Summon The Keeper

EIGHT

JACQUES SLAMMED INTO AN INVISIBLE BARRIER at the door to Claire’s room. The impact flung him backward into the sitting room, past Dean, past Austin, right through the bust of Elvis.

“Thang you, thang you vera much.”

“Nobody asked you,” he snarled at the plaster head. “Anglais! I cannot follow you without an anchor.”

Just on the far side of the threshold, Dean rocked to a halt and spun around. “An anchor?”

“Oui. Come and get la coussin, the cushion.” His fingers swept through the horsehair stuffing. “Take it with you to Claire’s room.”

“You don’t have an anchor in here?”

“Did I not just say that? And wipe that stupide grin off your face! You think I would not allow Claire her privacy?”

Actually, he did. But he was too nice a guy to say so. And the stupid grin seemed to want to stay where it was. Three long strides and he snatched up the cushion. Three more and he was back in Claire’s room, Jacques by his side.

“About time you goons got here,” Austin growled, pacing back and forth in front of the wardrobe.

Except for the cat and the furniture, the room was empty.

“Where’s the boss?” Dean demanded, throwing the cushion down on the bed.

“Where do you think?”

Three heads, one living, one dead, one feline, turned toward the wardrobe.

“How do you know she is in trouble?” Jacques asked. “She goes every morning to search for the Historian. Why is this morning different?”

“She’s been gone too long,” Austin told them. “No matter how long she’s in there, she’s never gone more than half an hour out here.”

Dean checked his watch. It was almost nine-fifteen. Which didn’t tell him anything except the time. “Maybe she’s taking longer because she found something.”

“Sure, look on the bright side.” He shoved a paw under the bottom of the wardrobe door and hooked it open an inch or two. “Listen.”

“Oui? I hear nothing.”

“That,” growled the cat, “is because you’re talking.”

A moment later, the ghost shrugged. “I still hear nothing.”

Then faintly, very faintly, just barely audible over the sound of Austin’s tail hitting the floor, came the roar of a large and very angry animal.

The two men exchanged an identical glance.

“You are sure that is not Claire?” Jacques asked.

“Yes! Mostly,” Austin amended after a moment’s thought. “Either way, it can’t be good. Dean has to go in and get her.”

“Okay.” Dean settled his glasses more firmly on his face and took a step forward.

“Un moment. You do not go alone, Anglais.”

“Yes, he does.” Austin interrupted. “You have to weigh more than forty kilos to go on this ride; it’s one of those stupid child safety features. Unfortunately, it also bars cats and ghosts, so I’m afraid Dean’s it.”

Jacques drew himself up to his full height, plus about four inches of air space. “If he carries the cushion, I go through with him.”

“It doesn’t work that way!” Austin directed a couple of angry licks in the direction of his shoulder. “And if it did, I’d be going through with him.”

Dean reached past the cat and opened the wardrobe door. It was dark inside, much darker than it should have been. Another distant roar drifted out into the room. He squared his shoulders, flexing the muscles across his back, and bounced a time or two on the balls of his feet. Claire needed his help. Cool. “What do I do?”

“Step up inside and pull the door closed behind you, but don’t latch it.”

“Why not?”

“Only idiots lock themselves in wardrobes.” His tone suggested any idiot ought to know that. “Once you’re in there, think about Claire. Holding an image of her in your mind, walk toward the back wall. When you get to where you’re going, keep thinking of her.”

“Where am I going?”

“I have no idea. Once you arrive, look and listen for anything out of the ordinary. She’ll be in the middle of it. Oh, and don’t eat or drink while you’re in there. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.”

About ready to step inside, Dean paused. “Why not?” he asked again.

“Did you not read when you were a kid?”

“I, uh, played a lot of hockey.”

Austin snorted. “I guessed. If you eat or drink inside the wardrobe, it holds you there.”

The door half closed, he stuck his head out into the room. “How do I come back?”

“Think of this room and go through any opaque door.”

“But do not return here without Claire,” Jacques told him, “or I will make of your life a misery.”

Dean accepted the warning in the spirit it had been given. “Don’t worry. I’ll save her.”

As the wardrobe door swung shut, Austin leaped up onto the bed. “I hate waiting.”

“You know,” Jacques said thoughtfully, drifting over to join him. “If you are wrong and she does not need saving, she is going to be not happy with you.”

“Excuse me? If I am wrong?”

The inside of the wardrobe smelled faintly of mothballs. Dean found it a comforting smell as he turned away from the door and the argument gaining volume on the other side. It reminded him of the closet in the spare room at his grandfather’s house. Unable to see, he took a tentative step forward, expecting, in spite of everything to whack his face on the back wall. Another step, and another. Still no wall.

A new odor began drifting in over the mothballs.

His grandfather’s pipe tobacco?

He stopped and closed his eyes, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be thinking of Claire, not of home.

“Holding an image of her in your mind…”

It was hard to hold a single image, so he cycled through the highlights of their short association as he took another step. Claire walking into the kitchen that first morning; Claire explaining how magic worked; Claire going up the spiral stairs to the attic. The smell of the pipe tobacco began to fade. She was his boss; she was a Keeper; she had a really irritating way of assuming she knew best or, more precisely, that he knew nothing at all. When he opened his eyes, he could see a gray light in the distance.

