by Tanya Huff
“Dean…”
“You know where to find me if you want something unimportant taken care of.” Heels denting the floor, he stomped back to the kitchen.
“I told you so,” Austin muttered, still safely hidden under the desk.
“Told me what?” Claire asked, fingers white around the receiver.
“That Dean’s all bent out of shape about you pounding the mattress with Jacques.”
“Jacques wasn’t even mentioned!”
He stuck his head out and stared up at her in disbelief. “You really aren’t any good at this people stuff, are you?”
Just after ten, Professor Jackson checked out. He paid in cash and, although a number of smaller things had been broken the night before, he made no mention of them. Since, technically, Claire had broken them, she let it slide.
“I’ll just go up and clean the room, then, shall I, Boss?”
Claire’d been trying to think of a way to apologize—although in spite of a nagging feeling that she was in the wrong, she wasn’t sure for what—but Dean’s emphasis on that Boss changed her mind. She’d wait until he decided to stop being so childish.
At eleven, she tried Faith’s home number again. She’d left two previous messages on the answering machine, and when the same annoying little song came on telling her to not make a peep till the sound of the beep, she decided not to leave a third.
When Dean came downstairs at eleven-forty carrying a waste-basket full of broken lamp, the office was empty, but a thin man in a Thousand Islands baseball cap and jean jacket that looked two sizes too large was limping across the lobby. “Can I help you?”
He jerked around to face the stairs. Pale lips, under a sparsely settled mustache, lifted in what could have been a smile but was probably a twitch. “Hi. Yeah. I’m here for Faith.”
“Faith?”
“Yeah. I’m Fred.” The tip of his nose was an abraded pink that vibrated slightly with every word. “She’s not gone?”
“No.” Dean descended the last three steps and was disappointed to see that he still towered over Faith’s boyfriend. He’d been hoping for a big man, one he could flatten without guilt. “What happened to your foot?”
“My foot?” Eyes wide, Fred stared down as though amazed to see a foot on the end of his leg. “Oh. That foot. I had an accident, eh.” He laughed nervously. “Dropped a cash register on it. Hurts like hell.”
NOT QUITE. BUT IT COULD.
Dean set down the wastebasket and jiggled his baby finger in his right ear, anger momentarily swamped by confusion. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Nothing.”
DON’T YOU JUST WISH YOU COULD WIPE THIS KIND OF SCUM RIGHT OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH?
“Well, yeah, but that wouldn’t solve anything.”
“What?” Fred backed up a step, looking like a small rodent suddenly face to face with a very large cat.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“What?”
If Fred was a monster, Dean decided, he hid it well. On the other hand, a man facing a much larger man was often a different person than a man facing a woman. “Look, you wait here. I’ll check if Faith wants to see you.”
“Is she all right? Is she hurt? The message said she was just tired.” What seemed like near panic jerked the words out in a staccato rush.
“She’s fine.”
“Then why wouldn’t she want to see me?”
Dean sighed. “Just wait here, okay?”
Fred’s gaze skittered around the office as though checking for traps. When it finally got back to Dean, he nodded. “Okay.”
Shaking his head, Dean started up the stairs.
THOSE KIND OF WEASELS ARE THE FIRST TO PICK ON SOMEONE WEAKER THAN THEMSELVES. YOU SHOULD SHOW HIM HOW IT FEELS.
Dean’s fingers curled up into fists.
VIOLENCE IS ONE OF OURS.
Down in the lobby, Fred shifted his weight off his bad foot and stared mournfully at the stairs. He didn’t want to wait, he wanted to see Faith.
Which was when he noticed the elevator. A fascination for all things mechanical drew him across to it, limp almost forgotten. He opened the door, peered past the gate, down into the shaft, and could just make out the top of the car. It seemed to be in the basement.
Brow furrowed under the brim of his cap, he opened the door immediately to his left.
The basement stairs.
