Summon The Keeper

TWELVE

PROFESSOR JACKSON WAS A MAN of medium height trying to be tall. Under a hat last fashionable in the forties, he carried his chin high and his weight forward on the balls of his feet. Something about him suggested carpetbags to Claire although a quick glance over the counter showed only a perfectly normal, gray nylon suitcase.

“Am I your only guest?” he asked, signing the register with a precise flourish.

“At the moment.” Claire dropped the key to room one into his outstretched hand. “Next floor up, turn left at the top of the stairs.”

An expectant gaze drifted down to his luggage and then around the lobby, slid over Austin but rested for a moment on Claire. When she made no response, he sighed dramatically, picked up the suitcase, and started up the stairs.

At the sound of the professor’s door closing, Austin opened his eyes. “Why don’t you like him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because Baby’s taken a strange dislike to him.”

“That would only be strange if Baby actually liked anyone.”

“Good point.” Staring down at Professor Jackson’s signature, Claire traced the loop of the “J” with one finger. Unless he was one of those rare nonpoliticians who believed their own lies, it was his real name and occupation. “I can’t help thinking he’s dangerous.”

“How?”

“You’re the cat you tell me.”

Austin thoughtfully washed his shoulder. “He looks like he’s in his late fifties.”

“So?”

“Ten years younger than Mrs. Abrams.”

“Your point?”

“Do I have to spell it out? He’s ten years younger than she is. He’s younger. She’s older. They’re…”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care.”

“Do you want to be a lonely old recluse?” Austin demanded, tail tip flipping back and forth.

“All right. Let’s just get this settled once and for all.” She drummed her fingernails against the counter. “I like Dean. He’s a nice man and he’s very attractive. Under normal circumstances, where I’d be moving in then moving out when the job was done, I might consider, were he willing, a short physical dalliance.”

“Dalliance?”

Ignoring feline amusement, Claire went on. “However, I’m not going anywhere, and he’s barely twenty. He’s not going to be content staying here as chief cook and bottle washer forever.”

“So you’re going to give up now because you can’t have forever?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you’d be willing to sleep with him and then move on, but you’re not willing to extend the same courtesy to him?”

“I really didn’t say that.”

“So the problem is, you really want the one you can’t have.”

Claire stared at the cat for a long moment. Twice, she opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally, she turned and walked away.

As the door to her sitting room closed behind her, Austin stretched out on the counter. “What would she do without me?”

“We lock the front door at ten-thirty.”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

Professor Jackson fixed Claire with an interrogative stare. “Why do you lock the front door at ten-thirty? Why not at ten? Or at eleven? Or at ten-forty-five? You don’t know, do you? You’ve just always done it that way. Most people go through life without noticing what’s going on around them. If I could show you the world beyond your pitiful little daily routines, well, you’d be amazed.”

“Would I?”

“Amazed,” he repeated. “I’ll be back before ten-thirty.”

“I can’t help wondering,” Claire said as the front door closed behind him, “just what exactly he’s a professor of.”

“Some kind of philosophy,” Dean answered, coming into the lobby as she finished speaking. “He holds an appointment from an eminent Swiss university.”

“That explains the accent.”

Dean looked confused. “What accent?”

“Exactly. He’s probably never been closer to Switzerland than a box of instant hot chocolate. I’m curious; how did you find this out?”

No closer to understanding than he had been, Dean shrugged and moved on. “Mrs. Abrams stopped me on my way up the driveway to make sure the professor got in okay.”

“On your way up the driveway?”

He nodded. “She leaned out her window. I had to stop or the cab of the truck would’ve taken her head off. She was, um…” He paused, uncertain of how to describe the bouffant vision, her hair oranger and higher than he’d ever seen it.

“She was what?” Claire demanded. “Irritating?”

“No. Well, yes. But also, dressed up.”

“Is that all.”

Dean nodded. It was a weak description, but it would have to do. If she’d been dressed any more up, she could’ve rested her chin on them. Shuddering slightly, he tried his best to forget.

Conscious of Austin apparently asleep on the other end of the counter and Jacques watching bull riding in her sitting room, she tried not to sound stilted as she asked, “Did you have a good afternoon?”

“Sure.” When she seemed to be waiting for further information, he added. “I went over to my friend Ted’s. We gapped the plugs and points and changed to a winter-grade oil.”

Since she had no idea what that meant it seemed safest to make a noncommittal kind of sound.

“Did you want me for anything, then?”

“No.” When he turned to go, she jumped into the pause. “That is, unless, if you like, we could maybe order a pizza and all three of us could watch a movie together this evening?”

“All three of us?”

“Four if you count Austin, but he’ll lose interest if no one feeds him.”

“Pizza and a movie?”

“Well, Jacques won’t be eating. It’s just I saw this ad, in the paper, and there’s a pizza place on Johnson that rents videos, too, so you can have them both delivered. Together.” She knew she was overexplaining, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “I just thought that instead of cooking you might want to, uh, join us.”

Chaperone us, decoded the little voice in her head. It wasn’t coming from Hell, but then, it didn’t have to.

“Sure.”

Except this time sure meant, if I have to. Claire had begun to learn the dialect. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just, there’s a game on…”

“No problem.” Briefly, she wondered what sport, then dismissed the question as one of little importance. “We can watch the game.”

His smiled blazed. “Great. Double cheese, pepperoni, mushrooms, and tomatoes?”

“That would be fine.”

“I’ll just go hang my jacket up and then I’ll call.”

On the way down the stairs, he checked the business card.

Aunt Claire, Keeper

Your Accident is my Opportunity

(and your guess is as good as mine)

Stretched out on his back, all four paws in the air, Austin opened one eye as Claire drummed her nails against the counter-top. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

“Get stuffed.”

As the first period careened toward the end of its allotted twenty minutes, Claire gnawed on a length of pizza crust and wondered just exactly what she thought she was doing. While Jacques had originally resented Dean’s intrusion into their evening, an involved discussion of how hockey had changed since his death had considerably mollified him. After an unsuccessful attempt to understand the fundamentals of icing, Claire gave up and tuned out.

If she didn’t want to be alone with Jacques, all she had to do was remove his anchor from her sitting room; a simple solution that hadn’t even occurred to her. Why not?

“Why not, what, cherie?”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Oui.”

She glanced over at Dean, who nodded. This was not good. In a working Keeper, the line between the conscious and subconscious had to be kept clearly defined. Fortunately, Montreal chose that moment to score, and by the end of the period the conversation had been forgotten by everyone but Claire. And Austin.

“Looks like things are coming to a head,” he muttered under the cover of yet another beer commercial. “Going to have to be resolved sooner or later.”

“They’ve been resolved. Too young and too nice, and too dead.”

“Dead’s relative.”

“It is not.”

“Then can I have some pizza?”

“No.”

“No, what, Boss?”

Before she could answer, they heard the front door open. Austin reached out and pressed the mute on the TV remote. “What?” he demanded, tucking the paw back under his ruff. “You trying to tell me that you guys don’t want to know if he’s alone?”