Approximately thirty-seven steps later—he wasn’t sure how many he’d taken before he’d started counting—he stood on Princess Street looking down the hill toward the water. Prepared for the strangest possible environment, he was a little disappointed to find himself in a bad copy of the city he’d just left. Everything was vaguely out of proportion, the street had been paved with cobblestones, and, although there were a few parked cars, there was no traffic. The half dozen or so people in sight paid no attention to him.

He could hear church bells in the distance and the cry of gulls circling high overhead.

There was no sign of Claire.

Hoping for a clue, he pulled out the card.

Aunt Claire, Keeper

Your Accident is my Opportunity

(could be worse, could be raining)

The skies opened up, and it began to pour. Dean stuffed the card back into his wallet, noting that magic had a very basic sense of humor.

Fortunately, he seemed to have passed from October into August. The air was warm, and the rain was almost tepid. Pushing wet hair back off his face, he drew in a deep lungful of air and frowned at yet another familiar smell. Hoping he hadn’t screwed everything up by thinking of home, he started running downhill toward the harbor. Look and listen for anything out of the ordinary, Austin had told him. Well, as far as he knew, there were no saltwater harbors on the Great Lakes.

It wasn’t just a saltwater harbor. Signal Hill rose across the narrows where the Royal Military College should have been. Massive docks butted up against a broad thoroughfare and along the far side of it were the historic properties that should’ve been clustered around the Dartmouth ferry dock in Halifax.

“Okay. This is weird.” But so far it didn’t seem dangerous. Even the rain was letting up.

There were ships at nearly all the docks, most of them clippers and brigantines, but he saw at least two modern vessels as well. So which were out of the ordinary? While he stood there, undecided, someone bumped him from behind, muttered an apology, and kept moving.

Dean turned to see a heavily muscled man in an old-fashioned naval uniform, carrying a human leg over one massive shoulder, weave his way through the crowd on the thoroughfare and enter a windowless green building on the other side. The sign on the building read “Man-made Sausages.”

No one else, from the little girl selling matches to the one-eyed, peg-legged street artist with a hook, seemed to think anything of it.

“Don’t eat or drink while you’re in there.…”

“Not much danger of that,” he muttered. “I’ll just find the boss….”

From somewhere in town came the enraged roar of an Industrial Light and Magic special effect followed closely by a woman’s scream.

“Claire!”

His work boots slipping on the wet cobblestones, Dean raced away from the harbor through a rabbit warren of narrow streets, all of them steeply angled regardless of the direction he was running.

The roar sounded again. Closer.

Just when he thought he was hopelessly lost, he pounded out from between two empty storefronts and into the intersection at Brock and King, across from the old city library.

In the center of the intersection, stomping jerkily about like one of the old stop-motion models, was a dinosaur. A T-Rex. Off to one side, were the squashed and nearly unidentifiable remains…

Dean clutched at his chest.

…of a 1957 Corvette.

“Oh, God, no!” Eyes wide behind his glasses, he staggered forward, hands outstretched. He was almost at the wreck when he felt the ground move, felt hot breath on the back of his neck, and had the sudden uncomfortable feeling he was a secondary character in a Saturday morning movie matinee.

He dove out of the way just in time. Rolled immediately thereafter to avoid being smacked by the massive tail. Leaped over a crumpled fender…

Sitting in the library, surrounded by reference material and a few of the more pungent if less literate clientele, Claire heard someone call her name. Loudly. One could almost say desperately.

The voice, even in extremis, sounded very familiar.

She’d been inside since the Historian’s new pet had shown up, figuring sooner or later it would get bored and wander off and, if it didn’t, she’d just go back out through the library door and home. Then, looking for a map, she’d gotten engrossed in the books. She had no idea how long she’d been in there.

“CLAIRE!”

“Dean?” Running her tongue over dry lips, she walked over to the window, wondering how the Historian had been able to copy Dean’s voice so exactly. She felt her jaw actually drop when she realized she was hearing the original. “Dean!”

Had the T-Rex been animated better, Dean knew he’d have been dead and partially digested by now. Dodging a grotesque, chickenlike peck of the huge head, he found himself at the foot of the library steps.

The massive tail whipped around.

He jumped, cleared the tail, made a bad landing, stumbled back, and fell.

About a dozen stairs behind and above him, he heard the library door open and, at the same time, a small herd of pigs appeared on the other side of the intersection squealing loud enough to wake the dead.

Or attract the attention of the dinosaur.

As T-Rex lumbered toward the pork, something grabbed Dean by the shirt and tried to haul him backward up the stairs with no notable success. Before the pressure of the seams across his armpits cut off all circulation in his arms, he managed to get his feet under him and stand.

Claire released both handfuls of fabric as he turned to face her. Two steps apart, they were eye to eye. She went up one more step. “What are you doing here?”

Struggling to catch his breath, Dean gasped, “I came in to save you.”

“To save me? Oh, for…Whose bright idea was that?”

Since she was obviously not thrilled by the thought of a rescue attempt, he squared his shoulders. “Mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Claire snorted. “It was Austin, wasn’t it? That cat is fussier than…”

A roar from the T-Rex jerked their attention back into the intersection. Ludicrously small arms raked the air, then it charged.

“Come on!” Grabbing another handful of Dean’s shirt, Claire ran for the library door.

“It didn’t take long with the pigs.”

“That’s because they weren’t real. Only the Historian can do substance in here, all I can manage is illusion.”

