Summon The Keeper

SIX

“I WOULD LIKE A ROOM.”

Kneeling behind the counter, attempting to send a probe down into the mouse hole and settle the imp question once and for all, Claire felt icy fingers run along her spine. Shivering slightly, she carefully backed out from under the shelf and stood, curious to see if it was the customer or the possibility of actually renting a room that had evoked the clichéd response.

The woman on the other side of the counter was a little shorter than her own five feet five, with a close cap of sable hair, pale skin, and eyes so black it was impossible to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began.

Claire felt the pull of that dark gaze, found herself sinking into the dangerous embrace of shadow, jerked back, and said, “Room four?”

“How perceptive.” The woman smiled, teeth gleaming between lips the deep burgundy of a good Spanish port. “Where is the Cousin?”

“Gone. This is my site now.” It was almost, but not quite, a warning.

“I see. And should I worry that things have changed enough to need the monitoring of a Keeper?”

“You are in no more danger here than you ever were.”

“How fortunate.” The woman sagged forward, planted her elbows on the counter, and rubbed her eyes. “’Cause I’m bagged. You have no idea how much I hate traveling. I just want to dump my gear in the room and find something to eat.”

Claire blinked.

“Oh, come on.” Smudged mascara created raccoonlike circles on the pale skin. “Surely you hadn’t planned on continuing that ponderous dialogue?”

“Uh, I guess not.”

“Good. ’Cause I’ll be staying the rest of the week, checking out Sunday evening if that’s cool with you. I’ve got a gig at the university.”

“Gig?”

“Engagement. Job. I’m a musician.” She stretched an arm across the counter, thin, ivory hand overwhelmed by half a dozen heavy silver bangles and the studded cuff of her black leather jacket. “Sasha Moore. It’s a stage name, of course. I do this kind of heavy metal folk thing that goes over big on most campuses.”

Her skin felt cool and dry and her handshake, while restrained, still put uncomfortable pressure on mere mortal knuckles.

There was power in a name and trust in the giving of it. Claire wasn’t certain how that applied in this case—while Keepers maintained a live-and-let-live attitude toward the vast bulk of humanity, they tended to avoid both actors and musicians; people who preferred to be in the public eye made them nervous—but she did know that her response would speak volumes to the woman maintaining an unbreakable grip on her hand. If the hotel was no longer a safe haven for her kind, Sasha Moore would want to know before dawn left her helpless.

“Claire Hansen.” Hand freed, she flipped open the registration book, and pulled a pen out of the Souvenir of Avalon mug on her desk. “Sign here, please.”

“Rates the same?”

Rates? Claire hoped she didn’t look as confused as she felt. Rates….

Sasha leaned against the counter, dark eyes gleaming. “Room rates?”

“Right. Of course.” She had no idea what the rates were, but it was important not to show weakness in front of a predator. “They’ve gone up a couple of dollars.”

“Couple of bucks, eh?” Her signature a familiar scrawl, the musician spun the register back around. Her smile held heat. “You’re not charging me for breakfast, are you?”

“Breakfast?” Unable to stop herself from imagining the possibilities, Claire’s voice rose a little more than was necessary for the interrogative.

“’Cause if you are, there’s nothing I like more than a big, juicy, hunk of…”

“Boss, there’s a red van parked out back. Do you know whose it is?”

As Dean stepped out into the entry hall, Sasha winked at Claire and turned gracefully to face him. “The van’s mine. I’m just checking in.”

About to apologize for interrupting, Dean found his gaze caught and held. For a moment, the world became a pair of dark eyes in a pale face. Then the moment passed. “I, I’m sorry,” he stammered, feeling his ears burn, “I didn’t mean to stare, but you’re Sasha…uh…”

“Moore.”

“Yeah, Moore, Sasha Moore, the musician. You were here last spring.”

“My, my, my. I must’ve made an impression.”

“You had a black van then. Late eighties, six cylinder, all season radials.”

“What a memory.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. So this was the h…cute guest from room four. She slapped the keys down on the counter and tried not to feel pleased when Dean jumped at the sudden sound.

Sasha’s smile broadened as she swept her attention back around to Claire. “I’ll just go get my stuff out of the van while you make up the room.”

“Make up the room?”

Dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “You are new at this, aren’t you? Sheets. Towels. Soap. The usual.” Her gaze turned speculative. “Which one of you will be making up the bed?”

Dean stepped forward. “I always did it for Mr. Smythe…”

Claire cut him off. “You’re in the middle of staining the floor. I’ll do it.”

“Since it doesn’t matter to me…”

Glancing over at Dean, Claire wondered if he heard the blithe innuendo.

“…you two argue it out. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the night before the front door had quite closed behind her.

“Making up the rooms is part of my job,” Dean explained, walking over to the counter and reaching for the keys. “Renovations are no reason to slack off my regular work.”

“Refinishing the dining room floor is hardly slacking off.” Claire snatched the keys out from under his hand. Realizing he remained unconvinced, she added, “The sooner that urethane’s done and dry, the sooner you’ll be able to deal with the mess.”

His eyes lit up at the thought of restoring the kitchen to its usual pristine state. “If you’re sure.”

“Believe it or not, I’m fully capable of making a bed and hanging up towels. Keepers are trained to be self-sufficient in the field.”

“Living off the land?” When she nodded, he frowned at the image that conjured up. “Hunting and fishing?”

“No. But I can locate a fast food restaurant within three minutes of arriving in a new area.”

He looked appalled.

“It’s a joke,” she pointed out curtly. “Although, ninety percent of all accident sites do occur in an urban environment. Some Keepers spend their entire lives in the same city, trying desperately to keep it from falling apart.”

“What about the other ten percent?”

“Big old houses in the middle of nowhere with at least one dead tree in the immediate area.”

“Why a dead tree?”

