Crowley spent most of the next day in his office in Hell, catching up on paperwork, reviewing security with the sufficiently chastised Temeluchus, and picking up a fresh suit and his long wool coat. After that, he thought that some research on the Order of the Black Thorn was necessary. A bit of web browsing on his iPhone revealed nothing except for a site coated in inverted pentagrams, red text, nauseating music, and little actual information. Since that had been useless, Crowley stopped by one of the nicer university libraries near Boston to see what he could find.
"Hello," he said to the reference librarian, affecting the demeanor of a shy human. "May I please use the archives?"
"What for?" the librarian snapped. He was elderly, wearing a tweed jacket, and clearly saw himself as the Cerberus of the stacks.
"Well, I'm writing a book on occult groups in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century New England. I heard your archives were some of the best in the state."
"It had better not be some tripe about the Salem Witch Trials." He glared at Crowley over his glasses. "Do you have any idea how sick and tired I am of answering questions about the Salem Witch Trials?"
"I can imagine," said Crowley, keeping his expression very serious. "And no, that's not what I'm researching. Now, may I use the archives?"
"Fine, yes, go ahead," the librarian grumbled. "But be careful!"
Crowley slipped past him into the stacks, and smiled as he dropped character. Some humans were just too precious. He spent the next few hours picking through old letters, records, and miscellaneous documents, and fortunately was able to come up with some useful information.
Apparently, the Order of the Black Thorn had been established in the late 1700s. It had never grown beyond twenty members across New England, but despite this it had persisted for over two hundred years. Although Crowley could find little referring to their actual beliefs, everything he did find suggested that they were a legitimate witches' organization. With the exception of their interest in "Luciferian gnosis" mentioned by Irene Spare, they seemed fine. Of course, if the O.B.T. had any real involvement with Lucifer, Crowley would have heard about it. Crowley also discovered that both the Spare and Marsh families had lived in New England for generations, and were in fact two of the founding families of the Order.
It all seemed copacetic.
Still, the only way to determine if they could actually help him find Purgatory was to meet with them. Even if they could not help directly, they might be able to point him toward people who could.
Satisfied, Crowley left the archives—through the door, so as not to give the librarian a heart attack—then vanished and reappeared on Summer Street in Sunderland. He appeared at the edge of the forest near the chapel so that he could survey it from a safe distance. Crowley was entirely confident in his ability to defend himself, but he had not survived for 350 years by being impetuous.
The chapel was a plain, white, mundane-looking building that resembled most Protestant churches in the region. A thin layer of snow coated the ground around it, glowing faintly in the fading light, broken only by tire marks from the several cars parked in its small lot. Crowley guessed about fifteen people were inside the chapel, having already begun their meeting. He had been planning to wait until they were finished before going in, anyhow. Magical workings used up energy, and that way the witches would not be at peak form by the time he spoke to them—which would work to his advantage if things went badly. In the meantime, he was out of sight of…
Crowley glanced up to see a crow sitting on a tree branch above him, looking at him pointedly with its glassy black eyes. Sighing, Crowley snapped his fingers. The branch broke suddenly, and the crow fell a few feet before flapping away with a disgruntled squawk. "Forgot about familiars," Crowley muttered. "Bloody witches."
Within a half hour, people started milling out of the chapel. Irene Spare was not among them, so Crowley assumed she was still inside, waiting for him to arrive. Since most everyone else had left, Crowley decided it was time to go in. He reappeared just inside the chapel.
It was a single large room with a wood-paneled vaulted ceiling, church pews, and a solid red stained-glass window in the back wall. An altar below the window was covered with candles, an empty red-tinged bowl at its center. The air smelled of incense and iron, and hummed with unmistakable power. An auburn-haired man, dressed in black, stood in front of the altar but facing the door, Irene at his side.
"Ah," he said, "you must be Crowley. Please, come in."
Crowley took a few steps forward. "You're Terrence Marsh, then."
"Yes. And I hear you've already met Irene." He looked Crowley up and down. "Huh. I haven't seen a demon in some time. We don't evoke them, you know—it's bad manners. Might I ask what color your eyes are?"
Crowley just glared at him.
"…Never mind. Curiosity and all that. Well, can I get you anything? Wine, maybe?"
"No," said Crowley. Witch's domains were like the realm of faerie, he thought—one should never touch anything edible there. Preferably, one should not touch anything there at all. "I'd rather get to business."
Terrence nodded, but his dark eyes were cold. "You don't trust us. I guess I don't blame you. Still, it seems pretty strange to ask things of people without even offering them common courtesy. After all, everything comes at a price. You of all people should know that."
