“I was actually asking Ms. Hansen.”
Since there’d been a chance of flying glass, Claire had stayed away from the window and so could truthfully answer, “Sorry, I didn’t see anything.”
“It was probably a gang of students from the university. They get a few too many drinks in them and go crazy.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Claire agreed as he stood. It wasn’t what had happened, but it sounded reasonable. Most of the vandalism in Kingston conveniently got blamed on wandering gangs of students from the university who’d had a few too many drinks. Occasionally they were spotted in the distance, but no one ever managed to identify individuals since, like other legendary creatures, they vanished when too closely approached.
“When you arrest them,” Mrs. Abrams said, so determined to do her civic duty that she clutched at the constable’s sleeve, “you let me know. I’m the one who called. Mrs. Abrams. One be and an ess.”
“You’re the lady with the dog, aren’t you?”
“You’ve heard of my Baby?” she beamed up at him.
The constable sighed. “Oh, yeah.”
Another call dragged the grateful police officer back into his car and away. Mrs. Abrams transferred her attention to Claire.
“You haven’t forgotten that Professor Jackson is coming to stay the day after tomorrow, have you, Kimberly, dear?”
“We’re looking forward to it, Mrs. Abrams.”
“I’m sure you’ll take wonderful care of him. I’ll likely be over to visit him while he’s there. Only because Baby dislikes him so, you know. We wouldn’t ever do anything compromising. Although,” she simpered, “I used to be quite progressive in my younger days.”
The worst of it was, she was telling the truth. Shuddering slightly, Claire went inside and spent the rest of the day trying to catch up on her sleep without dreaming of Mrs. Abrams and the professor in progressive positions. Had she not checked to insure all shields were holding, she’d have assumed the dreams, in graphic detail with full sound and color, had risen up out of the pit.
“You Claire Hansen?”
Claire checked, but the courier had not been called by Hell. Which made sense after she thought about it a moment; if something absolutely had to be delivered the next business day, Hell’d prefer it to be late. “Yes, I’m Claire Hansen.”
“Sign here.”
“Why?”
Although the young woman’s expression made a rude comment, she kept her tone professional. “I got a package for you.”
“You want me to sign for it, then. Boss?”
“You Claire Hansen?” the courier demanded.
“No, but…”
“Then she’s got to sign it.”
In return for her signature, Claire was handed a large, bulging manila envelope and an illegible receipt.
“Who’s it from?” Dean asked as the courier carried her bike back down the front steps and rode away.
“More important,” Jacques murmured appreciatively, rematerializing by the window, “what does she wear? Her legs, they look like they are painted black.”
“They’re tights.”
“Oui, they are tight. Me, I do not complain, but they are allowed?”
“Sure.”
He heaved a heavy if ethereal sigh. “I died too soon.”
“The package is from Hermes,” Claire interrupted with heavy emphasis.
Austin snickered. “Someone doesn’t like not being the center of attention.”
Ignoring him, she pulled a folded towel from the envelope and frowned. “Why would Hermes send us a towel?”
“It’s one of ours,” Dean declared, fingering the fabric. “It must’ve gotten accidentally mixed in with his stuff.”
“He’s the God of Thieves, Dean. I doubt it was an accident, and since I also doubt his conscience got the better of him, I wonder why he sent it back.” A piece of paper, both sides filled with line after line of script, fell from a fold. “Maybe this explains it. Dear Keeper,” she read. “Three days ago, I left your establishment with one of the items traditionally liberated from hotel rooms. Since that time, two ferries have attempted to sink out from under us and would have sunk had Poseidon not been on board to command the waves to carry us to shore. Our vehicle has broken down seven times—Hephaestus is happy, no one else is. For the first time since we began traveling, the border guards asked to see identification and then, when I informed them we were heading to Rochester, searched the van. The pocket in the space-time continuum didn’t bother them as much as the cameras Zeus bought in Toronto but lost the receipts for. When we were finally allowed into the United States but warned by the most officious person it has ever been my displeasure to meet that we wouldn’t be able to return to Canada—and, I might add, your admirable system of socialized medicine—Aphrodite had a flare up of an old complaint, and the clinic visit maxed out her credit card. While we were waiting for her, someone stole our travelers’ checks. They were not American Express.”
The list continued for the rest of the front and onto the back of the paper and ended with:
“So I return to you the item divination has determined is the cause of our recent difficulties. Please excuse the small scorch mark. Your security system is admirable if excessive.
—Yours in mythology,
Hermes.”
“What security system?” Dean asked.
“I suspect that after all these years with an active accident site, the hotel’s capable of providing its own security.” Claire patted the terry cloth fondly. “Offhand, I’d say it’s a really bad idea to steal our towels.”
STOPPING THE SEEPAGE WON’T WEAKEN THE SHIELD, Hell told itself sulkily.
I’M NOT STOPPING THE SEEPAGE. I’M GATHERING IT.
TWELVE
PROFESSOR JACKSON WAS A MAN of medium height trying to be tall. Under a hat last fashionable in the forties, he carried his chin high and his weight forward on the balls of his feet. Something about him suggested carpetbags to Claire although a quick glance over the counter showed only a perfectly normal, gray nylon suitcase.
“Am I your only guest?” he asked, signing the register with a precise flourish.
“At the moment.” Claire dropped the key to room one into his outstretched
