More confidently, Gloria said, "No, I see nothing like that. Neither do my girls—they tell me things."
Dean had been hoping one of the housekeepers would report it, but it was a long shot. The alternative, which was rapidly becoming necessary, was to go door to door.
However, Sam, bless his geeky little heart, had another idea. "Has anybody refused housekeeping service?"
"Many people," Gloria said. "If they want to be filthy, I can no stop them."
Dean asked, "Anybody who's been staying here since before the new year, and has been consistently refusing it?" No way the demons would want the staff near their ritual knives and bowls and things.
Gloria wrinkled her nose, and said, "Oh, that's 333. Their room must be very very filthy now. It's disgusting."
Yahtzee.
Yuri tapped some keys on the laptop on the desk. "That's the Fedregottis—a married couple, Alberto and Fedra."
"Great," Dean said. "Can we have the key to that room, please?"
Yuri nodded. "Sure. Thanks, Gloria and please—don't tell anyone about this, okay?"
All Gloria did was shrug and walk back out the door. Yuri then led Sam and Dean to an elevator down the hall, away from the main lobby. He fumbled through a large key ring that was in a cargo pocket of his khakis and pulled up a credit card-style key, which he put into the slot over the elevator call button, then pushed it.
"Uh, look, Yuri," Dean said, again putting his hand on the man's shoulder, "we appreciate your help and all, but we need to handle this ourselves. A civilian would just get in our way, y'know?"
"Oh!" Yuri actually sounded relieved, which Dean was hoping for. "Yes, Agent Danko, of course." He fumbled through the key ring and pulled up another key. He extricated it from the ring and handed it to Dean. "Here you go. This will open any of the rooms."
"Thanks." Dean entered the elevator, and pushed the button with the 3 on it. As soon as the doors closed, he looked at Sam. "Jesus, 333? How much more obvious could they get?"
"Well, they could've gotten 666, but this hotel doesn't have six floors." Sam dropped the federal agent act and smirked.
"Yeah." The elevators parted at the third floor, and Dean and Sam wended their way through the back corridors—passing a housekeeping person in the usual maid's outfit that wasn't nearly as skimpy as it was in porno flicks—and came out into the hallway through a door that said STAFF ONLY.
The right room would have been easy enough to find even without the "333" emblazoned on it. Dean knew the smell of sulfur anywhere, and this place was swimming in it. The door handle also had a PRIVACY PLEASE card hanging off it.
"No way housekeeping just missed this," Sam said.
"Yeah—that ain't residue. The Fedregottis're doing something right now." Dean unholstered his nine-millimeter pistol which, like the shotgun, had rock-salt rounds, but unlike the shotgun could be easily brought into a public crowded hotel, especially if one had fake federal ID.
Before they could get within twenty feet of the door, though, Dean saw a sight he wasn't expecting: Captain Naylor.
"What the—? Cap'n, what're you doing here?"
But the spirit didn't respond. Instead, he was striding purposefully down the corridor. Then he turned and went through the door like—well, a ghost.
"Captain Naylor!" Dean called out as he walked, but the spirit was unusually quiet.
"This can't be good," Sam said.
A hand thrust through Dean's chest like the monster in Alien. He jumped a couple of inches in the air as the rest of the body came through also: another spirit, this time Hemingway. Despite his threats last time, he showed no interest in Sam or Dean.
"That's Truman," Sam said, pointing to the other end of the hall. Dean followed his gaze and saw someone who sure looked like the picture of the guy who held up the newspaper headline DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN.
Undoing the safety on his nine-mil, Dean took up position in front of the door. Sam did so on the side of the door and nodded to Dean, who slid the key Yuri had given him into the door.
Unfortunately, while the little green light went on to indicate that the door had unlocked, the door wouldn't open. Based on the resistance Dean was getting, the Fedregottis had bolted the door shut.
So Dean kicked the door instead.
It still didn't budge.
