Summon The Keeper

TEN

BY THE LAST SATURDAY IN OCTOBER, it was obvious that the seepage had been successfully contained. Hell had tried directing it, spreading it, and cutting it off completely; nothing worked. When a sudden cold snap drove Claire into the furnace room to adjust the heat, she found Hell hunkered down and sulking.

It continued to make personal appearances, however. As long as evil existed, Hell explained wearing Dean’s face in Claire’s mirror, personal temptation would be its stock in trade.

Cautious experimentation with the elevator determined that if the door was opened by someone outside in the hall, passengers could actually exit onto the desired floor. Seepage, or lack of it, affected neither the mechanical functioning nor the variety of destinations. As far as Claire could determine, the elevator had no actual connection to Hell and only a tenuous connection to reality.

But there was one unfortunate casualty of the seepage slowdown.

“I guess this’ll be the next thing you’ll get rid of,” Austin sighed, perched on the silent bust of the king of rock and roll.

The sitting room, emptied to essentials, had a lobotomized look, as though all personality had been surgically removed. Stripped of their accessories, Augustus Smythe’s florid, oversized furniture seemed self-consciously large.

Although she’d had every intention of removing the plaster head, Claire surrendered to the pale green stare making unsubtle demands from the top of the high-gloss pompadour. “If it means that much to you, it can stay.”

“Will you start it up again?”

“No.”

“You could adapt it to run off the middle of the possibilities.”

“No.”

“But…”

“I said, no. It’d be easier to go out and buy a complete set of CDs and a stereo.” Either Augustus Smythe had taken his stereo with him when he’d abandoned the site, or, unlike most men, who tended to buy stereo equipment before unimportant things like groceries or clothing, he’d never owned one.

“If you’re afraid of a bit of hard work….”

“Don’t start with me, Austin. Elvis has left the building.” Before the cat could claw his way through her resolve, Claire turned on a heel and headed for the bedroom. The bust hadn’t been the only amusement in Augustus Smythe’s rooms to run on seepage. Grabbing the fringed curtain hanging over the postcard, she flung it open and barely managed to bite back a startled scream.

“What?” Diana twisted far enough to see that nothing particularly startling had slipped into the space behind her. When she saw that nothing had, she shrugged and directed her attention back out of the postcard. “You don’t look so good, Claire. Maybe you ought to sit down.”

Not really hearing her sister’s suggestion, Claire staggered backward until she hit the edge of the bed and sat. “What are you doing in there?”

“Practicing postcards. Mom said you had one running so I thought I’d see if I could tap into it…”

Claire began breathing again. Diana’s room had not been part of Augustus Smythe’s dirty little picture gallery.

“…that way you could see me, too, and I couldn’t be accused of spying on you.”

Theoretically, that wouldn’t be possible; as a Keeper, Claire would know if she were under observation even by another Keeper. However, since Diana had just tapped into a powerless postcard with no apparent difficulty, something that Claire doubted she could have managed even with nearly ten extra years of experience, she wasn’t about to declare it couldn’t be done. So she did the next best thing: “You postcard me, and I’ll rip your liver out and feed it to you.”

Diana grinned. “As if. You think I’m stupid enough to get that close?”

“Speaking of close, when did you get back from the Philippines?”

“Last week. I landed in San Francisco, stuck my two cents into a site Michelle was dealing with by Berkeley, took Amtrak to Chicago, helped One Bruce seal two small sites—both of them in the middle of major intersections, can you believe it—and flew home from there. I can’t wait until I get to do this stuff on my own.”

Claire couldn’t remember hearing about any earthquakes or train derailments, and since Chicago seemed to be functioning at least as well as it ever did, she breathed a sigh of relief. “What about school?”

“I’ll catch up.” Dropping into an ancient beanbag chair that she’d long outgrown but refused to get rid of, Diana leaned left until she had to brace herself against the floor, then repeated the movement to the right.

“What are you doing?”

The younger woman straightened. “I was trying to get a better angle on your room. Mom says Dean’s a major babe, so I was looking for him.”

“Mom said Dean was a major babe?”

“Not exactly; she said he was ‘quite an attractive young man’ and I translated.”

“This is my bedroom.”

Diana snorted. “So that’s why you have a bed in it.”

“I don’t even want to know why you think Dean might be in here.”

“Well, jeez, Claire, I hope I don’t have to explain it to you. At your age.” After a self-appreciative snicker, she crossed her legs and settled back until it looked as though she’d perched on the crushed remains of a red vinyl flower. “Go and get him, please.”

Even through the postcard, Claire felt the pull of power her younger sister laid on the magic word. “No,” she said, folding her arms. “I am not putting Dean on display to fulfill your prurient interests.”

“Ooo, prurient. Big word. So are you guys getting it on?”

“Diana!” Righteous indignation propelled her onto her feet “Dean’s a nice guy who does most…” Diana’s left eyebrow rose. There was as little point in lying to her as there would have been in her lying. “…almost all…okay, all of the work around here. A nice guy. Do you even know what that means?”

“Sure, I know. It means he’s not getting any.”

“Diana!”

“Relax, I’m just yanking your chain.” Lips pursed, she made a disgusted face. “Man I hope I’m not as big a prude when I’m almost thirty. I told One Bruce and Michelle about you getting stuck on an unsealable site and they both said that Keepers are sent where they’re needed. Not very helpful, I thought Anyway, since you’re settled, I gave them both the phone number. They seemed to think that with you in one place and me still in training and us in contact because we’re family, we have a chance to actually lay some lines of communication between Keepers. Which reminds me, the Apothecary is thinking of setting up as an online server so we can start using e-mail to stay in touch. Here we are, joining the twentieth century in time for the twenty-first.”

Carrying on a conversation with Diana was often like shopping in a discount store: piles of topics crowded the aisles, stacked ceiling high in barely discernible order. The trick was pulling one single thing out to respond to. “The Apothecary doesn’t even have electricity.”

“I know. He says he can work around it. So what about you and this Jacques guy Mom mentioned?”

Claire sighed. “Jacques is dead.”

“I know. But if the Apothecary can run e-mail without electricity…” She let her voice trail off but her eyebrows waggled suggestively up and down. “It sounds like what you really need is Jacques possessing Dean’s body.”

HELLO.

“That is never going to happen.” Although Claire directed her response as much at Hell as at her sister, only her sister acknowledged it.

“I know.”

“You know, you know, you know; you’re beginning to sound like Austin.”

Diana fixed Claire with an exasperated stare. “Keeping the peace, fulfilling destiny, that doesn’t mean we can’t be happy.”

“I am as happy as I can be under the circumstances.”

“Now who’s sounding like Austin. What makes you think I’m talking about you?”

