Summon The Keeper

THREE

“IF YOU DON’T HURRY,” Austin complained from the bedroom, “I’m going down to breakfast without you.”

Claire rummaged through her makeup case, inspecting and discarding a number of pencils that needed sharpening. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”

They’d spent the night back in room one even though Dean had reiterated that the owner’s rooms were now rightfully Claire’s. Although willing to spend the evening watching television and eating pizza in Augustus Smythe’s sitting room, Claire wasn’t quite ready to sleep in his bed.

“I don’t see why you bother with all that stuff.”

“This from the cat who spent half an hour washing his tail.” One eye closed, she leaned toward the mirror. Her reflection remained where it had been. “Oh, no.” Straightening, she put down the pencil and looked herself in the eyes—not at all surprised to notice that they were no longer dark brown but deep red. “Now what?”

A skull, recently disinterred, appeared in the reflection’s left hand. “Alas, poor Yorik. I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest.”

“And oft times had you kissed those lips.” Claire folded her arms and frowned. “I’m familiar with the play. Get to the point.”

The reflection lifted the skull until it could gaze levelly into the eye sockets. “Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint her face an inch thick, to this favor she must come…” A fluid motion turned the skull so that it stared out from the mirror. “…make her laugh at that.”

“Not bad, but I imagine you have access to a number of actors. Your point?”

“Open the pentagram. Release us. And we shall see to it that you remain young and beautiful forever.”

“You’re kidding, right? You’re offering a Keeper eternal youth and beauty?”

The reflection looked a little sheepish. “It is considered a classic temptation. We thought it worth a try.”

“Oh, please.”

“That means no?”

Claire sighed and, both hands holding the edge of the sink, leaned forward. “Go to Hell,” she told it levelly. “Go directly to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

The skull vanished. Her reflection began answering to her movements again.

“Was that wise?” Austin asked from the doorway.

“What? Refusing to be tempted?”

“Making flippant comments.”

“It wasn’t a flippant comment.” She finished lining her right eye and began on her left. “It was a stage direction.”

“Hel-lo!”

“Mom?” In the kitchen, using a number of household products in ways they’d never been intended by the manufacturers—not even the advertising department which, as a rule, had more liberal views about those sorts of things—Claire was attempting to remove the ink from the latter third of the site journal. While not technically an impossible task, it did seem to be, as time went on, highly improbable. Laying aside the garlic press, she dried her hands on a borrowed apron—borrowing it hadn’t been her idea—called out that she’d be right there, and tripped over the cat.

By the time she reached the lobby, Austin was up on the counter, having his head scratched and looking as though he hadn’t been waiting as impatiently as anyone.

“You’re certainly right about those shields,” Martha Hansen said, as Claire came into the lobby. “I can’t feel a thing.”

Catching Austin’s eye, Claire mimed wiping her brow in relief. Austin looked superior; he’d had a bad feeling about it from the start. So there. “Thanks for coming, Mom.”

“Well, I could hardly refuse my daughter’s call for help, now could I? Besides, your sister’s in the workshop today and it’s your father’s turn to deal with the fire department.” The three of them winced in unison. “And it did seem a shame not to work in a quick visit with you so close. You’re looking well.” She wrapped Claire in a quick hug. “Maine must’ve agreed with you.”

“I was in and out too fast for it to disagree with me. Easiest site I ever sealed.”

“Good. At least you’re not facing this site exhausted and cranky.”

“Cranky?” Claire repeated, shooting a warning look at the cat. “Mom, I’m twenty-seven. I’m a little old for cranky.”

Her mother smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. How did you sleep last night?”

“Like a log. I expect it’s another effect of the dampening field.”

“I expect it is.” Unzipping her windbreaker, Martha turned back toward the counter. “What about you, Austin?”

“I slept like a cat.” One ear flicked back. “I always sleep like a cat.”

“That’s very reassuring. Any developments since you called, Claire?”

“Nothing much. We might have an imp infestation—I’m fairly certain it, or they, damped down my shoes the first night I was here.” She saw no point in mentioning the voice. Not only had it been a highly subjective experience, but she’d stopped telling her mother everything that went on in her head the day Colin Rorke had kissed her behind the football bleachers. “This morning, my reflection offered me eternal youth and beauty.”

Martha sighed as she shrugged out of her jacket. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, evil has no imagination. Probably why so much of it ends up in municipal politics. They’ll be back, you know, and the temptations will escalate as they come to know you better.”

“I expect I’ll seal the site before that becomes a problem.”

“But surely it’s already sealed.”

“No, Mom, I mean seal it closed.”

“Closed?”

“That must be why I’m here,” Claire asserted. “I couldn’t possibly have been summoned to an epistemological babysitting job as though I were too old to do anything but slap my power over a site and make sure nothing creeps out around the edges.”

“This hole…”

“Is huge, but it doesn’t change the job description.”

“And have you determined how you’re going to close the hole and simultaneously take care of…” She jerked her head toward the third floor.

