“Doesn’t that worry you?”
She reached out and slapped Claire on the knee. They were close enough that Claire could smell the mint toothpaste on her breath.“Why should I worry? You seem to be worrying enough for both of us.” Standing, she bared her teeth. Exposed, they were too long and far, far too white. “I can take care of myself, Keeper. If a fan gets too close, I’ll see that he gets just a little closer still.” She paused at the door. “Oh, by the way, did you know you have mice?”
Feeling her lips press into a thin line, Claire pried them apart enough to say,“I don’t think they’re mice.”
The musician shrugged.“They sure smell like mice.”
“Told you so,” Austin muttered as the door closed behind her.
Claire jumped. She hadn’t noticed him tucked up like a tea cozy under the television. “If they’re mice,” she snapped, “why don’t you catch one.”
He snorted.“Please, and do what with it?”
[Ęŕđňčíęŕ: img_5]
Friday morning started badly for Claire. First Hell, by way of her mirror, suggested she invite Sasha Moore to dinner and twisted her reaction to such an extent that when she finally regained her reflection, she was edgy and irritable and had no idea of who’d won the round. Then she got completely lost looking for the Historian, was gone almost nine hours’ wardrobe time, and returned absolutely famished to discover Dean had just laid down the last coat of urethane and she couldn’t get to the kitchen.
“Go…1 darn it!”
Thanks to the two huge, plate glass windows in the back wall, any solution had to take the possibility of Mrs. Abrams into account. Making a mental note to buy blinds as soon as possible, she grabbed power and shot into the air so quickly she cracked her head on the hall ceiling.
“Scooped up the seepage,” Austin said with a snicker.
Both hands holding her head, Claire glared down at him.“I didn’tmean to.”
“You wanted it quick and dirty, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“That’s what you got. Still, I doubt you’ve permanently warped your character.”
“This wasn’t the first time. When I tried to stop Mrs. Abrams yesterday, I got knocked to my knees.”
“Once, twice; what’s the harm?”
“That’s probably what Augustus Smythe used to think.” The faint buzz of building seepage seemed to have disappeared; it was hard to be certain given the ringing in her ears from the impact. Drawing power carefully from the middle of the possibilities, she sank down until she was about two inches off the floor and then skated slowly forward. Another time, she might’ve been hesitant about continuing buoyancy initiated by seepage from Hell but right now she was too hungry to care.
Breathingeau de sealant shallowly through her mouth, she sat down by the sink, poured a bowl of cereal, and began to eat. She’d started a second bowl when Jacques appeared beside her.
“I think you should know,” he said, “that the man who deliver the flowers yesterday, he is just come in the front door.”
“What?”
“The man, who deliver the flowers yesterday…”
“I heard you.” Dropping her cereal in the sink, she flung herself off the counter and raced for the front of the hotel…
…unfortunately forgetting the section of tacky polyurethane she had to cross.
“Fruitcake!”
The emotional force behind the substitute expletive transfigured the toaster and the smell of candied fruit soaked in rum rose briefly over the prevailing chemicals.
Jacques studied the cake thoughtfully.“What would have happened, I wonder, had you actually used that old Anglo-Saxon expletive with you and I here together?”
“Do you have to!” Claire snapped, loosened her laces, pulled power, and floated to the hall, leaving her shoes where they were stuck.
“Not exactly have to,” Jacques murmured.
As Claire ran for the lobby, the deliveryman ducked out from behind the counter, holding what seemed to be the same bouquet of red mums.“I was just lookin’ for a piece of paper,” he said hurriedly. “The boss said I could leave the flowers, and I was gonna leave you a note.”
He was lying. Unfortunately, unless she knew for certain he was a threat to the site, Claire couldn’t force him to tell the truth.
“OH, WHY NOT?” asked the little voice in her head.“WHO’S GOING TO KNOW? YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.”
“Shut. Up.” Claire held her hand out for the flowers.“I’ll see that Ms. Moore gets these,” she said aloud.
“Sure.” Watching her warily, he backed along the edge of the counter toward the door, reaching behind him for the handle. He slipped out, still without turning, and paused, peering through the crack just before the door closed. Yellowing teeth showed for an instant in an unpleasant smile. “Give Ms. Moore my regards.”
Setting the flowers down, Claire glanced into the office, but nothing seemed to have been disturbed.“Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.” Ducking under the counter, she lifted her backpack off a hook and rummaged around in the outer pocket. A few moments later, she pulled out the tattered remains of what had once been a large package of grape flavored crystals and poured what was left of the contents onto the palm of one hand.
