Chapter 11: Potent Potion
Maia could have teleported to Electra's house in New Haven, but she chose to go by train instead. She was glad she'd picked a conventional means when Sam offered to drive her to the station in the Impala. If Electra caught her stealing a soul-orchid, this could be their last time to see each other. When Maia kissed him goodbye, she tried not to let any of her somber thoughts leak through. If she didn't free Sam, Electra would kill him. This was his only hope.
Electra had returned to New Haven on Sunday evening. During the week, she worked at the bookstore. The risk of discovery was small. Electra was conscientious when it came to her business. The soirées she hosted for visiting authors and artists were a source of great satisfaction. Recently they'd become even more meaningful. She'd managed to tap into the appreciation she received from them just like the chants of the Wiccans or the supplicants to her foundation. They all added to her power.
Watching a performance of Bell, Book, and Candle had given Electra the idea for the bookstore. She'd owned the establishment for five years now. She could probably continue for a few more before her customers began to wonder why she never aged. Then she'd be forced to sell it and assume a new identity.
When Maia arrived in New Haven, she took a cab to Electra's house in the woods. If Electra's car was parked in the garage, she'd have to postpone the attempt. As the taxi neared its destination, her heart beat faster. She hadn't done anything so dangerous since she'd been a child in Ireland. Then she'd had her brothers, Fraech and Taliesin, to protect her. Now, she'd be on her own.
Electra had restored the nineteenth-century mansion of a wealthy banker into its former Victorian splendor. She'd been fond of the Pre-Raphaelites ever since she fed off Dante Gabriel Rossetti. In a real sense, her home was a tribute to him. Her upstairs study was graced with three of his paintings. The stained-glass panels in the salon came from Cumbria and were designed by the Pre-Raphaelite artist Edward Burne-Jones. Electra had modeled the conservatory from plans of a house in Middlesex where she'd lived in the late 1800s.
As expected, there was no car in the garage. Maia entered through the front door, using her key for the lock. She paused in the hallway to listen, but there were no sounds. Electra always took their cat Daphne to work with her. Scarbo only came out at night. Mai crept through the salon into the conservatory. At its far end, a beveled-glass mahogany door opened into her destination—the grow room.
Orchids grew everywhere—clinging to the walls, cascading from the shelves. They were woven into vines dangling from lattice frames attached to the ceiling. Maia's orchid room at the cottage was tiny in comparison.
She passed the jocular bee orchids. They reminded her of miniature chortling Buddhas. The monkey orchids jeered at her from a bench. She never trusted them. Had Electra turned them into spies? The lovely white dancing orchids seemed innocent, but nothing was safe in Electra's orchid room.
Before Electra abducted her, Maia's mother had trained her in the magical use of herbs. When Electra snatched her away, she placed Maia under the tutelage of the best seers in Athens. Maia's grimoire was the result of the accumulated knowledge. She wrote it in Archaic Irish, the earliest form of the language. As far as she knew, she was the only one who'd ever written it down. She used the Greek alphabet to capture a rough approximation of the sounds.
Electra didn't know about Maia's book, and even if she found it, she wouldn't be able to read it. Looking back, it was hard to remember what caused her to hide it from Electra throughout their long association. Perhaps it was because much of the knowledge predated Electra. It was the only bit of her life in Ireland that Maia had to cling to.
But she hadn't realized it contained the magic to sever links. The formula for the potion was in Armid's Garden. It was a puzzle how Harriet Beaufort had discovered it. She'd lived in England as well as Ireland. Could she have been friends with Electra's sister Gemma? She was a skilled botanist and would have enjoyed Harriet Beaufort's company. And since nothing was revealed about soul-orchids, the recipe for the potion was harmless. But the way the orchid ingredient was described, it could only be a soul-orchid. When the potion was used in combination with the spell in Maia's grimoire, Sam and Neal should be free.
After Electra elevated Maia, she told her she could extract the souls of vampires and place them within flowers. The process was a difficult one. Only Electra could capture their souls before they were sucked into Oblivion, the netherworld of dark spirits.
Maia had asked her once if she could learn the technique. She could still hear Electra's peals of laughter in response. The act was one of the most draining spells Electra cast, but now that she'd grown more powerful, it didn't take her long to reenergize her strength.
