Summon the Keeper

by Tanya Huff

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It doesn’t. It’s just nice to know you’re one of my favorite flavors. Just in case.”

  Busying herself with the bed, Claire pointedly did not respond.

  Behind her, Sasha laughed, neither insulted nor discouraged. “From the way you spoke of him, I assume the little man isn’t dead. What did he do? Bugger off and leave you holding the stick?”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  Sasha laughed again. “Not generally, no, but Keepers don’t take over sites from Cousins who took over from Keepers, so clearly it ain’t working the way it should.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I’ve been around a while.”

  Claire remembered the years of signatures in the registration book—not one of them, unfortunately, occurring in the few short months Sara held the site. “Do you know about…?” A jerk of the head to room six finished the question.

  “Well, duh. It’s not like it’s possible to hide something like that from me. I mean, after four or five visits it got kind of hard to ignore this unchanging life just hanging around upstairs.” The musician shrugged into an oversized red sweater. “Gus said it was a woman the Keepers had done a Sleeping Beauty on and that was all I needed to know.”

  “You called him Gus?”

  “Sure. And I’d love to know how he stuck you with this place, but if you don’t want to spill, hey, that’s cool.” She ran her fingers through her hair and quickly changed her lipstick to match the sweater. “He never filled me in on his summoning either—the obnoxious little prick. But man, at your age, it must be driving you nuts hanging around here when you could be out saving the world.”

  Before Claire could answer, Dean’s voice, calling her name, drifted up the stairwell.

  Sasha tilted her head toward the sound. “And right on cue we have a reminder of the fringe benefits.”

  “He’s not a benefit,” Claire protested.

  Cool fingers cupped her chin for a heartbeat “Foolish girl, why not?” Then, with a jangle of silver bracelets and a careless, “Don’t wait up—” she was gone.

  Her touch lingered.

  Later that night, as Claire climbed into bed, Austin uncurled enough to mutter, “I understand you’re renting a room to a bloodsucking, undead, soulless creature.”

  “Does that bother you,” Claire asked.

  “Not in the least.” He yawned. “Anyone who can operate a can opener is okay by me.”

  “She came back into her room just before dawn. I think that she saw somebody in town last night.” Jacques’ hands traced euphemistic signals in the air. “If you know what I mean. She had a cat who has eaten canary look.”

  Sprawled on top of the computer monitor, Austin snorted. “She looked like she was about to hawk up a mouthful of damp feathers?”

  “That is not what I mean.”

  “You shouldn’t spy on the guests,” Dean told him, tightening his grip on a handful of steel wool. “It’s rude.”

  “I was not spying,” Jacques protested indignantly. “I was concerned.”

  “Pull the other one.”

  “You do not have to believe me.”

  “Good.”

  “Why do you suppose such a pretty girl stays in a room with no windows?”

  Descending from an hour spent studying the power wrapped around Aunt Sara—as long as she could spend so close to such evil without wanting to rent movies just so she could return then un-rewound—Claire waited on the stairs for Dean’s answer.

  “Ms. Moore’s a musician.” His tone suggested only an idiot couldn’t have figured it out on his own. “She works nights, she sleeps days, and she doesn’t want the sun to wake her.”

  “Such a good thing there is the room, then,” Jacques mused.

  Claire frowned. What would happen if Jacques put one and one together and actually made two? If the ghost found out about the vampire, who could he tell? Dean? Only if it would irritate or enrage him.

  What if Dean found out? She was fairly certain he would neither start sharpening stakes nor looking up the phone numbers for the tabloids. The vampire’s safety would not be compromised.

  Dean’s safety was another matter entirely. Many humans were drawn to the kind of danger Sasha Moore represented. While not necessarily life-threatening, it was a well known fact that the intimacy of vampiric feeding could become addictive and that wasn’t something she was going to allow to happen to Dean. He wasn’t going to end up wandering the country, a helpless groupie of the undead.

  And I’d feel the same way about anyone made my responsibility, she insisted silently. Including guests while they’re in this hotel. Which, in a loopy way, made Sasha Moore her responsibility as well.

  The sudden realization jerked her forward. Catching her heel on the stair, she stumbled, arms flailing for balance, down into the lobby. She’d have made it had the pommel on the end of the banister not come off in her hand.

  Her landing made an impressive amount of noise. It would have made more had she been permitted the emotional release of profanity.

  “Claire!” Dean tossed the steel wool aside, peeled off the rubber gloves, and started to rise. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Moving toward her, he found Jacques suddenly in his way, hands raised in warning.

  “I wouldn’t,” the ghost murmured by the other man’s ear. “When a woman says she is fine in that tone, she wishes you to leave her alone.”

  Since he couldn’t push the ghost away. Dean went through him and dropped to his knees by Claire’s side. “What happened?”

  “I slipped.”

  “Are you hurt?” Without thinking, he reached for her arm but drew back at her expression.

  “I said, I’m fine.”

  “Told you so,” Jacques murmured, drifting up by the ceiling.

