“Technically, it’s energy from the lower end of the possibilities manifesting itself in a format the person who called it up could understand.”
“And that format?”
“Is Hell; all right?” Sagging back against the washing machine, she threw up her hands. “You win.”
Dean jerked a hand back through his hair. “It’s not about winning.” He paused, trying to figure out what it was he’d won. “Okay. Maybe it is. You’re admitting you should have told me, right?”
“Right.”
“That you were wrong?”
She found enough energy to lift her head. “Don’t push it.” One fingernail traced the maker’s name stamped into the front of the washer. “So now you know, what are you going to do? Are you going to leave?”
“Leave?” Leave. He hadn’t actually thought it through that far.
“What’s the point?” his common sense wanted to know. “There’s nothing there that hasn’t been there for the last year.”
“Shouldn’t you be telling me to pack?”
“Too late.”
“Dean?”
He took a step away from the furnace room. He wanted to ask her if she really thought she could close up Hell, but the sound of a hundred grains of rice being ground to powder drew his gaze to the floor. “What’s with all the rice?”
“Conservation of mass,” Claire explained wearily. “It used to be the chains.”
“You changed the chains into rice?”
“It had to be something I could get through even though it weighed the same as the chains.”
The area immediately in front of the furnace room door looked as though a small blizzard had wandered through on its way to Rochester. Crouching, Dean scooped up a handful of the tiny white grains and frowned as they spilled through his fingers. “Instant rice?”
“What’s wrong with instant?”
“Nothing. I mean, it’s not like you’re cooking with it.” He straightened, dusting his hand against his thigh. “Are you after changing it back?”
Claire shook her head and regretted the motion. “I can’t. I couldn’t change my mind right now.”
“Then should I replace the chains? Mr. Smythe kept a box of extras,” he added in response to her expression.
Claire glanced at the door. The chains, like the locks on room six, were wishful thinking. If Hell got loose, chains wouldn’t stop it. “Why not.”
Picking rice off her socks, she watched him walk to a storage cupboard at the far end of the basement return, and efficiently secure the door. When he turned to face her, she realized there was a reserve in his expression, a new wariness in his gaze, that made her feel as though, somehow, she’d failed him. She didn’t like the feeling.
Keepers weren’t in the habit of apologizing to bystanders. But then, Keepers didn’t usually have to look Dean McIssac in the eye, knowing they were wrong. “All right.” She tried to keep her nostrils from flaring and didn’t quite manage it. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you.”
“I told you so.” Enjoying the startled reaction his unexpected declaration had evoked, Austin picked his way across the laundry room. “What’s with the rice?”
“It used to be the chains and locks,” Claire told him.
“I see. Well, the mice will certainly be pleased.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t think they’re mice!” The need to vent at something pushed the volume up until she was almost shouting.
Austin snorted. “Oh, that’s right; you’re the Keeper and I’m just a cat. What do I know about mice?”
She smiled tightly down at him. “You should know they don’t come in primary colors. Were you looking for us?”
“No. But I was wondering why Jacques is having hysterics in the dining room while you two are hiding out down here.” Fastidiously finding a clean bit of floor, he sat down, wrapping his tail around his toes. “After what I overheard, I’m not wondering any more, but I was.
“This is only a guess,” he continued as Claire raced for the stairs, “based on the really pissed-off ravings of a dead man, but did someone use the h-word out of context and almost condemn his soul to everlasting torment?”
Dean blanched as he realized that was exactly what had happened. “If you’d told me,” he called, hurrying to catch up, “I wouldn’t have done it!”
“Her mother wanted her to tell you.”
“Shut up, Austin.”
When they reached the dining room, a plastic salt shaker, a box of toothpicks, and six grapes flew out of the kitchen. Claire ducked and Dean took the full impact.
“J’ai presque ete a l’Enfer!”
Wiping crushed grape off his chin, Dean stepped forward. His French wasn’t up to an exact translation, but the infuriated shriek suggested a limited number of possibilities. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It was…”
“It was an accident!” With a well-placed hip, Claire moved Dean out of her way. “Granted, he said the words, but he didn’t mean them as an instruction. He should be able to say what he wants with no effect.”
Austin snorted and whacked the salt shaker under the dining room table. “That thing’s been down there for over a century and the power seepage has permeated this whole building. I’m only surprised that he never told old Augustus where to go.”
“I couldn’t say that to my boss,” Dean protested.
“Not without a union,” the cat agreed.
Jacques surged through the table to stand face-to-face with Claire. “I don’t care what he should have been able to do! All I know is that he tried to throw me into Hell!”
“And then he pulled you out again.”
“You think that makes up for him putting me there?”
“Would you listen to me, Jacques!” Had she been able to get hold of him, she’d have shaken him until his teeth rattled. “He didn’t know it would happen. He didn’t even know what was in the furnace room.”
“He did not know!” Jacques stepped back in disbelief, half in and half out of the table. “You did not tell him?” All at once, he frowned. “Come to think on it, you did not tell me!”
“You’ve
