…what allows me to walk within the hotel. Dean’s scowl faded as he realized, for the first time in his life, he’d leaped to the worst possible conclusion, his response based solely on his irrational reaction to a dead man. The picture had nothing to do with the sleeping Keeper. Working from the attic, Claire must’ve sent it to the third floor hall without considering where it might end up.
He’d completely forgotten about Jacques’ anchors. He opened his mouth to explain and was amazed to hear himself say, “Sure, run and hide behind Claire.”
“Run and hide?” Anger blurred Jacques’ edges.
“Too dead to stand up for yourself?”
“Claire…”
“This has nothing to do with Claire.” Dean set the picture back on the floor—as far from room six as he could put it without appearing to give ground—then straightened, shoulders squared. “This is between you and me.”
“Me, I think this has everything to do with Claire,” Jacques murmured, studying the younger man through narrowed lids. “But you are right, mon petit Anglais, this is between you and me.”
Claire had been vaguely disappointed not to find Jacques waiting for her when she passed through the sitting room on her way to the bathroom. Thoughts of him spending the night pressed up against her bedroom door had inserted themselves into her dreams and jerked her awake almost hourly. She’d wanted to share her mood with him while she still felt like giving him a body in order to wring his neck.
It didn’t help that the morning’s measurements had shown a perceptible buildup of seepage. With no access to the power sealing the hole, she couldn’t cut it off, and she certainly couldn’t let it build up indefinitely.
Teeth clenched, she gave the shower taps a savage twist, snarled wordlessly when the pipes began banging out their delivery of hot water, and bit back an extremely dangerous oath when the temperature spent a good two minutes fluctuating between too hot and too cold.
She finally began to calm as she lathered the Apothecary’s shampoo—guaranteed not tested on mythical creatures—into her hair, and by the time she’d sudsed, rinsed, and dried, she’d relaxed considerably. When Hell actually let her blow-dry and style in peace, she left the bathroom feeling remarkably cheerful.
Her good mood lasted through dressing and right into the day’s search for the Historian.
Curled up on a pillow, Austin lifted his head as the wardrobe door opened and Claire emerged soaking wet “You’re cutting it close,” he said. “You’ve just barely left. What happened?”
“Tropical storm,” Claire told him tightly, pushing streaming hair back off her face. “Came up on shore after me and followed me about ten kilometers inland. Good thing I was driving an import or I’d never have stayed on the road.”
“One of the Historian’s early warning systems?”
Claire shrugged, her sweater sagging off her shoulders. “Who knows?” Trailing a small river behind her, she picked up some dry clothes, held carefully at arm’s length, and headed for the bathroom.
Dumping her wet clothes in a pile on the floor, she dressed quickly and, stomach growling, picked up her blow-dryer. “This one’s going to be quick and sleazy,” she muttered, bending over and applying the hot air. “I’m too hungry for style.”
When she straightened, Jacques stared at her from out of the mirror.
“Oh, hell,” she sighed.
“Got it in one, cherie.” His lips curled up into the lopsided smile that raised his looks, from passable to strangely attractive— strangely attractive were it not for Hell’s signature substitution of glowing red eyes. “I’m sorry I missed you earlier.”
“Just get on with it.”
The image shook its head. “You would think,” it said teasingly, “that you were in a hurry to get somewhere. You can’t leave, cherie.” The smile disappeared. “Neither of us can leave. We have been thrown together here, why not make the most of it?”
She had every intention of leaving, but her mother’s suggestion that she not argue with Hell had been a good one. “What did you have in mind?”
“With the power of the pentagram, you could give me a body nightly as easily as you could snap your fingers.”
Claire frowned. “Don’t you mean opening the pentagram would give me that power?”
“Things are not sealed so tightly as all that.” Red eyes actually managed a twinkle. “Augustus Smythe knew the benefits of using the seepage. How do you think he kept himself amused?”
“I think that’s fairly obvious.” She folded her arms. “If I can use the seepage without releasing the hordes of Hell, what’s in it for you?”
He looked hurt “Must there be something in it for us?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we find that a happy Keeper is a Keeper easier to live with.”
“I’m sure that Augustus Smythe was a joy.”
“He was Cousin, cherie. You are a Keeper. Surely you are stronger?”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Perhaps.” The image saddened. “You get so few chances to have another’s life touch yours. A frenzied fumbling in the dark—and we have nothing against that, cherie—and then you move on. Only when Keepers are old do they stay in one place long enough to find a mate for the soul and, by then, they are too old to recognize such a one. You have a chance, cherie, a chance few Keepers get.”
Claire’s nostrils flared. “He’s dead.”
“Ah, I see. You will not take the risk, even though there is no danger to you, because it is what a Keeper does not do. A Keeper does not take risks for such a minor thing as happiness.” The image saddened. “For once in your life, cherie, can you not give in to desire without questioning if it is what a Keeper should do?” It raised its left hand and pressed it against the inside of
