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“That’s probably wise, but factoring in wardrobe time, you haven’t eaten for nearly twenty-four hours and, more importantly,I haven’t eaten for two. After you deal with that you’re not going to want to eat for a while.” He sneezed. “If ever. It’s worse than the last time!”

“But the lid’s still on.”

“My point exactly.” His first leap took him nearly to the dining room. Ears back, he headed for the hall. “If you want me, I’ll be doing canine therapy next door. Out of my way, junior.”

“Junior?” Dean repeated, flattening against the wall to avoid being run over by the cat. Still shaking his head, he turned the corner into the dining room and coughed. “What in…”

“If you want to do something useful,” Claire told him a little breathlessly, setting the lid to one side, “you can find me a lifting thingie.”

“A what?” he asked, noting with dismay that she was reaching for another fork.

“Something to lift the journal out of the liquid with.”

Reminding himself that it was her hotel and she could therefore destroy as much of the cutlery as she wanted, Dean took his least favorite spatula from the spatula section of the second drawer and handed it over.“Did you and Austin work out, well, you know…”

“Yes. We did. Just so you don’t worry in the future, we always do.”

“You guys, you have a interesting relationship.”

“Of course we do.” She wiped one watering eye on the back of her hand. “He’s a cat.” Carefully, she slid the spatula under the journal.

Once again, the onions had turned indigo but, this time, there was still about an inch of brine sloshing around in the bottom of the container.

“Boss, I, uh, just wanted to say…”

“Not now, Dean.”

“Okay.” Left hand cupped over his mouth and nose, he walked over to the dining room side of the service counter. “How can you stand over it like that?”

“I do what I have to.”

“And what do you have to do,cherie?” Jacques asked, appearing by her side.

“Watch.” Holding the journal just up out of the brine so that none of the solution splashed out of the container as it drained, Claire carefully used the fork and flicked it open to the first of Augustus Smythe’s entries. Although the paper remained a blue barely lighter than the letters, thewriting was finally readable.

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August 18th, 1942. I find myself summoned to a place called Brewster’s Hotel. The most incredible thing has just taken place here. The Keeper who was, and who indeed continues to seal the site, attempted to gain control of the evil for her own uses.

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Smiling broadly, Claire glanced up at Dean.“Isn’t this wonderful!”

“Wonderful,” he agreed, but he was referring to the little crinkle the smile folded into the end of her nose.

Jacques followed his line of sight, and snorted.

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I cannot name the Keeper because she remains in the building, continuing to seal the site with her power—which is considerably more than considerable according to the arrogant s.o.b. of an Uncle John who helped defeat her. I hate how some of those guys get off on being “more lineage than thou,” as if the universe shines out his ass.

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“I guess that answers the Augustus Smythe personality question.”

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The other Keeper, Uncle Bob, isn’t so bad. Is it because Bob’s your Uncle?

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“And that raises a few more.”

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Two of them wouldn’t have been enough to defeat her if she hadn’t…

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Slipping the fork carefully under the damp paper, trying, in spite of her excitement, to keep breathing shallowly, Claire turned the page.

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…had trouble wi th th e vir g i…

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“Oh, no!” One by one, faster and faster, the letters slid off the paper and into the brine. For a moment, Claire stared aghast at a journal of blank pages, then the paper turned into a gelatinous mass and shimmied off the spatula. The resultant splash sprayed a couple of dozen letters up over Claire’s hand and sweater.

She staggered back until she hit the edge of the sink, too stunned to speak.

Jumping forward, holding his breath, Dean slapped the lid onto the container. When the seal caught, he hurried around into the kitchen, plucked the spatula from Claire’s hand and tipped it almost immediately into the garbage.

“You must wash your hand,cherie,” Jacques told her.“There is em’s upon it. And other letters there upon your sweater.”

“I don’t think it’ll wash out,” Dean offered.

Jacques sniffed.“It does not amaze me you also do laundry.”

Slowly Claire lifted her hand to her mouth and touched her tongue to one of the letters.

The two men exchanged a horrified glance.

Her lips drew back off her teeth.

“I do not think she is smiling,” Jacques murmured.

“Spider parts,” Claire snarled. “That rotten, little piece of Hell!”

Both men flinched but nothing happened.