Maia's heart thumped a frantic drumbeat as she sped to the pot of Eurydice's tears.
Carmine-red orchids with faces as dark as their souls. There were ten blooms. It was unlikely Electra would miss one. The flowers eventually withered on their own. If Electra noticed one missing, she probably wouldn't look for the withered petals, or so Maia hoped.
She took out a glass jar from her barrel bag and rotated it slowly in her hand. Should she also drink the potion? Rupture her link with Electra?
Maia had never considered herself a vampire but she'd acted like one—drinking blood, feeding off artists, poets, and musicians for uncounted centuries. Under Electra's tutelage, she'd become a monster. She'd broken free for the moment, but as long as the link was in place, Electra could command her to do her bidding. Once Electra knew the connection was broken, her rage could destroy them all. Unleashing a war of vengeance would accomplish nothing. Aghast at the realization, Maia faltered.
Sever the link. You may never have another chance!
There was that woman inside her head again. She teased at Maia's memories. Shouldn't she recognize her? Instinctively, she knew the woman was on her side, guiding her. And she was right. Maia needed to act now.
There had to be a way to prevent Electra from seeking retribution. Could Maia persuade her they'd all been victimized by someone else?
Electra's father, Erebus, was capable of severing links but he hadn't intervened for centuries. Electra's brother Thanatos, on the other hand, had potential. Maia knew him from the early days of the Roman Empire. He was spiteful, malicious, and he despised Electra.
Erebus had granted him dominion over Oblivion. The realm of evil witches, vampires, and vengeful ghosts provided a seemingly endless supply of soul-orchids. Thanatos had the means, the knowledge, and the motivation. Most important of all, Electra hated him. She'd believe him capable of sabotage.
Maia rummaged in her bag for the pair of surgical scissors. With one snip, the deed would be done. The soul-orchid would last for forty-eight hours in the jar. Plenty of time to make the potion.
She steeled her nerves, held the jar directly under a bloom, and severed the stalk. Secreting the precious contents in her bag, she darted to the glass-paneled door and cautiously scanned the adjacent salon. No one was around. She was home free. Maia's breath came out in a whoosh. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it for the past few minutes.
Silently she opened the door and slipped into the conservatory. She'd teleport from there to the Columbia campus and then take a taxi to the B&B.
"This is a surprise." Crowley popped into view at the entrance to the salon. "Has little mouse come to play while the cat is away?"
How long had he been there? Maia swallowed down the panic. He couldn't have observed what she'd done in the orchid room. "You're just the one I wanted to see." She strode forward, in what she hoped was a confident manner, and took him by the arm. "I have a new business opportunity for Electra and would like your advice on how to proceed."
He appeared to believe her. That was curiosity on his face, not suspicion, right? "Very wise of you to seek me out first. What have you discovered?"
"Electra wants her foundation to have a greater presence in New York City. She also hopes to deepen her ties with the Wicca community. I believe I've found a way she can do both."
#
"Any other questions?"
Neal stood to one side of the easel and scanned the audience. Vanya Sherkov, his advisor, had reserved the largest seminar room at Watson Hall for his presentation, and it was filled to capacity with professors and students. Angela's boyfriend Michael was among them. Although Michael's focus was on contemporary art, he'd asked some of the best questions. Goya had created a technique of slashing brushstrokes that was a forerunner to the anguished, personal expressionism popular during the first half of the twentieth century.
Myra Stockman, Neal's painting advisor, had drilled down on Goya's use of aquatint techniques. The effect was particularly noticeable in his dark witch paintings. As Neal elaborated on the way Goya achieved the effect, he tried to shove aside his personal situation. The next workshop, he resolved, would be on someone far safer.
"Just one," Myra called out. Neal steeled himself. Her questions were usually the most challenging. Unexpectedly for a petite woman not much taller than Angela, Myra knew how to impale any grad student in their tracks.
"When are you starting on the witches' mural for Halloween?" She turned around to face the crowd. "I assume you'd all like to see him paint it on Watson's central hallway. Am I right?"
After allowing a minute for the students to roar their enthusiastic approval, Sherkov silenced them with a bellow for quiet. "Neal's work on Goya is for his art history doctorate. Mitts off, Myra. That mural's going in Schermerhorn Hall where it belongs."
