Chapter 16: Seance

When it came to psychics, Neal was a skeptic. All the ones he'd met were fellow con artists. His natural inclination was to place Chloe's friend and fellow herbalist Peony Mirliton in the same category.

He contacted Sam for his opinion, and what he heard was surprising. The Winchesters had worked with genuine mediums. Some were able to see into the past. Others had visions of future events. One could read minds. Sam had heard of psychics who could summon spirits and detect psychic auras. As to whether Peony was a charlatan or had the gift, Sam refused to hazard a guess, but he encouraged Neal to give her a chance.

Peony's B&B was ten blocks south of June's mansion, on a residential side street of brownstones. When he entered the building, he found himself in a sitting room reminiscent of inns he'd visited in England, with floral chintz upholstery and curtains. Peony's passion for herbs was reflected in the antique botanical prints on the walls.

A woman in her fifties with light blond hair and wearing a pink blouse and gray pleated skirt, was seated at a French writing desk. With a bright smile, Peony introduced herself and welcomed him to her inn.

"Chloe's told me about you," she said, taking him by the arm. "I expect you'll want to come here often to visit. We wouldn't want her to be lonely. Evenings at six, we have wine and cheese. Currently, I'm serving a lovely blackberry wine I made last fall."

Peony was one of the happiest people he'd ever met. The pink blouse seemed to cast her in a permanent rosy glow. She explained the others had gathered in the rooftop garden and directed him to the staircase.

He mounted the four flights of stairs to enter a luxuriant oasis set among the steel and asphalt roofs of the surrounding buildings. Dean, Sam, Chloe, and Bobby were sitting around a table underneath a cedar pergola. Honeysuckle vines growing on the lattice framework provided shade from the afternoon sun.

Bobby wasn't normally the most cheerful of fellows, but he was giving a good imitation of one now. He was sprawled in a comfortable wicker chair with what appeared to be a glass of Peony's blackberry wine in his hand and a mostly demolished ham sandwich on a plate beside him. "So this is what life in Gotham is like?"

"Only if you're lucky," Neal said, taking a seat. "Was that your pickup in front?"

"Yeah. I guess I should wash it next time I come to town." Bobby set his glass on the table. "Did you bring it?"

Neal didn't need to ask what he was referring to. Sam had reminded him when they spoke earlier in the day. He retrieved from his portfolio the watercolor he'd made of the ice figure and spread it out on the table. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" He'd done his best to convey the image of a woman made of ice-blue crystals surrounded by an aura of mist and fog. Unfortunately, he only had the vaguest impression of her face—not enough to provide details.

"She's beautiful," Chloe murmured.

"And deadly," Dean said bluntly. "Send us a digital image and we'll circulate it among hunters."

"It gives us something to work with," Bobby said. "If this is Astrena, there must be others who are seeing her too."

Neal retrieved the violet bottles from his pocket and handed them to Chloe. "Treat them carefully. These are the last two."

She held one up to the light. "What a beautiful color. Peony's offered to help me test it. Mozzie also called. He's bringing some equipment over tomorrow."

And so it begins. Mozzie would meet Peony. He'd drink blackberry wine. By nightfall, he would have joined the coven.

"You boys remember Finnerty, the Irish hunter?" Bobby said. "He's been trying to dig up more dirt on pure-bloods ever since the summer solstice ritual when I first contacted him." He paused to take a sip of the wine. "Never thought I'd like this stuff, but it ain't bad. Anyway, Finnerty confirmed what that vamp Clarence in West Virginia told you. The pure-bloods are promoting a new way of operating where the victims don't even know they've been used as a watering hole."

"And get this," Sam said. "If vampires can feed without the vics realizing it, they'd have less reason to hide in isolated nests. They could blend into society while leading a second shadowy life."

Bobby nodded. "It's been bugging me why there are so few vampire reports from Europe. Here in the States, we've been going through a vampire baby boom. Fangs live forever unless someone chops off their head. They can create new vamps whenever they want. Why isn't the entire world awash in bloodsuckers?"

"Europe may have more pure-bloods," Dean speculated. "They're doing a better job of controlling the blood lust of the run-of-the-mill fangs."

"Or fangs could be getting culled," Bobby said.

Neal stared at him. "Literally? Like a wildlife management program?"

Bobby shrugged. "That's what Finnerty suspects. He's heard of cases just like what you reported where vamps simply disintegrated."

"A turf war could be going on," Chloe suggested. "Possibly rival gangs." Her eyes took on a glazed appearance which Neal knew well. Diana got it often. It was whenever she had an idea for her stories. How much of this would wind up in one of Chloe's novels?

