Chapter 13: Airmid

For Maia, the seance had been her trial by fire. She'd been terrified the shaman or Peony would notice something connecting her to Electra. It had barely been twenty-four hours since Maia severed the link. According to Electra, she was now mortal, but she hadn't had a chance to test it. When the shaman hadn't commented on anything, Maia felt a weight lift off her heart.

After the men departed, Peony took the cauldron back to the kitchen. Maia also stood up. "I'll be right back," she told Chloe. "I'd like to check on Sam." Once she was in their room, she could use his pocket knife to cut her finger. If the wound didn't disappear within seconds, she'd have confirmation.

"Could you hold off for a few minutes?" Chloe asked. Her anxious expression made Maia's fears resurface. "I have a confession to make, and I hope you won't be upset. I probably should have checked with you first."

Maia sat back down, uneasy about what Chloe did.

"I asked Peony if there was any way for us to summon a common ancestor, and she's willing to try. She's preparing the infusion now. Please say you don't mind."

Panic gripped her once more. When the shaman's spirit left her, she could have burst into tears with relief. Now she was torn between happiness that Chloe hoped to confirm their blood relationship and abject terror she'd discover Maia's secret.

Peony reentered the room, carrying the cauldron, and placed it on the table. "Aren't you curious, Maia? I'll close the door so no one else will know of our experiment."

"I don't have any brothers or sisters," Chloe added. "I'd like to learn as much as possible about our common heritage."

All of Maia's relatives had died long ago. Would Peony be able to summon one of her brothers? Her mother? She blinked back unexpected tears, her emotions threatening to engulf her. Chloe's eyes looked bright as well. Maia swallowed and turned to Peony. "Thank you for your offer. I'm ready."

Peony smiled at them, her positive energy radiating onto Maia like a warm hug. "You should hold hands and relax. As I explained to Chloe, since I don't have anything personal from a shared ancestor to use, it's impossible to predict who may appear." She retrieved Airmid's Garden from the locked drawer in the bookcase and placed it on the table next to the cauldron. Maia breathed in the scents of yew and rose. Where had Peony found meadowsweet? It had grown in the fields outside her home in Connacht. She let her mind drift.

Peony began chanting softly an invocation in Latin to their ancestors.

The air grew heavy as mist swirled around them. The steam rising from the cauldron began to coalesce into the figure of a woman. She was dressed in a robe of buttercup yellow. Her long auburn hair formed a braided plait down her back. The woman approached Maia, and their spirits became one. Maia knew immediately who she was—Airmid. She spoke in the ancient Irish of Maia's childhood about their family. Tears flowed down Maia's cheeks as images formed in her mind. The voice she'd been hearing the past few months was Airmid's

Airmid then left her and entered Chloe. Chloe's face gazed upon Maia in new recognition. What was she telling her?

Peony continued to chant as she watched. A moment later the spirit vanished.

"Oh, my," Peony said, collapsing into her chair. "I think we all need a glass of wine after that. I have dandelion wine in the decanter." She went to the buffet and poured three glasses. "Do you know who that was?"

"Airmid herself," Chloe said, still looking dazed. She tightened her grip on Maia's hand. "Our line goes all the way back to her. She traced the family through Harriet Beaufort, Bridget Bishop, medieval Irish witches, and finally back to druids. She called us her daughters." She turned to Maia. "Is that what she said to you?"

Maia nodded, unable to express her emotions in words. Airmid was the great-grandmother she'd never met. Her mother had mentioned her, but Maia thought she was simply speaking in general terms. Airmid confirmed the relationship and embraced her as a daughter. She seemed to know about her past—she referred to Maia living in exile—but there was no hint of criticism. Maia doubted anyone else would feel the same way.

"What will Dean say?" Chloe asked, a shadow crossing her face. "Not only do I have witches in my family tree, but I'm descended from the Irish goddess of magic." She exhaled noisily. "This could be the final straw."

"We don't have to mention she's a goddess," Maia suggested. "Many believe she was an ancient druidess who later became worshipped as a god."

"That sounds good," Chloe agreed, taking the glass Peony offered her. "After Astrena, none of us wants to hear about any other goddess."

Later that evening somewhere in the bowels of the Columbia tunnel network.

Mozzie hummed an aria from Don Giovanni, as he snuck through the familiar tunnel. "Madamina, il catalogo è questo" was one of his favorites, and he was feeling as lighthearted as Don Giovanni's servant Leporello. Neal was healed, the marsh was saved, Weewillmeku would soon be appeased, and Mozzie had spoken twice with a shaman. It was time to return to his other studies.

