TWELVE

Early the next morning, Sam and Dean headed uptown to the Waldorf. Sam had insisted on another walkthrough of the lobby, and if they could get up as far as the Presidential Suite without arousing suspicion, then all the better.

While Dean skulked around the loading dock, Sam headed to the stairwell. He wanted to make sure that the exit strategy he had formulated from the blueprints would hold up in real life.

Slogging his way up the many flights of stairs was the most exercise Sam had done in weeks. Around the twentieth story, ascending to the top began to feel like an impossible task. It’d be pretty sad to die of a heart attack now, Sam thought. Whether that would be a good or bad thing for the world was another matter.

In the middle of contemplating that idea, a thunderous bark echoed up the stairwell, jolting Sam to attention. A second later, another bark pounded his eardrums, and he gripped his hands against his head tightly. If that’s a dog, Sam thought, I don’t want to meet its owner.

With the third bout of vicious howling, Sam realized that the noise was getting closer. It was coming up the stairwell—and fast. Dean said the demon barked. I don’t really want to find out if he’s right. He took the steps two at a time, hoping to outrun whatever hellish beast was downstairs. Hellish beast, Sam thought. It sounds exactly how I always imagined a Hellhound to sound.

Satan’s guard dogs, Hellhounds were the invisible beasts responsible for keeping up the nasty end of Hell’s bargains. If the demon that Dean met was somehow a Hellhound, or something like it, they were in even more trouble than they had thought.

The sound of water dripping was driving Dean crazy. Somewhere, some jackass hadn’t tightened a valve, or a nut, or whatever it was that kept water from leaking, and now it was ruining both Dean’s day and his nice new suit jacket.

He had been forced to hide in a storage locker when a truckload of perishables was delivered to the loading dock, only to have the kitchen staff take their lunch break right outside. It wasn’t the most undignified place Dean had ever hidden, but it was up there.

“Have I told you what happened at the Yankees’ game?” a muffled voice said outside the locker. For a moment, Dean pictured himself holding a baseball bat and using it to punish the kitchen workers for the twenty minutes of dull-as-shit conversation he’d been forced to endure. I bet Sam’s having fun, he thought bitterly.

The metal edge of the stair rushed at Sam’s face, catching him between the ear and eyebrow and momentarily blurring his vision. He had tripped while running up the flight of stairs, and from the sound of it, the Hellhound—or whatever it was—was only seconds behind him. Pushing himself upright, Sam risked a glance down the cavernous opening in the middle of the stairwell. It led all the way to the ground floor, maybe even underground.

Nothing.

Hellhounds are invisible, Sam reminded himself. Keep running.

Lactic acid burned in his calves as he sprinted upward. Ahead of him, the door to the fortieth floor was only meters away. A terrible growling reverberated through the stairwell. Any moment Sam expected to feel the dig of teeth clamping onto his leg, but the sensation never came.

He darted into the hallway of the fortieth floor, slamming the door shut behind him. He scanned the space around him, but didn’t see anything that could be used to barricade the door. He did, however, hear something. The familiar electric buzz of a vending machine was coming from a nearby room. Bolting inside, Sam quickly locked the door. He found himself in what looked like a staff break room.

The snack machine weighed far more than Sam expected it to, and as he attempted to slide it along the floor it tipped over on its side. The laminate flooring shook with the massive crash, and Sam flinched. Everyone on this floor must have heard that. On the plus side, the machine was much easier to move now it was on its side. Sam slid it toward the door, effectively blocking it.

Bags of pretzels hung haphazardly inside the vending machine, with big chunks of Kosher salt on them. Sam kicked through the glass and pulled out as many bags of pretzels as he could. He crushed them in his hands and poured the contents across the vending machine. Whether that was enough salt to keep a demon or Hellhound at bay, Sam wasn’t sure.

He took a few moments to catch his breath, his ragged gasps for oxygen overpowering any noise from beyond the door. Leaning against the downed vending machine, he held in his breath for five seconds, allowing him to hear a raspy intake of air from the other side of the door. Some of the pretzel crumbs retreated under the door with the beast’s inhale.

It’s sniffing me out, Sam realized. It knows I’m here. But the door never rattled and the beast never brayed. Instead, Sam heard the hollow clomping of feet on metal stairs. The creature was moving on.

Sam waited a couple more minutes, then pushed the vending machine away from the door. He stepped over his makeshift salt and pretzel line and sighed. That was close.

“You must of been hungry,” a voice said from down the hall. Sam looked up to see an elderly woman standing there, wearing a plaid bathrobe and holding an empty ice bucket with both hands. She nodded toward the pile of snacks that had spilled out of the machine, and the accompanying broken glass.

Sam shrugged. “It stole my quarter.”

For Dean, sweet relief came in the form of a hotel supervisor, who marched down to the loading dock and admonished the kitchen staff for letting the perishables sit for so long without refrigeration. Dean was spared. As they exited, a burly-sounding line cook with a Jersey accent said something about a package being moved through the kitchen, but Dean couldn’t hear the full exchange. The one phrase he definitely heard was “big-ass jars.” They must have been moving the scrolls upstairs, Dean thought. Hope Sammy hasn’t run into any trouble.

