "but I left the horned helmet at home."
"Saving it for a Viking LARP?"
"Let me know if you hear of any."
"Do you mean it? You know I'll light up the internet looking for one."
"It has to be in New York," he quickly added, squelching Neal's plans to scour Scandinavian sites. "This leather doublet is quite authentic." He cast a dubious glance at his spear. "I don't think any self-respecting Viking would carry one of these, but we all have to make sacrifices."
"I wish I could fight with you. Next year if it's held, you'll have to join me in a rematch."
"Count on it. Either that or at the Viking LARP you're going to find. I hear the warriors' tent will be well supplied with Mozzie's excellent honey mead after the battle. That's one part you don't need to skip out on."
Neal didn't comment, glancing down at his minstrel garb. He felt out of sync with the others. Next year couldn't come soon enough. He'd spotted Sam standing on the sidelines, likely feeling the same way. When Peter left to rejoin his battalion, Neal grabbed a couple of hand drums and went over to see him.
Sam eyed the instrument uneasily. "I've never played the drum."
"What's to learn? You just bang it. And think how proud Maia will be of you. I saw her sitting in the grandstands with Elizabeth."
While they waited for the troops to get into formation, Sam told Neal about a book on herbal remedies Maia had retrieved from New Haven. "They were up late last night matching descriptions of plants. Chloe is more optimistic than I've seen her in a long time. She believes they may be finally on the right track."
The previous day, he and Sam had compared notes about their dreams. Neal wasn't surprised that Sam had also seen Scarbo. Bobby had heard of the demon. He said several of the Greek gods supposedly had minions of one sort or another.
"Maybe it's the girlfriend influence, but since Maia's been here, I haven't seen any more of that demon," Sam said. "How are you doing?"
"No painting or demons for me last night either." He'd like to think that was because of Sara. He hoped to have confirmation tonight. "Has Dean made any progress with Weewillmeku?"
"He patrolled last night. No sign of a leech-man but he spotted a possible zombie." Sam frowned. "He lost it in a back alley. If I'd been along—as I should have been— he probably could have caught it."
"Late yesterday another murder victim was discovered. Peter told me about it just now. I wonder if there's a connection. The corpse was found near Inwood Hill Park."
"Same M.O.?"
Neal nodded. "And that's not all. More and more students are reporting zombie sightings. On the plus side, there haven't been any other reports of missing persons."
"Weewillmeku could be targeting vagrants, and we're not getting a true picture," Sam cautioned.
"Everyone, take your positions!" shouted an armor-clad warrior through a battered bullhorn. "The battle is about to begin!"