Chronicles Of The Keeper - Summon The Keeper Part 1

Summon the Keeper.

By Tanya Huff

CHAPTER ONE.

When the storm broke, rain pounding down in great sheets out of a black and unforgiving sky, Claire Hansen had to admit she wasn't surprised; it had been that kind of evening. Although her ticket took her to Colburg, three stops farther along the line, she'd stepped off the train and into the Kingston station certain that she'd found the source of the summons. It was the last thing she'd been certain of all day.

By the time it started to rain, her feet hurt, her luggage had about pulled her arms from their sockets, her traveling companion was sulking, and she was more than ready to pack it in. She'd search again in the morning, after a good night's sleep.

Unfortunately, it wasn't going to be that easy.

A Great Lakes Hydroecology convention had filled two of the downtown hotels, the third didn't allow pets, and the fourth was hosting the Beer Can Collectors of America, South Eastern Ontario Division. Claire had professed indignant disbelief about the latter until the desk clerk had pointed out the sign in the lobby welcoming the collectors to Kingston.

Some people have too much spare time, she thought as she shifted her suitcase into her left hand, the lighter, wicker cat carrier into her right, and headed back out into the night. Way too much spare time.

Pulling her coat collar out from under the weight of her backpack and hunkering down into its dubious shelter, she followed her feet along King Street toward the university, where a vague memory suggested there were guest houses and B&Bs hollowed out of the huge old mansions along the lake. Logically, she should have caught a cab out to the parade of hotels and budget motels lining Highway 2 between Kingston and Cataraqui, but, as logical solutions were rare in her line of work, Claire kept walking.

Thunder cracked, lightning lit up the sky, and it started to rain harder. Down the center of the street, where the reaching leaves of the huge, old trees didn't quite touch, grape-sized drops of water hit the pavement so hard they bounced. On the sidewalk, under the trees, it was...

A gust of wind tipped branches almost vertical, dumping a stream of icy water off the canopy and straight down the back of Claire's neck.

... not significantly drier.

There were times when profanity offered the only satisfactory response. Denied that outlet, Claire gritted her teeth and continued walking through increasingly deeper puddles toward City Park. Surely there'd be some kind of shelter near such a prominent tourist area even though September had emptied it of fairs and festivals. Tired, wet, and just generally cranky, she'd settle for anything that involved a roof and a bed.

At the corner of Lower Union and King, the lightning flashed again, throwing trees and houses into sharp-edged relief. On the third house up from the corner, a signboard affixed to a wrought iron fence reflected the light with such intensity, it left afterimages on the inside of Claire's lids.

"Shall we check it out?" She had to yell to make herself heard over the storm.

There was no answer from the cat carrier, but then she hadn't actually expected one.

In this, one of the oldest parts of the city, the houses were three- and four-story, red-brick Victorians. Too large to remain single-family dwellings in a time of rising energy prices, most had been hacked up into flats. The first two houses up from the corner were of this type. The third, past a narrow driveway, was larger still.

Squinting in the dark, water pouring off her hair and into her eyes, Claire struggled to make out the words on the sign. She was fairly certain there were words; there didn't seem to be much point in a sign if there weren't.

"Never any lightning around when it's needed..."

On cue, the lightning provided every fleck of peeling paint with its own shadow. At the accompanying double crack of thunder, Claire dropped her suitcase and clutched at the fence. She let go a moment later when it occurred to her that holding an iron rod, even a rusty one, wasn't exactly smart under the circ.u.mstances.

White-and-yellow spots dancing across her vision, the faint fizz of an electrical discharge bouncing about between her ears, she stumbled toward the front door. During the brief time she'd been able to read the sign, she'd seen the words "uest House" and, right now, that was good enough for her.

The nine stairs were uneven and slippery, threatening to toss her, suitcase, cat carrier, backpack, and all, down into the black depths of the area in front of the house. When she slid into the railing and it bowed dangerously, she refused to consider it an omen. From the unsheltered porch, she could see neither knocker nor bell but, considering the night and the weather, that meant very little. There could have been a plaque warning travelers to abandon hope all ye who enter here, and she wouldn't have seen it, or paid any attention to it if it meant getting out of the storm. A light shone dimly through the transom. Holding her suitcase against the bricks with her knee, she tried the door.

It was unlocked.

Another time, she might have appreciated the drama of the moment more and pushed the heavy door open slowly, the sound of shrieking hinges accompanied by ominous music. As it was, she shoved it again, threw herself and her baggage inside, and kicked it closed.

At first, the silence came as a welcome relief from the storm, but after a moment of it settling around her, thick and cloying, Claire found she needed to fill it. She felt as though she were being covered in the cheap syrup left on the tables at family restaurants.

"h.e.l.lo? Is anybody here?"

Although her voice had never been described as either timid or tentative, it made less than no impact on the silence. Lacking anywhere more constructive to go, the words bounced painfully around inside her head, birthing a sudden, throbbing headache.

Carefully setting the cat carrier down beyond the small lake she'd created on the scuffed hardwood floor, she turned to face the counter that divided the entry into a lobby and what looked like a small office, although the light was so bad, she couldn't be sure. On the counter, a bra.s.s bell waited in solitary, tarnished splendor.

Feeling somewhat like Alice in Wonderland, Claire pushed her streaming hair back off her face and smacked the plunger down into the bell.

The old man appeared behind the counter so suddenly that she recoiled a step, half expecting an accompanying puff of smoke, which would have been less disturbing than the more mundane explanation of him watching her from a dark corner of the office.

"What," he demanded, "do you want?"

"What do I want?"

"I asked you first."

Which was true enough. "I'd like a room for the night."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That all?"

"What else is there?"

"Breakfast."

Claire had never been challenged to breakfast before. "If it's included, breakfast is fine." Another time, she might have managed a more spirited response. Then she remembered. "Do you take pets?"

"I do not! That's a filthy lie! You've been talking to Mrs. Abrams next door in number thirty-five, haven't you? b.l.o.o.d.y cow. Lets her great, hairy baby c.r.a.p all over the drive."

Beginning to shiver under the weight of her wet clothing, it took Claire a moment to work out just where the conversation had departed from the expected text. "I meant, do you mind pets staying in the hotel?"

The old man snorted. "Then you should say what you mean."

Something in his face seemed suddenly familiar, but the shadows cast by the single bulb hanging high overhead defeated Claire's attempt to bring his features into better focus. Her left eyelid began to twitch in time with the pounding in her skull. "Do I know you?"

"You do not."

He was telling the truth although something around the edges of his voice suggested it wasn't the entire truth. Before she could press the matter, he snarled, "If you don't want the room, I suggest you move on. I don't intend standing around here all night."

The thought of going back out into the storm wiped everything else from her head. "I want the room."

He dragged an old, green, leather-bound book out from under the counter and banged it down in front of her. Slapping it open to a blank page, he shoved a pen in her general direction. "Sign here."

She'd barely finished the final "n," her sleeve dragging a damp line across the yellowing paper, when he plucked the pen from her hand and replaced it with a key on a pink plastic fob.

"Room one. Top of the stairs to your right."

"Do I owe you anything in ad..." Claire let the last word trail off. The old man had vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared. "Guess not."

Picking up her luggage, she started up the stairs, trusting to instinct for her footing since the light was so bad she couldn't quite see the floor a little over five feet away.