Wringing the moisture out of his jacket, Dean exited the loading dock and headed back toward the Park Avenue entrance where he was supposed to meet Sam.

Oddly, Sam wasn’t waiting. Being the more punctual of the two of them, it wasn’t like Sam to miss a rendez vous. Taking a chance on not being recognized again, Dean smiled at the hotel doorman and strode boldly into the lobby. The dick desk clerk was on duty, so Dean joined a large crowd that was milling near the lounge’s piano. Sam wasn’t in the lobby, but the stairwell he’d taken would spit him out right in front of the crowd. A red-haired man was playing the piano with some proficiency, although Dean didn’t recognize the song.

Trying to blend into the group, Dean watched as a woman approached the pianist. She patted him kindly on the shoulder, whispered in his ear... and with the practiced skill of a professional, lifted the wallet from his jacket pocket.

She moved off quickly, but Dean was only seconds behind her. As she made her way toward the elevators, Dean grabbed her by the arm and spun her to face him.

“Should have friggin’ guessed,” he said.

The woman was Julia.

“Ah, how nice to see you again, Mister... I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,” she said formally.

“Don’t sweat it, it wasn’t my real name anyway,” Dean responded bitterly. “Let’s go have a chat with the nice piano man.” He tugged at her arm, pulling her back toward the lobby. But she resisted, digging her heels into the floor.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to get back to my room,” she said.

“We’re not done talking yet,” Dean threatened.

“Let go of my arm.”

“Give the ginger back his wallet,” Dean hissed, nodding toward the guy at the piano. Julia began to visibly struggle against Dean’s grip, attracting the attention of several other guests.

“Is there a problem, here?” a man asked, looking concerned.

With forced theatricality, Julia squeezed out a tear.

“This man has me confused with someone else,” she said with a sob.

Dean realized he had no choice but to let her go, and released his grip on her arm. She immediately hurried toward the elevator. Dean made to follow her, but was blocked by the hairy forearm of the dick desk clerk.

“You’ve been banned from the building,” he said. Then yelled, “Security!”

Julia stepped into the elevator and spoke quietly to the operator. Dean grabbed his opportunity, jamming his hand against the closing doors, halting them before she could disappear.

“What do you want with us?” he demanded. But before he could continue, he was pulled away by a trio of burly hotel employees and dragged roughly outside. He’d never been so quickly and efficiently bounced from an establishment before, and it seemed strange that it wasn’t for drunkenness.

Sam was waiting outside, eyes wide and with a fire in them that Dean hadn’t seen in weeks.

“What’s the haps? Where you been?” Dean asked, but Sam ignored his question.

“We need to leave. Now,” he said.

“So, is it a Hellhound, or a dude?” Dean asked, nursing a beer. “I’m lost.”

“I don’t know. It sure as hell sounded hellish, but I didn’t actually see anything.”

“Yeah, ’cause you were hiding in the snack room.”

They had spent the rest of the day and into the evening trying to figure out exactly what the new developments meant for their plan. Dean had insisted that they hole up in a nearby dive bar, despite Sam’s protests. With the deal taking place the next day, they hardly had time to drink, but that had never stopped Dean before.

“You couldn’t have peeked out for a second?” Dean persisted.

His brother rolled his eyes, fed up with the circular conversation.

“I never saw the one that gutted you, either.”

“’Cause that’s fair,” Dean muttered. “But you didn’t see its, like, hoof-marks—”

“It’s a dog, not a horse.”

“Whatever, but you didn’t see —”

“I didn’t see anything,” Sam shot back impatiently.

Their waitress came by with another pitcher of beer, but Sam shook his head at her. He then waited until she was out of earshot before continuing.

“So we have a demon, possibly a Hellhound, a scroll that could kill the Devil, no workable plan for how to get it, and apparently a pickpocket who has her eye on you.”

“Yeah, we’re doing pretty well, all told,” Dean said with a smirk. He pushed back his chair. “Time for bed.”

Sam followed his brother out of the bar and into the cool night, torn between needing his bed and wanting to better figure out their strategy for the next day. They had walked several blocks toward their apartment before he spoke up again.

“It’s my life on the line. I’m not sure we should be winging this.”

“We’ll do our best, Sammy. That’s all we can do.”

Just before midnight, James McMannon found himself standing in the hallway outside the Presidential Suite, walking the distance between the elevator, the stairwell and the suite’s door with an even cadence. He couldn’t particularly remember why he had chosen this hallway to walk in, or what he had been doing before he got here, but he knew that what he was doing was important. Someone has to be here, he thought.

Inside the Presidential Suite, something was giving off an incredible aroma. Like nothing James had ever smelled before. It made him feel very protective, as if it was his own child beyond that door.

Child. Nephew. Barney. Dead.

The words made James furious, but he couldn’t remember why. Did something happen to Barney?

No matter. James had to concentrate on whatever was inside the suite. The smell.

If anyone tries to take it away, I’ll kill them.