Notes: Night Howls on the Hudson takes place after the events in Dark Rabbit and Harlequin's Shadow. The first chapter contains the essentials of the backstory for new readers. I've also written a post on the status of the key players at the beginning of the story for our blog. The post is called "Destination: Night Howls on the Hudson." See the notes at the end of the chapter for more information.

Chapter 1: Painting under the Influence

Neal lifted his brush from the canvas and stood back to study the painting.

A damp wind seeped through the cracks in the stone walls of the chamber, causing the wax tapers to flicker. His eyes burned from painting at night, but the Marquesa had a luminous radiance which he could capture only by candlelight.

Her boudoir was decorated in the latest style. Neal doubted Napoleon had bestowed more luxurious appointments upon Josephine. The daybed was tented with dark maroon velvet hangings which were suspended from a gold gilt crown. The silk sheets were tinted a soft mauve which became chestnut in the unilluminated shadows.

The Marquesa wore an empire gown of white diaphanous silk, designed to enhance rather than conceal. Her smile invited him to lounge beside her. He'd posed her with a lyre, which she occasionally strummed while he painted. When her graceful fingers plucked the strings, his body yearned to take the place of the lyre. He resisted the compulsion. The painting must be finished tonight. Resolutely, he focused on the canvas . . .

"You've toiled long enough, mi amor," she remarked, twirling a long strand of flaxen blonde hair which hung in a loose curl between her breasts. "Come sit beside me." By now the tapers were mere stubs. Soon he'd need to replace them.

"Only a few more minutes," he pleaded, pausing to stretch his paint-smudged fingers. A drop of ocher paint had fallen on the white ruffle of his shirt sleeve. He glanced down at his wine-red doublet. No smears on it, fortunately. She'd urged him to strip off his shirt. But if he stood in front of her, clad only in his silk breeches, he knew what the result would be. It had already happened far too often.

A scrabbling sound interrupted his musings. He glanced up to see a shadow dart behind the bed hangings in the corner. Too large to be a cat, what was it?

"Neal, answer me!"

He felt his shoulder being shaken. Neal turned from the canvas to see Mozzie staring at him. The boudoir was dissolving into mist. The Marquesa had already vanished. Where was he?

Neal looked down, shocked. Gone were his silk doublet and breeches. He was clad only in sleep pants. The easel was real enough. And there was his portrait of the Marquesa, mocking him. He must have been painting for hours. He couldn't stop now. If only he closed his eyes, she'd return to him.

Mozzie shoved him into a chair. "Don't move. I'll get you a glass of wine."

"When did you get here?" Neal raked his hair off his forehead. His dinette table was littered with paint tubes, his palette laden with colors. That portrait he'd made . . . It looked like a painting he'd seen by Goya.

"A few minutes ago. I stopped by on the way to the Emporium. How long have you been painting?"

Neal had no memory of when he started, but bright sunshine was now pouring through the skylight. According to the clock in the bookcase, it was already ten o'clock.

"Forget the wine. I need coffee." Neal stood up to fill the kettle.

"Stay where you are. I can make it. You still haven't answered me." Mozzie retreated to the kitchenette and reached into the cabinet for a bag of coffee beans. He measured out a scoop for the grinder. "It's Astrena, isn't it?"

Neal nodded glumly. He was once more fully in the present reality, no longer in some Spanish palace. Just his luck to be on first name terms with a Greek goddess. And if it had to be a goddess, why couldn't it be Aphrodite? Instead, he was bound to Astrena, goddess of witches and vampires.

He'd never even heard of her till a few months ago. But now he and Sam Winchester were psychically linked to her. According to the lore, Astrena established a connection with her victims by drinking their blood. Once the link was in place, she could enter their minds at will, implanting dreams, feeding off their life force. She must have been gorging herself on him all night.

Mozzie turned on the gas burner. "I hold myself partially responsible. If Janet and I hadn't taken it into our heads to enjoy the spring frogs of Buttonwood, none of this would have happened."

He was right but Neal didn't blame him or his girlfriend. Mozzie couldn't have known that the swamp in South New Jersey contained not only a spirit capable of inflicting curses but a nest of vampires. Neal and Sam had been captured and somehow wound up being donors to Astrena.

