by Tanya Huff
Claire could feel the edges of a shield wrapped around the body—which explained why she hadn’t been able to get a sense of what room six held. The shield hadn’t been put in place by a Cousin. At some point, a Keeper had been by and wrapped the site up so tightly that even another Keeper couldn’t get through. Had Augustus Smythe not needed to leave so badly, Claire could’ve passed happily through Kingston without ever realizing the site existed. The one thing she couldn’t figure out was why a Keeper would bother. While people did occasionally manifest an accident site, the usual response was an exorcism, not the old Sleeping Beauty schtick.
A choking noise behind her reminded Claire she had a more immediate problem. The woman on the bed had clearly been there for some years; she could wait a few minutes longer.
When she turned, Dean had regained his position in the doorway. Her movement drew his locked gaze up off the bed, breaking the connection. For a moment he stared at her, eyes wide, then he whirled around and managed two running steps toward the stairs.
“Dean McIssac!”
There was power in a name.
He stopped, one foot in the air, and almost fell.
“Where are you going?”
Shoving his glasses back into place, he tired to sound as though he found dead women laid out in the guest rooms all the time. “I’m after calling 911.” His heart was pounding so loudly he could hardly hear himself.
“After calling?”
He rolled his eyes anxious to be moving, impatient at the delay. “After calling, going to call; it’s the same thing.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know!” Frustration had him almost shouting. Suddenly self-conscious, he ducked his head. “Sorry.”
Claire waved off the apology. “I meant, why are you going to call 911?”
“Because there’s a body…”
“She isn’t dead, Dean, she’s asleep. If you look at her chest, you can see she’s breathing.”
“Breathing?” Without moving his feet, he grabbed the splintered doorjamb and leaned in over the threshold. “Oh.” Feeling foolish, he shrugged and tried to explain, “I was raised better than to stare at a woman’s chest.”
“You thought it was a corpse.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Who raised you?”
“My granddad, Reverend McIssac,” Dean told her, a little defensively.
Claire had her doubts at how often a twenty-year-old male actually followed that particular dictum but had no plans to discourage admirable intentions. “Well, good for him. And you. Now, could you do something for me?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Could you go get me another cup of coffee, please.”
He looked at her like she was out of her mind. “What? Now? What about the woman on the bed?”
“I don’t think she’s going to want one.”
“No, I meant, what about the woman on the bed!”
Claire sighed. She hadn’t actually thought it would work, but since it was the simplest temporary solution, it had seemed foolish not to try. Unfortunately, curiosity was one of the strongest motivating forces behind humanity’s rise out of the ooze and, unsatisfied, it invariably caused problems. The safest way to deal with questions was to answer them, then, after all the loose ends were neatly tied up, wipe the whole package right out of Dean’s mind. “If I promise to explain everything later, will you do me a favor? Will you wait quietly while I deal with this?”
“You know what’s going on then?”
“Yes. Mostly,” she amended, conscience prickling.
“And you’ll explain it to me?”
“When I’m done with her.”
“Done what?”
“That’s one of the things I’ll explain later.”
Feeling a pressure against his shins, Dean glanced down to see Austin rubbing against him. It was such a normal, ordinary thing for a cat to do, it made the rest of the morning seem less strange. “Okay,” he said, dropping to one knee and running his fingers along the silky fur. “I’ll wait.”
“Thank you.”
With her unwelcome audience temporarily taken care of, Claire turned her attention back to the bed. In spite of the dust, the woman did bear a striking resemblance to Sleeping Beauty— or more accurately, given her age, to Sleeping Beauty’s mother. Then it became obvious that the blonde curls had been bleached, the eyebrows had been plucked and redrawn, and the lips were far, far too red. The severe, almost military-style clothing covered a lush figure that could by no means be called matronly. For some reason, Claire found the line of dark residue under all ten fingernails incredibly disturbing. She didn’t know why—dirty fingernails had never bothered her before.
It would be easier to work without the shield, but with a bystander to consider, Claire went through the perimeter without disturbing its structural integrity.
The emanations rising from the body were so dark she gagged. Teeth clenched, wishing she hadn’t had that coffee, she forced herself to take a deeper look.
Kneeling beside the cat, Dean watched his new boss stagger back, trip on the edge of the braided rug, and begin to fall. He dove forward, felt an unpleasant, greasy sizzle along one arm, and caught her just before she hit the floor. Under the makeup, her face had gone a pale gray and her throat worked as though she wanted to throw up. Before he could ask if she was all right, Austin leaped up onto her lap.
Her lower body still on the other side of the shield, Claire reached out to stop the cat from crossing over.
Too late.
“Evil!” Without actually touching down, he twisted in midair, hit the floor running, and raced back into the hall.
That was enough for Dean. Hands under Claire’s armpits, he half carried, half dragged her out of the room. When her legs cleared the threshold, he reached over her and pulled the door closed. The damage he’d done to the lock plate meant it no longer latched, but he managed to jam it shut.