“Not yet, but I’m working on it. I was hoping that you, with your greater experience and years of work in the field, could throw a little light on the problem.”

“Suck up,” Austin muttered.

Lips twitching, Martha bent and picked up her overnight case. “Let me drop this off in my room, and then I’ll go take a look at your problems. The sooner I see them, the sooner I can tell you what you need to hear.”

Claire grabbed the key to room two and hurried to catch up on the stairs, frowning as she got a good look at the feet she followed. “I wish you wouldn’t wear socks and sandals, Mom.”

“It’s the end of September, Claire, I can hardly wear either alone.”

“But they make you look like an aging hippie.”

“Truth in advertising; nothing wrong with that. Now, I wish you’d wear a little less makeup. It makes you look like…”

“Don’t start, Mom.”

“My. This is medieval.” Walking slowly, examining each line, Martha circled the pit. “In my experienced opinion,” she said after a moment, “you do, indeed, have a hole to Hell in your furnace room. Or more specifically a manifestation of evil conforming to the classic parameters of Hell—the popularity of which, I’ve never entirely understood.” Glancing up at the ductwork, she added, “Mind you, I expect it keeps the heating costs down.” Her hand shot out and jerked Claire back a step. “Don’t pace on the pentagram.”

Folding her arms, Claire mirrored her mother’s élan. Mostly, it was an act although as the second exposure came without the shock of discovery, she found it a little easier to cope. “I know it’s a hole to Hell,” she said, trying to sound as if her teeth weren’t clenched together. “But since it’s linked rather irrevocably to room six, I was hoping you might have some ideas on how to separate them. Some advice on what I should do first.”

YOU COULD RELEASE US.

“Nobody asked you.”

WE’D BE GOOD.

“Liar.”

WELL, YES.

“I don’t think you should argue with it, Claire.” Slipping on her glasses, Martha pointed toward the lettering etched into the bedrock, being very careful not to trace anything in the air that could be interpreted as a pattern. A Cousin shouldn’t be able to affect an accident site but, given the site in question, that wasn’t a tenet she intended to test. “That,” she said, “is the name of the person responsible for this situation. I expect he died right after he finished the invocation. Notice the similar pattern around Sara’s name.”

Eyes beginning to water from the sulfur, Claire studied the design. It wasn’t an exact match, but close enough for Keeper work. “Just as we thought, she tried to gain control. If Hell offered her power in exchange for freedom, that must’ve come as an unpleasant surprise.”

“I can’t say that I find myself feeling too terribly sorry for it,” her mother murmured.

NO ONE EVER DOES, Hell sighed.

“Do shut up. Now then, I think we’ve been in here long enough.” Martha took hold of her daughter’s arm and guided her up the stairs. “Hopefully, we’ll find out more from a thorough examination of Aunt Sara.”

GIVE HER OUR REGARDS.

“Don’t count on it”

“Well?” Austin asked from the top of the washing machine as they tightened the chains across the closed door. He had point-blank refused to go back into the furnace room.

“She wants to go see her,” Claire told him, pointing upward.

“You should take Dean with you.”

“Are you out of your mind? Has he been feeding you on the sly?”

The cat’s eyes narrowed. “Read my lips, he’s a part of this.”

“You don’t have lips.”

“A moot point. Your mother will have to meet him sooner or later.”

“She can meet him later.”

Martha started toward the other end of the basement “Are his rooms down here?”

“Yes, but…”

“Austin thinks we should take Dean, and I’m inclined to agree.”

Claire threw up her hands. “Mom, Austin thinks baby birds are a snack food.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“Listen to your mother, Claire,” Austin murmured as he padded by.

She managed to resist kicking him and hurried to catch up, wishing she’d remembered that her mother’s professional opinion carried personal baggage along with it. “I don’t want Dean told about what’s in the furnace room.”

“You don’t think he deserves to know the truth?”

“He knows there’s an accident site; telling him that he’s bedding down next to a hole leading to a classical manifestation of a Christian Hell will only compromise his safety.”

“In what way?”

“He’s a kid. Minimal defenses. The knowledge could give Hell access to his mind.”

“I think you’re afraid he’ll leave if you tell him,” Austin said, rubbing against the edge of a low shelf. “And you don’t want him to leave.”

“Of course I don’t want him to leave—he cooks, he cleans, I don’t. But neither do I want him blundering into situations he has no hope of understanding.” She turned to her mother. “He’s already in deeper than any bystander I’ve ever been in contact with. Isn’t that enough? How am I supposed to protect him?”

“If he’s been here since last February, I’d say he has pretty powerful protections of his own,” Martha said thoughtfully. “But you’re the Keeper, it’s your decision whether you tell him or not.”

“Then why isn’t this my decision?” Claire asked as her mother knocked at the basement apartment. She didn’t expect an answer, which was good, because she didn’t get one.

Dean came to his door holding a mop.

“Merciful heavens.” Unable to stop herself, Martha glanced down at his feet.

