Chapter 10: Seance with a Shaman
"Don't fight me on this, Neal," Peter warned. "You know you're going to lose."
"No one's fighting anyone," El said soothingly. "Let's discuss this upstairs."
Neal eyed the pair of them. They were playing good Viking, bad Viking on him, and he didn't have a chance. Neal rode with them to June's after his ignominious collapse at the festival. Despite his assurance that he was fully recovered, they insisted on staying with him till Mozzie arrived.
The final insult was when they forced him to ride the service elevator upstairs like he was an invalid. Having their company was slight compensation. Neal would rather wallow by himself than inflict his dark mood on others.
When they entered the loft, he retreated into his closet to strip off his minstrel costume. He took much longer than was necessary to change into jeans and a t-shirt while silently venting at the injustice of the world. This was supposed to be his day with Sara. Why was Astrena's timing so lousy?
When he came out, El was no longer in the living room.
"She went downstairs to raid June's kitchen," Peter explained. "I'm reliably informed that your pantry's on the bare side. A few boxes of protein bars don't count. I'm giving you advance notice, we're not leaving till you've eaten solid food that didn't come out of a foil package."
Neal shrugged. "Shopping for groceries hadn't been a high priority the past week."
Peter frowned. "It should have been." His eyes swept across the loft, resting on the French doors. The terrace was in bright sunshine. "Would you like to go outside?"
"Sure." Neal knew he was in for it. The Talk loomed in front of him, and Peter was well aware he responded better to such situations outside. "I've got some of Mozzie's honey mead chilled for you." He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle. There was an open bottle of Fumé Blanc in the door, and he poured himself a glass, relieved that Christie hadn't slapped any drinking restrictions on him.
They took their seats at the glass-topped patio table and clinked glasses. Neal took pity on Peter and made the opening move. "You want to shut down the con."
"Don't paint it in such stark terms, but yes, we need to reassess. You're in no shape for undercover work, and you know it."
"Neither is Bianka. I called her last night and again this morning. Her doctor's confined her to the hospital. He's ordered a battery of tests to try to pinpoint the cause of her recurring bouts of intestinal flu. Here's a thought. Christie could put me in an adjacent room. We could have clandestine assignations in the supply closet."
Peter chuckled. "Tempting as it is to have you under supervision, I have no desire to play the Hospital Game with you. You'd probably feel honor-bound to hide somewhere inaccessible just to prove a point."
Neal shrugged. "Much as I'd enjoy the chase, it's not worth being confined."
"Don't look so gloomy. The news about Bianka takes the pressure off. We can postpone a decision for a few days. Once she leaves the hospital, you can play the mono card. That will buy more time."
Neal detected the faint glimmer of sunshine on his overcast horizon. Peter hadn't mentioned anything about his coursework yet.
"Tomorrow you'll see Christie," Peter continued. "Unless she notifies me that you've experienced a miracle cure, you'll work from home next week. Understood?"
Neal would much rather go to the office where there were more distractions, but what Peter proposed was reasonable. "I could use the time for the Renoir forgery," he conceded.
"That's an understatement. I noticed the canvas on the easel," he added pointedly. He realized that normally Neal wouldn't have been able to leave it alone. "Make that your assignment."
"I'll finish it by the end of the week," Neal promised. Luckily Peter didn't ask why he hadn't made any progress on it.
"On Friday you'll go back to Christie for a follow-up exam. Henry returns the following day. Based on Christie's assessment, we'll reevaluate how to proceed."
Under the circumstances, Peter was being more flexible than Neal expected. But he was still stuck with Mozzie as a roommate and he'd have limited opportunities to talk with Sara. Sam told him that thanks to Maia he was getting his best rest in over a month. Neal's experience with Sara had been the same. If they'd only been open about their relationship, he could be spending the night with her instead of a man who hummed arias all night.
#
When Mozzie arrived that evening, he set up Neal's loft to be mission control for the "Save Our Marsh" initiative. Encouraged by the support of festival-goers and the twenty thousand-plus names on the petition, his enthusiasm for the project had soared to new heights.
