Chapter 6: Out with the Old

Neal struggled to free himself but he was still tightly pinned to the wall. The witch had raised her hand, keeping her open hand a couple of feet from Peter's chest. Her palm was a fireball of crackling energy as her eyes turned black. Peter began gasping for breath, his face growing red. Sweat poured down his forehead. Neal's own heart raced.

She suddenly turned and swished with preternatural speed back up the stairs. Neal couldn't see what was going on, but there were loud noises and shouts. The yells sounded like Sam and Dean. Peter was breathing more freely, but they were still paralyzed.

With a sickening thud, Sam was hurled to the wall next to Neal, only to be pinned just like he was. Dean was blasted into position a moment later.

Alcy strode forward. "Four uninvited guests? No matter, I can—"

She was interrupted by a blazing flash of light coming from the space in front of the cage. A dense column of scarlet smoke rose from the pentagram. Tendrils of gas lashed and whipped around the room with the ferocity of furies from Hell. Hagen had shrunk to the furthest corner of the cell but he had no place to hide. One of the tendrils plunged into his mouth and appeared to set him on fire. The room reverberated with thunder. The cage door was ripped off its hinges and blasted onto the floor. The smoke turned black, stinging Neal's eyes till they watered so much he couldn't see.

An instant later, the smoke vanished. Nothing looked even singed.

Hagen sauntered out of the cell. He held out his hands in front of him as if he were admiring his manicure. Then he gazed disdainfully at his orange coveralls. With a sigh, he glared at Alcy. "Is this the best you could provide me with?"

"Patience. Your new garments are waiting for you."

Hagen strolled over to the four of them still pinned to the wall. "Don't let it be said that Crowley never returns a favor. You helped this meatsuit even though the wardrobe you provided him was ludicrous beyond measure. We are now even." With a snap of his fingers, their invisible bonds were released, and all four of them tumbled onto the floor.

Would Alcy really let them leave? Neal breathed in quick gulps of air. He felt like he had a severe case of the flu. He couldn't get his legs to move properly. The others appeared to have the same difficulty. No one could stand.

She studied Dean for a moment then walked over to Sam. She seized his bandaged arm, making him wince. Blood had seeped through the gauze. Swatting away his attempts to resist, she pressed directly onto the wound till the blood spurted through the gauze. Alcy swiped a finger over it then licked the blood off with quick darting swipes of her tongue. The smile she gave him afterward was the worst of all.

Releasing Sam's arm, she strode over to Hagen. She reached a hand into the pocket of her gown and pulled out a small black velvet pouch. Opening it, she extracted a pinch of umber powder. "Are you ready?"

He nodded then raised a hand. "Before we leave, a little something to remember me by." He snapped his fingers as Alcy sprinkled the powder in the center of the pentagram. A bolt of lightning pierced the room, making Neal shield his eyes with his hand. When he could see again, both Alcy and Hagen had vanished.

Neal pushed himself upright as strength slowly returned to his limbs. His head was still pounding from the crack it took when she slammed him against the wall. But this wasn't the time to lick wounds.

The walls rattled as an explosion rocked the house.

"Move it!" Dean shouted. "This is a death trap." He grabbed Sam who was still on the floor looking dazed. "Snap out of it, Sammy. Run!"

Peter gave Neal a hard shove, propelling him toward the stairs. Smoke began pouring into the basement from the first floor. And heat. Dean and Sam reached the top of the stairs first.

"Fire!" Dean yelled, pushing Sam in front of him. "The hall's an inferno. Head for the front door. It's closest."

The corridor walls were already being consumed by flames. Were the paintings on fire too? Could Neal save any of them? The Titian? Dense black smoke filled the hallway. It was like the entire house had been wired with explosives. The blaze was spreading far too quickly for it to be a normal fire. Neal heard Peter's coughs ahead of him as he began to cough as well. The smoke seared his lungs. All he could hear was the crackling of flames on wood, on canvas. He turned back toward the office, but only took a couple of steps before he was yanked back.