It was easier going down the stairs than up. He could take the elevator to the top of the hotel and go down to Faith’s room, missing the big guy with the glasses entirely.
No one would mind. Elevators were there to be used.
Leaning outside the door to room three while Faith put on her face, Dean polished his glasses with the hem of his shirt and tried not to think about how much he’d enjoy flattening Fred’s quivering pink nose.
ONE, TWO, SPLAT. THAT’S THE TICKET.
Lost in memories of a childhood spent riding the old elevator at the S&R Department Store, Fred touched two fingers to his cap brim, murmured, “First floor, ladies lingerie,” and twisted the brass lever to UP.
Sitting in the bathroom, reading the Apothecary’s new catalog, Claire heard the unmistakable sound of an ancient elevator starting up.
By the time she reached the lobby, it was just passing the first floor. She didn’t know the man inside.
Dean frowned as he heard the elevator rise to meet the second floor, then he shrugged. Claire’d said she was through testing, but obviously she’d thought of something else to try.
Then he heard:
“Second floor, housewares and cosmetics.”
By the time he got across the hall, all he could see was the bottom third of a pair of grimy jeans and Fred’s worn and grubby running shoes.
He had to beat the elevator to the third floor. If Fred opened the door…
HE’LL GET WHAT HE DESERVES. FAITH’S TERRIFIED OF HIM. YOU SAW THAT YOURSELF. THERE’LL BE ONE LESS ABUSIVE WEASEL IN THE WORLD.
Dean hesitated.
Then Faith’s door opened. When she stepped out into the hall and saw only Dean, her smile dimmed. “Where’s my Pookie?”
Claire reached the second floor and saw Dean charging toward her. Then past her. The elevator had passed and was still moving up. Gasping for breath, she took the next flight of stairs two at a time, but had only reached the landing when Dean, who’d barely looked as though he were touching down at all, reached the top.
The growl of the motor stopped.
Unless he was a total klutz, it would only take seconds for the man inside to open the gate. The taste of old pennies in the back of her throat, Claire staggered into the third floor hall as the elevator door started to open. Before the latch cleared, Dean threw himself in front of it and slammed it shut.
“Hey!”
Chest heaving, Claire staggered up on rubbery legs as Dean stepped back and, after making sure that it had indeed closed completely, pulled the door open.
“It’s just I’ve got this sore foot,” Fred began hurriedly. “And you know, the stairs are steep, and…”
Dean cut off the rest of the excuse by reaching in, grabbing the smaller man by the front of his jacket, and pulling him out into the hall.
“Pookie?” Faith’s anxious voice drifted up from the second floor. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, Baby, it’s me.” Fred smiled, or twitched, nervously, eyes flicking from Dean to Claire and back to Dean. “She calls me Pookie.”
“You must be the boyfriend,” Claire hazarded.
“Yeah. I’m Fred.”
She jerked her head toward the stairs. “Go on.”
Fred sidled out of Dean’s reach and limped quickly away.
Dean hadn’t moved since he pulled Fred from the elevator. Worried, Claire took a step toward him. “Are you okay?”
He lifted horrified eyes to her face. “I hesitated.”
“When?”
“When I heard the elevator go by. I heard a l
ittle voice say, he’ll get what he deserves, and I…” He shook his head in disbelief “…I hesitated.”
About to reassure him that it was no big deal, Claire suddenly realized that for Dean, it was. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t automatically done the right thing. If she couldn’t convince him to let it go, irrational guilt would eat at him for the rest of his life. That’s it, Claire, no pressure.
Wrapping her fingers around his forearm, she gave him a little shake. “You saved him, Dean. I couldn’t have gotten here in time.”
“You don’t understand. I actually thought about letting Fred…” Unable to continue, he shook free of her grip and stumbled back away from her.
Claire sighed. How unfortunate that smacking some sense into him would probably scar his psyche forever. “Dean, listen to me. I know you think I’m lousy at people stuff but I’m older, I’m a Keeper, I know; people think unworthy thoughts all the time.”
