"Dead's relative."

"It is not."

"Then can I have some pizza?"

"No."

"No, what. Boss?"

Before she could answer, they heard the front door open. Austin reached out and pressed the mute on the TV remote. "What?" he demanded, tucking the paw back under his ruff. "You trying to tell me that you guys don't want to know if he's alone?"

He wasn't.

"Mind the legs now. Professor. They're good quality, I only have good quality things, but they're not as young as they once were, you know, and I don't want to try and use them someday and find them warped."

At the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Abrams' voice, Jacques faded slightly, muttering, "Someone for everyone. C'est legitime, it's true what they say." He'd been strongly enough affected not to add an entendre.

Austin poked a paw through the ghost. "Get out in the lobby and see what they're talking about."

"Claire said I am not to spy on the guests."

"So spy on the neighbor!"

He started to dematerialize, then thought better of it and glanced at Claire.

"Go ahead."

"Jacques, don't." Dean's hand went through an ethereal arm. "They have a right to their privacy."

"Jacques, go. Or they'll be upstairs and we'll never know."

Turning toward Dean, Jacques spread his hands in a gesture that clearly indicated whose side of the argument he came down on and vanished.

"Don't tell me," Claire cautioned Dean before he could speak, "that you're not curious because I won't believe you. I mean, good quality legs?"

"Well, for a woman her age..." His voice trailed off as Jacques reappeared.

"They carry a small folding table."

"A card table?"

"I see no cards but she is wood and square, like so." He held his hands out just beyond shoulder width.

"The table is?"

"Oui."

"They're going to play cards." Claire knew she had no right to feel relieved, but a card game was a lot less disturbing than what she'd been imagining. Get a grip, Claire. Irritating old women have as much right to a s.e.x life as you do...

"I'm glad Mrs. Abrams has a friend to share her interests," Dean said happily, reaching for the remote as the second period started.

Grinning broadly, Jacques rolled his eyes. One fell off the edge of the coffee table.

... maybe more.

With eight minutes still on the clock until the second intermission, Claire felt the hair lift off the back of her neck. "Something's happening."

"It's a power play for Montreal," Dean explained. "New Jersey got a penalty for high sticking, so they have one less man on the ice. They're only one goal ahead so Montreal wants to lengthen their lead."

"That's not what I meant." Claire heaved herself up out of the sofa and onto her feet. "Austin..."

"Yeah. I feel it, too." Tail twice its normal size, he jumped down onto the floor, breathing through his half-open mouth.

"It's coming from inside the hotel."

"The furnace room, then?" Dean asked, eyes locked on the television. Montreal had the puck. h.e.l.l could wait another twenty-three seconds.

"No, it's not the furnace room, and it's not her either."

"That's good."

"No, that's bad. An unidentified power surge in this building can't be good."

"Claire." Jacques stared at her through the translucent outline of his hand. "I am fading."

She was about to tell him to stop fading when the near panic in his declaration broke through. "You're not doing it on purpose?"

"Won."

"Medium."

How Austin had hissed a word containing no sibilants, Claire had no idea and no time to investigate. "Professor Jackson! They're not playing cards, they're having a seance and some thing's gone wrong; come on!" She ran for the door, the cat close on her heels.

The buzzer sounded the end of the power play, releasing Dean's attention. "Hey! Where are you going?"

"To save Jacques!"

He caught up in the office. "From what?" he asked as the four of them, Jacques nearly transparent, crossed the lobby.

"Professor Jackson is a medium," Claire told him starting up the stairs at full speed. "A real medium. Not a fake. They're rare, thank G.o.d. They have power over spirits."

"Comme moi?" His voice had faded with him.

"Yeah, like you." She missed a step, would've fallen except Dean grabbed her arm. "Thanks." Charging out into the second floor hall, she banged on the door to room one with her fist. "Mrs. Abrams! Professor Jackson! Stop what you're doing and open the door! Now!"

"Cherie..." One hand stretched toward her, Jacques disappeared.

"No!" Whirling around she reached through the possibilities for power, but before she could blow the door off its hinges, Dean stepped back and slammed the sole of his work boot into the lock. The effect was much the same.