"No time!" Peter shouted over the roar of the blaze. "Stay low . . . front door."

Neal yanked himself free. "The Titian! Have to . . . " He started to cough uncontrollably.

He was tackled from behind and sent sprawling onto the floor. He heard Peter's voice in his ear. "Don't make me knock you out. Front door now!"

Peter put an arm around him and dragged him forward. They were on their hands and knees. Peter stayed behind him, shoving him forward if he wavered for an instant.

Neal's eyes were streaming so hard he could no longer see anything. But in his mind, he watched the flames lick first the frames then the paintings themselves, consuming everything.

Somehow they reached the front door and fresh air. "What took you so long?" Dean demanded. He put an arm around Neal to support him while guiding him a safe distance away. Neal turned to check on Peter and saw that Sam was helping him.

The fire truck and EMTs arrived within minutes. Neal leaned against a tree trunk to watch the destruction of the house. The wood structure burned as if it'd been doused in gasoline. As he watched the walls of the house crumble and collapse, his slim hope of finding any remnants of the paintings vanished in front of him.

Unlike the paintings, they'd escaped with only a few scrapes and bruises. Someone fitted him with an oxygen mask, but he took it off. Dean was over with Sam who was having his arm tended. Peter was talking with the police. Neal clutched the blanket someone had given him and walked over to the Taurus. He stood by the car, hoping for a miracle.

"Get inside the car," Peter urged, gripping his shoulder. "There's nothing more we can do here now. Dean and Sam are heading back to the inn too."

"Do you think we'll find anything?"

Peter hesitated, scanning his face, then shook his head. "Honestly, I'd have to say no. You still have your camera, right?"

Neal nodded.

"Then we'll have your photos."

#

"Who's Crowley?" Chloe set her glass of beer down on the table and scanned the group.

Neal was eager to hear the answer too. Chloe had been waiting for them in the reception area of the inn when they arrived. Neal had called to alert her but he hadn't adequately prepared her for what they looked like. Her shock made him glad El hadn't accompanied Peter. Showers and clean clothes worked miracles on their appearance, but the clothes he'd worn were a total loss.

They'd gathered in the bar at the inn. Everyone was drinking beer except Neal. He was mourning the loss of the paintings with a Connecticut Chardonnay.

"I called Bobby from our room," Dean said, gulping down the last of his beer and waving his empty bottle to the bartender. "He'd heard of a crossroads demon going by that name. The demon was thought to be skilled in pyrokinetics."

"He started the fire?" Peter asked, his eyes narrowing.

Dean nodded. "More than likely. When he snapped his fingers, that was the fuse."

"What did he mean by meatsuit?" Neal asked.

"He was referring to Hagen," Sam said. "That's how demons describe the humans they inhabit. That column of smoke you saw was the demon Crowley entering Hagen."

"Is there anything of Hagen left?" Chloe asked.

"He's still inside," Dean said. "If we can exorcise the demon before too much damage is done to Hagen's body, you could get him back."

Peter made a face. "I'm not looking forward to explaining that to my superiors. Any ideas on how to track Hagen now that he's Crowley the demon?"

"Wait till he makes his next move," Dean said with a shrug.

"How about Alcy?" Neal asked. "Now that she's flown away on her broomstick, do we have to wait for a full moon for her to reappear? Halloween's a long way off."

Dean shook his head disapprovingly. "You should know better than to treat her as a joke. And I'm not convinced she's a witch. She may have used a hex bag, but she's more powerful than any witch we've ever encountered."

"Melissa Pembroke mentioned Scott had sustained a gash on his arm one night," Sam added. "The circumstances surrounding that were strange. The way Alcy licked my blood and tasted Peter and Neal was bizarre. I've never heard of a witch with a fondness for blood."

Or jawlines? He hoped Peter hadn't heard that remark.