"I've been going around in circles about the surgical techniques we've been hearing about," Bobby admitted. "The way Neal and Sam had their blood siphoned off into beakers just don't sound natural for our average fang. Finnerty suggested it might have been collected for Astrena. He believes vamps act as suppliers to the goddess and her sisters. They ship the blood to them for them to sample and select victims. Finnerty's convinced at least one of Astrena's sisters lives in the U.K. and is being supplied this way."

Dean picked up the watercolor to study it. "I don't like it. Neal and Sam's blood was collected. Now Neal's having visions, and Sam gets sick at the drop of a hat." When Sam started to protest, he cut him off. "Hear me out. You'd react the same way in my place."

"But I'm not their type," Sam protested. "I'm no artist."

"You read poetry. Maybe that's close enough. Dude, don't look at me that way. I've seen the book you carry around."

"So what?" Sam glared at him. "You read Chloe's novels. That makes you just as likely a suspect."

"Both of you, stop your caterwauling," Bobby snapped. "Neal fits the pattern better than either of you bozos. He's an artist. Astrena's been in his head twice."

"I spoke with Peony," Chloe said. "She believes she could discover if someone has a psychic link by the aura it would project. Neal, she's available this afternoon if you're interested."

When he didn't answer, Dean appeared to sense some prodding was in order. "We've dealt with countless cases of possession. If it's true Astrena has ensnared you, a psychic could be the easiest way to find out."

"Keep your skepticism," Bobby urged. "But if Peony turns out to be just another wacky witch wannabe, don't give up hope that someone else could have the gift."

A half-hour later, they were seated at a Victorian table in a small reading room off the main lounge. Their psychic guide had yet to appear. Chloe said that Peony used infusions in a silver cauldron to increase her abilities. Despite his doubts, Neal's uneasiness increased as he waited. What if she found something? Should he believe her?

When Peony finally entered the room, she was carrying an ornate silver basin. That must be the cauldron. He'd seen similar pieces that were manufactured in Germany during the nineteenth century. The sides were embossed with flower and bird motifs.

Peony had draped an oriental shawl over her blouse and wrapped her hair in a dark silk turban. His doubts were skyrocketing by the minute. He never should have mentioned the ice woman. She was probably a weird hallucination provoked by stress. Now the incident had been blown out of proportion. This new openness plainly had severe drawbacks that he intended to bring up to Peter at the first opportunity.

He took a breath, feeling better. A logical analysis. Now he could sit back, relax, and enjoy the séance. He wouldn't call Peony a charlatan, but any indication of paranormal activity had to be a parlor trick.

When she placed the cauldron on the center of the table, he leaned forward to peer inside. It was filled with a steaming-hot cloudy liquid. The fragrance was quite strong, and he had to fight the urge to sneeze. He could detect rosemary and mint.

"Relax, everyone," Peony said in a theatrical tone. "Make your minds as blank as possible." She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and began murmuring to herself in Latin. Neal couldn't catch all the words, but it sounded like an invocation. He glanced around the table. Chloe also had her eyes closed and was whispering something. He couldn't figure out what language it was. Was she making it up? Dean rolled his eyes at Sam. He appeared ready to bolt. Sam meanwhile was giving a great imitation of Peter's worried frowns. Bobby sat in sour resignation. One look at Bobby and you just knew that no matter what the outcome was, it wouldn't be good.

If there was any astral presence floating around, he didn't see it. The only effect he was getting was a gigantic headache from the infusion. The air had become oppressive. If Peony didn't stop soon, he'd have to leave. The throbbing in the back of his head turned vicious. He flinched at a particularly sharp stab.

Peony's eyes snapped open. She extended her arms, making her silver bracelets jingle. Headache forgotten, Neal stared at her. Abruptly she slapped her palms together and pointed at Sam. "There!"

A jet of pale blue gas was streaming from the back of Sam's head into the floral wallpaper behind him.

"What the . . ." Dean muttered.

Jingling her bracelets even more loudly, Peony whirled to face Neal and locked her eyes on him. She pointed straight at him, just like she had with Sam. Neal felt as if his head would split in two.

Bobby scowled. "Balls. She's got her hooks into both of you."

The aura, projection, or whatever it was, lasted about a minute before it vanished. Once it did, his headache disappeared as well. Sam said he'd experienced a similar headache, but otherwise they wouldn't have known anything was wrong.

"Those are the strongest astral links I've ever been able to render visible," Peony said, appearing dumbfounded at what she'd produced. His thoughts were chaotic. The impossible was true. Some goddess he'd never heard of till a month ago had established a link to him. The skin at the back of his neck felt cold and clammy. He'd seen the blue plume of gas coming out of Sam's head. That must have been what he looked like as well.

