Song Remains the Same

Chapter 63: Winchester Mystery House

"We need ghost stories because we, in fact, are the ghosts."
- Stephen King

Two Weeks Later

Alex was in Bobby's study, feet kicked up (shoes and all) onto his desk as she sat in his seat with a thick volume balanced against her thighs. Bobby and Rufus were a few cities over hunting a rugaru and Alex stayed behind to hold down the fort. Which, in more plain speech, meant answering the numerous fake phonelines Bobby ran: The FBI, CDC, federal marshal, health department, police. A very small group of hunters knew about and used these numbers as part of various covers. So far she'd only had to answer the phones twice. Still, it was pretty amazing what trust people placed in the voice of a stranger on the other end of the line.

She flipped to another page of the book she was studying and reached for more coffee. It was about twelve in the afternoon and she'd been reading since the early hours of the morning thanks to insomnia. Her neck was stiff, her eyes were tired, and her body was stiff from sitting there for so long. Also, this volume, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind, was just about as fun of a read as it sounded... and that was the thing about research. You had to be patient. Willing to sift through mountains of irrelevant and boring facts in order to find just one relevant one. So far, Alex had scribbled one note that read: this book sucks. So... more bupkus on anything that would prove useful to the soulless Sam situation. But there were still a couple hundred pages of the convoluted psychology crap to get through. Maybe she'd find something yet.

"Hello, love."

Alex flailed in surprise, spilling and dropping her coffee as she jumped up to stand at the out-of-nowhere voice right across from her. Crowley was standing on the other side of the desk, smirking lazily. Dammit, how did he keep getting in here? Amusement played in his cocky expression and Alex set her face hard.

"It's rude to come in without knocking," she said and threateningly snatched up her angel blade from where it had been set on the desk.

Crowley was as cool as rain, his hands in his overcoat pockets. "And it's also rude to throw knives," he returned mildly, referring to the last time he'd shown up and she'd tried to kill him. His smile widened in self-pleasure. "Looks like we're even. So why don't we let this one slide, eh? Or are you really that eager to stick something of yours into me?" He waggled his eyebrows once.

Oh please. Alex rolled her eyes. "Har har," she commented, trying to sound aloof and unruffled. "What do you want."

Crowley craned his neck slightly, curiosity on his features as he peered down at the fallen book on the floor. "Goodness me, isn't that past your kindergarten reading level?" He had that smug, superior smile on his face again. "I see what you're doing, and it's sweet but ineffective, I'm afraid. Trying to find a loophole so you can get big baby Samantha off my hook. Sorry. Won't happen."

Alex definitely wanted to stab him at this point and clenched her blade tighter, wishing he wasn't such a sly bastard—there was bound to be a Hellhound nearby. She raised her chin fractionally in defiance. "We'll see."

Crowley's mouth crooked up to one side and he paced toward the study window leisurely, hands clasped behind his back. Alex rounded the desk slowly, keeping calculated distance between herself and the demon. "Speaking of family..." he turned around and gave her an unsettling look over. "Can't help but notice the three amigos are... discombobulated. You here, them halfway across the country..."

Alex set the blade down with a loud crack onto Bobby's desk, frustrated. She crossed her arms. "And?"

"And... why aren't you off hunting with Ape and Moose?" Crowley asked, his low voice wrapped in rough velvet. "I seem to recall that was part of our arrangement."