Free Supernatural: The Unholy Cause by Joe Schreiber Page A

crack open a nightcap and watch a little Casa Erotica.”
    Sam shook his head.
    “Not tonight, Dean.”
    “What? Why ?”
    “I’ve got some people I want you to meet.”

NINE

    Sam called Bobby on the way out to the McClanes’ house, giving Dean directions while he asked Bobby about the Judas noose and the Moa’ah. There was a long pause and he heard pages rattling in the background.
    “Looks like the noose is part of Civil War lore from the beginning,” Bobby’s voice came back. “There’re even songs about it.”
    “What about the Moa’ah?”
    “From what I can figure, it sounds like you’re talking about two sides of the same coin. Down in that particular region of the South, Moa’ah’s the animating force behind every bad kind of mojo you can imagine. Like the fuel that makes it go. Sounds like your dead Civil War soldier must’ve gotten some on him when he wore the noose.”
    “So even if the noose itself is gone...” Sam started.
    “The Moa’ah sticks around. Yeah.”
    “So what do we do to stop it?”
    “For now, nothing. Just stay the hell out of its way till I get a better handle on the info. I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve got something.”
    “Thanks, Bobby.” Sam cut off the call and turned to Dean. Then he noticed that the Impala had slowed down enough that he could see individual pebbles and blades of grass in the headlights. “What’s wrong?”
    “We’re lost,” Dean said. “Gotta be.”
    “No, we’re not.” Sam pointed straight ahead through the windshield. “Tommy gave me directions. Take a left here. Look—up on the hill.”
    “Tommy, huh? Sounds like you two got pretty chummy.”
    “Well...” Sam said. “When he found out that we were hunters...”
    Dean’s head swiveled to stare at him.
    “Wait a minute,” he said, his voice growing louder. “You told him? What’s the point of having a cover story if you’re gonna...?”
    “Hold on, it’s all right,” Sam said, cutting him off. “I didn’t tell him—he figured it out himself. He’s the one who called Rufus.”
    “Sure, that’s what he told you—”
    Sam felt himself getting hot under the collar.
    “Sorry, Dean, but I didn’t have my portable polygraph test on me at the time.”
    “That’s the point—you’re not supposed to need one,” Dean replied, refusing to back down. “Never trust a stranger, Sammy, that’s Demon Hunting 101. Suppose this McClane guy was dropping Rufus’s name to get to us. Now we’re walking in there blind, and he already knows everything about us.”
    “Not everything,” Sam said.
    “What, you didn’t get around to telling him that you jump-started the Apocalypse? Give it time—he’ll figure that out, too.”
    “Fine, I’ll tell you what,” Sam replied, “I’ll call Bobby back and ask if he knows him. That’ll prove he’s on the level.”
    “Forget it,” Dean grumbled, “we’re already here.”
    Sam turned and peered through the windshield, into the beams of the headlights. They were curving along a circular drive, and the plantation house spread itself above them, half-lost amid the cottonwoods and willows that draped over it like mourners at a viewing. It was a hopeless ruin, but he could see what the place must have looked like in its heyday, back when the flaked paint had been fresh and the high imposing Doric pillars stood straight and tall.
    Now everything sagged, wings and cupolas giving way to gravity, and the entire structure seemed to be sinking slowly into the Southern soil. It was as if Tommy McClane and his son had devoted all their energy to the town’s Historical Society, but at the expense of maintaining their own family homestead.
    There was a light on back in the house—dimly visible through the broad windows—and a lamp hanging on the porch, its flame flickering in the thick evening breeze.
    Parking next to a big black Ford Ranger, they got out and looked up at the long porch that ran along the entire front of the house.