"It appeared to me that she was evaluating each one of us," Peter said. "For what purpose?"

"Some weird cult?" Dean guessed.

"We need to find out more about her," Sam said. "But that won't be easy. We don't have much to go on."

"I may be able to help," Chloe offered. "The witchcraft chat groups I belong to occasionally post speculation about rumors. I always assumed they were mere fantasies. But now? I'll pay closer attention. Currently, the forums have a lot of activity because we're approaching Litha."

"What's that?" Peter asked.

"It's the Celtic term for the summer solstice. Several of the Wicca covens want to hold a festival this year."

Sam looked troubled. "You're playing with fire when you mix with covens."

"I'll be careful," Chloe assured him. "But they provide essential background material. When I first outlined this novel, I had no notion that witches could be so powerful. The plot's becoming darker by the hour. Zoe and Ravensword will have to work closely together if they're to survive." She locked eyes with each of them. "And you need me as well."

There was no longer a reason to stay in Simsbury. Peter had left their contact information with the police and would fill out the report forms back in New York.

"We'll take off in the morning," Dean said.

"So soon?" Chloe asked, looking disappointed. "I don't suppose I could convince you to stay an extra day or two?"

He challenged her with a mocking look. "Any particular reason other than the obvious one?"

"You investigate ghosts, don't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"That tavern we visited Saturday night? Locals say it's haunted by the spirit of Abigail Pettibone. She lived in the late 1700s. Her husband was a whaling captain, prone to long journeys away from home. Abigail whiled away the months by taking lovers. One fateful night the captain arrived unexpectedly and discovered her with a lover in bed. He killed them both with an ax. Supposedly ever since she's been haunting the tavern."

Sam snorted. "That's just a story they made up for tourists. Has anyone ever been hurt by this ghost?"

"Not to my knowledge," she admitted.

"Chloe's right," Dean said, adopting a serious expression. "We need to investigate this thoroughly, particularly at night. Maybe a couple of nights."

House in the Woods. Sunday evening.

"You've done well, ladies." Crowley strode over to the gilded mirror on the wall and gazed smugly at his reflection. The black suit had just a hint of blood undertones. The dark maroon tie went well with his hair. "This meatsuit is so much more handsome than that dull literary critic I possessed." The twit had no flair, no sophistication. He'd become tiresome.

Electra and Maia were lounging on velvet settees in the salon while they waited for Alcy to appear. Electra had dressed her hair in an elaborate chignon. She looked like a haughty ice queen set among the pots of orchids that were scattered about the room. Maia was much more approachable though a bit too young for his taste.

Crowley strolled over to the sideboard. He picked up the crystal decanter and poured a generous amount of Glencraig into a glass for himself. A thoughtful gesture of Electra to supply him with his favorite Scotch. He savored the taste as it slid down his throat. The after-taste was particularly aromatic, almost floral. That couldn't be from the Scotch. Likely it was caused by the potted orchid on the sideboard. Now that Astrena had appointed him her business manager, he guessed he'd have to adjust to being surrounded by posies.

The sisters' love of blood was intriguing. They weren't vampires but relied on the lowlifes to perform the harvesting. The women savored blood much as others appreciated wine. He'd been told they considered each human a distinct vintage. Electra was particularly fussy about how the blood was extracted. Her demands were causing rumblings of discontent among the vampires. Was she being overly influenced by modern surgical procedures? Perhaps she'd become addicted to watching ER.

Crowley had once asked Maia to explain their fascination with blood. She'd explained it allowed them to establish a link with their "protégés." What a euphemistic term. Why didn't she just call them slaves or victims? That's what they were.

Crowley heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Alcy enter the salon. He poured out some of the ruby-red liquid into a snifter and handed it to her.

"Take a seat," Electra ordered imperiously.

Alcy yawned. "You've become even bossier in my absence." She sat down next to Maia. "How do you survive living with her?"

Electra shot her a glare that would have frozen a mortal's blood to ice. "After the mess you made in Simsbury, you should tread carefully, sister."