  Claire pushed herself into a sitting position with one hand and gave Dean the banister pommel with the other. “If you’re looking for something to do…” A triple boom not only cut off Dean’s response but spun her around, hand over her heart as she futilely tried to keep it from beating in time. “What the…”

  “Door knocker,” Dean explained, then clapped his hands over his ears as the sound echoed through the lobby again.

  Except that Dean had no reason to lie, she’d never have believed that the brass knocker she’d seen on her first night could have made the noise. At least we know it’s not Mrs. Abrams; she never knocks. As Dean ran for the door before their caller knocked again and they all went deaf, Claire got to her feet, telling Jacques to disappear.

  “Why?” he demanded, floating down to the floor.

  “You’re translucent in natural light”

  “What means translucent?”

  “I can see through you.”

  “That is because to you, cherie, I have nothing to hide.” He blew her a kiss and vanished as the door opened.

  A graying man in his mid-forties peered over a huge bouquet of red chrysanthemums, his slightly protruding eyes flicking back and forth between Dean and Claire. “Flowers for Ms. Moore.”

  “She’s sleeping,” Dean told him, adding helpfully, “if you leave them here, I’ll see that she gets them when she wakes up.”

  The deliveryman shook his head and held out a clipboard. “I gotta have her sign for ’em.”

  “But she’s asleep.”

  “Look, all I know is that I gotta have her signature and room number on this or I can’t leave the flowers.” He looked suddenly hopeful “Maybe you could just fake it for me? Then I’d leave ’em with you. It’d really help me out.”

  “I don’t know…”

  Claire did. “I’m sorry,” she said, crossing the lobby, “but we don’t give out the room numbers of our guests. If you can’t leave the flowers with us, you’ll have to come back.”

  “Look, lady, it’s my last delivery. What difference would it make?”

  “You
’re missing the point.” Moving in front of Dean so she stood eye to eye with the deliveryman, who was no taller than her own five-feet-five, Claire folded her arms and smiled. “We don’t give out die room numbers of our guests.”

  “But…”

  “No.”

  He looked up at Dean. “Come on, buddy, give me a break, eh.”

  Claire snapped her fingers under his nose, drawing his attention back down to her. “What part of no don’t you understand?”

  “Okay. Fine. You’re responsible for Ms. Moore not getting her flowers, then.”

  “I can live with that.” It was nice to have a responsibility so well defined.

  “Yeah, well, thanks for the help.” Lip curled, he spun around and missed his step on the uneven stairs. Flowers flailing, he began to fall.

  “Boss!” Dean’s exclamation prodded at her conscience. “He could get hurt!”

  Reminding herself of where temptations came from, Claire sighed, took her time reaching for power and, just as he began to pitch forward, set the deliveryman back on his feet.

  He never noticed. Stomping down the remaining steps, he flung the flowers into his car and, tires squealing, drove away.

  Claire watched until he turned onto King Street. “I wonder who the flowers were from?”

  “A fan?”

  “I guess.” She reached out and gave the small brass knocker an investigative flick. When the resulting boom faded, she followed Dean back inside. “But how did they know she was staying here?”

  “Maybe she told them.”

  “Maybe,” Jacques put in, rematerializing, “they were from the one last night. Flowers to say, Thanks for the memories.”

  “I don’t think so; she wouldn’t have told anyone she was staying here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she told me she valued her privacy.”

  LIAR, a triumphant little voice announced in her head.

  A lie to protect another, Claire pointed out. Circumstances must be weighed. And get out of my head!

  THE LIE INVITED US IN.

  Fine. Now I’m telling you to leave.

  “Claire?”

  Her eyes refocused. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

  “Ms. Moore’s privacy.”

  “Right. We’re going to respect it.” She looked pointedly at Jacques. “And that means all of us.”

  Later that afternoon, as the last flat bit of counter emerged from under the twenty-seventh layer of paint, Baby could be heard barking furiously in his area.

  Dean glanced up to see Austin still sprawled out on top of Claire’s monitor. “Mailman must be late today.”

  “Only if he’s out in the parking lot.”

  “What?”

  The cat leaped down onto the desk, knocking a pile of loose papers and a pen to the floor. “According to Baby, who functions remarkably well on only two brain cells, there’s a stranger in the parking lot.”

  “My truck!” Springing to his feet he raced toward the back door, peeling off another pair of gloves as he went.

  Claire, on her way up from testing the dampening field, stepped in his path. “Hold it! Remember the urethane!”

  He spun on the spot retraced his steps, and flung himself out the front door.

  By the time Claire reached the back of the building, having paused in the lobby for a brief explanation, Dean was disappearing over the waist-high board fence to the west. To the south, Baby continued barking. Dean’s truck, a huge white gas-guzzling monster named Moby, and Sasha Moore’s van both seemed untouched.

  “Carole! Carole, dear!” Mrs. Abrams voice didn’t so much rise over Baby’s barking as cut through it. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

  Slowly, Claire turned. “We had a prowler, Mrs. Abrams.”

  “What’s that? Speak up, dear, don’t mumble.”

  “A prowler!”

  “What, in the middle of the afternoon? What will they think of next? You don’t suppose it’s that same ruffian who was lurking about the other night?”

