by Tanya Huff
After supplying detailed directions, Claire hung up, glanced out into the shadowed lobby, and sighed. “Are your work boots dry, Dean?”
He looked down at his feet. “They should be. Why?”
“You walk too quietly without them. Please, put them on.”
With no memory of turning, he’d taken three silent, sweat sock muffled steps toward the back door before he recalled what he’d come out to the lobby to say. “I made a fresh pot of coffee, if you’re interested. And pecan cookies.”
Dean stared at Claire over his seventh cookie. “So your mother is your cousin?”
“No. She’s a Cousin.”
“And your father’s…?”
“A Cousin, too.”
“And you and your younger sister, Diana, are both Keepers?”
“Yes.”
Behind his glasses, his eyes twinkled. “So, you’re your mother’s Aunt?”
“No.”
“But…”
“Look, I didn’t make up the stupid nomenclature!” Strongly suspecting that Dean was being difficult on purpose, Claire tossed back her last mouthful of coffee, choked, and ended up spraying the tabletop and both her companions.
“Oh, thank you very much.” Austin jumped down onto the floor and vigorously shook one back leg. “I just got that clean!”
After handing the still sputtering Keeper a napkin, Dean quickly used another to mop up the mess. When things got back to normal, and when the cat had been placated, he asked, “Why won’t your mother be here until tomorrow afternoon?”
“That’s when the train from London gets in. Tomorrow morning she’ll get a lift from Lucan into London, then catch the train from London to Toronto to connect with the 1:14 out of Union Station, which means she’ll be here about four.”
“Oh.” He’d been half hoping to hear that the delay involved for low altitude brooms. After the excitement of the morning, he was ready for his next installment of weird. Things hadn’t been this interesting vacuuming the flying carpet or waiting until the flight path cleared since he’d left home. Actually, things hadn’t been this interesting at home—although his granddad’s reaction to his cousin Todd getting an eyebrow pierced had come close. “Why doesn’t she drive?”
“Because she can’t. None of us can.”
Dean blinked. Okay, that was the weirdest thing he’d heard so far. “None of your family?”
“None of the lineage.”
“Why not?”
“Too many distractions. We see things other people don’t”
There’d been a couple of members of Dean’s family who’d seen things other people hadn’t, but they were usually laid out roughly horizontal and left to sleep it off. “Things like blue mice?” he asked innocently, biting into another cookie.
“No. They’re nothing at all like blue mice,” she told him curtly. If she responded to his teasing, he’d keep doing it, and she already had one younger sibling; she didn’t need another. “They’re bits of the energy, small possibilities that…Austin! Get out of there!” Leaping to her feet, she snatched the butter dish out from under the cat’s tongue. “Do you know what this stuff does to your arteries?” she demanded. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
“I’m hungry.”
“There’s a bowl of fresh, geriatric kibble on the floor by the fridge.”
“I don’t want that,” he muttered looking sulky. “You wouldn’t make your grandmother eat it.”
“My grandmother doesn’t lick the butter.”
“Wanna bet?”
Claire turned her back and pointedly ignored him. “Small possibilities,” she repeated, “that sometimes seep through and run loose in the world.”
Dean glanced around the dining room. “What do they look like?”
“That depends on your background. You’re a McIssac so, if you had the Sight, at the very least you’d see traditional Celtic manifestations. Given that Newfoundland has a wealth of legend all its own you’d also probably pick up a few indigenous manifestations.”
“You’re not serious?” he asked her, grinning broadly. “Ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night?”
“If you want.”
His grin faded. “I don’t want.”
“Then don’t mention it.”
Down in the furnace room, having spent the last few hours testing the binding, the intelligence in the pit rested. It would have been panting had it been breathing.
NOTHING HAS CHANGED, it observed sulkily.
Although physically contained, the pentagram could not entirely close it off from the world. There was just no way it was that easy.
It seeped through between the possibilities.