"Were you dreaming that you were Goya? He's rumored to be one of her victims."

"I guess." Neal went into the kitchen to retrieve the French press. Mozzie had picked an espresso roast from the cabinet. Good choice. He needed all the help he could get to remove the cobwebs from his brain. He still longed to continue painting.

"I'm familiar with Goya's works, but I've never known you to forge them." Mozzie returned to the easel. "Your technique is masterful. Anyone would think this is an undiscovered original." He paused, his eyes assuming a glazed expression—the look of a connoisseur spotting an undiscovered treasure at a flea market. A new business opportunity was taking hold.

Neal moved quickly to quash it before Mozzie got carried away. "We are not opening up a side operation," he said firmly.

"It never hurts to have backup plans in place. Don't destroy that painting. I'll happily store all your 'under-the-influence' masterworks. We must take advantage of every moment. Once Chloe removes the spell, the enchantment will be broken."

"That can't happen soon enough." Dean's girlfriend was fast becoming an expert on herbal potions. She was testing concoctions in hopes of finding a cure.

"Yes, well, I can understand you're not thrilled with your situation," Mozzie acknowledged.

That was putting it mildly. He and Sam had speculated in their gloomier moments that Astrena hastened the deaths of many famous artists, musicians, and writers—among them Van Gogh, Mozart, Titian, Shelley, and Beethoven. There was no way to estimate how many other artists had suffered the same fate.

"The last instance you'd mentioned to me was when you dreamed you and Astrena were chatting with Mozart. That was a couple of weeks ago. Any other visits?"

"Last week in France," Neal admitted. "I dreamed I was Van Gogh living in Auvers-sur-Oise. I didn't have my artist supplies with me so I couldn't paint anything. I can't remember ever having felt so frustrated."

"Then this may cheer you up. I found a message from Bobby on the cell phone which I use for the Winchesters. That Irish hunter Finnerty, who's been looking for the herbal guide Chloe wants, believes he's found it."

Mozzie's news was better than coffee. Chloe had discovered a promising reference to the book which had been written by Harriet Beaufort in the early nineteenth century. The obscure text was not listed in any catalogue. Since Harriet spent much of her life in Dublin, the Winchesters had asked Finnerty for help.

"Is that why you came to see me?" Neal asked.

"Not exactly," he hedged. "I returned from France yesterday to find Janet in quite a state. She has a new cause, which means I do, too."

And that means so do I. Neal watched uneasily as Mozzie placed a canvas tote on the dinette table and pulled out a stack of flyers.

Janet was a costume designer who incorporated her love for the natural world in her designs. Her interest in insects had led Mozzie to adopt the cause of the yellow-faced bee. Her desire to experience spring frog choruses had led to their vampire encounter. What had she adopted now?

"I found Janet's apartment a beehive of activity," Mozzie said, his eyes twinkling at the reference to his beloved bees even as his expression quickly grew serious. "The marsh must be saved!" He pulled open the lapels of his worn corduroy jacket to reveal a t-shirt emblazoned with "Save Our Marsh" in bold letters. The slogan was displayed over a scene of ducks swimming through grassy reeds with a dragonfly skimming overhead. Neal detected Janet's style in the design.

"What marsh?" he asked, even as he hesitated to find out. At work they were in the midst of an op to capture the master art thief Klaus Mansfeld and his brother Rolf. The new term at Columbia University had started two weeks ago, and he was already up to his eyeballs in coursework. He'd just spent the night being manipulated by a goddess. Did he really need another complication in his life?

Clearly the answer was yes.

Mozzie frowned as he handed Neal a flyer. "You go to classes at Columbia and yet you're ignorant of what could be the environmental catastrophe of the century"—he shrugged—"or at least that's what Janet assures me."

If ever there was a sign that Janet and Mozzie were soulmates, it was their mutual penchant for adopting causes and exaggerating their significance. In their eyes what to anyone else seemed like a minor problem could quickly balloon to cosmic proportions. Although physics was not in Neal's skillset, even he could tell that Janet and Mozzie were like two atomic nuclei. Once their interests fused, they could generate enough energy to start a chain reaction leading to the inevitable atomic explosion. Neal braced himself as the faint outlines of mushroom-shaped clouds appeared on the horizon.