LIKE THE ONE WHERE HE’S ON HIS KNEES AND…
Shut up. “It doesn’t count if you don’t act on it.”
“But I hesitated.”
“And then you made up for lost time. Trust me, they cancel each other out.”
Dean forced a smile. “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, Boss, but nothing can cancel out what I’ve done.” The smile slipped. “I should go see if Faith needs my help.” Trailing misery behind him like streamers of smoke, he started for the stairs.
Which was when Claire realized…“Dean, did you say you actually heard a little voice?”
“Yeah.”
“How did it sound?”
Two steps down, he stopped and leaned back out into the hall. “Sound?”
“Can you describe it?”
“I guess.” He frowned, brows dipping down below the upper edge of his glasses. “It sort of sounded like it was talking in block caps.”
Should she tell him? Would it help? No. If Dean knew he was hearing the voice of Radio Free Hell, he’d be more convinced than ever that his hesitation had damned him. “Dean, do me a favor. If you hear the voice again, please ignore it.”
After a moment, he nodded. “Okay.”
A sudden shriek of laughter from below had them both clamping their hands over abused ears. Side by side, they hurried downstairs.
The second floor hall was empty so they kept going.
Inhaling his clean, fabric softener scent, Claire wasn’t thinking of either Fred or Faith. After nine months, she wondered, what had finally given Hell a way in?
In room six, directly across from the open elevator door, Aunt Sara licked her lips.
Baseball cap skewed, Fred pulled out of the clinch as Claire and Dean emerged from the stairwell. “You were so good to Faith, you oughta know; we’re giving up our life of crime.”
“Although it wasn’t really a life of crime,” Faith protested. “It was only two stores and we paid for them taco chips.”
“I think you’ve made a wise decision,” Claire told them, smiling. “What do you think, Dean.”
He shrugged and looked miserable. “I’m not one to say.”
Claire rolled her eyes. This I’m a horrible person stuff was going to get old, really fast. “But you’re glad they’ve decided to go straight, aren’t you?”
“Sure.”
That was good enough for Fred. “Thanks. Truth be told, we weren’t any good at it.”
Faith’s lower lip went out, making her look like a pouty angel. “We coulda practiced more, Pookie. Or got a gun.”
“No guns. People get hurt when you got a gun.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m takin’ that job with my cousin Rick.” Turning back to Claire and Dean, he added, “Rick’s got a truck, eh, and he hauls stuff.”
“You’re not gonna call the cops, are you?” Faith asked, leaning past him and twisting a curl around her finger.
“No.”
“See, Pookie, I told you they were good people.”
Dean winced.
Claire resisted the urge to stamp on his foot and give him something to wince about. Instead, she herded their modern Bonnie and Clyde to the front door and waved them out toward the waiting world. “Go home. Go straight. Be happy.”
At the bottom of the steps, Faith turned and smiled beatifically back in at Claire. “Thank you for letting me use the room and everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You figure their parents were cousins?” Austin asked when she closed the door.
“I have no idea.”
He yawned, stretched, and glanced over at Dean. “What’s with him? He looks like he just tried to kill somebody.”
Dean stared wide-eyed at the cat. “You can tell?”
Austin sighed and flicked an ear toward Claire. “What’s he talking about?”
“When he heard Fred going upstairs in the elevator, he hesitated before racing off to save him.”
“Not much point in removing only one of them,” Austin agreed.
“You’re not helping,” Claire snapped before Dean could react Crossing the lobby, she poked him in the chest. “Stop tearing yourself up over this. You aren’t a horrible person. You’ve got to be the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”
NICE GUYS FINISH LAST.
“Get out of my head.”
WE WEREN’T TALKING TO YOU.
Oh, Hell…
“Dean?”
“If you don t need me for anything, I’d like to go downstairs and do some serious thinking about my life.” He spun on one heel and hurried off before she could answer, which was probably a good thing since she couldn’t think of anything constructive to say.