Alcy brushed off her warning with a bored gesture. She proceeded to examine her long fingernails as if they were much more fascinating than anything Electra could say.

Electra and Alcy in a catfight? Crowley took a seat at the bench of the grand piano and settled back to enjoy the show. Maia looked at her sister with big eyes waiting for her to let loose.

"Pembroke had potential," Electra said, her voice dropping to a lower register. "You could have feasted on him for decades. His talent was just beginning to emerge."

Alcy shrugged. "I'll find someone else. You know my taste is exquisite. Need I remind you? Titian, Shelley, Constable, Yeats—they were all my protégés, not yours."

"Yes, by all means, bring up Shelley," Electra mocked. "What was the result? You were unable to control your appetite. You consumed him before his potential was achieved. I know you have the discipline. You proved it with Titian. You were with him for decades—inspiring, refining, feeding. Through you, we were all stronger. No one suspected what you were doing, and more importantly, Titian never realized he was bound to you. Titian is a superb example of how we should act."

Alcy smiled maliciously. She was a saucy little scorpion, that one. "I'm glad to hear you acknowledge it. Titian painted masterpieces—Salome, Woman with a Mirror, and so many others—to honor me. I was his ideal beauty, his muse. He was my puppet. You were far less successful with Goya. He began to sense your influence. Those paintings of his were too close to the mark. And look what you did to Mozart. Consumed at such a young age. Tsk-tsk."

Electra shrugged off her criticism. "Perhaps. His blood was a vintage I still taste in my dreams." She stroked the leaves of the orchid on the side table next to her. Its leaves appeared to stretch out to her touch. Crowley had heard rumors about the sisters' power over the flowers. Alcy had shown him the pogonia she'd used in her hex bag to teleport Hagen. The flower looked like an open mouth with fangs to draw the unsuspecting victim down its throat.

"Humans are so frail," Electra murmured. "I've learned to control my appetite since then." She glared at Alcy. "You, on the other hand, are regressing. You need to regain the discipline you had with Titian and Yeats. You tapped them for years, patiently sampling at discreet intervals, allowing them time to recover. As a result, we have their masterpieces, scattered in galleries—Venus flytraps to seduce the unwary artist." She glanced over at Crowley. "Like his vessel. We wouldn't have learned about Hagen if he hadn't forged Witches' Sabbath."

Crowley was quick to lick her boots. He didn't fancy starting his new position with Her Highness upset at him. "Electra made a wise choice. Now I can benefit from Hagen's knowledge as if it were my own, which of course it is now. You could say Hagen and I are joined at the hip."

A smile flicked across Electra's face. "Aptly put." Why didn't he feel better about it? She'd never approved of anything he said before. Was this all because of his new meatsuit?

"I initially thought Hagen would be more intriguing," Alcy added. "But he lacked originality."

A low blow, especially coming from her. Crowley stopped short. Why should he care what she thought about the bloke?

Evidently, Electra wasn't impressed either. She fixed her icy stare on Alcy. "Thanks to your indiscretion, the FBI is aware of you. Worse, hunters have you on their radar. For centuries we've prided ourselves on no one being aware of our presence. Your indiscretion threatens to destroy our security, and at the worst possible time. In a little over a month, the pure-bloods will arrive. Nothing must interfere with the ceremony. You, however, won't be here to enjoy it. You must leave and establish a new identity."

Alcy shrugged. "The growth of covens. Our cultivation of the Wiccans. The rise of the vampires. It was inevitable that hunters would hear of us, but I daresay it will be a long time before they realize who we are." She paused to take a sip of blood. "I believe I shall return to Venice," she mused. "I haven't been there since the sixteenth century. The art scene provides intriguing prospects. My new name will be Shaula."

