db1bd484fe8700408f51338793ca8c56

“I can,” the cat agreed placidly. “But he can’t.”

Across the drive, the pointed ears flicked up and Baby threw himself at the window.

Claire doused the light, but the damage had already been done. Baby continued to bark hysterically. She grabbed the cat and let the curtains fall closed as a lamp came on and a terrifying vision in pink plastic curlers snatched up the binoculars.

Austin squirmed out of her arms and jumped back onto the bed.“I think I’m going to like it here.”

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CAN WE USE THE CAT?

DON’T BE RIDICULOUS.

FOUR

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AUGUSTUS SMYTHE HAD WANTED his breakfast every morning at seven o’clock. He’d had a bowl of oatmeal, stewed prunes, and a pot of tea, except on Sunday when he’d had a mushroom omelet, braised kidneys, and indigestion. Guests, and in his experience there’d never been more than one room occupied at a time, ate between eight and eight-thirty or they didn’t eat at all.

Dean found himself in the kitchen, water boiling and bag of oatmeal in his hand before he remembered that things had changed. He’d been feeding Claire like she was a guest, but she wasn’t. Nor, he’d be willing to bet, was she the stewed prunes type.

She wasn’t only his new boss, she was a Keeper; a semimythical being monitoring the potential eruption of evil energy out of a possibly corrupting metaphysical accident site in the furnace room. Cool. He could handle that.

The question was: What did she want for breakfast?

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“How should I know?” Foiled in his attempt to gain access to the refrigerator, Austin glared down at the fresh saucer of wet cat food. “But if she doesn’t want the kidneys, I’ll take them.”

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The hot water pipes banged at a quarter to eight. Dean had no idea how long women usually took to get ready in the morning, but his minimal experience seemed to indicate they were fairly high maintenance. He waited until eight-thirty, then brewed a fresh pot of coffee.

At nine, he began to worry. Austin had eaten and disappeared, and he’d heard nothing more from Claire’s suite. By nine-thirty, he couldn’t wait any longer.

Had she fallen getting out of the shower? Did that sort of thing happen to the semimythical?

Tossing his apron over the back of a chair, he walked quickly up the hall, ducked under the edge of the counter, and hesitated outside her door. If she’d gone back to sleep, she wouldn’t thank him for waking her. Maybe he should go away and wait a little longer.

If, however, she were lying unconscious by the tub…

Better she’s irritated than dead, he decided, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come in.”

It took a moment, but he finally spotted Austin on a pie-crust table beside a purple china basket of yellow china roses.“Is Claire…”

“Here? No.”

“She went out?” He hadn’t heard the front door.

“No. She went in.”

“In?”

“That’s right. But I’m expecting her back any…” The cat’s ears pricked up and he turned to face the bedroom. “Here she comes. I hope she picked up those shrimp snacks I asked for.”

Brow furrowed, Dean stepped forward. He could’ve sworn he heard music—horns mostly, with an up-tempo bass beat leading the way. Through the open door, he could see an overstuffed armchair and the wardrobe Mr. Smythe had used instead of a closet. Obviously Claire hadn’t quite caught on as her clothes were draped all over the chair.

The music grew louder.

The wardrobe door opened and Claire stepped out. Several strings of cheap plastic beads hung around her neck, and a shower of confetti accompanied every movement. She didn’t look happy.

“What do you bet they were out of shrimp snacks,” Austin muttered.

Glancing into the sitting room, the Keeper’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Not you.” She dragged off the thick noose of beads and pointed an imperious finger at Dean. “Him.”

“You were in the wardrobe.”

It wasn’t a question, so Claire didn’t answer it “Don’t you ever knock?”

“Idid knock.” Flustered almost as much by the implication that he’d just walk in to her apartment as by her emergence from the wardrobe, Dean jerked his head toward the cat. “He told me to come in.”

Austin stretched out a paw and pushed a pottery cherub onto the floor. It bounced on the overlap of three separate area rugs and rolled unharmed under the table.

Claire closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she opened them again, she’d decided not to bother arguing with the cat— experience having taught her that she couldn’t win. Bending over, she flicked confetti out of her hair. “If that’s coffee I smell, I could use a cup. It isn’t safe to eat or drink on the other side.”

“The other side of what?” Dean asked, relieved to see that the bits of paper disappeared before they reached the floor. Well, maybe relieved wasn’t exactly the right word. “Where were you?”

“Looking for the Historian. The odds of actually finding her are better early in the morning before the day’s distractions begin to build.” Straightening, Claire scowled at the pile of beads. “I lost her trail at a Mardi Gras.”

“In September?”