Walking over to the counter, she scooped Austin up into her arms and stroked the top of his head with her cheek. “This is not good.”
“What? That after living unaffected next to Hell for almost a year, Dean spends a month and a half in your company and all of a sudden he’s willing to kill?”
“He hesitated! Then he saved the guy!”
“Face the facts, Claire, you’ve got him tied in knots. He’s not thinking, he’s reacting and that’s exactly the sort of situation Hell loves to exploit.”
THE CAT’S RIGHT.
“Of course I am; but who asked you?”
She set him back on the counter. “I’m not Dean’s problem.”
JEALOUSY IS ONE OF OURS.
“He said he was fine with me and Jacques.”
YOU’RE REALLY NOT A PEOPLE PERSON, ARE YOU?
“Take your own advice and stop listening to Hell.” Austin paused to lick at a bit of mussed fur. “Let Dean do his serious thinking, and maybe he’ll solve the problem on his own.”
“Cherie?”
“And speaking of problems.”
Shooting Austin a warning look, she turned to face Jacques. Translucent in the light from the office window, he looked exactly the way he had the first day she’d set eyes on him. She realized that she’d been expecting their night together to have changed him, but, unfortunately, it seemed to have changed only her perception of him—men were just so much more attractive when they were opaque.
“You are more beautiful this morning than I have ever seen you.” His eyes twinkled. It was a disconcerting effect since Claire could see the door through them. “I have been thinking. One night cannot balance so many years alone; perhaps this afternoon…”
“No.”
His grin faded. “But cherie, was I not all I promise I would be?”
“Yes, but…”
The grin returned. “Give me flesh again, and we will drive away the but.”
“Look, Jacques, you’re dead, so you have nothing to do, but I’m alive and I have…”
STRANGE TASTE IN MEN.
Shut up. “…responsibilities.”
Jacques looked interested. “Like what?”
“Like feeding the cat,” Austin declared in a tone that suggested he shouldn’t have had to mention it.
“And?” Jacques wondered.
“And that’s
not important right now. What’s important is that you’re dead and I’m alive…”
“Cherie, non.”
“…and no matter how many times I give you flesh, you’ll still be dead!” The words echoed in the empty lobby. From the look of pained betrayal on Jacques’ face as he dematerialized, he wouldn’t be back any time soon. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she sighed. “I just wanted him to…”
“Go away. And he did, congratulations.” Critically inspecting a front paw, Austin snorted. “I’m not sure this is as clean as it could be.”
Claire grabbed the edge of the counter, bent over, and rhythmically banged her head against the wood.
THAT WAS FUN.
THIRTEEN
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS, as the pipes banged out the news that Claire was in the shower, Dean wasn’t lost in daydreams of soap and water. Kneeling by the bed, he pulled out his old hockey bag, the only luggage he’d brought from back home. It was pretty obvious that Claire thought they could just go on as though he hadn’t been willing to murder Faith Dunlop’s boyfriend for no greater crime than being a total moron. Maybe she could, but that sort of thing changed a guy.
Changed the way he looked at himself.
Maybe it was time he moved on.
“I see Dean’s truck is gone.”
Claire picked up her breakfast dishes, stared at them for a moment, and then carried them over to the sink. “He left about ten minutes ago.”
Austin sat by his empty dish and curled his tail around his front feet. “He left without feeding the cat.”
“You have such a rough life.” She picked up a can and a knife and froze, eyes locked on the empty parking lot.
After a moment, Austin sighed. “Get a grip! He went for groceries, like he does every Saturday morning.”
“I know.” Under blouse and sweater, she could feel goose bumps lifting. “I just had this incredible sense of foreboding.”
“Which is nothing compared to what you’re going to have if you don’t feed the cat.”
“Can’t you feel it?” she asked, scooping food into his dish. “When I think of Dean, I get the feeling that events are poised on the edge of a precipice.”
