Summon The Keeper

ELEVEN

CLAIRE WOKE FROM UNEASY DREAMS where images of Hell unfolded like overdone special effects, realized the date, and gave serious consideration to remaining in bed. Although the origins of Halloween were far older than the beliefs that had defined the pit in the furnace room, greeting card companies had seen to it that pointy-hatted hags and men in red long Johns with pitchforks had risen to dominance over history.

If Hell intended to try anything big, it would make the attempt on October 31.

WELL?

NO. TOO OBVIOUS. SHE’LL BE EXPECTING SOMETHING TO HAPPEN TONIGHT.

BUT IF NOTHING HAPPENS, WON’T THAT MAKE HER SUSPICIOUS?

Hell considered it a moment. YOU’RE RIGHT. It sounded surprised. I WILL BIDE MY TIME. YOU MAY DO AS YOU PLEASE.

BUT WITHOUT YOU…

TRY HARDER.

“Diana’s more likely to be a catalyst than a help, Mom.”

“I don’t like the thought of you there alone, tonight of all nights.”

Which was the truth as far as it went. On the other hand, Claire couldn’t really blame her mother for trying to get Diana out of the house on Halloween, not after the incident with the gob stoppers. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Thanks to the seepage, the shield’s never been as strong.”

Claire felt as much as heard her mother’s sigh. “Just be careful.”

“I will.”

“Doublecheck her shielding.”

“I will.”

“Your father says that you should try to convince Jacques to pass over. He says it isn’t healthy for a spirit to be hanging about on the physical plane and that the links between worlds are weak over the next twenty-four hours. He says…” She paused and turned her mouth from the receiver. “Do you want to talk to her, Norman?” This second sigh held a different timbre. “Your father, who seems to think I have nothing better to do than pass on his commentary, says Jacques’ presence could call other spirits and that you’d best ward against it unless you want to house a whole company of ghosts.”

“Tell Dad that Jacques has been haunting this place for over seventy years and that hasn’t happened yet. Tell him it’s probably because of the nature of the site—ghosts don’t want to be near it.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“No, you can tell him. I’d better go now, Mom.” Leaning out over the counter, she peered down the hall toward the dining room but couldn’t see anything. “Dean and Austin are alone together in the kitchen.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It could be. The geriatric kibble has been disappearing, but I don’t think Austin’s been eating it. I want to catch them in the act.”

“Do you think they’re destroying it?”

“No. Dean would never waste food.”

“Surely you don’t think he’s eating it.”

“No, but he does do all the cooking…” After final good-byes, Claire ducked under the counter and headed for the back of the building. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, she stopped short. “What are you doing?”

Dropping a handful of pumpkin innards into a colander, Dean looked up and smiled. “We forgot to get one on Saturday so I went to the market this morning.”

“You’re carving a jack-o’-lantern? Have you forgotten what’s in the basement?”

“No, but…”

“Do you really think that, under the circumstances, it’s a good idea to attract children to the door?”

His face fell. His shoulders slumped. “I guess not. But what’ll we do with all the candy?”

“What candy?”

“All those bags of little chocolate bars and stuff we bought on Saturday.”

“There’s two bags less than there were,” Austin pointed out from his sunny spot on the dining room table.

“Two bags?” Dean stared aghast at Claire who glared at the cat.

“Tattletale.” Assuming there’d be no little visitors to the door, she’d also assumed the candy was for home consumption and acted accordingly. All right; perhaps a bit more than accordingly.

Sighing deeply, Dean stroked his hands down the sides of the pumpkin, fingers lingering over the dark orange curves. “I suppose I could do some baking. If I want to see the kids’ costumes, I guess I can go to Karen’s place tonight.”

It was honest disappointment in his voice. He wasn’t trying to manipulate her—regardless of how she might be responding. Claire couldn’t decide if that was part of his charm or really, really irritating. “All right I guess one jack-o’-lantern and a few candies can’t hurt.”

“Depends on how they’re inserted,” Austin observed.

“So you’re what they call a Keeper these days.” Her mother’s image in the mirror folded her arms over her chest. “Put the boy in danger just because you can’t bear to say no to him.” Red eyes narrowed. “I certainly hope you’re not feeling guilty for continually saying no to him on other fronts.”

Claire finished brushing her teeth and spit “What other fronts?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed his raging desires? His burning passion that only you can quench.”