Pressed tight against Dean’s chest, her head tucked into the hollow of his throat, Claire shoved on the arm holding her in place. While she appreciated him catching her before her skull smacked into the floor, his interference in something he had no hope of understanding created the distinct desire to drive her elbow in under his ribs as far as it would go. Only the certain knowledge that any blow would bounce harmlessly off the rippled muscle she could feel through the thin barrier of the T-shirt prevented her. That, and the way the position she found herself in radically restricted her movements. Not to mention her ability to breathe. “Let go of me!” she gasped. “Now!”
He jerked and looked down at her like he’d forgotten she was there but eased up enough so she could squirm free. Wedging her shoulder under his, she managed to get him out of the doorway.
His back against the wall, Dean slid down to sit on the hall floor, feeling much as he had at ten when the local bully had smacked him around with a dead cod. “The cat talked.”
Having just reached Austin’s side, Claire shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
Scooping the cat up into her arms, she said in a tone specifically crafted to make the recipient doubt his own senses, “No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did,” Austin corrected, his voice a little muffled.
“Excuse me.” Holding him tightly against her chest, she turned so that her body was between Dean and the cat. “I’ll just be a minute.” Tucking her thumb under the furry chin, she lifted his head and whispered, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” His tail, still twice its normal size, lashed against her leg. “I was startled. I hit the nasty on the other side of that shield and I overreacted.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“He’s a part of this.”
“Are you out of your walnut-sized mind? He’s a bystander!”
“Granted, but you’re going to need his help.”
“For what? With what? With her?”
“Maybe. I don’t
know yet.”
“You are out of your mind! Do you know what that is in there?”
“Excuse me?”
“What?” Dean’s voice pulled Claire’s attention back across the hall.
Caught between a cruel and capricious sea and an unwelcoming hunk of rock, Newfoundlanders had turned adaptation into a genetically encoded survival trait. True to his ancestry, Dean had progressed from stunned disbelief through amazement to amazed acceptance by the time he’d interrupted.
When he saw he had their attention, he said, “I could still hear you. Sorry.”
“Well, she wasn’t exactly keeping her voice down,” Austin pointed out.
Dean met Claire’s gaze almost apologetically. “The cat talks.”
“The cat never shuts up,” Claire replied through gritted teeth.
“He seems to think I can help.”
“Yeah, well when I need something cleaned or cooked I’ll let you know. OW!” Sucking on the back of her hand, she glared down at Austin. “What did you scratch me for?”
He retracted his claws. “You were being rude.”
“Scratch me again and I’ll show you rude,” she muttered.
“You’re frightened, that’s understandable. Even I was almost frightened. You think you can’t handle this, you think it’s too big for you…”
“Stop telling me what I think!”
“…but that’s no reason to take it out on him.”
“You’re frightened?” Dean ducked his head to get a better look at her face. “You are frightened.”
Obviously, she hadn’t been hiding it as well as she’d thought.
“Of what? Oh…” The talking cat had temporarily driven all thoughts of their other discovery out of his head. “Of her?” Evil, the cat had said. Rubbing the lingering, greasy feel off the arm that had been closest to the bed, Dean found that easy to believe. “Don’t worry.” He straightened where he sat. “On the last of it, she’ll have to go through me to get to you.”
“Foreshadowing,” Austin muttered.
Giving the cat a warning squeeze, Claire realized that Dean’s offer was in earnest. He was the sort of person who went out of his way to pick worms off the sidewalk and put them back onto the lawn. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “First of all, I can take care of myself. Second, if you ever face that woman awake, you’d better hope she kills you immediately and doesn’t play with you for a while. And third, there’s nothing you can do.”
“The cat said…”
“He says a lot of things.”
“You said you’d explain.”
“After I’d dealt with her. And I haven’t.”
“I could help you with her.”
“You don’t know what’s going on.”
“I would if you explained.”
“I’ve had as much as I can take of this,” Austin grumbled. “I’ll explain.” Wriggling out of Claire’s arms, he crossed the hall and locked a pale green stare on Dean’s face. “Do you believe in magic?”
“That’s an explanation?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Sure.”
“Sure? What kind of an answer is sure? Do you or don’t you?”
Dean shrugged. “I guess I do.”
“Good.” Stretching out, Austin ripped at the carpet. “Because that’s what we’re dealing with.”
“Magic?”
“That’s right. The woman in the room behind you was put to sleep by magic.”
Dean shifted a little farther down the hall. Drawing his knees up, he laid his forearms across them and frowned. “Like Sleeping Beauty?”
Austin’s ears went back. “The opposite. This time the bad guy—her—got put to sleep by the good guys.”
“Why?”
“How should I know?”
“I just thought…”
“At this point we don’t know much more than you do.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Actually, we know a whole lot more than you, but we don’t know that. The important thing for you to remember is that, if you’re lucky, the woman in there is the worst thing you’re ever going to come in contact with. She’s evil sleeping in size eight pumps.”
