Supernatural: War of the Sons by Rebecca Dessertine, David Reed Page B

hadn’t been in control of his hands, his feet, or anything in between. Now he felt like a stranger in his own body, just stopping by until the next occupant moved in. Every few hours, he would simply wake up in a new place, unsure of how he had got there. The memories might eventually return, or they might not. Only one had stuck—
    I killed Barney . And people are going to be looking for me . New York was a city with a million small, dim corners to hide in, and his only option was to find one of them and disappear into it. My sister’s son , he thought, the words burning into his psyche. The only person she had left . Facing her was not an option. He had to vanish.
    However, as the swirling light from the police cruiser faded into the distance, James found himself doing something peculiar. He was walking back toward Manhattan, toward the first place people would be looking for him—the Waldorf Astoria. A nagging voice in the back of his mind insisted that everything could be worked out, if only he was back at the hotel.
    If only he was near the vault.

ELEVEN

    Sam left the apartment before the sun had crept above the skyline, knowing it would be hours before Dean woke on his own. They weren’t accustomed to staying in one place for this long, and with the auction still two days away, there wasn’t a particular need to roll out of bed early. For Dean, that was an overdue invitation to get more than four hours sleep. For Sam, it was an excuse to get some time to himself.
    Dean had indeed bought salt for the shotguns, but he had stayed out nearly the whole night finding it. Sam didn’t want to know how Dean had spent the rest of his time, considering Dean’s tendency to fraternize with less-than-virtuous characters. I suppose I’m one of them, Sam realized. Nothing less virtuous than jump-starting Armageddon.
    After a twenty-minute walk, Sam arrived at the clerk’s office for the borough of Manhattan. It was just before eight in the morning, but there was already a line forming at the information desk. A young woman, probably twenty years old and wearing a slightly too-tight sweater, stood behind the desk.
    By the time it was Sam’s turn, she was starting to sound frazzled.
    “Can I help you, sir?” she asked, the tone of her voice indicating that she hoped she couldn’t.
    “Long morning already?” Sam responded with a smile, thinking that charm would be the best way to pull this off.
    “No, sir. Did you have a records request, or is this a social visit?” she said tersely.
    Sam was momentarily thrown.
    “Uh, yeah. Yeah I do,” he stammered, and pulled out his wallet. He flipped through the selection of counterfeit IDs and badges, none of which were appropriate to the era. Settling for the most promising one, Sam flashed it at her briefly, then folded it back into his wallet before she could get a good look.
    “Secret Service,” he intoned, changing tack to sound more serious.
    The girl glanced over her shoulder at a morose-looking man sitting behind a typewriter, toward the back of the cluttered office. Her boss , Sam decided. He didn’t look any happier to be there than she did.
    “Just one moment,” she said, getting up to talk to her boss. After a brief back-and-forth, the man came to speak with Sam directly. His narrow tie was knotted too tightly around his neck, making his head look like a bright-red balloon about to pop. Must be part of the dress code , Sam thought.
    “Can I help you?” the man asked gruffly.
    “Hi...” Sam replied, looking down at the man’s nametag, “Mr. Walker. The Secret Service requires a selection of blueprints for the Waldorf Astoria hotel.” Sam pulled out the fake ID again, intending to flash it for only a moment, but Walker grabbed the wallet out of his hand.
    “Counterfeiters,” he barked.
    “Uh, excuse me?” Sam responded, his hand reaching protectively for his wallet.
    “What does this have to do with counterfeiters?” Walker asked, handing the wallet