Claire winced. That had been incredibly insensitive of her. “I’m sorry, Diana. Did you have a problem you want me to help with?”

She grinned and shook her head. “No. But if you want, I’ll come by and figure out how to deal with Sara, seal the pit, and get your butt on the road again.”

“Diana!”

“Oh, chill, Claire.” Dark brows dipped into a disdainful frown. “I’m five hundred and forty-one kilometers away, she’s not going to hear me.”

“Your butt is in a sling if she has!” Claire could feel nothing through the shield. Unfortunately, that only meant she hadn’t yet gone through the shield. “If you’ll excuse me, and even if you won’t, I’m going to go check and see if you’ve started Armageddon.” Ignoring protests, she closed the curtain with one hand and pulled at the neck of her cotton turtleneck with the other, telling herself that the room hadn’t suddenly gotten warmer. She wasn’t quite running as she crossed the sitting room.

“Can I assume you’re not hurrying out to feed me?” Austin asked. “Who were you talking to?”

“Diana.”

“Subverting a powerless postcard? Typical. What did she have to say for herself?”

“Nothing much. Her name. Out loud. Through a power link. If she’s woken her up…”

Austin caught up to Claire at the door. “What are you going to do.”

“Beats me. You know any good lullabies?”

Out in the lobby, Dean looked up from prying open a new gallon of paint as Keeper and cat raced for the stairs. “Problem, Boss?”

“I don’t know.”

“Need my help?”

Five weeks ago, even three weeks ago, she’d have snapped off an impatient “No.” What good would a bystander be against a Keeper who’d attempted to control Hell? Today she paused and actually considered the possibilities before answering. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Is it her?” Jacques asked, materializing as they started up the second flight of stairs.

“It could be,” Claire panted, silently cursing the circumstances that made the elevator inoperative. It seemed to take forever to open the padlock, and the lack of noise from inside room six was surprisingly uncomforting.

The shield was intact. Aunt Sara lay, as she had, on the bed. The only footprints in the dust were Claire’s, laid over her mother’s, laid over her own and Dean’s. She stepped forward, following the path, and studied the sleeping woman’s face with narrowed eyes.

No change.

Sighing deeply, she took what felt like her first unconstricted breath since Diana had called Aunt Sara’s name.

And sneezed.

Nose running, eyeballs beginning to itch, she backed out of the room and relocked the door.

“We are safe?” Jacques demanded from the top of the stairs. “She sleeps?”

“She sleeps,” Claire reassured him, wiping her nose on a bit of old wadded-up tissue she’d found in the front pocket of her jeans.

“Admit it,” Austin prodded as they started back downstairs, the ghost having gone on ahead to fill Dean in on the details, “you’re a little disappointed.”

Claire stopped dead and stared at the cat After a moment, she closed her mouth and hurried to catch up. “All right, that settles it. We’re taking a break in the renovations. You’ve been sucking up too many paint fumes.”

“You’re not willing to wake her yourself,” Austin continued. “But you’d love to know who’d win if you went head-to-head. Keeper to Keeper.”

“You’re out of your furry little mind.”

“One final battle to settle this whole thing. Winner takes all.”

“Get real.”

“I can’t help but notice that you’re not making an actual statement of denial.”

PRIDE IS ONE OF…

“Yours. So you’ve said.”

HAS ANYONE EVER POINTED OUT THAT IT’S VERY RUDE TO INTERRUPT LIKE THAT?

“Sorry.”

USELESS APOLOGY. SINCERITY COUNTS.

“Get out of my head.”

“Jacques told me what happened; is everything okay?” Dean asked as they descended into the lobby.

“Austin’s senile,” Claire told him tightly. “But other than that things seem to be fine.”

He watched her walk down the hall toward the kitchen and shook his head. “Once again,” he sighed, “I’m left muddled.” Stepping back, he put his right foot squarely down in the paint tray.

Two things occurred to him as he watched the dark green pigment soak into his work boot.

He hadn’t left the paint tray there.

And he couldn’t possibly have seen a five-inch-tall, lavender something diving behind the counter.

For the first Saturday since Claire’d begun handing out the money for groceries, there was considerably more than seventy dollars in the envelope. Dean whistled softly as she pulled out the wad and began counting the bills.

“One hundred and forty, one hundred and sixty, one hundred and eight-five dollars.” Tossed back into the safe, the envelope landed with non-paperlike clunk. “One hundred and eighty-six dollars,” Claire corrected as she pulled a loonie out of the bottom corner.

“Premium cat food all around,” Austin suggested from the top of the computer monitor.

“You’re getting a premium cat food.”

“I’m not, it’s geriatric. I don’t care how much it costs, it’s not the same thing as that individual serving stuff they show on TV.”

“And would you like it served in a crystal parfait dish, too?”

He sat up and looked interested. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

“Dream on.”

“You’re just mean, that’s what you are.” Lying down again, he pillowed his chin on his front paws. “Tempt me, taunt me, then feed me the same old beef byproducts.”

“If it isn’t for Austin, what’s it for?” Dean wondered. “We’ve got lots of food.”

“Frozen and canned,” Claire reminded him, handing over the money. “Maybe you’re supposed to stock upon fresh.”

He fanned the stack with his thumb. “This is gonna buy a lot of lettuce.”

In the end, unable to shake the feeling that she needed to be involved, Claire decided to go with him. It would be strange to leave the hotel so soon after going out to buy the new keyboard—something most site-bound Keepers would not be able to do—but with Hell itself reinforcing the shield, what could go wrong?

Austin, when applied to for his opinion, yawned and said, “The future is unclear to me. I’m probably faint from a lack of decent food.”

“What if I promise to bring you some shrimp snacks?”

He snorted. “Too little, too late.”

“He’d tell me if he saw a problem,” Claire assured Dean a few minutes later as she climbed into the passenger side of the truck. “He’s too fond of being proven right not to.”

Baby heralded their return two-and-a-half hours later with a deafening volley of barks and a potent bit of flatulence.

“Couldn’t have a wind from the north,” Claire muttered, staggering slightly under the weight of the grocery bags she carried. “Oh, no. Has to come up off the lake and right over the canine trumpet section. What has that dog been eating?”

“Well, we haven’t seen Mrs. Abrams for a while,” Dean pointed out, unlocking the back door.

“Yoo hoo! Colleen dear. Have you got a moment?”

Silently accusing Dean of invoking demons, Claire took a step back and smiled over the fence. “Not right now, Mrs. Abrams. I’d like to get all these groceries inside.”

“Oh, my, you have bought out the stores, haven’t you. Are you having a party?”

Since she asked in the tone of someone who expected to be invited should said party materialize, Claire was quite happy to answer in the negative.

