The Second Summoning

  THE SECOND SUMMONING

  The finest in Fantasy and Science Fiction

  by TANYA HUFF from DAW Books:

  THE SILVERED

  THE ENCHANTMENT EMPORIUM

  THE WILD WAYS

  The Confederation Novels:

  A CONFEDERATION OF VALOR

  Valor’s Choice/The Better Part of Valor

  THE HEART OF VALOR (#3)

  VALOR’S TRIAL (#4)

  THE TRUTH OF VALOR (#5)

  SMOKE AND SHADOWS (#1)

  SMOKE AND MIRRORS (#2)

  SMOKE AND ASHES (#3)

  BLOOD PRICE (#1)

  BLOOD TRAIL (#2)

  BLOOD LINES (#3)

  BLOOD PACT (#4)

  BLOOD DEBT (#5)

  BLOOD BANK (#6)

  The Keeper’s Chronicles:

  SUMMON THE KEEPER (#1)

  THE SECOND SUMMONING (#2)

  LONG HOT SUMMONING (#3)

  THE QUARTERS NOVELS, Volume 1:

  Sing the Four Quarters/Fifth Quarter

  THE QUARTERS NOVELS, Volume 2:

  No Quarter/The Quartered Sea

  WIZARD OF THE GROVE

  Child of the Grove/The Last Wizard

  OF DARKNESS, LIGHT, AND FIRE

  Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light/The Fire’s Stone

  TANYA HUFF

  THE SECOND SUMMONING

  The Keeper Chronicles #2

  Copyright © 2001 by Tanya Huff.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN:978-1-101-65802-4

  Cover art by Paul Youll.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1178.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

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  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Printing, March 2001

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES—MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.

  For Meg, who helped keep the teenagers

  sounding like they were seventeen, not forty.

  In Memoriam:

  Austin, 1980–2000

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  ONE

  FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, the motel room was dark and quiet. The only light came intermittently through a crack in the curtains as the revolving sign by the road spun around so fast it caught up to its afterimages and appeared to read Motel 666. The only sound came from the rectangular bulk of the heating unit under the window that roared out warmth at a decibel level somewhere between a DC9 at takeoff and a Nirvana concert—although it was considerably more melodic than either. The smell emanating from the pizza box—crushed to fit neatly into a too-small wastebasket—blended with the lingering smell of the previous inhabitants, some of whom hadn’t been particularly attentive to personal hygiene.

  The radio alarm clock between the beds read eleven forty squiggle where the squiggle would have been a five had the entire number been illuminated.

  Both of the double beds were occupied.

  The bed closest to the bathroom held the shape of two bodies—one large, one small—stretched out beneath the covers.

  The bed closest to the window held one long, lean, black-and-white shape that seemed to be taking up more room than was physically possible.

  The light flickered. The heater roared. The long, lean shape contracted and became a cat. It walked to the edge of the mattress and crouched, tail lashing.

  “This is pathetic,” it announced, leaping upon the smaller of the two figures in the other bed. “Even for you.”

  Claire Hansen stretched out her arm, turned on the bedside lamp, and found herself face-to-face with an indignant one-eyed cat. “Austin, if you don’t mind, we’re waiting for a manifestation.”

  He lay down on her chest, assuming a sphinxlike position that suggested he wasn’t planning on moving any time soon. “It’s been a week.”

  Twisting her head around, Claire peered at the clock radio. The squiggle changed shape. “It’s been forty-six minutes.”

  “It’s been a week,” Austin repeated, “since we left the Elysian Fields Guest House. A week since you and young Mr. McIssac here started keeping company.”

  The other figure stirred, but the cat continued.

  “For the first time in that week, you two are actually in the same bed and what are you doing? You’re waiting for a manifestation!”

  Claire blinked. “Keeping company?” she repeated.

  “For lack of a more descriptive phrase, which, I might add, is my point—there’s a distinct lack of more descriptive phrases being applied here. You could cut the unresolved sexual tension between you two with a knife, and I, personally,” he declared, whiskers bristling, “am tired of it.”

  “Just pretending for a moment that this is any of your business,” Claire told him tightly, “a week isn’t that long…”

  “You knew each other for almost two months before that.”

  “…we’re in one bed now because the site requires a male and a female component…”

  “You’re saying you had no control over the last seven days?”

  “…and did it ever occur to you that things haven’t progressed because there’s been an audience perpetually in attendance?”

  “Oh, sure. Blame me.”

  “Could I say something here?” Rolling toward the center of the bed, Dean McIssac rose up on one elbow, blue eyes squinting a little behind wire-frame glasses as he came into the light from the bedside table. “I’m thinking this isn’t the time or the place to talk about, you know, stuff.”

  “Talk?” Austin snorted. “You’re missing my point.”

  The young man’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Well, it sure as scrod isn’t the time or the place to do anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s a dead…lady standing at the foot of the bed.”