Afterward, Sherkov stayed behind to help Neal and Michael load two carts with the canvases and other supplies he'd brought from his studio. Neal had prepared several paintings in various stages of completion as well as a canvas to make live demonstrations.
"We had far more requests to attend the workshop than the room could hold," Vanya said. "Would you mind an encore performance in late October? If you agree, you'll be off the hook for painting that mural."
Neal was glad to accept. Preparation time for the workshops had been much more demanding than he'd anticipated.
"We'd originally discussed you leading five workshops this semester. The Goya will count for two of them. If you pick Italian Baroque masters for November and December, I suspect I could be persuaded to count them as the equivalent of papers for my seminar on the Italian Baroque."
"Thank you," Neal said gratefully.
"You deserve it. It was a bravura performance." Sherkov's smile widened. "That Spanish accent you adopted transported me back to Madrid. It was a master touch!"
Neal forced out a chuckle. He hadn't realized he was doing it. It might seem like a joke to Sherkov but it wasn't to him.
Michael pushed the other cart for him on the way back to his studio. Neal's accent hadn't escaped his notice either. "I didn't know you spoke Spanish. That must come in handy for research. I'm no good with foreign languages. It's one of the reasons I chose contemporary art. Most everything is available online and easy to translate."
Neal was glad Michael stayed to help unload the supplies in his studio. Fatigue was enveloping him like a shroud. He'd survived the workshop on adrenaline but there was none left. After placing a canvas on the shelving unit, he paused to lean against the wall and catch his breath.
"You okay?" Michael asked.
"I'm a little tired," he admitted.
Michael studied him thoughtfully. "I bet it's more than that. Flu's going around. I saw Bianka didn't attend the workshop. Is she still sick?"
"She's no longer in the hospital, but her doctor ordered her to stay home for the remainder of the week."
"I hope you didn't catch what she has." Michael glanced at the supplies still on the carts. "I could clean your brushes."
Neal raised a brow. "Have you ever cleaned an artist's brush?"
"No, but how hard can it be? A little soap and water and—"
"Thanks but no thanks." Neal stirred himself to look more energetic. "I'll manage fine."
Once Michael left, he abandoned the pretense. He was probably just hungry. He'd been living on smoothies all day. Christie would have his head if she knew. Was Chloe having any luck with that potion? Dean had reported on Tuesday that she was convinced she was on the right track. She would have gotten off work a couple of hours ago. Realistically it might take days, and who knew if the potion would be effective.
It seemed to take hours but he finally got everything stowed away. He sagged against the wall for just a minute. Gravity, however, was too strong to resist, and he slowly slid to the floor. The tile surface was uncomfortable, but he was too tired to move. Mozzie had said he'd come by in an hour and they'd walk home together.
He closed his eyes for a brief rest.
#
"Neal, wake up!"
He flinched at the slap and swatted the hand off his face. At the sight of Mozzie crouched beside him, he was too relieved to object to the pummeling. "Did you see him?" Finally, the confirmation was in his grasp.
"See who?" Mozzie asked, glancing around the room.
"Scarbo. Behind the easel." He pointed to the corner and was dismayed to see how badly his hand was shaking. "Why am I on the floor? Did he knock me out? I should restart those lessons with Billy—"
"Neal!" Mozzie grasped his shoulders. "Listen to me. You were dreaming." He stood up and went over to the easel. "See? No one's hiding." He checked one easel after another, looking behind each one. "It's just you and me."
Neal braced himself with a hand on the floor and attempted to stand up. With a groan, he fell back. No wonder he couldn't fight off Scarbo. His strength had deserted him.
Mozzie scurried back and crouched beside him. "Place your arm over my shoulders and try again."
Using the wall as leverage and leaning on Mozzie more than he ever thought he'd need to, he managed a semi-upright position.
"Dean's been trying to call you. Did you talk with him?"
He shook his head. "The phone's still on vibrate from the presentation." Or he was too out of it.
"Never mind. I have wonderful news. The potion's ready! Sam's already drunk it. Peony tested him and the link's broken! Dean's coming to pick us up."
Mozzie's words were tumbling out of his mouth faster than Neal could understand. "Slow down, Mozz. Did you say there's a cure?"
