Chronicles Of The Keeper - Summon The Keeper Part 92

Professor Jackson stood in the midst of a blazing vortex of tiny lights dancing on a manic wind, although stood wasn't entirely accurate as his feet dangled a good six inches off the floor. Sitting on the corner of the bed, the card table pulled up over her knees, Mrs. Abrams stared wide-eyed, one hand pressed up against her mouth, the other making shooing motions toward the lights.

"What's happening?" Although the hall had been silent, one step over the threshold, Dean had to shout to make himself heard.

"It looks like Jacques is more than he can handle."

Dean's eyes widened. "Jacques is attacking him?"

"Jacques is not doing anything. The professor started something he couldn't control."

"Then where is he?"

"Who?"

"Jacques!"

Claire waved a hand toward Professor Jackson. "He's in those lights. Bits of him may even be in the professor!"

"Connie!" Mrs. Abrams' shriek cut through the ambient noise like a vegetarian through tofu. "You've got to do something!"

Which was true.

"Dean! Try and keep Mrs. Abrams calm."

"While you do what?"

"While I rescue Jacques!"

"Be careful!" Body leaning almost forty-five degrees off vertical, he fought his way through the wind to the bed.

"It's the residual power from when she made him fles.h.!.+" Ears flat against his head, Austin had tucked himself into the angle between floor and wall, claws hooked deeply into the carpet. He stared up at Claire through narrowed eyes. "Can you bring him back?"

"I think so!" Reaching for calm, Claire shuffled quickly forward, never breaking contact with the floor; at about half Dean's weight, she couldn't risk being blown away. A little better than an arm's length from the professor, she marked her spot and started to spin. She moved slowly at first, barely managing to keep her balance; then the power lifted her and she began to pick up speed as she rose into the air. The room whirled by, faster, faster, until the walls began to blur and the tiny points of light were pulled from their orbits around Professor Jackson. Oh, dear; I really wish I hadn't had that third slice of pizza...

"Catherine! What do you think you're doing? You've got to save the professor!"

"She's trying to, Mrs. Abrams!" Dean wasn't entirely certain Mrs. Abrams had heard him. With Claire picking up speed, the winds had doubled in intensity. He ducked as the lamp from the bedside table flew by, cord dangling. The table followed close behind. On one knee beside the bed, he was horrified to feel it begin to s.h.i.+ft. Throwing possible consequences, as it were, to the wind, he flung himself down beside the old woman, grabbed her around the waist with one arm, and blocked the professor's flying suitcase with the other. Under him, the bed bucked and twisted, fighting to throw off the extra weight that kept it on the floor.

The card table never moved. The flame of the single candle never flickered.

Even behind the protection of his gla.s.ses, the wind whipped the moisture from his eyes. Lids barely cracked. Dean watched the little lights leave the professor and move to circle Claire. Sometimes singly, sometimes in clumps, they did one figure eight around both spinning figures, then settled down in their new orbit. When all the lights had s.h.i.+fted, including a few pulled painfully from under the professor's skin, he breathed a sigh of relief and almost got beaned by a worn leather shaving kit sucked out of the bathroom and into the maelstrom.

It wasn't over yet.

Now the lights began to orbit a new position equally distant from both spinners. The third point on the triangle. Once again they traced a single figure eight and then began to spin in place.

The bed lifted, four inches, five, six, then banged back down onto the floor.

A familiar form began to take shape in the center of the lights. And then the lights began to spiral inward.

Muscles straining, Dean somehow managed to keep a protesting Mrs. Abrams on the bed. At least he thought she was protesting, he couldn't hear a thing she was shouting over the roaring of the wind, the pounding of his heart, and the cracking of her heels against his s.h.i.+ns.

One by one, the drawers were sucked out of the bureau.

With every light that disappeared Jacques grew more defined.

Dean frowned. Too defined. "Claire! His clothes!"

She didn't seem to hear him but maybe the clothes came last.

More and more lights were absorbed until only a few remained. Jacques seemed more solid than he ever had.

Dean's gaze dropped. He almost let go of Mrs. Abrams in shock until he remembered the force of Jacques' spin had to be distorting reality.

The last light slid in under Jacques' left arm.

Nothing happened. All three bodies continued to spin. The wind continued to howl.

Although it was difficult to tell for certain with her face flicking in and out of sight, Dean thought that Claire frowned. The index finger of her right hand curved up to beckon imperiously.

One final light, almost too small to see, sucked free from the professor, circled Claire and smacked Jacques right between the eyes. Which opened.

The wind quit.

The candle flame went out.

"... member of the Daughters of the Parliamentary Committee and if you don't stop this, this moment, I'll be speaking to my MP!" Mrs. Abrams' ultimatum echoed in the sudden silence. "Well." She tossed her head, the lacquered surface of her hair crackling against Dean's chin. "That's better."

In the confusion of three bodies and various pieces of furniture hitting the floor, Dean managed to get across the room to Claire's side before Mrs. Abrams could react to his presence. One of the bureau drawers bounced off his left shoulder, but he considered bruising of minor importance compared to being caught with his arm, uninvited, around her waist. She might thank him for keeping her out of the whirlwind, but the odds weren't good.

"Claire! Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine when the room stops whirling," she muttered.

"The room isn't moving."

"Says you." But she opened her eyes and lifted an arm. "Help me sit up."

"Candice! I demand an immediate explanation!"

With his left arm supporting her back, Claire s.h.i.+fted her weight against Dean's chest. "Mrs. Abrams," she sighed. "Go to sleep." They winced in unison at the sound of another body hitting the floor. "Put her back on the bed, would you, Dean."

The warmth of the sigh had spread through fabric to skin.

"Dean?"

He released her reluctantly. "But you..."

"I'm okay. Nothing wrong that a little vomiting couldn't cure." Dragging a dented wastebasket out from under the lamp and cradling it in her arms, she smiled wanly up at him. "No problem."