  Claire craned her neck to see around the cat.

  Arms folded over a turquoise sweater, her weight on one spandex-covered hip, the ghost raised an artificially arched ectoplasmic eyebrow. “Boo,” she suggested.

  “Boo yourself,” Claire sighed.

  Cheryl Poropat, or rather the ghost of Cheryl Poropat, hovered above the X marked on the carpet with ashes and dust, the scuffed heels of her ankle boots about two inches from the floor. “So, you’re here to send me on?”

  “That’s right.” Claire sat down in one of the room’s two chairs. Like most motel chairs they weren’t designed to be actually sat in, but she felt that remaining in bed with Dean, even if they were both fully clothed, undermined her authority.

  “You some kind of an exorcist?”

  “No, I’m a Keeper.”

  Cheryl folded her arms. Half a dozen cheap bracelets jangled against the curve of one wrist. “And what’s that when it’s home?”

  “Keepers maintain the structural integrity of the barrier between th
e world as most people know it and the metaphysical energy all around it.”

  The ghost blinked. “Say what?”

  “We mend the holes in the fabric of the universe so bad things don’t get through.”

  “Well, why the hell didn’t you say so the first time? If I wasn’t dead,” she continued thoughtfully before Claire could answer, “I’d think you were full of it, but since I’m not only dead, I’m here, my view of stuff has been, you know, broadened.” Penciled brows drew in…“Being dead makes you look at things differently.”…and centered themselves again. “So, how do you do it?”

  “Do what?” Claire asked, having been distracted by the movement of the dead woman’s eyebrows.

  “Fix the holes.”

  “We reach beyond the barrier and manipulate the possibilities. We use magic,” she simplified as Cheryl looked blank.

  Understanding dawned with returning facial features. “You’re a witch. Like on television.”

  “No.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “She’s got a better looking cat,” Austin announced from the top of the dresser in a tone that suggested it should have been obvious.

  Claire ignored him. “I’m a Keeper.”

  “Well, jeepers keepers.” Cheryl snickered and bounced her fingertips off a bit of bouffant hair, her hair spray having held into the afterlife. “Bet you wish you had a nickel for every time someone said that.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “They’ve got a better sense of humor on television, too,” the ghost muttered.

  “That’s only because Keepers have no sense of humor at all,” Austin told her, studying his reflection in the mirror. “If it wasn’t for me, she’d be so smugly sanctimonious no one could live with her.”

  “And thank you for your input, Austin.” Shooting him a look that clearly promised “later,” Claire stood. “Shall we begin?”

  Cheryl waved off the suggestion. “What’s your hurry? Introduce me to the piece of beefcake the cat thinks you should do the big nasty with.”

  “The what?”

  “You know; the horizontal mambo, the beast with two backs.” Her pelvic motions—barely masked by the red stretch pants—cleared up any lingering confusions. “He a Keeper, too?”

  Claire glanced over at Dean who was staring at the ghost with an expression of horrified fascination. Or fascinated horror, she wasn’t entirely certain which. “He’s a friend. And that was a private conversation.”

  “Ask me if I care?” Translucent hands patted ephemeral pockets. “I’d kill for a freaking smoke. Couldn’t hurt me much now, could they? You oughta go for it, Keeper.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  A ghostly, dismissive glance raked her up and down. “Not surprised—you’ve got that tobacco-free, alcohol-free, cholesterol-free—is that your natural hair color?”

  “Yes.” Claire tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

  “Hair-color free sort of look. Take my advice, hon, try a henna.”

  “I ought to go for a henna?”

  “Yeah, in your hair. But that wasn’t what I meant. You oughta go for him.” She nodded toward Dean. “Live a little. I mean, men take their pleasure where they find it, right? Why not women? Your husband screws around, you know, and everyone thinks he’s such a freaking stallion and all you get’s a ‘sorry, sweetie’ that you’re supposed to take ’cause he’s out of work and feeling unsure of his manhood—like it’s your freaking fault he got LAID OFF.…”

  Claire and Austin, who’d been watching the energy build, dropped to the floor. Dean, whose generations of Newfoundland ancestors trapped between a barren rock and an angry sea had turned adaptability into a genetic survival trait, followed less than a heartbeat behind.

  In the sudden flare of yellow-white light, the clock radio and the garbage pail flew through the air and slammed into opposite walls.

  “…but if you do it, just once, then BAM…”

  The bureau drawers whipped open, then slammed shut.

  “…brain aneurysm, and you’re stuck haunting this freaking DUMP!”

  Both beds rose six inches into the air, then crashed back to the floor.

  Breathing heavily—which was just a little redundant since she wasn’t breathing at all, but some old habits died very hard indeed—the ghost stared around the room. “What just happened?”