Snarling, Dean kicked again, this time putting a dent in the door, but not opening it.
On the fifth kick, accompanied by a scream of rage, the door finally flew open.
Sam burst into the room, quickly followed by Dean, who said, "Hate to interrupt this meeting of Dead People Anonymous, but the neighbors are complaining."
Even as he spoke, he took in the room. The king-sized bed had been lifted upright and propped against the wall to make more room—though the headboard was still in the wall, as it was built in, but their demons had made use of that, turning it into an altar. It was painted in blood with an upside-down pentagram. Black candles lit the room, with help from the sunset that streamed in through the large window.
Standing in the center of the room were a man and a woman, both with olive skin that had been well tanned in the tropical sun. He was tall and skinny, with a big nose and graying hair; she was curvy, with well-teased dark hair and nice cheekbones. The bodies no doubt belonged to the real Alberto and Fedra, but were occupied by a couple of scum-sucking demons, whom Dean would be more than happy to send back to hell.
The spirits were standing in a circle around the Fedregottis. Each new spirit that entered—and Dean only recognized some of them—filled in a gap between two others.
Lying on the floor was a girl with her throat sliced open, the wound parallel to her chin, making it look like she had a second mouth. The innards of her neck were clearly visible thanks to there being almost no blood. Dean's expert eye detected that the carotid had been severed, but—just like the other girl—the blood was gone.
When his eyes moved past the neck, Dean recognized her, from the doe eyes that were now staring blankly at the ceiling to the great legs.
It was Susannah, the girl he met at Captain Tony's.
TWELVE
The couple had been perfectly willing to follow Azazel.
The pair of them found each other in the pits. Their pairing provided no comfort or solace—those weren't permitted in hell—but their suffering was lessened when together. True, it was only in the sense that you suffer less when you were stabbed in the shoulder than when you were shot in the gut, but one took what one could get. They'd been in the pits long enough to have forgotten their own names, and had never taken on new demonic names of their own.
When Azazel had revealed his plan, the couple signed right up. A chance to run amok on Earth after centuries of torment? That was way too good an opportunity—made better, as always, by being able to share in the chaos with each other.
At the appointed time, the couple showed up near the gate, and they waited—and waited. Azazel's plan didn't really have a time frame, despite the demon's urging not to be too late arriving at the doorway to Earth. They had to wait for the human who would lead them, direct them, show them the way—the field general for their war on order and life.
But when the gate finally did open, and they burst out into the world, there was no field general, and no Azazel. Well, actually, they were both there, but they were dead. The human had been shot and killed, his lifeless eyes staring toward a heaven he was now guaranteed to be excluded from. As for Azazel, there was no trace of him. The meat puppet he'd been using lately also lay dead, and the stink of sulfur and cordite meant that the Colt had been used. It didn't take long to learn who had done the deed: the sons of John Winchester. The couple could smell them—the older one, Dean, stank of the crossroads demon to whom he'd sold his life, and the young one, Sam, had been one of Azazel's chosen.
Without a human or an elder demon to guide them, everyone went crazy.
But the couple decided to take a vacation. After all, they were on Earth again, f
or the first time in millennia. Why not kick back and enjoy themselves?
So they found a couple of meat puppets who were in the midst of the latest in a series of knockdown drag-out arguments. Alberto Fedregotti had been (once again) cheating on his wife Fedra, and Fedra had (once again) caught him, this time with one of his coworkers. There had been shouting and acrimony and violence, and then make-up sex, and the Fedregottis' free range of fierceness and negativity and angry passion drew the couple like moths to a flame.
Once the two demons took over the Fedregottis, they went south and east to a place that was known for being relaxing. A place to rest and recuperate after century upon century of torment.
After a time, though, just taking it easy wasn't enough. Their very presence on this island was heightening the spiritual activity—which was already greater than usual for this plane of existence—so they decided to spruce things up a bit. Have a bit of fun. A little vacation was never a bad thing, but they were demons, after all. So they changed hotels again—the Hyatt was their ninth—and enacted a plan.
