“But they make you look like an aging hippie.”
“Truth in advertising; nothing wrong with that. Now, I wish you’d wear a little less makeup. It makes you look like…”
“Don’t start, Mom.”
“My. This is medieval.” Walking slowly, examining each line, Martha circled the pit. “In my experienced opinion,” she said after a moment, “you do, indeed, have a hole to Hell in your furnace room. Or more specifically a manifestation of evil conforming to the classic parameters of Hell—the popularity of which, I’ve never entirely understood.” Glancing up at the ductwork, she added, “Mind you, I expect it keeps the heating costs down.” Her hand shot out and jerked Claire back a step. “Don’t pace on the pentagram.”
Folding her arms, Claire mirrored her mother’s élan. Mostly, it was an act although as the second exposure came without the shock of discovery, she found it a little easier to cope. “I know it’s a hole to Hell,” she said, trying to sound as if her teeth weren’t clenched together. “But since it’s linked rather irrevocably to room six, I was hoping you might have some ideas on how to separate them. Some advice on what I should do first.”
YOU COULD RELEASE US.
“Nobody asked you.”
WE’D BE GOOD.
“Liar.”
WELL, YES.
“I don’t think you should argue with it, Claire.” Slipping on her glasses, Martha pointed toward the lettering etched into the bedrock, being very careful not to trace anything in the air that could be interpreted as a pattern. A Cousin shouldn’t be able to affect an accident site but, given the site in question, that wasn’t a tenet she intended to test. “That,” she said, “is the name of the person responsible for this situation. I expect he died right after he finished the invocation. Notice the similar pattern around Sara’s name.”
Eyes beginning to water from the sulfur, Claire studied the design. It wasn’t an exact match, but close enough for Keeper work. “Just as we thought, she tried to gain control. If Hell offered her power in exchange for freedom, that must’ve come as an unpleasant surprise.”
“I can’t say that I find myself feeling too terribly sorry for it,” her mother murmured.
NO ONE EVER DOES, Hell sighed.
“Do shut up. Now then, I think we’ve been in here long enough.” Martha took hold of her daughter’s arm and guided her up the stairs. “Hopefully, we’ll find out more from a thorough examination of Aunt Sara.”
GIVE HER OUR REGARDS.
“Don’t count on it”
“Well?” Austin asked from the top of the washing machine as they tightened the chains across the closed door. He had point-blank refused to go back into the furnace room.
“She wants to go see her,” Claire told him, pointing upward.
“You should take Dean with you.”
“Are you out of your mind? Has he been feeding you on the sly?”
The cat’s eyes narrowed. “Read my lips, he’s a part of this.”
“You don’t have lips.”
“A moot point. Your mother will have to meet him sooner or later.”
“She can meet him later.”
Martha started toward the other end of the basement “Are his rooms down here?”
“Yes, but…”
“Austin thinks we should take Dean, and I’m inclined to agree.”
Claire threw up her hands. “Mom, Austin thinks baby birds are a snack food.”
“What does that have to do with this?”
“Listen to your mother, Claire,” Austin murmured as he padded by.
She managed to resist kicking him and hurried to catch up, wishing she’d remembered that her mother’s professional opinion carried personal baggage along with it. “I don’t want Dean told about what’s in the furnace room.”
“You don’t think he deserves to know the truth?”
“He knows there’s an accident site; telling him that he’s bedding down next to a hole leading to a classical manifestation of a Christian Hell will only compromise his safety.”
“In what way?”
“He’s a kid. Minimal defenses. The knowledge could give Hell access to his mind.”
“I think you’re afraid he’ll leave if you tell him,” Austin said, rubbing against the edge of a low shelf. “And you don’t want him to leave.”
“Of course I don’t want him to leave—he cooks, he cleans, I don’t. But neither do I want him blundering into situations he has no hope of understanding.” She turned to her mother. “He’s already in deeper than any bystander I’ve ever been in contact with. Isn’t that enough? How am I supposed to protect him?”
“If he’s been here since last February, I’d say he has pretty powerful protections of his own,” Martha said thoughtfully. “But you’re the Keeper, it’s your decision whether you tell him or not.”
“Then why isn’t this my decision?” Claire asked as her mother knocked at the basement apartment. She didn’t expect an answer, which was good, because she didn’t get one.
Dean came to his door holding a mop.
“Merciful heavens.” Unable to stop herself, Martha glanced down at his feet.
Claire hid a smile. It seemed clear that any member of the lineage meeting Dean for the first time couldn’t help but check for tangible evidence of how very grounded he was.
Completely confused, Dean set the mop to one side, scrubbed his palm off on his jeans, and held out an apprehensive hand. “Hello. You must be Claire’s mother.”
“That’s right I’m Martha Hansen.” Recovering her aplomb, she took his offered hand in a firm grip. “Pleased to meet you, Dean. Claire’s told me so little about you.”
Half expecting a female version of Augustus Smythe, Dean was pleasantly surprised to find there were no similarities whatsoever. Mrs. Hansen looked remarkably like many of the artists who spent their summers in the outports. She wore her long, graying hair pulled loosely back off her face, no makeup, baggy pants, a homespun vest over a turtleneck and the ubiquitous sandals. Dean wasn’t sure why sandals were considered artistic, but they certainly seemed to be. While a resemblance to the summer people wasn’t entirely a recommendation, working for Mr. Smythe had taught him it could’ve been a lot worse. “You’ve been in the furnace room already, then?”
“We have. How could you tell?”
He felt his