“Oh, great, so you’ve pissed it off?”

“Try to remember who’s saving whose ass.”

The solid stone steps shuddered as the dinosaur started up after them.

“Think about the bedroom!” Claire yelled as they reached the top step. Still clutching his shirt, she thumbed the latch and dragged him through the door after her.

The wardrobe shuddered to a mighty impact as they flung themselves out into the worried presence of Austin and Jacques.

Breathing heavily, Claire lay where she’d fallen, staring under the bed at a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers that weren’t hers. Four paws, propelled by a ten-pound cat, landed on her kidneys and a moment later Austin’s face peered into hers from over her right shoulder.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. I’m just a little thirsty.” She rolled over, cradled him in her arms, and sat up. Dean had gotten to his feet and was busy trying to pull his T-shirt back into shape. “What,” she asked the cat, “was the idea of sending him in after me? If I hadn’t shown up in time, he’d have been killed.”

“I heard roaring.”

“You’ve heard worse.”

“You’d been gone for over an hour.”

“I lost track of time. I was reading.”

“Reading?” Austin repeated, squirming free and jumping up onto the bed. “You were reading!”

About to mention the dinosaur, Dean’s vision suddenly filled with an extreme close-up of a ghost. “Get my cushion,” Jacques whispered, “quickly, and we will leave.”

“But Claire…” Dean whispered back, trying to see around Jacques’ translucent body.

“This you cannot rescue Claire from. And as much as I would like my cushion to remain, pick it up. We are leaving.”

“I was worried sick and you were reading?” Austin repeated.

Something in the cat’s tone suddenly got through. Eyes wide, Dean stared at Jacques who nodded frantically toward the cushion.

“It wasn’t like that, Austin.”

“It wasn’t like what? It wasn’t like you never even considered my feelings? Is that what it wasn’t like?”

Careful not to break into the line of sight between cat and Keeper, Dean scooped up Jacques’ anchor and the two of them raced into the sitting room.

“So what was it Claire save you from?” Jacques asked as they slowed.

Dean shrugged, the material stretched by Claire’s hands riding on his shoulders like tiny wings. “A dinosaur.”

“A what?”

“A very big carnivorous lizard.”

“Ha! If I can go through the wardrobe, she would not have to rescue me from a big lizard. She would not have to rescue a real man.”

“Real men admit it when they need help.”

“Since when?”

“I think it started around the mid-eighties.”

“Ah. Well, it did not start with me. I would have did what I went into the wardrobe to do.”

“You would have done what you went into the wardrobe to do.”

“That,” said Jacques, staring down his nose at the living man, “is what I said.”

“Okay.” Dean half-turned toward the bedroom, gesturing with the hand holding the cushion. “If you’re so brave, go back in there.”

Austin’s voice drifted out through the open bedroom door. “…consider more important than…”

Jacques looked thoughtful. “How big did you say was that lizard?”

Later, after tempers had cooled and apologies had been offered and accepted, Austin rested his head on Claire’s shoulder and murmured thoughtfully, “Maybe it had nothing to do with either of us. Maybe it only had to do with Dean.”

Claire stopped halfway across the sitting room and shifted her hold on the cat so she could see his face. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe he needed to go into the wardrobe; to begin tempering.”

“Tempering?” Her eyes widened as the implication hit her. “Oh, no. Forget it. We don’t need another Hero. They’re nothing but trouble.”

“Granted, but he fits the parameters. No parents, raised by a stern but ethical authority figure, big, strong, naturally athletic, not real bright, modest, good looking…”

“Myopic.”

“What?”

“He’s nearsighted,” Claire said, feeling almost light-headed with relief. “Who ever heard of a hero in glasses?”

Austin thought about it for a moment “Clark Kent?”

“Fake prescription.”

“Woody Allen?”

“Get serious.”

“Still…”

“No.” She stepped out into the lobby, closing the door to her suite behind her. Patting the gleaming oak counter with her free hand, she headed for the kitchen. Since the unsuccessful search for the Historian had taken most of her energy, she had no memory of Dean actually finishing the work, but it sure looked good. Granted it would look better if they refinished the lobby floor, painted and recarpeted the stairs…

“No. I’m a Keeper, not an interior decorator, I have a job. If I can’t find the Historian,” she muttered, stepping into the kitchen, “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

Austin jumped out of her arms, landing by the sink and whirling around to face her. “I beg your pardon.”

“Sorry.”

He washed a shoulder. “I should hope so.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Claire pulled the plastic container holding the site journal out of the fridge. Faint fumes could be detected seeping through the seal.

“Do you have to do that now?” Austin demanded. “It’s twenty-five to ten. I thought we could have breakfast first.”

“I have no intention of opening this when I have food in my stomach.”

“That’s probably wise, but factoring in wardrobe time, you haven’t eaten for nearly twenty-four hours and, more importantly, I haven’t eaten for two. After you deal with that you’re not going to want to eat for a while.” He sneezed. “If ever. It’s worse than the last time!”

“But the lid’s still on.”

“My point exactly.” His first leap took him nearly to the dining room. Ears back, he headed for the hall. “If you want me, I’ll be doing canine therapy next door. Out of my way, junior.”

