“Dean McIssac!”
There was power in a name.
He stopped, one foot in the air, and almost fell.
“Where are you going?”
Shoving his glasses back into place, he tired to sound as though he found dead women laid out in the guest rooms all the time. “I’m after calling 911.” His heart was pounding so loudly he could hardly hear himself.
“After calling?”
He rolled his eyes anxious to be moving, impatient at the delay. “After calling, going to call; it’s the same thing.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know!” Frustration had him almost shouting. Suddenly self-conscious, he ducked his head. “Sorry.”
Claire waved off the apology. “I meant, why are you going to call 911?”
“Because there’s a body…”
“She isn’t dead, Dean, she’s asleep. If you look at her chest, you can see she’s breathing.”
“Breathing?” Without moving his feet, he grabbed the splintered doorjamb and leaned in over the threshold. “Oh.” Feeling foolish, he shrugged and tried to explain, “I was raised better than to stare at a woman’s chest.”
“You thought it was a corpse.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Who raised you?”
“My granddad, Reverend McIssac,” Dean told her, a little defensively.
Claire had her doubts at how often a twenty-year-old male actually followed that particular dictum but had no plans to discourage admirable intentions. “Well, good for him. And you. Now, could you do something for me?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Could you go get me another cup of coffee, please.”
He looked at her like she was out of her mind. “What? Now? What about the woman on the bed?”
“I don’t think she’s going to want one.”
“No, I meant, what about the woman on the bed!”
Claire sighed. She hadn’t actually thought it would work, but since it was the simplest temporary solution, it had seemed foolish not to try. Unfortunately, curiosity was one of the strongest motivating forces behind humanity’s rise out of the ooze and, unsatisfied, it invariably caused problems. The safest way to deal with questions was to answer them, then, after all the loose ends were neatly tied up, wipe the whole package right out of Dean’s mind. “If I promise to explain everything later, will you do me a favor? Will you wait quietly while I deal with this?”
“You know what’s going on then?”
“Yes. Mostly,” she amended, conscience prickling.
“And you’ll explain it to me?”
“When I’m done with her.”
“Done what?”
“That’s one of the things I’ll explain later.”
Feeling a pressure against his shins, Dean glanced down to see Austin rubbing against him. It was such a normal, ordinary thing for a cat to do, it made the rest of the morning seem less strange. “Okay,” he said, dropping to one knee and running his fingers along the silky fur. “I’ll wait.”
“Thank you.”
With her unwelcome audience temporarily taken care of, Claire turned her attention back to the bed. In spite of the dust, the woman did bear a striking resemblance to Sleeping Beauty— or more accurately, given her age, to Sleeping Beauty’s mother. Then it became obvious that the blonde curls had been bleached, the eyebrows had been plucked and redrawn, and the lips were far, far too red. The severe, almost military-style clothing covered a lush figure that could by no means be called matronly. For some reason, Claire found the line of dark residue under all ten fingernails incredibly disturbing. She didn’t know why—dirty fingernails had never bothered her before.
It would be easier to work without the shield, but with a bystander to consider, Claire went through the perimeter without disturbing its structural integrity.
The emanations rising from the body were so dark she gagged. Teeth clenched, wishing she hadn’t had that coffee, she forced herself to take a deeper look.
Kneeling beside the cat, Dean watched his new boss stagger back, trip on the edge of the braided rug, and begin to fall. He dove forward, felt an unpleasant, greasy sizzle along one arm, and caught her just before she hit the floor. Under the makeup, her face had gone a pale gray and her throat worked as though she wanted to throw up. Before he could ask if she was all right, Austin leaped up onto her lap.
Her lower body still on the other side of the shield, Claire reached out to stop the cat from crossing over.
Too late.
“Evil!” Without actually touching down, he twisted in midair, hit the floor running, and raced back into the hall.
That was enough for Dean. Hands under Claire’s armpits, he half carried, half dragged her out of the room. When her legs cleared the threshold, he reached over her and pulled the door closed. The damage he’d done to the lock plate meant it no longer latched, but he managed to jam it shut.
Pressed tight against Dean’s chest, her head tucked into the hollow of his throat, Claire shoved on the arm holding her in place. While she appreciated him catching her before her skull smacked into the floor, his interference in something he had no hope of understanding created the distinct desire to drive her elbow in under his ribs as far as it would go. Only the certain knowledge that any blow would bounce harmlessly off the rippled muscle she could feel through the thin barrier of the T-shirt prevented her. That, and the way the position she found herself in radically restricted her movements. Not to mention her ability to breathe. “Let go of me!” she gasped. “Now!”
He jerked and looked down at her like he’d forgotten she was there but eased up enough so she could squirm free. Wedging her shoulder under his, she managed to get him out of the doorway.
His back against the wall, Dean slid down to sit on the hall floor, feeling much as he had at ten when the local bully had smacked him around with a dead cod. “The cat talked.”
Having just reached Austin’s side, Claire shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
Scooping the cat up into her arms, she said in a tone specifically crafted to make the recipient doubt his own senses, “No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did,” Austin corrected, his voice a little muffled.
“Excuse me.” Holding him