These days Mozzie was better informed about Columbia than Neal. He appeared to spend at least as much time there—both above ground and in the tunnel system—and had accumulated a collection of aliases with associated ID cards, ranging from a Bosnian exchange student to a professor in the astrophysics department.

"Lay it on me, Mozz. What did Columbia do now?"

"It's not entirely their fault. Sport enthusiasts and their false gods share in the responsibility." Mozzie was not an admirer of any team sport. He gave Neal's fencing club a pass and Neal didn't disagree with him that the bouts were more closely related to chess than football. "Alums with more sense than money have pressed the university to enlarge the athletic complex next to Inwood Hill Park. Work began a couple of weeks ago. I've been so preoccupied with the U-boat con, I haven't been here for Janet, but I'm now prepared to focus like a laser beam on it."

A nuclear-fueled laser beam. When Mozzie began shoving the paint tubes aside, Neal leaped to their rescue and capped them. With one last look at the Marquesa, he dismantled his impromptu Goya studio. Perhaps an ecological disaster was just what he needed to free himself from thoughts of a goddess. He could clean his brushes while Mozzie filled him in.

"It was Chloe's coven who initially alerted Janet," Mozzie said, following him into the kitchen.

Neal knew that Chloe had joined several Wicca covens as research for her urban fantasy novels. She was currently staying at a B&B run by Peony Mirliton who was head of the Silver Cauldron coven. "Is Janet now a member too?"

"Not only Janet but your cousin Angela as well," Mozzie said nonchalantly, filling two mugs with coffee and handing him one.

"When did this happen?" Neal asked, dismayed. He'd been trying to shield Angela from anything having to do with the paranormal or the occult since her misadventure in Shepherdstown. Angela had come within a hair's breadth of being seduced by a vampire. Neal had kept the existence of vampires a secret from her. In hindsight, that might have been a mistake.

"Did she neglect to tell you? You know how these things go. Angela met Chloe in the kung fu class which Maggie runs at the Aloha Emporium." Mozzie paused to smile. "All those nubile women learning the Way of the Orchid. After the workout, they have a late breakfast at the Emporium. Conversation spins from one topic to another. You really should sit in sometime. It's quite enlightening."

An image flashed through Neal's mind—not of the Marquesa, but Mozzie, surrounded by Maggie, Janet, Chloe, Diana, Keiko, Angela, and Sara. The women were all dressed in their yoga pants and tank tops while he lorded over them like a hookah-smoking caterpillar.

"The Silver Cauldron organizes field trips to Inwood Hill Park," Mozzie continued. "I've gone there on many an outing with Janet."

Neal was also familiar with the site. It was bordered on the north by the Harlem River where Angela's boyfriend Michael rowed as a member of Columbia's crew. The Harlem River Regatta was held there every June.

"The coven declared war when construction of the university sports complex began. On the edge of the area to be developed is a fragile estuary where freshwater and saltwater ecosystems mingle harmoniously together. We have the testimonials of several leading biologists to confirm its value. Unique glacial geological formations will be wantonly destroyed if development proceeds. But the powers at Columbia are determined to sell the marsh to pay for this outrageous temple to musclebound athletes."

Neal gradually tuned Mozzie out as he wiped his brushes on rags. Not that he wasn't a friend of nature, but construction had already started. The property which was being redeveloped currently contained an old parking lot and a few derelict warehouses. It wasn't like Columbia was cutting down an ancient redwood forest.

"Neal, are you paying attention to me? You're not back in Spain, are you? Because if you are, stop cleaning those brushes and get back to painting!"

"I am not with the Marquesa!" Neal huffed. "I heard every word. You said the construction crew found some old potshards."

"Not just random bits of pottery but priceless artifacts from the Lenape. They're the Native American tribe who lived on this island before the Colonialist overlords forced them out."

Interesting. Apparently, Mozzie now lumped early European settlers with the industrial complex and the bureaucratic establishment under the ever-expanding umbrella of The Enemy.

"The university dispatched an archaeologist to investigate the site, but he didn't find it worthy of preservation. He should be disbarred!"

"I don't think you can dis—"

Mozzie stopped his objection with a slap on the dinette table which nearly toppled his coffee mug. "Mark my words. Nothing good will come from this. Do you know there are ancient sacred caves in Inwood Hill Park only a few minutes away? The native spirits will rise up and exact vengeance. That sports complex will be cursed."