“Junior?” Dean repeated, flattening against the wall to avoid being run over by the cat. Still shaking his head, he turned the corner into the dining room and coughed. “What in…”

“If you want to do something useful,” Claire told him a little breathlessly, setting the lid to one side, “you can find me a lifting thingie.”

“A what?” he asked, noting with dismay that she was reaching for another fork.

“Something to lift the journal out of the liquid with.”

Reminding himself that it was her hotel and she could therefore destroy as much of the cutlery as she wanted, Dean took his least favorite spatula from the spatula section of the second drawer and handed it over. “Did you and Austin work out, well, you know…”

“Yes. We did. Just so you don’t worry in the future, we always do.”

“You guys, you have a interesting relationship.”

“Of course we do.” She wiped one watering eye on the back of her hand. “He’s a cat.” Carefully, she slid the spatula under the journal.

Once again, the onions had turned indigo but, this time, there was still about an inch of brine sloshing around in the bottom of the container.

“Boss, I, uh, just wanted to say…”

“Not now, Dean.”

“Okay.” Left hand cupped over his mouth and nose, he walked over to the dining room side of the service counter. “How can you stand over it like that?”

“I do what I have to.”

“And what do you have to do, cherie?” Jacques asked, appearing by her side.

“Watch.” Holding the journal just up out of the brine so that none of the solution splashed out of the container as it drained, Claire carefully used the fork and flicked it open to the first of Augustus Smythe’s entries. Although the paper remained a blue barely lighter than the letters, the writing was finally readable.

August 18th, 1942. I find myself summoned to a place called Brewster’s Hotel. The most incredible thing has just taken place here. The Keeper who was, and who indeed continues to seal the site, attempted to gain control of the evil for her own uses.

Smiling broadly, Claire glanced up at Dean. “Isn’t this wonderful!”

“Wonderful,” he agreed, but he was referring to the little crinkle the smile folded into the end of her nose.

Jacques followed his line of sight, and snorted.

I cannot name the Keeper because she remains in the building, continuing to seal the site with her power—which is considerably more than considerable according to the arrogant s.o.b. of an Uncle John who helped defeat her. I hate how some of those guys get off on being “more lineage than thou,” as if the universe shines out his ass.

“I guess that answers the Augustus Smythe personality question.”

The other Keeper, Uncle Bob, isn’t so bad. Is it because Bob’s your Uncle?

“And that raises a few more.”

Two of them wouldn’t have been enough to defeat her if she hadn’t…

Slipping the fork carefully under the damp paper, trying, in spite of her excitement, to keep breathing shallowly, Claire turned the page.

…had trouble wi th th e vir g i…

“Oh, no!” One by one, faster and faster, the letters slid off the paper and into the brine. For a moment, Claire stared aghast at a journal of blank pages, then the paper turned into a gelatinous mass and shimmied off the spatula. The resultant splash sprayed a couple of dozen letters up over Claire’s hand and sweater.

She staggered back until she hit the edge of the sink, too stunned to speak.

Jumping forward, holding his breath, Dean slapped the lid onto the container. When the seal caught, he hurried around into the kitchen, plucked the spatula from Claire’s hand and tipped it almost immediately into the garbage.

“You must wash your hand, cherie,” Jacques told her. “There is em’s upon it. And other letters there upon your sweater.”

“I don’t think it’ll wash out,” Dean offered.

Jacques sniffed. “It does not amaze me you also do laundry.”

Slowly Claire lifted her hand to her mouth and touched her tongue to one of the letters.

The two men exchanged a horrified glance.

Her lips drew back off her teeth.

“I do not think she is smiling,” Jacques murmured.

“Spider parts,” Claire snarled. “That rotten, little piece of Hell!”

Both men flinched but nothing happened.

“Don’t you see?” Claire’s glare jerked from one to the other and back again. “The imp introduced spider parts into the solution. It couldn’t have opened the fridge, so it had to have dusted the onions in the bin under the counter just before I started the second batch. It ruined everything!”

OH, VERY WELL DONE.

DO WE GIVE COMPLIMENTS?

WE GIVE CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE.

Hell was silent for a moment. NO, WE DON’T, it said at last.

“Mrs. Abrams is up to something; she’s humming. It’s an intensely scary sound. Why the long faces?” Austin asked, jumping up on the counter. He sneezed and turned a disgusted glare on the container. “Haven’t you finished with that yet?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve finished with it.” Claire pulled off her sweater and handed it to Dean who held it much the same way he’d have held a dead jellyfish. “It’s all over. I’m not going to be able to undo what was done because I’ll never find out what they did. I can’t fix it I might as well call the locksmith’s cousin.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind.” Moving mechanically, she turned, squirted a little dish detergent into her palm and washed her hands.

When Dean explained what had happened, the cat jumped down to rub against her legs.

“Spider parts can get onto onions a number of different ways; you don’t know it was an imp. Or even that there is an imp.”

“Don’t start with me, Austin.”

Wisely, he let it drop. “There’s still the Historian,” he reminded her.

“No, there isn’t.” She scrubbed her hands dry on a dish towel—which Dean retrieved to hold, two-fingered, with the sweater—and scooped Austin up into her arms. “I can’t get out of that town she’s built.”

“The wardrobe Kingston?” Dean asked.

“Not quite Kingston,” Claire told him bitterly. “There’s a camp of killer girl guides to the north. When I take the bridge over the narrows and go east, I get hit with a snowstorm I can’t get through. To the west there’s a military academy. And south…”

“Un moment,” Jacques interrupted. “Why can you not get by a military academy?”

