“No,” Dean murmured, “I don’t think so . . .” They passed through the kitchen and dining room, and Dean paused as they entered what looked like a study. It was lined with books — some shelves bound in matching leather covers so they were a solid wall of color — and there was a massive desk under the window that faced the front lawn. On the desk were things like shadow boxes, old leather journals, small statues, and an astrolabe. “I think he’s more the showing-it-off type.”

Sam went to the desk and started opening the drawers. “He’s got a hand of glory,” he said and hastily shut the drawer.

“So, he’s a weird old fart as well as a murderer.” Dean looked along the shelves, where there were more strange objects. Fat black pillar candles, a stuffed raven and cobra flanking a skull, a mortar and pestle carved with alchemy symbols, a cow fetus floating in formaldehyde in a bell jar. “A really weird old fart who likes clichés. The EMF meter’s going to go nuts in here.” He took it out anyway and turned it on, and it started buzzing right away. He sighed and turned it off. “Needle in a needle stack.”

“Dean,” Sam said thoughtfully, “he’s into magic, right? That’s what all this is for — he’s studying black magic.”

“Yeah, probably.” Dean opened a footlocker, and couldn’t hold back the look of horror when he saw the book that was on top of the pile. If this thing wasn’t bound in human skin he’d eat the Impala. He moved it aside, feeling his gorge rise, and hastily looked through the other books inside. No small grey object was hidden in here.

He looked at the pictures on the walls — mostly they were sketches so old their paper was turning yellow. Their subjects made Dean’s stomach turn — one was of a dissection in a Victorian medical school, squeamishly detailed; another was of a public hanging; another was a wide-eyed ghoul crouched at a grave, a human arm dangling from its mouth.

“So what did he steal from Joseph Temple to add to his collection?” Sam crossed his arms. “What exactly are we getting into here?”

“We’re doing our job,” Dean said, closing the footlocker. He chortled, “Well, hello, beautiful,” when he spotted the briefcase from his dream by the sofa. “Found it.” It was an ordinary leather briefcase, except for the part where it was casting golden light through the seams.

“Dean?” Sam said softly. “Why is it . . . glowing?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” He tried the clasps but the briefcase was locked. “Let’s get out of here.”

There was a growl-like sound and someone heavily tackled him, knocking Dean onto his stomach and the briefcase from his hand. Sam shouted, “Dean!” as the guy’s hands wrapped around Dean’s throat. Dean clawed at his fingers, gasping for breath, and Sam grabbed the guy’s suit jacket and yanked him off Dean, Ruby’s knife flashing in his hand.

The guy and Sam tussled, wrestling for the knife, and when it fell from Sam’s hand Dean grabbed for it. The guy’s hand closed around the hilt first and he laughed with triumph as he rolled away from Sam. Dean grabbed the guy’s pant leg and jerked him back, and then howled with pain when the guy plunged the knife into his thigh.

“Dean!” Sam shouted again, as Dean pulled the knife from his thigh and plunged it into the guy’s chest. The guy screamed, and — not to Dean’s surprise at all — gold light flashed in his mouth and eyes and around the wound. The body slumped to the ground as soon as the demonic light stopped flickering.

“Dean, we have to get out of here,” said Sam, grabbing the briefcase. There were footsteps upstairs, on their way downstairs, fast.

“Help me, Sam!” Dean said and Sam pulled him to his feet. He limped along beside Sam as fast as he could through the house and down the front lawn, and as they opened the front gate they heard a howl of rage from inside the house.

“He knows it’s gone,” Sam murmured, his arm around Dean’s shoulders to help him along.

“He can’t do anything about it,” said Dean, praying he was right.

***

Lorcan Murphy — fifty-three years old, pillar of the community, amateur occultist — stood in his study, surveying the messy remains of the burglary and fight. He poked the body with his toe, unsurprised at how it flopped onto its back. Well, a fresh dead body was an unexpected gift he was willing to accept.

First of all, there was the matter of the intruders to deal with. Fortunately one of them had been wounded. It was careless of him, but Lorcan expected no less from a couple of ignorant thieves. Lorcan pressed a clean handkerchief to the spots of blood, and folded the handkerchief into a square. He waved his fingers over it, murmuring a spell, and tucked it away in a pocket to attend to later.

He got a knife from his collection and knelt beside the body, and cut open the chest, murmuring incantations all the while. It was harder to break the ribs than the last time he’d done this, which he blamed on getting older, but easy enough to find the heart. He drew a circle on the floor with the dripping heart, and when the circle was complete he went on murmuring the incantation, swaying on his knees, his eyes closed.

He felt a rush of wind and opened his eyes. Much to his surprise, a little girl — blonde, pretty as a china doll, eyes wide with innocence — stood in the circle.

“You’re not Bamoel,” Lorcan said.

“No,” the little girl chirped. “He’s busy so I came instead. My name’s Lilith and I’m here to help you.”