One hand clutching closed her heavy sweater—a disturbing shade of orange a tone or two lighter than her hair—Mrs. Abrams eyed the bags with disapproval. “Well you surely can’t be planning on eating all of that yourself. It’s extremely important for a young woman to watch her weight, you know. I don’t like to brag, but when I was young I had a twenty-two inch waist.”

“I’ve really got to go put these things away, Mrs. Abra…”

“I only need a moment, dear. The groceries will keep. After all, this is business. A very close, personal friend of mine, Professor Robert Joseph Jackson—Maybe you’ve heard of him? No? I can’t understand why not, he’s very big in his field. Anyway, Professor Jackson is coming to Kingston on November third. He’s so busy over Halloween, you know. I’d love to have him stay here, of course, but Baby has taken such a strange dislike to him.” She beamed down at the big dog. “I told him that I knew the nicest little hotel and that it was right next door to me, and he said he’d be thrilled to stay with you.”

Claire could feel the bag holding the glass bottle of extra virgin olive oil beginning to slip. “I’ll be expecting him, Mrs. Abrams. Thank you for recommending us.” Rude or not, she began moving toward the door.

“Oh, it was no trouble at all, Colleen dear. I’m just so happy to see that you’ve taken my advice and have begun fixing the old place up. It has such potential you know. I see that young man is still with you. So nice to see a young man willing to work.”

“Isn’t it,” Claire agreed as Dean rescued two of her four bags. “Good day, Mrs. Abrams.”

“Professor Jackson will need a quiet room, remember.” The last word rose to near stratospheric volume as her audience stepped over the threshold and into the hotel. Dogs blocks away began to bark.

“I wonder if we’re asking for trouble, renting a room to a friend of Mrs. Abrams.”

Dean turned from putting the vacuum pack of feta cheese in the fridge as Claire set her bags down on the counter beside the others. “More trouble than a hole to Hell in the basement?”

“You may have a point.”

“He may,” Austin agreed, leaping from chair to countertop. “But fortunately his hair hides it. While you were out, a guy named Hermes Gruidae called. He’s bringing a seniors’ tour group through tonight, retired Olympians, and needs four double rooms and a single. I said there’d be no problem.”

“Retired Olympians?” Dean fished a black olive out of a deli container and popped it in his mouth. “What sports?”

“He didn’t say. He did mention that they’re not very fond of restaurants and wondered if you could provide supper as well as tomorrow’s breakfast. You being Dean in this case since I doubt they’d want beans and wieners on toast. I told him that would be fine. They’ll be here about seven. Dinner at eight.” He blinked. “What?”

Arms folded, Claire stared down at him suspiciously. “You took the message?”

“Please, I’ve been knocking receivers off hooks since I was a kitten.”

“And you took Mr. Gruidae’s reservation?”

“Well, I didn’t write anything down if that’s what you’re asking although I did claw his name into the front counter.”

“You what!”

“I’m kidding.” Whiskers twitching, he climbed into one of the grocery bags. “Hey, where’s my shrimp snacks?”

By six-forty-five the rooms had been prepared, the paint trays and drop cloths had been packed away, and Dean was in the kitchen taking the salmon steaks out of the marinade. Assuming that ex-Olympic athletes would be watching their weight, he’d also made a large Greek salad, and a kiwi flan for desert.

Wondering why she was so nervous, Claire checked the newly hunter green walls above the wainscoting in the stairwell and was relieved to discover that although they still smelled like fresh paint, they were dry. “Lucky for us that when Dean says he’ll get to it first thing in the morning, he means predawn.” Crossing over to the counter, she watched Austin race through a fast circuit of the office. “What’s with you? Storm coming?”

“I don’t know.” He flung himself from the top of the desk to the top of the counter and skidded to a stop in front of Claire. “Something’s coming.” After three vigorous swipes of his tail, he added, “It feels sort of like a storm. Almost.”

At six-fifty-two, a wide-bodied van of the type often used to shuttle travelers from airports to car rental lots parked in front of the hotel.

“Looks like they’re here,” Claire announced, moving toward the door.

Austin bounded to the floor and raced halfway up the first flight of stairs. “So’s the storm.”

“What are you talking about?”

His ears flattened against his skull. “Old…”

“Of course they’re old, it’s a seniors’ tour.” Adjusting her body temperature to counteract the evening chill, Claire went out to meet the driver as he emerged. He was a youngish man, late thirties maybe, wearing a brown corduroy jacket over a pair of khakis, one of those round white canvas hats that were so popular among the sort of people willing to pay forty-five dollars for a canvas hat, and a pair of brown leather loafers. With wings.

“I have them taken off the sandals every fall,” he told her, noticing the direction of her gaze. “I don’t know what I hate more, cold feet or sandals and socks.” He held out a tanned hand. “Hermes Gruidae; the second bit was assumed for the sake of a driver’s license. You must be Claire Hansen. I believe I spoke to your cat about our reservations.”

“He’s not my cat,” was the only thing Claire could manage to say.

“No. Of course not.” Hermes looked appalled. “I wasn’t implying ownership, merely that it was a cat I spoke to.”

“Uh, right I just came out to tell you that there aren’t any stairs around back if you want to let your people off in the parking lot instead of out here.”

“Not a bad idea, but I don’t think you could get them to use a back door.” He winced as an imperious voice demanded to know the reason for the delay. “They’re a rather difficult bunch actually.”

The voice had been speaking flawless Classical Greek—although Claire spoke only English and bad grade school French, Keepers were language receptive, it being more important in their job to understand than to be understood. “Retired Olympians,” she muttered, examining the words from a new angle. “Oh, God.”

“Gods, actually,” Hermes corrected, sounding resigned. He hustled back out of the way as an elderly man in a plaid blazer stomped down onto the sidewalk.

“You listen to me, Hermes, I’m not spending another moment sitting in that…Hel-lo.” Smiling broadly, he stepped toward Claire, arms held out. “And who is this fair maiden?” he asked in equally flawless English, capturing her hand. “Surely not Helen back again to destroy us with her beauty.”

“Not fair and not a maiden!” snapped a woman’s voice from inside the van. “Keep your hands to yourself, you old goat. Get back here and help me out of this thing.”

Belatedly Claire realized that her fingers were being thoroughly kissed and an arm had slipped around her waist, one liver-spotted hand damply clutching her hip.

“Zeus! I’m warning you…!”

Silently mouthing, “Later,” Zeus gave her one final squeeze and returned to the van.