Neal winced. "No more talk of curses, please."

"Ah, yes," he acknowledged, making a face. "Didn't mean to rub salt in the wound." He continued in a slightly lowered tone. "We intend to use—"

"Wait a minute. You said we. Are you now a member of the coven too?"

"Peony made such a compelling case, how could I resist? I'm the first wizard they've ever had. And you know what an authority she is on potions." He frowned disapprovingly. "You shouldn't grimace. I'm helping Peony and Chloe find something to cure your and Sam's affliction. A little gratitude, please."

"Sorry, Mozz. I appreciate all your efforts."

He blew away his apology. "Nothing will distract me and my Wicca sisters from educating the world about the crime being committed. We'll hold a war strategy after we've purified ourselves during the rite of Mabon."

"What's that?"

"The autumnal equinox, of course. Drink more coffee. Your brain's still addled if you don't know what Mabon is. I got back from Paris just in time. It will be a small ceremony. We're holding it in Inwood Hill Park. You're welcome to join us."

Neal wiped his hands on a towel. Catching up on lost sleep began to sound like an excellent idea. Mozzie and his causes did have one benefit, though. The Marquesa was no longer beckoning to him. She'd been shoved aside by his chatter about Chloe and the marsh. Picturing Mozzie as a wizard would drive any goddess away.

When the link had first been detected, Peter had been concerned about possible repercussions to the con they were running. He'd insisted Neal inform the team. Diana's partner, Christie Vintner, was Neal's doctor which simplified matters. What other doctor would have even bothered to listen to the idea that he was being influenced by a curse, psychic connection, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it?

Christie had been surprisingly sympathetic. Even Diana, who ordinarily never missed out on an opportunity to mock him, was giving him a pass. After the Van Gogh episode, Neal had gone in for more tests. Christie had called him yesterday with the results. Perhaps that was why he'd been dreaming of the Marquesa.

Haverstraw, New York. Sunday morning.

Dean Winchester replaced the cap on the gasoline can and took a moment to scan the woods. He and Sam were standing beside an open grave in a small forgotten cemetery in the Hudson Valley. Nobody saw them unearth the coffin. There was no one to witness them salt and burn the bones of one born-to-be-mean spirit. The ghost had been a serial killer in his first life and his second one as well. And he'd almost been the end of Sam.

They'd spent the past five days in the small New York town. They couldn't bring back to life the three people who'd died, but they could ensure that the ghost wouldn't return to harm anyone else.

Dean exchanged looks with Sam. "You wanna be the one to dispatch him?"

He nodded. "I was trying to think of something decent to say about the guy."

"Seriously? Like thank him for trying to spear you with a javelin?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, I know you probably think it's stupid. But I figure everyone's got at least a little shred of decency."

"Not this guy, Sammy."

"You're probably right. So . . ." He exhaled and lit the match, tossing it into the grave. "Goodbye."

They watched as the fire caught hold and blazed. Salt and burn—the only way to purify a corpse so it could never come back, never be appropriated by a demon, Lucifer . . . or a goddess.

Dean sneaked a glance at his brother. Sam was leaning on the shovel, exhausted from what should have been a trivial task of unearthing the coffin. The ground wasn't baked hard like some graveyards. He shouldn't have even worked up a sweat.

Over the past three weeks, Sam had been on the highway to total collapse. He was living on coffee to stay awake. When he dozed off, he was tormented by dreams which he couldn't remember but left him wasted. This job was the final straw.

"Where are we going next?" Sam asked.

"The hospital."

Predictably, Sam grimaced at his answer, but even more telling was that he didn't relinquish his hold on the shovel. "Not that again," he muttered.

"Yeah, that again. Let the docs pump you with meds. Make you sleep. Then we'll see."

"You can't hunt alone."

"If it's something I can't handle, I'll call Bobby. You're no good hunting like this and you know it."

Sam let out a huff to register his dissatisfaction, not that it was necessary. Dean knew he wouldn't agree without a fight. But this was one argument his older and wiser brother was determined to win.

"Going to a hospital's not the answer," Sam protested. "They have no way of removing the spell. Besides, you already had me checked out. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong."