It tempted. It taunted. And once, because of the concentration trapped in that one spot, it had managed to squeeze through a sizable piece of pure irritation.
THE OLD MALE IS GONE.
THE YOUNG MALE IS STILL HERE.
The heat rose momentarily as though Hell itself had snorted. THAT GOODY TWO SHOES. WHAT A WASTE OF TIME.
THERE’S A NEW KEEPER.
WE’VE DEALT WITH KEEPERS BEFORE.
WE DIDN’T EXACTLY DEAL WITH THE OTHER. WASN’T SHE INTENDING TO CONTROL…
SHUT UP!
It also talked to itself.
THREE
“IF YOU DON’T HURRY,” Austin complained from the bedroom, “I’m going down to breakfast without you.”
Claire rummaged through her makeup case, inspecting and discarding a number of pencils that needed sharpening. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”
They’d spent the night back in room one even though Dean had reiterated that the owner’s rooms were now rightfully Claire’s. Although willing to spend the evening watching television and eating pizza in Augustus Smythe’s sitting room, Claire wasn’t quite ready to sleep in his bed.
“I don’t see why you bother with all that stuff.”
“This from the cat who spent half an hour washing his tail.” One eye closed, she leaned toward the mirror. Her reflection remained where it had been. “Oh, no.” Straightening, she put down the pencil and looked herself in the eyes—not at all surprised to notice that they were no longer dark brown but deep red. “Now what?”
A skull, recently disinterred, appeared in the reflection’s left hand. “Alas, poor Yorik. I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest.”
“And oft times had you kissed those lips.” Claire folded her arms and frowned. “I’m familiar with the play. Get to the point.”
The reflection lifted the skull until it could gaze levelly into the eye sockets. “Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint her face an inch thick, to this favor she must come…” A fluid motion turned the skull so that it stared out from the mirror. “…make her laugh at that.”
“Not bad, but I imagine you have access to a number of actors. Your point?”
“Open the pentagram. Release us. And we shall see to it that you remain young and beautiful forever.”
“You’re kidding, right? You’re offering a Keeper eternal youth and beauty?”
The reflection looked a little sheepish. “It is considered a classic temptation. We thought it worth a try.”
“Oh, please.”
“That means no?”
Claire sighed and, both hands holding the edge of the sink, leaned forward. “Go to Hell,” she told it levelly. “Go directly to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
The skull vanished. Her reflection began answering to her movements again.
“Was that wise?” Austin asked from the doorway.
“What? Refusing to be tempted?”
“Making flippant comments.”
“It wasn’t a flippant comment.” She finished lining her right eye and began on her left. “It was a stage direction.”
“Hel-lo!”
“Mom?” In the kitchen, using a number of household products in ways they’d never been intended by the manufactu
rers—not even the advertising department which, as a rule, had more liberal views about those sorts of things—Claire was attempting to remove the ink from the latter third of the site journal. While not technically an impossible task, it did seem to be, as time went on, highly improbable. Laying aside the garlic press, she dried her hands on a borrowed apron—borrowing it hadn’t been her idea—called out that she’d be right there, and tripped over the cat.
By the time she reached the lobby, Austin was up on the counter, having his head scratched and looking as though he hadn’t been waiting as impatiently as anyone.
“You’re certainly right about those shields,” Martha Hansen said, as Claire came into the lobby. “I can’t feel a thing.”
Catching Austin’s eye, Claire mimed wiping her brow in relief. Austin looked superior; he’d had a bad feeling about it from the start. So there. “Thanks for coming, Mom.”
“Well, I could hardly refuse my daughter’s call for help, now could I? Besides, your sister’s in the workshop today and it’s your father’s turn to deal with the fire department.” The three of them winced in unison. “And it did seem a shame not to work in a quick visit with you so close. You’re looking well.” She wrapped Claire in a quick hug. “Maine must’ve agreed with you.”