"Oh?" Crowley smiled faintly. "How presumptuous. I fully intend to compensate you for services rendered—once they're rendered."
"Of course you do," Irene drawled, but a look from Terrence silenced her.
"Crowley is right," he said slowly. "I'm used to being in charge of people, so I forgot myself for a moment there. I meant no offense."
"Hmph." Crowley was hesitant. It was hard to figure out what these two actually thought of him, because they were quite difficult to read, like most experienced witches. "So, do you know of a way to find Purgatory?"
"Possibly, but it depends," said Terrence. "You need to tell me if there are spirits or souls there."
"There are. Monsters' souls."
Terrence raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. I'd never really thought about what happens to them. Interesting."
"Shouldn't you be calling it Tartarus or something, then?" Irene asked. The candlelight reflecting off her glasses obscured her eyes. "I assume you learned Greek mythology."
"Learned from experience, dear," said Crowley. "They're as petty and contentious as any family, but more incestuous."
"Okay, well, anyway," said Terrence, "there are monsters' souls there. That's helpful. We can summon one of them like you'd summon a ghost or any other spirit."
Crowley just looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Forget it."
Terrence raised an eyebrow."What do you mean? It's a pretty simple ritual, it won't be a problem."
"I know it is," Crowley snapped. "I could do it myself without any special magic. The problem is, the monster won't tell you anything once you summon it. They're impossible, trust me. I'm not wasting any more time."
"But that's not what I'm suggesting," said Terrence, taking a step forward. "If we summon a monster's soul, I can use magic to determine where it came from. Then you'll know where Purgatory is."
Crowley hesitated, still frowning. It was plausible, but the whole thing had put him in an ill mood. "I take it I'll need something belonging to a dead monster for this to work."
"Yes. The ritual will be easier with a more powerful monster, but I can't imagine something from one of them will be too difficult for you to procure."
"Maybe, maybe not. I also don't know if your locating ritual will work. The age of your organization may only mean that it's evolved into a social club for your families, without any real power. I'll go along with it for—"
"No real power, huh?" Terrence stretched out his arms and the candles on the altar went out, leaving the chapel entirely dark. Suddenly waves of violet flame shot up from the base of each wall until they licked the ceiling ravenously. He flipped his hands palm-side down, and the fire vanished as the candles reignited.
"You can't impress me," Crowley smirked. "You forget that true power does not need to prove itself."
"Maybe not," Terrence grumbled, "but I get tired of being doubted. Witches are a joke in popular culture, and hunters are more than happy to use our rituals and methods while mocking us. I figured you were that way."
"Don't compare me to hunters," Crowley growled.
Terrence shrugged. "Fine, I won't. But…shouldn't you be nicer, since we're left-hand path witches and all?"
"Wrong again, love. The only thing worse than comparing me to a hunter is mistaking me for a nice person."
"But you did choose to work with us, right?"
"Actually," Irene interrupted, "he found us because my hare-brained sister summoned him."
Terrence turned and glared at her. "And how did that happen?"
"I don't know. She stole my Lesser Key."
"Are you kidding, Irene? You have some dangerous books, don't you have wards on them?"
"Yes, but apparently—"
"Will you two get this sorted later?" Crowley's eyes narrowed in disgust.
The two humans glared at each other. "Fine," said Terrence.
"So, will you bring us something belonging to a dead monster, or what?" Irene asked.
Crowley thought for a moment. Presumably the prison in Missouri had already been burnt down, ruling that out. But then, that overachiever Temeluchus had been hunting an alpha rugaru. That would be a good place to start. "Yes," he said. "Be ready for the ritual in twenty-four hours."
"I might need to get a few…" Terrence trailed off at the look in Crowley's eyes. "All right, tomorrow night it is."
"Splendid," Crowley smiled, and disappeared.
He reappeared back at the forest's edge, and took a deep breath of the cold, pine-scented air which was especially pleasant after the oppressive atmosphere in the chapel. Crowley watched as the only remaining light inside it went out, and Irene and Terrence walked out into the parking lot.
"It'll be fine," Irene was saying. "I've dealt with demons more recently than you have, and this is just how they are."
"Dealt with them? Please tell me you didn't—"
"Of course I didn't, Terry. Do you really think I'm that stupid?"
"No, I was just checking. Anyway, do you know anything else about this Crowley?"
Crowley could see her shrug despite the darkness. "Not really. My usual contact said that he's ruthless and ambitious, but that's about it. She sounded scared of him."
"Who isn't scared of their boss?" Terrence sighed. "We'll go along with his plan, then. We don't have much to lose."
"Only everything," Irene quipped as she got into her car. As she pulled away, her headlights swept toward where Crowley was standing, but he vanished before they could reach him.