Dean reached for his phone.

"Who are you calling?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"Bobby. Maybe he can talk sense into you." And provide a safe place for you to rest. Bobby had been staying at a house in New Jersey which was owned by a fellow hunter. He'd probably go along with Sam hanging out with him. He could give Sam some research to do so he wouldn't feel useless.

"You boys keeping out of trouble?" Bobby asked when he answered. His growl indicated he knew Dean wouldn't tell him if they weren't.

"More or less. You gonna be around for a few days?"

"Nah, I'm leaving as soon as I throw a few things together. Rufus has a witch in Delaware he needs help with. If you're not far away, could you stop by? I got a message from Finnerty that the book Chloe wants—Airmid's Garden—should arrive tomorrow. I figure you want to get it to her right away." He pitched his voice to a low rumble. "How's Sam?"

Dean cast a quick glance at him. He was still slouched over the shovel, staring into the fire. "Not good."

"Sam's strong. He'll hold it together till a cure's found."

Dean wished he had Bobby's confidence. "We'll swing by your place and stay till the package arrives."

When Dean told Sam about the book, his only response was to nod absently, still lost in his head.

Dean checked the grave. The bones were already blackened. "That fire doesn't need us. Let's go sit under the tree and I'll give Chloe a call." He was glad to see Sam didn't raise any objections.

Dean put Chloe on speaker so Sam could hear her. A scheme was forming. There was a good chance he could persuade Sam to stay at Peony's B&B. Chloe's landlady was squirrelly, but she'd taken a liking to both him and Sam. She'd probably offer a special cursed rate they could afford. More importantly, she could keep an eye on Sam when Chloe was at work.

Chloe was so excited when she heard about the book that she offered to punt work to pick it up.

"No need. We're in the area. I can drop off the book and Sam, too." Dean explained the situation, ignoring Sam's embarrassed grunts. "Do you know if Peony has any vacancies?"

"I don't need to check. I've been trying to persuade Maia to come down and had reserved a room for her. She mentioned that she needs to do some research in the Rare Book Library at Columbia University. That's not far from Peony's. I suggested she come down this week so she could celebrate Mabon with us. If she hears Sam will be here, she'll come for sure."

In more ways than one. Sam's girlfriend Maia was the best thing which had happened to him in a long time, and she apparently felt the same way about him. The kid already had a goofy look on his face from hearing the news.

Maia was a grad student at Yale. She'd become friends with Chloe through the coven of Peony's sister who lived in New Haven. As a general rule, Dean stayed away from anything Wicca. It conjured up images of women making daisy chains in the meadow. This time, though, he was giving Maia and Chloe a pass. Chloe's heroine in her urban fantasies was a Wiccan. Maia was in the doctorate program at Yale, studying the classics. Her interest in the pagan group was more academic. Maia had been the first woman Sam was interested in since his girlfriend died. Reason enough to like her.

"This will be the first time for the Silver Cauldron to conduct a ceremony for the autumnal equinox," Chloe said. "We'll hold it in a park north of Columbia University. Several of the university students have joined the coven."

"Dean, you should stay too," Sam suggested. "A city as big as New York must have some malevolent spirits."

"Great idea!" Chloe seconded. "But no need to look for a job. Dean, haven't you always wanted to lead a group of warriors into battle?"

"Do it all the time. Except it's just me and Sam."

"That's just it. This is your chance to fight alongside hundreds. Well, maybe fifty. Angela's not sure of the exact number."

"Angela? Are you talking about Neal's cousin Angela?"

"That's right, and now coven sister Angela."

Dean snorted. Neal must love that. Dean had helped him and Peter rescue her from a vampire several weeks ago. Neal had insisted that Angela not be told that vampires exist. If Neal weren't cursed already, he'd certainly feel like he was now.

"Angela's one of the organizers for a Renaissance festival the university is holding north of Columbia University. As part of the activities they're going to stage a LARP." When Dean didn't immediately respond, she added, "Are you familiar with the concept? It's an acronym for live action role-playing. Participants wear costumes and stage mock battles. You'll like it. This LARP will be of the Battle of Shrewsbury."

Sam was snickering. Dean decided to play along. "Aren't shrews a type of mice? You better not be asking me to put on mouse ears."