“I was in and out too fast for it to disagree with me. Easiest site I ever sealed.”
“Good. At least you’re not facing this site exhausted and cranky.”
“Cranky?” Claire repeated, shooting a warning look at the cat. “Mom, I’m twenty-seven. I’m a little old for cranky.”
Her mother smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. How did you sleep last night?”
“Like a log. I expect it’s another effect of the dampening field.”
“I expect it is.” Unzipping her windbreaker, Martha turned back toward the counter. “What about you, Austin?”
“I slept like a cat.” One ear flicked back. “I always sleep like a cat.”
“That’s very reassuring. Any developments since you called, Claire?”
“Nothing much. We might have an imp infestation—I’m fairly certain it, or they, damped down my shoes the first night I was here.” She saw no point in mentioning the voice. Not only had it been a highly subjective experience, but she’d stopped telling her mother everything that went on in her head the day Colin Rorke had kissed her behind the football bleachers. “This morning, my reflection offered me eternal youth and beauty.”
Martha sighed as she shrugged out of her jacket. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, evil has no imagination. Probably why so much of it ends up in municipal politics. They’ll be back, you know, and the temptations will escalate as they come to know you better.”
“I expect I’ll seal the site before that becomes a problem.”
“But surely it’s already sealed.”
“No, Mom, I mean seal it closed.”
“Closed?”
“That must be why I’m here,” Claire asserted. “I couldn’t possibly have been summoned to an epistemological babysitting job as though I were too old to do anything but slap my power over a site and make sure nothing creeps out around the edges.”
“This hole…”
“Is huge, but it doesn’t change the job description.”
“And have you determined how you’re going to close the hole and simultaneously take care of…” She jerked her head toward the third floor.
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. I was hoping that you, with your greater experience and years of work in the field, could throw a little light on the problem.”
“Suck up,” Austin muttered.
Lips twitching, Martha bent and picked up her overnight case. “Let me drop this off in my room, and then I’ll go take a look at your problems. The sooner I see them, the sooner I can tell you what you need to hear.”
Claire grabbed the key to room two and hurried to catch up on the stairs, frowning as she got a good look at the feet she followed. “I wish you wouldn’t wear socks and sandals, Mom.”
“It’s the end of September, Claire, I can hardly wear either alone.”
“But they make you look like an aging hippie.”
“Truth in advertising; nothing wrong with that. Now, I wish you’d wear a little less makeup. It makes you look like…”
“Don’t start, Mom.”
“My. This is medieval.” Walking slowly, examining each line, Martha circled the pit. “In my experienced opinion,” she said after a moment, “you do, indeed, have a hole to Hell in your furnace room. Or more specifically a manifestation of evil conforming to the classic parameters of Hell—the popularity of which, I’ve never entirely understood.” Glancing up at the ductwork, she added, “Mind you, I expect it keeps the heating costs down.” Her hand shot out and jerked Claire back a step. “Don’t pace on the pentagram.”
Folding her arms, Claire mirrored her mother’s élan. Mostly, it was an act although as the second exposure came without the shock of discovery, she found it a little easier to cope. “I know it’s a hole to Hell,” she said, trying to sound as if her teeth weren’t clenched together. “But since it’s linked rather irrevocably to room six, I was hoping you might have some ideas on how to separate them. Some advice on what I should do first.”
YOU COULD RELEASE US.
“Nobody asked you.”
WE’D BE GOOD.
“Liar.”
WELL, YES.
“I don’t think you should argue with it, Claire.” Slipping on her glasses, Martha pointed toward the lettering etched into the bedrock, being very careful not to trace anything in the air that could be interpreted as a pattern. A Cousin shouldn’t be able to affect an accident site but, given the site in question, that wasn’t a tenet she intended to test. “That,” she said, “is the name of the person responsible for this situation. I expect he died right after he finished the invocation. Notice the similar pattern around Sara’s name.”