“Ambience.”

His smile was tentative and it disappeared entirely when she didn’t join in. “Not a joke?”

“Not a joke.” Closing the registration book, Claire came out from behind the counter. Dean was not going to be alone in that room when Sasha Moore returned and that was final—no matter what sorts of demanding tasks she had to perform. She was strong enough to resist the temptation the musician represented but he, however, was a man, and a young one, and expecting him to decline that kind of invitation on his own would be expecting too much. Whether or not he had succumbed during the previous visit was immaterial; this time, she was here to help. “Where do we keep the supplies?”

“In the supply cupboard.”

From anyone else, she’d have suspected sarcasm.

“I could wait here and help Ms. Moore carry her bags upstairs. She looked tired.”

Ms. Moore could carry you upstairs; one-handed. But that wasn’t Claire’s secret to reveal. “You know, the longer you leave that floor unattended the greater the odds are that Austin will take a walk and track dark oak stain all over the hotel.”

“He’d notice the floor was wet.”

“Of course he’d notice. He wouldn’t do it by accident.”

“But…”

“He’s a cat.” She waited until Dean started back toward the dining room then, jaw set for confrontation, headed upstairs.

“So she’s h…cute, is she?” Yanking out a set of single sheets, she piled them on top of the towels. “I don’t care if he’s been providing breakfast, dinner, and midnight snacks, it’s dangerous and it’s going to stop. I won’t have my staff snacked on.”

“Who is snacking on your staff?” Jacques floated down from the floor above and settled about an arm’s reach away. “And does that mean what it sounds like it means, or is it some prissy Anglais way to talk of what is more interesting?”

“It means what it sounds like it means.” Two small bars of soap were dropped on the pile. “Did I put one of your anchors in here?”

“Oui.”

“I wonder why I did that.”

“So we could have more time alone together?” He lifted a lecherous brow but at her protest pressed it back down onto his forehead. “Because you felt sorry for me?” His whole body got involved in looking mournful, shoulders slumped, gaze focused on the loose interlacing of his fingers.

Claire rolled her eyes at the dramatics but couldn’t help smiling.

Peering up through his hair, Jacques caught sight of the smile and flashed her an answering grin. “Ah. That is better, no? You should be in a happy mood. I am saved from the pit, and you…” He waved a hand at the gathered supplies. “…you have someone to stay at your hotel.”

“You seem to have recovered from this morning’s experience.” Claire struggled toward the door, decided she was being ridiculous, wrapped the whole unwieldy pile in power and floated it out into the hall. “I expected the trauma to have lasted a little longer.”

Jacques shrugged. “A man does not allow himself to be held captured by his fears. Besides, as Austin reminds me, I am dead. The dead exist in the now; this morning is as years away. Tomorrow may never happen. When I am with you, only then do I think of a future.”

Which said something, something unpleasant, about the lingering effect of Aunt Sara. Not to mention country music lyrics.

Inside room four. Claire brought the bedding and towels and sundries to rest on the bureau and picked a small shaving mirror and stand up off the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t have access to rooms that guests are in.”

“Why not?”

“Because they might not like it.”

“How can they not like me?”

“You’re dead.” She set the mirror out in the hall and carried the towels into the bathroom.

“Hey, who’s the dead guy?”

The sound of the hall door closing brought Claire back out into the dressing room. “He’s none of your concern.”

“Count on it” She grinned and shrugged out of her jacket. “I don’t ask for much from my dates, but they do have to be alive. Now that piece of prime rib in your basement…”

“Stay away from him.”

“Why?” She polished nails much the same length and color as Claire’s against her black sleeveless turtleneck. “You think I’m too hard an act to follow?”

“I have no intention of following you or anyone else. I don’t know and I don’t care…” Claire ignored a raised ebony brow, obviously intended to provoke. “…about what happened when Augustus Smythe ran the site, but while I’m responsible, Dean Mclssac is under my protection.”

“Really? He seemed like a big…” A reflective moment later, she resumed. “…very big boy. And you’re not his guardian, Keeper, so chill. But, as it happens, I never feed in the crib unless things get desperate and, if that’s the case, your mother hen act will be the least of my problems. Besides, it’d be easier to throw myself on your mercy. After all, Keepers respond to need.” A startlingly pale tongue flicked over burgundy lips. “You’re what, O negative?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It doesn’t. It’s just nice to know you’re one of my favorite flavors. Just in case.”

Busying herself with the bed, Claire pointedly did not respond.

Behind her, Sasha laughed, neither insulted nor discouraged. “From the way you spoke of him, I assume the little man isn’t dead. What did he do? Bugger off and leave you holding the stick?”

“That’s not how it works.”

Sasha laughed again. “Not generally, no, but Keepers don’t take over sites from Cousins who took over from Keepers, so clearly it ain’t working the way it should.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I’ve been around a while.”

Claire remembered the years of signatures in the registration book—not one of them, unfortunately, occurring in the few short months Sara held the site. “Do you know about…?” A jerk of the head to room six finished the question.

“Well, duh. It’s not like it’s possible to hide something like that from me. I mean, after four or five visits it got kind of hard to ignore this unchanging life just hanging around upstairs.” The musician shrugged into an oversized red sweater. “Gus said it was a woman the Keepers had done a Sleeping Beauty on and that was all I needed to know.”

“You called him Gus?”

“Sure. And I’d love to know how he stuck you with this place, but if you don’t want to spill, hey, that’s cool.” She ran her fingers through her hair and quickly changed her lipstick to match the sweater. “He never filled me in on his summoning either—the obnoxious little prick. But man, at your age, it must be driving you nuts hanging around here when you could be out saving the world.”

Before Claire could answer, Dean’s voice, calling her name, drifted up the stairwell.

Sasha tilted her head toward the sound. “And right on cue we have a reminder of the fringe benefits.”