Objectively, the Lord of Olympus was shorter than Claire would have expected him to be, had she actually spent any time thinking about it, and someone should have mentioned that the white belt and shoe ensemble wasn’t worn north of the Carolinas after Labor Day. He’d been handsome once, but over two millennia of rich food and carnal exercise had left the square jaw jowly under the short curly beard, the dark eyes deep-set and rimmed with pink over purple pouches, and his Grecian Formula hair artfully combed to hide as much scalp as possible. An expensive camera bounced just above the broad curve of his belly, the strap hidden in the folds of his neck.

And if that was Zeus…

Hera, clawlike hand clutching her husband’s arm, reminded Claire of an ex-First Lady from the American side of the border. Her skin stretched tight over the bones of her face, her makeup applied with more artifice than art, she looked as though a solid blow would shatter her into a million irritated pieces. “The Elysian Fields Guest House? Honestly, Hermes, is this the best you could do?”

“It’s the best for our needs,” Hermes told her soothingly.

Claire found herself being examined by bright, birdlike eyes behind a raised lorgnette.

“Oh, a Keeper,” Hera sniffed. “I see.”

The second man out of the van paused to stretch, both hands in the small of his back. Incredibly thin and still tall in spite of stooped shoulders, he was dressed all in black—jacket, shirt, pants, shoes—with a crimson ascot at his throat. A hawklike hook of a nose made even more prominent by the cadaverous cheeks completely overwhelmed his face although a neatly trimmed silver goatee and full head of silver hair did what they could to balance things out.

A tiny white-haired woman in a lavender pantsuit draped in a multitude of pastel scarves followed him out “Oh, look. Hades!” Wide-eyed, she pointed gracefully toward the eaves of the hotel. “A white pigeon! It’s an omen.”

Hades obligingly looked.

The pigeon plummeted earthward, hitting the ground with a distinct splat.

“Did I do that?” Hades asked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Senile old fool,” Hera muttered, pushing past him.

“Never mind, dear.” On her toes, Persephone rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “Next time, just don’t look so hard.” Capturing a scarf as it slid out from under a heavy gold brooch, she fluttered ring-covered fingers around her body. “Oh, dear. I’ve forgotten my knitting.”

“Never mind, Sephe. I’ve brought it out for you.”

Claire had no idea who the woman handing Persephone her knitting bag might be. Running over the remaining goddesses in her head offered no clues. Pleasant looking, in the sensible clothes favored by elderly English birdwatchers, she reminded Claire of a retired teacher pulled back into duty and near the end of her rope.

As though aware of Claire’s dilemma, she walked over and held out her hand. “Hello. You must be our host. I’m Amphitrite.”

Her palm was damp and felt slightly scaly. “Pleased to meet you.”

“She’s Poseidon’s wife,” Persephone caroled. “Unless you’re into those boring old classics, you’ve probably never heard of her.”

“Shape-shifter’s daughter,” Hera sniffed in classical Greek.

“Hera.” Persephone danced toward her, diamond earrings catching the light from the street lamp. “The eerperkay nunderstandsay reekgay.”

Hera stared at the Queen of the Dead. “You are pathetic,” she said after a moment.

“Who’s pathetic?” Poseidon’s gray hair and beard flowed in soft ripples over his greenish-gray tweed suit. He blinked owlishly around at the gathered company through green-tinted glasses, waiting for an answer. “Well?” he said after a moment.

Amphitrite took his hand and led him away from the van, murmuring into his ear.

“Well, of course she is,” Poseidon snorted. “Inbreeding, don’t you know.”

“Excuse me?” Knees up around his ears, Hades squatted by the pigeon’s body. “This bird is dead.”

Claire saw acute embarrassment in Hermes’ eyes as he sagged back against the van’s side and she hastily hid a smile, remembering that these relics weren’t only his responsibility—they were also his relatives.

Next in the open door was a man with a short buzz of steel-gray hair over his ears, a broad, tanned face with an old scar puckering one cheek, and the stocky rectangular build of someone who’d spent a lifetime doing hard physical labor. He swung forward on a pair of canes—Claire assumed they were aluminum until she heard the sound they made as they hit the concrete sidewalk. Steel. Uncapped—and swung himself out after them. “Dytie,” he bellowed over a broad shoulder, “are you coming?”

“No darlin’, just breathing hard,” laughed a voice from the dark interior of the van.

The assembled company sighed, unified in resignation.

Aphrodite? Claire mouthed at Hermes. He nodded. Which made the man with the canes Hephaestus.

The goddess of love had filled out a bit since the old days. The hair was still a mass of ebony curls, piled high, and the eyes were still violet under lashes so long they cast shadows on the curve of pale cheeks although the cheeks had more curves than they once did and the tiny point of the goddess’ chin nestled in a soft bed of rounded flesh. Although tightly bound into an approximation of her old shape, it was obvious that within the reinforced Lycra Aphrodite’s body had returned to its fertility goddess roots.

Men could get lost in that cleavage, Claire thought. Come to think of it, men have.

“Hermes, darling, it’s a lovely little hotel I can’t wait to see the inside.”

“You can’t wait to see the inside of a hotel?” Hera rolled her eyes. “What a surprise.”

“Bitch.”

“Slut.”

Sighing deeply, Hermes indicated that Claire should lead the way. Feeling a little like the pied piper, she started up the stairs.

The retired Olympians followed.

“Hades dear, do leave the pigeon where it is.”

Claire had no idea how Hermes did it, but he managed to get them all into their rooms by seven-twenty with the promise that their luggage would follow immediately. Since Dean was still cooking, Claire went back outside to help.

“Small pocket in the space-time continuum,” Hermes explained as her jaw dropped at the growing pile of suitcases, trunks, and garment bags covering the sidewalk. “Aphrodite travels with more clothing than Ginger took on that three-hour cruise, Hera uses her own bed linens, Persephone has more jewelry than the British royal family, and Poseidon always packs a couple dozen extra towels.”

“It’ll take forever to get all this stuff upstairs.”

“Not hardly.” He grinned. “After all, quick delivery is my middle name. If you’d be so kind as to keep an eye open for the neighbors…”

Since the only neighbor likely to be watching seemed to have deserted her post, Claire gave the all clear. Hair lifted off her forearms as Hermes twisted the possibilities and the luggage disappeared.

“Still a few perks left,” he said with quiet satisfaction. “Thanks for your help. I’ll just run the van around to the parking lot.”

Wondering how much help she could’ve been, Claire went back inside.

“So,” Austin asked from the countertop. “What are you going to tell Dean?”

“About what?”

“The ex-athletes he’s expecting.”

“Do you think he can handle the truth?”

The cat paused to wash a back leg. “Better that you tell him than he finds out the hard way. And if that lot’s staying here so they can be themselves, he will find out.” Peering at the floor, one paw braced against the side of the counter, he glanced up at Claire. “You know, a really nice person would lift me off here and keep me from straining old bones.”

