Summon the Keeper

by Tanya Huff

  “Your granddad was very wise.”

  “Sometimes,” Dean allowed, grinning.

  Without really knowing how it happened, Martha found herself grinning back. “To finish answering your actual question, the site we monitor is too porous to be sealed—think T-shirt fabric where it should be rubberized canvas—so there’s constant mopping up to do. I do the fieldwork, and my husband teaches high school English.”

  “Teaching high school doesn’t seem very…” He paused, searching for a suitable word.

  “Metaphysical?” Martha snorted, sounding like both her daughter and the cat. “Is it possible you’ve already forgotten what it’s like to be a teenager?”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine, Mom.” Claire reached out and fixed the collar on her mother’s windbreaker as the early morning sun fought a losing battle with a chill wind blowing in off Lake Ontario. “And don’t worry. I’ll monitor the situation while I gather the information I need to shut it down.”

  “I would never worry about you not fulfilling your responsibilities, Claire, but it took two Keepers to create the loop. What if it needs two Keepers to close it?”

  “Then I’ll monitor the situation until the other Keeper shows up. This is not going to be my final resting place.”

  Because even Keepers needed the comfort of hope, Martha changed the subject. “Be nice to Dean. He’s exactly what he seems to be, and that’s rare in this world.”

  “Don’t worry about Dean. Austin’s on his side.”

  “Austin’s on the side of enlightened self-interest.” A pair of vertical lines appeared above the bridge of Martha’s nose. “I think you’ll manage best with Dean if you treat him like a Cousin.”

  “A Cousin?” She stared at her mother in astonishment. “He’s a nice kid, Mom, but…”

  “He’s not a kid.”

  “Well, not technically and certainly not physically, but you’ve got to admit he’s awfully young.”

  “And how old were you when you sealed your first site?”

  “That’s beside the point. He’s not of the lineage.”

  “No, he’s not, but he is remarkably grounded in the here and now, and he’s going to be your main support. The less you hide from him, the more he’ll be able to help.”

  “Mother, I’m a Keeper. I don’t need help from a bystander. All right,” she went on before her mother could speak, “I need his help running the guest house but not for the rest.”

  “Just try to be nice to him, that’s all I ask.” She gripped Claire’s hands in both of hers. “If you must check the contact points of the loop, be very, very careful. You don’t want to wake her up, and you don’t want to believe anything they tell you. Don’t lose track of time when you’re searching for the Historian; you know what’ll happen if you come back before you’ve left. Try and make Austin stick to his diet, and you should eat more, you’re too thin.”

  Claire opened her mouth to argue but said instead, “Here’s your ride,” as a battered cab pulled up in front of the guest house and honked.

  “If you need me, call.” She frowned as the cabbie continued to hit his horn, the irregular rhythm echoing around the neighborhood. “Would you do something about that, Claire?”

  The echo gave one last, feeble honk, then fell silent.

  “Thank you. Come to think of it, even if you don’t need me, call. Your father’s likely to be worried about you being in such proximity to the hole in the furnace room.”

  “There’s really no need to tell him about Hell, Mom.”

  “He’s teaching in the public school system, Claire. He knows about Hell.”

  Standing in the open doorway, Claire released her hold on the horn as the cab pulled away. Through the broad back window of the vehicle, she could see her mother giving emphatic instructions. If the driver thought he knew the best way to the train station, he was about to discover he was wrong.

  At the last possible moment, Martha turned and waved.

  Claire waved back.

  “So. It seems I own a hotel.” A distraction, something to keep her mind off what was in the furnace room. “Who knows,” she said with more resignation than enthusiasm. “It might be fun.”

  Raising her body temperature enough to fight the chill, she went down to have a look at the sign. To her surprise, her first impression had been correct. The sign actually said “Elysian Fields ’uest House,” the “g” having disappeared. “Dean’s going to have to repaint this.” She frowned. “I wonder what I’m paying him?”

