Chronicles Of The Keeper - Summon The Keeper Part 87

Swinging the empty bucket, Claire closed the door on the dissolving manifestation. "At least she stuck to the script."

"I always thought the CBC was overreacting about the effects of the American media," Dean said thoughtfully, "but now I'm not so sure."

"Aren't you a little young to be out so late."

The tiny girl watched the candy drop safely into her bag before answering. "My daddy just got home."

The shadowy figure at the bottom of the stairs raised an arm in a sheepish wave.

"I see. Well, what are you supposed to be?"

She tossed her head, setting a pair of realistic looking paper horse ears waggling, and spun around so Claire could see the tail pinned to the back of her jacket. "I'm a pony."

"Oh. Sorry."

"You've got a cat in the window," she continued. "I want a cat, but my stepmom's allergic. Can I come in and pet your cat? Just for a minute." Head to one side, she smiled engagingly. "Please."

"What about your father?"

She spun around again. "Daddy! Can I go pet the cat?"

The arm lifted in what could have been a wave of a.s.sent.

Like most cats, Austin was not fond of small children. Claire grinned and was about to step out of the way when she noticed the threshold seemed to be a darker color than the surrounding wood. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a paper packet of salt and, as the child's eyes widened, ripped it in half and threw it in her face.

The glamour faded.

The runes blazed red.

The little girl stretched six, seven feet tall, costume vanishing although the horse ears remained, curved fangs protruding from her lower jaw, oversized hands sc.r.a.ping at the bricks on either side of the door.

Daddy breathed fire.

Claire and Dean together slammed the door.

"That was close," Claire said with feeling as the latch finally caught.

Shoulders against the wood. Dean let out a breath he couldn't remember taking. "Do you always keep salt in your pocket?"

"Strange question from a man carrying a brown'n'serve."

"Aren't you guys a little old to be out tonight?"

One of the three identical junior skinheads scowled, differentiating himself momentarily from the other two. "Aren't you a little ugly to be pa.s.sin' judgment?"

"Yeah. Just give over the f.u.c.kin' candy."

The teenager in the middle elbowed them both hard in the ribs. "What we meant to say, ma 'am, was trick or treat."

Claire thought about it a moment as the boys postured. "Trick," she said at last and closed the door.

The boy with his boot thrust in on the threshold got a nasty surprise. They could hear his shriek even through the heavy wood.

"I think the b.i.t.c.h broke my f.u.c.kin' foot, man."

"They were going to egg us anyway," Claire explained. "I figured, why waste the candy."

"Egg us?" Dean repeated.

She grabbed his arm, stopping his charge. "Don't worry about it."

"These guys won't stop with eggs!"

"I think they will." A few minutes later, watching out the window as the last of the thrown eggs paused inches from the hotel and swept back, like all the rest, to smash on the now dripping and furious thrower, she sighed. "I guess I was wrong."

The hunk of broken concrete followed the same path as the eggs.

"Tricky downdrafts. That had to hurt."

Claire put herself bodily between Dean and the door as he tried to follow the will-o'-the-wisp dancing up and down the stairs. She allowed herself one small thought about the firm resilience of his stomach, then dug her shoulder in and shoved him far enough into the lobby to be able to close the door.

"That's it," she said when he was safely behind the counter. "It's ten o'clock. There won't be any more kids. I think we can blow out the candle and turn off the outside lights, honor intact."

The pumpkin lid refused to lift and all the air blown in through the carved face wouldn't put out the candle.

"Oh, nuts."

Two of the remaining four chocolate bars acquired almonds. Two didn't.

"Granddad?"

"No tricks, Dean, I promise. Come on out, we have a lot to say to each other."

"But you're dead."

"Never said I wasn't, but this is the night the dead walk."

"The restless dead."

"You think I'm not restless after what you did? Think again!"

"But Aunt Carol loves the house."

"I left it to you, you ungrateful whelp."

"Granddad, let me explain." One foot lifted to clear the threshold, Dean felt something crunch in his pocket and shoved a hand in to feel what it was.

The fairy bun.