Claire scooped him into her arms and headed for the kitchen. “Hades killed a pigeon just by looking at it. I suppose Dean should be warned.”

“You suppose? He should?” Austin snorted. “If you’re tired of having him around, wouldn’t it be easier just to fire him?”

“I am not tired of having him around. I’m just not looking forward to explaining something he has no frame of reference for. You have to admit that not many kids get a classical education these days.”

“You want him to get a classical education? Wait’ll Aphrodite gets a look at him.”

When they got to the dining room, they found Hermes leaning over the counter inhaling appreciatively. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said as they approached, “but I’ve introduced myself to Dean and explained a bit of the situation.”

“Really?” The counter was covered in food, so Claire set the cat down on the floor. He shot her an indignant look and stalked away. “Which bits?”

Recognizing her tone, Dean hurriedly turned from the stove. “Mr. Gruidae…”

“Please; Hermes.”

“…explained that the guests aren’t actually ex-athletes but from a place called Mount Olympus. In Greece.”

“And this means to you?” Claire asked.

Dean sighed, clearly disappointed. “That none of them knew Fred Hayward. He was an old buddy of my granddad’s who was on the Canadian hockey team at the Olympics in 1952. Great guy. He died in 1988 and I just, well, you know, wondered.”

Claire exchanged a speaking glance with the messenger of the gods, picked up a stack of plates and began setting the table. “Dean, do the names Zeus and Hera mean anything to you?”

“Sure. I watch TV. I mean, they’re kids’ shows, but they’re fun.”

Hermes looked so distraught, Claire pushed him into a chair and attempted to convince Dean that there were distinct differences between television gods and real ones—even after retirement—and that if he didn’t keep those differences in mind, it was going to be an interesting meal.

“So retired Olympians meant a bunch of old Greek Gods? The real ones?”

“Some of them, yes.” She grabbed a handful of cutlery.

“Like in myths and stuff?”

“Post-myth but essentially, yes.”

“Forks go on the left.”

“I know that.”

Holding a baking sheet of potato wedges roasted with lemon and dill, Dean turned and looked thoughtfully down at Hermes. “You’re the guy on the flower delivery vans and stuff? The real guy?”

Hermes smiled and spread his hands. “Guilty.”

“How come you’re taking these retired gods on this road trip, then? Aren’t you retired, too?”

“To answer your second question first: not as long as I remain on those flower delivery vans. As for the first bit, they were bored and I’m also responsible for treaties, commerce, and travelers. In the interest of keeping peace in the family, I try to get some of them out every year. This year, we’ve just finished a color tour of Northern Ontario. Zeus took a million pictures, most of them overexposed, and any leaves that weren’t dead when we arrived were as soon as Hades finished admiring them. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He stood and twitched at the creases in the front of his khakis. “…I’d best wash the road dirt off before supper.”

“Hermes.”

One step from the door, his name stopped him cold.

Claire stepped in front of him and held out her hand. “Before you go, maybe you’d like to return the butter knife you slipped up your sleeve.”

“That I slipped up my sleeve?” He drew himself up to his full height, the picture of affronted dignity. “Do you know who you’re talking to, Keeper?”

“Yes.” The missing knife flew out of his cuff and landed on her palm. “The God of Thieves.”

Hades and Persephone were first down for dinner. Trailing half a dozen multicolored gossamer scarves, white hair swept up and held by golden combs, Persephone appeared in the dining room as though she were entering, stage right, and announced, “It feels so nice and homey to have an attendant spirit, doesn’t it, dear?”

Murmuring a vaguely affirmative reply, Hades came in behind her, brushing the ends of scarves out of his way.

Behind the Lord of the Dead, looking perturbed, came Jacques. As god and goddess took their seats, he wafted over to the kitchen. “I am not a servant,” he muttered as Claire folded napkins down over the baskets of fresh garlic buns. “Pick this up, put that there…. Who does she think she is?”

“The Queen of the Dead,” Claire told him. “Not that it matters, you’re noncorporeal, you can’t touch anything.”

“The things they have, I can touch. And also, I cannot leave them. I come when she calls. Like a dog.”

“Jacques, get that scarf for me.”

“What do I say? I am to fetch, like a dog.”

“Jacques, do hurry, it’s on the floor.”

He paused, halfway through the counter and turned a petulant expression on Claire. “For this, I deserve a night of flesh.”

Claire shook her head in sympathy as the goddess called for him a third time. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“I am?”

“Jacques, my scarf!”

“Is he?” Dean asked, glancing up from the salmon steaks and watching Jacques fly across the room with narrowed eyes.

Claire shrugged. “I said perhaps. He’s stuck working for them, I just wanted to make him feel better about it.”

He waved the spatula. “I’m working for them.”

“Yes, but you get paid.”

With his face toward the stove, she almost missed him saying, “I could be made to feel better about it”

All at once she understood. “This is the night you go out drinking with your friends from home, isn’t it? And I never even thought to ask you if you’d mind staying here, I just assumed.” This dinner had nothing to do with lineage business, and she had no right to commandeer a bystander’s support. “I’m sorry. There’ll be a little extra in your pay this week.”

He looked up, turned toward her, flushed slightly, and after a moment said, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Afraid she’d missed something, Claire never got the chance to ask.

“Sexual tensions,” Aphrodite caroled from the doorway. “How I do love sexual tensions.”

“Not at the dinner table,” Hera snarled, pushing past.

“Fish.” Dripping slightly, Poseidon wandered into the kitchen and peered nearsightedly down at the platter of salmon. “Finally, an edible meal.” He straightened and blinked rheumy eyes in Claire’s general direction. Fingers of both hands making pincer movements he moved closer. “Wanna do the lobster dance? Pinchy, pinchy.”

“No. She doesn’t.” Still holding the spatula, Dean moved to intercept. He didn’t care who the old geezer was, a couple of his granddad’s friends had been dirty old men and the only defense was a strong offense. The God of the Oceans bumped up against his chest.

“Ow.”

“Serves you right.” Aphrodite pulled her husband from the kitchen and steered him toward his chair. “You promised you’d behave.”

“My nose hurts.”

“Good.”

When all the gods but Zeus had assembled, Hermes cleared his throat and gestured toward the entry into the dining room, announcing, “The Lord of Olympus!”

“Where’d the trumpet fanfare come from?” Dean murmured into Claire’s ear.

Claire shrugged, an answer to both the question and the gentle lapping of warm breath against her neck.

Striding into the room like a small-town politician, Zeus clapped shoulders and paid effusive compliments as he circled the table. The recipients looked sulky, senile, or indifferent, depending on temperament and number of functioning brain cells. Finally settling into his seat at the head of the table, he lifted his sherry glass of prune nectar and tossed it back.