Sam broke into a laugh. "The Battle of Shrewsbury is one of the most famous battles in English history, doofus. It took place in the early fifteenth century between the forces of Henry IV and rebels led by Henry Hotspur."

For the first time in weeks, Sam was looking genuinely relaxed and happy. Weren't they due a break? They'd been fighting demon scum nonstop for over six weeks. Sam was still well enough to enjoy the festival. How much longer would that last? More to the point, if Chloe didn't come up with a cure, how much longer would Sam be alive?

There'd been precious few moments to act like goofballs when they were kids. Sam was excited to take a week off, see his girl, and have some fun. That sounded good to Dean, too.

And maybe, just maybe, they'd catch a break, and that book would provide the cure.

"So which commander would I be?" Dean asked. "Hotspur? I like the sound of that."

"He lost the battle," Sam pointed out.

"Not if I'm the leader."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The coffee he'd drunk in the morning hadn't been enough to quell the exhaustion which set in as soon as Mozzie left. Neal stretched out on the couch, intending to take a short nap. When the ringing of his cell phone roused him from sleep, he was dismayed to see it was already late afternoon.

He reached for the phone, hoping it wasn't Mozzie with breaking news from the "Save Our Marsh" battleground. Thankfully, Richard's name was on the phone display. Richard Carlisle was a fellow grad student at Columbia. Neal sat up to take the call.

"Travis and I are leaving for the meeting. You're on the way. Would you like a ride?"

"What meeting?" Neal asked before the significance dawned on him and he sank back into the cushions. Crap.

Richard snorted his disbelief. "Surely you didn't forget. Renaissance festival ring a bell?"

"You just saved my hide. It completely slipped my mind." Angela was helping coordinate the music, dance, and science exhibits. She'd given him his marching orders earlier in the week.

"You were painting?"

Richard's studio was next to his. He knew how Neal tuned out the rest of the world when absorbed in a project. Could he blame his forgetfulness on the Marquesa? At least this time when he woke up, he wasn't working on her portrait.

"Relax. You have plenty of time," Richard added, not waiting for his reply.

Neal could hear Travis in the background, saying it'd take them thirty minutes to reach June's place from their apartment in the Village.

Angela was already mad at Henry for being away on a business trip. She'd accused him of deliberately planning to be gone during her hour of need. Her assertion was plainly ridiculous. Henry was the biggest ham of all the cousins. He would have loved participating in the LARP. The opposing leaders were each named Henry. He would have wanted to play both parts.

This was Columbia University's first year to hold a Renaissance festival. The history, English, art, science, and music departments had all planned events. For over twenty years, a one-day medieval festival had been held on a Saturday in late September in Fort Tryon Park, just south of Mozzie and Janet's beloved Inwood Hill Park. The location was ideal since the Cloisters dominated the hillside setting. Columbia had persuaded the festival organizers to leave their props in place for an extra day. The food and market vendors were happy to have the additional sales.

The LARP component was particularly popular with students. The much anticipated battle was scheduled to be the opening event so that afterward everyone could relax and enjoy the rest of the festival.

From Neal's perspective, one of the best parts was that Sara would be there. Angela had roped in all the participants in her kung fu class to help out. Janet, who was a costume designer, was designated the official costume consultant. The other women—Sara, Keiko, Diana, and Maggie—would be performing Renaissance dances along with members of the dance department. Neal and Sara were already plotting ways to sneak away from the others to meet.

They'd initially agreed to date in secret to avoid the well-meaning but misguided matchmaking attempts of certain friends who were just a little too nosy about their private lives. They dubbed their strategy the Clueless con and had given themselves the aliases of Matthew and Alicia which they could use as code words for themselves. Peter and Henry knew Neal dated a woman named Alicia, but they had no idea she was really Sara.

Was it overly complicated? Of course. But that made it even more intriguing. They both wore disguises when they went out. So far no one knew the truth, and they were determined to keep it that way.

