Part 14 (1/2)

”Might as well call it The Vestibule of h.e.l.l,” she muttered mockingly, turning yellowed pages and not at all impressed by her earlier flash of prescience. It appeared that windowless room four had been popular throughout the existence of the hotel, and the guests who stayed in it seemed to have had uniformly bad handwriting.

She had to call Dean out of the kitchen to open the safe.

”The very least Augustus Smythe could've done,” she grumbled, arms folded and brows drawn into a deep vee over her nose, ”was leave me the combination.”

”He left you Dean,” Austin observed from the desk. ”Something he probably figured you'd get more use out of.”

Ears red, Dean cranked the handle around and got up off his knees as the safe door swung open. ”Anything else. Boss?”

Having chased Austin halfway up the first flight of stairs before being forced to acknowledge that four old legs sufficiently motivated were still faster than two, Claire ducked back under the counter. ”Not right now.”

As she straightened, their eyes locked. ”What?”

Dean felt a sudden and inexplicable urge to stammer. He managed to control it by keeping conversation to a minimum. ”The combination?”

”Good point. Write it down. Use the back of that old bill on the desk,” she added, walking over to the safe. Squatting, she heard pencil move against paper then the combination appeared over her shoulder. ”Six left, six right, seven left?”

”That's right. I should, uh, finish the dishes now.”

”Good idea.” As he returned to the kitchen, Claire grinned. He really did turn a very charming color at the slightest opportunity. Then she looked back down at the piece of paper and shook her head. Six sixty-seven. Cute. h.e.l.l was in the bas.e.m.e.nt; the safe was on the first floor, one up from the Number of the Beast. First the Elysian Fields, now this. Augustus Smythe seemed to delight in throwing about obscure hints. A cry for help or sheer b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness?

In the safe, she found a heavy linen envelope marked with the sigil for expenses. On the back, Taxes, Victuals, Maintenance, and Staff had been written in an elegant copperplate. Another, later hand had added. Electricity and Telephone. The envelope was empty.

No outstanding bills. Claire put the envelope back in the safe and closed the door. Great. When the seal goes and something calling itself Beelzebub leads a demonic army out of the furnace room, the lights'll stay on and a well-fed staff can call 911 as they're disemboweled.

As she sat back on her heels, a flash of brilliant blue racing along the inside edge of a lower shelf caught her eye. Thumb and first two fingers of her right hand raised, just in case, she leaned over and with her left hand yanked a dusty pile of ledgers onto the floor. The hole in the corner was unmistakably mouse.

Which didn't mean that only mice were using it.

Mice weren't usually a brilliant blue.

She moved closer and sent down a cautious probe.

”Problem?”

”OW!” Rubbing her head, she crawled back from the shelf and glared up at Dean. ”Try and make a little more noise when you sneak upon people!”

”Sorry. I've finished the dishes and I was wondering if you want me to put a new padlock on room six.”

”Definitely.” It was an emotional not a rational response. Sara wouldn't be leaving the room any time soon and, should she decide to, a padlock wouldn't stop her, but for peace of mind there had to be a perception of security. ”I'll have a locksmith repair the door plate.”

”But he'll see her.”

”No, he won't.”

It was another one of those statements, like ”rearrange your memories,” that Dean had no intention of arguing with. ”Okay.” He squatted beside her and peered at the hole. ”Looks like a new one. I'll set out some more traps.”

”Mousetraps?”

The sideways look he shot her seemed mildly concerned. ”Yeah. Why?”