With the meal officially begun, everyone began buttering buns and helping themselves to salad.

“Stupid, irritating ritual,” Hephaestus muttered as Claire set his plate in front of him.

“If it makes him happy,” Hermes cautioned.

“What’s he going to do to me if he’s unhappy, run over me with that domestic hunk of junk you’re driving?” The God of the Forge smiled tightly and answered himself. “Not unless he wants to trust to secular mechanics the next time it breaks down.”

“It’s so pleasant to be ourselves,” Amphitrite said quickly as Zeus frowned down the table. “But shouldn’t you be eating with us, Keeper?”

Claire had already been over this with Dean. “As guests of the hotel, you’re my responsibility. Besides, Dean did all the cooking.”

“And it looks like a lovely meal. I find men who cook so…” Aphrodite’s pause dripped with innuendo. “…intriguing.”

“You find men who breathe intriguing,” Hera muttered.

“Harpy.”.

“Flotsam.”

“More nectar?” Claire asked.

“I thought dinner went well,” Austin observed, climbing onto Claire’s lap. “Everyone survived.”

“You have salmon on your breath.”

He licked his whiskers. “And your point is?”

“Pick it up. Put it down. She drops a stitch in that infernal knitting and I must pick it up for her. If I were not already dead, that woman would drive me to chop off my own head.” Jacques collapsed weightlessly down on the sofa beside Claire. “I thought that you should know, His Majesty, the Lord of the Dead, is downstairs talking to Hell and Her majesty wants him to come to bed. She is getting—How do you say?—impatient?”

“…them to sit down and they did, but what they didn’t know was that I’d shown them to the Chair of Forgetfulness and they couldn’t get up again because uh, they, uh…Who was I talking about?”

THESEUS AND PIRITHOUS.

“I was?”

YES.

“Oh. They weren’t the ones with the pomegranate seeds?”

NO.

“Are you sure? There was something about pomegranate seeds.”

THE LADY PERSEPHONE ATE SEVEN POMEGRANATE SEEDS AND HAD TO REMAIN WITH YOU IN TARTARUS FOR PART OF THE YEAR.

“No, that wasn’t it.”

YES, IT WAS.

Hades’ voice brightened. “Do you know my wife?”

Listening at the top of the stairs, Claire was tempted to leave Hades right where he was. Another hour or two of conversation and Hell would seal itself. Unfortunately, there was an impatient goddess in room two. Fortunately, it took very little to convince Hades, who’d forgotten where he was, to return to her.

KEEPER?

Almost to the door, herding the Lord of the Dead up the stairs in front of her, Claire paused. “What?”

IF WE WERE CAPABLE OF GRATITUDE…

“I didn’t do it for you.”

NEVERTHELESS.

Backed up against the dishwasher, the goddess of love so close he could see her image in the reflection of his glasses in her eyes, Dean had no easy out. The room started to spin, beads of sweat formed along his spine, and he knew that in a moment he’d do something he’d be embarrassed about for the rest of his life. He wasn’t entirely sure what that was likely to be, but it certainly appeared that Aphrodite had a very good idea. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his shoulder, faked right, and moved left.

Fortunately, Aphrodite’s corseting insured that her reach impeded her grasp.

Distance helped. With the length of the kitchen between them, he began to regain his equilibrium although his jeans were still uncomfortably tight “The decaf’s in the pot on the counter there, ma’am. Help yourself.”

Tipping her cleavage forward, the goddess smiled. “You going to sweeten it for me, sugar?”

He pushed the sugar bowl toward her.

Her fingers lingered on his as she picked it up, and her expression segued from seductive to delighted. “Why, you’re just a big old…”

“Dytie!” Even from the second floor landing, Hephaestus’ voice carried. “Are you bothering that boy?”

“Why, yes, I do believe I am.”

“Well, stop it and come to bed!”

To Dean’s relief, she picked up her cup and turned to go, tossing a provocative, “Pleasant dreams, honeycake,” in his general direction. He had an uncomfortable feeling it wasn’t merely a suggestion.

Coming back downstairs from returning Hades to his wife, Claire stepped aside to let Aphrodite pass.

“You know, Keeper,” the goddess said, leaning close, “that boy of yours is a treasure.”

“Dean’s not mine.”

“Sure he is. Or he could be if you gave him a little bitsy bit of encouragement.”

“Encouragement?”

“You’re right.” She patted Claire on the shoulder with one plump hand. “He won’t understand subtle. Kick his feet out from under him and beat him to the floor.”

“Dytie! You coming?”

“Not yet darlin’, and don’t you start without me.” Adding a quiet “You remember what I said,” she sashayed on past and Claire descended the rest of the way to the lobby.

Hearing noises in the kitchen, she hurried down the hall. It could be a god getting a late night snack, but on the other hand, it could also be a god attempting a senile manifestation of ancient eldritch powers with catastrophic results. The odds were about equal.

“Oh. It’s you.”

Dean closed the dishwasher and straightened. “I couldn’t sleep without putting the dishes away.”

“Kick his feet out from under him and beat him to the floor.”

“Boss? You okay?”

She blinked and started breathing again. “Sorry. Just thinking of something Aphrodite said.”

His ears turned scarlet.

“That boy of yours is a treasure.”

“Are you okay? She didn’t…well, you know.”

To her surprise, his blush faded. “Would you care?” he asked, meeting her gaze.

“Of course I’d care. While you’re under this roof, you’re my responsibility and she’s…well, she’s a little overpowering. You wouldn’t have much choice. Any choice.”

“I’m not a kid,” he said quietly, squaring his shoulders.

“I know that.”

“Okay.” Eyes on his shoes, Dean moved toward the basement stairs. “I’m done here.”

“Lock your door.”

He paused and stared back at her, his expression unreadable. “Sure.”

Confused, Claire went to her own rooms, hoping that Jacques had been released from his attendance on Persephone. The way she was feeling, if he pushed her tonight…

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately since she knew she’d regret it in the morning, Jacques’ nightly petition had been preempted by a goddess.

Dean had a suspicion that a locked door would stop no one in the hotel except him. He locked his anyway.

Right about now, down at the Portsmouth, Bobby would be attempting to wrest control of the jukebox away from the inevitable crowd of country-western types. He’d be unsuccessful, and Karen would have to go over. They’d have finished talking about the news from home and begun making plans to go back. Mike would be suggesting Colin’d had enough to drink and Colin’d be telling Mike to mind his own business.

The same thing happened every Saturday night.

Lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling, Dean realized Claire hadn’t actually asked him to stay and cook dinner. They’d both simply assumed he would because it needed to be done.

That seemed to make him more than a mere employee.

What would Aphrodite have done if he hadn’t moved?