Bobby took charge, requesting to speak in private with him and the brothers. Peony offered them the use of the reading room and invited Chloe to join her in the kitchen for a "cleansing ritual on the cauldron." Neal was relieved to see it carried away.

Bobby closed the door after them. "Boys, I don't like this any better than you do, but you gotta face facts. I've seen similar directional auras before. They're neon signposts of a psychic link. Someone's established a private line to your skulls, and it ain't the tooth fairy."

Dean took a long breath. "Sam, I know sharing isn't exactly how you like to operate but just this once don't make me kick your butt before you spill what's going on."

"I wasn't trying to keep you in the dark," Sam protested. "Wouldn't I feel something if there was a connection?"

Bobby extracted a worn leather-bound notebook from his shirt pocket. "Let's go back to Buttonwood. That was . . . April 9. The fangs had their straws in you and, from what I heard, sucked out a sizable amount of your blood. The hunters who cleaned up the place afterward said that the jars were gone. We assumed other fangs returned to the nest and feasted on it before they moved out."

"What if instead, the vamps sent it special delivery to Astrena?" Dean asked. "Any weirdness you two may have been hiding that you want to 'fess up to?"

"Lay it out in the open, no matter how insignificant it seems," Bobby added.

Sam hesitated and flicked a glance at Neal. "Around the time we investigated that witch in Simsbury, I was having dreams of a woman." He winced at Dean's barely suppressed curse. "I never saw her face. She was always covered with a veil. When Neal and I interviewed the artist's widow, she described somewhat similar dreams her husband had."

"And you didn't think it was worth mentioning!" Dean barked. The exasperation on his face reminded Neal of many a similar look Peter had given him.

"I figured I was just horny," Sam protested with a shrug. "It's been a long time since Jessica. I mentioned it to Neal. It was crazy to think there was any connection to that artist. In any case, that was months ago. I haven't dreamed about her since sometime in June."

"What about you, Neal?" Bobby asked. "Did any mystery woman enter your dreams?"

"There was one," he admitted reluctantly. "I dreamed of a blonde sitting beside Mozart in front of a harpsichord for a few nights around the same time Sam was having his dreams. I compared notes with him. When we heard about the artist, it was a little freaky."

"Ya think?" Dean said sarcastically.

"But we weren't wasting away," Sam pointed out. "I have no talent for art, and neither one of us was having any luck in the romance department."

"I might buy that," Bobby said, "but for the fact that Sam's been plagued by a series of illnesses and injuries."

"That's not right!" Sam objected.

"Son, you gotta be honest. There was that period back in May when it seemed like every case you went on, you got injured."

"But that's over now."

Dean slammed his fist on the table. "How am I supposed to react to this kind of B.S. coming from someone who's been laid up for two days, so sick he couldn't even haul his ass out of bed?"

"That was different," Sam muttered. "It was the flu."

"Are you having any dreams now?" Bobby asked, his eyes darting from one to the other.

"I haven't dreamed of my Mozart babe since June," Neal said. He'd sometimes wondered how people coped with an incurable illness. Was he about to find out? The thought that an ancient Greek goddess had a psychic hold on him and could feed off his life force seemed too bizarre to be believed. But Scott Pembroke had passed away from a wasting disease that baffled his doctors. To Neal's knowledge, no one had ever determined how he'd died.

Bobby closed his notebook and placed it back in his pocket. "Don't get yourselves tied up in knots over this. Assuming we're right, it takes a long time for any effect to show up. So we still have time to break the link. But no more holding back, okay?"

Neal's stomach clenched. Klaus, Rolf, Adler—they were men. He could con them, fight them, take them down. Last resort, he could run away or fake his death. But against a goddess? He couldn't simply pack up and leave town or change his identity. She was inside him, feeding off him.

Sam and Bobby were discussing various curses they and other hunters had removed. Dean got out his dad's journal and read several passages from it. Sam was taking it in stride. Dean wasn't flailing around either.

The feeling of hopelessness gradually receded as he focused on what approach to take with Peter. He'd been invited over for brunch the next day. He'd wait to tell them then. Somehow he needed to reassure Peter he was taking it in stride. Not panicking.

Right.

This was simply one additional layer in what was already the most complicated con he'd ever attempted. If he could convince the team that he wasn't bothered by Astrena, they would relax too.

There was no reason to cancel Riffs. Chloe, Dean, Sam—they all wanted him to attend. It would make a good trial run for his strategy.

#

He decided not to tell Bianka he used to play with a rock group. She could think he was boasting to make himself more appealing, and that was the last thing he wanted. From the signals she sent him, she was content with them being just friends, and that was what he wanted as well.

But that evening when he met her in the lobby of her apartment building and her eyes lit up at the sight of him in his black leather rocker outfit, a bell dinged a warning in his head. Had he misread her?

