Chapter 3: Calling Cupid
Maia placed one more lavender dahlia in the glass vase and then stood back to study the arrangement. "Too much?"
Electra tucked an ivory-colored rose under a cymbidium orchid. "No, you've done well. The flowers suit your cottage." In the month since she'd taken ownership of her new home, Maia had transformed it into a rustic retreat. The furniture was large, casual, and comfortable—clearly selected with a certain hunter in mind. Picture windows looked out on the garden. It reminded Electra of the dacha Maia had designed for her clandestine meetings with the Russian poet Pushkin. She'd had a Russian wolfhound then as well.
Whether it was Alexander Pushkin or Sam Winchester, when Maia established a link to someone she committed herself totally to her protégé. Her current infatuation would pass like all the others. Pushkin's life ended abruptly when he was killed in a duel. Given Sam's life as a hunter, he might not last long either. Or, if Maia became too besotted over him, Electra would have to do the deed herself. It wouldn't be the first time.
But for now, she could be tolerant. She'd let her sister indulge in her fantasy a little while longer even if she no longer stored any blood in the house. At least Maia had warned her to bring along a flask if she wanted any. It wouldn't do for her precious Sam to find bottles of blood in the refrigerator.
Electra took a seat in an overstuffed armchair. "I assume your idyll with your beloved was satisfactory?"
Maia flopped on the couch and patted the cushion for Tatyana to join her. She was wearing a simple white peasant top and a long, cotton gauze skirt. "Even better than I dared imagine. We spent the past three days reading poetry and making music with our bodies."
No need to rub it in.
"It makes me feel bad for you," Maia continued. "All this time, you've restrained yourself from visiting Neal."
Electra gazed at her suspiciously. Was Maia mocking her? She appeared to be genuinely sympathetic.
"But your fast will soon end." Maia curled up one bare leg underneath her and stroked Tatyana's head. "You leave for New York tomorrow morning. Have the arrangements gone as you wished?"
"Not completely." It was awkward to admit that she, Astrena, Queen of the Stars, had been rejected.
Maia sat up. "What happened?"
"I was able to arrange the afternoon with Elizabeth and Janet without a problem. We'll have lunch and take in a matinee. But Neal has a conflict. He agreed to show me his paintings, but he already has plans for the evening."
"How unfortunate!"
I'm sure he wanted to see me. I suppose it's my fault. I shouldn't have waited till the last minute, but I didn't want to appear overly anxious." Electra refreshed herself with a sip of blood. It had been centuries since she'd deigned to capture someone's interest without using her powers. Now she remembered why she'd stopped.
"Perhaps he simply needs a little encouragement."
Electra smiled at her. "I'm sure you're right. Neal's too much a gentleman to cancel a previously arranged engagement. Having to decline my invitation was undoubtedly distressing to him. A regrettable situation that can be easily remedied." She snapped her fingers. The air next to the cocktail table shimmered and swirled until Crowley coalesced, impeccably dressed as always in black with a carmine red brocade tie.
"Radiant Ones"—he executed a low bow—"You called?"
"Status report," Electra commanded.
"As the King of Hell or"—he paused to give an unappreciated smirk—"Cupid?"
"Electra, you didn't!" Maia didn't bother to conceal her amusement. "Have you ordered Crowley to be your go-between?"
Electra heaved an exasperated sigh. "Don't mock me. I already admitted I was a trifle out of practice. What's the good of being the Queen of the Stars if I can't command my minions to act on my behalf?" She turned to Crowley. "Neal is seeing someone. Who is she?"
He raised an insolent eyebrow. "So it is Cupid you want. I endeavor to please in whatever capacity you wish. I enlisted the help of a couple of younger demons who were eager to curry favor. Their task was a simple one. Students are a garrulous lot. When offered a free drink, they're only too willing to gossip for hours. It appears that you have little competition. Neal split up with his girlfriend a couple of months ago and is not known to be dating anyone seriously. A woman named Bianka Kaldy has the art studio next to Neal's. She's blonde and attractive. They've gone out a few times. If he has a date, it's likely with her."