Mozzie had spotted Tricia with her family at the festival. When Neal heard they were dressed as Robin Hood, Maid Marian, and two mini Merry Men, he regretted having missed them, but Mozzie was more interested in Mitch the archaeologist. Peony hoped to be able to borrow one of the pottery shards found at the building site to invoke a Lenape spirit at a seance. Mitch promised he'd try to make the arrangements.
Conjuring up a spirit sounded incredible to Neal. But then who would believe in leech zombies or an ancient leech-man prowling Columbia? Or, for that matter, a goddess sucking out his life force?
Mozzie headed for Neal's easel after dumping his laptop and a thick folder of printouts on the dinette table. If he planned to inspect the painting, he'd be in for a disappointment.
"You've only blocked out a couple of forms," Mozzie said, pointing out the obvious. "This isn't like you. What's the problem, mon frère?"
Neal studied the blank surface gloomily. "I'm too consumed by Goya. My thoughts are filled with the Marquesa." He didn't admit his greatest fear—that the demon Scarbo would sneak in and ruin the painting. At night, the slightest sound reminded him of the demon. As his dreams became darker, they were bound to affect his painting. The artist in Connecticut had experienced a similar progression. If Neal started the Renoir, and it turned into a nightmarish scene, it would be a confirmation for everyone to see of how low he'd sunk.
"I know what will banish Goya," Mozzie said. "Debussy, Ravel . . . you'll soon be in the mood."
"Not Ravel's 'Scarbo,' " Neal pleaded. Ravel had written a famous composition about the demon. That was the last thing he needed.
"Are you seeing him?" Mozzie demanded, scrutinizing him as if he were a new type of cave slime.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "Particularly at night."
"Then we'll stick with uplifting pieces like La Mer and Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun." He reflected for a moment then snapped his fingers. "What you need is Scheherazade! I shall entrance and mesmerize you with stories throughout the night."
"You're not going to dress like her, are you?" With Mozzie, it was always best to check.
"Or burn incense? We'll hold off on that for now. But the magic of my voice will banish Astrena to the nethermost regions where she belongs." He rummaged in his gym bag and pulled out a CD carrier. "Luckily, I came prepared for every contingency. I have both the Rimsky-Korsakov and Ravel versions." Mozzie rubbed his hands together. "You have the Renoir. I have the marsh. Together we'll achieve miracles."
As Mozzie rattled off his plans, Neal got out his art supplies. He didn't generally paint to music, but as a way to block out Goya, he liked the idea.
And it worked. He painted for hours while Mozzie spun stories of the Lenape in Inwood Hill Park. Neal knew that Mozzie was a master storyteller, but that night he was inspired. Tales of love and adventure flowed in quick succession. Neal wasn't about to complain that many contained a wise shaman guiding a young warrior to victory.
They took a break sometime past midnight—Neal didn't bother to check the time. He sprawled on the couch and put his feet up. "Have you ever thought of writing historical romances?" he asked, raising a glass of wine to his Scheherazade.
Mozzie dropped into the armchair next to Neal. "I have, but I was never sufficiently motivated. Perhaps if I ever hit a lull."
Neal turned to face the easel. The Renoir painting was colored with a pastel palette. After the con was finished, he intended to give the portrait to El. The woman in the painting reminded him of her. In his darker moments, he wondered if he'd be able to complete it before his time was up.
"Where did I stop?" Mozzie mused, gazing up at the ceiling. "Ah yes. As the thunderbird flew into the sky, young Odina resumed gathering firewood."
Neal returned to his canvas, taking the glass of wine with him. What with his painting, the music, and Mozzie's tales, there was no time to brood.
He awoke to someone shaking his shoulder. "What?" he mumbled, his brain in a fog.
"Your Castilian is superb," Mozzie said, "but now is not the time to work on your Renoir. I fear you'd blend the streams."
Neal stared at him numbly as Mozzie guided him to one of the dinette chairs. "You fell asleep three hours ago," he explained. "Just after Mitch called, you got out of bed and walked over to the easel. You were talking with someone—perhaps the Marquesa—in your sleep."
Mozzie set a mug of coffee in front of him. Neal wrapped his fingers around it, hoping the heat would revive him. The Marquesa was upset with him. She demanded a new painting. Why was he working on the Renoir, when he should—Neal mentally shook himself. Mozzie was continuing to talk to him. This was reality. Not the Marquesa. Not Scarbo who'd leaped on his bed to wake him. Neal felt his neck cautiously. He remembered Scarbo's fangs piercing his skin but couldn't find any bite marks.
