by Tanya Huff
Somehow, Dean managed to maintain enough control so he only gouged a three-foot, shallow, diagonal trench into the floorboards before he got the machine turned off. Ripping off his ear protectors with one hand and the dust mask with the other, he whirled around and yelled, “That’s not funny!”
Jacques waved a hand made weak by laughter. “You should see your face. If I am here another seventy years, I will never see anything so funny.” As Dean sputtered inarticulately, he started laughing harder.
“Why have you stopped? Have you finished?” Claire halted in the doorway, took in the tableau, and shook her head. “Jacques, pull yourself together!”
“For you, cherie, anything.” Continuing amusement kept his upper half vibrating and Jacques finally had to reach down, grab his jeans, and yank his legs back onto his torso.
“Was there an accident?”
“No, not an accident,” Dean growled. “The jerk suddenly showed up in front of me. Look at what he made me do to the floor! I should’ve run over his head.”
“Be my guest,” Jacques told him, still snickering.
“Jacques!”
The ghost set his head back on his shoulders.
“You know,” Claire told him pointedly, “just for the record, I don’t find that sort of thing attracti…” She jumped as an air raid siren began to sound. “Mrs. Abrams. I set up an alarm on the front steps to give us a little warning. Jacques, you’d better disappear.”
“Why can’t I meet this Mrs. Abrams?”
“Yeah, Boss, why can’t he?” Dean asked with feeling. “Why should we have all the fun.”
The siren shut off as the front door opened. “Yoo hoo!”
Jacques flinched and disappeared.
Suddenly inspired, Dean switched the sander back on.
As clouds of dust billowed up around him, Claire dragged herself reluctantly out to the front hall.
“Oh, there you are, dear.” Her voice rose easily over the background noise roaring out of the dining room. “As I was letting Baby out into his little area I heard horrible sounds coming from the back of this building and I rushed right over in case the whole ancient firetrap had begun coming down around your ears.”
Claire crushed an impulse to ask her what she would have done had it been. “We’re refinishing the floor in the dining room, Mrs. Ab…”
“Of course you are. Didn’t I say this fine old building needed a woman’s touch? So nice you have a strong young man around to do the work for you.” She darted purposefully down the hall, caroling, “I’ll just go and have a little look-see,” as she went.
For a woman of her age and weight, Mrs. Abrams moved remarkably quickly. The defensive line of the Dallas Cowboys might have been able to stop her, but Claire didn’t stand a chance without using power. With no time for finesse, she reached out and slammed to her knees.
Five feet out in front, Mrs. Abrams didn’t even notice.
Blinking away afterimages, Claire dragged herself up the wall. It’s that damn sander, she decided, perfectly willing to condemn it to the flames. How’s anyone supposed to concentrate through all that noise?
Innate good manners forced Dean to turn the sander off when Mrs. Abrams charged into the room.
“Mercy.” She coughed vigorously into a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. “It is dusty, isn’t it? And this room looks so small and dreary with no furniture in…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed just where the furniture was. “Oh, my. How did you ever…?”
“Clamps,” Claire told her. The older woman looked so relieved she could almost hear the sound of possibilities being discarded. Meeting Dean’s incredulous gaze, she shrugged—the gesture saying clearly, people believe what they want to believe.
A LIE!
A LIE IN KINDNESS. THEY CANCEL EACH OTHER OUT. NEITHER SIDE IS STRENGTHENED. NEITHER SIDE IS WEAKENED.
BUT…
INTENT COUNTS. Had anyone been there to overhear, they might have thought that Hell spoke through clenched teeth. IT’S IN THE RULES.
Suddenly inspired, Claire took hold of one polyester-covered elbow and turned the body attached to it back toward the front door. “You shouldn’t be in here without a dust mask, Mrs. Abrams. What would Baby do if you got sick?”
“Oh, I mustn’t get sick, the poor darling would be devastated. He’s so attached to his mummy.” Craning her head around, she took one last look at the dining room ceiling. “Clamps, you say?”
