The Second Summoning

“I just thought that if you got going without thinking about things, momentum would keep you going. And it was working.” In the dim winter light seeping around the edges of the hotel curtains, she looked distinctly miffed. “I should never have said the ‘a’ word.”

He fumbled for his glasses. “Claire, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“You’re both pathetic.”

Ears burning, Dean dragged a blanket around his waist and slid out of bed.

“I’ve, uh . . . you know . . . bathroom.”

“Try a verb,” Austin snorted from a pile of Claire’s clothes on the unused bed.

As the bathroom door closed behind Dean, and then opened again as he pulled the blanket inside, Austin leaped carefully to Claire’s side. “Do you want me to talk to him, mano a mano?”

“Thanks for the offer, but no.”

“Why not?”

“Well, to begin with, you had your mano removed.”

“Not my idea.”

“Still.” She stroked the velvet fur between his ears with her thumb. “I think this is something Dean and I have to work out on our own.”

“You mean something Dean has to work out on his own. It’s not actually about you.”

Claire shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

“Of course, I’m wrong.” Austin sat down and curled his tail around his front toes. “This has nothing to do with a young man who desperately wants to make you happy and, because of an inadvertent angelic evocation, is afraid he’ll never be able to make you that happy again. Oh, no, this has to do with you being older and more experienced so that he’s intimidated. Or it has to do with you being a Keeper because he wouldn’t have caused an angel if you weren’t. Or it has to do with you being a Keeper and therefore responsible for everything under the sun.”

“That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?”

The cat sighed. “Duh.”

“So what should I do? No, wait.” A raised hand cut off his reply. “Don’t tell me. I should feed the cat.”

“Good choice.” Jumping from the bed to the dresser, he sat down again by his food dish. “You see how much easier life becomes when you concentrate on the essentials?”

The hair Diana had found in Father Harris’ house was very dark at the bottom and very blond at the tip. The style was popular with the male trendies at her school, but she’d never considered it an especially angelic look. Apparently, Lena did.

Technically, the angel, Samuel, was none of her business. Technically, he wasn’t Keeper business at all.

“Mom? Do you have any clear packing tape?”

Attention on breakfast preparations, Martha pointed across the kitchen with the spatula. “It’s in the junk drawer.”

Junk accumulates. Even those with very little, those chased from their homes by war or natural disaster, those for whom home is no more than a rough shack or a circle of barely roofed thatch, even they find themselves accumulating odds and ends for which they have no immediate need. In North American kitchens, the junk drawer can be found two drawers below the cutlery, just above the drawer holding the clean dish towels.

“It’s jammed.”

“Jiggle it.”

Even in houses with no more metaphysical content than could be found in a frozen, microwavable dinner, which at that, has more metaphysical content than actual food content, these drawers contain far more than is physically possible.

“Dart of Abaris, elf shot, scissors, string, Philosopher’s Stone, half a dozen ponytail elastics . . .” Diana’s eyes widened as she dumped the cloth-covered elastics into a small golden chalice. “Do you even care we could get big bucks for this thing on eBay?” she demanded, brandishing a tiny beanbag polar bear with a maple leaf on his chest.

Her mother glanced up from the toaster. “E what?”

“Gack. Am I the only person in this family who pays attention to this century?”

“Yes.”

“Explains a lot,” she muttered, shoving three plastic forks and a discolored envelope of dried mugwort aside to finally pull out the packing tape. “I’ll be heading into the closet later, so don’t worry if you can’t find me.”

“Diana, we talked about this . . .”

She sighed and grabbed a piece of toast on her way out of the kitchen. “I’m not going to consciously impose my will on the Otherworld.”

“Again.”

Continuing down the hall, she raised her voice without turning. “It was an accident, Mother.”

“It’s always an accident, Diana, but no one likes replacing all their closet doors.”

“It’s not like I didn’t apologize,” she muttered, shoving the last of the toast in her mouth and grabbing her coat and boots from the front hall. “And, hey, not my bad the tabloids got involved; if you don’t want people to know you have skeletons in your closet, don’t keep skeletons in your closet.” It had been sheer bad luck for that British Keeper that the force of the explosion had blown the tibia out the window and onto the street.