“Did you just acquire another romance writer?”

“Go ahead, scoff. It’s no skin off my nose…” Skin disappeared off the entire face. “…if you break his heart.”

“Oh, give it up, I am not breaking his heart.” Dropping her toothbrush on the counter, Claire stomped from the bathroom.

The image lingered. “A mother knows,” it said with a lipless smile.

“Is it that you want me to be gone?” Jacques demanded, his edges flickering in and out of focus. “I thought you were happy to have me here, with you.”

Claire hadn’t intended to hurt the ghost’s feelings, but since feelings were pretty much all he was, she supposed it was inevitable. “All I said was that if you want to cross over, tonight would be a good night to go. The barriers between the physical world and the spiritual will be thin and…Austin!”

He looked up and drew his front leg back out of the rubber plant’s green plastic pot. “What?”

“You know what.”

“You’d think,” he muttered, stalking from the sitting room, his tail a defiant flag flicking back and forth, “that after seventeen years she’d trust me. Use a flowerpot just once and you’re branded for all nine lives.”

When the cat’s monologue of ill-usage faded, Claire turned her attention back to Jacques. “You’re stalled here,” she reminded him, “halfway between two worlds and, someday, you’ll have to move on.”

“Someday,” he repeated, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek. “If I, as you say, move on, will you miss me, cherie?”

“You know I will.”

“Pour quoi?”

“Because I enjoy your company.”

“Not as you could.”

“What you seem to need is Jacques possessing Dean’s body.”

She shook the memory out of her head before Hell could comment but Jacques seemed to see something in her face that made him smile.

“Perhaps you desire me to leave because you are afraid of the feeling I make in you. Of the feeling I have for you.”

“Jacques, you’re dead. Only a Keeper can give you flesh, and I’m the only Keeper in your…” About to say, life, she paused and reconsidered. “…in your existence.”

“Then it is fate.”

“What is?”

“You and I.”

“Look, I just wanted to ask you if you wanted to move on; since you don’t I have things to do.” Pulling enough power to brush him out of the way if he didn’t move, she headed for the door.

He drifted aside to let her pass.

Fingers wrapped around the doorknob, she paused, expecting Jacques to put in one final plea for flesh. When he didn’t, she left the room feeling vaguely cheated.

“What’re you doing. Boss?”

Claire set the silver marking pen on the desk and worked the cramp out of her right hand. “I’m justifying tonight’s potential danger. Trying to be a Keeper in spite of the situation.” She nodded toward the huge wooden salad bowl half full of miniature chocolate bars, eyeball gum, and spider suckers. “Every piece of that candy has a rune written on the wrapper that’ll nullify anything bad the kids might pick up.”

“Like fruit and nuts instead of candy? Kidding,” he added hastily as Claire’s brows drew in. “I mean, I know there’s sickos out there and I think it’s great you’re doing something about it.”

“Thank you. Every time one of those sickos slips a doctored treat past street-proofing and parents, there’s another hole ripped in the fabric of the universe and, given the metaphysical baggage carried by this time of the year, anything could slip through. Early November is a busy season for the lineage.”

The chocolate bar he picked up looked ludicrously tiny as he tossed it from hand to hand. “Can I ask you something? Why don’t you stop them before the kids get hurt?”

“You mean why don’t we make everybody behave themselves instead of just cleaning up the mess once it’s over? My sister used to ask that all the time.” She’d stopped, but Claire suspected Diana still believed the world would be a better place if she were in charge. So did most teenagers; trouble was, Diana had power enough to take a shot at it “It’s that whole free-will thing; we’re no more allowed to make choices for people than you are. We’re just here to deal with the metaphysical consequences.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You can stand in the doorway and hand this stuff out.”

“I meant…”

“I know.” There were times, Claire reflected, when a facetious comment just wasn’t enough. “You’re good people, Dean. That helps strengthen the universe all by itself.”

“Kind of like moral Scotchgarding,” Austin told him, unfolding on one of the upper bookshelves. “Now could one of you, preferably the taller one, help me down.”

After the cat had settled on the monitor and Dean had returned to the kitchen to fetch the pumpkin, Claire tossed another chocolate bar into the bowl and said, “Thanks.”

“No problem. You were having an honest in-depth conversation, so I figured you’d soon run out of things to say.”

