Chapter 3: Witchcraft
Sam looked over at Dean as he accelerated through the turn. "I thought you'd spend the drive up to Connecticut griping about working with feds."
"Peter's eased up on the hard-nosed attitude. Besides, the job is better than most. We can take down a witch and get our expenses paid by the feds. No worries about being tossed in jail as a reward for our efforts. So what if we have to go along with a few requests?" Dean slipped in a cassette of "Bad Moon Rising."
"This new mellow attitude wouldn't have anything to do with Chloe?"
"Of course, not. You're the one always whining to stay focused on the job. How much further is it? I already saw the signs for Avon."
"She said Simsbury was up the road a few miles from Avon." Sam began singing obnoxiously. "Dean has a crush, Dean has a crush."
"Careful, dude. You wanna walk the rest of the way in?"
"How many times have I had to listen to you sing?" Sam sat up straighter to scan the road ahead. "The tavern where she told us to meet isn't far from the inn."
"What was the name again?"
"Pettibone's." Sam checked his notes. "It's on Hartford Road."
"I see it ahead on the right." Dean broke into a grin. "And there's Chloe's Mustang. I'm glad you reminded me how much you like hearing me sing." He launched into "Mustang Sally" as he pulled into the parking lot.
"You're going to be insufferable for the next few days, aren't you?" Sam said, chuckling.
Dean didn't dignify that question with an answer. Maybe Chloe knew someone they could fix Sam up with. Someone nerdy who buried herself in research like he did.
Chloe was already sitting at a table when they entered the tavern. She stood up to wave them over. She was wearing the leather miniskirt Dean liked so much. Her auburn hair cascaded down the back of her tight leather jacket.
"Hi, Sam, Ravensword. It's been a while." Chloe gave Dean the once over, and from the look on her face, approved the goods.
He and Sam swung into chairs at the table. The restaurant was more upscale than the dives they usually stopped at. It even had white tablecloths. The polished hardwood floors looked spotless. Chloe must have already spoken to the waitress since she brought over two bottles of lager without being prompted. Dean tipped his bottle to Chloe. "I'm glad to hear you freely acknowledge I'm the role model for your hero. It's about time."
But Chloe wasn't prepared for a complete capitulation to the Winchester charm factory. "Just remember Zoe Alderman is the heroine of my stories. Ravensword is only a secondary character."
He clinked glasses with her. "As her major love interest, he's much more than that. And based on the fan comments I've read on your website, he's more popular than Zoe."
She grinned. "You go to my website? Why don't you ever leave a comment on my blog?"
"Because he's too tongue-tied," Sam said.
Dean kicked him under the table. Sam needed a girlfriend so Dean could josh him back. The waiter came by and took their order. Although the place looked upscale, the prices were reasonable enough that they could splurge on steak. Besides, between Dean's winnings from the day of pool hustling and the reimbursement from the feds, they were flush for the weekend.
Once the waiter left, Chloe confided, "The Alyssum Sisterhood isn't the only coven I've joined. I have sisters now as far away as the U.K. and Australia. Because of my ancestry, they've greeted me with open arms."
That was surprising. She'd never mentioned that to him before. But genealogy hadn't exactly been a hot-button topic for them. "You're descended from a witch?"
She nodded. "I've traced my family tree back to Bridget Bishop, the first person to be executed for witchcraft in Salem. That was in 1692." As she talked about her infamous ancestor, she didn't seem bothered by it. Instead, she treated it like a badge of honor. Dean braced himself for the grief he'd get from Sam. His main squeeze was descended from a friggin' witch.
"I have a photo of a drawing made of Bridget. We actually look a little alike." She dug into her bag for her phone and scrolled to find the photo. "Until I met you in April and had that unfortunate mishap with the swamp spirit, I didn't believe in witches and witchcraft."
"And now?" Dean challenged, looking at the photo. She was right. There was a resemblance.
"I admit your tale of hex bags, cloaking spell, and teleportation gives me pause. One of the covens I belong to has been supplying me with spells."
"Don't tell me you're dabbling again," Sam said with a groan. "I need at least a year in between Dean the Dork episodes."
She laughed. "You don't have to worry. I've tried a few gentle spells. Nothing's worked—yet—but I'll keep trying. I must have a little of Bridget's blood in me. I wonder if she's the reason I'm interested in herbs. I was researching Bridget in Salem when you called me. I discovered she owned at least one tavern and was known for her revealing attire." She gave a sly smile. "You might say witchcraft is in my blood. It's my family business."
