Chapter 5: Emergency Summons

Michael texted Neal when they were a half-hour out of Shepherdstown. He and Angela would meet him at the Blue Moon Café early that evening. When Neal asked if Angela were any better, he replied with one word: worse.

Neal was so distracted by thoughts of Angela that he only realized as they drove into town how preoccupied Peter had become. He didn't even josh Neal about his music choices. A sure indication he was stewing about something. He was on the point of asking him when Peter suddenly swerved onto a side street and gunned the Mustang like he was on a racetrack.

"Hey, Mario, what gives? The posted speed limit is about a third of what you're clocking. As one with some experience in avoiding arrests, I can—"

"Did you see that man?" Peter demanded, frantically scanning in all directions.

"What man?" Bewildered, Neal surveyed the scene. A few student types were walking on the sidewalk. A couple of women with strollers. Nothing to cause warning sirens to blare.

Peter slowed the car to a crawl. "I was sure . . . but now . . . I only saw the back. The clothes weren't typical."

"Who did you think it was?" Neal demanded.

Peter pulled off to the side of the road, frowning for a moment before answering. "Curtis Hagen or I suppose I should call him Crowley now."

Now it was Neal's turn to scan in all directions. "What exactly did you see?"

Peter let out a frustrated exhale. "I caught a brief glimpse of a face. He was walking on the sidewalk. It was the swagger more than anything else that alerted me to him. He was wearing a black suit and a black shirt. I guess if you're a demon, that's appropriate. If he was here, he's gone now."

At Peter's mention of Crowley, alarm bells sounded. He hadn't been surprised when Peter grumbled about possible paranormal sightings. Their track record over the past few months would make anyone cautious. But he'd assumed Peter wasn't freaking out about it. Had his concerns turned unhealthy? Was he now seeing things?

Or had the strain of worrying about Neal's issues finally driven Peter over the edge? The thought that he might be the cause sent Neal's heart thudding to the floor of the Mustang where it bounced like a rubber-band ball.

He'd spent the past couple of weeks exorcising the fake memories planted in his head. Throughout the ordeal, Peter had been his rock—supporting him and helping him through it. Now, just as he had finally purged his mind, Peter was succumbing to fake visions of his own. This was bad. They were on the eve of a major con. He needed Peter sharp, not seeing things. It would be one of the most complicated cons he'd ever pulled, and Peter was a rookie at cons.

Yes, he'd given Peter a few lessons over the past year. His personal favorite was when Peter played a sexy ski instructor. Then there was the corrupt bank manager during the Samurai bond sting. Peter had demonstrated a real flair. But on both occasions, the opponents were amateurs. Now he would be playing in the majors with experts.

Was Peter even aware of the problem? At least Neal had recognized he was being influenced by mind tricks. Peter might not. It was up to him to ensure that Peter was ready for the con. Otherwise, they'd have to redesign it.

"Damn it!" Peter slapped the steering wheel. In a minute, steam would come out of his ears. "Where'd he go?"

"You only got a brief glimpse." Neal paused to overlay an extra layer of calmness to his voice. No need to exacerbate Peter's frustration.

"You think I'm seeing things."

"I didn't say that, but it's easy to be fooled by a quick look. You remember how obsessed I was with Keller? Last February, I was sure he was stalking my friends at the sci-fi convention."

That brought a smile to Peter's face. "You were a nervous wreck. You'd gone over the edge, thinking everyone in a costume was him."

"I wasn't that bad. It would have been just like Keller to disguise himself in a Wookiee costume, but I admit, I was so focused on the con—"

"—sting"

Neal sighed. "FBI-sanctioned operation that I may have overdone it. You pursued Hagen for years, only to witness him transform into a demon. When Diana and Jones brought him up at the briefing, they inadvertently opened the wound. It's natural that if you saw someone resembling him, you'd leap to the conclusion it was our ex-forger turned demon."

"You're right. What business would Crowley possibly have in a sleepy little town like Shepherdstown?" Peter relaxed visibly. "I must have been mistaken."

"On the other hand, if you truly believe Shepherdstown is the most haunted town in America, should I call the Winchesters?"

"No!" Peter thundered.

"Good idea. Let's wait till the second sighting."