Like all the best things in life, the ritual worked most efficiently with human blood. On this island, it was ridiculously easy to find impressionable young people who were happy to let you pay for their drinks. First there was dear Megan, trying desperately to build a life away from her family, living in a constant state of delicious fear.
And then there was Susannah, footloose and fancy-free and totally oblivious to the dangers of the world. It had been a pleasure to slit her throat, oh yes it had.
Using the power of Susannah's life, and by the light of the black candles made from the fat of dead humans, Alberto and Fedra brought all the spirits of Key West to them. It was sunset, which was not only the ideal time for the ritual, it was also when there would be crowds of people coming off the boardwalk after watching the sun go down. Innocent, happy, carefree souls just waiting to be demolished.
One by one, the spirits came. The writer who had lived on the island, the bartender who died in a hurricane, the drowned scuba diver, the president who had vacationed here, the many captains and sailors who had worked on wreckers, the treasure hunter whose mantra of "today's the day" eventually came to pass, the shipping magnate who died on vacation, saying it was the best time of his life, and so many others.
Even as they entered, even as Alberto continued the incantation that would bend all the spirits to their will, Fedra heard something. A banging on the door. They had taken care to mask their incantations prior to this. However the "magic" of the power of suggestion was generally enough, provided by simply displaying the words PRIVACY PLEASE on a piece of plastic that hung from the door handle. No one had disturbed them since they checked in last week.
Another banging, and this time the door splintered and dented. Alberto was still holding the vessel containing Susannah's blood and chanting. Fedra moved toward the door; they could ill afford an interruption now. She walked through the evergrowing circle of spirits who surrounded them and prepared for whatever was trying to get in.
The door flew open and there were the Winchester brothers. "Hate to interrupt this meeting of Dead People Anonymous," Dean said, "but the neighbors are complaining."
"Too bad. They weren't invited," Fedra said. She let her eyes go black so the dear boys knew exactly what they were dealing with. "And neither are you."
It took only the slightest manipulation of power to send both young men flying across the room and crashing inelegantly into the far wall, knocking a particularly ugly painting off the wall. Fedra had been meaning to burn it in any case.
Dean tried to reach into the inner pocket of the suit he was wearing, and Fedra focused her mind on his arms, pinning them to the wall behind him. "Ah, ah, ah. No whipping out the Colt." At both brothers' surprised look, Fedra added, "Yes, we know all about your demon-killing gun. You got Azazel with it, you won't get us."
"I swear," Dean said, his face a rictus of pain and anger, "I will end you."
"Oh, my dear sweet Dean, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Sure, a minor death here, a slit throat there, but we're just getting started." But, to her surprise and annoyance, Dean wasn't looking right at her. He was looking at the corpse at Alberto's feet, the young girl from the Schooner's Wharf whose blood was in the vessel Alberto had cupped in his hands.
And then she understood. "You know this girl, don't you? My, you do work fast. You can't have been in town for more than a day or two, and already you've planted your seed. Unless, of course, you use protection. I should hope so, given the way you sleep around—not that an STD'll be much of a problem for you, what with having only a few months left on the clock. But still, you should be considerate of your bedmates. Who knows what's floating around on that little pecker of yours."
Typically for a male human, casting aspersions on his genitalia resulted in anger and frustration, and he pushed harder against Fedra's mind—not realizing that his anger and frustration only served to make her stronger. She wasn't about to tell him that, of course—that took all the fun out of it. Besides, if he knew struggling made her stronger, he'd do something sensible like not struggle...
More spirits entered. A few more, and Alberto could cease, as they'd have more than enough for their purposes.
Then she felt it.
Whirling toward the now-open door, she tried to see what it was she had felt. Since arriving on this island, she and Alberto had both felt the tickle of the dead whose soul essence remained tethered to this place, but this—this was several orders of magnitude more powerful than any of the shades who currently stood in a circle around Alberto. Sam's arms were moving, and Fedra realized that she'd let herself be distracted. She slammed his head against the wall, dazing him.