Slowly the fragments of memory made sense. Around four in the morning, he'd reached a good point to quit on the painting and had cleaned his brushes. Mozzie was dozing on the couch. He'd finally worn out Scheherazade. Neal collapsed on the bed and slept dreamlessly till Scarbo arrived.
If Mozzie hadn't been here, would he have destroyed the Renoir?
"Have some of that coffee," Mozzie urged. "I brought over Kona coffee beans from the Emporium."
"You mentioned Mitch called?" Neal asked, forcing aside thoughts of the Marquesa and Scarbo.
Mozzie perched sideways on a chair. "He's arranged for me to borrow a potshard! While you're at your appointment with Christie, I'll swing by NYU to pick it up. I'm sure Peony will want to conduct the seance tonight."
#
The results from Christie's exam were inconclusive. His blood pressure was fine, but he'd have to wait for the results of the blood work. It was a similar situation for Sam. When Neal asked him how his night had gone, Sam joked that Maia's presence was giving him sweet dreams.
If Sara had been sleeping with Neal, would his dreams also have been better? He vowed to paint through the night to avoid any recurrence, but realistically how many sleepless nights could he endure before crashing? Would Astrena and Scarbo be even more vindictive?
Another murder victim had been found. This one was north of Columbia and close to the Hudson River. More reports of missing persons were also surfacing. It had gotten to the point that Hughes was seriously considering informing the police about Weewillmeku. If only they had more concrete evidence, he would have already done so. Peter spoke with the police detective in charge of the case who was convinced that the perp was either a deranged madman or a serial killer with a perverse sense of humor. Ancient leech-spirits were a non-starter. Although the howls continued, no one had linked them to a sighting. As for the zombies spotted on campus, only Mozzie and perhaps the Winchesters treated them seriously.
Sara texted him several times during the day. Now that Neal had Nurse Mozzie watching over him, speaking with her was a challenge. Their situation like everything else in his life was growing intolerable. Under the circumstances, having another seance to attend didn't seem like a bad idea. At the minimum, it would give him something else to focus on.
That evening there were seven of them gathered around Peony's table. This was Peter's first seance. He sat next to Neal. Mozzie claimed the seat next to Peony, with Chloe seated between Dean and Sam.
Peony had draped a tapestry shawl over her cardigan and wrapped her head in a silk turban. Neal was skeptical about the attire, but Chloe explained it helped her focus. He could relate. The clothes he wore during a con were an essential element of shapeshifting into a different personality.
Peony had requested they bring photos of the leech wounds and the drawing Neal had made from Dean's description of Weewillmeku. She'd nestled the potshard on a mound of cuttings from the marsh located next to the sports complex. She'd collected marsh water to use as a component in her infusion. The embossed silver cauldron was sitting on a hotplate in the center of the table. Neal could smell sage, rosemary, and a whiff of maple.
Maia was the only one not attending the session. When Neal asked Sam about her absence, he said she wanted to spend the time on researching a cure. Sam suspected she was also nervous about seeing a spirit. Neal didn't blame her. Peony was attempting to summon a Lenape shaman. The only other spirit Neal had encountered outside the ones in his dreams was a swamp spirit in southern New Jersey—not something he wanted to revisit.
Peony began murmuring in Latin. The air slowly grew more oppressive. A damp chill settled into the room. Neal felt his forehead. It was clammy to his touch. The only light was being provided by tapers in silver candlesticks. He gave an involuntary shudder as the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle.
Peter was staring at the smoke wafting out of the cauldron, his mouth set into a determined line. Quantico training didn't provide any guidance on seances.
Peony picked up the potshard and placed it on her outstretched palm as she leaned over the cauldron. Gently she blew on its surface. Her bracelets jingled with her movements.
Slowly a ghostly shape coalesced in the steam. Neal saw antlers on top of a dark head. Features sharped. Then abruptly it disintegrated.
Peony sagged into her chair, breathing heavily. "I couldn't hold onto it," she admitted. "Did you see it?"