He wasn’t.

“Mind the legs now, Professor. They’re good quality, I only have good quality things, but they’re not as young as they once were, you know, and I don’t want to try and use them someday and find them warped.”

At the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Abrams’ voice, Jacques faded slightly, muttering, “Someone for everyone. C’est legitime, it’s true what they say.” He’d been strongly enough affected not to add an entendre.

Austin poked a paw through the ghost. “Get out in the lobby and see what they’re talking about.”

“Claire said I am not to spy on the guests.”

“So spy on the neighbor!”

He started to dematerialize, then thought better of it and glanced at Claire.

“Go ahead.”

“Jacques, don’t.” Dean’s hand went through an ethereal arm. “They have a right to their privacy.”

“Jacques, go. Or they’ll be upstairs and we’ll never know.”

Turning toward Dean, Jacques spread his hands in a gesture that clearly indicated whose side of the argument he came down on and vanished.

“Don’t tell me,” Claire cautioned Dean before he could speak, “that you’re not curious because I won’t believe you. I mean, good quality legs?”

“Well, for a woman her age…” His voice trailed off as Jacques reappeared.

“They carry a small folding table.”

“A card table?”

“I see no cards but she is wood and square, like so.” He held his hands out just beyond shoulder width.

“The table is?”

“Oui.”

“They’re going to play cards.” Claire knew she had no right to feel relieved, but a card game was a lot less disturbing than what she’d been imagining. Get a grip, Claire. Irritating old women have as much right to a sex life as you do….

“I’m glad Mrs. Abrams has a friend to share her interests,” Dean said happily, reaching for the remote as the second period started.

Grinning broadly, Jacques rolled his eyes. One fell off the edge of the coffee table.

…maybe more.

With eight minutes still on the clock until the second intermission, Claire felt the hair lift off the back of her neck. “Something’s happening.”

“It’s a power play for Montreal,” Dean explained. “New Jersey got a penalty for high sticking, so they have one less man on the ice. They’re only one goal ahead so Montreal wants to lengthen their lead.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Claire heaved herself up out of the sofa and onto her feet. “Austin…”

“Yeah. I feel it, too.” Tail twice its normal size, he jumped down onto the floor, breathing through his half-open mouth.

“It’s coming from inside the hotel.”

“The furnace room, then?” Dean asked, eyes locked on the television. Montreal had the puck. Hell could wait another twenty-three seconds.

“No, it’s not the furnace room, and it’s not her either.”

“That’s good.”

“No, that’s bad. An unidentified power surge in this building can’t be good.”

“Claire.” Jacques stared at her through the translucent outline of his hand. “I am fading.”

She was about to tell him to stop fading when the near panic in his declaration broke through. “You’re not doing it on purpose?”

“Non.”

“Medium.”

How Austin had hissed a word containing no sibilants, Claire had no idea and no time to investigate. “Professor Jackson! They’re not playing cards, they’re having a seance and something’s gone wrong; come on!” She ran for the door, the cat close on her heels.

The buzzer sounded the end of the power play, releasing Dean’s attention. “Hey! Where are you going?”

“To save Jacques!”

He caught up in the office. “From what?” he asked as the four of them, Jacques nearly transparent, crossed the lobby.

“Professor Jackson is a medium,” Claire told him starting up the stairs at full speed. “A real medium. Not a fake. They’re rare—thank God. They have power over spirits.”

“Comme moi?” His voice had faded with him.

“Yeah, like you.” She missed a step, would’ve fallen except Dean grabbed her arm. “Thanks.” Charging out into the second floor hall, she banged on the door to room one with her fist “Mrs. Abrams! Professor Jackson! Stop what you’re doing and open the door! Now!”

“Cherie…” One hand stretched toward her, Jacques disappeared.

“No!” Whirling around she reached through the possibilities for power, but before she could blow the door off its hinges, Dean stepped back and slammed the sole of his work boot into the lock. The effect was much the same.

Professor Jackson stood in the midst of a blazing vortex of tiny lights dancing on a manic wind—although stood wasn’t entirely accurate as his feet dangled a good six inches off the floor. Sitting on the corner of the bed, the card table pulled up over her knees, Mrs. Abrams stared wide-eyed, one hand pressed up against her mouth, the other making shooing motions toward the lights.

“What’s happening?” Although the hall had been silent, one step over the threshold, Dean had to shout to make himself heard.

“It looks like Jacques is more than he can handle.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Jacques is attacking him?”

“Jacques is not doing anything. The professor started something he couldn’t control.”

“Then where is he?”

“Who?”

“Jacques!”

Claire waved a hand toward Professor Jackson. “He’s in those lights. Bits of him may even be in the professor!”

“Connie!” Mrs. Abrams’ shriek cut through the ambient noise like a vegetarian through tofu. “You’ve got to do something!”

Which was true.

“Dean! Try and keep Mrs. Abrams calm.”

“While you do what?”

“While I rescue Jacques!”

“Be careful!” Body leaning almost forty-five degrees off vertical, he fought his way through the wind to the bed.

“It’s the residual power from when she made him flesh!” Ears flat against his head, Austin had tucked himself into the angle between floor and wall, claws hooked deeply into the carpet. He stared up at Claire through narrowed eyes. “Can you bring him back?”

“I think so!” Reaching for calm, Claire shuffled quickly forward, never breaking contact with the floor, at about half Dean’s weight, she couldn’t risk being blown away. A little better than an arm’s length from the professor, she marked her spot and started to spin. She moved slowly at first, barely managing to keep her balance; then the power lifted her and she began to pick up speed as she rose into the air. The room whirled by, faster, faster, until the walls began to blur and the tiny points of light were pulled from their orbits around Professor Jackson. Oh, dear; I really wish I hadn’t had that third slice of pizza….

“Catherine! What do you think you’re doing? You’ve got to save the professor!”

“She’s trying to, Mrs. Abrams!” Dean wasn’t entirely certain Mrs. Abrams had heard him. With Claire picking up speed, the winds had doubled in intensity. He ducked as the lamp from the bedside table flew by, cord dangling. The table followed close behind. On one knee beside the bed, he was horrified to feel it begin to shift. Throwing possible consequences, as it were, to the wind, he flung himself down beside the old woman, grabbed her around the waist with one arm, and blocked the professor’s flying suitcase with the other. Under him, the bed bucked and twisted, fighting to throw off the extra weight that kept it on the floor.

The card table never moved. The flame of the single candle never flickered.

Even behind the protection of his glasses, the wind whipped the moisture from his eyes. Lids barely cracked, Dean watched the little lights leave the professor and move to circle Claire. Sometimes singly, sometimes in clumps, they did one figure eight around both spinning figures, then settled down in their new orbit. When all the lights had shifted, including a few pulled painfully from under the professor’s skin, he breathed a sigh of relief and almost got beaned by a worn leather shaving kit sucked out of the bathroom and into the maelstrom.

