Summon the Keeper

by Tanya Huff

  “Can I assume you’re not hurrying out to feed me?” Austin asked. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Diana.”

  “Subverting a powerless postcard? Typical. What did she have to say for herself?”

  “Nothing much. Her name. Out loud. Through a power link. If she’s woken her up…”

  Austin caught up to Claire at the door. “What are you going to do.”

  “Beats me. You know any good lullabies?”

  Out in the lobby, Dean looked up from prying open a new gallon of paint as Keeper and cat raced for the stairs. “Problem, Boss?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Need my help?”

  Five weeks ago, even three weeks ago, she’d have snapped off an impatient “No.” What good would a bystander be against a Keeper who’d attempted to control Hell? Today she paused and actually considered the possibilities before answering. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Is it her?” Jacques asked, materializing as they started up the second flight of stairs.

  “It could be,” Claire panted, silently cursing the circumstances that made the elevator inoperative. It seemed to take forever to open the padlock, and the lack of noise from inside room six was surprisingly uncomforting.

  The shield was intact. Aunt Sara lay, as she had, on the bed. The only footprints in the dust were Claire’s, laid over her mother’s, laid over her own and Dean’s. She stepped forward, following the path, and studied the sleeping woman’s face with narrowed eyes.

  No change.

  Sighing deeply, she took what felt like her first unconstricted breath since Diana had called Aunt Sara’s name.

  And sneezed.

  Nose running, eyeballs beginning to itch, she backed out of the room and relocked the door.

  “We are safe?” Jacques demanded from the top of the stairs. “She sleeps?”

  “She sleeps,” Claire reassured him, wiping her nose on a bit of old wadded-up tissue she’d found in the front pocket of her jeans.

  “Admit it,” Austin prodded as they started back downstairs, the ghost having gone on ahead to fill Dean in on the details, “you’re a little disappointed.”

  Claire stopped dead and stared at the cat After a moment, she closed her mouth and hurried to catch up. “All right, that settles it. We’re taking a break in the renovations. You’ve been sucking up too many paint fumes.”

  “You’re not willing to wake her yourself,” Austin continued. “But you’d love to know who’d win if you went head-to-head. Keeper to Keeper.”

  “You’re out of your furry little mind.”

  “One final battle to settle this whole thing. Winner takes all.”

  “Get real.”

  “I can’t help but notice that you’re not making an actual statement of denial.”

  PRIDE IS ONE OF…

  “Yours. So you’ve said.”

  HAS ANYONE EVER POINTED OUT THAT IT’S VERY RUDE TO INTERRUPT LIKE THAT?

  “Sorry.”

  USELESS APOLOGY. SINCERITY COUNTS.

  “Get out of my head.”

  “Jacques told me what happened; is everything okay?” Dean asked as they descended into the lobby.

  “Austin’s senile,” Claire told him tightly. “But other than that things seem to be fine.”

  He watched her walk down the hall toward the kitchen and shook his head. “Once again,” he sighed, “I’m left muddled.” Stepping back, he put his right foot squarely down in the paint tray.

  Two things occurred to him as he watched the dark green pigment soak into his work boot.

  He hadn’t left the paint tray there.

  And he couldn’t possibly have seen a five-inch-tall, lavender something diving behind the counter.

  For the first Saturday since Claire’d begun handing out the money for groceries, there was considerably more than seventy dollars in the envelope. Dean whistled softly as she pulled out the wad and began counting the bills.

  “One hundred and forty, one hundred and sixty, one hundred and eight-five dollars.” Tossed back into the safe, the envelope landed with non-paperlike clunk. “One hundred and eighty-six dollars,” Claire corrected as she pulled a loonie out of the bottom corner.

  “Premium cat food all around,” Austin suggested from the top of the computer monitor.

  “You’re getting a premium cat food.”

  “I’m not, it’s geriatric. I don’t care how much it costs, it’s not the same thing as that individual serving stuff they show on TV.”

  “And would you like it served in a crystal parfait dish, too?”

