“What is it?” The long-haired apricot-and-white cat turned his head sideways and stared at Samuel with pale blue eyes. “It’s awfully bright.”
“It’s an angel,” snorted the seal-point Siamese beside him, staring down the aristocratic arch of her nose. “Or a sort of an angel anyway. Someone seems to have messed up the design.”
“What’s an angel?”
“It’s like a cat, only with two legs, minimal fur, and no tail.”
“Oh.” Confused but clearly used to taking the Siamese’s word for things, he wrapped a plumy apricot tail around his toes. “It almost looks as if it understands us.”
“It does. Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Patricia repeated, returning with three steaming mugs on a tray. “Oh. I see you’ve met Pixel and Ilea.” Setting the tray on the coffee table, she scooped up the Siamese. “This is really Ilea’s house. She only lets us live here because we know how to work the can opener.”
That was enough to distract Samuel from the heady scent of the hot chocolate. “Really?”
Rubbing the top of her head under Patricia’s chin, Ilea purred. Some questions were too stupid to need answers.
“Turn here.”
Dean glanced toward the boarded-up J. Henry and Sons Auto Repair and then back to Claire. “There’s a big batch of snow blocking the driveway.”
“Park on the side of the road, then, and we’ll walk in.”
When Austin made no protest, Dean sucked a speculative lungful of air through his teeth and pulled as far off the road as he could. It was one thing to have Claire explain exactly what demon residue meant and another thing entirely when the cat faced a walk over snow in subzero weather without complaint. Things were clearly some serious.
He shut off the engine and reached for his hat. “Is it Hell again?”
“I’d like to think we’d have noticed that,” Claire told him, chewing nervously on the thumb of her mitten.
“Well, I’d like to notice about a half a dozen garlic shrimp,” Austin pointed out acerbically, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll get them, and let’s face facts, there was a hole to Hell in Kingston for over forty years you Keepers never knew about.”
“You didn’t know about it either.”
“Hey, I’m the cat. I do comfort when needed and color commentary. I don’t deal with metaphysical rifts in the fabric of the universe, and I don’t fetch. Live with it.” His single eye narrowed. “Now let’s get on with it before it gets any colder out here.”
The snowbank blocking the driveway was about four-and-a-half-feet high but packed hard and easy to climb over. The snow in the parking lot was almost as deep and a lot softer.
“I’d better go first to break a trail,” Dean offered. “You can follow me, Austin can follow you. Which way?”
Claire pointed. A line of footprints, strangely unfilled by blowing snow stretched back behind the building. “Angels walk lightly on the world, they don’t leave footprints. Demons do. Demons want people to know they’ve passed by because you can’t tempt people who aren’t paying attention.”
A side door, leading into a small office, was open. Streaks of demon residue crossed the crumpled lock.
“It was in here,” Claire said softly, turning in place.
“No shit, Sherlock.” Austin kicked snow off first one back foot and then the other. “Its prints lead right to the door.”
The Keeper ignored him. “It took something from that hook, from the back of the chair, and from under the desk. Something that’s been here for a while given how thick the dust is.” Reaching into the possibilities, she filled the empty spaces with spatial memory. The translucent image of a pair of overalls hung from the hooks, a jacket draped over the back of the chair, and a pair of grimy running shoes lay half on top of each other under the desk. “Clothes?”
“Demons don’t wear clothes?” Dean asked, unable to resist poking a finger through the overalls as they disappeared.
“Yes, but I’ve never heard of a demon buying off the rack, let alone…” She waved a hand around the room and shuddered. “Granted they tend to be a little too fond of shoulder pads, but this is just not them.”
“The footprints keep going back into the woods.”
“Then that must be where the hole is, and if you say, ‘No shit, Sherlock’ to me one more time,” she warned the cat before he could speak, “you’ll be sorry.”
Austin stared up at her, whiskers bristling with affronted innocence. “I was merely going to ask if that was where Summons came from, but if you’re going to get snappy…”
“I’m sorry.” Pulling off a mitten, she rubbed at the crease between her eyes. “The thought of a demon wandering around unremarked by the good guys has me a little tense. I’d better lead from now on,” she added, walking back to the door. “If there’s danger out in those woods, better a Keeper face it than a Bystander.”
Although Dean didn’t like it, he couldn’t disagree and stepped out of her way.
“You were going to say ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ weren’t you?” he asked Austin quietly when Claire had moved a few paces ahead.
The cat snorted. “Well, duh.”
Claire picked her way carefully to the center of the small clearing, avoiding the worst patches of filthy snow. Squatting, she dragged her right mitt off with her teeth and extended her hand, fingers spread.
“What’s all over the snow?” Dean murmured to the cat he held cradled against his chest.
Austin squirmed around to get a better look. “Darkness. When it took form, it flaked.”
They watched Claire sift the air for a moment, then stand, frowning.
“This hole is tiny and old. It should have closed on its own and as far as passing a demon—it would have been like passing a kidney stone.” She shook her head. “I could be days defining it well enough to close it.”
“Gee, days spent out in the bush.” Austin sighed and laid his head in the crook of Dean’s elbow. “Words can’t