“You know…” She poked him with a sucker stick. “…you can be really irritating.”

“Only because I’m right.”

The candy hit the bowl with more force than necessary.

“I’m right again, aren’t I?”

“Shut up.”

Dusk settled over the city, the streetlights came on, and clumps of children, many with bored adults in tow, began moving from door to door.

In the furnace room, the bits of Hell left off the newly formed personality, sent out invitations.

As the first group of kids climbed the stairs, the wards incised into the threshold with a salad fork…

“Why a salad fork?”

Claire shrugged. “It was the first thing I grabbed.”

…remained dark.

Only two of the four wore anything recognizable as a costume. One of the others had rubbed a bit of dirt on his face although it might not have been intentional. They stood silently holding out pillowcases as Dean offered the bowl.

“Do you want to take a handful or should I do it?” he asked enthusiastically.

After a silent consultation, the largest of the four jerked her head toward the bowl. “You do it. You got bigger hands.”

“Aren’t you guys supposed to say ‘trick or treat’?” Claire wondered as Dean dropped the runed candy into the bags.

A little boy, dressed vaguely like Luke Skywalker, giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

Their spokesman rolled her eyes. “Trick or treat is way uncool.” Clutching their pillowcases, they turned as one, pounded back to the sidewalk, and raced away.

“When I was a kid, I’m sure we worked harder at this,” Claire muttered as she closed the door.

Cross-legged on the countertop, Jacques rematerialized. “When me, I was a kid, we knock over Monsieur Bouchard’s…How do you say, outside house?”

“Outhouse. Privy.”

“Oui. We knock it over, but we do not know Monsieur Bouchard is inside.”

They turned to look at Dean.

He shrugged. “I don’t really notice any difference.”

One princess, one pirate, and four sets of street clothes later, the wards on the threshold blazed red.

Claire opened the door.

The Bogart grinned, showing broken stubs of yellow teeth. “Trick or treat.”

She dropped a handful of unruned candy on its outstretched hand. “Treat.”

“You sure?” It looked disappointed at her choice. “I gots some good tricks me.”

“I’m sure.”

Without bothering to rip off the wrappers, it popped a pair of chocolate bars into its mouth. “Good treat,” it announced after a moment of vigorous masticating and an audible swallow. “Same times next year?”

“No promises.”

The Bogart nodded. “Smart Keeper.” A backward leap took it to the sidewalk where it paused, almost invisible in the increasing dark. “Biggers coming,” it called and vanished.

“That wasn’t a kid in a really good costume, was it?” Dean asked as Claire stepped back and closed the door.

She checked the wards. “No. And on any other night you probably wouldn’t have seen it.”

“What was it, then?”

“Do you remember those sparks off the energy that I told you about the first day I was here?”

He frowned thoughtfully and scratched at the back of his neck. “The ones you see that keep you from driving?”

“Essentially. There are places where the fabric of the universe is practically cheesecloth tonight so a lot of sparks are going to get through. Once through, it seems some of them are being called here. That was a Bogart.”

“Humphrey?”

“I doubt it.”

“Was it dangerous?”

“No.” Dropping down onto the stairs, she stretched her legs out into the lobby. “But it could’ve gotten destructive if I hadn’t bought it off.”

He glanced down at the salad bowl. “With chocolate bars?”

“Why not?”

“Okay. What did it mean by biggers?”

“Bigger than it. More powerful, more dangerous.”

“Will they be coming all night?”

“I don’t know. They might stop coming if we blow out the jack-o’-lantern and turn off the front lights, but they might not.”

“So we should blow out the candle and turn off the lights and see what happens.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m not cowering in the dark.”

“But you didn’t even want to do this.” He was wearing what Claire had begun to recognize as his responsible face. “It was my idea and…”

“So?” She cut him off and stood as Austin announced more children approaching. “Since we’ve started it, we’re going to finish it. And you might as well enjoy it.”

The gypsy and the ghostbuster—although they might’ve been a pirate and a sewer worker, Claire wasn’t entirely sure—looked startled when she opened the door before they knocked.

“How did you know we was coming?” the gypsy/pirate demanded.

Claire nodded toward the window where Austin could be seen silhouetted beside the pumpkin. “The cat told me.”

The ghostbuster/sewer worker snorted. “Did not.”

