Claire dove for Dean just as he reached out to rescue her. Foreheads connected. They hit the floor together as the papers flew overhead.
Ears ringing, Claire scrambled to her knees. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to save you!”
“Oh? How?”
“Like this!” He flung himself at her and returned her to the floor as the papers made their second pass. The edge of an envelope opened a small cut on his cheek.
“Get off me!”
“You’re welcome!” Too buzzed with adrenaline to be embarrassed, he rolled onto his back and watched her climb to her feet. “What are you doing?”
“Putting a stop to this!” She pointed a rigid finger at the papers. “Right now!”
Everything except a postcard plummeted to the floor. The postcard made one final dive.
“You, too!” Claire snapped.
It burst into flames and fell as a fine patina of ash over the rest.
Hands on her hips, she glared around the open space where the table had been. “We can do this easy or we can do this hard. Your choice.”
The silence picked up a certain mocking quality.
“Just remember, I warned you.”
“Now what?” Dean asked, standing slowly, keeping a wary eye on those larger items, like chairs, that might also be considered movable.
Claire bent down and smudged a bit of ash on her left forefinger. “Now, I’m going to make whatever it is show itself.”
“You can do that?”
“Of course,” she snapped. “Check the card.”
“The card?”
“The business card I gave you.”
He pulled it out of his wallet as she walked over to the window ledge and smudged a bit of dust on her right forefinger.
Aunt Claire, Keeper
Your Accident is my Opportunity
(spiritual invocations a specialty)
“It didn’t say that before.”
“It didn’t need to. Now, be quiet.” With both hands out at shoulder height, she pulled power. The symbol drawn by her left hand glowed green, the symbol drawn by her right glowed red. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Appear because I say you must.”
Dean glanced back down at the card. It now read: (poetry optional). Claire’s sister apparently had a good idea of Claire’s limitations.
Between the symbols, fighting the invocation every inch of the way, the figure of a man began to materialize. Still translucent, he jerked back and forth trying to break the power that held him. When he finally realized he couldn’t win, he snapped into focus so quickly the air around him twanged. Medium height and medium build, he wore a bulky black turtleneck, faded jeans, and a sneer.
The symbols lost their color, glowing white.
“Your name,” Claire commanded.
“Jacques Labaet” Squinting, he tossed shoulder length, dark-blond hair back off his face. “And I am not at your service.” When he tried to stride forward, lines of power snapped him back between the symbols. Brows drew in over the bridge of a prominent nose. “All right Perhaps I am.”
“Give me your word you won’t attack again, and I’ll release you.”
“And if l do not?”
The symbols brightened. “Exorcism.”
One hand raised to shield his eyes, Jacques shook a chiding finger at her. “You are a Keeper. You cannot do that. You have rules.”
“You drew blood.” Claire nodded toward the cut on Dean’s cheek. “Yes, I can.”
“Ah.” He pursed his lips and thought about it. “D’accord. You win. I give you my word.”
The symbols disappeared.
“You are a woman of action rapide, I allow you that.” Blinking away afterimages, he stepped toward her. “For all you are so…beautiful.” His mouth slowly curled up into a lopsided smile that softened the long lines of his face, creating an expression that somehow managed to combine lechery and innocence. Claire found it a strangely attractive combination. “Tes yeux sons comme du chocolat riche de fonce…. Your eyes they are like pools of the finest chocolate; melting and promising so very much sweetness. Does anyone ever tell you this?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
He sounded so surprised she had to smile. “I’d have remembered.”
“So foolish are mortal men.” After a dramatic sigh, his voice deepened to a caress. “Your lips, they are like the petal of a crimson rose, your throat like an alabaster column in the temple of my heart, your breasts…”
“That’s quite far enough, thank you.” There was such a mix of sincere flattery and blatant opportunism in the inventory that Claire found it impossible to be insulted.
Jacques spread expressive hands. “I mean only to say…”
Standing at the edge of the cleared space, Dean cleared his throat. “She said that was enough.”
“Really? Et maintenant, what did I say of mortal men?” One brow flicked up to punctuate a disdainful glance. “Ah, oui, that they are fools. Are you mortal, man? No, wait, it is not a man at all; it is a boy.”
Moving up behind Claire’s left shoulder, Dean dropped his voice. “What is this?”
“This is Jacques Labaet.” She couldn’t decide if she were amused or irritated by Dean’s interruption, mostly because she couldn’t decide if he were being supportive or protective. “He’s a ghost.”
“A ghost?” Dean repeated. He turned his head and found himself nose-to-nose with the phantom.
“Boo,” said Jacques.
“We have just left Kingston, steaming for Quebec City; the weather, she is bad, but she is always bad on the lakes in the fall and we think anything is better than being stuck in with the English over freeze up. We barely reach Point Fredrick when things, they go all to Hell.”
Claire winced, but there was no response from the furnace room.
“Pardon. Such language I should not use around a lady.” Blowing her a kiss, Jacques continued his story. “The wind she came up, roaring like a live thing. I remember something hard, I don’t know what, catching me here.” He tapped the sweater just below his sternum. “I remember cold water and then, rien. Nothing.” His shoulders rose and fell in a Gallic shrug. “They said I wash up on shore, more dead than alive. Me, I don’t know why they bring me here. Two days later, I died.”
“And you’re a ghost.” Dean wanted to be absolutely clear on that. Every community back home had
