“Egg-suckers don’t use weapons.”
“But I’ve got a bump!”
The door cut off further diagnosis.
“What part,” Claire gasped, dropping the gate into place and turning to glare at Dean, “of no one leaves the elevator did you not understand?”
“They were about to kill the kid.”
“So? He was robbing their nest. Stealing their eggs. Making omelets.”
“I couldn’t just watch him die!”
“Then we should have closed the door.”
“You don’t mean that.”
She did. Or she thought she did until she met his eyes and discovered that he believed she’d have gone to the rescue herself had he not been there. “Forget it. Go straight to the basement. No arguments.”
Dean pushed the lever all the way to the left “No arguments,” he agreed. Passing the second floor, he glanced over at Jacques. “Did you really break one of their eggs?”
“And how do I do that?” the ghost asked, pushing his hand through the wall of the elevator. “I touch nothing.”
“I stomped on a bunch of shells that had already hatched,” Claire explained. “Jacques stayed behind to distract them.”
“Why didn’t you…”
“Use magic? Because the possibilities were different there and, since you decided to play hero, I didn’t have time to work out a way through. Look at me, I’m filthy. I had to lie down on that black stuff with my feet still in the elevator to reach a rock for the door, and if you ever pull such a stupid, boneheaded stunt again, I’m leaving you to cook in the lava pit! Do I make myself clear?”
Ears burning, Dean ducked his head. “Yes, Boss.”
“When we reach bottom, I want a look at those arms.”
“It’s nothing.” A drop of blood traced a trail over the back of his hand, down his index finger, and dripped onto the floor.
She glared at him through slitted eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“A glass of rum in the belly and one on the wounds. He will be fine, Claire.”
“I have antibiotic cream in my bathroom,” Dean offered hurriedly. “I can take care of it.”
“Bring the cream to the dining room.” As the bottom of the elevator settled into its concrete basin, Claire tossed up the gate, picked up the doily, and stomped out into the basement.
“You stink like an active volcano,” Austin complained, jumping down off a shelf. “Have a nice time?”
All three brushed by him without answering. Dean went into his apartment. Jacques followed Claire up the basement stairs.
“Guess not.” He stuck his head over the threshold and sniffed at the bit of tentacle lying on the floor. His ears went back. “Who let the sushi out of the fridge?”
“So stoic,” Jacques murmured sarcastically as Dean, sitting on the dining room table, tried not to jerk his arm out from under Claire’s ministrations. “So much a man.”
“Stuff a sock in it,” Dean grunted.
“So articulate.”
“Stop it. Both of you.” Shirtless, Dean had pretty much lived up to Claire’s expectations. Eyes locked on the wounds instead of the rippling expanse of bare chest, she dabbed antibiotic cream on the punctures and fought to keep her mind on the job. “None of these are deep. You were lucky. He could’ve ripped your whole arm off. Both arms.” She was babbling. She knew it, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “Ripped both your stupid arms off and thrown them on the ground.” He not only looked great, he smelled terrific. Which had nothing to do with the matter at hand. Nothing at all. “You’d have bled to death before I could get to you. You could have been killed.”
Jacques snickered. “Such a magnifique manner beside the bed, cherie.”
“I’m just saying,” she began, and stopped. “I’m just saying,” she repeated, “that I need him to run this hotel and…” If she hadn’t looked up and seen Dean watching her, his expression teetering halfway between hope and disappointment, she could’ve left it at that. “…I’ve gotten used to having him around and I don’t…” The end of one finger covered in cream, she poked at the last three punctures. “…want him dead.”
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“About what?” Austin asked, jumping up onto the table beside Dean. “And what happened to your arms? And, just out of curiosity, why don’t you have any chest hair?”
While a blushing Dean shrugged into his shirt, Claire answered the first two questions.
“And the chest hair?” the cat prodded when she finished.
She picked him up and dropped him on the floor.
“You’re just mad because I was right,” he muttered as he jumped back up again. “I can see the sign now. This elevator holds a maximum of…How many dimensions?”
“That’s not important.”
“It will be to the elevator certification guys.”
“I’ll get some drywall and reseal the doors tomorrow,” Dean offered.
“No.” When three pairs of eyes locked on her, she shrugged. “I’d like to study it for a while, maybe I can fix it. It’s perfectly safe if you all stay off it.”
“And if you stay off it cherie.”
“I know enough to stay in it.”
“Penny for your thoughts?” Austin asked from the other pillow.
Claire rolled onto her side and stroked his head. “That only works if you hand me the penny,” she reminded him.
“If I had hands…”
She smiled. “I was thinking about…” How Jacques and I make a good team. How I felt when I saw Dean lying on the rocks. How one of them’s too young and the other’s too dead. How a Keeper should be able to keep her mind on the job even if it has been six months which is a bit of personal information relevant to absolutely nothing. “…the elevator.”
“Really?”
Why doesn’t Dean have any chest hair? “Uh-huh.”
“Liar.”
ISN’T THAT OUR LINE?
TEN
BY THE LAST SATURDAY IN OCTOBER, it was obvious that the seepage had been successfully contained. Hell had tried directing it, spreading it, and cutting it off completely; nothing worked. When a sudden cold snap drove Claire into the furnace room to adjust the heat, she found Hell hunkered down and sulking.
It continued to make personal appearances, however. As