  He sat up and looked interested. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Dream on.”

  “You’re just mean, that’s what you are.” Lying down again, he pillowed his chin on his front paws. “Tempt me, taunt me, then feed me the same old beef byproducts.”

  “If it isn’t for Austin, what’s it for?” Dean wondered. “We’ve got lots of food.”

  “Frozen and canned,” Claire reminded him, handing over the money. “Maybe you’re supposed to stock upon fresh.”

  He fanned the stack with his thumb. “This is gonna buy a lot of lettuce.”

  In the end, unable to shake the feeling that she needed to be involved, Claire decided to go with him. It would be strange to leave the hotel so soon after going out to buy the new keyboard—something most site-bound Keepers would not be able to do—but with Hell itself reinforcing the shield, what could go wrong?

  Austin, when applied to for his opinion, yawned and said, “The future is unclear to me. I’m probably faint from a lack of decent food.”

  “What if I promise to bring you some shrimp snacks?”

  He snorted. “Too little, too late.”

  “He’d tell me if he saw a problem,” Claire assured Dean a few minutes later as she climbed into the passenger side of the truck. “He’s too fond of being proven right not to.”

  Baby heralded their return two-and-a-half hours later with a deafening volley of barks and a potent bit of flatulence.

  “Couldn’t have a wind from the north,” Claire muttered, staggering slightly under the weight of the grocery bags she carried. “Oh, no. Has to come up off the lake and right over the canine trumpet section. What has that dog been eating?”

  “Well, we haven’t seen Mrs. Abrams for a while,” Dean pointed out, unlocking the back door.

  “Yoo hoo! Colleen dear. Have you got a moment?”

  Silently accusing Dean of invoking demons, Claire took a step back and smiled over the fence. “Not right now, Mrs. Abrams. I’d like to get all these groceries inside.”

  “Oh, my, you have bought out the stores, haven’t you. Are you having a party?”

  Since she asked in the tone of someone who expected to be invited should said party materialize, Claire was quite happy to answer in the negative.

  One hand clutching closed her heavy sweater—a disturbing shade of orange a tone or two lighter than her hair—Mrs. Abrams eyed the bags with disapproval. “Well you surely can’t be planning on eating all of that yourself. It’s extremely important for a young woman to watch her weight, you know. I don’t like to brag, but when I was young I had a twenty-two inch waist.”

  “I’ve really got to go put these things away, Mrs. Abra…”

  “I only need a moment, dear. The groceries will keep. After all, this is business. A very close, personal friend of mine, Professor Robert Joseph Jackson—Maybe you’ve heard of him? No? I can’t understand why not, he’s very big in his field. Anyway, Professor Jackson is coming to Kingston on November third. He’s so busy over Halloween, you know. I’d love to have him stay here, of course, but Baby has taken such a strange dislike to him.” She beamed down at the big dog. “I told him that I knew the nicest little hotel and that it was right next door to me, and he said he’d be thrilled to stay with you.”

  Claire could feel the bag holding the glass bottle of extra virgin olive oil beginning to slip. “I’ll be expectin
g him, Mrs. Abrams. Thank you for recommending us.” Rude or not, she began moving toward the door.

  “Oh, it was no trouble at all, Colleen dear. I’m just so happy to see that you’ve taken my advice and have begun fixing the old place up. It has such potential you know. I see that young man is still with you. So nice to see a young man willing to work.”

  “Isn’t it,” Claire agreed as Dean rescued two of her four bags. “Good day, Mrs. Abrams.”

  “Professor Jackson will need a quiet room, remember.” The last word rose to near stratospheric volume as her audience stepped over the threshold and into the hotel. Dogs blocks away began to bark.

  “I wonder if we’re asking for trouble, renting a room to a friend of Mrs. Abrams.”

  Dean turned from putting the vacuum pack of feta cheese in the fridge as Claire set her bags down on the counter beside the others. “More trouble than a hole to Hell in the basement?”

  “You may have a point.”

