Dark Rabbit

Chapter 7: A Demon in Shepherdstown

"Make it two bottles," Crowley requested with a flick of two fingers.

The shopkeeper at the liquor store looked at him, startled. "We don't generally have much demand for Glencraig."

Peasants. What he had to put up with in the backwoods of America. Would he have to single-handedly teach the rustic inhabitants of Shepherdstown the glory of single malt? The purveyor of this establishment had shelves stocked with Rebel Yell, Old Blowhard ... Who in their right mind would possibly want to drink something labeled Old Crow? He would be doing the townspeople a favor to kill them now.

"I'll check in the back," the shopkeeper offered.

"Yes, why don't you do that, my good man? Run along now." Rolling his eyes, Crowley turned to look out the store window. This experience provided additional ammunition in his drive to convince Electra that placing pure-bloods in the countryside was a waste of time. Just look at the streets. Where were the BMWs, the Jags? All he saw were a few pickups and family vans filled with smudges.

A café was across the street. Several cars remained in the parking lot from the lunch crowd. Crowley idly scanned them for any signs of culture and did a double-take. Bollocks. How many '67 Impalas could there be? First Caffrey. Now the Winchesters. This was bloody intolerable.

Had Lutar's indiscretions drawn them to Shepherdstown? Most of the common vamps had already been eliminated as Crowley restocked Lutar's minions with carefully selected superior specimens. More likely Caffrey was the cause. The silver lining in the dark Winchester cloud was that in the future Electra would be more appreciative of the astuteness of his counsel.

* * * * *

In the evening, Sam and Dean returned to the garden of the Blue Moon Café, the same location where they'd met Neal at lunch. Neal and Peter had already claimed one of the rustic wood tables when they showed up.

Peter looked at them hopefully as they sat down. "Nothing demonic, right?"

Sam tried to make his smile non-committal. He had a bad feeling about Lutar, but possibly he simply didn't like the dude. If Lutar had made a pact with a crossroads demon, he was to be pitied, not reviled.

Neal had described his cousin's behavior over lunch. Since she hadn't met them, he suggested they attend the afternoon workshop as producers for NPR. They were supposedly researching a documentary series on Appalachian music. Neal had prepared IDs for them as well as some official-looking documents about the upcoming production.

Neal picked up the tab for dinner—craft beers from the Rogue brewery and chubby burgers piled high with Brie and bacon. Sam always enjoyed Neal's taste in restaurants. Dean wasn't sure about having Brie on his burger, but the French fries and onion rings kept him happy.

Peter scrutinized the ID cards, holding them up to the light. "And you whipped these off after rehearsal?" he asked Neal incredulously.

Neal shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. Mozzie had been helping them out with fake cards for the past few months. How many of them had Neal made? Mozzie hadn't revealed his source and had warned them to never mention the cards to Peter.

"The participants in the workshop were friendly enough," Dean said, taking a swig of beer. "Many of them were picturing themselves in a one-on-one with Lutar by the sound of it. There were a few guys who were taken with him, but most of his fans were female."

"We drew straws to see who would wind up being the sacrificial lamb," Sam added, "and Dean lost."

"Why am I always the one to get the crap assignments?" Dean complained.