Neal scanned the others and they were all nodding.
"Can you try again?" Dean demanded.
"I don't think I'm powerful enough." Peony turned to Chloe. "You should try, love."
Chloe looked shocked. "Me? I've never invoked a spirit."
"Yes, you have," Sam said. "The swamp spirit? You may not have intended to summon it, but it answered your appeal."
When Dean made a rumbling sound in his throat, Sam turned to him. "Look, I'm sorry if Chloe has abilities you're not comfortable with, but Peony's right. We have to let her try."
"But I don't know the words," Chloe objected.
"You don't need to. I have them written down." Peony went to the bookcase where she retrieved a small black journal from a locked drawer. Neal eyed it curiously as she thumbed through the pages. There were no illustrations like in the Winchesters' journal, but the text was written by hand.
She stopped on a page in the middle of the journal and pointed out a section to Chloe. "Let's say it together."
As they began to chant the words, the air once more grew cold. Neal felt his breath quicken as the figure reemerged. This time he grew into focus. High cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His hair hung loosely onto his shoulders. He appeared to be draped in a blanket adorned with feathers.
Peter's hand clamped onto Neal's arm as he leaned away from the table.
The figure moved out of the smoke and toward Chloe until his face was directly opposite her. She looked terrified but she continued to chant. Dean started to stand up but Sam pressed a hand on his shoulder to hold him down.
Without warning the figure spun around to face them, his back to Chloe. He appeared as a translucent overlay with his head directly in front of hers. Chloe had become expressionless.
"Don't interfere," Peony warned in a low voice. "He's chosen a suitable vessel to speak through. He will translate his thoughts through Chloe's mind for us to understand. You may now ask your questions."
"Who are we addressing?" Sam asked.
"You may call me Raincloud," Chloe said in a monotone.
Peter swallowed. "Where are you from?" he asked in a strangled voice.
"My people lived hundreds of years ago on the island where you now dwell. We have watched for centuries what you have done with our land and our waters."
Chloe's face registered no emotion, but Raincloud couldn't be pleased with the transformation.
"We believe Weewillmeku is angry with us," Mozzie said. "Can you sense his presence?"
"Weewillmeku has arisen. He seeks vengeance."
"Why has he waited all these years?" Sam asked. "Has something new caused his displeasure?"
When Chloe didn't respond, Peony murmured, "He's reading her memories." She blew lightly on the infusion to make the steam waft in Chloe's direction.
"You have disturbed Weewillmeku's spawning ground. Countless eons ago he was born in the waters north of the island. The marsh that you are destroying is sacred. You will have to bear the consequences."
"Is there any way to appease him?" Neal asked.
"Yes, but I have no reason to come to your aid."
"If we can protect the marsh, will you help us?" Mozzie asked.
With a rush the shaman flew to Mozzie, pressing his face to within an inch of Mozzie's nose.
"I'll judge by your actions!" Raincloud hissed. An instant later the spirit vanished.
#
When the seance began, Maia retreated to Peony's dining room with the two grimoires. The room was a safe retreat since it was normally only used for breakfast and lunch. Peony had made her a pot of tea which was now sitting under a pink knitted tea cozy on the sideboard. Tatyana was curled up at her feet.
Maia had been careful to stay away from any of Peony's sessions, fearful about what the psychic might sense about her. Peony's talent was formidable. If this were ancient Greece, she'd be honored as a seer. She reminded Maia of the ancient druidess who long ago foretold her future. The vision had been so terrifying—of Maia being ripped from her home, drinking blood, entering strangers' minds—that she ran away to hide in the forest. It took her father days to find her. He tried to tell her that the druidess had been wrong, but there were no comforting words from her mother. She knew the truth.
The door opened and Chloe stepped inside. "You missed quite a session." Her face looked drawn, and Maia immediately went into protective mode, berating herself for not having been there to support her cousin.
"Are you all right?"
"I think so." Chloe eyed the teapot. "I don't normally drink tea, but I'll make an exception."
"I'll get the tea. You need to sit down and rest."
Chloe told her about the shaman. "It was the strangest feeling. I sensed his presence in my mind. I saw images of encampments along the river. I shared his outrage for what we'd done to their former home."