“It’s the men in uni…”

Claire put her hand over the cat’s muzzle. “They think I’m one of their teachers and I’m AWOL. Attempting that route’ll only get me stuffed into an ugly uniform and thrown in the brig until I agree to teach two classes in military history.”

“The sea’s to the south,” Dean said. “What about one of the ships?”

“Get on a ship crewed by the Historian’s people?” Claire shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’d be faster just to drown myself and save them the trouble.”

“Austin thinks you’re trying too hard.”

“Does he? Interesting he should know so much about a place he’s never been.” The cat in her arms became very intent on cleaning between the pads of a front paw. “No, it’s obvious. I can’t get to the Historian, and this…” She stared down at the jumble of letters and the sludge of the journal. Her shoulders slumped. “…this is less than useless.”

“But what about studying the actual, you know, spell?”

“What about it?” She’d been spending an hour with Sara every morning and, so far, she’d developed an allergy to dust. Her ten minutes every other afternoon, the longest she could spend so close to Hell and a running monologue she couldn’t shut off, had taught her a number of things she’d have rather not known about the Spanish Inquisition, World War II, and the people who program prime time TV but nothing about how to deal with the unique situation surrounding the site. “It’s time I faced it; I’m going to be stuck here for the rest of my life.”

After a moment, when the silence in the kitchen stopped ringing to the slam of a metaphorical door, Jacques sighed and said, “Would that be so bad, cherie?”

Claire paused on the verge of plunging into a good long wallow in self-pity, realizing he was actually asking, Would it be so bad to spend the rest of your life here with me? “You’re missing the point, Jacques. If I were needed to seal the hole, doomed to become an eccentric recluse years before my time, it’d be different, at least I’d be doing something useful. Here…” A toss of her head managed to take in the entire hotel. “…I’m a passive observer, watching a system I can’t affect, doing sweet dick all. It’s like, like having last year’s Cy Young winner sitting in the bullpen in case one of the starters blows a rotator cuff.”

The ghost stared at her in bewilderment “And that means…”

“It’s baseball,” Dean told him before Claire could explain. “It means she feels her abilities are wasted here.”

“Wasted?” Jacques repeated. “Here where there is a hole to Hell in the basement and une femme mauvaise asleep upstairs? If there is something that goes wrong here…”

DEATH! DESTRUCTION!

A FIVE HUNDRED CHANNEL UNIVERSE!

“…your, what you call, abilities will not be wasted, cherie.”

“But if nothing goes wrong…”

“We should all be so lucky,” Austin interrupted, jumping out of her arms. He checked the dry food in his bowl and sat, tail wrapped around his toes. “You know this place needs to be monitored.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Well, yes, but…”

“And since you’ve been summoned here, this is where you need to be.”

“That’s the theory, but…”

“And since you can’t access the information you need to deal with this unique situation, it seems apparent that you’re the monitor needed for the site.” The catechism complete, he flicked an ear back for punctuation. “If it helps, think of yourself as the world’s last line of defense. A missile in a silo, hopefully never to be used. A sub…”

“That’s enough,” Claire told him shortly, breathing heavily through her nose. She’d always believed that the one thing she hated most was being lectured to by the cat, but she’d just discovered she hated being lectured to in front of an audience even more. “It’s not helping. You want to know what will?” Whirling around, she yanked a large bag of chocolate chip cookies out of the cupboard. “This. This’ll help.” Tucking it under her arm, she pushed through Jacques, past Dean, and toward the dubious sanctuary of Augustus Smythe’s…no, her sitting room.

“Perhaps I can see her point,” Jacques mused as the distant door slammed. “Although, I am with her in this bull’s pen, so at least she is not alone.”

“And what am I?” Austin demanded. “Beef byproduct?”

“What is…”

“Never mind.” Paws against the cupboards, he stood up on his hind legs to watch Dean check the seal on the plastic container.

“I’d better dump the rest of those onions.”

“Why bother? You’ve been eating them for a week.” He snickered at Dean’s expression. “That which does not kill you makes you stronger.”

“Spider parts?” Slightly green, Dean clenched his teeth and tried not to think about it.

“Never ask me what’s in a hot dog.” The cat dropped back onto four feet. “And if you’re going to throw that out double bag it so it doesn’t leak. You’ll contaminate the whole dump.”

“Will the boss be all right?”

“Oh, sure. Just as soon as she comes to terms with spending the rest of her life standing guard in this hotel.”

“Those are not easy terms,” Jacques murmured reflectively. “To haunt this not very popular hotel is not how I myself thought to spend eternity. I will go to her.”

“Hey, hold it” Dean grabbed his arm, and stubbed his fingers against the wall as his hand passed right through the other man. “She wants to be alone.”

“And what do you know of it, Anglais! You can leave.”

“Yeah, but I won’t.”

“So that makes you better than me? That you stay but do not have to.” The ghost snorted. “I know why you stay, Anglais. It is not that it is so good a job, n’est ce pas?”

Dean’s ears burned. “Austin says I’m a part of this. And Claire’s mother says she needs me. And…”

“Oui?”

“And I don’t run out on my friends.”

The silence stretched and lengthened. Dean figured Jacques was taking his time to translate something particularly cutting but to his surprise, the ghost smiled and nodded. “D’accord. If she must guard the world, we three will guard her.”

