The Second Summoning

The door opened before she reached it, and a slender young woman rushed out and dropped to her knees throwing her arms around the dog. “You rotten, rotten old thing. How could you put me through that. Where‘ve you been, eh?” Brushing away tears, she stood and held out a hand to Samuel. “Thank you for bringing her home.

We just moved to Toronto from New Brunswick, and I think she went out looking for our old neighborhood. She doesn’t have her new tags yet.” Suddenly hearing her own words, she frowned. “So, without any tags, how did you find us?” Samuel grinned, unable to resist the dog’s happiness. “We followed her prints.”

“Her prints, of course.” As a gust of wind came around the corner, she smiled out at him from behind a moving curtain of long, curly hair. “You must be half frozen. Would you like to come in and thaw out? Maybe have a hot chocolate, eh?” He was suddenly very cold. “Yes, please.”

“In. In. In. In.” Daisy insisted on being between both sets of legs, but they somehow got inside and closed the door.

Her name was Patricia, her husband’s name was Bill. As Daisy enthusiastically greeted the latter, Patricia took Samuel’s jacket and led him into the living room. Left on his own, he felt a heated gaze on the back of his head. Slowly he turned.

“What is it?” The long-haired apricot-and-white cat turned his head sideways and stared at Samuel with pale blue eyes. “It’s awfully bright.”

“It’s an angel,” snorted the seal-point Siamese beside him, staring down the aristocratic arch of her nose. “Or a sort of an angel anyway. Someone seems to have messed up the design.”

“What’s an angel?”

“It’s like a cat, only with two legs, minimal fur, and no tail.”

“Oh.” Confused but clearly used to taking the Siamese’s word for things, he wrapped a plumy apricot tail around his toes. “It almost looks as if it understands us.”

“It does. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Patricia repeated, returning with three steaming mugs on a tray. “Oh. I see you’ve met Pixel and Dea.” Setting the tray on the coffee table, she scooped up the Siamese. “This is really Dea’s house. She only lets us live here because we know how to work the can opener.”

That was enough to distract Samuel from the heady scent of the hot chocolate.

“Really?”

Rubbing the top of her head under Patricia’s chin, Ilea purred. Some questions were too stupid to need answers.

“Turn here.”

Dean glanced toward the boarded-up J. Henry and Sons Auto Repair and then back to Claire. “There’s a big batch of snow blocking the driveway.”

“Park on the side of the road, then, and we’ll walk in.” When Austin made no protest, Dean sucked a speculative lungful of air through his teeth and pulled as far off the road as he could. It was one thing to have Claire explain exactly what demon residue meant and another thing entirely when the cat faced a walk over snow in subzero weather without complaint. Things were clearly some serious.

He shut off the engine and reached for his hat. “Is it Hell again?”

“I’d like to think we’d have noticed that,” Claire told him, chewing nervously on the thumb of her mitten.

“Well, I’d like to notice about a half a dozen garlic shrimp,” Austin pointed out acerbically, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll get them, and let’s face facts, there was a hole to Hell in Kingston for over forty years you Keepers never knew about.”

“You didn’t know about it either.”

“Hey, I’m the cat. I do comfort when needed and color commentary. I don’t deal with metaphysical rifts in the fabric of the universe, and I don’t fetch. Live with it.” His single eye narrowed. “Now let’s get on with it before it gets any colder out here.”

The snowbank blocking the driveway was about four-and-a-half-feet high but packed hard and easy to climb over. The snow in the parking lot was almost as deep and a lot softer.

“I’d better go first to break a trail,” Dean offered. “You can follow me, Austin can follow you. Which way?”

Claire pointed. A line of footprints, strangely unfilled by blowing snow stretched back behind the building. “Angels walk lightly on the world, they don’t leave footprints. Demons do. Demons want people to know they’ve passed by because you can’t tempt people who aren’t paying attention.” A side door, leading into a small office, was open. Streaks of demon residue crossed the crumpled lock.

“It was in here,” Claire said softly, turning in place.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Austin kicked snow off first one back foot and then the other. “Its prints lead right to the door.

The Keeper ignored him. “It took something from that hook, from the back of the chair, and from under the desk. Something that’s been here for a while given how thick the dust is.” Reaching into the possibilities, she filled the empty spaces with spatial memory. The translucent image of a pair of overalls hung from the hooks, a jacket draped over the back of the chair, and a pair of grimy running shoes lay half on top of each other under the desk. “Clothes?”