  A low growl drew her attention around to the building on the other side of the driveway. An apple-cheeked, old woman with brilliant orange hair, wearing a pale green polyester pant suit and a string of imitation pearls, stood on the porch, waving at her enthusiastically. Also on the porch was the biggest black-and-tan Doberman Claire had ever seen.

  “Hello, dear!” the woman caroled when she saw she had Claire’s attention. “I’m Mrs. Abrams—that’s one b and an ess— who are you?”

  “I’m Claire Hansen, the new owner of the guest…”

  “New owner? No, dear, you can’t be.” Her smile was the equivalent of a fond pat on the head. “You’re much too young.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The tone could stop a political canvasser in full spate. It had no effect on Mrs. Abrams.

  “I said you’re too young to be the owner, dear. Where’s Augustus Smythe?” She leaned forward, peering around like she suspected he were hiding just out of sight. The Doberman mirrored her move—twitching as though anxious to get down and check it out personally.

  Claire fought an instinctive urge to back up and held her ground. “Mr. Smythe’s whereabouts are none of your con…”

  “None of my concern?” A flick of her hand and a broad smile took care of that possibility. “Of course I’m concerned, you silly thing; I live next door. He’s avoiding me, isn’t he?”

  “No, he’s gone, but…”

  “Gone? Gone where, dear?”

  “I don’t know.” When Mrs. Abrams’ expression indicated profound disbelief, Claire found herself adding, “Really, I don’t.”

  “Well.” The single word bespoke satisfaction that years of suspicions had finally been justified. “They took him away, did they? Or did he run before they arrived? If truth be told, I can’t say as I’m surprised.” She fondled one of the dog’s ears. The twitching grew more pronounced. “You would never, not ever, hear me say anything against anyone—live and let live is my motto, I’m very active in my church’s Women’s Auxiliary you know, they couldn’t get along without me—but Augustus Smythe was a nasty little man with an unnatural dislike of my poor Baby.”

  Showing more teeth than should’ve been possible in such a narrow head, Baby’s growl deepened.

  “Would you believe that he actually had the nerve to accuse my Baby of doing his business in your driveway?” Her voice dropped into caressing tones. “As if he didn’t have his own little toilet area in his own little yard. He didn’t repeat those vile and completely unfounded accusations to you, did he, dear?”

  It took Claire a moment to straighten out the pronouns. “He did mention…”

  “And you didn’t believe him, did you, dear? I’m afraid to say that he told a lot of, well, lies—-there’s no use sugar coating it. I don’t know what else he told you, Caroline…”

  Claire opened her mouth to protest that her name was not actually Caroline but couldn’t manage to break into the flow of accusation.

  “…but you mustn’t believe any of it.” A plump hand pressed against a polyester-covered, matronly bosom. “Now, me, I’m not like some people in this neighborhood, I mind my own business, but that Augustus Smythe…” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone Claire had to strain to hear. “He not only lied, but he kept secrets. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had unnatural habits.”

  Neither would Claire, but she was beginning to feel more sympathetic. No wonder Baby twitched.


  “I’d love to stay and chat longer, dear, but it’s time for Baby’s vitamin. He’s not a puppy any more, are you, sweetums? He’s a lot older than he looks, you know.”

  “How old is he, Mrs. Abrams?”

  “To be perfectly honest, Christina—and I assure you I am always perfectly honest—I don’t actually know. The little sugar cube showed up on my doorstep one day—he knew I’d take him in, you see, dogs always know—and we’ve been together ever since. Mummy couldn’t do without her Baby. Ta, ta for now!” She yanked the dog around and, with a cheery wave and a bark that promised further confrontation, they disappeared inside the house.

  Stepping to the edge of the driveway, Claire peered toward the back of the property. Too far away to make a positive identification, a large brown pile had been deposited, nicely centered in the lane.

  “Unfounded accusations,” Claire muttered, carefully climbing the stairs and going back inside.