Sam's face was getting more worry lines than a Pug. "Witches are no laughing matter. Despite what Wiccans may tell you, most witches we've come across cause trouble. Some of them aren't very dangerous—they're more like witch wannabes or students. But the others? You don't want to know about them."
Dean jumped in. "You're playing with fire," he said bluntly. "Some witches have made pacts with demons. Others are born bad-ass. Where we go, we don't see much in the way of good magic, but a helluva lot of demonic cruelty and torture that will make you wish you'd taken up knitting rather than writing."
"Is that what you think you're up against now?" she asked. "An uber-witch?"
Dean shrugged. "Could be. We haven't encountered any other who's been able to do what she can."
"Then you may be interested to know that Simsbury also has a connection to witches. A woman in the late seventeenth century was accused of being a witch."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Another one of your relatives?"
She winced. "I don't think so but you never know. Her name was Debby Griffen. She was known as the Witch of Simsbury."
"I remember you mentioning something about a Windsor witch trial," Sam said.
"That's right. The very first woman known to be executed in the colonies was Alse Young in 1652."
"Have you found any pictures of Alse or Debby?" Sam asked.
"No, unfortunately." She sat back and crossed her arms. "You asked for my help. Isn't it time you clued me in? And I want the full report, not the CliffsNotes version."
#
Neal beat everyone else to breakfast, even Peter. When he jogged down the stairs, the inn was serenely quiet. He picked up a cup of coffee at the hospitality bar in the parlor and strolled over to the small art gallery.
On a normal Sunday morning, he would have been having his coffee on the terrace of June's mansion while he read the arts section of The New York Times. Now, instead of gazing out at the Manhattan skyline, he could evaluate the works of local artists. He shifted into his art critic persona and began to peruse the selection.
"I thought I'd find you here," Peter said when he entered the gallery several minutes later. "It didn't escape my attention that you sneaked a peek last night. What do you think? Any artists as good as Neal Caffrey?"
"I wouldn't want to hold them to that high a standard, but some show real talent. There's one in particular I like—Scott Pembroke. His landscapes are quite original." He showed Peter the paintings but Neal could tell he'd have a much more appreciative audience after breakfast.
They loaded up on muffins and fruit at the breakfast buffet and claimed possession of a table. Peter had been unusually accommodating at dinner last night, even tasting Neal's salmon tartar without making a face. Neal lost him on the sweetbreads Normande, but Peter didn't complain once at the menu prices and even allowed him to select the wine. He'd called it a celebration for Neal having survived his first year at Columbia, and Neal was happy to go along.
Dean and Sam had yet to appear by the time they finished breakfast and Peter was in no mood to delay. He pulled a map of the local area out of his pocket and spread it on the table. Neal knew that look. Peter was a man on a mission. The Dutchman was someone he'd chased for most of his career at the FBI. If it meant partnering up with two demon-hunting brothers to track him down, so be it. But Dean and Sam would have to fall in line. If they didn't arrive soon, Peter would go upstairs and drag them down.
Luckily such drastic tactics weren't required, but even so, by the time Dean and Sam straggled into the restaurant, Neal could have drawn the map by memory. The brothers stopped off at the buffet and piled their plates high with sweet rolls before sitting down.
"Where's Chloe?" Neal asked.
"Still asleep," Dean said, after swallowing down a huge bite of cruller. "When I left, she said she wanted to stay up to write. I doubt she'll come down before noon."
"It's just as well," Sam added. "She wouldn't be much help in tracking down a witch."
"And just how will we manage that?" Neal asked.
Sam shrugged. "Chat up the townspeople." He slathered butter on a hot cranberry muffin. "Try to find out if any unexplained occurrences or deaths have happened."
"In other words, find out if she's ganked anyone," Dean added between bites.
"Not the word I'd use but your methods aren't that different from ours," Peter said. "Based on Chloe's information, the rumors about a witch come from the area around Windsor and Simsbury, so we'll focus our efforts there." He slipped on his brook-no-arguments face. "Here's the plan. You'll leave your fake IDs in your room. Dean, you're with me. We'll drive to Windsor, start off with the local police, and proceed from there." He turned to Neal. "You and Sam will do the same for Simsbury. We'll meet back here at noon to reassess."
"Who died and made you general?" Dean grumbled.