Claire hid a smile. It seemed clear that any member of the lineage meeting Dean for the first time couldn’t help but check for tangible evidence of how very grounded he was.

Completely confused, Dean set the mop to one side, scrubbed his palm off on his jeans, and held out an apprehensive hand. “Hello. You must be Claire’s mother.”

“That’s right I’m Martha Hansen.” Recovering her aplomb, she took his offered hand in a firm grip. “Pleased to meet you, Dean. Claire’s told me so little about you.”

Half expecting a female version of Augustus Smythe, Dean was pleasantly surprised to find there were no similarities whatsoever. Mrs. Hansen looked remarkably like many of the artists who spent their summers in the outports. She wore her long, graying hair pulled loosely back off her face, no makeup, baggy pants, a homespun vest over a turtleneck and the ubiquitous sandals. Dean wasn’t sure why sandals were considered artistic, but they certainly seemed to be. While a resemblance to the summer people wasn’t entirely a recommendation, working for Mr. Smythe had taught him it could’ve been a lot worse. “You’ve been in the furnace room already, then?”

“We have. How could you tell?”

He felt his ears redden. “You’re sweating. Mr. Smythe was always sweating when he came out of the furnace room.”

Martha smiled and dabbed at her forehead with a tissue pulled from her vest pocket. “How observant of you. We have, indeed, been in the furnace room, but we’re on our way up to room six now and we’d like you to come along.”

He glanced over at Claire and noticed her slight hesitation before she nodded. “I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Nonsense. As Austin says, you’re a part of this.”

“Then just let me hang up my mop.”

When he disappeared into his apartment, Martha turned toward her daughter. “He’s a kid?”

“He’s barely older than Diana.”

“Sweetie, I hate to tell you this, but your sister isn’t exactly a kid any more either.” When Claire’s brows drew in, she patted her on the arm. “Never mind. I don’t think you’ll have any problems with Dean. He’s a remarkably stable young man, not to mention very easy on the eyes. I like him.”

Forced to agree with the first two sentiments, Claire snorted. “You’d like an Orchi if it did housework.”

“This is incredible.” Remaining within the shielded area, attention locked on the sleeping Keeper, Martha moved around to the far side of the bed. “Just think of all the factors involved in achieving such an intricate balance of power.”

“I am thinking about it, Mom. Or more specifically, I’m thinking about what’ll happen if I unbalance it, ever so slightly.”

“Don’t.”

Safely outside the shield, Claire sighed. Had she forgotten her mother was prone to those sorts of facetious comments? “I don’t suppose you can see a way to break the loop without precipitating disaster?”

“No, I can’t. I’ve never seen anything so perfectly in balance. I’m very impressed. Such a pity I’ll never have a chance to tell the Keepers who designed it.”

“Keepers.”

“Oh, yes, this definitely took two people. You can see a double signature in the loop.”

“Where?”

“Here. And here.”

Claire pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. She shouldn’t have missed the signs her mother had just pointed out. After all, she was a Keeper and her mother only a Cousin. “How can you stand to get so close to her?”

“I concentrate on the binding, not on her. Still…” Dusting off her hands, she stepped out through the shield. “…that was nasty.”

Crouched in the doorway, rubbing Austin behind the ears to keep him distracted, Dean shook his head. They were like TV cops standing over a body matter-of-factly discussing multiple stab wounds. “You don’t get disturbed about much, do you, Mrs. Hansen?”

Martha turned to face him. “Actually, I’m very disturbed.”

“It doesn’t show.”

“After a few decades spent dealing with various sundry and assorted metaphysical accidents, I’ve gotten good at hiding my reactions. Also, the lineage is trained to remain calm about these sorts of things. It wouldn’t do to have us yelling ‘Fire!’ in a crowded theater, now would it?”

Not entirely certain that he understood the analogy, he let it go.

“Don’t worry about it,” Austin murmured. “Just try sharpening your claws on the sofa and you’ll see how disturbed she gets.”

Arms folded, Claire frowned down at the woman on the bed. In a strange way, Hell was the lesser of two evils. Unlike Aunt Sara, hell had done nothing it wasn’t supposed to do. “All right, Mom, you’ve seen the situation. Where should I begin?”

“I suggest we begin by leaving the room.” Shooing Dean, Claire, and Austin out in front of her, she pulled the door closed then frowned at the splintered wood. “Then I suggest you get this fixed. Thank you, Dean.” She stepped aside as he snapped the padlock back on. “Finally, I suggest you get used to the idea of being here a while.”

“I never thought I’d work out how to close this down in a day or two, Mom.”

“You may not be intended to close it down, Claire. You may have been summoned here as a monitor.”

Claire blinked. “I find that highly unlikely. The last monitor was a Cousin.”

“And the site was clearly too strong for him to manage. It needs a Keeper.”

“If it needs me,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “then it doesn’t need a monitor.”