“My dad says this place is haunted,” the gypsy/pirate announced.

“Your dad’s right.”

“Cool. Can we see the ghost?”

“No.”

They accepted her refusal with the resigned grace of children used to being denied access to the adult world.

“The cat told me?” Austin asked as she closed the door.

“Hey, it’s Halloween.”

“Then you should have shown them the ghost,” Jacques pointed out with a toss of his head.

“Jacques!”

Catching it one-handed, he set it back on his shoulders at a rakish angle. “If you give me flesh, I could not do that.”

Suppressing a shudder, Claire glared at him. “If I gave you flesh right now, I’d smack it.”

His grin broadened. “D’accord.”

“No.”

“Tease.”

The wards blazed red.

“Well…” Claire glanced around at the man, the cat, and the ghost as she reached for the door. “…let’s check out the next contestant.”

A young woman stood on the step. She had short brown hair, brown eyes, and matching Satin Claret lipstick and nail polish.

Claire tapped her own Satin Claret nails impatiently against the doorjamb. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The young woman shrugged. “Trick or treat?”

Behind her, Claire heard Dean gasp. “Boss. It’s you.”

“Not quite. It’s a Waff, a kind of Co-walker. Technically, it’s a death token.”

“A what?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Folding her arms, Claire looked the Waff in the eye and said in her best primary schoolteacher voice, “You’ve no business being here. Go on, then. Off with you! Scram!”

Looking embarrassed about the entire incident, the Waff slunk down the steps and out of sight.

“Honestly,” Claire sighed as she closed the door. “They used to get chased off by mortals, you’d think they’d know better than to even try against a Keeper.”

“I doubt it had a choice,” Austin pointed out, scratching vigorously behind one ear. “Once it was called, it had to come. Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.”

“Do you know that, or are you pontificating?”

He licked his nose and refused to answer.

Three sets of street clothes, a couple of Disney characters and a Gwyllion later, Dean headed for the kitchen under the pretext of getting coffee. He was going to get coffee, but that wasn’t his only reason for going to the kitchen.

The Gwyllion had looked rather like one of the city’s more colorful bag ladies and had been mumbling what sounded like directions to the bus station when Claire’d banished it with an iron cross she’d pulled out of her backpack. Without a backpack of his own, Dean opened the bread box for the next best thing.

A fairy bun.

Technically, it was a leftover brown’n’serve from supper, but in a pinch it’d have to do. As an Anglican minister, his granddad had fought a continual battle against the superstitions that rose up in isolated communities and had told him how even in the sixties many of the more traditional men would carry fairy buns into the woods to protect them from being led astray by the small spirits. Dean had never thought to ask what exactly his granddad had meant by small spirits but reasoned that anything that could make it up the steps to the door had to count.

He wrapped the bun in a paper towel and carefully squashed it down into the front right-hand pocket of his jeans. Turning to go, a movement in the parking lot caught his eye.

His truck was the only vehicle out there. If some of the older kids were about to do any damage, it would have to be to his truck.

Over his dead body. That truck had brought him from Newfoundland to Kingston in February and, in one of the worst winters on record, had gone through everything he’d asked it to. And one thing he hadn’t asked it to, but the gas pumps hadn’t actually exploded and the police had determined that the large patch of black ice had been at fault rather than his driving, so technically it had been an uneventful trip. Anyway, he loved that truck.

Moving quietly to the window, he pushed aside enough of the vertical blinds to allow him to scout the enemy; no point in rushing out like an idiot if his truck was safe.

The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen looked in at him, smiled, and gracefully beckoned him closer.

Dean swallowed, hard. He could feel his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a buoy on high seas.

Her smile sharpened.

Moving from space to space between the vertical slats so that he wouldn’t have to take his eyes off her, Dean shuffled toward the door.

“Dean?” Austin brushed up against his shins. “What are you looking at?”

His tongue felt thick. He had to force it to make words. “Irresistibly beautiful woman.”

“Out there? In the parking lot?”

“Needs me. Needs me to go to her.”

“Uh-huh. Look again.”

A sudden sharp pain in Dean’s calf jerked the world back into focus. Out in the parking lot, the beauty was no longer quite so irresistible. Her eyes held dark shadows, her teeth were far too white and there didn’t seem to be much in the way of boundary between where she ended and the night began. Feeling as though he were standing on the edge of a fog-shrouded cliff, Dean stuffed trembling fingers into his pocket and grabbed one end of the fairy bun.