"Do you feel it, Alberto?" she asked her fellow demon. They had inhabited these meat puppets for so long that they had appropriated their names for their own. "The one that comes is more powerful than all these shades put together. Oh, what we can do with this."
Alberto, still chanting, simply nodded.
The spirit that entered was taller than any of the others. Male, he wore only a small loincloth made of some manner of animal skin bound at the waist by a belt decorated with human bones—fingers and toes, mostly, with a skull in the center. His black hair fell straight to his rear end, and his face was covered by a wooden mask decorated with an elaborate design of red and white and black. Fedra assumed him to be from one of the so-called "Indian" tribes that had been wiped out by the Europeans.
The spirit then spoke in the language of his people, which surprised Fedra, as the spell should have kept it docile. "Which of the Three Gods are you who have made us mighty?"
One of the (few) perks of being a demon was that you knew the language of anyone you spoke to, so Fedra was able to answer in kind. "Other direction, actually. We are demons who have—"
"Spirits of darkness? Then we have no use for you. We are the Last Calusa, and we reject your gift." And then the spirit raised his arm.
"Alberto... " Fedra said, warning in her voice. This should not have been happening. The spell should keep the spirits from acting of their own accord. Speaking was one thing, but none of them should be moving without express orders from Alberto or Fedra.
"S'matter, lady," Dean said, "can't keep a rein on all your horses?"
Ignoring Dean's barb, Fedra walked back through the circle of spirits, grabbed Alberto's hand, and joined him in the chant.
The Last Calusa stumbled, then, and straightened up a moment later, quiet as the others.
But before he could join the circle, he stopped. The mask that covered his face quivered.
Then he reared his head back and screamed.
Light flashed throughout the hotel room. A mighty wind came out of nowhere and extinguished the black candles. The Last Calusa's scream grew louder and louder.
Fedra tried to continue chanting, but the wind was now pounding into her meat puppet's face. She clasped Alberto's hands and chanted more intently, more loudly, h
oping to get this spirit under their control as they had the others.
The Last Calusa stopped screaming and straightened, raising his hands toward the two demons.
An invisible force sent the demons flying against the headboard, smearing the blood that made up the reversed pentagram.
The spell was broken. The other spirits looked about in confusion. Some disappeared. Some ran. Others stayed and looked befuddled.
Again, the Last Calusa gestured.
Demons lived in hell, so they were used to pain. Still, it had been a long time since Fedra felt pain such as what the Last Calusa was inflicting upon her and Alberto. This wasn't just meat-puppet pain, for demons were immune to such trivialities. No, the Last Calusa was striking at their demon essence, which shouldn't have been possible for a mere spirit.
But this obviously wasn't just a "mere" spirit, Fedra realized, as the Last Calusa's anger pounded into her. And worse, we made it more powerful...
The report of two pistols echoed through the room, and Fedra saw that the Winchester boys were using their silly rock-salt rounds to try to disrupt the Last Calusa.
It didn't work, of course, but it did distract the Last Calusa long enough for Fedra to break his hold on her and try to strike back.
But the Last Calusa merely said, "We are not impressed." He gestured, and Dean's and Sam's pistols flew across the room. Then he gestured again, and Alberto screamed.
Fedra had thought herself beyond fear, but that was before she heard Alberto scream. Demons weren't supposed to scream. Demons were supposed to provoke screams.
A pit opened in the core of Fedra's demon essence, as if something had been ripped from her very being.
Then the Last Calusa spoke once again. "This will all end soon. We will have our vengeance."
With that, he and all the remaining spirits just disappeared, leaving Fedra alone with the Winchester brothers. But not with Alberto. She grabbed him, shook him, but he did not respond.
"Alberto! Alberto! "
Bone Key Page 11