No time for extended arguing. "You attacked the shadow, didn't you? Kept it from sneaking up on Arthur from behind?"

"Yeah but . . ."

One of the knots released. Held at only one point, the shadow lashed out at the elves, fell short, and gathered itself up for another attack.

"You kept him alive. We need him alive."

"Fine, but . . ."

Claire took that as an agreement and shoved Sam aside with one leg just as the second knot gave way. Snapping open the compact, she caught Arthur's reflection in the mirror and wrapped the seeming around her. This wasn't exactly what this had been intended for, but . . .

. . . close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades.

Which wasn't at all rea.s.suring.

"Hey! Tall, dark, and two-dimensional! Over here!"

A choice between two targets.

But only one of them with a blade sharp and shiny.

Claire threw herself sideways as the shadow attacked, yanked open the refrigerator door, stepped up onto the top of the double crispers, and dove inside. Substance began to distort. Caught her. Then, as an icy touch stroked the bottom of one bare foot, caught the shadow. She jerked her foot away, tumbling through the unformed reality. Allowing the path to take her where it would, she concentrated on splitting it off behind her, on sending the shadow to its ultimate defeat.

Nothing definite. Not exactly imposing her will... Her subconscious was in full agreement with her conscious when it came to destroying that thing.

For an instant, she smelled woodsmoke and burning marshmallows and heard high, girlish voices singing rounds. Then smells, sounds, and shadow were gone.

Another slow tumble and there was water all around her.

She dropped the compact and began kicking for the surface.

"How much longer until the Keeper emerges?"

Sam's ears flattened, but his gaze remained locked on the half-open refrigerator door. "I don't know."

Arthur crouched down beside the cat, stretched out a hand to stroke him, and thought better of it. "I think that she is safe. I think that she has defeated the shadow. I think that even now, she makes her way back to us." When Sam's only response was his tail tip, jerking back and forth, he sighed and straightened. "I will leave you, then, to your vigil. I think that the Keeper will be pleased to see you here when she returns."

As the footsteps of the Immortal King faded into Women's Accessories, Sam sighed. "I think that Austin's going to kill me."

Head up, Austin remained motionless on Claire's pillow sifting the night for what had awakened him.

Dean? No. One arm stretched up over his head, bare chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep, Dean hadn't moved for hours.

Something outside? No. He could hear the occasional car going by on King Street, two racc.o.o.ns up a tree arguing about whose turn it was to dump the garbage but nothing unusual. Nothing to lift the fur along his back.

He glanced toward the wardrobe, Claire's preferred entrance to the Otherside. The door was closed. Even if there was trouble, nothing could seep through.

But something had wakened him. Something had lifted the fur along his back. Therefore, something was wrong.

He stood, stretched, walked over Dean's stomach to the edge of the bed, and jumped cautiously to the floor. Over the last year or so, the floor had developed a nasty habit of being farther away than it should be.

The bedroom door was open. Whiskers testing the air with every step, Austin crossed the living room, the light spilling in around the edges of the blind just barely sufficient. Except for Dean's unfortunate taste in artwork, who really believed dogs had enough imagination to play poker, and Claire's equally unfortunate inability to say no to him, everything seemed fine.

The door between the living room and the office was closed, but it had been years since Austin had allowed that to stop him.

With no blind on the front window, the office was lighter than the living room. And empty.

The elevator?

No.

The bas.e.m.e.nt?

Not this time.

The kitchen?

He was too unsettled to be hungry.

Only one place left. Only one room occupied.

Usually, Austin preferred to stay away from the guests but tonight, he'd make an exception. Slowly and silently he slipped up the stairs, along the hall. Another closed door.

There were two bodies in the bed, the perpetually nervous scent of Dr. Rebik as distinctive as the dust and desiccation scent of his companion. His tail lashing from side to side, he crept closer, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong but willing to believe it could be prejudice on his part. He'd half expected Meryat to have been up and walking, arms outstretched, a bit of musty linen trailing off one heel. The whole concept of the undead annoyed him. Nine lives and it's over, that was his motto.

A tray on the small table by the bed held two empty mugs and a plate covered in m.u.f.fin crumbs. Under the table, crumpled up against the table leg, was a dead mouse.

Okay, not so much wrong as embarra.s.sing.

The mice had come to his aid after his . . . meeting with the Keeper who'd been interred in room seven and when he and Claire had returned to the inn just after Christmas, they'd come to an understanding. He would see to it that they were left in peace and, in return, they would be circ.u.mspect in their foraging, stop s.h.i.tting behind the microwave, and never again wear orange waistcoats with blue breeches. Mice had appalling color sense and The Complete Tales of Beatrix Potter that had been left in the attic had only black-and-white ill.u.s.trations. This particular mouse looked to have died of old age, Austin looked from the body up to the top of the table and shook his head. A mouse that age had no business even attempting such a climb. Stupid little b.u.g.g.e.r's heart probably gave out on hint, he thought as he sank his teeth through the tail of the brocade frock coat.

He carried the tiny corpse over to the dresser and set it gently on the floor. A strong smack with his right paw and it slid out of sight. When he heard it whack lightly against the baseboard, he nodded in satisfaction and left the room. The mice had an exit under there; now they could retrieve the body without the possibility of a guest being subjected to the sight of a tiny funeral cortege.

Nothing looked more asinine than a mouse in a black top hat and crepe.

He was halfway down the stairs when, between one heartbeat and the next, he felt something pa.s.s. Something old.

And hungry.

And gone so fast he might have imagined it.

Except that he was a cat and cats knew . . .

Dean!

Heart pounding, he raced back to the bedroom and bounded onto the bed.

"Ow! That was my arm!"