Sweep in Peace

The woman got out of the car and ran over. “What’s the hold-up?”

The man turned to her. “They have no vacancy.”

The woman looked at me. “We drove six hours in this rain from Little Rock. We won’t be any trouble. We just need a couple of rooms.”

“There is a very nice Holiday Inn only two miles from here,” I said.

The woman pointed at the Avalon subdivision. “My sister lives in that subdivision. She said the only person who ever stays here is some old lady.”

Ah. Mystery solved. The neighbors knew I ran a Bed & Breakfast, because that was the only way I could explain the occasional guests.

“Is it because we have kids?” The woman asked.

“Not at all,” I said. “Would you like directions to the Holiday Inn?”

The man grimaced. “No, thanks. Come on, Louise.”

The turned and went to their car. The woman was mumbling something. “….outrageous.”

I watched them get into the car, reverse down the driveway, and leave. The inn chimed softly, punctuating their departure.

“I thought we had guests!” Caldenia called from the stairs.

“Not the right kind,” I said.

The inn creaked. I petted the door frame. “Don’t worry. It will get better.”

Caldenia sighed. “Perhaps you should go on a date, dear. Men are so attentive when they think there is a chance you will let them into your bed. It does wonderful things to lift your spirits.”

A date. Right.

“What about Sean Evans?”

“He isn’t home,” I said quietly.

“Too bad. It was so much fun when he and the other fellow were around.” Caldenia shrugged and went up the stairs.

About five months ago, I watched Sean Evans open a door and step through it to the greater universe beyond. I hadn’t heard from him since. Not that he owed me anything. Sharing a single kiss could hardly be called a relationship, no matter how memorable it was. I knew from experience that the universe was very large. It was difficult for a single woman to compete with all its wonders. Besides, I was an innkeeper. Guests left to have exciting adventures and our kind stayed behind. Such was the nature of our profession.

And telling myself all those things over and over didn’t make me feel better. When I thought about Sean Evans, I felt the way a business traveler from Canada might feel about an overnight trip to Miami in the middle of February. It was like seeing the sea and the beach from a car window. It might have been great, if only we had more time and now we would likely never know if that beach would’ve turned out to be paradise or if we would’ve found jellyfish in the water and sand in our food.

It was for probably for the best. Werewolves were nothing but trouble anyway.

I was about to close the door, when magic tugged on me, like ripples from a stone cast into a calm pond. This tug had a completely different flavor. Someone had entered the inn’s grounds. Someone powerful and dangerous.

I reached for my broom, resting in the corner by the door and stepped out onto the front porch. A figure in a grey rain poncho stood by the hedges, just on the edge of the inn’s grounds, politely waiting to be invited inside.

We had a visitor. Maybe even a guest, the right kind this time. I inclined my head, more of a very shallow bow than a nod.

The two doors behind me opened on their own. The figure approached slowly. The visitor was tall, almost a foot taller than me, which put him around six two, maybe six three. He walked into the inn. I followed him in and the doors closed behind me.

The figure pulled the cord securing his hood and shrugged off his rain poncho. A tall man stood in front of me. He was muscular, but lean, his shoulders straining his white shirt with flaring sleeves. An embroidered vest hugged his frame, black accented with blue. His long legs were clad into dark grey trousers. He wore supple black boots that came midway up his calf. A leather sword belt graced his narrow hips, supporting a long slender scabbard with an elaborate basket hilt protruding from it. He looked like he probably owned a wide-brimmed hat with some fluffy white feathers and possibly a cloak or two.

The man looked at me. His shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back haphazardly into a horse tail at the nape of his neck. His face was shocking. Masculine, well-cut, but not at all brutish, with strong elegant lines people usually called aristocratic: broad high forehead, straight nose, high cheekbones, square jaw and a full mouth. His eyes, wide and tinted with a hint of quiet humor, were pale blue. He wasn’t at all feminine, yet most people would describe him as beautiful rather than handsome. His was a face that spoke of intelligence, confidence, and calculation. He didn’t look – he watched, he noticed, he evaluated, and I had a feeling that even when his mouth and his eyes smiled, his mind remained alert and razor sharp.

I had seen him before. I remembered that face. But where?

“I’m looking for Dina Demille,” he said. His voice suited him well: warm and confident. He had a light accent, not really British, not really Southern US, but an odd, melodious meld of both.

“You found her,” I said. “Welcome to Gertrude Hunt Inn. Your poncho?”

“Thank you.” He handed me the poncho and I hung it on the hook by the door.

“Will you be staying with us?”

“I’m afraid not.” He offered me an apologetic smile.

Figured. “What can I do for you?”

He raised his hand and traced a pattern between us. The air in the wake of his finger glowed with pale blue. A stylized symbol of scales: two weights in the balance, flared between us, held for a second and vanished. He was an Arbiter. Oh crap. My heart sped up. Who could possibly be suing us? Gertrude Hunt didn’t have the finances to fight an arbitration.