It wasn’t over yet.

Now the lights began to orbit a new position equally distant from both spinners. The third point on the triangle. Once again they traced a single figure eight and then began to spin in place.

The bed lifted, four inches, five, six, then banged back down onto the floor.

A familiar form began to take shape in the center of the lights. And then the lights began to spiral inward.

Muscles straining, Dean somehow managed to keep a protesting Mrs. Abrams on the bed. At least he thought she was protesting—he couldn’t hear a thing she was shouting over the roaring of the wind, the pounding of his heart, and the cracking of her heels against his shins.

One by one, the drawers were sucked out of the bureau.

With every light that disappeared Jacques grew more defined.

Dean frowned. Too defined, “Claire! His clothes!”

She didn’t seem to hear him but maybe the clothes came last.

More and more lights were absorbed until only a few remained. Jacques seemed more solid than he ever had.

Dean’s gaze dropped. He almost let go of Mrs. Abrams in shock until he remembered the force of Jacques’ spin had to be distorting reality.

The last light slid in under Jacques’ left arm.

Nothing happened. All three bodies continued to spin. The wind continued to howl.

Although it was difficult to tell for certain with her face flicking in and out of sight, Dean thought that Claire frowned. The index finger of her right hand curved up to beckon imperiously.

One final light, almost too small to see, sucked free from the professor, circled Claire and smacked Jacques right between the eyes. Which opened.

The wind quit.

The candle flame went out.

“…member of the Daughters of the Parliamentary Committee and if you don’t stop this, this moment, I’ll be speaking to my MP!” Mrs. Abrams’ ultimatum echoed in the sudden silence. “Well.” She tossed her head, the lacquered surface of her hair crackling against Dean’s chin. “That’s better.”

In the confusion of three bodies and various pieces of furniture hitting the floor, Dean managed to get across the room to Claire’s side before Mrs. Abrams could react to his presence. One of the bureau drawers bounced off his left shoulder, but he considered bruising of minor importance compared to being caught with his arm, uninvited, around her waist She might thank him for keeping her out of the whirlwind, but the odds weren’t good.

“Claire! Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine when the room stops whirling,” she muttered.

“The room isn’t moving.”

“Says you.” But she opened her eyes and lifted an arm. “Help me sit up.”

“Candice! I demand an immediate explanation!”

With his left arm supporting her back, Claire shifted her weight against Dean’s chest. “Mrs. Abrams,” she sighed “Go to sleep.” They winced in unison at the sound of another body hitting the floor. “Put her back on the bed, would you, Dean.”

The warmth of the sigh had spread through fabric to skin.

“Dean?”

He released her reluctantly. “But you…”

“I’m okay. Nothing wrong that a little vomiting couldn’t cure.” Dragging a dented wastebasket out from under the lamp and cradling it in her arms, she smiled wanly up at him. “No problem.”

“If I could help, cherie?”

This was not something Dean could face on his knees. He stood, then turned, to find Jacques shrugging into a red-and-gray-checked flannel bathrobe. Reality, he noticed as the robe closed, appeared to have returned to normal proportions.

“Help Dean,” Claire instructed from the floor. “I’ll crawl over and check the professor.”

“But cherie…”

“I know. But not until we’ve got this mess cleared up.”

About to add his protest to Jacques’, Dean suddenly realized that if the ghost—or whatever he was now—was with him, he wouldn’t be with Claire. “Come on.” He jerked his head toward the bed. “You take her feet.”

“Cherie…”

“Not now.”

As Claire started crawling toward the professor, Jacques shrugged and, stroking both hands down the nap of the robe, followed Dean.

Austin had reached and done a preliminary diagnosis on the sprawled body of Professor Jackson by the time Claire arrived. “He’s having trouble breathing.”

“He’s got a ten-pound cat sitting on his chest.”

“I’m big-boned,” Austin amended, primly stepping off onto the floor. “I think he’s blown a fuse or two.”

“Serves him right.” Setting the wastebasket to one side, Claire bent over the professor and lifted his left eyelid between her thumb and forefinger.

“So giving Jacques flesh was the only solution?”

“If you had a better one…?”

“Me? Oh, no.”

Letting the eye close with an audible snap, Claire glared at the cat. Traces of the matrix Aunt Sara had created to give Jacques flesh had been causing the problem; it made logical sense, therefore, to use those traces to solve the problem. She couldn’t have come up with a faster or more efficient solution. That was her story and even in the relative privacy of her own mind, she was sticking to it. “What are you implying?”

“Me? Nothing.” As the professor’s head gently lolled toward him, Austin reached out a paw and pushed it back. “Hadn’t you better pay attention to what you’re doing?”

Teeth clenched, Claire carefully pulled power. After a moment Professor Jackson moaned and opened his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked breathily.

In ten years as an active Keeper only one person had asked a different question upon regaining consciousness and since, “Do it again,” was actually a statement Claire had always assumed it didn’t count. “Never mind,” she said, brushing his eyes closed. “Go to sleep.”

When he, too, had been laid out on the bed, at a respectable distance from Mrs. Abrams in spite of Dean’s protest and Jacques’ alternative suggestion, Claire told the two men to leave the room.

“Cherie, we have not so much time.”

“I know. But I gave you flesh to save you—and to save him,” she added nodding toward the bed. “Not to…um…” Very conscious of Dean’s presence, she couldn’t finish, but when Jacques took her arm and turned her slowly to face him, she didn’t resist. His fingers, lightly stroking her cheek, were cool. His mouth had twisted up in the smile she found so hard to resist. When his lips parted, she mirrored the motion.

“Ow! Austin!”

“May I remind you,” he said as she stumbled backward and would have fallen had not Jacques and Dean both grabbed an arm, “that the bodies already on the bed need tending; memories need changing.”

“I was going to…”

“Please, no details. Just take care of these two first.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, she jerked free and nodded toward the door. “Fine. Everyone out.”

Not even Jacques argued.

“You take this calmly,” he said thoughtfully to Dean, as the door closed behind them.

Dean shrugged. He didn’t feel calm. He didn’t know how he felt. “You don’t seem very affected either,” he pointed out as they followed Austin down the stairs. “Except that you’re walking kind of carefully…”

“I am not use to feeling the floor.”

“…and you keep touching yourself.”

Jacques drew himself up to his full height, which, with both feet on the ground was considerable shorter than it had been. “Do I make these personal comment about you, Anglais?”

“Sorry.” Ears red, Dean shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “So, uh, what do we do now?”

“I do not know.”

“I do.” Leaping down the last three stairs into the lobby, Austin turned and stared up at them. “Forgetting for the moment that one of you is dead and one isn’t and refusing to borrow trouble since none of us has any idea of how this is going to turn out I think you should feed the cat.”

“Wasn’t there a half a slice of pizza left?” Claire asked, dropping onto the sofa almost two hours later. “I’m starved.”