Electra opened her purse and withdrew a hex bag. She had no reason to mask it from Maia. They weren't in a competition. If Electra chose to stack the deck in her favor, Maia would simply admire her skill. Electra fingered the silken pouch for a moment as she reviewed its contents. The bee orchid, salamander bone, and thistle. Yes, it was acceptable. "You are to add two strands of Bianka's hair to the pouch and place it under her bed."
Crowley took the bag and placed it inside his jacket. "What plague will she come down with?"
Electra shrugged. "I sympathize with her. It's understandable why she's attracted to Neal. The spell will be of short duration. After Saturday night, Neal won't be interested in her in any case." She deepened her voice to the tone she used for her strictest orders. "Just make sure that it's in place by tonight."
He bowed once more. "It shall be as you command."
She smiled as he vanished. Crowley serving as Cupid was a useful maneuver to keep him in his place. It wouldn't do for the King of Hell to acquire an inflated opinion of himself. He was her lapdog, serving at her pleasure. It was a privilege she could revoke at any time and he appeared well aware of it.
#
The Mets' game wasn't over when El returned from her girls' afternoon on the town, but Peter turned off the TV anyway. Satchmo beat him to the door to welcome her back.
She'd worn a slim royal blue dress for her outing, making Peter feel like a slob in his jeans and t-shirt. He consoled himself that he'd spent a good part of the afternoon installing a new shower head in their bathroom. He'd earned the popcorn and beer she saw on the cocktail table.
Persuading El to tell him about her day with Janet and Electra wasn't difficult. He offered to make her a cup of tea in exchange for the details. She was practically bouncing with excitement as she followed him into the kitchen.
"Electra took us to brunch at the Glass House Tavern in Times Square. Jessica Lange was sitting only two tables away. We feasted on salmon filet and avocado toast and had Bloody Marys—they were the best I'd ever had. Electra had the same thing, and she claims to be an expert on them. We all splurged on desserts. I had yogurt panna cotta, but Janet's white chocolate bread pudding looked wonderful—"
"—and my doggy bag is where?" He handed her the cup of tea and made a show of peering around her back.
"I knew I'd forgotten something! I promise to make it up to you."
He kissed her. "You know I'm teasing you. Come and sit down on the couch." They returned to the living room. He stacked the newspaper sections, keeping the crossword puzzle on top, so she'd have room for her tea on the cocktail table.
After the play, Janet used her pull so they could go backstage. They met several of the actors and saw the costumes up close. But El's biggest news was not about the play.
"During lunch, Electra asked me about my community theater group. When I told her about the financial problems we're facing, she encouraged me to apply to a nonprofit that supports the arts. Her aunt had started a foundation—I gather her family made a fortune in the shipping industry—and Electra now serves on its board. She believes our group has an excellent chance of being awarded a grant." El paused to blow on the tea before taking a sip. "This could be the answer to our prayers. With her foundation as a backer, we'd be able to proceed with a full season. She promised to send me an application."
He stood up to retrieve his laptop. "What's the name of the group?" He returned to the couch and powered it on.
"Lena Stavrou. I believe they're headquartered in Athens."
"Found it." He scanned the report, clicking on the links for the financial disclosures.
El set down her tea to view the page over his shoulder. "Do they pass muster?"
He nodded. "No warning flags. This rating organization gives them high marks."
"Electra said she's long wanted the foundation to be more involved with community theater. We discussed our upcoming schedule. You know how we've been struggling to find a good play for Halloween. Others have wanted to do a vampire play, but after our experience last month I'd rather stay away from anything having to do with the undead. Electra suggested Bell, Book and Candle."
"Wasn't a movie made of that?"
"That's right. It featured Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak. Electra thinks I'd be perfect as the witch, the role Kim Novak played. Janet was already sketching ideas for costumes. The original version takes place around Christmas but Electra suggested we change the season to Halloween. It's so much more appropriate."