  “No, I…”

  “We’ll all be murdered in our beds! Or assaulted. Assaulted and robbed. That’ll show them!”

  Just in time, Claire stopped herself from asking, Show who? She didn’t really want to know.

  “Has that nice young man of yours gone after him?” Mrs. Abrams didn’t actually pause for. breath let alone an answer. “How I do miss having Mr. Abrams around, although to be honest with you, dear, he was never what I’d call a capable man; had an unfortunate tendency to wilt a bit in stressful situations. He passed away quite suddenly, you know, with such a queer little smile on his face. I’m sure he’s as lost without me as I am without him. Never mind, though, I get on. As a matter of fact, I can’t stand and chat, I have our local councilman on the phone. The dear man depends on my advice in neighborhood matters.” A beringed hand lightly patted lacquered waves of orange hair. “He simply couldn’t manage on his own. Baby, be quiet.”

  Baby ignored her.

  “That’s Mummy’s good boy.”

  As Mrs. Abrams returned to her telephone, Dean vaulted back over the fence and dropped into the parking lot. “I’m sorry. I lost him. He had a car on Union Street. Got into it and away before I got around the corner.” Frowning like a concerned parent, he quickly checked over both vehicles. “Seems like Baby chased him away before he could do any damage. Good dog!”

  To Claire’s surprise, the Doberman wuffled once and fell silent.

  “I wonder if this is his?” Dean pointed to a handprint on the van’s driver side window.

  Staring at the greasy print, Claire felt her own palms tingle and was suddenly certain she knew who the prowler had been. “It’s the deliveryman.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The guy with the flowers this morning.”

  “I knew who you meant. Are you, uh…” He waggled his fingers in the air.

  “Manipulating power? No. It’s just a hunch.”

  “A hunch. Okay.” Pulling his sweatshirt sleeve down over his palm, he scrubbed the window clean.

  Since she couldn’t point out that he’d just ruined any chance Sasha Moore might’ve had of picking up the intruder’s scent, Claire shrugged and went back inside to find Austin waiting by his dish.

  “Catch him?”

  “No. I didn’t know you understood dogs.”

  “What’s the point of insulting them if they can’t understand what you’re saying?”

  “You speak dog?”

  In answer, Austin lifted his head and made a noise that could possibly be considered a bark had the listener never actually heard a dog larger than a Pekingese.

  “And what does that mean?” Claire asked, trying to keep from laughing.

  “Roughly translated…” Austin stared pointedly down at his dish. “…it means, feed me.”

  That evening, Claire was waiting at the desk when Sasha Moore came downstairs. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Is it going to take long?”

  “Not long, no.”

  “Good, ’cause I really need to eat before I go onstage or the audience is one major distraction; kind of like performing in front of a buffet table.”

  Since there didn’t seem to be anything she could safely reply, Claire stood and silently led the way into her sitting room.

  “I see old Gus didn’t take much with him.”

  She didn’t want to know the circumstances under which Sasha had been in these rooms before. It was none of her business.

  “You still got his dirty pictures up in the bedroom?”

  “I’m removing them as soon as I have time.”

  “Uh-huh.” The musician dropped onto the couch and draped one crimson-spandex-covered leg over the broad arm. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  Claire perched on the edge of the hassock, it being the only piece of furniture in the room that was neither overstuffed nor covered in knickknacks. “I think you’re being stalked.”


  Long lashes, heavy with mascara, blinked twice. “Say what?”

  Editing for time, Claire recited the day’s events and her interpretation of them.

  “Look, I appreciate your concern, but the flowers were probably sent by a fan, and you never actually saw the guy in the lot. It could’ve been one of the local kids taking a shortcut”

  “To his car?”

  Sasha snorted. “Trust me, parking sucks in this neighborhood.”

  “All right, then, if it was a fan who sent the flowers, how did he know you were here? I can’t believe you’d tell anyone where you spend the day.”

  “He must’ve seen me last night at one of the bars and followed the van.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  She reached out and slapped Claire on the knee. They were close enough that Claire could smell the mint toothpaste on her breath. “Why should I worry? You seem to be worrying enough for both of us.” Standing, she bared her teeth. Exposed, they were too long and far, far too white. “I can take care of myself, Keeper. If a fan gets too close, I’ll see that he gets just a little closer still.” She paused at the door. “Oh, by the way, did you know you have mice?”

  Feeling her lips press into a thin line, Claire pried them apart enough to say, “I don’t think they’re mice.”

  The musician shrugged. “They sure smell like mice.”

  “Told you so,” Austin muttered as the door closed behind her.

  Claire jumped. She hadn’t noticed him tucked up like a tea cozy under the television. “If they’re mice,” she snapped, “why don’t you catch one.”

  He snorted. “Please, and do what with it?”

  Friday morning started badly for Claire. First Hell, by way of her mirror, suggested she invite Sasha Moore to dinner and twisted her reaction to such an extent that when she finally regained her reflection, she was edgy and irritable and had no idea of who’d won the round. Then she got completely lost looking for the Historian, was gone almost nine hours’ wardrobe time, and returned absolutely famished to discover Dean had just laid down the last coat of urethane and she couldn’t get to the kitchen.