  “He may,” Austin agreed, leaping from chair to countertop. “But fortunately his hair hides it. While you were out, a guy named Hermes Gruidae called. He’s bringing a seniors’ tour group through tonight, retired Olympians, and needs four double rooms and a single. I said there’d be no problem.”

  “Retired Olympians?” Dean fished a black olive out of a deli container and popped it in his mouth. “What sports?”

  “He didn’t say. He did mention that they’re not very fond of restaurants and wondered if you could provide supper as well as tomorrow’s breakfast. You being Dean in this case since I doubt they’d want beans and wieners on toast. I told him that would be fine. They’ll be here about seven. Dinner at eight.” He blinked. “What?”

  Arms folded, Claire stared down at him suspiciously. “You took the message?”

  “Please, I’ve been knocking receivers off hooks since I was a kitten.”

  “And you took Mr. Gruidae’s reservation?”

  “Well, I didn’t write anything down if that’s what you’re asking although I did claw his name into the front counter.”

  “You what!”

  “I’m kidding.” Whiskers twitching, he climbed into one of the grocery bags. “Hey, where’s my shrimp snacks?”

  By six-forty-five the rooms had been prepared, the paint trays and drop cloths had been packed away, and Dean was in the kitchen taking the salmon steaks out of the marinade. Assuming that ex-Olympic athletes would be watching their weight, he’d also made a large Greek salad, and a kiwi flan for desert.

  Wondering why she was so nervous, Claire checked the newly hunter green walls above the wainscoting in the stairwell and was relieved to discover that although they still smelled like fresh paint, they were dry. “Lucky for us that when Dean says he’ll get to it first thing in the morning, he means predawn.” Crossing over to the counter, she watched Austin race through a fast circuit of the office. “What’s with you? Storm coming?”

  “I don’t know.” He flung himself from the top of the desk to the top of the counter and skidded to a stop in front of Claire. “Something’s coming.” After three vigorous swipes of his tail, he added, “It feels sort of like a storm. Almost.”

  At six-fifty-two, a wide-bodied van of the type often used to shuttle travelers from airports to car rental lots parked in front of the hotel.

  “Looks like they’re here,” Claire announced, moving toward the door.

  Austin bounded to the floor and raced halfway up the first flight of stairs. “So’s the storm.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His ears flattened against his skull. “Old…”

  “Of course they’re old, it’s a seniors’ tour.” Adjusting her body temperature to counteract the evening chill, Claire went out to meet the driver as he emerged. He was a youngish man, late thirties maybe, wearing a brown corduroy jacket over a pair of khakis, one of those round white canvas hats that were so popular among the sort of people willing to pay forty-five dollars for a canvas hat, and a pair of brown leather loafers. With wings.

  “I have them taken off the sandals every fall,” he told her, noticing the direction of her gaze. “I don’t know what I hate more, cold feet or sandals and socks.” He held out a tanned hand. “Hermes Gruidae; the second bit was assumed for the sake of a driver’s license. You must be Claire Hansen. I believe I spoke to your cat about our reservations.”

  “He’s not my cat,” was the only thing Claire could manage to say.

  “No. Of course not.” Hermes looked appalled. “I wasn’t implying ownership, merely that it was a cat I spoke to.”

  “Uh, right I just came out to tell you that there aren’t any stairs around back if you want to let your people off in the parking lot instead of out here.”

  “Not a bad idea, but I don’t think you could get them to use a back door.” He winced as an imperious voice demanded to know the reason for the delay. “They’re a rather difficult bunch actually.”

  The voice had been speaking flawless Classical Greek—although Claire spoke only English and bad grade school French, Keepers were language receptive, it being more important in their job to understand than to be understood. “Retired Olympians,” she muttered, examining the words from a new angle. “Oh, God.”

  “Gods, actually,” Hermes corrected, sounding resigned. He hustled back out of the way as an elderly man in a plaid blazer stomped down onto the sidewalk.