He'd responded enthusiastically when Quint called, asking to meet in the tunnels that evening. Quint was a bright apprentice, showing great promise. Travis had been prescient to recommend Quint for Mozzie's SETI subgroup. Not all of the members were believers in the importance of tunnel slime as an indicator of extraterrestrials on Earth, but Quint from the first showed remarkable open-mindedness. In some respects, Quint reminded him of Neal when they'd first met—a sponge eager to absorb the lessons Mozzie chose to impart.

Someday in the distant future, the lad might be the disciple to carry the message forward in Mozzie's footsteps. Quint was a little shorter than him, but that shock of red hair made them about equal in height. His new apprentice had never mentioned his family and appeared to be a loner—something else they shared.

Off in the distance, he spied another headlamp, likely Quint's. The designated rendezvous location was in one of the old brick tunnels close to Buell Hall, the only surviving building from the pre-university period.

Quint had become his partner in tunnel exploration, taking over for Neal who claimed to be busy with other projects. Mozzie detected Peter's influence in Neal's professed lack of interest. Ever since that regrettable instance when Neal nearly died in the tunnels after being poisoned, his enthusiasm for spelunking had waned. But no such constraints for Quint. He had the zeal of the newly converted.

"Hey, Mozz!" Quint's grin widened. "Hope you're ready for a deep dive. I may have discovered a new species of slime!"

#

Mozzie extracted a specimen bag from his jacket pocket and carefully scraped off a few milliliters of the amber-colored ooze. "If this proves to be a new organism, you should have the privilege of naming it."

Quint pondered the request, giving it careful consideration. "Quime, perhaps?"

Mozzie rolled the word on his tongue. "Excellent choice! I'll label it in the lab. Do you mind if I head back? I should perform tests while the specimen's fresh."

"Go ahead. I'll explore a little longer then leave too."

Quint watched Mozzie recede into the tunnels. He'd never divulged where his lab was, but Quint knew about his bunker. Scarbo had discovered the location. Someday it could prove useful.

The discussion with Mozzie had taken longer than he'd expected. How anyone could find slime so fascinating was a mystery. Scarbo should have already arrived. Quint walked the short distance to the manhole, removed the lid, and dropped down.

And there was his little pal. Scarbo's bulging yellow eyes and rat face were unmistakable. With his gray clothes, gray cap, and gray face—if ever there was a creature meant for the tunnels, it was Scarbo. Quint enjoyed introducing him to the network. It was a convenient location for them to meet without fear of discovery.

Scarbo doffed his cap and gave a low bow. "My lord Thanatos, I'm honored."

Quint saw his greedy eyes scan his hands. The mushrooms of Oblivion were delicious. They satisfied all your cravings while giving you dreams of infinite pleasure. Addiction was a small price to pay. After one bite, Scarbo readily switched his allegiance.

"What news do you have of my sister?" Quint asked.

"Astrena informed me she won't need my services tonight for Caffrey."

"Did she explain why?"

"No, and this is the second night in a row." He leered up at Quint. "I'd tortured him the previous evening. A few more nights and I would have driven him insane. She didn't explain why she canceled."

Quint reached into a pocket and pulled out a single mushroom. The coral cup glowed softly in the obscurity of the tunnel. Scarbo snatched the mushroom from his hand. With one flick of his long tongue, he sucked it into his mouth.

Electra's mood swings were difficult to understand. First, she'd been enraptured by her new protégé then she wanted to finish him off. Had she changed her mind once more? Perhaps she'd been living with humans so long, she was experiencing a midlife crisis. He could exploit that.

Quint had been bored out of his mind in Oblivion. Tormenting ghosts grows stale after a few millennia. When he finally discovered how to access the upperworld, it was like he'd been reborn. Finding Electra was trivial. A bookstore owner—what a farcical notion. But it gave him an idea. What she did, he could too. Her bratty handmaiden Maia was a student, a cover which worked equally well for him. Since Electra was concentrating on New York City, he'd chosen Columbia for his playground. He'd known Scarbo since Electra hooked up with the dwarf demon in Rome. In those days Scarbo worked for them both. And the fun they'd had with Nero . . . Ah, now that was the true Golden Age.

Quint returned his focus to the present. Scarbo's tongue was licking around his mouth for any lingering trace of the mushroom. "What about Maia? Did you discover if she knows about Jeremy?"

Scarbo sniggered. "She has no idea he's one of Astrena's pure-bloods. The sisters aided in their creation but didn't see the final products. Meanwhile, Astrena grows increasingly distrustful of her."

"Does she now?" Astrena's paranoia would make her easy prey to torment.

Quint had been waiting a long time for revenge. Now that he'd discovered how to escape from Oblivion, he could take his pleasure at will. She thought her empire was secure. He was about to prove how wrong she was.