“I can’t see a way for you to safely interfere with the current arrangement. I think Dean’s idea is correct; given there was a war on, the Keeper, or Keepers, who dealt with this situation probably intended their solution to be a temporary measure. They plugged in the first available Cousin, then were killed during the fighting. Augustus must have been quite young and would have agreed to watch the site until the Keepers returned. They never did, and he was held by his word until another came along.

“Just at the point where the site was about to destroy him utterly, there was Claire, drawn by his need to leave. I realize I’m speculating here, but I find myself feeling quite sorry for him.”

“I don’t.” Claire flinched under her mother’s gaze. “All right, yes I do. He got a raw deal, but I don’t see why I should be happy to have the same one.”

“Not exactly the same deal, if the site was intended to have a Keeper as a monitor.”

“Or,” Claire insisted, “if that Keeper was intended to close the site down. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, I’m going to find the Historian, find out exactly what those two Keepers did, then undo it. I have no intention of either allowing this to continue or of spending the rest of my life here.”

“The Historian is seldom easy to find.”

“That’s only because I’ve never gone looking for her.”

“True enough. Meanwhile,” Martha glanced up and down the hall. “You have a guest house to run.”

“Run?” Claire stared at her mother in astonishment. “Have you forgotten what’s in the basement?”

“This was probably set up as a guest house because of what’s in the basement. This is a unique situation. The more you think about the site, the more attention you pay it, the stronger it becomes. You need a distraction, something to occupy your time.”

“But the guests…”

“They’re here two or three nights at most. Hardly long enough for a sealed site inside a dampening field to have much effect.”

“But I already have a job; I’m a Keeper. I don’t know the first thing about running a guest house.”

“Dean does.” Martha looked remarkably like Austin as she added, “And you said you didn’t want him to leave.”

“Because I need a cook and a caretaker,” Claire explained hurriedly, picking at a wallpaper seam.

“You still do.”

“If I’m really a part of what’s going on,” Dean broke in, “I couldn’t just walk out.”

“You couldn’t walk out on old Augustus,” Austin sniggered, “and he didn’t have Claire’s…”

Claire’s head jerked up. “Austin!”

“…sunny personality.”

“Good, that’s settled.” Martha smiled on them both in such a way it became obvious the problem had been solved to her satisfaction.

Since there seemed to be no point in continuing the argument, and since she wasn’t entirely certain which argument to continue, Claire started down the stairs, her heels thumping against the worn carpet. Dean fell into step beside her. “I want you to know that things are not going to continue the way they were under Augustus Smythe. I am not going to watch passively. I’m going to take action.”

“Okay.” When she glared at him from the corner of one eye, he smiled and added, “Sure.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“I was trying to cheer you up.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.”

As they disappeared down the stairwell, Austin wrapped his tail around his toes and looked up at Claire’s mother. “Nice to have things settled.”

Smoothing down the wallpaper Claire’d been picking at, Martha frowned. “It’s hard to believe that all this has been sitting here for so many years with no one aware of it.”

“It was a bit of a surprise,” the cat admitted. “You can’t blame Claire for wanting to wrap it up and leave.”

“Staying does ask a lot of her.”

“Not the way she sees it. She thinks she’s been declawed.”

“That’s only because she was looking forward to doing things, not merely waiting for all hell to break loose.”

“Oh, that’s clever,” Austin snorted as he stretched and stood. “Come on, just in case the world’s about to end, you can feed me.”

“Mr. Smythe has prog enough to last through freeze up,” Dean explained, setting the supper plates on the table.

“Very reassuring, or it would be if I had the slightest idea of what you meant.”

“I mean he has food enough to last the entire winter.”

“Then why didn’t you say so.” Claire moved her chicken aside and tentatively tried a forkful of the wild rice stuffing. Her eyes widened as she chewed. “This is good.”

“Try not to sound so surprised, dear, it’s rude.” Her mother waved a laden fork in Dean’s direction. “You cook, you clean, and you’re gorgeous; do you have a girlfriend?”

“Mom.”

“It’s okay.” His father’d had six older sisters and after twenty years of holiday dinners with his aunts, Dean pretty much expected both the comments and the question from any woman over forty. They didn’t mean anything by it, so it no longer embarrassed him. “No, ma’am, not right now,” he said, sliding into his seat.

“Are you gay?”

“Mom!”

“It’s a perfectly valid inquiry, Claire.”

“It’s a little personal, don’t you think? And it’s none of your business.”

“It will be if you’re here for any length of time. I could introduce him to your uncle.”

“He’s not gay.”

“He most certainly is.”

“I wasn’t talking about Uncle Stan! I was talking about Dean.”

“And why are you so certain he’s not?”

“I’m a Keeper!”

Ears red, Dean stared intently into his broccoli. That was not a question he’d expected, at least not from Claire’s mother, although Uncle Stan did make a change from being set up with my best friend Margaret’s youngest daughter, Denise. “Um, excuse me, I was wondering, who’s the Historian?”

