Or worse.
Which is ridiculous. He’d vacuumed this same hall once a week for as long as he’d worked here with this same machine and the woman in room six had slept peacefully—or compulsively—through it. Contractors had renovated the rooms to either side of her and obviously she hadn’t stirred. Mrs. Hansen had all but stuck pins in her, and still she slept on.
The odds were good that he wasn’t after waking her up this morning.
His foot stopped three inches above the off/on switch and Dean couldn’t force it any closer.
Apparently, his foot didn’t like the odds.
So he changed feet.
His other foot was, in its own way, as adamant.
You’re being nuts, boy. He carefully cleaned his glasses, placed them back on his nose, and, before the thought had time to reach his extremities, stomped on the switch, missed, and nearly fell over as his leg continued through an extra four inches of space.
Clearly, parts of his body were more paranoid than the whole.
Okay, uncle. He unplugged the machine and rewound the cord. There had to be an old carpet sweeper up in the attic, and he could always use that.
On his way back to the storage cupboard, he bent to pick up a small picture of a ship someone had left on the floor. He had no idea where it had come from; guests had found Mr. Smythe’s taste in art somewhat disturbing, so the walls had been essentially art free ever since the embarrassing incident with the eighteenth-century prints and the chicken.
Upon closer inspection, the picture turned out to be a discolored page clipped from a magazine slid into a cheap frame. A cheap, filthy frame.
Holding it between thumb and forefinger, Dean frowned. What was it doing leaning against the wall outside room six? And could he get it clean without using an abrasive?
“Put that down!”
Behind his glasses, Dean’s eyes narrowed as he raised his gaze from the felted cobwebbing to the ghost “Is it yours, then?”
“It is mine as much as it is anyone’s.”
If the picture belonged to Jacques, that explained why he’d never seen it before. “Why should I put it down?” he asked suspiciously.
Jacques’ expression matched Dean’s. “Why do you hold it?”
“I found it on the floor.”
“Then put it back on the floor.”
“There?” A nod indicated the picture’s previous position against the wall—far, far too handy to the sleeping Keeper.
“Oui, there! What are you, stupide?”
“Why do you want me to put it there?”
“Because that is where it was!”
“So?”
“Do you try to block my way, Anglais?”
“If I can,” Dean growled, taking a step toward the dead man. The way he understood it, Jacques had been dead as dick and haunting the hotel at the same time as the evil Keeper’s attempt to control the accident site. It wouldn’t surprise him to discover the ghost had been her accomplice and now, with Claire unwilling to give him a body, he had only one other place to turn. Dean couldn’t let that happen, not after everything Claire and her mother and the cat had said. “What are you planning, Jacques?”
Jacques folded his arms and rolled his eyes. “I should think,” he said scornfully, “that what I, as you so crudely say, plan, would be obvious even to a muscle-bound imbecile like yourself.”
“You’re after waking her?”
“Waking her?” The ghost shot a speculative look in Dean’s direction. “Oui, if you like. I wake her to new sensations. And when I tell Claire that you gather what allows me to walk within the hotel, that you try to keep me from her, she will not like that, I think.”
…what allows me to walk within the hotel. Dean’s scowl faded as he realized, for the first time in his life, he’d leaped to the worst possible conclusion, his response based solely on his irrational reaction to a dead man. The picture had nothing to do with the sleeping Keeper. Working from the attic, Claire must’ve sent it to the third floor hall without considering where it might end up.
He’d completely forgotten about Jacques’ anchors. He opened his mouth to explain and was amazed to hear himself say, “Sure, run and hide behind Claire.”
“Run and hide?” Anger blurred Jacques’ edges.
“Too dead to stand up for yourself?”
“Claire…”
“This has nothing to do with Claire.” Dean set the picture back on the floor—as far from room six as he could put it without appearing to give ground—then straightened, shoulders squared. “This is between you and me.”
“Me, I think this has everything to do with Claire,” Jacques murmured, studying the younger man through narrowed lids. “But you are right, mon petit Anglais, this is between you and me.”
Claire had been vaguely disappointed not to find Jacques waiting for her when she passed through the sitting room on her way to the bathroom. Thoughts of him spending the night pressed up against her bedroom door had inserted themselves into her dreams and jerked her awake almost hourly. She’d wanted to share her mood with him while she still felt like giving him a body in order to wring his neck.
It didn’t help that the morning’s measurements had shown a perceptible buildup of seepage. With no access to the power sealing the hole, she couldn’t cut it off, and she certainly couldn’t let it build up indefinitely.
Teeth clenched, she gave the shower taps a savage twist, snarled wordlessly when the pipes began banging out their delivery of hot water, and bit back an extremely dangerous oath when the temperature spent a good two minutes fluctuating between too hot and too cold.
She finally began to calm as she lathered the Apothecary’s shampoo—guaranteed not tested on mythical creatures—into her hair, and by the time she’d sudsed, rinsed, and dried, she’d relaxed considerably. When Hell actually let her blow-dry and style in peace, she left the bathroom feeling remarkably cheerful.
Her good mood lasted through dressing and right into the day’s search for the Historian.
Curled up on a pillow, Austin lifted his head as the wardrobe door opened and Claire emerged soaking wet “You’re cutting it close,” he said. “You’ve just barely left. What happened?”
“Tropical storm,” Claire told him tightly, pushing streaming hair back off her face. “Came up on shore after me and followed me about ten kilometers inland. Good thing I was driving an import or I’d never have stayed on the road.”
“One of the Historian’s early warning systems?”
Claire shrugged, her sweater sagging off her shoulders. “Who knows?” Trailing a small river behind her, she picked up some dry clothes, held carefully at arm’s length, and headed for the bathroom.
Dumping her wet clothes in a pile on the floor, she dressed quickly and, stomach growling, picked up her blow-dryer. “This one’s going to be quick and sleazy,” she muttered, bending over and applying the hot air. “I’m too hungry for style.”
When she straightened, Jacques stared at her from out of the mirror.
“Oh, hell,” she sighed.
“Got it in one, cherie.” His lips curled up into the lopsided smile that raised his looks, from passable to strangely attractive— strangely attractive were it not for Hell’s signature substitution of glowing red eyes. “I’m sorry I missed you earlier.”
“Just get on with it.”
The image shook its head. “You would think,” it said teasingly, “that you were in a hurry to get somewhere. You can’t leave, cherie.” The smile disappeared. “Neither of us can leave. We have been thrown together here, why not make the most of it?”
She had every intention of leaving, but her mother’s suggestion that she not argue with Hell had been a good one. “What did you have in mind?”