24. The Hunt for the First Blade

"Back in this fetid pit. Could have at least added some throw pillows."

"Sorry, no luxury in rehab," I say snidely.

We're back in the dungeon, where I first met Crowley. We've chained him back up, and Crowley had a lot to say to us about that. I brushed off his words. Sam and I are currently keeping Crowley company. Sam's laptop is keeping him company.

"Focus," Sam tells Crowley. "Okay. You swept the Mariana Trench. And...?"

"And the First Blade was not, as hoped, in the Trench," Crowley reports. "It had, in fact, been scooped up by an unmanned sub, from whom it was stolen by a research assistant, who reportedly sold it to Portuguese smugglers, who, in turn, lost it to Moroccan pirates in a poker game."

"What?"

"Poor moose. It's always a little tricky keeping up, isn't it?"

"Even I don't follow that. Couldn't have just simplified it a little bit?" I ask Crowley.

"But then that would make things too easy to follow, darling."

I cross my arms. "What's your game, Crowley?"

"If there was a game, the last person I'd want to tell would be you, Josie."

I cringe. Crowley's eyes have averted slightly to Sam. Sam, who catches Crowley staring at him. Even though I'm not receiving the attention, the demon's attention on my brother bothers me.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks Crowley.

"I'm still a little tainted by humanity. Makes me sentimental."

"Well, stop."

"You and I both know we shared a mo back in that church. And on some level, we are bonded. Did you tell Josie that, what's been going on since she's been away?" Crowley's eyes fall back onto me. "How much have your brothers told you?"

"Not the full story, but none of that is any of your concern," I snap. But I can't help but wonder what Crowley means. Is it even worth asking now or later?

"Crowley, the only reason you are alive is that we need your help to deal with Abaddon 'cause she is an even worse pile of crap than you are," says Sam. "And that is the extent of my concern for you. Got it? Okay. What happened after the pirates?"

Crowley's answer leads us to being out in the night, sitting on a park bench, decked out in FBI attire. I forget who we're supposed to be waiting for, but this someone can lead us closer to the First Blade that we really need to get our hands on.

We, of course, have to have the King of Hell tag along for this. I've got a careful eye on him, as he's snooping around vending machines a few yards away from my brothers and myself. We have to scold him like a dog when he tries to steal candy out of the machines. We meet this Develin guy, who isn't giving us much help. Crowley ends up sneaking into Develin's body via red smoke to get what we need from him.

Develin's extracted information leads us to Kansas City, Missouri, to the National Institute of Antiquities. When we get there hours later, we're met with a crime scene. We make sure Crowley is kept in the Impala while my brothers and I get out to investigate the scene. We're led into the room, where two security guards and a girl are all dead on the floor. Pictures are being taken and evidence is being accounted for.

"I don't have much for you guys," says the head detective. "The guards were good men. They'd been here for years—vetted, honest. But..."

"But?" I pry.

"Security camera shows a research assistant caught them breaking into vault number one."

I point to the dead girl on the floor. "That's her?"

"Gets weirder." The head detective leads us away from the scene so that we can view the footage for ourselves. One of the security guards shoots his partner. But then here's the kicker: the one that just got shot gets up and shoots the first security guard. Then one of them shoots out the camera. "Like I said."

"Anything special about the particular vault they opened?" asks Sam.

"Vault number one is where they keep rare, new acquisitions while they're being examined."

"So what was stolen?" asks Dean.

"That's the kicker—nothing. The curator, Doctor McElroy, said the vault's been empty for weeks."

I exchange looks with my brothers as the head detective gets called away.

"Okay, so, just connecting the dots here," says Dean, "the Blade was likely put in there when it first got here."

"The guards were obviously demons, so...What?" says Sam. "When the vault turned out to be empty, they killed their guard meat-suits and smoked out?"

"And reported back to who? Abaddon?"

"She's closing in."

We end up finding Dr. McElroy. I kindly introduce my brothers and myself. She seems like a nice enough woman. A nice woman who's just as confused as the people who are here processing the crime scene.

"So, the First Blade was never on display?" I ask her. My eyes quickly divert to the last body being rolled out of the crime scene.

"No authenticated item by that name was ever on these premises," says Dr. McElroy.

"'Authenticated,'" Dean repeats. "Doctor McElroy, this Blade was stolen and smuggled into the U.S. in violation of treaties with several governments. We can compel you to speak."

"'Compel'? And what might that involve?"

The three of us look at each other. None of us were expecting her to respond back with a question.

"All right, look," she finally says, "I did acquire the so-called First Blade. And carbon dating did peg it to biblical times, but the authentication proved unreliable."

"So it was in the vault," I say.

"I removed it myself. The guards didn't know."

"And where is it now?"

"Several weeks ago, a confidential offer was made to purchase it. I was afraid we would never authenticate the thing, so—"

"Who was the buyer?" Dean cuts in.

"Sorry. The buyer insisted on absolute secrecy."

I snort. Figures.

"Well...federal statutes trump your little deal. So...the buyer?" Dean presses.

"And you'll get it out of me one way or another, won't you, Agent?"

