Chronicles Of The Keeper - Summon The Keeper Part 57

Austin's voice drifted out through the open bedroom door. "... consider more important than..."

Jacques looked thoughtful. "How big did you say was that lizard?"

Later, after tempers had cooled and apologies had been offered and accepted, Austin rested his head on Claire's shoulder and murmured thoughtfully, "Maybe it had nothing to do with either of us. Maybe it only had to do with Dean."

Claire stopped halfway across the sitting room and shifted her hold on the cat so she could see his face. "What are you saying?"

"Maybe he needed to go into the wardrobe; to begin tempering."

"Tempering?" Her eyes widened as the implication hit her. "Oh, no. Forget it. We don't need another Hero. They're nothing but trouble."

"Granted, but he fits the parameters. No parents, raised by a stern but ethical authority figure, big, strong, naturally athletic, not real bright, modest, good looking..."

"Myopic."

"What?"

"He's nearsighted," Claire said, feeling almost light-headed with relief. "Who ever heard of a hero in gla.s.ses?"

Austin thought about it for a moment. "Clark Kent?"

"Fake prescription."

"Woody Allen?"

"Get serious."

"Still..."

"No." She stepped out into the lobby, closing the door to her suite behind her. Patting the gleaming oak counter with her free hand, she headed for the kitchen. Since the unsuccessful search for the Historian had taken most of her energy, she had no memory of Dean actually finishing the work, but it sure looked good. Granted it would look better if they refinished the lobby floor, painted and recarpeted the stairs...

"No. I'm a Keeper, not an interior decorator, I have a job. If I can't find the Historian," she muttered, stepping into the kitchen, "there's more than one way to skin a cat."

Austin jumped out of her arms, landing by the sink and whirling around to face her. "I beg your pardon."

"Sorry."

He washed a shoulder. "I should hope so."

Hardly daring to breathe, Claire pulled the plastic container holding the site journal out of the fridge. Faint fumes could be detected seeping through the seal.

"Do you have to do that now?" Austin demanded. "It's twenty-five to ten. I thought we could have breakfast first."

"I have no intention of opening this when I have food in my stomach."

"That's probably wise, but factoring in wardrobe time, you haven't eaten for nearly twenty-four hours and, more importantly, I haven't eaten for two. After you deal with that, you're not going to want to eat for a while." He sneezed. "If ever. It's worse than the last time!"

"But the lid's still on."

"My point exactly." His first leap took him nearly to the dining room. Ears back, he headed for the hall. "If you want me, I'll be doing canine therapy next door. Out of my way, junior."

"Junior?" Dean repeated, flattening against the wall to avoid being run over by the cat. Still shaking his head, he turned the corner into the dining room and coughed. "What in..."

"If you want to do something useful," Claire told him a little breathlessly, setting the lid to one side, "you can find me a lifting thingie."

"A what?" he asked, noting with dismay that she was reaching for another fork.

"Something to lift the journal out of the liquid with."

Reminding himself that it was her hotel and she could therefore destroy as much of the cutlery as she wanted. Dean took his least favorite spatula from the spatula section of the second drawer and handed it over. "Did you and Austin work out, well, you know..."

"Yes. We did. Just so you don't worry in the future, we always do."

"You guys, you have a interesting relationship."

"Of course we do." She wiped one watering eye on the back of her hand. "He's a cat." Carefully, she slid the spatula under the journal.

Once again, the onions had turned indigo but, this time, there was still about an inch of brine sloshing around in the bottom of the container.

"Boss, I, uh, just wanted to say..."

"Not now, Dean."

"Okay." Left hand cupped over his mouth and nose, he walked over to the dining room side of the service counter. "How can you stand over it like that?"

"I do what I have to."

"And what do you have to do, cherie?" Jacques asked, appearing by her side.

"Watch." Holding the journal just up out of the brine so that none of the solution splashed out of the container as it drained, Claire carefully used the fork and flicked it open to the first of Augustus Smythe's entries. Although the paper remained a blue barely lighter than the letters, the writing was finally readable.

August 18th, 1942. I find myself summoned to a place called Brewster's Hotel. The most incredible thing has just taken place here. The Keeper who was, and who indeed continues to seal the site, attempted to gain control of the evil for her own uses.

Smiling broadly, Claire glanced up at Dean. "Isn't this wonderful!"

"Wonderful," he agreed, but he was referring to the little crinkle the smile folded into the end of her nose. Jacques followed his line of sight, and snorted.

I cannot name the Keeper because she remains in the building, continuing to seal the site with her power, which is considerably more than considerable according to the arrogant s...o...b.. of an Uncle John who helped defeat her. I hate how some of those guys get off on being "more lineage than thou," as if the universe shines out his a.s.s.

"I guess that answers the Augustus Smythe personality question."

The other Keeper, Uncle Bob, isn't so bad. Is it because Bob's your Uncle?

"And that raises a few more."

Two of them wouldn't have been enough to defeat her if she hadn't...

Slipping the fork carefully under the damp paper, trying, in spite of her excitement, to keep breathing shallowly, Claire turned the page.