“He’s not a benefit,” Claire protested.

Cool fingers cupped her chin for a heartbeat “Foolish girl, why not?” Then, with a jangle of silver bracelets and a careless, “Don’t wait up—” she was gone.

Her touch lingered.

Later that night, as Claire climbed into bed, Austin uncurled enough to mutter, “I understand you’re renting a room to a bloodsucking, undead, soulless creature.”

“Does that bother you,” Claire asked.

“Not in the least.” He yawned. “Anyone who can operate a can opener is okay by me.”

“She came back into her room just before dawn. I think that she saw somebody in town last night.” Jacques’ hands traced euphemistic signals in the air. “If you know what I mean. She had a cat who has eaten canary look.”

Sprawled on top of the computer monitor, Austin snorted. “She looked like she was about to hawk up a mouthful of damp feathers?”

“That is not what I mean.”

“You shouldn’t spy on the guests,” Dean told him, tightening his grip on a handful of steel wool. “It’s rude.”

“I was not spying,” Jacques protested indignantly. “I was concerned.”

“Pull the other one.”

“You do not have to believe me.”

“Good.”

“Why do you suppose such a pretty girl stays in a room with no windows?”

Descending from an hour spent studying the power wrapped around Aunt Sara—as long as she could spend so close to such evil without wanting to rent movies just so she could return then un-rewound—Claire waited on the stairs for Dean’s answer.

“Ms. Moore’s a musician.” His tone suggested only an idiot couldn’t have figured it out on his own. “She works nights, she sleeps days, and she doesn’t want the sun to wake her.”

“Such a good thing there is the room, then,” Jacques mused.

Claire frowned. What would happen if Jacques put one and one together and actually made two? If the ghost found out about the vampire, who could he tell? Dean? Only if it would irritate or enrage him.

What if Dean found out? She was fairly certain he would neither start sharpening stakes nor looking up the phone numbers for the tabloids. The vampire’s safety would not be compromised.

Dean’s safety was another matter entirely. Many humans were drawn to the kind of danger Sasha Moore represented. While not necessarily life-threatening, it was a well known fact that the intimacy of vampiric feeding could become addictive and that wasn’t something she was going to allow to happen to Dean. He wasn’t going to end up wandering the country, a helpless groupie of the undead.

And I’d feel the same way about anyone made my responsibility, she insisted silently. Including guests while they’re in this hotel. Which, in a loopy way, made Sasha Moore her responsibility as well.

The sudden realization jerked her forward. Catching her heel on the stair, she stumbled, arms flailing for balance, down into the lobby. She’d have made it had the pommel on the end of the banister not come off in her hand.

Her landing made an impressive amount of noise. It would have made more had she been permitted the emotional release of profanity.

“Claire!” Dean tossed the steel wool aside, peeled off the rubber gloves, and started to rise. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Moving toward her, he found Jacques suddenly in his way, hands raised in warning.

“I wouldn’t,” the ghost murmured by the other man’s ear. “When a woman says she is fine in that tone, she wishes you to leave her alone.”

Since he couldn’t push the ghost away. Dean went through him and dropped to his knees by Claire’s side. “What happened?”

“I slipped.”

“Are you hurt?” Without thinking, he reached for her arm but drew back at her expression.

“I said, I’m fine.”

“Told you so,” Jacques murmured, drifting up by the ceiling.

Claire pushed herself into a sitting position with one hand and gave Dean the banister pommel with the other. “If you’re looking for something to do…” A triple boom not only cut off Dean’s response but spun her around, hand over her heart as she futilely tried to keep it from beating in time. “What the…”

“Door knocker,” Dean explained, then clapped his hands over his ears as the sound echoed through the lobby again.

Except that Dean had no reason to lie, she’d never have believed that the brass knocker she’d seen on her first night could have made the noise. At least we know it’s not Mrs. Abrams; she never knocks. As Dean ran for the door before their caller knocked again and they all went deaf, Claire got to her feet, telling Jacques to disappear.

“Why?” he demanded, floating down to the floor.

“You’re translucent in natural light”

“What means translucent?”

“I can see through you.”

“That is because to you, cherie, I have nothing to hide.” He blew her a kiss and vanished as the door opened.

A graying man in his mid-forties peered over a huge bouquet of red chrysanthemums, his slightly protruding eyes flicking back and forth between Dean and Claire. “Flowers for Ms. Moore.”

“She’s sleeping,” Dean told him, adding helpfully, “if you leave them here, I’ll see that she gets them when she wakes up.”

The deliveryman shook his head and held out a clipboard. “I gotta have her sign for ’em.”

“But she’s asleep.”

“Look, all I know is that I gotta have her signature and room number on this or I can’t leave the flowers.” He looked suddenly hopeful “Maybe you could just fake it for me? Then I’d leave ’em with you. It’d really help me out.”

“I don’t know…”

Claire did. “I’m sorry,” she said, crossing the lobby, “but we don’t give out the room numbers of our guests. If you can’t leave the flowers with us, you’ll have to come back.”

“Look, lady, it’s my last delivery. What difference would it make?”

“You’re missing the point.” Moving in front of Dean so she stood eye to eye with the deliveryman, who was no taller than her own five-feet-five, Claire folded her arms and smiled. “We don’t give out die room numbers of our guests.”

“But…”

“No.”

He looked up at Dean. “Come on, buddy, give me a break, eh.”

Claire snapped her fingers under his nose, drawing his attention back down to her. “What part of no don’t you understand?”

“Okay. Fine. You’re responsible for Ms. Moore not getting her flowers, then.”

“I can live with that.” It was nice to have a responsibility so well defined.

“Yeah, well, thanks for the help.” Lip curled, he spun around and missed his step on the uneven stairs. Flowers flailing, he began to fall.