“How else?”
“Of course, clamps. How else would you be holding furniture on the ceiling. How very clever of you, Karen, dear. Have you heard from that horrible Mr. Smythe?”
“No, and my name isn’t…”
“He’s going to be so surprised at all you’ve done when he comes back. Are you going to open up the elevator?”
“The what?”
“The elevator. There’s one in this hall somewhere. I remember it from when I was a girl.”
Claire opened the front door, but Mrs. Abrams made no move to go out it.
“You ought to open the elevator up, you know. It would lend the place such a historical…” Her eyes widened as the sound of frenzied barking echoed up and down the street. She darted out the door. “What can be wrong with Baby?”
“The mailman?” Claire asked, following from the same compulsion that stopped drivers to look at car accidents on the highway.
“No. No. He’s long been and gone.”
They were side by side as they crossed the driveway. Claire, on the inside track, looked toward the back in time to see a black-and-white blur leap from the fence to the enclosure around the garbage cans to the ground and streak toward the hotel.
When Claire stopped running, Mrs. Abrams never noticed.
The noise coming from Baby’s little area—after a few years of Baby, it could no longer be called a yard in any domestic sense of the word—never lessened.
If the flames reflected on the copper hood were sullen before, they were downright sulky now.
IT ISN’T FAIR.
WHAT ISN’T?
THAT THE KEEPER SHOULD ALWAYS WIN. IF WE HAD ONLY PULLED HARDER. WE WERE SO CLOSE.
CLOSE! The repetition resounded in the heated air like a small explosion. CLOSE ONLY COUNTS IN HORSESHOES AND HAND GRENADES.
AND DANCING.
WHAT?
CLOSE DANCING.
SHUT UP.
SIX
“I WOULD LIKE A ROOM.”
Kneeling behind the counter, attempting to send a probe down into the mouse hole and settle the imp question once and for all, Claire felt icy fingers run along her spine. Shivering slightly, she carefully backed out from under the shelf and stood, curious to see if it was the customer or the possibility of actually renting a room that had evoked the clichéd response.
The woman on the other side of the counter was a little shorter than her own five feet five, with a close cap of sable hair, pale skin, and eyes so black it was impossible to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began.
Claire felt the pull of that dark gaze, found herself sinking into the dangerous embrace of shadow, jerked back, and said, “Room four?”
“How perceptive.” The woman smiled, teeth gleaming between lips the deep burgundy of a good Spanish port. “Where is the Cousin?”
“Gone. This is my site now.” It was almost, but not quite, a warning.
“I see. And should I worry that things have changed enough to need the monitoring of a Keeper?”
“You are in no more danger here than you ever were.”
“How fortunate.” The woman sagged forward, planted her elbows on the counter, and rubbed her eyes. “’Cause I’m bagged. You have no idea how much I hate traveling. I just want to dump my gear in the room and find something to eat.”
Claire blinked.
“Oh, come on.” Smudged mascara created raccoonlike circles on the pale skin. “Surely you hadn’t planned on continuing that ponderous dialogue?”
“Uh, I guess not.”
; “Good. ’Cause I’ll be staying the rest of the week, checking out Sunday evening if that’s cool with you. I’ve got a gig at the university.”
“Gig?”
“Engagement. Job. I’m a musician.” She stretched an arm across the counter, thin, ivory hand overwhelmed by half a dozen heavy silver bangles and the studded cuff of her black leather jacket. “Sasha Moore. It’s a stage name, of course. I do this kind of heavy metal folk thing that goes over big on most campuses.”
Her skin felt cool and dry and her handshake, while restrained, still put uncomfortable pressure on mere mortal knuckles.
There was power in a name and trust in the giving of it. Claire wasn’t certain how that applied in this case—while Keepers maintained a live-and-let-live attitude toward the vast bulk of humanity, they tended to avoid both actors and musicians; people who preferred to be in the public eye made them nervous—but she did know that her response would speak volumes to the woman maintaining an unbreakable grip on her hand. If the hotel was no longer a safe haven for her kind, Sasha Moore would want to know before dawn left her helpless.