Crowley chuckled to himself. Who else would choose to name herself after one of the stars in the stinger of the constellation Scorpius? If ever there was a scorpion come to life, it was Alcy. He'd grown rather fond of Alcy Lancaster. He wished he'd known her when she acted as Titian's muse. He'd first met her when she was Alse Young back in the 1800s. Then, as now, she had difficulty controlling her appetite. But whether she called herself Salome the Seductress or Shaula, she'd always be Alcy to him.

The scorpion herself turned to face Crowley. "As for you, you're lucky I'm leaving." Her eyes flashed with anger. "You destroyed my home. That's of no consequence. But those paintings? They were irreplaceable. All painted by my protégés. Tokens of appreciation for the gifts I bestowed upon them. I should kill you now." She raised a hand but Electra strode forward and swatted it down.

"I mourn the loss of those masterpieces as well, but Crowley didn't know about them. Let their loss remind you of the intended consequences that arise when you attract attention. If your hunger for Pembroke hadn't been insatiable, no one would have discovered you or your home. You would still have Pembroke to amuse you, your paintings would be safe, and you wouldn't need to relocate."

Electra deigned to defend him? That was unexpected. Did she somehow sense he regretted their loss? And wasn't that a kick in the arse? Since when had he felt remorse about anything? But he did about those paintings. Had Hagen been sentimental about them? Not that it should matter. No meatsuit influenced a demon's actions. Besides, demons could appreciate art as well as anyone else. He'd just never thought about it much before.

Alcy rose and refilled her glass with blood. "It's time for vampires to resurface in Venice. One of the pure-bloods can join me there." She sprawled on a velvet settee and raised her glass to Maia. "I'm not the only one who's been indulging. Baby sister's been greedy too." She gave Maia an appraising smile. "I tasted your prize. Delicious, I must say. If you could only get him to give up hunting and focus on poetry, he would be quite delectable."

Maia chose a hunter? Naughty, naughty. Maia's choice was a curious one. Crowley understood that Electra and her sisters were only interested in artists, poets, and similar wimps. What had Maia seen in the hunter? Did that moose of a man possess a hidden side? Did Bullwinkle have the makings of a poet?

Alcy took a long, lazy sip of blood. "You can't hide your sampling from me. How many times have you visited him?"

"He is lovely, isn't he?" Maia gazed dreamily at the stained-glass windows. "His potential is enormous. I haven't been so excited over someone since Christopher Marlowe."

And I wager his potential as a poet isn't the only part of him you're interested in. Crowley waited for Electra's reaction.

Alcy chuckled. "You mean you've been restraining yourself since the 1500s? Sister, it's time to have some fun." She turned to face Electra. "I suspect you haven't been able to resist dipping into your new protégé either. He was luscious. You were right about his jawline. No wonder you call him your beautiful boy."

"Enough!" Electra screamed.

Crowley watched in admiration as Electra transformed herself into a spectral presence ten feet tall, her limbs dissolving into blue gas. "Both of you must exercise restraint or face the consequences." Her voice had deepened to a bass, sounding like Zeus's thunder.

Girls, you better behave. Big sister's not to be toyed with.

Electra stretched her arms out wide and lightning bolts zigzagged across the chamber. With a long, slow exhale she gradually reverted to her normal form. "Remember who I am and fear me."

Crowley raised his glass to her. Who could forget the goddess who'd created both witches and vampires?

She looked at him disdainfully. "You too. Never forget you serve me."

Crowley made a low bow. "They worship you now as the Moon Goddess but someday the world will know and fear you once more by your true name—Astrena, Queen of the Stars, First among Firsts."

#

When Peter checked out of the inn, he paid for Dean and Sam's room as well. If the Bureau balked at the claim, he'd pay it himself. He hadn't sorted out yet how he'd describe the Winchesters' consulting service. The simplest would be not to mention them. The discount rate Chloe had obtained for the rooms was a bargain, and it was a small price to pay for their help. If Dean and Sam hadn't charged in, the witch would have killed both him and Neal. Peter could still feel the intensity of the blaze when she directed her hand at him. It felt like she was setting him on fire.