We three.

It felt good being part of a team. It would’ve felt better standing back to back with Claire and taking on the world, just the two of them, but deep down, Dean was a realist.

He hadn’t ever really considered his future. He’d left Newfoundland looking for work, had fallen into this job, liked it well enough, and stayed. Because all his choices had been freely made, there seemed to be an infinite number still left to explore. He wasn’t really very happy to discover that when a person reached a certain age, choices started making themselves. “The world’s last line of defense—I wonder if the world knows how lucky it is,” he mused.

The cat and the ghost exchanged expressions as identical as differing physiognomy could make them.

“Still, I can see her point,” he continued in the same tone. “It’s an awesome responsibility, but it must be some boring being on guard. Ow!” He reached down and rubbed his calf. “Why did you scratch me?”

“Never, ever say it’s boring being a guard!”

“I didn’t,” Dean protested, checking for blood seeping through his jeans. “I said it must be some boring being on guard.”

“Oh.” Austin sheathed his claws. “Sorry.”

Stuffing a fourth cookie into her mouth, Claire sank back into the sofa cushions and looked for something to put her feet up on. The coffee table practically bowed under the weight of the crap it already held and the hassock was on the other side of the room. Twisting slightly sideways, she chewed and swallowed and dropped her heels down on the plaster bust of Elvis.

“Thang you. Thang you vera much.”

“You’re kidding, right?” She lifted her feet and let them drop again.

“Thang you. Thang you vera much.”

It seemed to have a limited vocabulary. “Why would Augustus Smythe waste power, even seepage, on something like you?” Unless. She chewed thoughtfully. “You don’t sing, do…”

Her last word got lost under the opening bars of “Jailhouse Rock.”

“Stop.”

“Thang you. Thang you vera much.”

“Sing.”

A few bars of “Blue Suede Shoes.”

“Stop.”

“Thang you. Thang you vera much.”

“Sing.”

“Heartbreak Hotel.” The opening bars of “Heartbreak Hotel.”

“That’s more like it” Claire had another cookie and prepared to wallow. From this point on, the future stretched out unchanging because to hope for change was to hope for disaster and to hope for disaster would strengthen Hell. She supposed she should call her mother, let her know how things had worked out—or rather how they hadn’t worked out—but she didn’t feel up to hearing even the most diplomatic version of “I told you so.”

And if Diana was home…

The ten-year difference in their ages and a childhood spent being rescued by Claire from toddler enthusiasm meant that Diana had always lumped Claire in with the rest of the old people. She wouldn’t be at all surprised to find Claire stuck running the hotel. It was what old Keepers did, after all.

Moving down to the second layer of cookies, Claire knew she couldn’t trust herself to listen to that. Better not to call until Friday evening when she always called.

“You do know Elvis is running on seepage.”

Claire sighed, exhaling a fine mist of cookie crumbs. “He’s using a tiny fraction of what’s readily available. He’s not pulling from the pit.”

“I wonder if that was the first excuse Augustus Smythe made.” Austin jumped up onto the back of the sofa and gingerly stretched out along the top edge of the cushion.

“I doubt it.” The song ended and Elvis thanked his audience before she could actually do anything.

“There is a bright side, you know. If Augustus Smythe hadn’t been a sufficient monitor for all the years he was here, he would have been replaced. Since you’re here now, obviously there’s a better chance than there’s ever been that something will go wrong.”

Claire turned just enough to glare at the cat. “And I’m supposed to feel good about that?” But she reached out to see that the power loop remained secure.

YOU WERE DISAPPOINTED!

Get out of my head. She ate another three cookies so fast she almost took the end off a finger.

“You should cheer up,” Austin told her.

“I don’t want to cheer up.”

“Then you should answer the door.”

“There’s nobody…” A tentative knocking cut her off. She glared at the cat as she called out, “What?”

“It’s Dean. You haven’t eaten yet today, so I made you some breakfast.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“It’s an omelet.”

Names have power. Claire could smell it now: butter, eggs, mushrooms, cheese. All of a sudden she was ravenous. Half a bag of cookies hadn’t even blunted the edge. When she opened the door, she found he’d brought a thermal carafe of coffee and a glass of orange juice as well. She held out her hands, but he didn’t seem to want to relinquish the tray.

“You’ve, um, probably forgotten, but it’s Thanksgiving today.”

She hadn’t so much forgotten as hadn’t realized. A quick glance over at Miss October did indicate that it was, indeed the second Monday. And that she should replace Augustus Smythe’s calendars. “Thank you. I’ll call home.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s just that I was kind of invited to a friend’s house for dinner.”

“Kind of invited?”

“She’s from back home, too, and we all made plans to get together and…” His voice trailed off.

“Go. Be happy. Eat turkey. Watch football.” Claire reached over the omelet, grabbed the edge of the tray closest to his body and yanked it toward her, leaving him no choice but to let go or to go with it.

He let go.

“You’ve certainly earned a night off,” she said, smiling tightly up at him. “Thank you for the food. Now go away, I haven’t finished wallowing yet.” Stepping back, she closed the door in his face.

“That was rude,” Austin chided.

“Do you want some of this or not?”

It was enough, as she’d known it would be, for him to keep further opinions to himself.

Out in the office, Dean shook his head, brow creased with concern. “I don’t know what I should do,” he confessed to Jacques.

