Summon the Keeper

by Tanya Huff

  Tossing his apron over the back of a chair, he walked quickly up the hall, ducked under the edge of the counter, and hesitated outside her door. If she’d gone back to sleep, she wouldn’t thank him for waking her. Maybe he should go away and wait a little longer.

  If, however, she were lying unconscious by the tub…

  Better she’s irritated than dead, he decided, took a deep breath, and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  It took a moment, but he finally spotted Austin on a pie-crust table beside a purple china basket of yellow china roses. “Is Claire…”

  “Here? No.”

  “She went out?” He hadn’t heard the front door.

  “No. She went in.”

  “In?”

  “That’s right. But I’m expecting her back any…” The cat’s ears pricked up and he turned to face the bedroom. “Here she comes. I hope she picked up those shrimp snacks I asked for.”

  Brow furrowed, Dean stepped forward. He could’ve sworn he heard music—horns mostly, with an up-tempo bass beat leading the way. Through the open door, he could see an overstuffed armchair and the wardrobe Mr. Smythe had used instead of a closet. Obviously Claire hadn’t quite caught on as her clothes were draped all over the chair.

  The music grew louder.

  The wardrobe door opened and Claire stepped out. Several strings of cheap plastic beads hung around her neck, and a shower of confetti accompanied every movement. She didn’t look happy.

  “What do you bet they were out of shrimp snacks,” Austin muttered.

  Glancing into the sitting room, the Keeper’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “Not you.” She dragged off the thick noose of beads and pointed an imperious finger at Dean. “Him.”

  “You were in the wardrobe.”

  It wasn’t a question, so Claire didn’t answer it “Don’t you ever knock?”

  “I did knock.” Flustered almost as much by the implication that he’d just walk in to her apartment as by her emergence from the wardrobe, Dean jerked his head toward the cat. “He told me to come in.”

  Austin stretched out a paw and pushed a pottery cherub onto the floor. It bounced on the overlap of three separate area rugs and rolled unharmed under the table.

  Claire closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she opened them again, she’d decided not to bother arguing with the cat— experience having taught her that she couldn’t win. Bending over, she flicked confetti out of her hair. “If that’s coffee I smell, I could use a cup. It isn’t safe to eat or drink on the other side.”

  “The other side of what?” Dean asked, relieved to see that the bits of paper disappeared before they reached the floor. Well, maybe relieved wasn’t exactly the right word. “Where were you?”

  “Looking for the Historian. The odds of actually finding her are better early in the morning before the day’s distractions begin to build.” Straightening, Claire scowled at the pile of beads. “I lost her trail at a Mardi Gras.”

  “In September?”

  “It’s always Mardi Gras somewhere.” She reached into her shirt to scoop confetti out of her bra, noticed Dean’s gaze follow the motion and turned pointedly around. So much for his grandfather’s training.

  Dean felt his ears burn. “It’s somewhere in the wardrobe?”

  “The wardrobe is only the gate.” When she turned back to face him and caught sight of his expression, she added impatiently, “It’s traditional.”

  “Okay.” First he’d ever heard that Mardi Gras in a wardrobe was traditional, but at least the music had stopped. If his life was after picking up a soundtrack, he’d prefer something that didn’t sound like a marching band after a meal of bad clams.

  “I could really use that coffee,” Claire prodded, taking his arm and propelling him toward the door.

  “Right.” Coffee, he understood, although, since he’d thought he understood wardrobes, coffee would probably also be subject to change without notice. “We, uh, we need to work out your meals.”

  “What’s there to work out? You do your job, I’ll do mine. You cook, I’ll eat.”

  “Cook what?” Dean insisted. “And when?”

  Suddenly aware she still had fingers wrapped around the warm, resilient curve of a bicep, Claire snatched her hand back. “I’ll eat anything, I’m not fussy, but I can’t cope with Brussels sprouts, raw zucchini, dried soup mixes, and anything orange. Except oranges.”