Peter groaned. "Where's this inn of yours?"

There were no more Crowley sightings in the few minutes it took to arrive at their destination. The Thomas Shepherd Inn was a former parsonage dating back to the 1800s. Any lingering spirits should be benevolent. The inn was built in the Federal style like most of the buildings in the historic district—simple painted-brick boxes with metal roofs and decorative moldings in contrasting colors.

He and Peter were shown to their rooms by their innkeeper Edith Logan, a retired schoolteacher. The rooms were bright with quilted counterpanes and homespun touches. It was the perfect setting for Peter to unwind and stop obsessing about demons. His evening with Julia and Graham would also help.

Neal left him relaxing in his room as he took off to confront his primary challenge—Angela. The restaurant Michael had selected was a two-block stroll from the hotel. The Blue Moon Café was a one-story rambling establishment with a retro hippie vibe. Flowers were everywhere. Neal found the squabbling lovebirds in the back garden which served as an outdoor dining area. Surely in such a setting, it wouldn't take long for Angela to be cooing at Michael once more.

But as soon as he greeted her, it was clear why Michael was worried. Angela simply wasn't the same lighthearted, vivacious cousin.

He'd been prepared to explain his visit as something he'd tacked onto a business trip. For his part, Michael said he'd tell her he arranged the dinner as a surprise. They needn't have bothered to make an excuse. Angela couldn't have cared less. The way she acted, Neal was no more entertaining than one of the potted plants. As for Michael, her heartthrob for the past several months, he got less attention than the pot Neal was planted in.

Worry quickly overcame the appeal of the menu with its farm-to-table produce, local brews, and wines. Neal settled on a Merlot from the Doukenie Winery a few miles away to fortify himself for what would be a stressful evening.

Throughout dinner, Angela was quiet and withdrawn, her mind seemingly a million miles away. His attempts to engage her in the identity-theft problems of her friends went nowhere. Ditto for her fieldwork. In past conversations, Angela had talked his head off about how she could use folk instruments with young learners to jump-start their education. In her newfound enthusiasm for ethnic music, she'd taught herself to play the hammered dulcimer last winter. If there was one topic Neal figured he could get her to speak about, it was music. But he struck out there as well . . . until, that is, he mentioned the dulcimer.

Angela transformed before his eyes. Her eyes sparkling, her expression animated, she became the bubbly Angela once more. Only one problem. It wasn't the dulcimer she found fascinating, but a certain dulcimer player.

"Neal, you have to hear him perform! He's a genius on the dulcimer. He could perform at Carnegie Hall!"

"His name is Lutar Garrington," Michael supplied, the gloom in his voice evident to Neal's ears although Angela ignored him.

"And do you also feel he's Apollo's gift to the world?" Neal asked Michael.

"Of course he does," Angela retorted, not giving him a chance to reply. "And don't mock Lutar."

"I wouldn't think of—"

"Well, see that you don't. This week he's conducting workshops on the dulcimer for the music department at Shepherd University. On Saturday, he'll give a concert at Shipley Recital Hall."

Anyone that Angela was so interested in, Neal was too, even if Michael did sag deeper into his chair at each mention of Lutar's name. No wonder Michael worried that Angela had fallen out of love with him. She showed no physical symptoms of being drugged. Her pupils were their normal size. She didn't slur her words. Her coordination was fine. It was her personality that was out of whack.

Lutar had invited Angela to perform with him at the upcoming concert. A rehearsal was scheduled for tonight and she urged Neal and Michael to attend.

He wouldn't miss it.

#

After dinner, they rode in Michael's rental car to the university. Angela dropped them off in the recital hall before leaving to prepare for the performance. Neal was surprised at how many people were attending the rehearsal.

Michael was anxious to hear his opinion, but Neal hesitated over what to say. Clearly Angela wasn't acting like herself, but the cause was unknown.

When an audible gasp came from several women in the audience, Michael nudged Neal. "That's Lutar. What do you think?"

He and Michael were sitting close to the stage so Neal had a good view. Blond hair, tall, roughly his age. Lutar was lean to the point of being haggard and clad in skintight black leather pants with a ruffled shirt. Many of the women in the hall acted like he was a rock star. Some of them went on stage to talk with him as he set up his equipment. There was a vulnerability to his sharp, ascetic features which worked well with his low, husky voice. His fans appeared mesmerized.