Eyes beginning to water from the sulfur, Claire studied the design. It wasn’t an exact match, but close enough for Keeper work. “Just as we thought, she tried to gain control. If Hell offered her power in exchange for freedom, that must’ve come as an unpleasant surprise.”
“I can’t say that I find myself feeling too terribly sorry for it,” her mother murmured.
NO ONE EVER DOES, Hell sighed.
“Do shut up. Now then, I think we’ve been in here long enough.” Martha took hold of her daughter’s arm and guided her up the stairs. “Hopefully, we’ll find out more from a thorough examination of Aunt Sara.”
GIVE HER OUR REGARDS.
“Don’t count on it”
“Well?” Austin asked from the top of the washing machine as they tightened the chains across the closed door. He had point-blank refused to go back into the furnace room.
“She wants to go see her,” Claire told him, pointing upward.
“You should take Dean with you.”
“Are you out of your mind? Has he been feeding you on the sly?”
The cat’s eyes narrowed. “Read my lips, he’s a part of this.”
“You don’t have lips.”
“A moot point. Your mother will have to meet him sooner or later.”
“She can meet him later.”
Martha started toward the other end of the basement “Are his rooms down here?”
“Yes, but…”
“Austin thinks we should take Dean, and I’m inclined to agree.”
Claire threw up her hands. “Mom, Austin thinks baby birds are a snack food.”
“What does that have to do with this?”
“Listen to your mother, Claire,” Austin murmured as he padded by.
She managed to resist kicking him and hurried to catch up, wishing she’d remembered that her mother’s professional opinion carried personal baggage along with it. “I don’t want Dean told about what’s in the furnace room.”
“You don’t think he deserves to know the truth?”
&nb
sp; “He knows there’s an accident site; telling him that he’s bedding down next to a hole leading to a classical manifestation of a Christian Hell will only compromise his safety.”
“In what way?”
“He’s a kid. Minimal defenses. The knowledge could give Hell access to his mind.”
“I think you’re afraid he’ll leave if you tell him,” Austin said, rubbing against the edge of a low shelf. “And you don’t want him to leave.”
“Of course I don’t want him to leave—he cooks, he cleans, I don’t. But neither do I want him blundering into situations he has no hope of understanding.” She turned to her mother. “He’s already in deeper than any bystander I’ve ever been in contact with. Isn’t that enough? How am I supposed to protect him?”
“If he’s been here since last February, I’d say he has pretty powerful protections of his own,” Martha said thoughtfully. “But you’re the Keeper, it’s your decision whether you tell him or not.”
“Then why isn’t this my decision?” Claire asked as her mother knocked at the basement apartment. She didn’t expect an answer, which was good, because she didn’t get one.
Dean came to his door holding a mop.
“Merciful heavens.” Unable to stop herself, Martha glanced down at his feet.
Claire hid a smile. It seemed clear that any member of the lineage meeting Dean for the first time couldn’t help but check for tangible evidence of how very grounded he was.
Completely confused, Dean set the mop to one side, scrubbed his palm off on his jeans, and held out an apprehensive hand. “Hello. You must be Claire’s mother.”
“That’s right I’m Martha Hansen.” Recovering her aplomb, she took his offered hand in a firm grip. “Pleased to meet you, Dean. Claire’s told me so little about you.”
Half expecting a female version of Augustus Smythe, Dean was pleasantly surprised to find there were no similarities whatsoever. Mrs. Hansen looked remarkably like many of the artists who spent their summers in the outports. She wore her long, graying hair pulled loosely back off her face, no makeup, baggy pants, a homespun vest over a turtleneck and the ubiquitous sandals. Dean wasn’t sure why sandals were considered artistic, but they certainly seemed to be. While a resemblance to the summer people wasn’t entirely a recommendation, working for Mr. Smythe had taught him it could’ve been a lot worse. “You’ve been in the furnace room already, then?”