He was delighted to see El so enthusiastic. He knew how worried she'd been about their players having to dissolve because of lack of funding. "It's no wonder Electra likes that play. Isn't it about a witch who owns a bookstore?"
She laughed. "We teased her about that. She should be the one playing the character, not me. Janet in particular was merciless, going on about her books on the occult and letting the local Wicca coven meet at her bookstore."
"How did Electra take it?"
"She loved it. She said she wished she could act so she could play the part. She reminded us that she even has a Siamese cat. Do you remember Kim Novak's cat Pyewacket? If I get the role, I may have to borrow her cat." El turned to Satchmo. "How would you like a lilac-point Siamese as a roommate?"
Satchmo's whine echoed his moan. "Couldn't you use Satchmo instead? He'd make a great witch's familiar."
El raised a brow. "So now you're an expert on familiars? I'm impressed. Have you been brushing up on witches as well as vampires?"
"I don't need to. Since Jones and Diana found out about our experiences, they've been inundating me with their research. I thought they'd treat it as one big joke, but Jones in particular is very serious about it."
"How about Hughes?"
"When he said he wanted to be in the muck with the team, I don't think he meant a vampires' nest. But he was more open-minded than I would have believed. And I must admit, it's a good feeling being able to talk about what happened."
She smiled. "Bridge construction can be very rewarding."
"Trust me, Neal's reminded me of that, too." Last weekend Neal had compared himself to the destructive potential of a river. Peter had countered with the argument that communicating with others provided bridges of understanding which would nullify any harmful effects. El had helped both of them with bridge-building. Was it time for him to return the favor? "Your opinion of Electra has appeared to improve."
She flushed. "I always said Electra was delightful. I was simply concerned she was overly interested in Neal. Looking back, I don't know why I reacted the way I did."
"So you didn't detect any cougar growls?"
She smiled sheepishly. "Not even a purr. She was taking a taxi to visit him in his studio, but it's his art she's interested in. A friend owns an art gallery in SoHo that periodically exhibits works by new artists. Neal freely admits that the painting he'd made in camp couldn't ever be exhibited. It's too derivative of Monet. She's curious to see what his own style is like. It would be a wonderful opportunity for him if she recommends him to the gallery."
Neal's terrace. The next morning.
Neal had earned the right to be lazy. He had the arts section of The New York Times to read and a cup of freshly brewed coffee beside him. On a Sunday morning, the traffic noise coming from Riverside Drive was minimal. Peter wouldn't be over for hours.
He hoped Bianka felt better. She sounded miserable when she called the previous morning. There are few ailments worse than stomach flu. Hers hit so suddenly, he wondered if it hadn't been food poisoning instead. She was lucky it struck her before they were at the concert.
Electra had appeared at his studio as arranged at five o'clock. He remembered from camp how elegant she was. For their meeting, he'd selected a dove-gray suit. The silk tie he'd picked up in London. Not typical artist attire, but from the glint in her eyes, she approved of the choice. There was something about that woman. Perhaps the sultry voice with a hint of an accent that whispered of exotic lands. He prided himself on being able to recognize accents, but hers escaped him. It was but one of many mysteries about her, and that intrigued him.
She professed to never have studied art, and yet she demonstrated a deeper knowledge of artists than anyone he'd known. His professors might be more skilled in their analytical ability, but with Electra, it was as if she'd been friends with them.
He showed her the paintings from his first exhibition and some of his sketches for his upcoming master's exhibition. He had grown accustomed to being criticized for his lack of cohesive style, but Electra didn't view it that way. She was effusive in her praise of his creativity.
He'd chosen the subject of rivers for the upcoming exhibition, and one of the rivers that he picked was the Seine. His sketch led them to compare his ideas with Monet's series of paintings on the Seine. Neal hadn't felt there was any similarity between his works and those of the French master, but Electra astonished him with her insights.
When she asked if he was still tied up that evening, he was delighted to tell her his schedule was clear.