  “Anything orange except oranges,” he repeated “So carrots…”

  “Are out. For as long as I’m here, lunch at noon, supper at five-thirty, so I can watch the news at six. I’ll have cold cereal or toast for breakfast and that I can make myself.”

  “You’re after saving the world on a bowl of cold cereal?”

  “I’d really rather you didn’t start sounding like my mother,” she told him sharply, stepping out into the office just as the outside door opened.

  “Yoo hoo!” Clinging to the latch, Mrs. Abrams peered around the edge of the door. “Oh, there you are, dear!” She straightened and rushed forward. “You remember me…” It was a statement of fact “…Mrs. Abrams, one bee and an ess. You should keep this door locked, you know, dear. The neighborhood isn’t what it was when I was a girl. These days with all the immigrants you never know who might wander in off the street. Not that I have anything against immigrants—they make such interesting food, don’t you think?” Penciled eyebrows lifted dramatically toward a stiff fringe of bangs when she spotted Dean standing on the threshold behind Claire. “How nice that you two young people are getting along.”

  “What did you want Mrs. Abrams?” Claire didn’t see much point in asking her if she ever knocked.

  “Well, Kirstin…”

  “Claire.”

  “I beg your pardon, dear?”

  “My name is Claire, not Kirstin.”

  “Then why did you tell me it was Kirstin, dear?” Before Claire could protest that she hadn’t told her any such thing, Mrs. Abrams waved a dismissive hand and went on. “Never mind, dear, I’m sure anyone might get confused, first day at a new job and all. I stopped by because Baby heard something in the drive last night—it might have been burglars, you know, we could have all been murdered in our beds—and I had to come over and see that you were all right.”

  “We’re fine. I…”

  “I see you have a computer.” She shook her head disapprovingly, various bits of her face swaying to a different drummer. “You have to be careful about computers. The rays that come off them make you sterile. Has that nasty little Mr. Smythe returned yet?”

  Finding it extremely disconcerting to speak to someone whose eyes never settled in one place for more than a second or two, Claire came out from behind the counter. “No, Mrs. Abrams, he’s gone for…”

  “I remember how this place used to look, so quaint and charming. It needs a woman’s touch. I hope you realize that you can call on my services at any time, Karen dear. I could have been a decorator, everyone says I have the knack. I offered to give the place the benefit of my own unique skills once before, but do you know what that Augustus Smythe said to me. He said I could redecorate the furnace room.”

  Claire managed to stop herself from announcing that the offer was still open—although whether she was sparing Mrs. Abrams or Hell, she wasn’t entirely certain.

  “Have you done anything with the dining room, dear?”

  Short of a full tackle, Claire couldn’t see how she could stop Mrs. Abrams from heading down the hall.

  “I haven’t seen the dining room for years. I hardly ever set foot in here with that horrible man in…”

  Although dimmed by distance and masonry, Baby’s bark was far too distinctive to either miss or mistake.

  “Oh, dear, I must get back. Baby does so love to greet the mailman, but the silly fool persists in misunderstanding his playful little ways. Mummy’s coming, Baby!”

  Claire rubbed her temples, throwin
g an irritated glance at Dean as he finally stepped off the threshold and closed the door to the sitting room. “You were a lot of help.”

  “Mrs. Abrams,’’ Dean told her with weary certainty, “doesn’t listen to men.”

  “I doubt Mrs. Abrams listens to anyone.”

  The barking grew distinctly triumphant.

  “I’m not criticizing,” Claire said stiffly, ducking back under the counter and going to the front window, “but why wasn’t the front door locked?”

  Dean followed her. “I unlock it every morning when I get up. For guests.”

  They winced in unison as Mrs. Abrams could be heard shrilling, telling Baby to let it go—where it did not refer to the mailbag.

  “Were you actually expecting guests?”

  “Not really,” he admitted.

  The mailman made a run for it.