On the other end of the sofa, Austin opened one eye. “I let the mice take it,” he said. “I didn’t think anyone wanted it.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand, Claire waved away the information with the other. Mice. Fine. Whatever. “Where are the guys?”

“Here I am.” Jacques emerged from the bedroom, fiddling with the belt of the professor’s robe. “I forget how many sensation in the world; old, new…”

Then the bathroom door opened and Dean came out glasses in his hand, the edges of his hair damp. Claire opened and closed her mouth a time or two, but no sound emerged.

Dean’s ears turned scarlet as he hastily shoved his glasses on. “I’m sorry, Claire. I used your towel. It’s just it was getting late and the game just ended and I was after waiting up for you…”

“Game?”

“Oui. Hockey with ducks,” Jacques explained, lip curled.

“Hockey,” Claire repeated.

Austin snickered. “I know what new sensations you were thinking about.”

“Shut up.”

“Someone’s got a dir…”

Dragging him onto her lap, she cupped her hand over his mouth. “Someone also has opposable thumbs,” she reminded him.

The sound of voices in the lobby diverted attention.

“Mrs. Abrams leaving,” Claire explained, covering a yawn. “She remembers a lovely seance where Professor Jackson contacted the ghost of the young man she’d seen standing in the window of room two as a girl and then more recently in the dining room, and the lobby, and the office, and back in the window of room two.”

Jacques winced as her voice picked up an edge toward the end of the list. “I am sorry, cherie. I thought she see me only once.”

“You thought she saw you and you didn’t tell me?”

“I did not think it important.”

“If I’d known, I could’ve prevented this whole incident from happening.”

“Oui, but then I would not have flesh.”

Claire decided to avoid that issue for a few moments longer and slid right on by without even pausing. “Well, now she believes that you’ve gone happily to your final rest, passed over into the light, so…” She managed energy enough to jab a finger at the ghost. “…stay away from windows!”

“I will.”

“And if she happens to accidentally see you…”

“I tell you, immediatement.”

“Good.” Yawning, Claire sagged back into the sofa. “The funny thing is, I’m not the first Keeper to mess with her head. There’s a whole section of early memories that’ve been dramatically changed.”

“Mr. Smythe told me that she lived in the house next door her whole life,” Dean offered. “He said it used to be Groseter’s Rooming House and Mr. Abrams was a roomer who didn’t move fast enough and got broadsided.” When Claire lifted her head to stare at him, he shrugged apologetically. “That’s what Mr. Smythe said. Anyway, she’s always saying things aren’t like they were when she was a girl. Maybe she was poking around and saw something she shouldn’t.”

“You mean besides Jacques?”

Without an actual exhalation, Jacques’ sigh lost emphasis, but he made up for it with the peripherals. Bending over the back of the sofa, he tucked a curl behind Claire’s ear. “I am sorry the old woman cause you problems, cherie, but I am a long time dead and I am not surprise someone sees me.”

“Not surprised.” She started to move into his touch and when she realized, jerked her head away.

He smiled. “Oui.”

“I think…” Reaching up, she flicked the curl back where it had been. “I think she probably wandered into the furnace room, maybe followed the Keeper down.”

“Her?” Dean asked, jerking a thumb toward room six.

“Probably Uncle whoever. During the months she was Keeper here, Mrs. Abrams was a teenager; too old to go poking around the neighbor’s…” Another yawn cut off the last word. “…basement.”

“Time for bed, cherie.”

Dean jerked up onto his feet “Yeah, I, uh, should get down, um, downstairs.” Unable to say what he wanted to say—and not entirely sure what that was—he couldn’t seem to put a coherent sentence together. “It’s, uh, been a long, you know, day.” Feeling the blood rise in his cheeks and wishing that the floor would just open up and swallow him whole, he headed for the door.

“Dean, wait.”

With one foot in the office and one foot still in Claire’s sitting room, he waited. Because she asked him to. He wondered if she knew how much he’d do for her if she asked him to.

To his surprise, he felt her hand in the small of his back, moving him out into the office. She followed and closed the door.

“After everything we’ve been through this last month, I thought you should know that Jacques and I aren’t…that is, I’m not…I mean, we won’t…”

“Why not, then?”

Claire stared up at him in astonishment. “Why not?”

Overcoming the urge to grab her and shake her, Dean nodded. “Yeah, why not? You gave him the flesh he’s been bugging you for.”

“Only to save him and the professor and only until dawn.”

“Okay. But since you both want to…” He raised a hand to cut off her protest “I’m not blind. I can see the way you two are together. Why shouldn’t you take advantage of it?”

“He’s dead?”

“Are you asking me if that’s a reason?”

“No,” she said slowly. “I guess not. Even though Jacques’ body died, his passion, his personality, even his physical appearance, they stayed. And now they have substance.” Standing so close she could smell the faint scent of fabric softener that clung around him, Claire looked up and tried to see past her reflection in his glasses. “And you’re okay with this?”

Dean blinked. The way he’d played out this scene, he asked her, “Why not?” and she said, “Because it’s you I really want,” and things moved to a satisfactory if somewhat undefined conclusion from there. He hadn’t intended to talk her into it. Since that’s what he seemed to have done, although he wasn’t entirely certain where things had gone wrong, there seemed to be only one way out. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Claire expected sure to mean, Would it matter to you if I wasn’t? It didn’t and she couldn’t seem to find an actual translation. “I’m not saying that I’ll rearrange my life to spare your feelings, but I don’t want you to be…” She’d intended to say hurt but the assumption that her actions would cause him pain just sounded too egotistical. Even for a Keeper. “…upset.”

“Not a problem.”

It was, actually, but every Keeper learned early in her career that sometimes a lie had to serve. People were entitled to emotional privacy. “Good night, Dean.”

“Good night, Boss.”

She watched him go down the hall, listened to him go down the stairs, until a furry weight against her shins distracted her. “What?”

“Sure meant I’m not so stupid that I can’t see you’ve made your choice, so if I get all bent out of shape about it I’ll look like some kind of a wuss moaning on and on about what I can’t have, so I’m just walking away and pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Claire blinked. “How do you know that?”

“It’s a guy thing.”

“Yeah. Right.” Stepping over Austin and purposefully closing the door in his face—not that a closed door ever stopped him— Claire went back into the sitting room to find Jacques sprawled in the armchair poking himself on the bridge of the nose with an old wooden ruler. “Why are you doing that?”

“I have never done it before.” He tossed the ruler aside and stood. “You have said what you have to say to our young friend?” When she nodded, he reached for her hands. “Bien. Now I will say something to you.”

“Jacques…”

“Non. My turn.” His grip tightened around her fingers, cool and still weirdly insubstantial. “I desire you. You know how I wish to use this flesh you have given me, but I will not make pressure on you.”

“Put pressure on you.”

“That also. If you decide we will not be together tonight, I have a bed still of my own in the attic. But know that you are to me more than a way to break a very long time without a woman.”

“Jacques.”