  “You listen to me, Hermes, I’m not spending another moment sitting in that…Hel-lo.” Smiling broadly, he stepped toward Claire, arms held out. “And who is this fair maiden?” he asked in equally flawless English, capturing her hand. “Surely not Helen back again to destroy us with her beauty.”

  “Not fair and not a maiden!” snapped a woman’s voice from inside the van. “Keep your hands to yourself, you old goat. Get back here and help me out of this thing.”

  Belatedly Claire realized that her fingers were being thoroughly kissed and an arm had slipped around her waist, one liver-spotted hand damply clutching her hip.

  “Zeus! I’m warning you…!”

  Silently mouthing, “Later,” Zeus gave her one final squeeze and returned to the van.

  Objectively, the Lord of Olympus was shorter than Claire would have expected him to be, had she actually spent any time thinking about it, and someone should have mentioned that the white belt and shoe ensemble wasn’t worn north of the Carolinas after Labor Day. He’d been handsome once, but over two millennia of rich food and carnal exercise had left the square jaw jowly under the short curly beard, the dark eyes deep-set and rimmed with pink over purple pouches, and his Grecian Formula hair artfully combed to hide as much scalp as possible. An expensive camera bounced just above the broad curve of his belly, the strap hidden in the folds of his neck.

  And if that was Zeus…

  Hera, clawlike hand clutching her husband’s arm, reminded Claire of an ex-First Lady from the American side of the border. Her skin stretched tight over the bones of her face, her makeup applied with more artifice than art, she looked as though a solid blow would shatter her into a million irritated pieces. “The Elysian Fields Guest House? Honestly, Hermes, is this the best you could do?”

  “It’s the best for our needs,” Hermes told her soothingly.

  Claire found herself being examined by bright, birdlike eyes behind a raised lorgnette.

  “Oh, a Keeper,” Hera sniffed. “I see.”

  The second man out of the van paused to stretch, both hands in the small of his back. Incredibly thin and still tall in spite of stooped shoulders, he was dressed all in black—jacket, shirt, pants, shoes—with a crimson ascot at his throat. A hawklike hook of a nose made even more prominent by the cadaverous cheeks completely overwhelmed his face although a neatly trimmed silver goatee and full head of silver hair did what they could to balance things out.

  A tiny white-haired woman in a lavender pantsuit draped in a multitude of pastel scarves followed him out “Oh, look. Hades!” Wide-eyed, she pointed grac
efully toward the eaves of the hotel. “A white pigeon! It’s an omen.”

  Hades obligingly looked.

  The pigeon plummeted earthward, hitting the ground with a distinct splat.

  “Did I do that?” Hades asked. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Senile old fool,” Hera muttered, pushing past him.

  “Never mind, dear.” On her toes, Persephone rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “Next time, just don’t look so hard.” Capturing a scarf as it slid out from under a heavy gold brooch, she fluttered ring-covered fingers around her body. “Oh, dear. I’ve forgotten my knitting.”

  “Never mind, Sephe. I’ve brought it out for you.”

  Claire had no idea who the woman handing Persephone her knitting bag might be. Running over the remaining goddesses in her head offered no clues. Pleasant looking, in the sensible clothes favored by elderly English birdwatchers, she reminded Claire of a retired teacher pulled back into duty and near the end of her rope.

  As though aware of Claire’s dilemma, she walked over and held out her hand. “Hello. You must be our host. I’m Amphitrite.”

  Her palm was damp and felt slightly scaly. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “She’s Poseidon’s wife,” Persephone caroled. “Unless you’re into those boring old classics, you’ve probably never heard of her.”

  “Shape-shifter’s daughter,” Hera sniffed in classical Greek.

  “Hera.” Persephone danced toward her, diamond earrings catching the light from the street lamp. “The eerperkay nunderstandsay reekgay.”

  Hera stared at the Queen of the Dead. “You are pathetic,” she said after a moment.

  “Who’s pathetic?” Poseidon’s gray hair and beard flowed in soft ripples over his greenish-gray tweed suit. He blinked owlishly around at the gathered company through green-tinted glasses, waiting for an answer. “Well?” he said after a moment.