I blink, scrutinizing Dr. McElroy. Are you serious right now? She's flirting with my brother? Unbelievable. It's taking a lot of will power on my part to not lash out and protect Dean from her. He wouldn't appreciate my protection, but picking up women at a crime scene is the last thing he needs to be doing.

"Hmm," Dr. McElroy continues. "I never did know his real identity. He called himself 'Magnus.' Don't ask me where he lives. I have no idea. But I do have a meeting. So, here is my number, should you need anything else."

I try to take the card from her, but apparently I don't have the right to take it. Dr. McElroy pulls it back, then hands it over to Dean. Sam and I exchange slightly irritated looks. Dean almost looks like the happiest guy on the planet.

"What?" Dean asks, slightly offended as Sam and I stare at him.

"Leisure isn't priority here," I say, tempted to smack my older brother upside the head. "Did you catch that? 'Magnus'?"

"'Albert Magnus'?" Sam chimes in. "The name the Men of Letters used when they want to be incognito?"

"Oh, I just remembered the name because it sounded unusual." I shrug. Guess I haven't had enough time to learn that little piece of information about the Men of Letters.

"Yeah," says Dean, answering Sam, "but we know that all of the Men of Letters are dead."

I purse my lips. "Do we?" My brothers look at me. "Well, going off by what Sam said, it's probably not impossible for a Man of Letters to be still kicking. Question is: how are we gonna find out who it is?"

* * *

"Turndown service?" asks Crowley as my brothers and I arrive back at the bunker dungeon. "I'd like a mint on my pillow."

"What do you know about the Men of Letters massacre of nineteen-fifty-eight?" Sam gets right down to it.

"We know Abaddon missed our grandfather and Larry Ganem," Dean chimes. "Was there anybody else?"

"Let me get this straight," Crowley growls. "You keep me locked up in this closet, ignore my suffering, and then come barging in here and demand my help?"

"More or less, yeah," I say nonchalantly.

"Did I or did I nor keep my end of the bargain the other night? Quite brilliantly, I might add. We are partners! And you owe me!"

"'Owe' you?"

"I wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for your brothers. They shot me up. They made me a junkie. And you all keep me stashed away for months while my kingdom falls apart?!"

"Okay, okay, calm down, drama queen," I say bitingly. "What do you want?"

We all, except Crowley himself, hates the requests that he gives us. I hate it even more so that we actually comply with his requests.

So now, we're out in the bunker library, and I feel like I somehow got volunteered to do King of Hell duty while my brothers are rifling through boxes of Men of Letters files.

While my brothers are going through the boxes, I watch Crowley, who in turn won't stop looking at me as he drinks a scotch—another request of his. I could have lived with him being out of the dungeon, but tapping into the bunker alcohol supply? I don't think so. Any type of alcohol would be better wasted on anyone else except the King of Hell.

"It's not a very good scotch, is it?" Crowley comments. I'm tempted to pour the entire thing over his head or break the bottle itself.

"Okay, Crowley," says Sam, "we have gone through the records for the entire membership in nineteen-fifty-eight. Every single name matches the men who were killed."

Crowley doesn't even seem to be listening. I wrinkle my nose as he picks up a Busty Asian Beauties magazine and starts looking through it. "That would be the active membership, right?" he asks half-heartedly.

"You really don't know anything, do you?" I voice my frustration. "We let you out to breathe, drink, and apparently get horny, and you've given us nothing in return."

Crowley looks up from the magazine at me. "Were the three of you dropped on your heads a great deal? Like I told you, rumor has it that a rogue member was tossed out on his arse. Does that make him 'active'? Seriously, how did you ever function without me?" Crowley goes back to the magazine. "Well, hello, Miss Ichigatsu."

Annoyed and fed up, I leave Crowley, going to Dean, who's got a file box in his arms. I lean in to read the label.

"Infamati et obliterati," I say slowly.

"Your Latin is getting better, sis," Dean tells me.

"It all started with the exorcism, bro. Unfortunately, I have no idea what it means."

"'Dishonored and forgotten,'" Crowley voices.

We focus on that box, pouring out its contents. The three of us skim through, for a while, having no luck.

"Wow," says Dean after a while. "This guy was something." I don't get to look at the paper, as he hands it over to Sam.

"Tough name," Sam agrees as he's got the paper.

"Yeah, Cuthbert Sinclair. I'd have just gone with 'Magnus.'"

"Looks like he designed most of the warding that keeps the bunker safe."

"Says here he was named 'Master of Spell,' right after he initiated."

"I guess his work got a little crazy. The leadership called it 'eccentric' and 'irresponsible.'"

"Oh, wait, wait," I cut in, practically leaning across Dean. "So these are the projects that he proposed the last two years he was here. Look at this—'rejected.' 'Rejected.' 'Rejected.'"

"So difficult—brilliant, ahead of your time, despised for it," Crowley interjects. "Trust me, I know."

"'Formal separation from Men of Letters—April nineteen-fifty-six."

"He missed the massacre," says Sam.

"I never knew his name, but I heard someone was out," says Crowley. "Did my damndest to find him. Thought he might be my way inside this joint."

"Where'd you look?" I ask.

"Who wants to go for a drive?"