“Boss!” Dean’s exclamation prodded at her conscience. “He could get hurt!”

Reminding herself of where temptations came from, Claire sighed, took her time reaching for power and, just as he began to pitch forward, set the deliveryman back on his feet.

He never noticed. Stomping down the remaining steps, he flung the flowers into his car and, tires squealing, drove away.

Claire watched until he turned onto King Street. “I wonder who the flowers were from?”

“A fan?”

“I guess.” She reached out and gave the small brass knocker an investigative flick. When the resulting boom faded, she followed Dean back inside. “But how did they know she was staying here?”

“Maybe she told them.”

“Maybe,” Jacques put in, rematerializing, “they were from the one last night. Flowers to say, Thanks for the memories.”

“I don’t think so; she wouldn’t have told anyone she was staying here.”

“Why not?”

“Because she told me she valued her privacy.”

LIAR, a triumphant little voice announced in her head.

A lie to protect another, Claire pointed out. Circumstances must be weighed. And get out of my head!

THE LIE INVITED US IN.

Fine. Now I’m telling you to leave.

“Claire?”

Her eyes refocused. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

“Ms. Moore’s privacy.”

“Right. We’re going to respect it.” She looked pointedly at Jacques. “And that means all of us.”

Later that afternoon, as the last flat bit of counter emerged from under the twenty-seventh layer of paint, Baby could be heard barking furiously in his area.

Dean glanced up to see Austin still sprawled out on top of Claire’s monitor. “Mailman must be late today.”

“Only if he’s out in the parking lot.”

“What?”

The cat leaped down onto the desk, knocking a pile of loose papers and a pen to the floor. “According to Baby, who functions remarkably well on only two brain cells, there’s a stranger in the parking lot.”

“My truck!” Springing to his feet he raced toward the back door, peeling off another pair of gloves as he went.

Claire, on her way up from testing the dampening field, stepped in his path. “Hold it! Remember the urethane!”

He spun on the spot retraced his steps, and flung himself out the front door.

By the time Claire reached the back of the building, having paused in the lobby for a brief explanation, Dean was disappearing over the waist-high board fence to the west. To the south, Baby continued barking. Dean’s truck, a huge white gas-guzzling monster named Moby, and Sasha Moore’s van both seemed untouched.

“Carole! Carole, dear!” Mrs. Abrams voice didn’t so much rise over Baby’s barking as cut through it. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

Slowly, Claire turned. “We had a prowler, Mrs. Abrams.”

“What’s that? Speak up, dear, don’t mumble.”

“A prowler!”

“What, in the middle of the afternoon? What will they think of next? You don’t suppose it’s that same ruffian who was lurking about the other night?”

“No, I…”

“We’ll all be murdered in our beds! Or assaulted. Assaulted and robbed. That’ll show them!”

Just in time, Claire stopped herself from asking, Show who? She didn’t really want to know.

“Has that nice young man of yours gone after him?” Mrs. Abrams didn’t actually pause for. breath let alone an answer. “How I do miss having Mr. Abrams around, although to be honest with you, dear, he was never what I’d call a capable man; had an unfortunate tendency to wilt a bit in stressful situations. He passed away quite suddenly, you know, with such a queer little smile on his face. I’m sure he’s as lost without me as I am without him. Never mind, though, I get on. As a matter of fact, I can’t stand and chat, I have our local councilman on the phone. The dear man depends on my advice in neighborhood matters.” A beringed hand lightly patted lacquered waves of orange hair. “He simply couldn’t manage on his own. Baby, be quiet.”

Baby ignored her.

“That’s Mummy’s good boy.”

As Mrs. Abrams returned to her telephone, Dean vaulted back over the fence and dropped into the parking lot. “I’m sorry. I lost him. He had a car on Union Street. Got into it and away before I got around the corner.” Frowning like a concerned parent, he quickly checked over both vehicles. “Seems like Baby chased him away before he could do any damage. Good dog!”

To Claire’s surprise, the Doberman wuffled once and fell silent.

“I wonder if this is his?” Dean pointed to a handprint on the van’s driver side window.

Staring at the greasy print, Claire felt her own palms tingle and was suddenly certain she knew who the prowler had been. “It’s the deliveryman.”

“Pardon?”

“The guy with the flowers this morning.”

“I knew who you meant. Are you, uh…” He waggled his fingers in the air.

“Manipulating power? No. It’s just a hunch.”

“A hunch. Okay.” Pulling his sweatshirt sleeve down over his palm, he scrubbed the window clean.

Since she couldn’t point out that he’d just ruined any chance Sasha Moore might’ve had of picking up the intruder’s scent, Claire shrugged and went back inside to find Austin waiting by his dish.

“Catch him?”

“No. I didn’t know you understood dogs.”

“What’s the point of insulting them if they can’t understand what you’re saying?”

“You speak dog?”

In answer, Austin lifted his head and made a noise that could possibly be considered a bark had the listener never actually heard a dog larger than a Pekingese.

“And what does that mean?” Claire asked, trying to keep from laughing.

“Roughly translated…” Austin stared pointedly down at his dish. “…it means, feed me.”

That evening, Claire was waiting at the desk when Sasha Moore came downstairs. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Is it going to take long?”

“Not long, no.”

“Good, ’cause I really need to eat before I go onstage or the audience is one major distraction; kind of like performing in front of a buffet table.”

Since there didn’t seem to be anything she could safely reply, Claire stood and silently led the way into her sitting room.

“I see old Gus didn’t take much with him.”

She didn’t want to know the circumstances under which Sasha had been in these rooms before. It was none of her business.

“You still got his dirty pictures up in the bedroom?”

“I’m removing them as soon as I have time.”