Dean’s eyes widened. “How do you know her shoe size?”
“I don’t.”
“But you said…”
“I was making a point,” Austin sighed. “Which obviously didn’t make it through your thick head.”
Watching the cat stalk back across the hall and rub his head against a denim-clad hip, Dean suddenly remembered the feel of a body clutched tightly against his. Under normal circumstances, it wasn’t a feeling he’d have forgotten. His ears turned red as he realized just which bits had gone where and he suspected he should apologize for something. “Uh, Ms. Hansen…”
“You might as well call me Claire,” she interrupted wearily, picking at a loose thread in the cleanest carpet she’d ever seen. “If Austin’s right…”
“And I am,” Austin put in, not bothering to glance up from an important bit of grooming.
“…we’re going to be working together. That is,” she added after a moment’s pause, “if you still want to keep your job.”
Austin snorted. “Weren’t you listening to me?”
“Dean has to decide for himself if he’s going to stay.”
Dean shifted nervously under the weight of their combined attention. “What is it we’ll be doing together?”
Claire put her cupped hand over the cat’s muzzle before she answered. “Fighting evil.”
“You’re a superhero?”
Austin jerked free. “Don’t,” he suggested sternly, “give her ideas.”
“No, I’m not a superhero. I don’t even own a pair of tights. Are you blushing again?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.”
“I am one of the good guys. And this is a bad situation. The woman in there…” Claire nodded toward the broken door. “…is only half the problem. Somewhere in this building is a hole in the fabric of the universe.”
About to protest that there were some stories even a dumb Newfie wouldn’t believe, Dean hesitated. They’d found a dust-covered woman, dressed in 1940s clothing, asleep in room six and he’d just had the situation more or less—mostly less—explained to him by a talking cat. Evidence suggested it wasn’t a bam. “A hole in the fabric of the universe,” he repeated. “Okay.”
“We refer to it as an accident site. At some time, somebody did something they shouldn’t have. The energy coming through the hole is keeping the woman asleep.” Crossing her legs at the ankle, Claire rocked up onto her feet. “That’s how I know there is a hole and Augustus Smythe wasn’t here merely to monitor her.” As Dean opened his mouth, the next question obvious on his face, she held up a silencing hand. “It’s nothing personal, but right at the moment, my questions are more important than yours. Since I’m not going back in there to find the answers…”
“You don’t want her to wake up,” Austin muttered at Dean. “You really don’t want her to wake up.”
“…I’ve got to find the accident site. Unfortunately, it seems to be at least as well shielded as she is and we’re going to have to search every threadbare inch of this place, unless…you know where it is?”
“The accident site?” He stood. “The hole in the fabric of the universe?”
“That’s right.” She’d never had to explain herself to a bystander before. It was hard not to sound patronizing.
“Sorry. I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.” Squaring his shoulders, he hiked the tool belt up on his hips. His world had always included a number of things he’d had to take on faith. He added one more. “But I’d like to help.”
“So you’re staying?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Claire.” When he looked dubious, she sighed. “What?”
“You own the hotel, you’re my boss; I can’t call you by your first name. It wouldn’t be right.”
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About to tell him that he was being an idiot, Claire suddenly remembered the feel of his arms and the warm scent of fabric softener and decided it might be better to maintain some distance. “What did you call Augustus Smythe?”
“To his face?”
Austin snickered.
“Yes. To his face.”
“I called him Boss.” Dean considered the possibility of calling an attractive woman the same thing he’d called a cranky old man and wasn’t entirely convinced it would work. “I guess I could call you Boss.”
“Good. Glad we’ve got that cleared up.”
“Should I wire this door shut before we start searching, um, Boss?”
Although Dean don’t seem quite comfortable using the title, Claire found she liked it. It made her feel like the lead in an old gangster movie. “You might as well.” It would be a useless precaution since it was unlikely any of them would now wander into room six by accident, but it would give Dean something to do that he understood. “Just let me turn out the light first.”
The remainder of the third floor, two double rooms and a single, was empty of everything except the lingering smell of disinfectant. Inside the storage cupboard across from room six, Claire emptied the shelves of toilet paper and cleaning supplies, then peered down the laundry chute.
“Don’t even think about it!” Austin spat as she turned and studied him measuringly.
“Suppose it’s between floors?”
“Then it’ll just have to stay there.”
“I’ll keep you from falling.”
“Oh, sure.” He squeezed in behind a bucket of sponges and peered balefully at her over the edge, ears flat against his head. “That’s what you said the last time.”
“Those were extraordinary circumstances. Never happen again.”
“I said no.”
“Okay, okay.” She tried and failed to open the narrow door next to the chute. “What’s in here?”
“Stairs to the attic.” Dean eyeballed the opening of the laundry chute, was relieved to find he wouldn’t fit, and found the required key on his master ring.
