by Tanya Huff
“I spent the afternoon watching tabloid talk shows.” She crossed the kitchen to stand by the table. “Now I feel slightly nauseated but better about my life.”
“I think that’s the idea.”
Rubbing her temples with the heels of her hands, Claire snorted. “I certainly hope so. My mother send her regards, and my sister wants to know how you feel about European trawlers depleting the Grand Banks, but since she’s only trying to start a political argument, you don’t actually have to answer her.” She picked up a package that smelled unmistakably of turkey. “What’s this?”
“Thanksgiving dinner. I packed up some of the leftovers. The potatoes are cooked to a chuff, but you can’t tell under the gravy.”
When he got a plate and began arranging food on it, Claire folded her arms and shook her head. Only a young man could eat a full meal, then sit down and eat another. “I thought you were—How did it go—all chuffed out?”
“I am. This is for you.” The feel of the answering silence drew his attention up off the food. “That is, if you haven’t eaten. I mean, I don’t even know if you like turkey. It’s just that this was my first Thanksgiving away from home and I know how lonely I would’ve been without my friends and I thought that, well, that you should have some Thanksgiving dinner.” Flustered, unable to read her expression, he spilled the gravy.
The accident and the subsequent wiping and rewiping and polishing gave Claire a chance to swallow the lump in her throat. There were a number of things she wanted to say, but after the day’s emotional ups and downs, she didn’t think she could manage any of them without bursting into tears—and Keepers never cried in front of bystanders. With the table restored to a pristine state, she reached out and touched Dean lightly on the arm. “Thang you,” she said. “Thang you vera much.”
THAT BOY IS SO NICE HE’S NAUSEATING. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WE CAN TEMPT HIM WITH.
WE’VE TRIED. HE DOESN’T LISTEN.
ISN’T THAT JUST LIKE A MAN.
NOT WHERE WE’RE CONCERNED, Hell told itself tartly.
The next morning, Claire found a pair of Dean’s underwear hanging off the doorknob as she left her suite. The imp must’ve spent the entire night dragging them up from the laundry room in the basement.
“I hope you gave yourself a hernia,” Claire muttered, pulling them free.
Briefs, not boxers. Navy blue with white elastic.
“Boss?”
They wouldn’t mash down into a small enough ball to bide. Keeping her right hand and its contents behind her, Claire turned. “What?”
“We’ve got lots of eggs, and I have to use them. I wondered if you wanted me to make you some for breakfast.”
“Fine.”
“How do you want them?”
“I don’t care.” He was wearing one of his brilliant white T-shirts and jeans, totally unaware of how good he looked. Briefs not boxers. Given how tightly his jeans fit she should have been able to figure that out on her own.
“Scrambled?”
“Fine.”
“With garlic and mushrooms?”
“Whatever.”
Dean frowned. “You all right?”
“Fine.”
He leaned left.
She shuffled just enough to cut down his line of sight “Was there anything else?”
“Uh, no. I guess not.”
“Good. You go ahead.” Her right arm started forward to wave him away but she stopped it in time. “Go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Shaking his head, Dean disappeared down the hall.
Twenty years old, Claire reminded herself whacking the back of her skull against the door.
The hollow boom of the impact echoed throughout the first floor.
“Boss?”
“It’s nothing,” she called. Rubbing the rising bump, she contemplated doing it again. She’d had the perfect opportunity to prove the existence of the imp. There could be no other explanation for the underwear delivered to her door. So why, she wondered, had she acted like such an idiot?
“It’s this place; it’s messing with my head.” Opening the door, she tossed the underwear into the sitting room. She’d figure out a way to get them back into Dean’s laundry, later.
“Souvenir?” Austin asked as the briefs sailed by and landed on Elvis.
“Thang you, thang you vera much.”
“You can both just shut up.”
“They put over the top, how do you say…plaster board?” Jacques announced, pulling his head back out of the wall. “But the works for the elevator, they are all here.”
“Should I start uncovering it?” Dean asked eagerly.
Claire shrugged. “Why not.”
“Great, I’ll go get my hammer.”
“And what will you be doing, cherie,” Jacques asked as Dean ran off, “while he bangs out his frustrations on the wall?”
“I don’t think Dean has frustrations.” She ducked under the counter flap, heading for the phone. “But to answer your question, I’m going to finish packing Augustus Smythe’s knick-knacks away.”
“To make the place your own, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So you are reconciled to staying here?”
An empty cardboard box dangling from one hand, she paused on the threshold, unwilling to take the final, symbolic step into the sitting room. “I might as well be, I haven’t any other choice.”
“You are needed here, Claire.”
When she turned, he was standing right behind her. A step forward would take her right through him. His eyes had gone very dark and he was wearing the smile that made her stomach feel like she’d swallowed a bug.
“I could reconcile you.” His hand caressed the air by her cheek. “It would take so little power.”
At first Claire thought that the bells she heard were the ringing of desire in her ears, but then, over Jacques shoulder, she saw the front door open.