  “I can’t say as I’m surprised.” As she left the office, a wave of her hand indicated the cracked layers of paint on the woodwork and the well-scrubbed but dingy condition of the floor. “This place doesn’t exactly make a great first impression.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “Do?” Claire turned to face him and was amazed to find him looking at her as though she had the answers. Behind him, Austin looked amused. “We aren’t going to do anything. I’m going to work at sealing this site. You…” About to say “You can do whatever it is you usually do on a Tuesday,” she found she couldn’t disappoint the anticipation in his eyes. “Since it’s not raining, you can get started on repainting that G on the sign.”

  With the site journal soaking in a clarifying solution, Claire spent the morning going through the rest of the paperwork in the office. By noon, the recycling box was full, her hands were dirty, and she had two paper cuts as well as a splitting headache from all the dust.

  She’d found no new information on either Sara, the hole, or the balance of power maintained between them. Someone, probably Smythe, had scrawled, the Hell with this, then in the margin of an old black-and-white men’s magazine and that was as close as she’d come to an explanation.

  “What a waste of time.”

  “Some of those old magazines are probably collectible.”

  Claire’s lip curled. “They’re not exactly mint.”

  “Good point.” Gaze locked on her fingers, Austin backed away. “You’re not planning on touching me with those filthy things, are you?”

  “No.” She dropped her hands back to her sides. “You know what the worst of it is? I have to go through Smythe’s suite, too. There’s no telling what he’s crammed in there over the last fifty-odd years.”

  “No point in picking the lock if there’s a chance of finding the key,” the cat agreed.

  “Spare me the fortune cookie platitudes.” Searching for at least the illusion of fresh air, Claire walked over to the windows. Outside, the wind hurried up the center of the street, dragging a tail of fallen leaves, and directly across the road two fat squirrels argued over a patch of scruffy lawn. It was strange to feel neither summons nor site. Because of the shields, she had to keep reminding herself that this was real, that she shouldn’t be somewhere else, doing something else.

  The sound of Dean’s work boots approaching turned her around to face the lobby.

  “Hey, Boss, find anything?”

  “No more than on the last two times you asked.”

  “Would lunch help?”

  “Helps me,” Austin declared, leaping down off the counter.

  Claire’s stomach growled an agreement Outvoted, she started toward the door to Smythe’s old suite. “Just let me wash up fir…” The sound of her shin cracking against the bottom drawer of the desk drowned out the last two letters. Grabbing her leg, she bit back her first choice of exclamation, and then her second, and then there really didn’t seem to be much point in a third.

  “Are you okay, Boss?”

  “No, I’m not okay.” Air whistled through clenched teeth. “I’m probably crippled for life.”

  A LIE!

  AN EXAGGERATION.

  CAN’T WE USE IT ANYWAY? Hell asked itself hopefully.

  OH, DON’T BE SUCH A GIT.

  “And you know what the worst of it is?” The question emerged like ground glass. Claire tugged her jeans up above the impact point “I closed the drawer. I know I closed the drawer.”

  Obviously, she hadn’t but Dean knew better than to argue with a person in pain. “Here, let me look at that then.” Ducking under the counter, he dropped to one knee and wrapped his hand around the warm curve of Claire’s calf.

  Her first inclination was to pull free. Her second…

  NOW THAT WE CAN USE.

  Reminding herself of the age difference, she banished the thought.

  DAMN.

  “You didn’t break the skin, but you’ll have some bruise.” Stroking one thumb along the end of the discoloration, he looked up at her and forgot what he was about to say.

  “Dean?”

  The world shifted most of the way back into focus. “Liniment!”

  “No, thank you. You can let go of me now.”

  Feeling his ears begin to burn, he snatched both hands away, then, suddenly unable to cope with six inches of bare skin, lightly stubbled, reached out again and yanked her jeans back down into place.

  “Watch it!” One hand clutching her waistband, she grabbed his shoulder with the other to stop herself from falling.

  Stammering apologies, Dean stood.

  Things got a little tangled for a moment.

  When a minimum safe distance had been achieved, Dean opened his mouth to apologize yet again and found himself saying instead, “What’s that noise?”