“Heavens, I’d have thought you’d had enough exposition for one day.”

Claire sighed. “He’s attempting to change the subject, Mom, you’ve embarrassed him.” She ignored her mother’s indignant denials. “The Historian is a woman…”

“We don’t know that for certain, Claire,” Martha interrupted. “You may see her as a woman, but that doesn’t mean everyone does.”

“Do you want to tell him?”

“No need, you’re doing fine.”

“The Historian,” Claire repeated through clenched teeth, “who I see as a woman, keeps the histories of all the Keepers.”

“Is she a Keeper?” Dean asked, bending to pick up his napkin and slipping a bit of chicken under the table to the cat.

“We don’t know.”

“Then what is she?”

“We don’t know.”

“Okay. Where is she?”

“We don’t know that either; not for certain at any given time. The Historian hates to be bothered. She says she can’t finish collecting the past with the present interrupting, so to protect her privacy she moves around a lot.”

“Then how do you find her?”

“I go looking.”

Dean paused, wondering if he was ready for the next answer. Oh, well, the boat’s past the breakwater, I might as well drop a line. “Where?”

“She usually sets up shop just left of reality.”

“What?”

“If reality exists, then it stands to reason that there must be something on either side of it.” Claire tapped the table on both sides of her plate with her fork as if that explained everything.

He ate some chicken, delaying the inevitable. “Okay. Why left of reality?”

“Because the Apothecary uses the space on the right.”

“Dean? If I could have a few words?”

“Sure, Mrs. Hansen.”

“Martha.” She took the tea towel from his hand. “Here, let me help.”

He watched as she dried a plate, decided her standards were high enough, and plunged his hands back into the soapy water. “Where’s Claire?”

“Watching the news. I was wondering, did she explain her family situation?”

“Both you and Mr. Hansen being Cousins?”

“That’s right It’s a very rare situation, two Cousins together, and it’s why both our girls are Keepers. Now, usually Keepers become aware of what they are around puberty…are you blushing?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Must be the light.” She took a dry tea towel off the rack. “Because of their double lineage, my girls not only knew what they were from the start but were unusually powerful. Although they’re better socialized than many Keepers—my husband and I tried to give them as normal an upbringing as possible—they’ve been told most of their lives that with great power comes great responsibility—clichéd but true, I’m afraid. Now, Claire’s willing to give her life for that responsibility, but, like all Keepers, it’s made her more than a little arrogant.”

Dean set the plate he was washing carefully back into the water and slowly turned. “What do you mean, give her life?”

“Evil doesn’t take prisoners.” Martha shook her head, wiping a spoon that was long dry. “That sounds like it should be in a fortune cookie, doesn’t it?”

Pulling the spoon from her hand, Dean locked eyes with the older woman and said softly, “Mrs. Hansen, why are we having this conversation?”

“Because all power corrupts and the potential for absolute power has the potential to corrupt absolutely. This site has already corrupted a Keeper and made a Cousin, at best, bitter and, at worst, mean. I don’t want that happening to my daughter. She’s going to need your help.” When he opened his mouth, she raised her hand. “I realize your natural inclination is to immediately assure me you’ll do everything you can, but I want you to take a moment and think about it. Their abilities tend to deemphasize interpersonal relationships; she can be downright autocratic at times.”

He dropped the spoon in the drawer. “What happens when she finds this Historian?”

“I don’t know.”

“She thinks she’s too powerful to be here just as a monitor, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Dean watched the iridescent light dance across the soap bubbles in the sink. “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Hansen…”

“Martha.”

“…I don’t know Claire and I don’t really understand what’s going on, but if you say she’s after needing me, well, I’ve never turned away from someone who’s needed me before and I’m not after starting now.”

Long years of practice kept her from smiling at the confidence of the young. At twenty-five that speech would’ve sounded pompous. At twenty, it sounded sincere. “She won’t make it easy for you.”

“You ever gone through a winter in Portuguese Cove, Mrs. Hansen?”

“Martha. And no, I haven’t.”

“Once you can do that you can do anything. Don’t worry, I’ll help her run things and I’ll try not to let her push me around because of what she is.”

“Thank you.”

“Everyone likes to be needed.”

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “You’re taking this whole thing remarkably well, you know. Most people wouldn’t be able to cope with having their entire worldview flipped on its side.”

“But it wasn’t my entire worldview, now was it?” He plunged his hands back into the soapy water. “The sun still comes up in the east sets in the west, rain falls down, grass grows up, and American beer still tastes like the water they washed the kegs out with. Nothing’s changed, there’s just more around than I knew about two days ago.” With a worried lift of his brows, he nodded toward the rest of the silverware on the tray. “If you could, please finish that cutlery before the water dries and makes spots…”

They worked in silence for a while, the only sound the wire brush against the bottom of the roasting pan.

“Mrs. Hansen?”

“Martha.”

“What is it you do?”

“Claire’s father and I watch over the people who live in an area where the barrier between this world and evil is somewhat porous.”