“Uh-huh.” The musician dropped onto the couch and draped one crimson-spandex-covered leg over the broad arm. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

Claire perched on the edge of the hassock, it being the only piece of furniture in the room that was neither overstuffed nor covered in knickknacks. “I think you’re being stalked.”

Long lashes, heavy with mascara, blinked twice. “Say what?”

Editing for time, Claire recited the day’s events and her interpretation of them.

“Look, I appreciate your concern, but the flowers were probably sent by a fan, and you never actually saw the guy in the lot. It could’ve been one of the local kids taking a shortcut”

“To his car?”

Sasha snorted. “Trust me, parking sucks in this neighborhood.”

“All right, then, if it was a fan who sent the flowers, how did he know you were here? I can’t believe you’d tell anyone where you spend the day.”

“He must’ve seen me last night at one of the bars and followed the van.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

She reached out and slapped Claire on the knee. They were close enough that Claire could smell the mint toothpaste on her breath. “Why should I worry? You seem to be worrying enough for both of us.” Standing, she bared her teeth. Exposed, they were too long and far, far too white. “I can take care of myself, Keeper. If a fan gets too close, I’ll see that he gets just a little closer still.” She paused at the door. “Oh, by the way, did you know you have mice?”

Feeling her lips press into a thin line, Claire pried them apart enough to say, “I don’t think they’re mice.”

The musician shrugged. “They sure smell like mice.”

“Told you so,” Austin muttered as the door closed behind her.

Claire jumped. She hadn’t noticed him tucked up like a tea cozy under the television. “If they’re mice,” she snapped, “why don’t you catch one.”

He snorted. “Please, and do what with it?”

Friday morning started badly for Claire. First Hell, by way of her mirror, suggested she invite Sasha Moore to dinner and twisted her reaction to such an extent that when she finally regained her reflection, she was edgy and irritable and had no idea of who’d won the round. Then she got completely lost looking for the Historian, was gone almost nine hours’ wardrobe time, and returned absolutely famished to discover Dean had just laid down the last coat of urethane and she couldn’t get to the kitchen.

“Go…1 darn it!”

Thanks to the two huge, plate glass windows in the back wall, any solution had to take the possibility of Mrs. Abrams into account. Making a mental note to buy blinds as soon as possible, she grabbed power and shot into the air so quickly she cracked her head on the hall ceiling.

“Scooped up the seepage,” Austin said with a snicker.

Both hands holding her head, Claire glared down at him. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You wanted it quick and dirty, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“That’s what you got. Still, I doubt you’ve permanently warped your character.”

“This wasn’t the first time. When I tried to stop Mrs. Abrams yesterday, I got knocked to my knees.”

“Once, twice; what’s the harm?”

“That’s probably what Augustus Smythe used to think.” The faint buzz of building seepage seemed to have disappeared; it was hard to be certain given the ringing in her ears from the impact. Drawing power carefully from the middle of the possibilities, she sank down until she was about two inches off the floor and then skated slowly forward. Another time, she might’ve been hesitant about continuing buoyancy initiated by seepage from Hell but right now she was too hungry to care.

Breathing eau de sealant shallowly through her mouth, she sat down by the sink, poured a bowl of cereal, and began to eat. She’d started a second bowl when Jacques appeared beside her.

“I think you should know,” he said, “that the man who deliver the flowers yesterday, he is just come in the front door.”

“What?”

“The man, who deliver the flowers yesterday…”

“I heard you.” Dropping her cereal in the sink, she flung herself off the counter and raced for the front of the hotel…

…unfortunately forgetting the section of tacky polyurethane she had to cross.

“Fruitcake!”

The emotional force behind the substitute expletive transfigured the toaster and the smell of candied fruit soaked in rum rose briefly over the prevailing chemicals.

Jacques studied the cake thoughtfully. “What would have happened, I wonder, had you actually used that old Anglo-Saxon expletive with you and I here together?”

“Do you have to!” Claire snapped, loosened her laces, pulled power, and floated to the hall, leaving her shoes where they were stuck.

“Not exactly have to,” Jacques murmured.

As Claire ran for the lobby, the deliveryman ducked out from behind the counter, holding what seemed to be the same bouquet of red mums. “I was just lookin’ for a piece of paper,” he said hurriedly. “The boss said I could leave the flowers, and I was gonna leave you a note.”

He was lying. Unfortunately, unless she knew for certain he was a threat to the site, Claire couldn’t force him to tell the truth.

“OH, WHY NOT?” asked the little voice in her head. “WHO’S GOING TO KNOW? YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.”

“Shut. Up.” Claire held her hand out for the flowers. “I’ll see that Ms. Moore gets these,” she said aloud.

“Sure.” Watching her warily, he backed along the edge of the counter toward the door, reaching behind him for the handle. He slipped out, still without turning, and paused, peering through the crack just before the door closed. Yellowing teeth showed for an instant in an unpleasant smile. “Give Ms. Moore my regards.”

Setting the flowers down, Claire glanced into the office, but nothing seemed to have been disturbed. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.” Ducking under the counter, she lifted her backpack off a hook and rummaged around in the outer pocket. A few moments later, she pulled out the tattered remains of what had once been a large package of grape flavored crystals and poured what was left of the contents onto the palm of one hand.

“Sorry your shoes got stuck to the floor, Boss. I figured you’d notice it was still…” Dean’s voice faded out in shocked disbelief as he watched Claire fling a fistful of purple powder into the air.

The powder hung for a heartbeat, a swirling purple cloud with added vitamin C, then it settled into a confused jumble of foot and handprints leading from the front door into the office and back to the door again. A fair bit of the powder settled around the flower stems.

“What a mess,” Claire sighed. “This tells me nothing except that he was in here and I knew that already.”

“Who?”

“The flower deliveryman. I was trying to find out what he was up to.”

“With…” Dean rubbed a bit of the residue onto the end of a finger and sniffed it. “…grape Koolaid?”