On the other hand, her pants were tighter than his and that tunic top wasn't leaving much to the imagination. They were both playing hooky from the student grind. Perhaps she was simply appreciative, but he made a mental note for extra vigilance against any come-on signals.

Bianka was too hot not to be swarmed by admirers. As soon as classes started she'd ditch him—an agreeable resolution. And as long as she was willing to hang out with him as friends, she provided a good diversion for any lurking matchmakers, like his cousin Henry.

He wished he could take Sara to Riffs. She'd never heard him sing on stage. But Henry lived close to the Village and went there often with his boyfriend Eric. There'd be too big a risk of discovery.

Riffs had only been open for a month, but it was already one of the hottest nightspots in Lower Manhattan. When he and Bianka arrived, the place was almost full. Dean and Sam had already claimed a table. Bianka wasn't the only one who was transformed. Both Chloe and Maia had radical makeovers. Like Bianka, they were in skintight pants and loose tunics. Maia was the most stunning. She could have been a model. Was this the same quiet classics scholar Neal had seen at the bookstall in New Jersey? Chloe mentioned Maia asked her for wardrobe advice. Sam was clearly appreciative.

Some things never changed. Dean and Sam were in their standard t-shirts and jeans. Over drinks, rock music was a common topic. It came as a welcome relief to not discuss auras, curses, vampires, or anything else supernatural.

He hadn't had a chance to talk with Chloe about her new job and asked for details.

"I'm working at Wooster Publishers," she said. "Their office is close to Columbia."

"Chloe's been annoyingly vague about what she's working on," Dean teased. "All I know is that it's a self-help series. If she expects to hear me sing, I need a name."

Chloe was the one with secrets? Usually, that was Dean and Sam's turf. From the glance she gave him, the irony wasn't lost on her, although she couldn't say much out loud.

"This will cost you two songs," Chloe said, "but if you must know, it's a new series called Dork Guides." She raised an eyebrow, daring Dean to say anything.

Neal suppressed his snicker while enjoying Sam and Dean's reactions. They couldn't tell the others why they were losing it without explaining her connection to the dork disaster in Buttonwood, but you'd have to think that somewhere a demonic imp was smiling about her new job.

"Is there some joke about dorks and guides?" Bianka asked, looking bewildered. "My knowledge of American slang is very limited, and I've learned to be careful. Even the most ordinary word can carry a sexual overtone. Is dork like dick?"

Maia giggled and high-fived her. "You just invented a new slang expression!" She leaned over to Sam and murmured, "How's my favorite dork?"

The conversation degenerated from there. Neal wished for Sara. As someone who liked to muddle words, she'd have a connoisseur's appreciation.

During one of the music breaks, he took Dean to the stage to sign up for slots. As they made their way through their crowd, he spotted the club's owner, Jeremy Sangford, and introduced him to Dean. Jeremy was a Brit. In another era, he would have been classified a decadent. He had a monastic look about his lean features. He looked to be around thirty years old. His dry humor took some getting used to, but he knew music and was passionate about it.

The stage was equipped with a wide array of keyboards and drums. They were available for any of the musicians. There was an electric harpsichord like the one used by John Lennon. Neal figured that was a nod to any baroque rock music fans in the crowd.

He'd arranged for a loaner guitar for Dean who'd asked for an acoustic guitar. Neal would also perform unplugged. He'd brought his guitar from home.

Dean eyed the crowd uneasily. "I've never performed before such a large crowd."

"You want me to be your backup?"

"That will help, thanks."

Neal might not be in any good against vampires, but here he was on familiar ground. They signed up late enough in the evening, so Dean's jitters could have a chance to be washed away by beer.

When it was their turn to perform, Dean started it off with a soulful version of "A Simple Man." For someone who'd been nervous about performing, he warmed up to it quickly. Neal wanted to play something classic to match Dean's tastes and followed him with Journey's "Wheel in the Sky." The crowd's response to them was enthusiastic with shouts for more. Neal coerced Dean to join him in belting out the pounding lyrics of Jamie Dunlap's "Down on Love." When their set was up, Dean didn't want to leave.

Late in the evening, a middle-aged dude sporting a Rod Stewart hairstyle appeared on the stage. He appropriated the bongo drums and began reciting Ginsberg poetry. Did the others recognize Mozzie? Sam and Dean were too lost in their dates to pay him much mind.

"He's really quite good," Bianka said. "Is that his own poetry?"

While Neal explained who Ginsberg was, he glanced around the room. There she was—Janet as he'd never seen her before. Mozzie's girlfriend had covered her short spiky hair with a mane reminiscent of Bon Jovi in the '80s. Janet the rocker chick. Sara liked wearing disguises. Maybe she could come to Riffs after all.