  Stretched out in a patch of sunshine on the counter, Austin yawned. “Where have you been?”

  “Out meeting the obligatory irritating neighbor. How do you tell if a pile of dog shit came out of a Doberman?”

  The cat looked disgusted. “How do I tell? I don’t.”

  “All right, how would I tell?”

  “Check it for fingers. Why are we talking about this?”

  “I’m beginning to think Hell wasn’t the only thing Augustus Smythe wanted to get away from.”

  “Are you staying in the official residence, then?” Dean asked as Claire came down the stairs with her belongings. Sliding his hammer into the loop on his carpenter’s apron, he leaped down off the ladder and held out his hands. “Can I help?”

  “Yes.” Pride not only went before a fall, it also went before dropping everything she owned. She shoved her suitcase at him, caught her backpack as it slid off her shoulder, and barely managed to hang onto the armload of clothes that she hadn’t bothered to repack. “What were you doing?”

  “Attaching that bit of molding over the door. It’d gone some squish. Out of plumb,” he added as her brows dipped down.

  “I see.” Glancing at the repair, Claire wondered what, as his employer, she was supposed to say. Her mother wanted her to be nice to him…“Good work. You matched the ends up evenly.”

  “Thank you.” He beamed as he held up the folding section of the counter and waited for her to go through.

  She didn’t think he was being sarcastic. Stopping by the desk, she lowered her backpack to the center of the ancient blotter. “Since this appears to be the only available desk, I guess I’m leaving my computer out here. I can use it for hotel business.”

  “Laptop?” Dean wondered, studying the dimensions of the pack curiously.

  “No.” Once everything else had been dumped in the sitting room, she returned to the desk. Opening the backpack, she pulled out a fourteen-inch monitor and stand, a vertically stacked CPU with two disk drives and a CD-Rom, and a pair of speakers.

  “You’ve got to love the classics,” Austin snickered, watching Dean’s jaw drop. “Now pull out the hat stand and the rubber plant.”

  “Hat stand and rubber plant?” Dean repeated.

  “Ignore him,” Claire instructed, untangling the cables. “I’m hardly going to put a rubber plant in here with all these electronics.”

  Dean removed his glasses, cleaned them on the hem of his T-shirt, and put them back on just as Claire unpacked a laser printer. “This is incredible. Absolutely incredible.”

  She shrugged, rummaging around for the surge suppressor. “Not really, it only prints in black and white.”

  “Boss?”

  Squinting a little in the glare from the monitor, Claire leaned left and peered out into the lobby. Although all available lights were on, her computer screen was still the brightest source of illumination in the entire entryway. “What is it, Dean?”

  “I thought I’d head downstairs and I just wondered if there was anything I could get you before I went.”

  “Nothing, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “You could get me a rack of lamb, but we all know who’d object to that,” Austin muttered without lifting his head from the countertop.

  When Dean showed no sign of actually heading anywhere, Claire sighed and saved her file. “Was there something else?”

  Fingers tucked second-knuckle-deep into the front pockets of his jeans, he shrugged, the gesture more hopeful than dismissive. “I was just wondering what you were doing.”

  “I’m treating this site like any other I’ve been summoned to seal.” She was not going to surrender her life to a run-down hotel; no way, no how, no vacancy. “I’m writing down everything I know, and I’m prioritizing everything I have to do.”

  Head cocked speculatively to one side, Dean grinned. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the ‘lists’ type.”

  “Oh?” Both eyebrows rose. “What type did you think I was.”

  “Oh, I guess the ‘dive right in and get started’ type.”

  Either he hadn’t heard her tone, or he’d ignored it. Claire took another look at his open, candid, square-jawed and bright-eyed expression. Or he hadn’t understood it. “Well, you’re wrong.” His smile dimmed, his shoulders sagged slightly, and his head dipped a fraction—nothing overt, nothing designed to inflict guilt, just an honest disappointment. She felt like such a bitch, her reaction completely out of proportion to his. “But how would you know differently?” Impossible not to try and make amends. “I do have something for you to do tomorrow, though.”