“Claire Hansen.” Hand freed, she flipped open the registration book, and pulled a pen out of the Souvenir of Avalon mug on her desk. “Sign here, please.”
“Rates the same?”
Rates? Claire hoped she didn’t look as confused as she felt. Rates….
Sasha leaned against the counter, dark eyes gleaming. “Room rates?”
“Right. Of course.” She had no idea what the rates were, but it was important not to show weakness in front of a predator. “They’ve gone up a couple of dollars.”
“Couple of bucks, eh?” Her signature a familiar scrawl, the musician spun the register back around. Her smile held heat. “You’re not charging me for breakfast, are you?”
“Breakfast?” Unable to stop herself from imagining the possibilities, Claire’s voice rose a little more than was necessary for the interrogative.
“’Cause if you are, there’s nothing I like more than a big, juicy, hunk of…”
“Boss, there’s a red van parked out back. Do you know whose it is?”
As Dean stepped out into the entry hall, Sasha winked at Claire and turned gracefully to face him. “The van’s mine. I’m just checking in.”
About to apologize for interrupting, Dean found his gaze caught and held. For a moment, the world became a pair of dark eyes in a pale face. Then the moment passed. “I, I’m sorry,” he stammered, feeling his ears burn, “I didn’t mean to stare, but you’re Sasha…uh…”
“Moore.”
“Yeah, Moore, Sasha Moore, the musician. You were here last spring.”
“My, my, my. I must’ve made an impression.”
“You had a black van then. Late eighties, six cylinder, all season radials.”
“What a memory.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. So this was the h…cute guest from room four. She slapped the keys down on the counter and tried not to feel pleased when Dean jumped at the sudden sound.
Sasha’s smile broadened as she swept her attention back around to Claire. “I’ll just go get my stuff out of the van while you make up the room.”
“Make up the room?”
Dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “You are new at this, aren’t you? Sheets. Towels. Soap. The usual.” Her gaze turned speculative. “Which one of you will be making up the bed?”
Dean stepped forward. “I always did it for Mr. Smythe…”
Claire cut him off. “You’re in the middle of staining the floor. I’ll do it.”
“Since it doesn’t matter to me…”
Glancing over at Dean, Claire wondered if he heard the blithe innuendo.
“…you two argue it out. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the night before the front door had quite closed behind her.
“Making up the rooms is part of my job,” Dean explained, walking over to the counter and reaching for the keys. “Renovations are no reason to slack off my regular work.”
“Refinishing the dining room floor is hardly slacking off.” Claire snatched the keys out from under his hand. Realizing he remained unconvinced, she added, “The sooner that urethane’s done and dry, the sooner you’ll be able to deal with the mess.”
His eyes lit up at the thought of restoring the kitchen to its usual pristine state. “If you’re sure.”
“Believe it or not, I’m fully capable of making a bed and hanging up towels. Keepers are trained to be self-sufficient in the field.”
“Living off the land?” When she nodded, he frowned at the image that conjured up. “Hunting and fishing?”
“No. But I can locate a fast food restaurant within three minutes of arriving in a new area.”
He looked appalled.
“It’s a joke,” she pointed out curtly. “Although, ninety percent of all accident sites do occur in an urban environment. Some Keepers spend their entire lives in the same city, trying desperately to keep it from falling apart.”
“What about the other ten percent?”
“Big old houses in the middle of nowhere with at least one dead tree in the immediate area.”
“Why a dead tree?”
“Ambience.”
His smile was tentative and it disappeared entirely when she didn’t join in. “Not a joke?”
“Not a joke.” Closing the registration book, Claire came out from behind the counter. Dean was not going to be alone in that room when Sasha Moore returned and that was final—no matter what sorts of demanding tasks she had to perform. She was strong enough to resist the temptation the musician represented but he, however, was a man, and a young one, and expecting him to decline that kind of invitation on his own would be expecting too much. Whether or not he had succumbed during the previous visit was immaterial; this time, she was here to help. “Where do we keep the supplies?”