  “It’s a cat,” Claire told him. “Laughing.”

  Claire refused to be constrained over lunch. So what if Dean kept his gaze locked on the cream of mushroom soup, that was no reason for her to act like a twenty-year-old. Biting into a sandwich quarter, she swept a critical gaze around the dining room.

  “This is ugly furniture,” she announced after chewing and swallowing. “In fact, it’s an ugly room.”

  Grateful for a change of subject, even though the original subject hadn’t actually been broached, or even defined, Dean acknowledged the pitted chrome and worn Naugahyde with a shrug. “Mr. Smythe wouldn’t buy anything new.”

  “It’s not new we need.” Claire tapped a fingernail thoughtfully against the table. “I’ll deny this if you repeat it, but Mrs. Abrams gave me an idea that could bring in more guests.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Austin asked, jumping up onto an empty chair. “You’re a Keeper, remember? You have a job.”

  “And I’ll do my job, thank you very much,” she snapped, turning to glare at him. “But a short break before I face the chaos in that sitting room won’t bring about the end of the world.” She paused and considered it a moment. “No. It won’t. Besides, I have no intention of allowing this hotel to slide any farther into oblivion during my watch. There’s a hundred things that need to be done, that should’ve been done years ago. If Augustus Smythe had kept busy, he’d have been happier.”

  The cat snorted. “Have you seen the rest of those postcards? He kept plenty busy.”

  “He kept one hand busy at best.” Claire put down her spoon and folded her arms. “He was a disgusting little voyeur. Is that how you suggest I fill my time?”

  “Actually, I was about to suggest you share your soup with the cat.”

  “I still don’t understand what we’re doing.” Dean twisted the key around in the attic lock and dragged the door open. “There’s nothing up here but junk.”

  “The furniture in the dining room is junk,” Claire amended. “The furniture in the attic is antique.” Switching on the larger of the two flashlights, she ran carefully up the spiral stairs.

  Dean watched her climb, telling himself it wasn’t safe to have both of them on the stairs at once and almost believing it. When she stepped off the top tread into the attic, he followed her
up.

  “Look at all this!” Although sunlight streamed in through the grime on the windows, the volume of stored furniture kept most of the attic in shadow. The flashlight beam picked out iron bedsteads, washstands, stacks of wooden chairs, lamp shades dripping with fringe, and rolls of patterned carpet. “Nothing’s been thrown away since the hotel opened.”

  “And nothing’s been cleaned since it was put up here.”

  Thankful that they’d found the accident site before they’d had to spend days shifting clutter, Claire turned the flashlight on her companion. “What is it with you and this obsessive cleaning thing?”

  “It’s not obsessive.”

  “It’s not normal.” She pointed the flashlight beam toward room six, one floor below. “You even wanted to dust her.”

  “So?” Reaching down, Dean effortlessly shifted one end of a carpet roll out of his way. “My granddad always said that cleanliness was next to godliness.”

  Cleanliness was living next to a hole to Hell, but Claire hadn’t changed her mind about letting him know it. Not even if he flexed that particular combination of muscles again. “See if you can find the old furniture from the dining room.”

  “From the look of this place, we’d be as likely to find the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail.”

  She shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  Squeezing past a steamer trunk plastered with stickers from a number of cruise ships, including both the Titanic and the Lusitania, Claire worked her way toward the back of the building. It was farther than it should have been; one of the earlier Keepers had obviously borrowed a little extra Space.

  Well, I hope they kept the receipt.…Out of the corner of one eye, she saw a bit of red race along the top of a wardrobe and disappear behind a pink-and-gray-striped hatbox. “Oh, no.”

  “Trouble, Boss?” She could hear furniture shoved aside as Dean struggled toward her.

  “Not exactly, but I saw something; moving very fast. Unfortunately, it would take at least two hours of excavation or an Olympic gymnast to get to the spot.”

  The sound of distant movement ceased. “It was just a mouse. There’s prints and turds all over up here.”