At the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Abrams’ voice, Jacques faded slightly, muttering, “Someone for everyone. C’est legitime, it’s true what they say.” He’d been strongly enough affected not to add an entendre.
Austin poked a paw through the ghost. “Get out in the lobby and see what they’re talking about.”
“Claire said I am not to spy on the guests.”
“So spy on the neighbor!”
He started to dematerialize, then thought better of it and glanced at Claire.
“Go ahead.”
“Jacques, don’t.” Dean’s hand went through an ethereal arm. “They have a right to their privacy.”
“Jacques, go. Or they’ll be upstairs and we’ll never know.”
Turning toward Dean, Jacques spread his hands in a gesture that clearly indicated whose side of the argument he came down on and vanished.
“Don’t tell me,” Claire cautioned Dean before he could speak, “that you’re not curious because I won’t believe you. I mean, good quality legs?”
“Well, for a woman her age…” His voice trailed off as Jacques reappeared.
“They carry a small folding table.”
“A card table?”
“I see no cards but she is wood and square, like so.” He held his hands out just beyond shoulder width.
“The table is?”
“Oui.”
“They’re going to play cards.” Claire knew she had no right to feel relieved, but a card game was a lot less disturbing than what she’d been imagining. Get a grip, Claire. Irritating old women have as much right to a sex life as you do….
“I’m glad Mrs. Abrams has a friend to share her interests,” Dean said happily, reaching for the remote as the second period started.
Grinning broadly, Jacques rolled his eyes. One fell off the edge of the coffee table.
…maybe more.
With eight minutes still on the clock until the second intermission, Claire felt the hair lift off the back of her neck. “Something’s happening.”
“It’s a power play for Montreal,” Dean explained. “New Jersey got a penalty for high sticking, so they have one less man on the ice. They’re only one goal ahead so Montreal wants to lengthen their lead.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Claire heaved herself up out of the sofa and onto her feet. “Austin…”
“Yeah. I feel it, too.” Tail twice its normal size, he jumped down onto the floor, breathing through his half-open mouth.
“It’s coming from inside the hotel.”
“The furnace room, then?” Dean asked, eyes locked on the television. Montreal had the puck. Hell could wait another twenty-three seconds.
“No, it’s not the furnace room, and it’s not her either.”
“That’s good.”
“No, that’s bad. An unidentified power surge in this building can’t be good.”
“Claire.” Jacques stared at her through the translucent outline of his hand. “I am fading.”
She was about to tell him to stop fading when the near panic in his declaration broke through. “You’re not doing it on purpose?”
“Non.”
“Medium.”
How Austin had hissed a word containing no sibilants, Claire had no idea and no time to investigate. “Professor Jackson! They’re not playing cards, they’re having a seance and something’s gone wrong; come on!” She ran for the door, the cat close on her heels.
The buzzer sounded the end of the power play, releasing Dean’s attention. “Hey! Where are you going?”
“To save Jacques!”
He caught up in the office. “From what?” he asked as the four of them, Jacques nearly transparent, crossed the lobby.
“Professor Jackson is a medium,” Claire told him starting up the stairs at full speed. “A real medium. Not a fake. They’re rare—thank God. They have power over spirits.”
“Comme moi?” His voice had faded with him.
“Yeah, like you.” She missed a step, would’ve fallen except Dean grabbed her arm. “Thanks.” Charging out into the second floor hall, she banged on the door to room one with her fist “Mrs. Abrams! Professor Jackson! Stop what you’re doing and open the door! Now!”
“Cherie…” One hand stretched toward her, Jacques disappeared.
“No!” Whirling around she reached through the possibilities for power, but before she could blow the door off its hinges, Dean stepped back and slammed the sole of his work boot into the lock. The effect was much the same.
Professor Jackson stood in the midst of a blazing vortex of tiny lights dancing on a manic wind—although stood wasn’t entirely accurate as his feet dangled a good six inches off the floor. Sitting on the corner of the bed, the card table pulled up over her knees, Mrs. Abrams stared wide-eyed, one hand pressed up against her mouth, the other making shooing motions toward the lights.
“What’s happening?” Although the hall had been silent, one step over the threshold, Dean had to shout to make himself heard.
“It looks like Jacques is more than he can handle.”
Dean’s eyes widened. “Jacques is attacking him?”
“Jacques is not doing anything. The professor started something he couldn’t control.”
“Then where is he?”
“Who?”
“Jacques!”
Claire waved a hand toward Professor Jackson. “He’s in those lights. Bits of him may even be in the professor!”
“Connie!” Mrs. Abrams’ shriek cut through the ambient noise like a vegetarian through tofu. “You’ve got to do something!”
Which was true.
“Dean! Try and keep Mrs. Abrams calm.”
“While you do what?”
“While I rescue Jacques!”
“Be careful!” Body leaning almost forty-five degrees off vertical, he fought his way through the wind to the bed.
“It’s the residual power from when she made him flesh!” Ears flat against his head, Austin had tucked himself into the angle between floor and wall, claws hooked deeply into the carpet. He stared up at Claire through narrowed eyes. “Can you bring him back?”
“I think so!” Reaching for calm, Claire shuffled quickly forward, never breaking contact with the floor, at about half Dean’s weight, she couldn’t risk being blown away. A little better than an arm’s length from the professor, she marked her spot and started to spin. She moved slowly at first, barely managing to keep her balance; then the power lifted her and she began to pick up speed as she rose into the air. The room whirled by, faster, faster, until the walls began to blur and the tiny points of light were pulled from their orbits around Professor Jackson. Oh, dear; I really wish I hadn’t had that third slice of pizza….
“Catherine! What do you think you’re doing? You’ve got to save the professor!”
“She’s trying to, Mrs. Abrams!” Dean wasn’t entirely certain Mrs. Abrams had heard him. With Claire picking up speed, the winds had doubled in intensity. He ducked as the lamp from the bedside table flew by, cord dangling. The table followed close behind. On one knee beside the bed, he was horrified to feel it begin to shift. Throwing possible consequences, as it were, to the wind, he flung himself down beside the old woman, grabbed her around the waist with one arm, and blocked the professor’s flying suitcase with the other. Under him, the bed bucked and twisted, fighting to throw off the extra weight that kept it on the floor.
The card table never moved. The flame of the single candle never flickered.
Even behind the protection of his glasses, the wind whipped the moisture from his eyes. Lids barely cracked, Dean watched the little lights leave the professor and move to circle Claire. Sometimes singly, sometimes in clumps, they did one figure eight around both spinning figures, then settled down in their new orbit. When all the lights had shifted, including a few pulled painfully from under the professor’s skin, he breathed a sigh of relief and almost got beaned by a worn leather shaving kit sucked out of the bathroom and into the maelstrom.