The hotel had been quiet for almost an hour, which in Nathan Freeling's experience usually meant disaster was building momentum. A shriek echoed from the east wing.

“Abaddon,” Nathan called, already weary, “what did we discuss about the kitchen?”

No answer. Inside Room 13, flour filled the air while pots and pans orbited a grinning boy with jam on his chin. A flour bag burst into flames behind him. Nathan lunged for the emergency sprinklers. Instead of water, pink glitter rained from the ceiling.

“You’re impossible,” Nathan sighed.

Minutes later, he herded Abaddon into the hall, coated head-to-toe in sparkles. The boy offered him a burnt cookie. Nathan took a bite.

“Crunchy,” he lied.

Abaddon beamed. As evening light spilled through stained glass, Nathan couldn't help smiling back. The hotel creaked approvingly somewhere overhead. For now, the hauntings could wait.