She took him to her hotel, the Hotel Plaza Athénée. The luxury European-style hotel on the Upper East Side suited her. She mentioned that she visited New York often and had a suite set aside for her use. The cost would have been unthinkable for mere mortals like him, but not for someone like Electra who helped manage her family's foundation.
They dined on European seabass with celery root mousseline and pancetta. Electra selected the wine—a Montrachet Grand Cru that cost more than a month's salary. He wouldn't wish the stomach flu on anyone, but if Bianka had to be sick, she picked a good night.
Over dinner, they'd continued discussing art. Neal mentioned that he was considering the addition of more bridges into his rivers series and that led to a discussion of Monet's Waterloo Bridge paintings. The meal passed far too quickly and when she invited him upstairs to her suite, he was torn. He'd never seen the suites at the Athénée. Didn't he need to research them for a potential future assignment? The team at work relied on his expertise.
The buzzing of his cell phone jolted him back to the terrace. He was surprised to see Michael's name on the display. Of all the people who might call on a Sunday morning, Michael was near the bottom of the list, particularly when he was visiting Angela.
"Angela's still asleep," Michael said. "I snuck out to call you."
Neal heard the sound of cars in the background and faint snippets of conversation. "It's ten o'clock, and Angela's not awake? You must have had a good time last night."
Michael exhaled and didn't say anything for a moment.
"Something wrong?" he asked, sitting up straighter. This wasn't Michael's normal carefree tone. "Did something happen to Angela?"
"That's what I'm afraid of. I went on a run, hoping to clear my mind. I've been trying to make sense of what happened, and it keeps sounding worse. Man, I'm losing it."
Michael wasn't the type to stress easily. He was a year ahead of Neal in the doctorate program for art history. He paid the bills by also working at Manhattan Geeks. Neal couldn't remember him sounding so agitated, ever.
"Have you talked with Angela recently?" Michael asked.
"She called a few days ago to discuss some identity fraud problems her friends were having."
"Did she sound normal?"
Neal thought back. "Nothing rang a warning bell. She was excited to see you. We chatted about the Bunnicula play she's producing."
"That sounds like when I talked with her Thursday night. Yesterday I drove down to Shepherdstown after work. It took me longer than I'd planned, and when I arrived, she'd already fallen asleep. I'd attributed it to the late hour."
"Attributed what to the late hour," Neal demanded, growing increasingly concerned.
All he heard were traffic noises for a moment or two. "I wish I knew," Michael admitted finally. "At first I was worried she'd cooled on me. I thought about what happened to you and Fiona. Was I suffering the same fate?"
"Not possible," Neal said firmly. "She's head over heels about you. I bet she draws hearts over all her photos of you."
"She's certainly not acting that way. I've become more boring than week-old bread."
"You must be exaggerating."
"You tell me. We haven't seen each other in over a month. I come down to visit her, stay with her in her apartment, and she's not interested in . . . ?" Michael's words trailed off.
Neal assumed they were intimate—they'd been a couple for over half a year—but that was one subject he had no intention of exploring.
And Michael didn't need to draw the picture. His heartfelt sigh was testimony enough. "Our phone calls were a lot steamier than the way she was yesterday."
Angela had taken him to the Bunnicula rehearsal yesterday afternoon. Afterward, she wandered off while he was chatting with the kids. She didn't return for over two hours. Strange yes, but there could have been a good reason.
"The worst was last night," Michael continued. "She took me to a concert by a dulcimer player at the university. She waxed rhapsodic about what a wonderful player he was. I got the distinct impression she wasn't just talking about his musicianship. After the performance, we went up to speak with him and I swear her eyes appeared to glaze over when she looked at the dude. That's when it struck me."
"What?"
"I wondered if she could be under the influence. She seems so irrational and not herself. I don't think if she'd fallen for someone else, she'd be acting this way. Do you know if she's ever taken drugs?"
"Angela? No way." Drug use wasn't uncommon at rock performances, but Angela was as opposed to drugs as Neal. For Michael to ask meant that something was seriously wrong with her.