It didn't help that the morning's measurements had shown a perceptible buildup of seepage. With no access to the power sealing the hole, she couldn't cut it off, and she certainly couldn't let it build up indefinitely.

Teeth clenched, she gave the shower taps a savage twist, snarled wordlessly when the pipes began banging out their delivery of hot water, and bit back an extremely dangerous oath when the temperature spent a good two minutes fluctuating between too hot and too cold.

She finally began to calm as she lathered the Apothecary's shampoo, guaranteed not tested on mythical creatures, into her hair, and by the time she'd sudsed, rinsed, and dried, she'd relaxed considerably. When h.e.l.l actually let her blow-dry and style in peace, she left the bathroom feeling remarkably cheerful. Her good mood lasted through dressing and right into the day's search for the Historian.

Curled up on a pillow, Austin lifted his head as the wardrobe door opened and Claire emerged soaking wet. "You're cutting it close," he said. "You've just barely left. What happened?"

"Tropical storm," Claire told him tightly, pushing streaming hair back off her face. "Came up on sh.o.r.e after me and followed me about ten kilometers inland. Good thing I was driving an import, or I'd never have stayed on the road."

"One of the Historian's early warning systems?"

Claire shrugged, her sweater sagging off her shoulders. "Who knows?" Trailing a small river behind her, she picked up some dry clothes, held carefully at arm's length, and headed for the bathroom.

Dumping her wet clothes in a pile on the floor, she dressed quickly and, stomach growling, picked up her blow-dryer. "This one's going to be quick and sleazy," she muttered, bending over and applying the hot air. "I'm too hungry for style."

When she straightened, Jacques stared at her from out of the mirror.

"Oh, h.e.l.l," she sighed.

"Got it in one, cherie." His lips curled up into the lopsided smile that raised his looks from pa.s.sable to strangely attractive, strangely attractive were it not for h.e.l.l's signature subst.i.tution of glowing red eyes. "I'm sorry I missed you earlier."

"Just get on with it."

The image shook its head. "You would think," it said teasingly, "that you were in a hurry to get somewhere. You can't leave, cherie." The smile disappeared. "Neither of us can leave. We have been thrown together here, why not make the most of it?"

She had every intention of leaving, but her mother's suggestion that she not argue with h.e.l.l had been a good one. "What did you have in mind?"

"With the power of the pentagram, you could give me a body nightly as easily as you could snap your fingers."

Claire frowned. "Don't you mean opening the pentagram would give me that power?"

"Things are not sealed so tightly as all that." Red eyes actually managed a twinkle. "Augustus Smythe knew the benefits of using the seepage. How do you think he kept himself amused?"

"I think that's fairly obvious." She folded her arms. "If I can use the seepage without releasing the hordes of h.e.l.l, what's in it for you?"

He looked hurt. "Must there be something in it for us?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps we find that a happy Keeper is a Keeper easier to live with."

"I'm sure that Augustus Smythe was a joy."

"He was Cousin, cherie. You are a Keeper. Surely you are stronger?"

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Perhaps." The image saddened. "You get so few chances to have another's life touch yours. A frenzied fumbling in the dark, and we have nothing against that, cherie, and then you move on. Only when Keepers are old do they stay in one place long enough to find a mate for the soul and, by then, they are too old to recognize such a one. You have a chance, cherie, a chance few Keepers get."

Claire's nostrils flared. "He's dead."

"Ah, I see. You will not take the risk, even though there is no danger to you, because it is what a Keeper does not do. A Keeper does not take risks for such a minor thing as happiness." The image saddened. "For once in your life, cherie, can you not give in to desire without questioning if it is what a Keeper should do?" It raised its left hand and pressed it against the inside of the gla.s.s. "Can you not reach out and meet me halfway?"

She felt her right hand lift and forced it back down by her side. "You're good," she snarled.

The image in the mirror let its hand fall back as well, fully aware that the mood had been broken. "Technically, no. But we accept the compliment."

"Give me back my reflection. Now!"

"As you asked so nicely, cherie..." Jacques' image faded slowly, calling her name as though he were being pulled into torment.

"You're not Jacques," Claire told it, and found herself talking to herself.

"Claire!"

When she opened the bathroom door, Austin tumbled in and rolled once on the mat. He took a moment to compose himself, then said, with studied nonchalance, as though he hadn't just been trying to dig his way through the door, "Dean and Jacques are fighting."

"You mean they're arguing."

"No. I mean they're fighting."

"That's impossible."

"So one would a.s.sume, but they seem to have found a way."

She tossed her blow-dryer down by the sink and ran her fingers through her hair, forcing most of it into place. "All right," she sighed, "where are they?"

"The third-floor hall." Austin paused, licked his shoulder, and stepped out of the way. "Directly in front of room six."

His foresight kept him from being trampled as Claire raced for the stairs.

The effect depended on who delivered the blow. If Dean punched his fist through Jacques' immaterial body, then Jacques felt it. If Jacques drove his immaterial fist through Dean's body, then Dean felt it. It wasn't much of an effect either way, being closer to mild discomfort than actual pain, but neither the living nor the dead cared. The point was to score the point.

"Stop it! Stop it this instant!" Breathing heavily from her run up the two flights of stairs, Claire flung herself between the combatants, then sucked in a startled gasp as Jacques' hand sliced through her body from hip to hip dragging a sensation of burning cold behind it. When she staggered back, she found herself pressed up against the warm length of Dean's torso and that was almost as disconcerting.

Jerking forward, she turned sideways and presented a raised hand to each man. "That will be quite enough! Would one of you like to explain what the h... heck is going on?"

Silence settled like three feet of snow.

"I'm waiting."

"It is not your business..." Jacques began. His protest died as Claire turned the full force of her disapproval in his direction.

"Everything that happens in this building is my business," she told him. "I want an explanation and I want it now."

Jacques smoothed back translucent hair. "Ask your houseboy."

"I'm asking you."