As more than a mere employee, did that give him…

Would she have done it right there in the kitchen?

…a chance to talk with Claire as an equal or would that whole Keeper thing…

So she was a bit older, but she was a goddess. She was probably a lot more flexible than she looked.

Claire was a bit older, too….

“Okay. That’s it.” That was as far as those trains of thought were merging. Closing his eyes, he resolutely counted sheep until sleep claimed him.

Next door, in the furnace room, Hell sighed.

“Claire. Claire, wake up.”

Pushing Austin’s paw away from her face, Claire grunted, “What is it?” without actually opening her eyes.

“I just thought you ought to know there’s a swan in your bathroom.”

“A swan?”

“A really old swan.”

“I am not going to sleep with you for a multitude of reasons, but for now, let’s just deal with the first two.” She flicked a finger into the air. “One, I am not even slightly attracted to poultry.” A second finger rose. “And two, you’re married.”

“Hera’s sound asleep.” Shaking off his feathers, Zeus stepped out of the bathtub; chest out, stomach sucked in over skinny legs. “We’re perfectly safe if no one wakes her up, and no one’s going to wake her up.”

Eyes closed, Claire missed seeing an orange something with yellow highlights speed out from under the sink and disappear through the open bathroom door. She groped for a towel and held a terry cloth bath sheet out in Zeus’ general direction. “Here. Cover up.”

When she felt him take it, she opened her eyes. Wrapped around his waist, the towel was a small improvement.

Leaning toward her, Zeus leered. “Would you prefer a shower of gold?”

“No.”

“An eagle?”

“No.”

“A satyr?”

“No.”

“A white bull?”

“I said no.”

“An ant?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Eurymedusa, daughter of Cleitus, bore me a son named Myrmidon when I seduced her in the form of an ant.”

“Must’ve been some ant.”

“Ant it is, then.” Before Claire could stop him, his features twisted, his eyes briefly faceted, and a hair from each eyebrow grew about three feet. Panting, he collapsed against the vanity. “On second thought…” His right clutching his chest, he flung out his left arm, the flesh between elbow and armpit swaying gently. “…take me as I am.”

Claire sighed. “Out of respect for your age and your mythology, I don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t get out of my bathroom and go back to your own bed, you’re going to be very sorry.”

“I could call down the lightning for you,” Zeus offered, continuing to support his weight on the sink. “And with any luck it’ll strike more than once. Wink, wink, nudge…” The second nudge remained unvoiced as a violent banging on the door to Claire’s suite cut him off.

“Open this door right now, you tramp! I know you’ve got my husband in there!”

Zeus paled. “It’s Hera.”

“What was your first clue?” Claire snapped, furious that the Lord of Olympus had involved her in such a humiliating situation. “I’ll stall her, you get back to your own room.”

“How? She’s right outside the door.”

“How did you get into my tub?”

His face brightened. “The tub. Right.” Staggering back to it, he stepped inside and pulled the shower curtain closed. “I’ll hide in here. You get rid of her.”

Claire yanked the shower curtain open. “I meant that you should disappear the same way you appeared.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I’m old. Do you have any idea how much effort that took?” His lower lip went out in a classic pout. “Not that you appreciated it.”

“Keeper, I’m warning you!” Mere wood and plaster did little to hinder Hera’s volume. “Open this door, or I’ll blow it off its hinges!”

“Can she?” Claire demanded.

Zeus shrugged. “Probably not.”

“All right. I’ve had enough. Get out of there.”

“But…”

“Now.”

Muttering under his breath, the god obeyed.

Once he stood squarely on the bath mat, Claire grabbed his wrist and dragged him, mat and all, toward her sitting room.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to explain this whole mess to your wife.” Working one-handed, she released the wards around the sitting-room door. “This is your problem, not mine.”

Zeus winced. “Actually, Keeper, if you’ve studied the classics, you’ll know that’s not how it usually…”

The door crashed open.

Framed in the doorway, her eyes blazing, Hera shook her hands free of the feathers trimming the sleeves of her peignoir and pointed a trembling finger at Claire. “I knew it, another one who can’t keep her hands off him!”

“That’s not…”

“Well, I know how to deal with you, you hussy, don’t for a moment think that I don’t!”

“Hera, I was asleep. I found him in my bathroom.”

The goddess’ lips thinned to invisibility. “That’s what they all say.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Ha!”

Claire could feel the possibilities expanding in unfamiliar ways. Yanking Zeus another couple of feet forward, she thrust him toward his wife. “Tell her!”

“I’m so sorry, my little myrtle leaf.” Clutching the towel, he scuttled to Hera’s side. “I was lured!”

“Shut up, you old goat I’ll deal with you later. But for now…” The finger still pointing at Claire began to tremble. “…we’ll see how many husbands you seduce as a linden tree!”

The world twisted sideways.

When Claire could see again, everything seemed strangely two-dimensional. And green. By concentrating on where her neck should be, she lowered her head and took a look at her body. She wasn’t a linden tree. She rather thought she was a dieffenbachia. And pot-bound at that.

“Isn’t that a house plant, ray love?”

“Shut up,” Hera snarled. “I know what it is.”

How dare she! Claire thought, leaves rustling. How dare she assume that I would ever have anything to do with that dirty old man!

A number of white flies with glowing red eyes, settled down on her stem. ANGER IS ONE OF OURS.

I know that. Carefully reaching toward the middle of the possibilities, Claire began to pull power. When she regained her own body, she was going to…

REVENGE IS ALSO ONE OF OURS.

Who asked you? Vaguely aware of a vibration in her fake terra-cotta pot, Claire swiveled her stem toward the doorway as Austin and Hermes pounded into the sitting room. Oh, great. An audience. How much more embarrassing can this get?

Hermes took one look at Claire and whirled to face Zeus. “Dad! What have you done?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“It’s always you!”

More vibration. Heavier, mortal footprints. Well, I guess that answers my previous question. She needed watering and that made it difficult to concentrate but she tried to pull power faster before anyone else showed up to see her like this.

“Boss? I heard shouting. Are you all right?” Wearing his jeans, his glasses, and not much else, Dean looked around at the assembled company, eyes widening when he took in Zeus’ equivalent state of undress. “Where’s Claire?”

“Down here.” Austin rubbed against her pot.

“She’s shrunk, then?”

“She’s a plant.”

What are you looking at me for? Claire wondered. When he tried to touch a leaf, she snatched it away from his fingers.

He straightened. “Why?”

“Because my father,” Hermes answered, “can’t keep his withered old pecker in his pants.”

“Here now, a little respect,” Zeus began, but when he saw the expression on Dean’s face, his voice trailed off and he sidled over behind Hera.