“But I thought Cousins couldn’t use the caulking gun.”

Martha stopped drying one of the pots and stared at him. “The what?”

“The magical equivalent of the caulking gun that seals the holes in the fabric of the universe.” Dean repeated everything he could remember of Claire’s explanation.

When he finished, Claire’s mother shook her head. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid.” Then she frowned as she thought it over. “All right, perhaps it isn’t—but it’s certainly less rational. We’re not dealing with a passive enemy but a malevolent intelligence.”

“Does Claire know this?”

“Of course she does, she’s a Keeper. But she’s young enough to believe—in spite of what you might think of her advanced age,” she interjected at his startled expression, “that it’s not the energy that’s the problem, it’s what people do with it. While that may be true in a great many cases, there’s also energy that you simply can’t do good with, no matter what your intentions are.”

“Evil done in God’s name is not God’s work. Good done in the Devil’s name is not the Devil’s work.” He set the last pan in the rack to drain. “It’s what my granddad used to say before he clipped me on the ear.”

“Your granddad was very wise.”

“Sometimes,” Dean allowed, grinning.

Without really knowing how it happened, Martha found herself grinning back. “To finish answering your actual question, the site we monitor is too porous to be sealed—think T-shirt fabric where it should be rubberized canvas—so there’s constant mopping up to do. I do the fieldwork, and my husband teaches high school English.”

“Teaching high school doesn’t seem very…” He paused, searching for a suitable word.

“Metaphysical?” Martha snorted, sounding like both her daughter and the cat. “Is it possible you’ve already forgotten what it’s like to be a teenager?”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine, Mom.” Claire reached out and fixed the collar on her mother’s windbreaker as the early morning sun fought a losing battle with a chill wind blowing in off Lake Ontario. “And don’t worry. I’ll monitor the situation while I gather the information I need to shut it down.”

“I would never worry about you not fulfilling your responsibilities, Claire, but it took two Keepers to create the loop. What if it needs two Keepers to close it?”

“Then I’ll monitor the situation until the other Keeper shows up. This is not going to be my final resting place.”

Because even Keepers needed the comfort of hope, Martha changed the subject. “Be nice to Dean. He’s exactly what he seems to be, and that’s rare in this world.”

“Don’t worry about Dean. Austin’s on his side.”

“Austin’s on the side of enlightened self-interest.” A pair of vertical lines appeared above the bridge of Martha’s nose. “I think you’ll manage best with Dean if you treat him like a Cousin.”

“A Cousin?” She stared at her mother in astonishment. “He’s a nice kid, Mom, but…”

“He’s not a kid.”

“Well, not technically and certainly not physically, but you’ve got to admit he’s awfully young.”

“And how old were you when you sealed your first site?”

“That’s beside the point. He’s not of the lineage.”

“No, he’s not, but he is remarkably grounded in the here and now, and he’s going to be your main support. The less you hide from him, the more he’ll be able to help.”

“Mother, I’m a Keeper. I don’t need help from a bystander. All right,” she went on before her mother could speak, “I need his help running the guest house but not for the rest.”

“Just try to be nice to him, that’s all I ask.” She gripped Claire’s hands in both of hers. “If you must check the contact points of the loop, be very, very careful. You don’t want to wake her up, and you don’t want to believe anything they tell you. Don’t lose track of time when you’re searching for the Historian; you know what’ll happen if you come back before you’ve left. Try and make Austin stick to his diet, and you should eat more, you’re too thin.”

Claire opened her mouth to argue but said instead, “Here’s your ride,” as a battered cab pulled up in front of the guest house and honked.

“If you need me, call.” She frowned as the cabbie continued to hit his horn, the irregular rhythm echoing around the neighborhood. “Would you do something about that, Claire?”

The echo gave one last, feeble honk, then fell silent.

“Thank you. Come to think of it, even if you don’t need me, call. Your father’s likely to be worried about you being in such proximity to the hole in the furnace room.”

“There’s really no need to tell him about Hell, Mom.”

“He’s teaching in the public school system, Claire. He knows about Hell.”

Standing in the open doorway, Claire released her hold on the horn as the cab pulled away. Through the broad back window of the vehicle, she could see her mother giving emphatic instructions. If the driver thought he knew the best way to the train station, he was about to discover he was wrong.

At the last possible moment, Martha turned and waved.

Claire waved back.

“So. It seems I own a hotel.” A distraction, something to keep her mind off what was in the furnace room. “Who knows,” she said with more resignation than enthusiasm. “It might be fun.”

Raising her body temperature enough to fight the chill, she went down to have a look at the sign. To her surprise, her first impression had been correct. The sign actually said “Elysian Fields ’uest House,” the “g” having disappeared. “Dean’s going to have to repaint this.” She frowned. “I wonder what I’m paying him?”