  “Sure.” His head lifted, erasing the fractional droop. “What?”

  “The G needs replacing on that sign out front.”

  “No problem.” Smile reilluminated, he glanced down at his watch. “I’d better get going, then; it’s almost time for the game on TSN.”

  “If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it,” Austin observed dryly as Dean’s work boots could be heard descending the basement stairs. “I think he likes you.”

  Claire found herself typing to the rhythm of heels on wood and forced herself to stop. “I’m his new boss. He just wants to make a good impression.”

  “And has he?”

  “How can you make such an innocent question into innuendo?”

  The cat looked interested. “I don’t know. How?”

  The room was completely dark. The air smelled faintly of stale cigar smoke. The silence was so complete, the noises her body made were too loud to let her sleep. The cat was taking up most of the room on the bed.

  That, at least, she was used to. The rest, she decided to do something about. Slipping out from under the covers, she felt her way over to the window in the outside wall.

  There’s nothing out there but the driveway. No harm in opening the curtain a bit and letting in some air.

  It wasn’t that easy. After forcing her will on a heavy brocade curtain that didn’t want to open and struggling with the paint that sealed the sash, Claire managed to shove the window up about half an inch. Breathing heavily, she knelt on the floor and sucked an appreciative lungful of fresh air through the crack. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she made out a window across the drive, the silhouette of pointed ears and, beside them, a pair of binoculars resting on their wider end.

  No wonder Augustus Smythe had kept the curtains so emphatically drawn.

  A thump behind her warned her to brace herself for the furry weight that leaped onto her lap and then onto the windowsill.

  “Could I have a little light here?” Austin murmured.

  “What for?” Claire asked as she cast a glow behind him. “You can see perfectly well without it.”

  “I can,” the cat agreed placidly. “But he can’t.”

  Across the drive, the pointed ears flicked up and Baby threw himself at the window.

  Claire doused the light, but the damage had already been done. Baby continued to bark hysterically. She grabbed the cat and let the curtains fall closed as a lamp came on and a terrifying vision in pink
plastic curlers snatched up the binoculars.

  Austin squirmed out of her arms and jumped back onto the bed. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

  CAN WE USE THE CAT?

  DON’T BE RIDICULOUS.

  FOUR

  AUGUSTUS SMYTHE HAD WANTED his breakfast every morning at seven o’clock. He’d had a bowl of oatmeal, stewed prunes, and a pot of tea, except on Sunday when he’d had a mushroom omelet, braised kidneys, and indigestion. Guests, and in his experience there’d never been more than one room occupied at a time, ate between eight and eight-thirty or they didn’t eat at all.

  Dean found himself in the kitchen, water boiling and bag of oatmeal in his hand before he remembered that things had changed. He’d been feeding Claire like she was a guest, but she wasn’t. Nor, he’d be willing to bet, was she the stewed prunes type.

  She wasn’t only his new boss, she was a Keeper; a semimythical being monitoring the potential eruption of evil energy out of a possibly corrupting metaphysical accident site in the furnace room. Cool. He could handle that.

  The question was: What did she want for breakfast?

  “How should I know?” Foiled in his attempt to gain access to the refrigerator, Austin glared down at the fresh saucer of wet cat food. “But if she doesn’t want the kidneys, I’ll take them.”

  The hot water pipes banged at a quarter to eight. Dean had no idea how long women usually took to get ready in the morning, but his minimal experience seemed to indicate they were fairly high maintenance. He waited until eight-thirty, then brewed a fresh pot of coffee.

  At nine, he began to worry. Austin had eaten and disappeared, and he’d heard nothing more from Claire’s suite. By nine-thirty, he couldn’t wait any longer.

  Had she fallen getting out of the shower? Did that sort of thing happen to the semimythical?