Peter pulled out his wallet and slapped his badge on the table. "This gives me all the authority I need."
Sam snorted. "You don't fool me. You just want to have the chance to ride in the Impala again."
"The thought did cross my mind," Peter acknowledged with a sheepish smile. He turned to Dean. "And you'll be happy to know that I brought along my own music."
Dean's objections were put on hold when Peter pulled three tape cassettes out of his pocket. "What you see here are copies of Led Zeppelin concerts my brother made in the '70s—they're the raw, unedited versions."
Dean's frown turned into a grin. "Welcome aboard. You can ride shotgun."
#
Sam scanned the parking lot when he and Neal returned from their morning of snooping in Simsbury. They'd beat Dean and Peter, but then Windsor was a much larger town to canvas. The Simsbury police lieutenant had been unusually cooperative. Sam appreciated the charm offensive Neal put on. Normally Sam was the one who had to placate the local authorities. More often than not, they were irritated by the intrusions of fake FBI agents. Today all he had to do was nod sympathetically.
Neal demonstrated his con artist ability in New Jersey last month. He could talk someone out of his life savings within five minutes if he were so inclined, and the mark would walk away feeling that he'd made the best deal in the world.
When they entered the inn, they found Chloe had wandered downstairs. She looked half asleep and was sitting on a sofa in the parlor while glugging down coffee. Neal helped himself to a mug and sprawled in an armchair to listen to Sam's quick and dirty lecture on the essentials of witches and witchcraft.
When Dean and Peter arrived, witches continued to be the topic over lunch. Since the feds were picking up the tab, Sam splurged on crab cakes. He ordered a side of baby greens with Kalamata olives, walnuts, and sun-dried tomatoes. As far as he was concerned, he was ready to sign a long-term exclusive contract with the FBI.
"We found three suspicious deaths in Windsor," Peter said between bites of his short rib sandwich. Sam planned to order it the next day. "A middle-aged woman drowned in Farmington River, and a young man committed suicide last month in his garage. After lunch, we'll check out the other case. So far there's been nothing to connect them to witchcraft."
"Not a surprise," Dean commented. "Witches don't leave a calling card, saying Hey, dudes, I killed this guy through witchcraft and wave their hex bag in front of your face." He turned to Sam. "You have any luck?"
"One person. A local artist."
"Remember Scott Pembroke?" Neal asked Peter. "The artist I pointed out to you this morning? He died three weeks ago of an unknown disease."
"We have an appointment to talk with his widow, Melissa Pembroke, this afternoon," Sam added. "We hope she'll shed light on how it happened."
Peter pulled out his map of the region. "Chloe, you mentioned you knew of a site where the small whorled pogonia is known to grow."
She indicated a place labeled the Darling Wildlife Sanctuary in the woods east of Simsbury. "It's illegal to collect the flower, but I don't suppose witches hold themselves accountable to the law. You mentioned the flower had been picked only a few days ago. That makes sense since this is about the earliest it would bloom. We had an early spring which may account for it. Plant populations are generally tiny—less than twenty plants. Finding a colony is a challenge because the species has a long dormancy period. I plan to visit the site this afternoon."
"Okay, Burke," Dean said, standing up. "Grab your cassettes. We'll head back to Windsor. We meet back here at four."
Sam was amused at Peter's expression. Would Dean's power grab work? Apparently so, since Peter didn't fire back with a sarcastic remark. They seemed to be settling into a friendly adversary mode, where neither wanted to admit they enjoyed the other's company.
Sam worried that Neal wasn't taking the threat of a powerful witch seriously enough. Chloe was the same way. She spent her time around Wiccans who imagined they were conjuring up beneficial magic. To her, witches were the stuff of a Disney movie. Maybe it was because she wrote fantasies. Even their encounters with the swamp spirit and the vamps hadn't dampened her lightheartedness. Neal and Chloe were both a couple of innocents. Dean sometimes chided Sam to lighten up, but he'd seen the dark side. Witches were nothing to make light of.
Notes: Pettibone's Tavern and the Simsbury 1820 House are real establishments, and yes, the inn has a small art gallery. Bridget Bishop, Alse Young, and Debby Griffen are historical figures. But the record is inconclusive as to whether or not they were actually witches.
Dean and Sam drive around the country with an arsenal of weapons in their trunk, but firearms aren't the only tools of power—not for them and certainly not for Neal. This week's blog post is about Neal and the hidden power of flowers.