He winced. “Too much? I should not have said the last about the woman, I know. It is funny, I am, how do you say…nervous.”

“That’s how we say it.” This was the moment she had to decide. On the one hand, Jacques was sexy and funny and there’d been a frisson between them from the moment she’d forced him to materialize. On the other hand, he was dead. That would definitely be a problem for most people. “I don’t want to be like her.”

“You are not anything like her.” Releasing her hands, he cupped her face.

“I don’t want to just use you.”

“Use me, cherie. I can stand in.”

“Stand it.”

“We are both needing each other, Claire. Stop worrying about regrets you might have tomorrow. This is now.”

He was going to kiss her; it hadn’t been so long that she couldn’t recognize the preliminaries. She just didn’t know how she was going to respond. Fifty-three seconds later, she found out.

“Oh, my…”

PERFECT. SHE’S DISTRACTED.

WE SHOULD BE UP THERE, the rest of Hell protested. WE’RE MISSING A TERRIFIC OPPORTUNITY TO SCREW WITH HER HEAD.

I’VE GOT BETTER OPPORTUNITIES DOWN HERE.

The power seepage had been gathered in one place, prevented from escaping into the shield.

ARE YOU GOING TO CREATE ANOTHER IMP?

YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS? YOU DON’T THINK BIG ENOUGH. THAT’S WHY YOU’RE GOING TO SPEND AN INFINITE AMOUNT OF TIME DOWN IN THAT PIT.

YOU CAN’T GET THE SEEPAGE THROUGH THE SHIELD.

OH, YES, I CAN.

NO, YOU CANT.

YES, I CAN.

N…

ARE YOU ARGUING WITH ME? The silence seemed to indicate that, no, it wasn’t. GOOD. I CAN GET THE SEEPAGE THROUGH THE SHIELD USING THE CONDUIT THE KEEPERS HAVE PROVIDED.

The hoarded seepage began moving.

Low wattage lights went on in the rest of Hell as realization dawned. BUT THAT POWER GOES RIGHT UP TO HER!

YES.

SHE TRIED TO USE US.

AND FAILED.

WE’D RATHER NOT RISK THAT AGAIN.

NO ONE ASKED YOU. SHE WILL TAKE CARE OF THIS YOUNG KEEPER FOR ME.

Up in room six, under dust-covered lids, Aunt Sara’s eyes began to move in her first dream in over fifty years.

“Jacques, wait I felt something…”

“This?”

“No…. Oh. Yes.”

“Hey, Diana.” Phone cradled against her chin, Claire did up her cuff buttons and listened to the sounds of Dean moving about in the kitchen making breakfast “Is Mom home?”

“Hey, yourself,” her sister responded suspiciously. “What are you doing up so early in the mor…Oh my God! You did it, you slept with the dead guy!”

Recognizing that the move was completely illogical but needing to do it anyway, Claire held the receiver out in front of her and stared at it.

“Don’t bother denying it.” Diana’s voice came tinnily out through the tiny speaker. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“Hear what in my voice?” Claire demanded, the receiver back to her mouth.

“You know, that post-necrophilia guilt. How was he? I’d make a crack about him being a stiff, but you’d blow.”

“Diana!”

“Don’t get me wrong, I understand your choice. I mean, even ignoring the whole forbidden fruit thing, Keepers have responsibilities—busy, busy, busy—and after a night in the sack, a dead guy’s not going to expect you to settle down and play house. So did you give him back his actual flesh, or did you make some minor additions?”

Breathing heavily through her nose, Claire attempted to keep her voice level. “Is Mom home?”

“No. Lucky for you. What kind of an example are you setting here for your younger sister?”

“Tell her I called.”

“Should I…”

“No. Just tell her I called.”

“…of course I landed on my feet, but the other guy…” Austin let his voice trail off as Claire came into the kitchen. Wrapping his tail around his toes, he sat and stared unblinkingly up at her.

Claire glanced over at Dean, who shrugged, then back at the cat. “What?” she sighed.

“Nothing. I just figured the first meeting between you and Dean the morning after would be awkward, and I wanted to start things off right I think you two can take it from here.” Looking smug, he leaped down to the floor and padded away.

The silence stretched.

Having made his decision to cut a net he had no hope of hauling, to save the boat so he could fish another day, to suddenly get caught up in regional metaphors he’d never previously considered using, Dean should have slept the sleep of the just, the sleep of the man who has recognized that he’d lost the battle but by no means lost the war. As it happened, he slept hardly at all, Claire’s bedroom being right over his. His imagination, deciding to make up for twenty years of benign neglect had kicked into overdrive the moment his head hit the pillow. He’d finally gotten a few hours’ sleep on the couch in the next room.

“So,” he said at last “you’re up early. Where’s Jacques?”

Before Claire could answer, he blushed and held up both hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out the way it sounded.”

“What way?”

“Like I had a right to know.” He took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Did you want some coffee, then?”

“Sure.” When Dean shot her a surprised glance before reaching for a mug, she hoped she’d got the nuance right. She’d intended sure to mean, nothing’s changed between you and me. Dean could continue feeling how he felt about her—a little unrequited whatever it was he felt wouldn’t hurt him—and she’d continue thinking of him as an incredibly nice, gorgeous kid who just happened to do windows. She’d come to that conclusion while dressing, wondering why she was making such a big deal out of Dean’s reaction. “Jacques went back to the attic. He said he needed some time to think.”

“Ah.”

The silence fell again.

“Professor Jackson’s not down yet.”

Dean gratefully looked at his watch. “No, but then it’s just turned eight.”

“Ah.”

Before the silence extended far enough to elicit a conversation about the warmer than seasonal weather, the front door opened. And closed.

Dean frowned. “Stay where you’re at,” he muttered, untying his apron, “I’ll get it.”

Sighing, Claire started walking toward the lobby. “What have I told you about this kind of thing?”

“Specifically?”

“Generally.”

“You’re a Keeper and you can take care of yourself?”

“Bingo.”

Bent nearly double, stroking Austin as he wound around black leggings and chunky ankle boots, the young woman in the lobby seemed to be neither a threat nor a guest. When she straightened, one hand rising to try and brush disheveled blonde curls down over the purple-and-green swelling on her forehead, Claire got the impression of a person just barely hanging on to the end of her rope.

A quick glance at Dean showed him ready to pound whoever, or whatever, had brought such a fragile beauty to such a state.

The delicate jaw moved slowly up and down on a piece of gum. The weary motion seemed so involuntary it came as a bit of a shock when she stopped chewing to speak. “I’ve been walking all night” she offered tentatively, “and I need, um…”

“A room?” Claire asked.

She glanced back over her shoulder before answering. “I haven’t any money.”

“That’s all right” Keepers went where they were needed; sometimes, need came to them. Without turning, Claire lightly touched Dean’s arm. “Go make up room three.”

“Sure, Boss.”

No one spoke again until he’d disappeared up the stairs.

“This is a beautiful cat.” A trembling hand ran down the black fur from head to tail. “Is he yours.”