Weight forward on the balls of his feet, Dean brought his hands up, fingers not quite fists. “Change her back.”

Hermes sighed. “As attractive as all that flexing is, it’s not going to get you anywhere. At least not right now,” he amended, glancing over at his father and Hera. “Let me deal with this.” Adjusting the belt of his bathrobe, he fixed the Goddess of Marriage with a steely glare. “Try to remember this isn’t some mortal or nymph you’re unjustly accusing here. Even in a vegetative state, this is a Keeper. Eventually, she’ll change herself back.”

Hera sniffed. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then believe the cat. Would he be so calm if Claire’s form were dependent on your whim?”

Austin yawned.

“Dean.” Hermes turned around, came face to muscle with Dean’s chest and took a moment to reengage cognitive faculties. “You know Claire better than I do. How do you think she feels about all this?”

“About being a plant?”

“Yes. Do you think she’ll be angry when she’s herself again.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Hermes shifted his attention to the goddess. “Change her back, Hera. Or you’re going to have to deal with an angry Keeper.”

“What can she do?”

“She can confine everyone to Olympus. For all the years of her life, it’ll be nothing but shuffleboard, listening to Ares screw up the plots of old war movies, and actually looking forward to the night the Valkyrie come by for choral singing.”

The goddess folded her arms. “So what.”

Austin stretched and stood. “She can also cancel your cable.”

Round circles of rouge stood out against suddenly pale skin.

“She didn’t know what she was doing, lambie-kins.” Zeus reached out a tentative hand and patted his wife’s arm. “Change her back. For me.”

“For you?” Penciled brows drew in, wrinkles falling into their accustomed place. “All right. Since you got her into this, I’ll change her back for you.”

He started for the door.

Hera grabbed the two, three-foot eyebrow hairs and yanked him back to her side, her other hand gesturing toward Claire.

The world didn’t so much twist as flicker.

Fortunately, Claire had already pulled nearly enough power to effect the change on her own. Using the path Hera had opened, she stretched, straightened, and felt her lips draw back off her teeth. She couldn’t remember ever being so angry.

Hell’s silence stopped her after a single step. She could feel how much it was enjoying itself at her expense. Breathing heavily, she smoothed her pajamas and forced a smile. “Thank you for your intervention, Hermes. Now go to bed. All of you.”

YOU STILL WANT TO SMASH THEM.

“Extra points for overcoming temptation,” Claire told it. When the ex-Olympians hesitated, she added, “I’m going to try to forget this ever happened.”

“Not very convincing,” Hera muttered.

“Best you’re going to get,” Claire told her through clenched teeth.

The goddess nodded and, still holding Zeus’ eyebrow hairs, headed for the stairs.

“Ow! Honeybunch, that hurts….”

Hermes bowed slightly and followed.

Only Dean remained.

She had her hand raised to remove the humiliating memory from his mind when he asked, “Are you okay, Boss?” and she realized that was all that mattered to him. He didn’t care that she’d been a plant as long as she was all right now.

But there were one or two things they still had to be clear on.

“I didn’t invite Zeus in.”

“Okay.”

“He just appeared in my bathtub. As a swan.”

Dean looked appalled. “I’ll scour the tub tomorrow.”

“I could have gotten rid of him on my own if Hera hadn’t shown up.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

And he didn’t “Good night, Dean.”

“Good night, Boss.”

“You know,” Austin said as the door closed behind him, “that Boss is beginning to sound rather like an endearment.”

This was not the time, nor the mood, to deal with that. “At least the others didn’t show up.”

“I suspect they keep a low profile when Hera’s on the rampage.”

Claire slapped the wards back up and staggered to the bathroom. “I need a drink.”

“May I suggest a little compost tea?”

“No.”

“So you’d as leaf not?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Back in his own apartment Dean pulled Claire’s business card from his pocket expecting that it would give him some indication if she really wasn’t all right.

Aunt Claire, Keeper

your Accident is my Opportunity

(100% organically grown)

Reassured, he went back to bed.

The Olympians left directly after breakfast. Claire watched them climb into the van, fighting over who was sitting by what window, and raised a neutral hand in response to Hermes’ wave. The moment the van pulled away, she raced upstairs.

“Where are you going?” Austin demanded.

“Something woke Hera last night. I’m going to find out what it was.”

“With grape flavor crystals?”

“You’ll see.”

Standing by the bed in room one, she flung the crystals into the air. When they settled, there were tiny purple three-toed footprints on the bedside table.

“Go get Dean and Jacques,” Claire said.

Unusually quiet, Austin left the room.

“When Hermes said Poseidon leaves a room damp, he wasn’t kidding.”

“You think you have problems? I work like a dog for that Persephone and she does not even tip.”

“You’re dead. What would you do with money?”

“So I am dead.” Jacques sniffed disdainfully. “It is, how do you say, the principle of the thing.”

As they rounded the bed and saw Claire’s expression, they fell silent. She pointed toward the bedside table. “I want that imp caught,” she said.

It wasn’t as easy as all that. Both men, the living and dead, were unsuccessful. The traps remained empty. Claire’s mood grew worse.

“If anything’s going to get done,” Austin sighed, leaping down off the bed as the bathroom door slammed the next morning, “I’ve clearly got to do it myself.”

“Uh, Boss? I can finish the wallpapering myself if you’d rather be somewhere else.”

Fighting the urge to photosynthesize, Claire stepped out of the shaft of sunlight. “No. I said I’d help.”

Wondering how much trouble he’d be in if he mentioned she was being more of a hindrance, Dean rolled the next sheet through the tray and laid it against the wall. “Could you please hand me the smoother.”

“The what?”

Hands still holding the paper to the wall, he turned to point and froze.

Claire frowned and followed his line of sight.

Picking his way over the folds in the drop cloth, Austin crossed the dining-room table with something small and squirming in his mouth. Its legs were froglike and ended in three toes. Its arms, nearly as long as its legs, ended in two fingers and a thumb. Its eyes were small and black and it appeared to have no teeth. Covered in something between fur and scale, it changed color constantly.

As Austin drew even with Claire, he spit the imp out. “Yuck, those things taste awful.”

The imp leaped off the table, scrambled up the wall, and dove under the wet wallpaper.

As the bulge headed for the ceiling, Claire snatched up the last full roll and, swinging it like a club bat, smacked it down again and again. And again.

When her arm dropped to her side, Dean pulled the roll from limp fingers.

Breathing heavily, she looked up at the barely noticeable lump. “I’m feeling much better now.”

In the furnace room the silence filled all available space and pushed against the shield. After a moment, it found a voice.

SHE DESTROYED MY IMP!

YOUR IMP?

MY IMP. NOW, IT’S PERSONAL.