A few minutes later, Angela stepped onto the stage. She'd changed into a goth look. It was a style she'd often used at her rock concerts, but this one seemed even more dramatic. A dark carmine-red gown hung in artistic tatters around her. She wore a bejeweled dog collar which Neal hadn't seen before. Was that a sign she now belonged to Lutar? By the moonstruck looks she gave him, it certainly appeared that way.

Angela started the rehearsal with Grace Slick's "White Rabbit." She accompanied herself on the dulcimer. A couple of guitarists and a drummer supplied backup. Neal had thought Grace Slick couldn't be topped, but Angela's version was even moodier. As she sang into the mic, Neal was struck by how the pounding beat reminded him of blood pumping in his veins. Was it the color of her gown? Or perhaps Lutar beside her? After the first verse, his smoky voice harmonized with hers, amplifying the dark music.

Was this the same cousin their grandmother had nicknamed Funny Bunny? She'd transformed into a dark rabbit.

Or was he overreacting? Angela latched onto new ideas with passion and enthusiasm. She'd been that way when she embraced ethnic folk music. Was this simply another example? She might revert to her normal self after a month or so. Angela hadn't said she was personally attracted to Lutar. Conceivably she could simply be enamored with his music, although plainly Michael didn't think that was the case.

Lutar played several solo selections on the dulcimer. His talent wasn't in doubt. He could manipulate the dulcimer to convey emotions more powerfully than anyone Neal had heard. Most of the songs were of sadness and destruction. When he sang, "Nothing Else Matters," Angela looked like he was all that mattered. Between selections, he discussed the music with the audience. His voice had a subtle foreign accent. At first, Neal thought it was Eastern European, perhaps Romanian, but it also had a hint of phoniness about it. Lutar blended European and American sounds in a way that simply wasn't natural.

The last number was "The Kiss" and was performed as a duet by Lutar and Angela. Neither one sang but they gazed into each other's eyes as they played their dulcimers to hypnotic effect. Neal's mood darkened as he watched her, and Michael was drowning in jealousy. If Angela's passion wasn't real, she was a better actress than their grandmother.

Angela wasn't alone in feeling the heat. Several women in the audience had the same entranced look. The guy wasn't that handsome. What was it?

After rehearsal, Neal tried to talk with her but she brushed him off, saying she and Lutar were going back to his place to rehearse some new songs. Michael erupted at her words and dragged her aside. It was the first time Neal had ever seen Michael angry. Neal didn't blame him, but he only served to make Angela flare back at him. This wasn't Angela. It made Neal reconsider drugs. She wasn't showing any physical symptoms, but the change in her personality was too dramatic for it to be anything else.

While they argued, Neal talked with some of the other students. To find out what had happened with Angela, he needed to know more about Lutar Garrington. He already knew he didn't like him but was he dangerous?

Roadside Motel in Cape May, New Jersey.

"Don't use all the hot water!" Dean called out as Sam headed for the shower.

"You already had one shower. The rest is mine."

"Bitch," muttered Dean. He could still smell the residue. It must have gotten into his pores. They'd both been slimed with ectoplasm from that ghost. The stuff was black as tar and just as sticky. On the way back to the motel, they'd sat on newspapers to protect the car upholstery.

But it was worth it. Cape May's ghost population had lost one honkin' mean ghost who'd caused the deaths of four people. The other ghost reports all seemed benign. Dean was ready to move on. Cape May, like so many other towns, was raking in tourist dollars from its resident spirits. As long as they didn't kill anyone, he was fine with letting Cape May's Caspers roam free.

He rummaged through Sam's duffel bag to find his laptop. Time to scout the next monster on the loose.

A slim book was buried under his clothes. Dean paused. He hadn't noticed Sam reading anything. As his older and wiser brother, shouldn't he keep tabs on Sam's books? Which brain was he thinking with? Knowing Sam, it'd probably be the upstairs brain which meant no porn photos, but you could always dream. Monster research could wait.