“Not exactly.”

“I had a cat once.” She closed shadowed eyes. When she opened them again, she stared around the lobby as if wondering where she was.

Austin nudged her.

“I saw your sign. I thought, if I could lie down for a few hours, I could figure out what to do. But I can’t pay you….”

“The room’s there and it’s empty,” Claire told her, stepping forward. “You might as well use it.”

Clearly too tired to think straight, she shook her head. “That’s not how it works.”

“That’s how it works here.”

“Oh.” She looked up the stairs and thin shoulders sagged. “I don’t think I can.”

“I’ll help.” By the third step, Claire had wrapped the girl’s weight in power. Reaching the first floor hall, hoping the professor wouldn’t chose this moment to head downstairs for breakfast, she led the way to room three, pausing outside the door to allow Dean to leave.

When he opened his mouth to speak, she shook her head and pushed past him. He couldn’t help until they knew what was going on.

Settling the girl on the edge of the bed, Claire stepped back and watched Austin make himself comfortable beside her. “Do you mind if he stays?”

“Oh, no.” Her hand reached out to stroke him again. “You and that big man, are you happy?”

Claire blinked, completely taken aback. “There’s nothing between me and Dean.”

The ugly bruise on the girl’s forehead darkened, surrounded by an embarrassed flush. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that you looked…”

“Postcoital,” Austin murmured when she paused.

“Ignore that, please,” Claire suggested, spitting the magic word through clenched teeth, “I’ll leave you now, get some sleep. We’ll talk later.”

HELLO….

NOT NOW. I DON’T WANT THE PISSANT LITTLE ENERGY WE CAN PUSH OUT OF HERE WASTED ON TRIFLES.

YOU DON’T WANT? WHAT ABOUT WHAT WE WANT?

Time passing suddenly became the loudest sound in the furnace room. After a moment, the rest of Hell answered their own question.

NEVERMIND.

By the time Claire got back to the kitchen, Professor Jackson had descended for breakfast. He seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself as he ate his bacon and eggs. He hummed slightly as he spread jam on his toast, and he stirred his coffee with the air of a man who’d lived up to his own extraordinary expectations. Fortunately, he’d lifted himself to such exalted heights, he was far beyond making casual conversation with mere hotel staff.

Wiping his mouth, he rose from the table and graciously informed both Dean and Claire that he’d be leaving as soon as he packed.

“Well?” Dean demanded the moment the professor was out of earshot. “Who is she? What happened? Does she want us to call the police?”

“I have no idea, but Austin stayed with her so we’ll soon find out.”

“Austin?”

“Why not. She’s tired and vulnerable….”

Dean nodded, understanding. “He’ll be a nonjudgmental comfort to her.”

“No, he’ll take advantage of it. He’s a cat not Mother Theresa.” Claire poured herself a bowl of cereal and sat down. “It shouldn’t be much longer.”

On cue, Austin jumped up onto the counter. “All right; bacon.” Glancing over at Claire, he added, “Which I, of course, can’t eat even though I’ve been gathering vital information about the young woman in room three.”

Claire sighed. “One small piece.”

“Two.”

“One and the dregs of milk from my cereal.”

“Not if it’s bran; last time I was in the litter box all morning.”

“It’s not.”

“Deal.”

They waited more-or-less patiently while he ate and not at all patiently while he washed his whiskers.

“First of all,” he said, at last, “it’s not what you think. Her name is Faith Dunlop….”

“She told a cat her name?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; I hooked her ID out of her pocket when she fell asleep.” He snorted. “Who tells a cat their name?”

“Just get on with it.”

“Who hit her?” Dean demanded.

“No one. She walked into a door. Our little Faith was leaving in a hurry because she’d just helped her boyfriend rip off a convenience store out on North Montreal Street. When they split up to throw off pursuit, she had the bag of loot. Unfortunately, she left it on a bus and now she’s afraid to go home because this is the second time something like this has happened and the boyfriend is going to be very unhappy.”

Claire stared at Austin in astonishment. “This is the second time she’s left the loot on a bus?”

“If I understood her correctly—and between the sobbing and the gum she wasn’t very coherent—the last time she left it in the women’s washroom at a fast food restaurant but essentially the same scenario, yes.”

“She’s afraid of her boyfriend?” Dean growled. Behind his glasses, his eyes narrowed to a line of blazing blue. “Oh, I get it; first off, he forces her into a life of crime and then, when she can’t perform to his satisfaction, he beats her.”

“She walked into a door,” Austin protested.

“Sure. This time. But what’ll happen when she gets home? She’s terrified of him, or she wouldn’t have been out all night, forced to throw herself on the kindness of strangers.”

Claire sighed. She’d just discovered two things about Dean. The first, which was hardly unexpected considering the rest of his personality, involved taking the side of the weak against the strong. The second, that at some point in his scholastic career he’d been forced to read A Streetcar Named Desire. “You don’t know any of that for certain.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I know what I see in front of my face.”

“I don’t know how you can see anything with your eyes slitted closed like that.”

“It’s obvious what happened!” His jaw thrust slightly forward.

“It’s never that obvious.” Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she asked Austin if he’d got a look at Faith’s home address when he snagged her ID. When he admitted that he had, she headed for the phone.

Hurriedly picking up the empty cereal bowl and putting it in the sink, Dean followed. “What are you doing?”

“Calling Faith’s apartment and telling the boyfriend where she is. Once he’s here, I can protect her, but until I hear the whole story, I can’t help her.”

“You’re after helping her right into the hospital!” Rushing forward, Dean put himself between Claire and the phone. “Look, you can put yourself into whatever weird relationships you want, but you can’t make those kind of choices for Faith.”

“Weird relationships?”

“Uh, oh.” Ears close to his head, Austin ducked under the desk.

Claire’s nostrils flared. “I thought you said you were okay with it?”

“Well, what else was I supposed to say? You’re the Keeper; you always know what you’re doing, and you never listen to me. I can’t even get you to put your dirty dishes in the sink!”

He was right about the dishes. Claire took a deep breath and forced it out through clenched teeth. “Move away from the phone, Dean. I know what I’m doing.”

“And I don’t?”

“I didn’t say that”

“But you’re always implying it. After all, I’m just the bystander and all this lineage stuff is way over my head. Okay. Maybe it is. But this,” he stabbed a finger toward room three, “this is people stuff, and I know people stuff better than you.”

“The moment Faith entered this hotel, she became lineage stuff.”

They locked eyes for a long moment. Finally, Dean jerked away from the phone. “Okay. Fine. If you’re not after listening to me, I’ll go and do the dishes. That seems to be all I’m good for around here.”

“Dean…”

“You know where to find me if you want something unimportant taken care of.” Heels denting the floor, he stomped back to the kitchen.

“I told you so,” Austin muttered, still safely hidden under the desk.

“Told me what?” Claire asked, fingers white around the receiver.