“Do what she says,” the ghost told him. “Be with your friends. Eat the turkey, watch the football. There is nothing you can do here. She will come out when she is come to terms with this.”

“Has come to terms with this. You could go in.”

“I think not. What was it you said?” He started to fade and by the time he finished talking his words hung in the air by themselves. “I am pretty smart for a dead guy.”

The interior of the refrigerator was as spotless as the rest of the kitchen. In Claire’s experience, most crispers held two moldy tomatoes and a head of mushy lettuce but not Dean’s. The vegetables were not only fresh, they’d been cleaned. She thought about making a salad and decided not to bother. Considered making a sandwich from the leftover pot roast and decided it was too much work. Reached for a plastic container of stroganoff to reheat and let her hand fall back by her side.

In the end, she stepped away from the fridge empty-handed.

The familiar clomp of work boots turned her around.

“You’re back early.”

“It’s almost nine. Not that early.” Dean set a bulging bag down on the table and began removing foil wrapped packages. “We ate, did the dishes, had a cuffer—swapped stories,” he explained as her brows went up. “And here I am, all chuffed out.” Carefully lifting out a small margarine tub, he shot her a tentative smile. “Are you feeling better?”

“I spent the afternoon watching tabloid talk shows.” She crossed the kitchen to stand by the table. “Now I feel slightly nauseated but better about my life.”

“I think that’s the idea.”

Rubbing her temples with the heels of her hands, Claire snorted. “I certainly hope so. My mother send her regards, and my sister wants to know how you feel about European trawlers depleting the Grand Banks, but since she’s only trying to start a political argument, you don’t actually have to answer her.” She picked up a package that smelled unmistakably of turkey. “What’s this?”

“Thanksgiving dinner. I packed up some of the leftovers. The potatoes are cooked to a chuff, but you can’t tell under the gravy.”

When he got a plate and began arranging food on it, Claire folded her arms and shook her head. Only a young man could eat a full meal, then sit down and eat another. “I thought you were—How did it go—all chuffed out?”

“I am. This is for you.” The feel of the answering silence drew his attention up off the food. “That is, if you haven’t eaten. I mean, I don’t even know if you like turkey. It’s just that this was my first Thanksgiving away from home and I know how lonely I would’ve been without my friends and I thought that, well, that you should have some Thanksgiving dinner.” Flustered, unable to read her expression, he spilled the gravy.

The accident and the subsequent wiping and rewiping and polishing gave Claire a chance to swallow the lump in her throat. There were a number of things she wanted to say, but after the day’s emotional ups and downs, she didn’t think she could manage any of them without bursting into tears—and Keepers never cried in front of bystanders. With the table restored to a pristine state, she reached out and touched Dean lightly on the arm. “Thang you,” she said. “Thang you vera much.”

THAT BOY IS SO NICE HE’S NAUSEATING. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WE CAN TEMPT HIM WITH.

WE’VE TRIED. HE DOESN’T LISTEN.

ISN’T THAT JUST LIKE A MAN.

NOT WHERE WE’RE CONCERNED, Hell told itself tartly.

The next morning, Claire found a pair of Dean’s underwear hanging off the doorknob as she left her suite. The imp must’ve spent the entire night dragging them up from the laundry room in the basement.

“I hope you gave yourself a hernia,” Claire muttered, pulling them free.

Briefs, not boxers. Navy blue with white elastic.

“Boss?”

They wouldn’t mash down into a small enough ball to bide. Keeping her right hand and its contents behind her, Claire turned. “What?”

“We’ve got lots of eggs, and I have to use them. I wondered if you wanted me to make you some for breakfast.”

“Fine.”

“How do you want them?”

“I don’t care.” He was wearing one of his brilliant white T-shirts and jeans, totally unaware of how good he looked. Briefs not boxers. Given how tightly his jeans fit she should have been able to figure that out on her own.

“Scrambled?”

“Fine.”

“With garlic and mushrooms?”

“Whatever.”

Dean frowned. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

He leaned left.

She shuffled just enough to cut down his line of sight “Was there anything else?”

“Uh, no. I guess not.”

“Good. You go ahead.” Her right arm started forward to wave him away but she stopped it in time. “Go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Shaking his head, Dean disappeared down the hall.

Twenty years old, Claire reminded herself whacking the back of her skull against the door.

The hollow boom of the impact echoed throughout the first floor.

“Boss?”

“It’s nothing,” she called. Rubbing the rising bump, she contemplated doing it again. She’d had the perfect opportunity to prove the existence of the imp. There could be no other explanation for the underwear delivered to her door. So why, she wondered, had she acted like such an idiot?

“It’s this place; it’s messing with my head.” Opening the door, she tossed the underwear into the sitting room. She’d figure out a way to get them back into Dean’s laundry, later.

“Souvenir?” Austin asked as the briefs sailed by and landed on Elvis.

“Thang you, thang you vera much.”

“You can both just shut up.”

“They put over the top, how do you say…plaster board?” Jacques announced, pulling his head back out of the wall. “But the works for the elevator, they are all here.”

“Should I start uncovering it?” Dean asked eagerly.

Claire shrugged. “Why not.”

“Great, I’ll go get my hammer.”

“And what will you be doing, cherie,” Jacques asked as Dean ran off, “while he bangs out his frustrations on the wall?”