“Actually, it’s generic. Why waste name brands if you’re just going to throw it around?”

“Okay.” He pulled a folded tissue from his pocket and carefully wiped his finger. “I’ll start cleaning this up.”

“Great. I need coffee.”

“The floor…”

“I know.” A careful two inches above the purple, she floated down the hall.

Unfortunately, the flavor crystals had been presweetened. It took Dean the rest of the morning to clean up the mess, and when he finished, he still wasn’t certain he’d got it all.

He was right. Although he glanced inside when he cleaned the purple prints off the key cabinet, he didn’t notice the small smudge that marked the end of the one empty hook.

“Look, why don’t you guys come over to the pub tonight and if this bozo’s there, you can point him out to me. I’m always eager to meet my fans.”

Dean looked doubtful. “What if he’s dangerous?”

“If he is, you’ll be there to help.” The musician smiled languorously up at him. “Won’t you?”

“Sure.” Ears red, Dean stepped sideways until he stood behind the masking foliage of a fake rubber plant that filled the southeast corner of Augustus Smythe’s sitting room. Until this moment he’d thought he’d gotten past those awkward, mortifying years of spontaneous reaction.

“What do you mean when you say sure?” Claire demanded from the other side of the room.

As far as he could tell, she had no idea why he’d moved. He glanced down at Sasha Moore, and his ears grew so hot they itched.

“Dean!”

Twisting one of the plastic leaves right off the plant, he dragged himself out of the warm, dark, inviting depths of the musician’s eyes. “I mean, uh, that is…uh, Ms. Moore, could you please look somewhere else. Thank you.” He took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I mean, that since we’ll be there, if anything happens, we’ll help.”

“You’ve decided we’re going to be there?”

“Sure. I mean, no.” He shot a helpless look at Claire. “I mean, you don’t have to go. I could always go without you.”

“He’s right, Claire, you don’t have to go. He could stay late and help load the van.” A pink tongue flicked out to moisten crimson lips. “I could give him a ride home.”

“I’ll go.”

“Good, then, it’s settled.” Twisting lithely in the chair, Sasha stood and made her way through the bric-a-brac to the door. “I’m going out for a bite. I’ll see you both at the pub.”

As the door closed behind her, Jacques materialized, eyebrows lifted toward Dean. “Showing off?” He laughed at the panicked embarrassment in Dean’s eyes, turned to face Claire, and said with patently false dismay, “He is so strong, no? He tore a leaf off your rubber plant.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she snorted dismissively. “It’s plastic. I’m more concerned about this pub thing.”

“What pub thing?” Austin asked, coming out of the bedroom and stretching. When Claire explained, he jumped up onto her lap. “Go,” he told her, butting his head against the bottom of her chin. “Take advantage of the fact you’re not actually sealing the site. If anything comes up, I’ll contact you.”

“What would happen if you were actually sealing the site,” Jacques wondered.

“I wouldn’t be able to leave the building.”

“Just like me.”

“Except he’s dead,” Austin pointed out. “Since you’re not, why don’t you prove it.”

“By going out?”

The cat sighed. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Go out. Have fun. Aren’t you the one who keeps saying you’re not planning to be stuck here?”

“I didn’t mean I should be going out to pubs,” Claire protested indignantly.

“Why not?”

“I never get to go anywhere,” Jacques said mournfully an hour later as he and Austin stood in the front window watching Claire and Dean walk toward King Street.

“Look at the bright side,” Austin observed as Mrs. Abrams hurried down her front path too late to corner them. “It can be a dangerous world out there.”

“What does she look at?”

One hand shading eyes squinted nearly shut, Mrs. Abrams stared up toward the window.

The cat stretched. “She’s probably wondering if I’m the same cat who got Baby to hog-tie himself with his own chain.”

“Are you?”

“Of course.” He jumped down off the windowsill. “Come on, it’s Friday night, let’s go watch TV.”

With a last curious look at Mrs. Abrams, Jacques turned and followed. “TV? Is it like radio?”

“You know radio?”

“Oui. Augustus Smythe, le petit salaud, he leaves in the attic a radio. I have energy enough to turn it on and off, but I cannot make different channels. Over many years, I have learned English from the CBC.”

Austin snorted. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“A lot?”

“You don’t talk like a French Canadian sailor who died in 1922.”

“So I have lost my identity to the English.”

“Although you still sound French Canadian…”

THE CAT IS ALONE!

YEAH. SO?

A gust of heated air wafted up from the pit. GOOD POINT.

“Why is it so dark in here?” Claire demanded, stopping just inside the door of the Beer Pit.

Feeling the pressure building behind them, Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, Boss, we’re blocking the entrance.”

“Technically, you’re blocking the entrance, they could get around me.” But she moved across the painted concrete floor toward one of the few empty tables. “Why is the ceiling so low?” Before Dean could point out that the pub was in a basement, she added, “And look at the size of these things. Why are the tables so small?”

“More tables, more people, more money.”

Claire shot him a look as she sat down. “I knew that. The floor’s sticky. You’ll notice, I’m not asking why. Do you see. the deliveryman?”

“It’s pretty crowded…”

“I’d suggest you wander around and search for him, but you can’t move in here. I guess we wait until he tries something. Why is it so smoky?”

Dean nodded toward the other side of the room. “There’s a smoking section.”

“And it’s got one of those invisible barriers to keep the smoke away from the rest of us.”

“It does?” After the events of the last week, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“No. I was being sarcastic. I could create a barrier, we do it all the time when we have to contain some of the more noxious site emissions, but it would be fairly…” The spatial demands of a beefy young man in a Queen’s football jacket caused an involuntary pause. “…obvious by the end of the evening when the smokers started suffocating in their own toxic exhalations,” she finished, shoving her chair back out from the table.