“That Dean’s all bent out of shape about you pounding the mattress with Jacques.”

“Jacques wasn’t even mentioned!”

He stuck his head out and stared up at her in disbelief. “You really aren’t any good at this people stuff, are you?”

Just after ten, Professor Jackson checked out. He paid in cash and, although a number of smaller things had been broken the night before, he made no mention of them. Since, technically, Claire had broken them, she let it slide.

“I’ll just go up and clean the room, then, shall I, Boss?”

Claire’d been trying to think of a way to apologize—although in spite of a nagging feeling that she was in the wrong, she wasn’t sure for what—but Dean’s emphasis on that Boss changed her mind. She’d wait until he decided to stop being so childish.

At eleven, she tried Faith’s home number again. She’d left two previous messages on the answering machine, and when the same annoying little song came on telling her to not make a peep till the sound of the beep, she decided not to leave a third.

When Dean came downstairs at eleven-forty carrying a waste-basket full of broken lamp, the office was empty, but a thin man in a Thousand Islands baseball cap and jean jacket that looked two sizes too large was limping across the lobby. “Can I help you?”

He jerked around to face the stairs. Pale lips, under a sparsely settled mustache, lifted in what could have been a smile but was probably a twitch. “Hi. Yeah. I’m here for Faith.”

“Faith?”

“Yeah. I’m Fred.” The tip of his nose was an abraded pink that vibrated slightly with every word. “She’s not gone?”

“No.” Dean descended the last three steps and was disappointed to see that he still towered over Faith’s boyfriend. He’d been hoping for a big man, one he could flatten without guilt. “What happened to your foot?”

“My foot?” Eyes wide, Fred stared down as though amazed to see a foot on the end of his leg. “Oh. That foot. I had an accident, eh.” He laughed nervously. “Dropped a cash register on it. Hurts like hell.”

NOT QUITE. BUT IT COULD.

Dean set down the wastebasket and jiggled his baby finger in his right ear, anger momentarily swamped by confusion. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Nothing.”

DON’T YOU JUST WISH YOU COULD WIPE THIS KIND OF SCUM RIGHT OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH?

“Well, yeah, but that wouldn’t solve anything.”

“What?” Fred backed up a step, looking like a small rodent suddenly face to face with a very large cat.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“What?”

If Fred was a monster, Dean decided, he hid it well. On the other hand, a man facing a much larger man was often a different person than a man facing a woman. “Look, you wait here. I’ll check if Faith wants to see you.”

“Is she all right? Is she hurt? The message said she was just tired.” What seemed like near panic jerked the words out in a staccato rush.

“She’s fine.”

“Then why wouldn’t she want to see me?”

Dean sighed. “Just wait here, okay?”

Fred’s gaze skittered around the office as though checking for traps. When it finally got back to Dean, he nodded. “Okay.”

Shaking his head, Dean started up the stairs.

THOSE KIND OF WEASELS ARE THE FIRST TO PICK ON SOMEONE WEAKER THAN THEMSELVES. YOU SHOULD SHOW HIM HOW IT FEELS.

Dean’s fingers curled up into fists.

VIOLENCE IS ONE OF OURS.

Down in the lobby, Fred shifted his weight off his bad foot and stared mournfully at the stairs. He didn’t want to wait, he wanted to see Faith.

Which was when he noticed the elevator. A fascination for all things mechanical drew him across to it, limp almost forgotten. He opened the door, peered past the gate, down into the shaft, and could just make out the top of the car. It seemed to be in the basement.

Brow furrowed under the brim of his cap, he opened the door immediately to his left.

The basement stairs.

It was easier going down the stairs than up. He could take the elevator to the top of the hotel and go down to Faith’s room, missing the big guy with the glasses entirely.

No one would mind. Elevators were there to be used.

Leaning outside the door to room three while Faith put on her face, Dean polished his glasses with the hem of his shirt and tried not to think about how much he’d enjoy flattening Fred’s quivering pink nose.

ONE, TWO, SPLAT. THAT’S THE TICKET.

Lost in memories of a childhood spent riding the old elevator at the S&R Department Store, Fred touched two fingers to his cap brim, murmured, “First floor, ladies lingerie,” and twisted the brass lever to UP.

Sitting in the bathroom, reading the Apothecary’s new catalog, Claire heard the unmistakable sound of an ancient elevator starting up.

By the time she reached the lobby, it was just passing the first floor. She didn’t know the man inside.

Dean frowned as he heard the elevator rise to meet the second floor, then he shrugged. Claire’d said she was through testing, but obviously she’d thought of something else to try.

Then he heard:

“Second floor, housewares and cosmetics.”

By the time he got across the hall, all he could see was the bottom third of a pair of grimy jeans and Fred’s worn and grubby running shoes.

He had to beat the elevator to the third floor. If Fred opened the door…

HE’LL GET WHAT HE DESERVES. FAITH’S TERRIFIED OF HIM. YOU SAW THAT YOURSELF. THERE’LL BE ONE LESS ABUSIVE WEASEL IN THE WORLD.

Dean hesitated.

Then Faith’s door opened. When she stepped out into the hall and saw only Dean, her smile dimmed. “Where’s my Pookie?”

Claire reached the second floor and saw Dean charging toward her. Then past her. The elevator had passed and was still moving up. Gasping for breath, she took the next flight of stairs two at a time, but had only reached the landing when Dean, who’d barely looked as though he were touching down at all, reached the top.

The growl of the motor stopped.

Unless he was a total klutz, it would only take seconds for the man inside to open the gate. The taste of old pennies in the back of her throat, Claire staggered into the third floor hall as the elevator door started to open. Before the latch cleared, Dean threw himself in front of it and slammed it shut.

“Hey!”

Chest heaving, Claire staggered up on rubbery legs as Dean stepped back and, after making sure that it had indeed closed completely, pulled the door open.

“It’s just I’ve got this sore foot,” Fred began hurriedly. “And you know, the stairs are steep, and…”

Dean cut off the rest of the excuse by reaching in, grabbing the smaller man by the front of his jacket, and pulling him out into the hall.

“Pookie?” Faith’s anxious voice drifted up from the second floor. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, Baby, it’s me.” Fred smiled, or twitched, nervously, eyes flicking from Dean to Claire and back to Dean. “She calls me Pookie.”

“You must be the boyfriend,” Claire hazarded.

“Yeah. I’m Fred.”

She jerked her head toward the stairs. “Go on.”

Fred sidled out of Dean’s reach and limped quickly away.

Dean hadn’t moved since he pulled Fred from the elevator. Worried, Claire took a step toward him. “Are you okay?”

He lifted horrified eyes to her face. “I hesitated.”

“When?”

“When I heard the elevator go by. I heard a little voice say, he’ll get what he deserves, and I…” He shook his head in disbelief “…I hesitated.”

About to reassure him that it was no big deal, Claire suddenly realized that for Dean, it was. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t automatically done the right thing. If she couldn’t convince him to let it go, irrational guilt would eat at him for the rest of his life. That’s it, Claire, no pressure.