#

"Neal, I don't care what you're doing, let me in!"

Neal strode over to the door while continuing to plead his case with Peter on the phone. "I'm dressed. I'm ready to go. You need me." He slid back the bolt and opened the door to an irate Mozzie who buzzed in like an angry hornet.

"You're right, I need you well." Peter's voice was a concrete barricade. "Your job is making that happen. Bureau agents and NYPD are scouring the campus. Dean's searching too. Let us handle it."

"But you don't—"

"No buts. I'm glad your fever's down. Keep it that way and don't make mine go up. Goodbye."

Neal glared at the silent phone. He could meet them there. There had to be some way he could help.

"What happened?" Mozzie asked, wide-eyed. "Was Weewillmeku found?" Neal had already changed into jeans and a turtleneck. He should be helping Peter, not languishing in a room with floral wallpaper.

"Diana and Jones are missing. They'd gone to Columbia to interview Quint early yesterday evening. Christie was working the night shift. She didn't realize Diana hadn't returned till she returned home this morning. She tried to call her and got no answer. That's when she called Peter."

Mozzie sagged like a bag of potatoes into a chair. "What did Quint have to say?"

"They left the meeting at seven p.m. The Bureau has agents on campus, but so far they haven't found anyone who's seen them. Jones drove a Bureau car that was equipped with a GPS tracker. The car was found in a parking lot near Quint's dorm." Neal resumed his pacing.

"And where are you going?" Mozzie nodded to the duffel bag on the bed.

"Home. Chloe gave me clearance. I'm fever-free. Peony tested me once more, and there's no trace of the link. I can resume my life."

"Is your coordination back?"

Neal hesitated for only a second. "I haven't crashed into any walls lately. I've got to do something. I can't just sit here."

Mozzie frowned. "I'm sorry, mon frère, but the suit's right. Realistically, what could you hope to accomplish? The police and feds are quite capable of searching for witnesses. Have you heard back from Christie?"

He shook his head. "She hopes to have the blood test results back tomorrow. Peter refuses to allow me to return to work till she's given the okay."

"So we wait," Mozzie said philosophically. "One step at a time. You're free of Astrena. We saved the marsh. My contact told me Columbia's already begun researching names. I suggested a Lenape name. Muscota has a nice ring."

"What does it mean?"

"'Place in the reeds.' Weewillmeku would approve." He lowered his voice as if he were worried Willy was listening in. "Who do the feds suspect?"

"The official suspect is the person Quint saw talking to the students. If there's a criminal ring recruiting on campus, they may have targeted Quint as well."

"It's a bad business. Still, Diana and Jones may be better off with a crime syndicate than leech-mouthed vengeance seekers. Peter didn't banish you from the sunset ceremony, did he?"

Neal shook his head.

"Good. I'll help you move back to the loft. You can distract yourself by working on the Renoir—wasn't it supposed to be done?—then I'll pick you for the evening ritual."

"What will you do during the day?"

"I'll sniff around Columbia for leads. The lady suit and wet suit are my friends, too."

#

Crowley parked his BMW sedan in the boathouse parking lot by the sports complex. It was a cold, damp start to the day, and he indulged in a moment of grousing over why Electra had insisted he inspect her new project. Her foundation would manage the donation. A member of the foundation staff could have easily performed the chore. But Crowley would keep his complaints to himself. Electra was increasingly dependent on him as her eyes and ears, a reliance he carefully nurtured.

He removed the lens cap of his camera and began snapping photos. The marsh to be saved was a tiny bit of land—nothing like the vast bogs around Canisbay in the Scottish Highlands where he grew up. That brought him up short. Why had he even thought of his birthplace? Was this Maia's doing? Were her notions of clans and fealty messing with his head?

Maia disclosed that she grew up in Ireland in the first century. Why had Electra gone to the bother to abduct her when the temples in Greece must have been full of eligible nymphs? The only reason he could think of was that her parents were powerful druids. That raised the possibility he and Maia were related. His mother Rowena liked to boast she was descended from druids, and there was no doubt her powers were formidable. Still, her claim didn't mean much. Rowena liked to boast about everything.

One thing was certain. Celtic blood ran in both Maia and Crowley's veins, and that made them blood relations of a sort. Was that he'd become attached to the little mouse? When was the last time he'd wanted to protect someone? Had he ever wanted to?

Astrena had elevated her to be her sister. Could she make him a god? The thought tantalized him. And now Thanatos had entered the picture. Crowley hadn't thought she feared anyone, but plainly he had some hold on her. What was it? Crowley knew she had the power to place vampire souls in orchids, but supposedly Thanatos could as well. Was he really the one responsible for severing the links or had Maia the mouse done the deed to save her moose? It was very suspicious. And all that meant more leverage for Crowley.