Belief is everything when dealing with baked goods.

A misty figure, vaguely woman-shaped directed her burning gaze down toward the cat and hissed angrily.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Nice try, now get lost Come on,” he added as the spirit disappeared, “let’s get me a piece of that pork left from dinner, then get you back to the lobby before something else shows up.”

Conscious of the blood slowly soaking into his jeans, Dean fed and followed without an argument.

“Well?” Claire asked impatiently as they came out into the light.

“I was right He was in trouble. Judging from his reaction and the noise it made before it disappeared, I’m guessing it was a Lhiannan-Shee.”

“A fairy sweetheart?”

“Not a sweetheart,” Dean protested remembering its final appearance.

“We all have our bad days.” Claire grabbed him by the elbow and spun him around. “Are you all right?”

“Sure.” He felt a little light-headed and his skin prickled where the hair had risen all over his body, but he still had his soul, so the rest seemed too minor to mention.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Austin.”

“Hey, I had to get his attention, didn’t I?” Austin demanded as Claire turned a raised eyebrow in his direction.

“By attempting an amputation?”

Industriously washing a front paw, he ignored her.

“I know a man who die from a cat scratch,” Jacques announced rematerializing halfway up the stairs. “The scratch, it went…How do you say, septique?”

“Septic.”

“Oui. Had to cut it off and he dies.”

“Died.”

“Oui.” He smiled at Dean. “Should we cut off your leg now or later?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m insulted,” Austin snorted. “My claws are clean.”

“Maybe you’d better go wash your leg,” Claire suggested, nodding toward her suite. “Use my bathroom. There’s some antibiotic cream in the medicine chest.”

At the sight of the roughly circular stain, Dean sucked in air through his teeth. About three inches in diameter, it was an ugly red-brown, darker in the center of the top curve. “Oh, man. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To change. I don’t get these jeans into cold water soon, I’ll never get the blood out.”

“Don’t look out any windows!” Claire yelled as he ran for the basement “I don’t believe him,” she muttered over the sound of his work boots clumping down the stairs. “One minute he’s terrified, the next, a laundry problem drives the whole experience from his mind.”

“He is right about the bloodstain and cold water,” Jacques pointed out. “You see these?” He slapped his thighs. “Cover with blood when I fall in the lake and now, for eternity, clean.”

Claire helped herself to a chocolate bar. “Don’t you start.”

A few moments later. Dean reentered the lobby in jeans so clean the creases were a lighter shade of blue.

“Well?”

He smiled. “I’ve been hurt worse while still on the bench.”

“Next time I’ll dig a little deeper,” Austin muttered as another group of kids arrived.

For about half an hour, a steady procession of the neighborhood children climbed up the steps to claim their loot. Claire kept a wary eye on the wards while Dean stood in the open doorway, happily handing out the candy. By the time the crowd thinned and the stairs emptied, it was full dark.

“Uh, Boss? There’s a real evil-looking cow down on the street.”

“A cow?”

“Yeah. It’s got barbed horns and glowing red eyes.”

“Considering how the rest of the stuffs been manifesting, it’s probably a Guytrash.”

“What should I do?”

“Shut the door; it’ll go away.”

Brow creased, he did as he was told. “These things can’t hurt the kids, can they?”

“Have you ever heard of a kid being hurt by a cow on Halloween?”

“Well, no, but…”

“This kind of manifestation can’t hurt you if you don’t believe it can hurt you, and frankly, not many people believe in the traditional ghoulies anymore.” The wards blazed red and Claire reached for the door. “There’s probably enough race memory left to give them a bit of a scare, but isn’t that what tonight’s abo…oh, my.” She stared up at the very large man wearing what looked to be black plastic armor and shivered a little at the menace in the black plastic eyes.

“Truth or dare?” His voice was darker; deeper even, if that was possible.

It was essentially the same question. The trick was, never for an instant to show uncertainty. “Truth.”

“You think you can do it alone, but you can’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve had your truth.” She could hear amusement in the dark tone. “Now, it’s my turn.”

“Hey, Nicho! Look who it is!”

A pair of six- or seven-year-olds charged up the stairs and grabbed onto the trailing black cloak.

“You are so cool, man.”

“You’re our favorite.”