“Yoohoo!”
She stepped forward, teeth gritted against the chill, Jacques de-materializing as she moved. There was no way Mrs. Abrams could’ve missed seeing him.
“Did you see that, Carlee, dear?”
“See what?” Claire asked.
“Nothing. Never mind. Of course you didn’t.”
Prepared for an argument, or possibly even hysterics, her satisfied chuckle confused Claire completely.
“I just came in to tell you that you’ve got guests. Two young men. I was on my way in from my Tuesday morning hair appointment—I like to get there early, you know, before poor dear Sandra gets tired—and I saw their car go up the driveway and I knew you’d want to know immediately. That’s funny.” Head cocked, she swiveled it about like an orange bouffant radar dish. “I don’t hear Baby. He does so love to welcome your guests as they get out of their cars in the parking lot.”
“Does he welcome them the way he welcomes the postman?” Claire wondered.
“Don’t be silly, dear, there’s a fence in his way. I’d best go check on the poor thing.” Pausing on the threshold, she pointed back toward the gleaming oak counter. “You should put some paint on that dear. All that bare wood looks somewhat indecent don’t you think?”
The two young men weren’t much taller than Claire, although they had a wiry build and self-confident grace that suggested their height had never been an issue. Both had sharply pointed features, an eyebrow lying across each forehead with no discernible break, and short dark hair that picked up the light as they moved so that it seemed the very end of each individual hair had been dipped in silver.
Claire relaxed as a quick dip into identical gray eyes showed not only a lack of evil intent but that they carried significantly less darkness than the general population.
“You guys twins?” Dean asked, wandering over to the counter, hammer in hand.
“Actually,” said one.
“We’re triplets,” said the other. “I’m Ron, never Ronald since that clown came on the scene, and this is my brother Reg. We’re i
n town for the sportsman’s show that’s at the Portsmouth Center this week.”
“Randy had a previous commitment,” Reg explained with a toothy grin. “But we’d like a room. Our grandfather stopped here some years ago, and he spoke very highly of the place.”
Must’ve been before Augustus Smythe took over, Claire thought When Dean glanced her way, she had to hide a grin. It was obvious he was thinking the same thing. “All of our rooms are doubles,” she told them making a mental note to have Jacques search the attic for a set of twin beds. “If you mind sharing, we could give you a deal on two rooms.” It wasn’t like the second room would be needed for other guests.
“Sharing’s fine.”
They were in constant motion and she’d lost track of which was which. “Breakfast is included in the price.”
“Great but all we really need you to do is…”
“…throw half a dozen raw eggs into a blender.”
“We’re in training.”
For what? Salmonella? But they were guests, so all she said aloud was, “Well, if you’ll give us a few minutes, we’ll get room one ready for you.”
“No hurry.”
“We’re going for a run down by the lake.”
“We’ve been on the road since dawn and…”
“…we don’t do so well sitting still that long.”
“We’ll be back in about an hour.”
Ron, or possibly Reg, grinned up, way up, at Dean. “See you later, big fella.”
Reg, or as it were, Ron, nodded at Claire. “Ma’am.”
They bounded out the door together. Claire had never seen anyone over the age of three actually bound before. Feeling a little out of breath, although she hadn’t moved from behind the counter during the entire exchange, she wondered just when exactly she’d become a ma’am.
“Cool guys,” Dean said. “Lots of energy. Should I go up and do the room?”
And was Boss really any better?
“Boss?”
Not really. “Why not? Has to be done.”
She walked over to the desk as he went upstairs and dropped into the chair. Keep your distance, she reminded herself. The way things have turned out, he’ll be moving on long before you do.
When Austin came into the office a few minutes later, she was sulkily updating the day’s noninformation into the site journal. “What’s with you?” she asked, noticing the cat’s bottle brush tail, and half open mouth.
“Something stinks,” he growled. “I smell dog.”
“Two guests just registered.” She hadn’t noticed any particular odor, but if the twins were competing at the sportsman’s show perhaps that meant they worked with dogs.
“It’s coming from over here.”
Rolling her eyes, Claire got up to peer over the counter at him.
“And it’s not dog.”
He was sniffing the spot where Reg, or possibly Ron, had stood to sign the register.
“Then what is it?”
“Werewolf.”
WEREWOLVES?
THERE WOLVES. THERE CASTLE.
The silence that fell in the furnace room was the sort of anticipatory silence that fell just before a smack. In this particular case, it wasn’t so much a smack as total, all encompassing destruction.
The silence continued a moment longer, then a very small voice said, OW.
NINE
“THE SEEPAGE IS BUILDING UP AGAIN.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Claire pulled on a sock. “I can feel the buzz beginning.”
Austin yawned. “What’re you going to do about it.”
“I don’t know. I can stop the buzz by using it—which’ll make Hell happy—or I can endure it and go slowly nuts—which’ll also make Hell happy. There’s got to be an alternative.”
“I’ll let you know if I think of one.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “You do that”
“You going after the Historian this morning?”