The work on the sports complex was going at full tilt. Electra had paid a handsome sum to save the marsh. Her reward would be the gratitude of Columbia and the local Wicca coven. If he could discover how she channeled their gratitude into power, he could establish an empire with or without her. That thought set a fire in his belly sufficient to quench any morning chill.

A sudden gust of wind caught the flap of his jacket. Accompanying it was a fishy smell assaulting his nostrils. He spun around to see a creature in front of him. A hairless, naked, slimy gray monster of a man with odd webbed feet. His mouth was open like a suckerfish. What kind of demon was this?

Crowley waved his hand to cast him off, but he wasn't quick enough. The monster seized his neck in its mouth. An instant of piercing agony and his world turned to paralyzing fog.

#

"Hagen, answer me!"

Crowley awoke with a splitting headache to the grating sound of some woman yammering at him. He had no intention of responding, especially to someone who used the name of his meatsuit. He wondered vaguely who knew about Hagen, but it wasn't worth the bother of opening his eyes until the drill hammer stopped. His neck was on fire from that leech freak. How dare he treat Crowley, the King of Hell that way? He'd pay for his insolence, although at the moment how Crowley would accomplish it was unknown. Where were his bloody minions?

"He's still out, Diana. There's no point." The man's calm voice was a relief from that harpy. He could share Crowley's Glencraig.

"He's faking it. I saw his eyes blink. Hagen or Crowley, or whoever you are, open your eyes!"

Simply to quiet her, he finally complied. He was in a decrepit, graffiti-scrawled interior. It appeared to be an abandoned meat-packing facility. Multiple levels. Opposite him, swaying from meat hooks, were eight people wrapped up like cocoons in ropes and grimy tarps with only their heads sticking out. He looked up to see he was hung up like a side of beef as well. Not a comforting thought. Who had him on their menu?

Most of the wretches appeared unconscious—asleep or dead. Scratch that. One definitely dead. But the other two—they were alive and kicking . . . or trying too. On the young side. They seemed vaguely familiar. "Have we met?"

"Warehouse in East Harlem ring a bell?" the woman asked, raising an eyebrow. "A Raphael forgery? Goya bonds?"

"You're with Dick Tracy!"

The guy next to her furrowed his brow. "We're FBI agents."

Exasperated, Crowley heaved a sigh. "I know that, Flattop. You work for Peter Burke—a Dick Tracy if ever there was one. I don't believe we were formally introduced."

"I'm Special Agent Diana Berrigan." She jerked her head to Flattop. "He's Special Agent Clinton Jones. We know all about you."

"Is that so, Breathless? What is it exactly you know?"

Flattop looked at him warily. "Supposedly you call yourself Crowley now."

She looked at him dismissively. "They say you're a demon, but you don't look like one."

"What were you expecting? A red face and horns?"

Breathless glared. "No real demon would let himself be caught. See, Jones, I told you he couldn't be a demon."

Crowley rolled his eyes. No respect for one's elders anymore. Which would be preferable? Teleporting out of here or setting them on fire? Breathless would be first, just so he could have some peace.

Crowley twitched his fingers under the tarp and . . . nothing happened. He tried again with the same results. Forget the bonfire, it was time to exit stage right. He focused once more. Bloody hell, he'd been neutralized.

"What's the matter?" she jeered. "Lost your magic powers?"

"The place must be warded," he muttered.

"Yeah, yeah. A likely story."

Crowley jerked his head toward Flattop. "Were you also attacked by a bald overgrown leech?"

"You mean Weewillmeku?"

"Say again?" A creature he hadn't heard of? This demanded an investigation. Before he could quiz them further, he heard a shuffling sound overhead. "What's that?"

"Zombies," Breathless muttered, her expression growing grim. "They dragged you in here. We saw one feed off that man." She nodded toward the bearded old-timer. He looked drained of blood. Poor doofus. Even Crowley felt a tiny twinge of pity for the bloke.

A hulking, vaguely male shape lumbered down the stairs. Tatters for clothes. Blood streaming out of his eyes, his mouth appeared to be permanently frozen into a round cavity much larger than any human—or demon—could possibly make. One of Wee Willie's thralls, no doubt. Since when did Wee Willie become such a pain in a demon's ass? Up to now, the only Wee Willie Crowley knew of was in a Scottish nursery rhyme. This monstrosity was no bedtime story.

The zombie headed straight for the last victim in the line of captives, a woman who appeared unconscious. He leaped upon her, his mouth clamping onto her face.

The sucking sounds were the worst. No finesse at all. If Crowley could just cut himself free, he'd show them what a slaughterhouse really looked like.