“It’s really you, isn’t it?”

He turned enough to look ominously down at them. “Yes. Really.”

“Cool.”

“Way cool.”

“Can we have your autograph?”

“Will you come home with me and meet our mom?”

“No, no! Better! Come to school with us tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you could slice and dice those guys who won’t let us on the swings.”

“Slice and dice!”

The features of the mask were, of course, immobile, but Claire thought she could detect a faint hint of building panic as the question and comments continued at machine-gun speed.

“You looked a lot taller in the movie.”

“Where’d you get those cool boots?”

“We loved the way you iced that guy without even touching him.”

“You gonna be in the prequel?”

“I got the micro machine play set that looks just like you.”

“I drew a picture of you on the inside cover of my reader. It was pretty good, but I got in trouble.”

“Can I hold your light sa…”

“No.” He yanked his cape from their hands.

“Oh, come on, just once.”

“Me, too.”

“I said, no.”

“We wouldn’t break it”

“Yeah, don’t be such a jerk.”

Breathing labored, he rushed down the steps, strode out onto the sidewalk, and disappeared.

“Cool.”

“Yeah. Way cool.”

The taller of the two looked speculatively up at Claire. “You got any gummy bears?”

“I’m melting, I’m melting…”

Swinging the empty bucket, Claire closed the door on the dissolving manifestation. “At least she stuck to the script.”

“I always thought the CBC was overreacting about the effects of the American media,” Dean said thoughtfully, “but now I’m not so sure.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be out so late.”

The tiny girl watched the candy drop safely into her bag before answering. “My daddy just got home.”

The shadowy figure at the bottom of the stairs raised an arm in a sheepish wave.

“I see. Well, what are you supposed to be?”

She tossed her head, setting a pair of realistic looking paper horse ears waggling, and spun around so Claire could see the tail pinned to the back of her jacket. “I’m a pony.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“You’ve got a cat in the window,” she continued. “I want a cat, but my stepmom’s allergic. Can I come in and pet your cat? Just for a minute.” Head to one side, she smiled engagingly. “Please.”

“What about your father?”

She spun around again. “Daddy! Can I go pet the cat?”

The arm lifted in what could have been a wave of assent.

Like most cats, Austin was not fond of small children. Claire grinned and was about to step out of the way when she noticed the threshold seemed to be a darker color than the surrounding wood. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a paper packet of salt and, as the child’s eyes widened, ripped it in half and threw it in her face.

The glamour faded.

The runes blazed red.

The little girl stretched six, seven feet tall, costume vanishing although the horse ears remained, curved fangs protruding from her lower jaw, oversized hands scraping at the bricks on either side of the door.

Daddy breathed fire.

Claire and Dean together slammed the door.

“That was close,” Claire said with feeling as the latch finally caught.

Shoulders against the wood, Dean let out a breath he couldn’t remember taking. “Do you always keep salt in your pocket?”

“Strange question from a man carrying a brown’n’serve.”

“Aren’t you guys a little old to be out tonight?”

One of the three identical junior skinheads scowled, differentiating himself momentarily from the other two. “Aren’t you a little ugly to be passin’ judgment?”

“Yeah. Just give over the fuckin’ candy.”

The teenager in the middle elbowed them both hard in the ribs. “What we meant to say, ma’am, was trick or treat.”

Claire thought about it a moment as the boys postured. “Trick,” she said at last and closed the door.

The boy with his boot thrust in on the threshold got a nasty surprise. They could hear his shriek even through the heavy wood.

“I think the bitch broke my fuckin’ foot, man.”

“They were going to egg us anyway,” Claire explained. “I figured, why waste the candy.”

“Egg us?” Dean repeated.

She grabbed his arm, stopping his charge. “Don’t worry about it.”

“These guys won’t stop with eggs!”

“I think they will.” A few minutes later, watching out the window as the last of the thrown eggs paused inches from the hotel and swept back, like all the rest to smash on the now dripping and furious thrower, she sighed. “I guess I was wrong.”

The hunk of broken concrete followed the same path as the eggs.

“Tricky downdrafts. That had to hurt.”

Claire put herself bodily between Dean and the door as he tried to follow the will-o’-the-wisp dancing up and down the stairs. She allowed herself one small thought about the firm resilience of his stomach, then dug her shoulder in and shoved him far enough into the lobby to be able to close the door.

