"Might as well call it The Vestibule of h.e.l.l," she muttered mockingly, turning yellowed pages and not at all impressed by her earlier flash of prescience. It appeared that windowless room four had been popular throughout the existence of the hotel, and the guests who stayed in it seemed to have had uniformly bad handwriting.

She had to call Dean out of the kitchen to open the safe.

"The very least Augustus Smythe could've done," she grumbled, arms folded and brows drawn into a deep vee over her nose, "was leave me the combination."

"He left you Dean," Austin observed from the desk. "Something he probably figured you'd get more use out of."

Ears red, Dean cranked the handle around and got up off his knees as the safe door swung open. "Anything else. Boss?"

Having chased Austin halfway up the first flight of stairs before being forced to acknowledge that four old legs sufficiently motivated were still faster than two, Claire ducked back under the counter. "Not right now."

As she straightened, their eyes locked. "What?"

Dean felt a sudden and inexplicable urge to stammer. He managed to control it by keeping conversation to a minimum. "The combination?"

"Good point. Write it down. Use the back of that old bill on the desk," she added, walking over to the safe. Squatting, she heard pencil move against paper then the combination appeared over her shoulder. "Six left, six right, seven left?"

"That's right. I should, uh, finish the dishes now."

"Good idea." As he returned to the kitchen, Claire grinned. He really did turn a very charming color at the slightest opportunity. Then she looked back down at the piece of paper and shook her head. Six sixty-seven. Cute. h.e.l.l was in the bas.e.m.e.nt; the safe was on the first floor, one up from the Number of the Beast. First the Elysian Fields, now this. Augustus Smythe seemed to delight in throwing about obscure hints. A cry for help or sheer b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness?

In the safe, she found a heavy linen envelope marked with the sigil for expenses. On the back, Taxes, Victuals, Maintenance, and Staff had been written in an elegant copperplate. Another, later hand had added. Electricity and Telephone. The envelope was empty.

No outstanding bills. Claire put the envelope back in the safe and closed the door. Great. When the seal goes and something calling itself Beelzebub leads a demonic army out of the furnace room, the lights'll stay on and a well-fed staff can call 911 as they're disemboweled.

As she sat back on her heels, a flash of brilliant blue racing along the inside edge of a lower shelf caught her eye. Thumb and first two fingers of her right hand raised, just in case, she leaned over and with her left hand yanked a dusty pile of ledgers onto the floor. The hole in the corner was unmistakably mouse.

Which didn't mean that only mice were using it.

Mice weren't usually a brilliant blue.

She moved closer and sent down a cautious probe.

"Problem?"

"OW!" Rubbing her head, she crawled back from the shelf and glared up at Dean. "Try and make a little more noise when you sneak upon people!"

"Sorry. I've finished the dishes and I was wondering if you want me to put a new padlock on room six."

"Definitely." It was an emotional not a rational response. Sara wouldn't be leaving the room any time soon and, should she decide to, a padlock wouldn't stop her, but for peace of mind there had to be a perception of security. "I'll have a locksmith repair the door plate."

"But he'll see her."

"No, he won't."

It was another one of those statements, like "rearrange your memories," that Dean had no intention of arguing with. "Okay." He squatted beside her and peered at the hole. "Looks like a new one. I'll set out some more traps."

"Mousetraps?"

The sideways look he shot her seemed mildly concerned. "Yeah. Why?"

"Have you caught anything?"

"Not yet." Rising, he held out his hand. "They're smart. They take the bait and avoid springing the trap."

Claire debated with herself for a moment, then put her hand in his. "They might not be mice," she said as he lifted her effortlessly to her feet. "All I'm reading is the residual signature of the seepage, but this place could easily be infested with imps."

Which would explain why her running shoes had still been wet this morning.

"Imps?"

"I saw something and it was bright blue." A little surprised that he hadn't released her, Claire pulled her fingers free of his grip.

"Imps." Dean sighed. "Okay. Is there anything I can do about it now?"

"Not now, no."

"In that case, I'll be upstairs if you need me."

"Don't go into the room."

He looked uncomfortable. "I was thinking about dusting her."

"Don't."

"But she's covered in..."

"No."

According to the site journal, found tucked under a stack of early seventies skin magazines in the middle left-hand drawer of the desk, three Keepers had sealed the hole before Sara; Uncle Gregory, Uncle Arthur, and Aunt Fiona. Aunt Fiona had died rather suddenly which explained why Sara had been summoned off active service at such a relatively young age, she'd been the closest Keeper strong enough to hold the seal when the need had gone out.

"Relatively young age," Claire snorted, rubbing her eyes. The yellowing papers she studied seemed to soak up the puddle of illumination spilled by the old-fashioned desk lamp without the faded handwriting becoming any more legible. "She was forty-two."

Sara had made it very clear in her first entry in the site journal that she hated the hotel and everything to do with it. It was also her one and only entry.

"Oh, this is a lot of help. A considerate villain would've had the courtesy to keep complete notes."

Confident of her abilities, Claire had no doubt that she'd been summoned to the hotel to finally close the site. It was the only logical explanation. Unfortunately, sealing the hole would cut the power that kept Aunt Sara asleep, and Claire had meant it when she'd told Dean she didn't want to find out which of them was more powerful.

Keepers capable of abusing the power granted by the lineage were rare. Claire had only heard of it happening twice before in their entire history. The battles, Keeper vs Keeper, good vs evil, had been won but both times at a terrible cost. The first had resulted in the eruption of Vesuvius and the loss of Pompeii. The second, in disco. Claire had only a child's memories of the seventies, but she wouldn't be responsible for putting the world through that again.

Augustus Smythe's entry, which should have, and possibly did describe how he'd come to monitor the site, was unreadable. Ink had been spilled on the last third of the ledger, had soaked through the pages, and dried to create what could most accurately be described as an indigo blue brick. The skin magazines would've been as helpful.

"Coincidence?" Claire asked the silence. "I don't think so." The sound of something scuttling merrily away inside the wall only confirmed her suspicions.

She was searching through yet another pile of paid bills in the top drawer of the desk when, for the first time that day, the phone rang. Used to the polite interruptive chirp of modern electronics, Claire had forgotten how loud and demanding the old black rotary models could be.

Coughing and choking, she picked up the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?"