Hiding their relationship had become even more a necessity when a fellow student at Columbia had been discovered to be an agent for the international criminal organization Ydrus. Bianka had a studio close to Neal's in Watson Hall. She'd been making a play for him, and now he was supposed to con her that he was falling in love with her. Clueless con or not, his dates with Sara would have to be concealed until the op against Ydrus was concluded.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

By the time Neal, Richard, and Travis arrived at their designated room in the basement of the student center, Angela was already passing out instructions. The chairs were arranged into several groups with signs proclaiming the various specialties. Neal saw Sara talking to Keiko and the other dancers.

Aidan was standing in the science section. When they walked in, he waved them over.

"Has Angela given you your assignment?" Neal asked.

"I'm trying to keep a low profile," Aidan muttered, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder. He was safe for the moment as Angela had gone over to speak with the dancers. "I'll participate in the battle and that's it. What are your assignments?"

"Neal and I will be wandering minstrels," Richard said. "Strumming a guitar sounded like the least amount of work."

"Maybe for you," Aidan said gloomily. "I can't stroll around a Renaissance festival with a synthesizer strapped to my neck."

"You can hang out with me," Travis offered. "The physics and astronomy departments are collaborating on the science tent. We'll have exhibits on Galileo, Tycho Brahe, and Da Vinci."

"Will you include any armillary spheres?" a familiar alto voice asked. Neal turned around to see Diana and Christie approaching them. Renaissance astronomy was featured in the stories Diana was writing. Travis, as her technical advisor, had given himself a crash course on the subject.

"Of course," Travis assured her. "The astronomy department has a collection of antique instruments. We'll bring along a couple of examples and display photos of the others."

"Angela signed me up to dance," Diana said, "but I'm going to switch. After the battle, some of the larpers will hold demonstrations of Renaissance fighting techniques. We'll have crossbows, maces, warhammers, staffs, swords—"

"You're speaking my language," Aidan declared, his face lighting up. He was their fencing captain and would be in his element. "I'll help with the swords." He and Diana took off shortly afterward to join the larpers in another room. Richard and Travis drifted off to speak with Angela.

"Do you have any assignment?" Neal asked Christie.

"Travis suggested I help out in the Renaissance medical tent. The pre-med students are preparing graphics on surgery during the period. It may be one of the most popular exhibits." Christie chuckled. "The kids will think we're staging an early Halloween horror show." She added in a lower tone, "Any additional symptoms I should be aware of?"

Neal shook his head. In the din of excited chatter, no one was paying attention to their conversation. "No new ones, but the old ones are becoming more intense." He described his night of painting with the Marquesa.

She winced sympathetically. "I can see my recommendation for you to get more rest will be even more of a challenge. I don't advise sleep meds. The side effects with whatever else is going on—"

"No drugs," Neal agreed firmly. "I don't want to risk it."

"Have you spoken with Peter about the blood work results?"

"Not yet. I didn't want to put a damper on his weekend. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

"I understand, but he needs to be told," she admonished.

That was the downside of having Diana's partner for a doctor. If he didn't comply, Diana would be on his case too, and he already had enough misery in his life.

"I met Chloe last week when Diana dragged me to her kung fu practice," Christie said. "I don't usually get up that early on a Saturday morning unless I'm on call. Chloe and I talked afterward about your case."

"I can imagine what you must think about me relying on an herbal potion for a cure."

"You might be surprised. Did you know Chloe's Wicca coven has their station next to the medical tent?" When Neal started to laugh, she added, "Please don't start with the witch doctor jokes! I'm sure I'll hear plenty next weekend. But the idea is accurate. In the Early Renaissance, many witches were revered like we value homeopaths. There was a distinction between good witches— the wise women they were called—who used plants for healing and witches who employed witchcraft to harm others. It was only during the reign of Elizabeth that the real persecution began."

"When did you become so knowledgeable about witches?" he asked, surprised.

"It was your case," she admitted. "I must admit that when you first told me about your experience in the witch house in Connecticut, I was concerned you were losing your hold on reality. But Peter confirmed what you'd seen. Chloe's been quite an education about witches. She also assured me there won't be any malicious ones at the Wicca tent."

"That's a comfort." Should he now call Chloe a good witch? Would Dean clobber him if he did?

The preparations continued into the evening with only a quick break to fetch sandwiches from the eatery on the ground floor. It was past eight o'clock before Angela declared herself satisfied.

Richard and Travis were still meeting with the larpers when Neal was ready to leave. It was a beautiful night with mild temperatures—perfect for a walk. All he needed was the right companion.