The arrival of the waitress stopped conversation until the arrival of the drinks.

“Three seventy-five for a glass of ginger ale?” Claire tossed a ten onto the girl’s tray. “I could buy a liter for ninety-nine cents!”

“Not here,” the waitress said tartly, handing back her change.

“You don’t go to pubs much, do you?” Dean asked, putting his own change back in his wallet and his wallet in his front pocket.

“What was your first clue?” She took a mouthful of the tepid liquid just as Sasha Moore stepped up onto the small stage at the other end of the room.

Dean pounded her on the back as she choked and coughed ginger ale out onto the table. “Are you okay?”

“Except for a few crushed vertebrae, I’m fine.” Eyes wide, Claire stared at the woman in the spotlight. All masks were off. She was danger. She was desire. She was mystery. And no one else in the room realized why. Claire couldn’t believe it. Sasha Moore had done everything but sit under a big neon sign that said, “vampire,” and no one made the connection although everyone responded. Brows drawn down she watched Dean shift in his seat. Everyone. “There are none so blind…” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Claire half expected Sasha to rely on the “rabbits caught in the headlight” effect that predators had on prey, but she played it straight At the end of the first set after a heavily synthesized version of “Greensleeves,” she acknowledged the applause and cut her way easily through an adoring audience to the table.

“A soft drink?” An ebony brow rose as her dark glance slid from Dean’s beer to the glass in front of Claire. “If you don’t drink beer, the house wine isn’t bad.”

“I don’t drink wine,” Claire told her.

Sasha smiled, her teeth a ribbon of white in the darkness. “Me either. So, is he here?”

“We haven’t seen him.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to stay until the end.”

Although she’d been about to say that they might as well leave, Claire found herself responding to the challenge. “So it seems.”

Dean glanced from one to the other and realized there were undertows here strong enough to suck an unwary swimmer in deep over his head. He didn’t understand what was happening, so he let instinct take over and did what generations of men had done before him in similar circumstances; he opened his mouth only far enough to drink his beer.

“So how was she?” Austin asked, his eyes squinted shut against the light.

“Pretty good, I guess.” Claire lifted the cat off her pillow and got into bed. “They made her do two encores.”

“Ah, yes.” He climbed onto her stomach and sat down. “The creatures of the night, what music they make.”

“Go to sleep, Austin.”

“The boss not back yet?”

“No, not yet.” Austin sprang up onto the coffee table and shoved aside a shallow bowl carved from alternating colors of wood and filled with a dusty collection of old birthday cards. “She got a late start this morning.”

“You know she doesn’t want me in here before she gets back.”

“I wanted my head scratched.”

“She’s likely to be angry.”

“It’s a worthy cause.”

Although he knew he should just turn around and leave, Dean sighed and scratched where indicated, unable to resist the weight of the cat’s stare.

“Hey, go easy, big fella. I’m not a dog.”

“Sorry.”

“Of course you are,” Claire said stepping out of the wardrobe. “The question is, why are you here?”

“It’s Saturday.”

“I knew that.” Setting a pair of plastic shopping bags—one stamped with a caduceus and the other with an ankh—down beside the cat, she began pulling out small packages tied up with string.

“On Saturdays, I do the grocery shopping.”

Understanding dawned. “And you need money?”

Dean was quite certain he saw one of the packages move. Just to be on the safe side, he stepped back from the table. “Unless you’ve already done it?”

“Not quite.” Leading the way to the office, she unwrapped half a dozen pieces of six-inch-high iron grillwork as she walked. “I’m making imp traps this morning so instead of searching for the Historian, I went to the Apothecary for supplies.” The envelope had seventy dollars in it Handing over the money, she said, “Get what you usually get, but add a dozen bagels, ten kilograms of plain clay kitty litter, and a bag of miniature marshmallows— the plain white ones. The Apothecary only had four left, and that won’t be enough if I have to reset the traps.”

“Four bags?”

“Four marshmallows.”

“You trap imps with marshmallows?” Dean asked, folding the money into his wallet.

“We’ve discovered they work as well as newt tongues and get you into a lot less trouble with Greenpeace.”

“What are the bagels and the kitty litter for?”

Claire snorted. “The bagels are for breakfast, and the kitty litter is for Austin to…”

Dean raised a hand and smiled weakly. “Never mind.”

“I thought we were going up to the attic?”

“We are.” Claire took several deep, calming breaths and picked up a bread stick from the counter. “But first, I’m going to ward the door.”

Austin rubbed against her shins. “Why don’t you just lock it?”

“Lock it?”

“Yeah, you know, that thing you turn that keeps the door from opening without a key. Remember what your mother always said.”

“Ripped underwear attracts careless drivers?”

“I was thinking more of ‘try a simple solution before looking toward more exotic possibilities.’”

“Warding the door is hardly exotic.”

“Locking it’s simpler.”

“True enough.” The tumblers fell into place with a satisfying clunk. Picking up a pair of imp traps, she followed the cat upstairs.

“A question, she occurs to me.” Floating just below the ceiling, Jacques watched Claire set the second trap beside the pink-and-gray-striped hatbox. “What will you do with an imp if you catch one?”

“I’ll neutralize it.”

“What does that mean, neutralize?”

“Imps are little pieces of evil; what do you think it means?” Precariously balanced on a pile of old furniture, Claire extended her right leg and probed for the first step down.

“A little more to your left,” Jacques told her.

She moved her foot.

“Your other left,” he pointed out as she fell. “Are you hurt, cherie?” he called when the noise had stopped but a rising cloud of dust still obscured the landing site.

Shoving a zippered canvas bag filled with musty fabric off her face, Claire sucked a shallow, dust-laden breath through her teeth, then took inventory. Her left elbow hurt a lot, and she seemed to have landed on something that squashed. “Where’s Austin?”

