Martha stopped drying one of the pots and stared at him. "The what?"

"The magical equivalent of the caulking gun that seals the holes in the fabric of the universe." Dean repeated everything he could remember of Claire's explanation.

When he finished, Claire's mother shook her head. "It's a bit more complicated than that, I'm afraid." Then she frowned as she thought it over. "All right, perhaps it isn't, but it's certainly less rational. We're not dealing with a pa.s.sive enemy but a malevolent intelligence."

"Does Claire know this?"

"Of course she does, she's a Keeper. But she's young enough to believe, in spite of what you might think of her advanced age," she interjected at his startled expression, "that it's not the energy that's the problem, it's what people do with it. While that may be true in a great many cases, there's also energy that you simply can't do good with, no matter what your intentions are."

"Evil done in G.o.d's name is not G.o.d's work. Good done in the Devil's name is not the Devil's work." He set the last pan in the rack to drain. "It's what my granddad used to say before he clipped me on the ear."

"Your granddad was very wise."

"Sometimes," Dean allowed, grinning.

Without really knowing how it happened, Martha found herself grinning back. "To finish answering your actual question, the site we monitor is too porous to be sealed, think T-shirt fabric where it should be rubberized canvas, so there's constant mopping up to do. I do the fieldwork, and my husband teaches high school English."

"Teaching high school doesn't seem very..." He paused, searching for a suitable word.

"Metaphysical?" Martha snorted, sounding like both her daughter and the cat. "Is it possible you've already forgotten what it's like to be a teenager?"

"Are you going to be all right?"

"I'll be fine, Mom." Claire reached out and fixed the collar on her mother's windbreaker as the early morning sun fought a losing battle with a chill wind blowing in off Lake Ontario. "And don't worry. I'll monitor the situation while I gather the information I need to shut it down."

"I would never worry about you not fulfilling your responsibilities, Claire, but it took two Keepers to create the loop. What if it needs two Keepers to close it?"

"Then I'll monitor the situation until the other Keeper shows up. This is not going to be my final resting place."

Because even Keepers needed the comfort of hope, Martha changed the subject. "Be nice to Dean. He's exactly what he seems to be, and that's rare in this world."

"Don't worry about Dean. Austin's on his side."

"Austin's on the side of enlightened self-interest." A pair of vertical lines appeared above the bridge of Martha's nose. "I think you'll manage best with Dean if you treat him like a Cousin."

"A Cousin?" She stared at her mother in astonishment. "He's a nice kid. Mom, but..."

"He's not a kid."

"Well, not technically and certainly not physically, but you've got to admit he's awfully young."

"And how old were you when you sealed your first site?"

"That's beside the point. He's not of the lineage."

"No, he's not, but he is remarkably grounded in the here and now, and he's going to be your main support. The less you hide from him, the more he'll be able to help."

"Mother, I'm a Keeper. I don't need help from a bystander. All right," she went on before her mother could speak, "I need his help running the guest house but not for the rest."

"Just try to be nice to him, that's all I ask." She gripped Claire's hands in both of hers. "If you must check the contact points of the loop, be very, very careful. You don't want to wake her up, and you don't want to believe anything they tell you. Don't lose track of time when you're searching for the Historian; you know what'll happen if you come back before you've left. Try and make Austin stick to his diet, and you should eat more, you're too thin."

Claire opened her mouth to argue but said instead, "Here's your ride," as a battered cab pulled up in front of the guest house and honked.

"If you need me, call." She frowned as the cabbie continued to hit his horn, the irregular rhythm echoing around the neighborhood. "Would you do something about that, Claire?"

The echo gave one last, feeble honk, then fell silent.

"Thank you. Come to think of it, even if you don't need me, call. Your father's likely to be worried about you being in such proximity to the hole in the furnace room."

"There's really no need to tell him about h.e.l.l, Mom."

"He's teaching in the public school system, Claire. He knows about h.e.l.l."

Standing in the open doorway, Claire released her hold on the horn as the cab pulled away. Through the broad back window of the vehicle, she could see her mother giving emphatic instructions. If the driver thought he knew the best way to the train station, he was about to discover he was wrong.

At the last possible moment, Martha turned and waved.

Claire waved back.

"So. It seems I own a hotel." A distraction, something to keep her mind off what was in the furnace room. "Who knows," she said with more resignation than enthusiasm. "It might be fun."

Raising her body temperature enough to fight the chill, she went down to have a look at the sign. To her surprise, her first impression had been correct. The sign actually said "Elysian Fields 'uest House," the "g" having disappeared. "Dean's going to have to repaint this." She frowned. "I wonder what I'm paying him?"

A low growl drew her attention around to the building on the other side of the driveway. An apple-cheeked, old woman with brilliant orange hair, wearing a pale green polyester pant suit and a string of imitation pearls, stood on the porch, waving at her enthusiastically. Also on the porch was the biggest black-and-tan Doberman Claire had ever seen.

"h.e.l.lo, dear!" the woman caroled when she saw she had Claire's attention. "I'm Mrs. Abrams, that's one b and an ess, who are you?"

"I'm Claire Hansen, the new owner of the guest..."

"New owner? No, dear, you can't be." Her smile was the equivalent of a fond pat on the head. "You're much too young."

"I beg your pardon?" The tone could stop a political canva.s.ser in full spate. It had no effect on Mrs. Abrams.

"I said you're too young to be the owner, dear. Where's Augustus Smythe?" She leaned forward, peering around like she suspected he were hiding just out of sight. The Doberman mirrored her move, twitching as though anxious to get down and check it out personally.

Claire fought an instinctive urge to back up and held her ground. "Mr. Smythe's whereabouts are none of your con..."

"None of my concern?" A flick of her hand and a broad smile took care of that possibility. "Of course I'm concerned, you silly thing; I live next door. He's avoiding me, isn't he?"

"No, he's gone, but..."

"Gone? Gone where, dear?"

"I don't know." When Mrs. Abrams' expression indicated profound disbelief, Claire found herself adding, "Really, I don't."

"Well." The single word bespoke satisfaction that years of suspicions had finally been justified. "They took him away, did they? Or did he run before they arrived? If truth be told, I can't say as I'm surprised." She fondled one of the dog's ears. The twitching grew more p.r.o.nounced. "You would never, not ever, hear me say anything against anyone, live and let live is my motto, I'm very active in my church's Women's Auxiliary you know, they couldn't get along without me, but Augustus Smythe was a nasty little man with an unnatural dislike of my poor Baby."

Showing more teeth than should've been possible in such a narrow head. Baby's growl deepened.