  “Usually, when you manifest, your anger rips open one of those holes in the fabric of the universe,” Claire explained, one knee of her jeans separating from a sticky spot on the orange carpet with a sound like tearing Velcro. “I’m keeping you from doing that, so the energy had to go somewhere else, creating a poltergeist phenomenon.”

  Cheryl actually looked intrigued. “Like in the movie?”

  “I didn’t see the movie.”

  “Again, not surprised.”

  “Why? Don’t tell me I’ve got that movie-free look, too.”

  “All right.”

  “All right what?”

  “All right, she won’t tell you,” Austin snickered.

  Eyes narrowed, Claire glared down at him. “You are supposed to be on my side. And as for you…” She turned her attention back to the smirking ghost. “…get ready to move on.” She wasn’t supposed to make it sound like a threat, but she’d had just about as much of Cheryl Poropat as she could handle. I’ve got a life, lady. Which is more than I can say for you.

  The ghost’s smirk disappeared. “Now?”

  “Why not now?”

  “Well, I’m still hanging here because I’ve got unfinished business, right?”

  Claire sighed. She should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. “If that’s what you think.”

  “And just what’s THAT supposed to mean?”

  There was another small flare of energy. In the bathroom, the toilet flushed.

  “With metaphysical phenomena, belief is very important. If you believe you’re here because you have unfinished business, then that’s why you’re here.”

  “Yeah? What if I believe I’m alive again?”

  “Doesn’t work that way.”

  “Figures.” She looked from Claire to Dean and back to Claire again. “Okay. Unfinished business—I want to talk to my husband. You bring him here, you let me have my say, and I’ll go.”

  “Bring your husband here?”

  “Can I can go to him?”

  Claire shook her head. “No, you’re tied to this room.”

  “Doomed to appear to couples and give them unwanted advice,” Dean added from where he was kneeling in the narrow space between the bed and the bathroom wall.

  “No one ever wants relationship advice, sweet-cheeks.” For the first time since she’d appeared, Cheryl looked at him like he was more than pretty meat. “But how did you know?”

  He sighed and tried not to think about what he was kneeling in. “We spoke to Steve and Debbie.”

  “Nice kids.”

  “They’re some scared.”

  “Yeah, well, death’s a bitch.”

  “Can you believe that she died right after a nooner with my best friend?” Howard Poropat sounded more resigned than upset by the revelation, his light tenor voice releasing the words in a reluctant monotone that lifted slightly at the end of each sentence, creating a tentative question. “Did she tell you that?”

  “No, she didn’t mention it.” Claire braced herself as the car turned into the motel parking lot, sliding a little in the accumulated slush. When she thought it was safe to release her grip on the dashboard, she pointed. “There. Number 42.”

  Jaw moving against a wad of nicotine gum, he steered the station wagon where indicated. “Let’s just go over this again, can we? Cheryl’s ghost is haunting the room she died in?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she can’t move on until she says something to me?”

  “Apparently.” It hadn’t taken much effort to persuade him that it was possible. For all that he reminded her of process
ed cheese slices, he had a weirdly egocentric view of his place in the world.

  “You think she wants to apologize?” The car slid to a stop, more-or-less in front of the right room.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Claire told him, slamming her shoulder against the passenger side door and forcing it open. “Why don’t we go inside and find out?”

  While Claire’d been gone, the room had been redecorated in early playing cards. Most of them were just lying around, but several had been driven into the ceiling’s acoustic tiles.

  “What happened?”

  Dean nodded toward the ghost and mouthed the word, “Boom!”

  Brows drawn in, Cheryl folded her arms. “We were playing a little rummy to pass the time, but he cheats!”

  “Dean? I doubt that. He spent six months living next to a hole to Hell, and the ultimate force of evil couldn’t even convince him to drop his underwear on the floor.”

  “Not him, the cat!”

  Austin continued washing a spotless white paw, ignoring both the conversation and the seven of spades only partially hidden by a fringe of stomach fur.

  Claire snorted. “What did you expect? He’s a cat.” She had no idea how a cat, a ghost, and Dean had managed to play rummy when only one of them could actually manipulate the cards, nor did she want to know. Shrugging off her jacket, she moved farther into the room, pulling a suddenly reluctant Howard Poropat along with her by the pocket on his beige duffle coat.

  The ghost’s eyes widened. “I don’t believe it! How’d you convince him?”

  “I asked him nicely.” She dropped down onto the edge of the bed, out of the reconciliation’s direct line of fire.

  “Cheryl?”

  “Howard.”

  The bed dipped as Dean joined her. Claire leaned back and, when her weight pressed into his shoulder, turned her head to murmur, “You okay?”

  “I got clipped by the six of clubs, but my sweater deflected it.”

  Dean’s sweater was a traditional fisherman’s cable knit. Handmade by his aunt from wool so raw it had barely paused between sheep and needles, Claire suspected it could, if not deflect bullets, certainly discourage them. “Thanks for staying with her.”