Wrapping her fingers around his forearm, she gave him a little shake. “You saved him, Dean. I couldn’t have gotten here in time.”

“You don’t understand. I actually thought about letting Fred…” Unable to continue, he shook free of her grip and stumbled back away from her.

Claire sighed. How unfortunate that smacking some sense into him would probably scar his psyche forever. “Dean, listen to me. I know you think I’m lousy at people stuff but I’m older, I’m a Keeper, I know; people think unworthy thoughts all the time.”

LIKE THE ONE WHERE HE’S ON HIS KNEES AND…

Shut up. “It doesn’t count if you don’t act on it.”

“But I hesitated.”

“And then you made up for lost time. Trust me, they cancel each other out.”

Dean forced a smile. “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, Boss, but nothing can cancel out what I’ve done.” The smile slipped. “I should go see if Faith needs my help.” Trailing misery behind him like streamers of smoke, he started for the stairs.

Which was when Claire realized…“Dean, did you say you actually heard a little voice?”

“Yeah.”

“How did it sound?”

Two steps down, he stopped and leaned back out into the hall. “Sound?”

“Can you describe it?”

“I guess.” He frowned, brows dipping down below the upper edge of his glasses. “It sort of sounded like it was talking in block caps.”

Should she tell him? Would it help? No. If Dean knew he was hearing the voice of Radio Free Hell, he’d be more convinced than ever that his hesitation had damned him. “Dean, do me a favor. If you hear the voice again, please ignore it.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Okay.”

A sudden shriek of laughter from below had them both clamping their hands over abused ears. Side by side, they hurried downstairs.

The second floor hall was empty so they kept going.

Inhaling his clean, fabric softener scent, Claire wasn’t thinking of either Fred or Faith. After nine months, she wondered, what had finally given Hell a way in?

In room six, directly across from the open elevator door, Aunt Sara licked her lips.

Baseball cap skewed, Fred pulled out of the clinch as Claire and Dean emerged from the stairwell. “You were so good to Faith, you oughta know; we’re giving up our life of crime.”

“Although it wasn’t really a life of crime,” Faith protested. “It was only two stores and we paid for them taco chips.”

“I think you’ve made a wise decision,” Claire told them, smiling. “What do you think, Dean.”

He shrugged and looked miserable. “I’m not one to say.”

Claire rolled her eyes. This I’m a horrible person stuff was going to get old, really fast. “But you’re glad they’ve decided to go straight, aren’t you?”

“Sure.”

That was good enough for Fred. “Thanks. Truth be told, we weren’t any good at it.”

Faith’s lower lip went out, making her look like a pouty angel. “We coulda practiced more, Pookie. Or got a gun.”

“No guns. People get hurt when you got a gun.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m takin’ that job with my cousin Rick.” Turning back to Claire and Dean, he added, “Rick’s got a truck, eh, and he hauls stuff.”

“You’re not gonna call the cops, are you?” Faith asked, leaning past him and twisting a curl around her finger.

“No.”

“See, Pookie, I told you they were good people.”

Dean winced.

Claire resisted the urge to stamp on his foot and give him something to wince about. Instead, she herded their modern Bonnie and Clyde to the front door and waved them out toward the waiting world. “Go home. Go straight. Be happy.”

At the bottom of the steps, Faith turned and smiled beatifically back in at Claire. “Thank you for letting me use the room and everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You figure their parents were cousins?” Austin asked when she closed the door.

“I have no idea.”

He yawned, stretched, and glanced over at Dean. “What’s with him? He looks like he just tried to kill somebody.”

Dean stared wide-eyed at the cat. “You can tell?”

Austin sighed and flicked an ear toward Claire. “What’s he talking about?”

“When he heard Fred going upstairs in the elevator, he hesitated before racing off to save him.”

“Not much point in removing only one of them,” Austin agreed.

“You’re not helping,” Claire snapped before Dean could react Crossing the lobby, she poked him in the chest. “Stop tearing yourself up over this. You aren’t a horrible person. You’ve got to be the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”

NICE GUYS FINISH LAST.

“Get out of my head.”

WE WEREN’T TALKING TO YOU.

Oh, Hell…

“Dean?”

“If you don t need me for anything, I’d like to go downstairs and do some serious thinking about my life.” He spun on one heel and hurried off before she could answer, which was probably a good thing since she couldn’t think of anything constructive to say.

Walking over to the counter, she scooped Austin up into her arms and stroked the top of his head with her cheek. “This is not good.”

“What? That after living unaffected next to Hell for almost a year, Dean spends a month and a half in your company and all of a sudden he’s willing to kill?”

“He hesitated! Then he saved the guy!”

“Face the facts, Claire, you’ve got him tied in knots. He’s not thinking, he’s reacting and that’s exactly the sort of situation Hell loves to exploit.”

THE CAT’S RIGHT.

“Of course I am; but who asked you?”

She set him back on the counter. “I’m not Dean’s problem.”

JEALOUSY IS ONE OF OURS.

“He said he was fine with me and Jacques.”

YOU’RE REALLY NOT A PEOPLE PERSON, ARE YOU?

“Take your own advice and stop listening to Hell.” Austin paused to lick at a bit of mussed fur. “Let Dean do his serious thinking, and maybe he’ll solve the problem on his own.”

“Cherie?”

“And speaking of problems.”

Shooting Austin a warning look, she turned to face Jacques. Translucent in the light from the office window, he looked exactly the way he had the first day she’d set eyes on him. She realized that she’d been expecting their night together to have changed him, but, unfortunately, it seemed to have changed only her perception of him—men were just so much more attractive when they were opaque.

“You are more beautiful this morning than I have ever seen you.” His eyes twinkled. It was a disconcerting effect since Claire could see the door through them. “I have been thinking. One night cannot balance so many years alone; perhaps this afternoon…”

“No.”

His grin faded. “But cherie, was I not all I promise I would be?”

“Yes, but…”

The grin returned. “Give me flesh again, and we will drive away the but.”

“Look, Jacques, you’re dead, so you have nothing to do, but I’m alive and I have…”

STRANGE TASTE IN MEN.

Shut up. “…responsibilities.”

Jacques looked interested. “Like what?”

“Like feeding the cat,” Austin declared in a tone that suggested he shouldn’t have had to mention it.

“And?” Jacques wondered.

“And that’s not important right now. What’s important is that you’re dead and I’m alive…”

“Cherie, non.”

“…and no matter how many times I give you flesh, you’ll still be dead!” The words echoed in the empty lobby. From the look of pained betrayal on Jacques’ face as he dematerialized, he wouldn’t be back any time soon. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she sighed. “I just wanted him to…”

“Go away. And he did, congratulations.” Critically inspecting a front paw, Austin snorted. “I’m not sure this is as clean as it could be.”

Claire grabbed the edge of the counter, bent over, and rhythmically banged her head against the wood.

THAT WAS FUN.