Dean pulled out the book. The Dream Keeper? The illustration on the cover didn't look promising, and when he opened it up, his fears were confirmed. Seriously? What hunter picks poetry over porn? That had to be Maia's influence. Sam never used to read poetry. Was he writing the stuff too? The next time Sam joshed him about watching Oprah, Dean would have his water bomb primed to launch.

When his cell phone rang, he jumped on it, hoping it was Bobby with a job, preferably one without ectoplasm. Instead, the display said it was Neal. Dean hadn't heard from him since the vampires in New Jersey. Neal wasn't known to call to make small talk.

And this was no exception. But instead of vampires being the topic, this one had Dean scratching his head. "Demonic dulcimer? In answer to your question, yes, objects can be cursed, but what the hell's a dulcimer?"

"It's a folk string instrument, a little like a zither." As Neal explained what he'd witnessed, Dean understood why he was worried. His cousin had gone through a radical personality change in less than a week. No evidence of drug use, no slurred speech.

"If the instrument's cursed, it likely would affect anyone who touched it." Dean thought for a moment. "You said a dulcimer has strings. It could be that the strings are cursed. Then only those who play it would suffer the effects. That would mean this guy Lutar is also acting under its influence."

"I talked with others in the audience and several of the women seemed similarly smitten. You could see it in their eyes when they looked at Lutar."

"I suppose the dulcimer could cast some sort of love spell. Could the other women have played it too?"

Neal made a rumbling sound low in his throat. "He's been giving workshops on the dulcimer. He could have had them try it out."

"If you're looking for a paranormal cause, possession is also a possibility." Dean dredged through their previous jobs for similarities. The power of Hook Man, a vengeful spirit, was linked to a hook that had replaced his hand. But in that case, there had been brutal murders. "Or the guy could be charming them. You remember those accounts of pure-blood vampires? They're supposed to have the ability. Not only that, there are reports they can erase memories, so the victim wouldn't have any recollection of what happened while they under the influence."

Neal was silent for a moment. Clearly this wasn't something he'd considered. "Have you heard of any vampire reports in the area?" There was a new note of worry in his voice. If he'd called Dean for reassurance that no monster could have caused the change in his cousin's behavior, he was out of luck. Life sucked sometimes.

"No, but I can give Bobby a call. He's been keeping his ear to the ground for fang activity. Any chance Lutar is the pure-blood you saw in Jenny Jump State Forest?"

Dean wished he'd been the one to have witnessed the vamp, but maybe it was for the best. Neal had made a detailed drawing of what he saw. It looked like a guy about their age—slim with blond hair. Neal said his skin glowed with an internal fire, and damned if the drawing didn't look like it. No way Dean could have achieved that effect with his stick figures.

"He could be," Neal admitted. "I didn't see his face well enough to know for sure. Would that be a problem? The vampire knows my scent."

"I wouldn't get worked up over fangs. My best guess is that your cousin is simply crushing on the dude. Even if Lutar was the vampire at the park, he may not recognize you. He was just born when you saw him. His senses may not have fully developed. Any other weirdness to report?"

"Not sure if this was just Peter over-stressing, but he thought he saw Crowley on the street."

Dean swung his legs off the bed. Normally what Neal described wouldn't interest them. No mangled corpses, no gore on the streets? This was pretty tame stuff. But they hadn't found any trace of pure-bloods, and Neal's account warranted at least a quick look. There'd been no reports on what Crowley had been up to since he'd taken possession of his new body. Had he set up shop in West Virginia? Crossroads demons plied their trade by making bargains. Could he be the cause of Angela's unusual behavior?

Shepherdstown wasn't far away. They didn't have any other jobs at the moment. Could be worth checking out.

Notes: Neal's grabbing at straws to figure out what's going on with Angela, but he shouldn't be so quick to dismiss the dreams he had after spending the evening with Electra. Could she have had a hand in why he found himself in front of an easel when he woke up? Electra's just getting started.

The Blue Moon Cafe and Thomas Shepherd Inn are real places in Shepherdstown, but the innkeeper is fictitious. I was inspired by the hammered dulcimer music of Scott Williams for Lutar and Angela's performance. The Hook Man Dean refers to is from a canon episode of Supernatural (Season 1, Episode 7).