A low growl drew her attention around to the building on the other side of the driveway. An apple-cheeked, old woman with brilliant orange hair, wearing a pale green polyester pant suit and a string of imitation pearls, stood on the porch, waving at her enthusiastically. Also on the porch was the biggest black-and-tan Doberman Claire had ever seen.

“Hello, dear!” the woman caroled when she saw she had Claire’s attention. “I’m Mrs. Abrams—that’s one b and an ess— who are you?”

“I’m Claire Hansen, the new owner of the guest…”

“New owner? No, dear, you can’t be.” Her smile was the equivalent of a fond pat on the head. “You’re much too young.”

“I beg your pardon?” The tone could stop a political canvasser in full spate. It had no effect on Mrs. Abrams.

“I said you’re too young to be the owner, dear. Where’s Augustus Smythe?” She leaned forward, peering around like she suspected he were hiding just out of sight. The Doberman mirrored her move—twitching as though anxious to get down and check it out personally.

Claire fought an instinctive urge to back up and held her ground. “Mr. Smythe’s whereabouts are none of your con…”

“None of my concern?” A flick of her hand and a broad smile took care of that possibility. “Of course I’m concerned, you silly thing; I live next door. He’s avoiding me, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s gone, but…”

“Gone? Gone where, dear?”

“I don’t know.” When Mrs. Abrams’ expression indicated profound disbelief, Claire found herself adding, “Really, I don’t.”

“Well.” The single word bespoke satisfaction that years of suspicions had finally been justified. “They took him away, did they? Or did he run before they arrived? If truth be told, I can’t say as I’m surprised.” She fondled one of the dog’s ears. The twitching grew more pronounced. “You would never, not ever, hear me say anything against anyone—live and let live is my motto, I’m very active in my church’s Women’s Auxiliary you know, they couldn’t get along without me—but Augustus Smythe was a nasty little man with an unnatural dislike of my poor Baby.”

Showing more teeth than should’ve been possible in such a narrow head, Baby’s growl deepened.

“Would you believe that he actually had the nerve to accuse my Baby of doing his business in your driveway?” Her voice dropped into caressing tones. “As if he didn’t have his own little toilet area in his own little yard. He didn’t repeat those vile and completely unfounded accusations to you, did he, dear?”

It took Claire a moment to straighten out the pronouns. “He did mention…”

“And you didn’t believe him, did you, dear? I’m afraid to say that he told a lot of, well, lies—-there’s no use sugar coating it. I don’t know what else he told you, Caroline…”

Claire opened her mouth to protest that her name was not actually Caroline but couldn’t manage to break into the flow of accusation.

“…but you mustn’t believe any of it.” A plump hand pressed against a polyester-covered, matronly bosom. “Now, me, I’m not like some people in this neighborhood, I mind my own business, but that Augustus Smythe…” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone Claire had to strain to hear. “He not only lied, but he kept secrets. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had unnatural habits.”

Neither would Claire, but she was beginning to feel more sympathetic. No wonder Baby twitched.

“I’d love to stay and chat longer, dear, but it’s time for Baby’s vitamin. He’s not a puppy any more, are you, sweetums? He’s a lot older than he looks, you know.”

“How old is he, Mrs. Abrams?”

“To be perfectly honest, Christina—and I assure you I am always perfectly honest—I don’t actually know. The little sugar cube showed up on my doorstep one day—he knew I’d take him in, you see, dogs always know—and we’ve been together ever since. Mummy couldn’t do without her Baby. Ta, ta for now!” She yanked the dog around and, with a cheery wave and a bark that promised further confrontation, they disappeared inside the house.

Stepping to the edge of the driveway, Claire peered toward the back of the property. Too far away to make a positive identification, a large brown pile had been deposited, nicely centered in the lane.

“Unfounded accusations,” Claire muttered, carefully climbing the stairs and going back inside.

Stretched out in a patch of sunshine on the counter, Austin yawned. “Where have you been?”

“Out meeting the obligatory irritating neighbor. How do you tell if a pile of dog shit came out of a Doberman?”

The cat looked disgusted. “How do I tell? I don’t.”

“All right, how would I tell?”

“Check it for fingers. Why are we talking about this?”

“I’m beginning to think Hell wasn’t the only thing Augustus Smythe wanted to get away from.”

“Are you staying in the official residence, then?” Dean asked as Claire came down the stairs with her belongings. Sliding his hammer into the loop on his carpenter’s apron, he leaped down off the ladder and held out his hands. “Can I help?”

“Yes.” Pride not only went before a fall, it also went before dropping everything she owned. She shoved her suitcase at him, caught her backpack as it slid off her shoulder, and barely managed to hang onto the armload of clothes that she hadn’t bothered to repack. “What were you doing?”

“Attaching that bit of molding over the door. It’d gone some squish. Out of plumb,” he added as her brows dipped down.

“I see.” Glancing at the repair, Claire wondered what, as his employer, she was supposed to say. Her mother wanted her to be nice to him…“Good work. You matched the ends up evenly.”