"Going my way?" he asked Sara, already knowing the answer. Sara was subletting a friend's apartment on West 111th, only a few blocks north of June's mansion.

"Do we dare risk it?" she murmured in an undertone.

He scanned the surroundings. "No sign of Bianka. Henry's not in town. Let's scram."

"If we duck through Barnard College to Riverside Drive, Alicia and Matthew should be free from Peeping Toms."

They were simply two friends walking home together till they reached Riverside Park. The moon was bright in the sky, providing ideal conditions for a romantic stroll.

"I wish you weren't taking Bianka to the festival," Sara said as he slipped an arm around her waist.

"I do too. I wouldn't have invited her, but she asked me."

Neal had taken Bianka out the previous evening. They'd gone to a romantic French restaurant. Afterward, she'd invited him to her apartment. Whenever Neal went out on a date with Bianka he wore an FBI-issue watch. One of the buttons on the side sent a direct signal to the techs in the lab, who then relayed it to whoever his designated save was. This time it was Jones who'd called, supposedly needing Neal for a surveillance assignment.

Bianka was growing more amorous each day. Neal's challenge to act infatuated without crossing the Rubicon was becoming increasingly difficult. Luckily for him, Bianka had been afflicted by one illness after another. She was Hungarian. Perhaps she had no resistance to New York bugs. And not just bugs. A couple of weeks ago, she'd been the victim of a mugging which landed her in the hospital.

For a criminal agent who was supposed to be seducing him, Bianka was having miserable luck and he was grateful. He also found it hard not to feel sorry for her. She claimed to be twenty-three but she seemed younger. Neal wondered if he was her first mark. He hoped she decided her illnesses were an omen to choose another career path.

He and Sara stopped to sit on a bench and gaze over the river. He should tell her about the test results—the reason why he wouldn't go into battle with the larpers—but there'd be plenty of time later. For now they let their mouths do the talking, not to express words but their emotions.

Aar-ooooooooooh!

Sara pulled back. "What was that? A wolf?"

"In New York City?" Neal shook his head. "I've only heard wolves howl in the movies, but this didn't sound like one. It was more . . . strident."

"It's not a coyote. I'm familiar with their yips and yowls. What else could it be?"

They listened intently for several minutes. The howl had been faint. Impossible to tell which direction it came from.

They weren't the only ones who heard it. Others in the park were also commenting on the strange noise.

Neal and Sara resumed their walk. Lingering in the park no longer seemed like a good idea. When they crossed Riverside Drive to head towards Sara's apartment, once more they heard a distant cry.

Aar-ooooooooooh!

Notes: Thanks for reading and hugs to all of you who review or favorite the story! Night Howls on the Hudson has 9 chapters. I plan to post weekly on Wednesday. Next week in Chapter 2: Cat and Mouse, Neal has that postponed conversation with Peter about Christie's findings, and Crowley drops in on Maia with disturbing news about Electra.

A little history: In 1624 the Lenape people of Manahatta sold their island to the Dutch for 60 guilders worth of trade goods. Inwood Hill Park is at the northern tip of Manhattan. The forested park does have caves used by the Lenape. The marsh also exists and is next to the Baker Athletics Complex which Columbia built in 2016. I've taken liberty with the dates and details of the construction. During the actual construction, no Lenape pottery fragments were found at the site. As for the marsh, I'll have more about it at the end of the story.

Harriet Beaufort, the author of the book Chloe is interested in, is a historical character, but the herbal guide is fictitious.

The Medieval Festival in New York City is going strong. This year the 34th festival will be held on Saturday, September 30. So far Columbia hasn't held a Renaissance Festival on the following day.

Special thanks to Penna Nomen for providing beta assistance during this adventure. The characters and I are very grateful!

Series Background: In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is fifteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. The Crossed Lines page on our blog has more background information about the stories.

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website
Pins are updated with each new chapter. This week's pins include the cast and locations as well as the Goya painting which inspired Neal's tribute to the Marquesa.

Disclaimers: The worlds of White Collar and Supernatural are not mine, alas. Any depictions of real institutions and locations are not necessarily true or accurate. In particular, the details of Columbia's involvement with the marsh near their boathouse are fictitious.