“In the supply cupboard.”
From anyone else, she’d have suspected sarcasm.
“I could wait here and help Ms. Moore carry her bags upstairs. She looked tired.”
Ms. Moore could carry you upstairs; one-handed. But that wasn’t Claire’s secret to reveal. “You know, the longer you leave that floor unattended the greater the odds are that Austin will take a walk and track dark oak stain all over the hotel.”
“He’d notice the floor was wet.”
“Of course he’d notice. He wouldn’t do it by accident.”
“But…”
“He’s a cat.” She waited until Dean started back toward the dining room then, jaw set for confrontation, headed upstairs.
“So she’s h…cute, is she?” Yanking out a set of single sheets, she piled them on top of the towels. “I don’t care if he’s been providing breakfast, dinner, and midnight snacks, it’s dangerous and it’s going to stop. I won’t have my staff snacked on.”
“Who is snacking on your staff?” Jacques floated down from the floor above and settled about an arm’s reach away. “And does that mean what it sounds like it means, or is it some prissy Anglais way to talk of what is more interesting?”
“It means what it sounds like it means.” Two small bars of soap were dropped on the pile. “Did I put one of your anchors in here?”
“Oui.”
“I wonder why I did that.”
“So we could have more time alone together?” He lifted a lecherous brow but at her protest pressed it back down onto his forehead. “Because you felt sorry for me?” His whole body got involved in looking mournful, shoulders slumped, gaze focused on the loose interlacing of his fingers.
Claire rolled her eyes at the dramatics but couldn’t help smiling.
Peering up through his hair, Jacques caught sight of the smile and flashed her an answering grin. “Ah. That is better, no? You should be in a happy mood. I am saved from the pit, and you…” He waved a hand at the gathered supplies. “…you have someone to stay at your hotel.”
“You seem to have recovered from this morning’s experience.
” Claire struggled toward the door, decided she was being ridiculous, wrapped the whole unwieldy pile in power and floated it out into the hall. “I expected the trauma to have lasted a little longer.”
Jacques shrugged. “A man does not allow himself to be held captured by his fears. Besides, as Austin reminds me, I am dead. The dead exist in the now; this morning is as years away. Tomorrow may never happen. When I am with you, only then do I think of a future.”
Which said something, something unpleasant, about the lingering effect of Aunt Sara. Not to mention country music lyrics.
Inside room four. Claire brought the bedding and towels and sundries to rest on the bureau and picked a small shaving mirror and stand up off the floor.
“What are you doing?”
“You can’t have access to rooms that guests are in.”
“Why not?”
“Because they might not like it.”
“How can they not like me?”
“You’re dead.” She set the mirror out in the hall and carried the towels into the bathroom.
“Hey, who’s the dead guy?”
The sound of the hall door closing brought Claire back out into the dressing room. “He’s none of your concern.”
“Count on it” She grinned and shrugged out of her jacket. “I don’t ask for much from my dates, but they do have to be alive. Now that piece of prime rib in your basement…”
“Stay away from him.”
“Why?” She polished nails much the same length and color as Claire’s against her black sleeveless turtleneck. “You think I’m too hard an act to follow?”
“I have no intention of following you or anyone else. I don’t know and I don’t care…” Claire ignored a raised ebony brow, obviously intended to provoke. “…about what happened when Augustus Smythe ran the site, but while I’m responsible, Dean Mclssac is under my protection.”
“Really? He seemed like a big…” A reflective moment later, she resumed. “…very big boy. And you’re not his guardian, Keeper, so chill. But, as it happens, I never feed in the crib unless things get desperate and, if that’s the case, your mother hen act will be the least of my problems. Besides, it’d be easier to throw myself on your mercy. After all, Keepers respond to need.” A startlingly pale tongue flicked over burgundy lips. “You’re what, O negative?”