“I don’t think Dean has frustrations.” She ducked under the counter flap, heading for the phone. “But to answer your question, I’m going to finish packing Augustus Smythe’s knick-knacks away.”

“To make the place your own, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So you are reconciled to staying here?”

An empty cardboard box dangling from one hand, she paused on the threshold, unwilling to take the final, symbolic step into the sitting room. “I might as well be, I haven’t any other choice.”

“You are needed here, Claire.”

When she turned, he was standing right behind her. A step forward would take her right through him. His eyes had gone very dark and he was wearing the smile that made her stomach feel like she’d swallowed a bug.

“I could reconcile you.” His hand caressed the air by her cheek. “It would take so little power.”

At first Claire thought that the bells she heard were the ringing of desire in her ears, but then, over Jacques shoulder, she saw the front door open.

“Yoohoo!”

She stepped forward, teeth gritted against the chill, Jacques de-materializing as she moved. There was no way Mrs. Abrams could’ve missed seeing him.

“Did you see that, Carlee, dear?”

“See what?” Claire asked.

“Nothing. Never mind. Of course you didn’t.”

Prepared for an argument, or possibly even hysterics, her satisfied chuckle confused Claire completely.

“I just came in to tell you that you’ve got guests. Two young men. I was on my way in from my Tuesday morning hair appointment—I like to get there early, you know, before poor dear Sandra gets tired—and I saw their car go up the driveway and I knew you’d want to know immediately. That’s funny.” Head cocked, she swiveled it about like an orange bouffant radar dish. “I don’t hear Baby. He does so love to welcome your guests as they get out of their cars in the parking lot.”

“Does he welcome them the way he welcomes the postman?” Claire wondered.

“Don’t be silly, dear, there’s a fence in his way. I’d best go check on the poor thing.” Pausing on the threshold, she pointed back toward the gleaming oak counter. “You should put some paint on that dear. All that bare wood looks somewhat indecent don’t you think?”

The two young men weren’t much taller than Claire, although they had a wiry build and self-confident grace that suggested their height had never been an issue. Both had sharply pointed features, an eyebrow lying across each forehead with no discernible break, and short dark hair that picked up the light as they moved so that it seemed the very end of each individual hair had been dipped in silver.

Claire relaxed as a quick dip into identical gray eyes showed not only a lack of evil intent but that they carried significantly less darkness than the general population.

“You guys twins?” Dean asked, wandering over to the counter, hammer in hand.

“Actually,” said one.

“We’re triplets,” said the other. “I’m Ron, never Ronald since that clown came on the scene, and this is my brother Reg. We’re in town for the sportsman’s show that’s at the Portsmouth Center this week.”

“Randy had a previous commitment,” Reg explained with a toothy grin. “But we’d like a room. Our grandfather stopped here some years ago, and he spoke very highly of the place.”

Must’ve been before Augustus Smythe took over, Claire thought When Dean glanced her way, she had to hide a grin. It was obvious he was thinking the same thing. “All of our rooms are doubles,” she told them making a mental note to have Jacques search the attic for a set of twin beds. “If you mind sharing, we could give you a deal on two rooms.” It wasn’t like the second room would be needed for other guests.

“Sharing’s fine.”

They were in constant motion and she’d lost track of which was which. “Breakfast is included in the price.”

“Great but all we really need you to do is…”

“…throw half a dozen raw eggs into a blender.”

“We’re in training.”

For what? Salmonella? But they were guests, so all she said aloud was, “Well, if you’ll give us a few minutes, we’ll get room one ready for you.”

“No hurry.”

“We’re going for a run down by the lake.”

“We’ve been on the road since dawn and…”

“…we don’t do so well sitting still that long.”

“We’ll be back in about an hour.”

Ron, or possibly Reg, grinned up, way up, at Dean. “See you later, big fella.”

Reg, or as it were, Ron, nodded at Claire. “Ma’am.”

They bounded out the door together. Claire had never seen anyone over the age of three actually bound before. Feeling a little out of breath, although she hadn’t moved from behind the counter during the entire exchange, she wondered just when exactly she’d become a ma’am.

“Cool guys,” Dean said. “Lots of energy. Should I go up and do the room?”

And was Boss really any better?

“Boss?”

Not really. “Why not? Has to be done.”

She walked over to the desk as he went upstairs and dropped into the chair. Keep your distance, she reminded herself. The way things have turned out, he’ll be moving on long before you do.

When Austin came into the office a few minutes later, she was sulkily updating the day’s noninformation into the site journal. “What’s with you?” she asked, noticing the cat’s bottle brush tail, and half open mouth.

“Something stinks,” he growled. “I smell dog.”

“Two guests just registered.” She hadn’t noticed any particular odor, but if the twins were competing at the sportsman’s show perhaps that meant they worked with dogs.

“It’s coming from over here.”

Rolling her eyes, Claire got up to peer over the counter at him.

“And it’s not dog.”

He was sniffing the spot where Reg, or possibly Ron, had stood to sign the register.

“Then what is it?”

“Werewolf.”

WEREWOLVES?

THERE WOLVES. THERE CASTLE.

The silence that fell in the furnace room was the sort of anticipatory silence that fell just before a smack. In this particular case, it wasn’t so much a smack as total, all encompassing destruction.

The silence continued a moment longer, then a very small voice said, OW.