Now they were on their way home. They'd stopped at Sage's shop to pick up some goat cheese for El. Peter switched on the cruise control and eased his foot off the accelerator. He glanced over at Neal who had been unusually quiet all morning. "Are you still thinking about those paintings?"

He nodded, staring moodily out of the window. "I looked them up on the internet. That Titian resembles the self-portrait that's in the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin. It's lost to the world now. That Constable could have been a self-portrait too. The Shelley painting was most probably painted by Amelia Curran, a friend of his. She painted several portraits of him but I was unable to find any that matched this one." Neal took a slow breath. "And I couldn't save any of them."

"Don't torture yourself. We barely escaped the inferno ourselves. The police will let us know if they find any trace of the works, but when I talked with them this morning they said the house is a total loss."

"I couldn't find any reports of stolen paintings which match their descriptions. Sometimes old estates have paintings hanging on their walls for centuries and they have no idea what the paintings are or who painted them. That's occurring less and less these days, but it's the only explanation I can come up with. According to her passport record, Alcy traveled extensively overseas. She may have acquired them there or through agents."

"When we get back to the office, notify Interpol on them. You should also contact Melissa about her husband's portrait."

"He didn't have any self-portraits in his studio. Did Alcy ask him to paint it for her? I doubt Melissa knew about it, and it may simply add to her pain, but I'll send her my photo." Neal turned back to the window. Normally he was better at hiding his feelings but he was making no attempt now. He looked more despondent than Peter would have expected.

"Tell yourself they weren't originals," Peter urged. "You don't seriously believe unknown masterpieces would have existed in a house in Windsor, even if the owner was a witch? My money's on Hagen having copied them for her."

"But why those portraits?"

"Perhaps they were artists she admired?"

"I guess that's as likely a scenario as any, but what about Scott's portrait?"

"You're not thinking clearly. She could have paid Scott to paint his portrait for her. That doesn't necessarily have any relation to the other works in the office."

Neal nodded absently. Peter was glad they'd be leaving for London in a week. That Interpol trip would provide Neal something else to focus on. "Why don't you put on some music? Something you like for a change."

Neal gave a brief chuckle over that and thumbed through his tapes.

Peter sighed when he heard what Neal had selected. That dirge would make anyone morose. "Is that what you feel like? Should I call your aunt and arrange a therapy session?"

"It's called 'Fade Away.' I'm holding a memorial service for those paintings, and no, please don't call Noelle. I'll get over it . . . eventually." He glanced over at Peter. "What exactly did the witch say to you when she got in your face?"

"She was taunting me. Asked me if I were anything special. Guess she didn't think so. She didn't go crazy over my jawline as she did yours."

Neal winced. "Please, don't remind me."

"Hey, don't knock it. She was ready to kill me. She would have kept you around just to admire your bone structure."

Neal rolled his eyes. "You won't tell the team at work what she said, I hope?"

He chuckled. "I'll spare you. I haven't decided how much to say about any of the events that occurred. The only evidence of Hagen we have is our photos. We have none of Alcy. I expect I'll report that Hagen was held captive in Alcy Lancaster's house. I can make a case that she was mentally deranged. She set the house on fire to kill us as well as Hagen in an act of self-immolation."

"Or you could tell them we found the Dutchman only to have him disappear once more into the fog."

Notes: Pettibone's Tavern is an actual place and supposedly still haunted by the ghost of Abigail Pettibone. Dean must not have been able to get rid of it. Could he have been distracted?

Electra and Maia will return in the next Crossed Lines story, Fireflies at Midnight, when El, Mozzie, and Satchmo will also be along for the adventure. But first Neal and Peter make that trip to London in Echoes of a Violin (Caffrey Conversation series).

And there's more! Penna's written a vignette that takes place immediately after the conclusion of this story. The title is "Magic Trick."

Thanks for including my stories in your reading!