Already halfway out the door, she threw an irritated, “What’s the point?” back over her shoulder.
“Boss? You busy?”
Claire looked up from writing Smythe;junk on the outside of the sixth box of assorted odds and ends, mostly ends, she’d cleared from the sitting room. “Not exactly, no.”
“Can I talk to your?”
“I think I can spare a moment.” When he frowned, clearly considering the actual time he’d need, Claire sighed. “Figure of speech, Dean. What did you want to tell me?”
“Well, I was upstairs, wiping down the molding…”
She leaned slightly toward him, as though proximity would help the statement make more sense. “You were what?”
“Wiping down the molding. The trim around the doors,” he expanded with an indulgent smile when she continued to look confused. “It collects dust I didn’t get to it last week because of the renovations. Anyway, you know the two guys in room one; the twins?”
“The triplets.”
“Okay.”
Claire managed to rearrange her face into her most neutral expression. “What about them?”
“I don’t want to get them into trouble or anything, but they came in some late last night and I thought I heard it then, I just wasn’t sure.”
“Thought you heard what?”
“A dog.”
“A dog?” Moving quickly to the counter, Claire swept Austin up into her arms before he could say anything.
“Yeah. And just now, I’m pretty sure I saw half a muddy paw print. I mean, if they’re smuggling a dog into their room…”
Austin started to snicker.
“…we ought to say something when they come back tonight because it’s not necessary.”
“What isn’t necessary?” She shifted the cat’s weight. He was laughing so hard he was becoming difficult to hold.
“Hiding the dog. You don’t mind if they bring in a pet, do your?”
“No. I don’t.” Which was as much as she could manage with a straight face.
“A dog?” The twins exchanged identical smiles. “No,” Ron continued, “we don’t have a dog.”
Dean frowned. “But I heard…” He faltered, caught and held by two pairs of frank gray eyes. They were telling the truth, he’d bet his life on it. “I guess maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re welcome to come up and search the room,” Reg offered.
“Any time,” Ron added suggestively, brows rising and falling.
“No, that’s okay.” Feeling a little like he’d missed the punch line of a joke everyone else found incredibly funny, Dean shrugged. “I, well, we, that is the hotel, wanted you to know we don’t mind animals in the rooms, that’s all.”
“Nice to hear. We’ll remember that…”
“…if we’re by this way again.”
“What’s the lovely young man going to think of you when he finds out you’ve been lying to him?” Claire’s reflection asked.
“I haven’t been lying.” She’d switched to a clear lip gloss on those days she wasn’t able to use the mirror. It was faster than waiting to see what she was doing.
“You didn’t tell him about the vampire, you’re not telling him about the werewolves…” The reflection traced a dark red clown frown a quarter inch from her lips.
“But I’m not lying. If he asks…”
“And he’s so likely to ask, isn’t he? You promised, no more secrets.”
“These aren’t my secrets.”
“We think it’s sweet that you’re trying to protect him.”
Claire blinked, a little confused by the sudden change of topic. “What are you talking about?”
“You know. He’s just a kid. Let’s keep him safe. He’ll thank you for it later.”
No one did sarcasm quite like Hell.
When the twins left later that morning, they took three trophies with them. Although he only saw them from a distance, all three seemed to have a figure of a dog as part of the design. Dean decided not to ask.
“Boss, can I talk to yo
u?”
Breathing heavily through her nose, Claire leaned out from behind her monitor. “What, again?”
“If this is a bad time…”
“A bad time? Would you like to see a bad time?” She waved him under the counter and around to her side of the desk. “Once, just once, I leave the wards off,” she continued as he approached, “…and this is what happens.”
“You spilled a cup of coffee on your keyboard?” Dean shook his head sympathetically. “That’s rough.”
“I didn’t spill it.”
“And don’t look at me,” Austin advised him from the top of the counter.
“It was the imp.” Claire made a valiant attempt to unclench her teeth and nearly succeeded.
“Where’d it get the coffee?”
“I left my mug sitting here, half full, when I went in to lunch.” It didn’t need a Keeper to work out the cause of the two vertical lines over the bridge of Dean’s glasses. He’d probably never left a half a cup of anything sitting around. He’d probably never even left a dirty cup sitting in the sink. “I forgot it was there, all right?”
“Sure.” Head bent, hands dwarfing the keyboard as he gently twisted it from side to side, he remained unaware that the full force of her mood had turned in his direction. “Can’t you drain it?”
“No.” She felt as though she’d slammed into an affable brick wall—and had about as much effect as if she’d run full tilt into a real one. “It’s already dry. Half a dozen of the keys aren’t working.” The wheels on the old chair shrieked a protest as she shoved it away from the desk. “I suppose I can write the stupid site journal out by hand, but it’s a little difficult to build a database without a…”
Something small, something crimson and cream, raced along the wall under the window.
Claire snatched up the empty mug and flung it with all her might.
She missed.
The mug smashed into a hundred pieces.