“Right here.” He leaped up into her line of sight, balancing effortlessly on a teetering commode. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re just saying that, aren’t you?” Jacques drifted toward her, wearing an expression of poignant concern. “I wish I had hands to help you up, arms to carry you, to comfort, lips to kiss away the hurt.”

His eyes were dark, and Claire found herself thinking of Sasha Moore. “I wish you did, too.”

“You could make it so.”

Austin snorted. “Does she look like Jean Luc Picard?”

“Who?”

The cat sighed. “I have so much to teach you, Grasshopper.”

“What?”

Reflecting how nothing could spoil the moment like a cat, Claire got her legs free, rolled onto her side, and noticed, right at eye level, a stack of ten-inch baseboards. As far as she could tell, given her position, they’d been taken from the wall in ten- or twelve-foot lengths. “This is great!”

“Falling?”

“Baseboards.” Scrambling to her feet, she retrieved her flashlight from a pile of old Reader’s Digest Condensed Books—part of the obligatory attic door—and headed for the stairs. “They were probably taken off when they replaced the plaster and lathe with drywall. Come on. I’ve got to measure the walls in the dining room because I think baseboards go on before the wallpaper.”

Happily working out a renovation schedule that would keep Dean busy for the next six or seven lifetimes, Claire raced down the attic stairs, along the third floor hall, and down to the second floor where she stopped cold. There was a man at the other end of the hall; at the door to room four.

Instinct overwhelmed cognitive function and she ran toward him. “Hey!”

When he spun around, she saw it was the deliveryman—no big surprise—and that he was picking the lock.

So much for the simple solutions. “Get away from there!”

“Don’t try and stop me.” The clichéd warning made his voice sound harsher than it had, the voice of a man barely clinging to sanity.

One hand searching her clothing for a thread, Claire reached for power, touched seepage, and hesitated.

The intruder dove toward her, grabbed her upper arms, and threw her against the wall. He was stronger, much stronger than he looked; madness lending strength.

“Why?” he demanded, smashing her head against the wall on every other word. “Why are you protecting that undead, bloodsucking, soulless creature?”

Limp in his grasp, unable to concentrate enough to use even the seepage, Claire was only vaguely aware of being dragged toward the storage cupboard. Through a gray haze and strangely shifting world view, she saw Jacques swoop down from the ceiling, shrieking and howling and having no effect at all.

Oh, swell, she thought, as the cupboard door swung open. He believes in vampires but not in ghosts. A heartbeat later, the implications of that sank in and she began to struggle weakly.

She hit the floor beside the mop bucket, barely managing to keep her head from bouncing, and collapsed entirely when a heart-stopping screech set the bottles of cleanser vibrating.

A deeper howl of pain rose over the noise the cat was making; then, just as Claire attempted to sit up again, the door slammed shut and Austin landed on the one thing guaranteed to break his fall.

For a moment, the need to breathe outweighed other considerations; then, lying in the dark listening to Austin hiss and spit, she grabbed for the first power she could reach and used it to clear her head. Sucking up seepage had just become a minor problem. “I understand how you feel, Austin, but shut up. We haven’t time for this.”

A whiskered face pressed into her cheek. “Are you all right?”

“No. But I’m fixing it.” Anger burned away the damage, power riding in on her rage to replace what she spent. At the moment, it didn’t matter where that power came from. With all body parts more-or-less back under her control, she stood and flung herself at the door. The impact hurt—a lot—and bounced her onto her butt. The door didn’t budge.

He’d done something to hold it in place.

“Calm down!” the cat snarled. “You nearly landed on top of me!”

“Calm?” Claire struggled back onto her feet. “What do you think a murder in this building will do to the pentagram’s seals?” Breathing deeply, once, twice, she placed her hands on the wood and blew the door off its hinges.

Staggering slightly, she raced down the hall, through Jacques, and into room four.

He was standing over the bed, a sharpened stake in an upraised hand.

There was no seepage left, blowing the door had wiped it clean. Sagging against the wall, Claire reached into the possibilities, knowing she wouldn’t be in time.

A black-and-white streak landed on his back as the stake came down.

Pulling Austin clear with one hand, Claire tossed her bit of thread with the other. As the deliveryman stiffened, she shoved him behind her to fall, shrieking, wrapped in invisible bonds, onto the floor of the outer room.

The stake protruded from Sasha Moore’s chest just below the collarbone. At first, in the forty-watt glow of the bedside lamp, Claire thought it was all over, then she realized that he’d missed the heart by three full inches. Either he had a poor understanding of biology or Austin’s leap had misdirected the blow.

“She is Nosferatu! She must die!” The crazed voice echoed in the closed room. “Those who protect her have made a covenant with evil!”

“Hey! Don’t tell me about evil,” Claire snapped at him over her shoulder. “I’m a trained professional.” She spread her fingers and one of the bonds expanded to cover his mouth.

His tail still twice its normal size, Austin panted as he looked from the stake to Claire. “Now what?”

“Now we pull it out.” There was a pop of displaced air as the first-aid kit from the kitchen appeared on the bedside table. “And we bandage the wound and see what happens when she wakes up.”

“I’m guessing she’ll be hungry.”

Claire glanced toward the man thrashing impotently about and grunting in. inarticulate rage. “I think we can find her a bite of something.”

AT THIS RATE, THE DAMPENING FIELD WILL NEVER GO DOWN. SHE BARELY CLEARED THE WAY FOR FURTHER SEEPAGE. THE COUSIN DID MUCH MORE DAMAGE WITH HIS TOYS AND DIVERSIONS.

PATIENCE.

PATIENCE…The word sounded as though it had been ground out through shards of broken glass…. IS A VIRTUE!

The ruddy light reflected in the copper hood grew brighter, as though Hell itself blushed. SORRY.