“That’s it,” she said when he was safely behind the counter. “It’s ten o’clock. There won’t be any more kids. I think we can blow out the candle and turn off the outside lights, honor intact.”

The pumpkin lid refused to lift and all the air blown in through the carved face wouldn’t put out the candle.

“Oh, nuts.”

Two of the remaining four chocolate bars acquired almonds. Two didn’t.

“Granddad?”

“No tricks, Dean, I promise. Come on out we have a lot to say to each other.”

“But you’re dead.”

“Never said I wasn’t, but this is the night the dead walk.”

“The restless dead.”

“You think I’m not restless after what you did? Think again!”

“But Aunt Carol loves the house.”

“I left it to you, you ungrateful whelp.”

“Granddad, let me explain.” One foot lifted to clear the threshold, Dean felt something crunch in his pocket and shoved a hand in to feel what it was.

The fairy bun.

The steps were empty.

“I thought I told you not to open that while I was gone.” Claire stepped out of her sitting room as he jerked back and closed the door. “What was out there?”

“The ghost of my granddad.”

“He’s dead? Sorry, stupid question.” She went out into the lobby and searched his face. “It wasn’t actually him, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“You don’t look so good. Maybe you should go to bed.”

“Will they keep coming?”

“Yes. Probably until dawn.”

He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “Then I’ll stay.”

“What was that?”

“Fachan. They’ve gone back to the classics.”

“That roast was for tomorrow’s supper.”

“Trust me, he wouldn’t have been happy with candy.”

Dawn seemed a long time coming.

“Any candy left?”

Claire tipped the bowl up on its side and tried to focus on the contents. Half a dozen empty wrappers fell out. “Looks like I’ve finished it.”

“What were those last two things again.”

“An ogre and a Duergar. Why?” She blew a weary bubble.

Dean pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Did you really spin straw into gold?”

“It was going around in a circle, so technically it was spinning.” The Duergar hadn’t been entirely happy, but since it had the treat, it couldn’t trick. The ogre, on the other hand, had ripped the railing out around the area and tossed it and the hotel sign out into the street. Treating an ogre meant feeding it dinner.

Ogres were man-eaters. The trick was knowing that.

Austin lifted his head off his paws and yawned. “Sun’s up. And the candle just went out.” He leaped off the windowsill as the pumpkin collapsed in on itself, smoking slightly.

Shoving his glasses back on approximately where they belonged, Dean stood and headed for the door. “I think I’ll get that stuff off the road before there’s an accident.”

Dragging herself up onto her feet Claire waited a moment until the world stopped spinning. “I think I’ll go throw up.”

THAT’S IT? YOU SCARED THEM A TIME OR TWO AND YOU DID A LITTLE DAMAGE AND YOU TIRED THEM OUT, BIG DEAL. THE KEEPER FIELDED EVERYTHING YOU THREW AT HER AND NEVER ONCE DREW POWER FROM LOWER THAN THE MIDDLE OF THE POSSIBILITIES.

SO LET’S SEE YOU DO BETTER. The rest of Hell sounded miffed.

BETTER?

OKAY. FINE. WORSE.

WAIT FOR IT….

Down on one knee, the police constable poked at the hole torn in the concrete setting and shook his head. “When exactly did this happen?”

“About four A.M.”

“Four-twelve,” Mrs. Abrams corrected. “I know because when I heard the noise, and it was a terrible noise, I looked at my alarm clock and even though I bought it before Mr. Abrams died, God bless the man, it still keeps perfect time.”

“Four-twelve,” the constable repeated. “Did you happen to see who did it?”

“Oh, no! I wasn’t going to expose myself to that kind of destructive hooliganism. That’s what the police are paid for and that’s why I called them.”

“I was actually asking Ms. Hansen.”

Since there’d been a chance of flying glass, Claire had stayed away from the window and so could truthfully answer, “Sorry, I didn’t see anything.”

“It was probably a gang of students from the university. They get a few too many drinks in them and go crazy.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Claire agreed as he stood. It wasn’t what had happened, but it sounded reasonable. Most of the vandalism in Kingston conveniently got blamed on wandering gangs of students from the university who’d had a few too many drinks. Occasionally they were spotted in the distance, but no one ever managed to identify individuals since, like other legendary creatures, they vanished when too closely approached.