"We're going to get rid of Scarbo and Astrena once and for all." Mozzie dragged a lab stool over and nudged him onto it. "Try to stay awake for a few more minutes. I called Dean when I arrived and saw what shape you were in."
"Just resting."
"Of course."
"Neal?" At the sound of the distant voice, Mozzie darted to the open doorway.
"We're here," he shouted. "Hurry!"
Neal heard the sound of pounding steps of someone running as his eyes closed.
"Don't fall asleep!" Mozzie ordered, shaking him.
"Resting, not sleeping," he muttered. The floor pulled him downward.
"Looks like the cavalry came just in time."
He looked up to see Dean standing at the entrance. He must not have liked what he saw as a frown settled on his face.
Neal made an effort to pull his scattered wits together. "How's Sam? Is he really okay?"
"Huh?" Dean stared at him in bewilderment. Had Neal dreamed what Mozzie said?
"He's been like this since I found him," Mozzie said. "Only speaks Spanish. I found it simpler to respond in the same language."
"Well, I don't speak the lingo." Dean's eyes locked onto him. "Except for this." He pointed to his chest. "Me, you, ¡Vámonos, muchachos! I hope that means to get the hell out of Dodge. Chloe's in the car, parked illegally. C'mon."
Was he really speaking Spanish? He understood Dean fine. Before he could figure it out, Dean was muscling him out of the studio.
He had a fuzzy impression of being dragged down hallways. He came to as he was being shoved onto the backseat of the Impala where he collapsed face down. Chloe said something to him . . . Neal waved to Mozzie to handle it. Scarbo leered at him from the front seat. The Marquesa was angry. Her screams rent the air and made him cover his ears. Vaguely he was conscious of Mozzie pulling his hands away.
He went away for a while. When he came to, his head was being held over steam rising from a silver vessel. Somewhere he'd seen it before. The steam smelled of angelica and basil. Women were murmuring a soft chant. It sounded like Greek. Mozzie would know . . .
#
Neal awoke slowly, hovering for a long time in a state of semi-awareness. He'd been dreaming of Sara lying beside him. He wished he could recapture it. Unless it wasn't a dream . . . He reached out but didn't feel her next to him. Blinking, he opened his eyes to be assaulted by old-fashioned wallpaper with pink roses. Definitely not Sara's room or the loft.
Wherever he was, he wasn't alone. He breathed easier when he recognized Peter sitting in a wingback chair next to the bed, working on his laptop. Sunlight streamed in through a casement window.
"Hey." Neal cleared his throat at the hoarse croak which came out.
Peter's head snapped up and a broad smile crossed his face. "Is that a Spanish 'Hey' or an English one?"
"I'll stick with English." Neal propped himself up on one elbow. "Where am I?"
"Peony's. Mozzie called me last night. How do you feel?"
Neal considered for a moment. "Not bad?"
"That's kinda tentative. You want to try again?"
"Achy," he admitted. "Like I came down with the flu."
Peter nodded like he wasn't surprised. "Sam's the same way. That appears to be an aftereffect of the potion." He filled a glass with water from a pitcher on the nightstand and passed it to him. "You're running a mild fever, but Christie's not concerned. She was in to check on you earlier. She's with Sam now."
Neal sat up to drink while Peter rearranged his pillows. He wasn't congested, but he had a monster headache and every muscle in his body was screaming foul. "What time is it?"
Peter checked his watch. "Ten o'clock. You've been asleep for over twelve hours."
"And you've been here . . .?"
He shrugged. "Me and others. El was here for much of the time. Chloe and Maia have also been checking on you. We were all concerned. You were in pretty bad shape when you arrived—hallucinating, speaking in Spanish."
The water felt cool on his throat. Neal glanced down. He was wearing one of his own sleep shirts. How—
"Mozzie went by your place and picked up some clothes," Peter explained, reading his thoughts. "Chloe thought it best for you to stay here till they're sure the link stays severed. Dean and Mozzie moved you into the room last night."
"How do they know the spell is broken?"
"I'm not the best one to ask, but that astral blue trail Peony was able to make visible?"
"Yeah, she tested me and Sam on Monday, and we still had it."
"Well, you don't now."
Neal broke into a grin. "And all I have is the flu? Go, Chloe and Maia!"
Peter chuckled. "You don't even have to suffer the embarrassment of being a dork."