"And now?" Maia asked, pouring the tea into a cup and adding extra sugar before giving it to her.
"He's gone. No damage done." Chloe might think she was fine but she still looked shaky. The china cup rattled on the saucer when she took it from Maia.
"What did Peony say?"
"She believes I have an inherent ability to connect with spirits. It may be something that runs in my family, although I don't know of anyone else who has the talent. When Peony started discussing it, I could tell how upset Dean was."
"It's understandable. From what you told me, almost all the witches he's encountered were up to no good."
"He's trying to adjust. He respects a psychic in his hometown." She smiled ruefully. "But he's not sleeping with her." She took a sip. "Do you have any psychic abilities?"
"What do you mean?" Maia asked, startled
"I don't know. Visions? Premonitions?"
Maia didn't want to lie to her. "I've never felt anything unnatural." That was true as far as it went. She couldn't remember what it was like to feel normal.
"Let me know if you do."
Had Maia inherited any gifts from her mother? She'd been revered as a healer. Later, Maia acquired powers when Electra elevated her. How many lives had she consumed as a consequence? If her mother were alive, she'd despise her for what she'd become. Maia felt her cheeks grow hot with shame.
"Don't worry," Chloe said. "I'm sure you would have noticed if it were anything significant."
Maia rushed to change the subject. "Did Raincloud give any hints on how to appease the leech-spirit?"
"No specifics. Mozzie's convinced that saving the marsh is the solution. Raincloud will take it as proof that we're worthy of being rescued. Dean and Peter are skeptical, but Sam believes Mozzie could be right. If the marsh is sacred, saving it might convince Weewillmeku to leave. Those zombies we've been seeing? Raincloud says that they can be returned to their normal selves if we act in time. Otherwise, the process is irreversible and they'll become killing machines."
"How much time do we have?"
"Raincloud warned that by the next full moon it will be too late to undo the damage."
"Is Columbia at all interested in saving the marsh?"
"I don't think they're opposed to the idea per se, but they already have an offer from a developer. The land would provide needed funds for the school. What we need is some wealthy benefactor to take up the cause and provide the funds."
Electra's foundation was actively seeking worthwhile projects. Could Maia persuade her to sponsor the marsh's rescue? What would she demand in return? Maia decided not to mention anything to Chloe until she found out if there was any hope. Besides, there was something much more vital to discuss. "I believe I may have found the potion."
"You did? Which book had the recipe?"
"It was a combination of both of them. Armid's Garden references an ancient formula but I couldn't identify the flowers she described." Maia pointed to the open page in Chloe's grimoire. "I was able to find the same formula in my book. Most of the ingredients are readily obtainable. A Greek spell needs to be chanted. One of the ingredients, though, is the bloom from a Greek orchid called Eurydice's Tears. It's a late variety—and quite rare."
"Perhaps Billy grows it."
She shook her head. "I already checked with him, and he doesn't have any Greek orchids, but I believe Electra has a specimen. I plan to go there tomorrow. If it's in bloom, I'll bring back a flower. All we need is one."
"How sure are you that this will work?"
Maia hesitated. "If I can obtain the orchid, I believe we'll be successful."
"We can test it on the mice first. Poor things. They've hated cheese ever since I cast a spell on them. We probably should wait before saying anything to Dean and Sam, in case it doesn't work."
Counteracting Chloe's cheese-aversion spell was simple. Maia could do it now, but it would be better for Chloe to think the potion had provided the cure. "It's also important that you never mention this to Electra. She's very protective of her orchids. I don't think she'd approve." That was an understatement. If she found out Maia had stolen a soul-orchid, Electra would kill her on the spot. The plant should have enough blooms that Electra might not notice one missing. If not, at least Sam and Neal would be free. After all her misdeeds, it was a small act of penance. A vampire had siphoned off Sam and Neal's blood for Electra, and now a vampire's soul trapped within an orchid bloom could save them.
Maia would wait till the next day to return to New Haven. Nights she needed to be here to protect Sam. She might not be able to keep Electra from entering his mind, but she could overlay the nightmares with happy scenes so he could sleep undisturbed. And as for that demon Scarbo, he knew better than to attack when Maia was around.