“When you arrest them,” Mrs. Abrams said, so determined to do her civic duty that she clutched at the constable’s sleeve, “you let me know. I’m the one who called. Mrs. Abrams. One be and an ess.”

“You’re the lady with the dog, aren’t you?”

“You’ve heard of my Baby?” she beamed up at him.

The constable sighed. “Oh, yeah.”

Another call dragged the grateful police officer back into his car and away. Mrs. Abrams transferred her attention to Claire.

“You haven’t forgotten that Professor Jackson is coming to stay the day after tomorrow, have you, Kimberly, dear?”

“We’re looking forward to it, Mrs. Abrams.”

“I’m sure you’ll take wonderful care of him. I’ll likely be over to visit him while he’s there. Only because Baby dislikes him so, you know. We wouldn’t ever do anything compromising. Although,” she simpered, “I used to be quite progressive in my younger days.”

The worst of it was, she was telling the truth. Shuddering slightly, Claire went inside and spent the rest of the day trying to catch up on her sleep without dreaming of Mrs. Abrams and the professor in progressive positions. Had she not checked to insure all shields were holding, she’d have assumed the dreams, in graphic detail with full sound and color, had risen up out of the pit.

“You Claire Hansen?”

Claire checked, but the courier had not been called by Hell. Which made sense after she thought about it a moment; if something absolutely had to be delivered the next business day, Hell’d prefer it to be late. “Yes, I’m Claire Hansen.”

“Sign here.”

“Why?”

Although the young woman’s expression made a rude comment, she kept her tone professional. “I got a package for you.”

“You want me to sign for it, then. Boss?”

“You Claire Hansen?” the courier demanded.

“No, but…”

“Then she’s got to sign it.”

In return for her signature, Claire was handed a large, bulging manila envelope and an illegible receipt.

“Who’s it from?” Dean asked as the courier carried her bike back down the front steps and rode away.

“More important,” Jacques murmured appreciatively, rematerializing by the window, “what does she wear? Her legs, they look like they are painted black.”

“They’re tights.”

“Oui, they are tight. Me, I do not complain, but they are allowed?”

“Sure.”

He heaved a heavy if ethereal sigh. “I died too soon.”

“The package is from Hermes,” Claire interrupted with heavy emphasis.

Austin snickered. “Someone doesn’t like not being the center of attention.”

Ignoring him, she pulled a folded towel from the envelope and frowned. “Why would Hermes send us a towel?”

“It’s one of ours,” Dean declared, fingering the fabric. “It must’ve gotten accidentally mixed in with his stuff.”

“He’s the God of Thieves, Dean. I doubt it was an accident, and since I also doubt his conscience got the better of him, I wonder why he sent it back.” A piece of paper, both sides filled with line after line of script, fell from a fold. “Maybe this explains it. Dear Keeper,” she read. “Three days ago, I left your establishment with one of the items traditionally liberated from hotel rooms. Since that time, two ferries have attempted to sink out from under us and would have sunk had Poseidon not been on board to command the waves to carry us to shore. Our vehicle has broken down seven times—Hephaestus is happy, no one else is. For the first time since we began traveling, the border guards asked to see identification and then, when I informed them we were heading to Rochester, searched the van. The pocket in the space-time continuum didn’t bother them as much as the cameras Zeus bought in Toronto but lost the receipts for. When we were finally allowed into the United States but warned by the most officious person it has ever been my displeasure to meet that we wouldn’t be able to return to Canada—and, I might add, your admirable system of socialized medicine—Aphrodite had a flare up of an old complaint, and the clinic visit maxed out her credit card. While we were waiting for her, someone stole our travelers’ checks. They were not American Express.”

The list continued for the rest of the front and onto the back of the paper and ended with:

“So I return to you the item divination has determined is the cause of our recent difficulties. Please excuse the small scorch mark. Your security system is admirable if excessive.

—Yours in mythology,

Hermes.”

“What security system?” Dean asked.

“I suspect that after all these years with an active accident site, the hotel’s capable of providing its own security.” Claire patted the terry cloth fondly. “Offhand, I’d say it’s a really bad idea to steal our towels.”

STOPPING THE SEEPAGE WON’T WEAKEN THE SHIELD, Hell told itself sulkily.

I’M NOT STOPPING THE SEEPAGE. I’M GATHERING IT.