"I may actually get my life back . . . Wow." He'd never told Peter how much the curse had been weighing on him, but Peter understood.
"We both can," he said quietly. "Do me a favor? Stay away from any witches, vampires, or demons for . . . oh, let's go for broke and say the rest of the year?"
"I'll do my best." He settled back into the pillows. "What's been happening at White Collar while I've been out of it?"
"Travis heard from Quint, the computer science student at Columbia. He spotted the fellow he'd seen approach the missing student but wasn't able to get a photo. Jones and Diana have arranged to meet with him this evening after classes. They're taking along an artist to make a sketch based on his description."
"I could go," Neal offered.
"Yeah, right," Peter scoffed. "You haven't even gotten out of bed yet."
"I figured it was a non-starter," he admitted, "but you can't imagine how eager I am to resume my life."
"Give it time," Peter urged. "For now, your only assignment is to feel better. Besides, Travis has been working on a digital tool Jones is eager to use. They'll manage. Have you heard anything from Bianka?"
"She's resting at home. I talked with her yesterday. I followed your advice and told her I came down with mono. By this weekend, I should be ready to resume the con."
Peter gave him a warning look. "I hope your memory's not been affected by that potion. I distinctly recall saying the op's on hold till Henry's back. We'll review it then."
"Rolf and Klaus don't know about your order," Neal rasped. He took a quick sip of water. Sounding like a frog wasn't the way to convince Peter he was back. Well, mostly back. "We could hear something about the Vermeer any day." The Dutch master's painting of The Astronomer was meant to activate memories buried within Neal's subconscious. The team believed the Mansfelds had delayed their plan because of the rumors circulating about the U-boat. Bianka's health issues may have also caused them to apply the brakes. But the U-boat con was now over. Bianka was out of the hospital and feeling better. His grace period was fast drawing to a close.
"Stop it," Peter ordered. "I don't need telepathy to be a mind reader. And although it may be healthy that you're thinking of work instead of a Spanish countess, that's still off the table till you're well."
"But—"
His jaw hardened. "No buts. You want me to use my grizzly voice on you?"
The door opened and Dean stuck his head in. "Sure, I always enjoy your grizzly voice. I could hear your growls from outside the door." He grinned and turned to Neal. "If he's yelling at you, that must mean you're feeling better."
"Yeah, thanks for your help last night." Neal clamped down on his impatience. Giving Peter grief wasn't on the agenda.
"Hey, that was an easy one. Usually, my saves involve guns, blades, and corpses to burn."
"Any reports on Willy?" Neal asked, sitting up straighter.
"No, although Mozzie continues to send in third-hand reports about zombie sightings on campus," Dean said. "More significant is that a jogger in Inwood Hill Park was reported missing by his girlfriend. He'd gone out in the predawn hours to get in his cardio before leaving for work. Never showed up at the office."
Peter looked at him, startled. "I hadn't heard about that one."
Dean shrugged. "It came in a couple of hours ago. Sam and I have our ways of tapping into police reports. I didn't patrol last night, but I'll be back out tonight."
"You can't go alone," Peter said, "and Sam's in no shape to help. I'll go with you."
As they discussed where and when to meet, Neal kept his grumbles to himself. He was feeling better by the minute. How soon would he be able to escape the floral fluffiness of his room without bringing down the wrath of the grizzly?
A soft knock sounded on the door.
"Come in," Neal called out in a louder voice than he'd meant to use.
Maia peeked in, looking worried. "Bad time?"
"Not at all. You're just the one I want to see. You and Chloe were my guardian angels last night."
She blushed. "It was more Chloe than me."
"You're being too modest," Dean said. "Chloe told me the spell and some of the ingredients came from you. She also mentioned what a help you've been with pronunciation."
Neal grinned. "So you're the one who saved me from becoming a dork!"
She laughed. "I guess the dead languages aren't so dead, after all. Chloe asked me to check on you. She's coming back during the lunch hour. From the sound of it, you're doing well."
"I am." Perhaps better than she was. Maia looked exhausted. She was leaning against the wall as she talked with them. Sam had said casting spells could be draining. Was Chloe also suffering? Had Astrena somehow hurt them indirectly? They knew so little about what she was capable of, anything was possible.