"How perceptive." The woman smiled, teeth gleaming between lips the deep burgundy of a good Spanish port. "Where is the Cousin?"

"Gone. This is my site now." It was almost, but not quite, a warning.

"I see. And should I worry that things have changed enough to need the monitoring of a Keeper?"

"You are in no more danger here than you ever were."

"How fortunate." The woman sagged forward, planted her elbows on the counter, and rubbed her eyes. "'Cause I'm bagged. You have no idea how much I hate traveling. I just want to dump my gear in the room and find something to eat."

Claire blinked.

"Oh, come on." Smudged mascara created racc.o.o.nlike circles on the pale skin. "Surely you hadn't planned on continuing that ponderous dialogue?"

"Uh, I guess not."

"Good. 'Cause I'll be staying the rest of the week, checking out Sunday evening if that's cool with you. I've got a gig at the university."

"Gig?"

"Engagement. Job. I'm a musician." She stretched an arm across the counter, thin, ivory hand overwhelmed by half a dozen heavy silver bangles and the studded cuff of her black leather jacket. "Sasha Moore. It's a stage name, of course. I do this kind of heavy metal folk thing that goes over big on most campuses."

Her skin felt cool and dry and her handshake, while restrained, still put uncomfortable pressure on mere mortal knuckles.

There was power in a name and trust in the giving of it. Claire wasn't certain how that applied in this case, while Keepers maintained a live-and-let-live att.i.tude toward the vast bulk of humanity, they tended to avoid both actors and musicians; people who preferred to be in the public eye made them nervous, but she did know that her response would speak volumes to the woman maintaining an unbreakable grip on her hand. If the hotel was no longer a safe haven for her kind, Sasha Moore would want to know before dawn left her helpless.

"Claire Hansen." Hand freed, she flipped open the registration book, and pulled a pen out of the Souvenir of Avalon mug on her desk. "Sign here, please."

"Rates the same?"

Rates? Claire hoped she didn't look as confused as she felt. Rates--

Sasha leaned against the counter, dark eyes gleaming. "Room rates?"

"Right. Of course." She had no idea what the rates were, but it was important not to show weakness in front of a predator. "They've gone up a couple of dollars."

"Couple of bucks, eh?" Her signature a familiar scrawl, the musician spun the register back around. Her smile held heat. "You're not charging me for breakfast, are you?"

"Breakfast?" Unable to stop herself from imagining the possibilities, Claire's voice rose a little more than was necessary for the interrogative.

"'Cause if you are, there's nothing I like more than a big, juicy, hunk of..."

"Boss, there's a red van parked out back. Do you know whose it is?"

As Dean stepped out into the entry hall, Sasha winked at Claire and turned gracefully to face him. "The van's mine. I'm just checking in."

About to apologize for interrupting. Dean found his gaze caught and held. For a moment, the world became a pair of dark eyes in a pale face. Then the moment pa.s.sed. "I, I'm sorry," he stammered, feeling his ears burn, "I didn't mean to stare, but you're Sasha... uh..."

"Moore."

"Yeah, Moore, Sasha Moore, the musician. You were here last spring."

"My, my, my. I must've made an impression."

"You had a black van then. Late eighties, six cylinder, all season radials."

"What a memory."

Claire's eyes narrowed. So this was the h... cute guest from room four. She slapped the keys down on the counter and tried not to feel pleased when Dean jumped at the sudden sound.

Sasha's smile broadened as she swept her attention back around to Claire. "I'll just go get my stuff out of the van while you make up the room."

"Make up the room?"

Dark eyes crinkled at the corners. "You are new at this, aren't you? Sheets. Towels. Soap. The usual." Her gaze turned speculative. "Which one of you will be making up the bed?"

Dean stepped forward. "I always did it for Mr. Smythe..."

Claire cut him off. "You're in the middle of staining the floor. I'll do it."

"Since it doesn't matter to me..."

Glancing over at Dean, Claire wondered if he heard the blithe innuendo.

"... you two argue it out. I'll be right back." She disappeared into the night before the front door had quite closed behind her.

"Making up the rooms is part of my job," Dean explained, walking over to the counter and reaching for the keys. "Renovations are no reason to slack off my regular work."

"Refinishing the dining room floor is hardly slacking off." Claire s.n.a.t.c.hed the keys out from under his hand. Realizing he remained unconvinced, she added, "The sooner that urethane's done and dry, the sooner you'll be able to deal with the mess."

His eyes lit up at the thought of restoring the kitchen to its usual pristine state. "If you're sure."

"Believe it or not, I'm fully capable of making a bed and hanging up towels. Keepers are trained to be self-sufficient in the field."

"Living off the land?" When she nodded, he frowned at the image that conjured up. "Hunting and fishing?"

"No. But I can locate a fast food restaurant within three minutes of arriving in a new area."

He looked appalled.

"It's a joke," she pointed out curtly. "Although, ninety percent of all accident sites do occur in an urban environment. Some Keepers spend their entire lives in the same city, trying desperately to keep it from falling apart."

"What about the other ten percent?"

"Big old houses in the middle of nowhere with at least one dead tree in the immediate area."

"Why a dead tree?"

"Ambience."