“That’s not how it works.”
Sasha laughed again. “Not generally, no, but Keepers don’t take over sites from Cousins who took over from Keepers, so clearly it ain’t working the way it should.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I’ve been around a while.”
Claire remembered the years of signatures in the registration book—not one of them, unfortunately, occurring in the few short months Sara held the site. “Do you know about…?” A jerk of the head to room six finished the question.
“Well, duh. It’s not like it’s possible to hide something like that from me. I mean, after four or five visits it got kind of hard to ignore this unchanging life just hanging around upstairs.” The musician shrugged into an oversized red sweater. “Gus said it was a woman the Keepers had done a Sleeping Beauty on and that was all I needed to know.”
“You called him Gus?”
“Sure. And I’d love to know how he stuck you with this place, but if you don’t want to spill, hey, that’s cool.” She ran her fingers through her hair and quickly changed her lipstick to match the sweater. “He never filled me in on his summoning either—the obnoxious little prick. But man, at your age, it must be driving you nuts hanging around here when you could be out saving the world.”
Before Claire could answer, Dean’s voice, calling her name, drifted up the stairwell.
Sasha tilted her head toward the sound. “And right on cue we have a reminder of the fringe benefits.”
“He’s not a benefit,” Claire protested.
Cool fingers cupped her chin for a heartbeat “Foolish girl, why not?” Then, with a jangle of silver bracelets and a careless, “Don’t wait up—” she was gone.
Her touch lingered.
Later that night, as Claire climbed into bed, Austin uncurled enough to mutter, “I understand you’re renting a room to a bloodsucking, undead, soulless creature.”
“Does that bother you,” Claire asked.
“Not in the least.” He yawned. “Anyone who can operate a can opener is okay by me.”
“She came back into her room just before dawn. I think that she saw somebody in town last night.” Jacques’ hands traced euphemistic signals in the air. “If you know what I mean. She had a cat who has eaten canary look.”
Sprawled on top of the computer monitor, Austin snorted. “She looked like she was about to hawk up a mouthful of damp feathers?”
“That is not what I mean.”
“You shouldn’t spy on the guests,” Dean told him, tightening his grip on a handful of steel wool. “It’s rude.”
“I was not spying,” Jacques protested indignantly. “I was concerned.”
“Pull the other one.”
“You do not have to believe me.”
“Good.”
“Why do you suppose such a pretty girl stays in a room with no windows?”
Descending from an hour spent studying the power wrapped around Aunt Sara—as long as she could spend so close to such evil without wanting to rent movies just so she could return then un-rewound—Claire waited on the stairs for Dean’s answer.
“Ms. Moore’s a musician.” His tone suggested only an idiot couldn’t have figured it out on his own. “She works nights, she sleeps days, and she doesn’t want the sun to wake her.”
“Such a good thing there is the room, then,” Jacques mused.
Claire frowned. What would happen if Jacques put one and one together and actually made two? If the ghost found out about the vampire, who could he tell? Dean? Only if it would irritate or enrage him.
What if Dean found out? She was fairly certain he would neither start sharpening stakes nor looking up the phone numbers for the tabloids. The vampire’s safety would not be compromised.
Dean’s safety was another matter entirely. Many humans were drawn to the kind of danger Sasha Moore represented. While not necessarily life-threatening, it was a well known fact that the intimacy of vampiric feeding could become addictive and that wasn’t something she was going to allow to happen to Dean. He wasn’t going to end up wandering the country, a helpless groupie of the undead.
And I’d feel the same way about anyone made my responsibility, she insisted silently. Including guests while they’re in this hotel. Which, in a loopy way, made Sasha Moore her responsibility as well.
The sudden realization jerked her forward. Catching her heel on the stair, she stumbled, arms flailing for balance, down into the lobby. She’d have made it had the pommel on the end of the banister not come off in her hand.
Her landing made an impressive amount of noise. It would have made more had she been permitted the emotional release of profanity.
“Claire!” Dean tossed the steel wool aside, peeled off the rubber gloves, and started to rise. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Moving toward her, he found Jacques suddenly in his way, hands raised in warning.
“I wouldn’t,” the ghost murmured by the other man’s ear. “When a woman says she is fine in that tone, she wishes you to leave her alone.”
Since he couldn’t push the ghost away. Dean went through him and dropped to his knees by Claire’s side. “What happened?”
“I slipped.”
“Are you hurt?” Without thinking, he reached for her arm but drew back at her expression.
“I said, I’m fine.”
“Told you so,” Jacques murmured, drifting up by the ceiling.
Claire pushed herself into a sitting position with one hand and gave Dean the banister pommel with the other. “If you’re looking for something to do…” A triple boom not only cut off Dean’s response but spun her around, hand over her heart as she futilely tried to keep it from beating in time. “What the…”
“Door knocker,” Dean explained, then clapped his hands over his ears as the sound echoed through the lobby again.
Except that Dean had no reason to lie, she’d never have believed that the brass knocker she’d seen on her first night could have made the noise. At least we know it’s not Mrs. Abrams; she never knocks. As Dean ran for the door before their caller knocked again and they