“Thank you.” He beamed as he held up the folding section of the counter and waited for her to go through.

She didn’t think he was being sarcastic. Stopping by the desk, she lowered her backpack to the center of the ancient blotter. “Since this appears to be the only available desk, I guess I’m leaving my computer out here. I can use it for hotel business.”

“Laptop?” Dean wondered, studying the dimensions of the pack curiously.

“No.” Once everything else had been dumped in the sitting room, she returned to the desk. Opening the backpack, she pulled out a fourteen-inch monitor and stand, a vertically stacked CPU with two disk drives and a CD-Rom, and a pair of speakers.

“You’ve got to love the classics,” Austin snickered, watching Dean’s jaw drop. “Now pull out the hat stand and the rubber plant.”

“Hat stand and rubber plant?” Dean repeated.

“Ignore him,” Claire instructed, untangling the cables. “I’m hardly going to put a rubber plant in here with all these electronics.”

Dean removed his glasses, cleaned them on the hem of his T-shirt, and put them back on just as Claire unpacked a laser printer. “This is incredible. Absolutely incredible.”

She shrugged, rummaging around for the surge suppressor. “Not really, it only prints in black and white.”

“Boss?”

Squinting a little in the glare from the monitor, Claire leaned left and peered out into the lobby. Although all available lights were on, her computer screen was still the brightest source of illumination in the entire entryway. “What is it, Dean?”

“I thought I’d head downstairs and I just wondered if there was anything I could get you before I went.”

“Nothing, thank you. I’m fine.”

“You could get me a rack of lamb, but we all know who’d object to that,” Austin muttered without lifting his head from the countertop.

When Dean showed no sign of actually heading anywhere, Claire sighed and saved her file. “Was there something else?”

Fingers tucked second-knuckle-deep into the front pockets of his jeans, he shrugged, the gesture more hopeful than dismissive. “I was just wondering what you were doing.”

“I’m treating this site like any other I’ve been summoned to seal.” She was not going to surrender her life to a run-down hotel; no way, no how, no vacancy. “I’m writing down everything I know, and I’m prioritizing everything I have to do.”

Head cocked speculatively to one side, Dean grinned. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the ‘lists’ type.”

“Oh?” Both eyebrows rose. “What type did you think I was.”

“Oh, I guess the ‘dive right in and get started’ type.”

Either he hadn’t heard her tone, or he’d ignored it. Claire took another look at his open, candid, square-jawed and bright-eyed expression. Or he hadn’t understood it. “Well, you’re wrong.” His smile dimmed, his shoulders sagged slightly, and his head dipped a fraction—nothing overt, nothing designed to inflict guilt, just an honest disappointment. She felt like such a bitch, her reaction completely out of proportion to his. “But how would you know differently?” Impossible not to try and make amends. “I do have something for you to do tomorrow, though.”

“Sure.” His head lifted, erasing the fractional droop. “What?”

“The G needs replacing on that sign out front.”

“No problem.” Smile reilluminated, he glanced down at his watch. “I’d better get going, then; it’s almost time for the game on TSN.”

“If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it,” Austin observed dryly as Dean’s work boots could be heard descending the basement stairs. “I think he likes you.”

Claire found herself typing to the rhythm of heels on wood and forced herself to stop. “I’m his new boss. He just wants to make a good impression.”

“And has he?”

“How can you make such an innocent question into innuendo?”

The cat looked interested. “I don’t know. How?”

The room was completely dark. The air smelled faintly of stale cigar smoke. The silence was so complete, the noises her body made were too loud to let her sleep. The cat was taking up most of the room on the bed.

That, at least, she was used to. The rest, she decided to do something about. Slipping out from under the covers, she felt her way over to the window in the outside wall.

There’s nothing out there but the driveway. No harm in opening the curtain a bit and letting in some air.

It wasn’t that easy. After forcing her will on a heavy brocade curtain that didn’t want to open and struggling with the paint that sealed the sash, Claire managed to shove the window up about half an inch. Breathing heavily, she knelt on the floor and sucked an appreciative lungful of fresh air through the crack. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she made out a window across the drive, the silhouette of pointed ears and, beside them, a pair of binoculars resting on their wider end.

No wonder Augustus Smythe had kept the curtains so emphatically drawn.

A thump behind her warned her to brace herself for the furry weight that leaped onto her lap and then onto the windowsill.

“Could I have a little light here?” Austin murmured.

“What for?” Claire asked as she cast a glow behind him. “You can see perfectly well without it.”

“I can,” the cat agreed placidly. “But he can’t.”

Across the drive, the pointed ears flicked up and Baby threw himself at the window.

Claire doused the light, but the damage had already been done. Baby continued to bark hysterically. She grabbed the cat and let the curtains fall closed as a lamp came on and a terrifying vision in pink plastic curlers snatched up the binoculars.

Austin squirmed out of her arms and jumped back onto the bed. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

CAN WE USE THE CAT?

DON’T BE RIDICULOUS.