Happy Medium: (Intermix) (10 page)

She whimpered, sliding her hands against his back. Her lips brushed against his collarbone. “We should probably stop,” she whispered.

“No we shouldn’t. We should probably move to a more private place and explore some possibilities.” His voice sounded a little rough. Maybe he should quit using it. He was more the action type of guy anyway. He took hold of her hand, pulling her away from the bridge.

“Where are we going?”

Where?
Well, that was the question, of course. He slowed his steps as he explored his options. Grassy bank? Too early in the evening—if the families didn’t freak out, the local cops probably would. Same went for the concrete bench on the riverside, although it would be great around midnight. Against the bridge had already been vetoed.

He paused, closing his eyes. Rosie’s place? That involved walking by Rosie, who couldn’t be trusted not to comment. The Hampton house?

The very thought of having sex with Emma Shea at the Hampton house was almost enough to kill his arousal right there.
No, most definitely not.

“I have a motel room,” she said softly.

“Within walking distance?”

She shook her head. “It’s back toward downtown.”

“Hell.”

He wanted her here, now, while they were still riding this high. He hesitated a moment too long and saw the light go out in her eyes.

He was an idiot.

“Maybe I should go,” she murmured.

Stay with me.
He started to say it, but she’d already turned away, heading back up the trail to Rosie’s place.

“Wait,” he called.

She half turned, giving him a smile that wasn’t much more than a flick of the lips. He caught her hand, turning her toward him again. “This isn’t over.”

“I know.”

“It’s just timing.”

“Yes. Right. I know that too.”

He stared down at her for a moment, frustration grinding in his gut. “Goddamn ghosts.”

She threw back her head and laughed, her wonderful red hair swirling. He reassessed that grassy bank idea. Maybe they could be quick.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to be quick.

“If it weren’t for the ghosts, I wouldn’t be here,” she said. “But now I really had better go. I just remembered I’m supposed to talk to Gabrielle tonight.”

“What will you tell her?”

Her eyes widened. “About this?”

He shook his head. “No. I mean, what will you tell her about the house?”

“That it’s coming along. That I have some leads for the story of the place. That I’ll have things ready when she comes back. The usual.”

The usual
. He sighed. What had happened between them hadn’t been the usual. Not even close. But they needed to work out some logistics. “I’ll walk you back to your car. Are you going to do more researching at the historical society tomorrow?”

She nodded. “I’m hoping Gracie DeZavala will be back so that I can talk to her.”

He stared up at the bulk of Rosie’s house looming in front of them.
It was my great-grandmother who actually built the place.
He glanced down at Emma for a moment. “Would you check something out for me?”

“Sure, if I can.”

He looked back at the house again, silhouetted against the night sky. “See if you can find anything about my great-grandmother, Siobhan Riordan. Maybe in the King William histories. She built this house.”

Emma frowned. “I’m not much good with genealogy.”

“I don’t need genealogy—I know she was my great-grandma. I just want to know a little more about her. Okay?”

She frowned slightly in the dim light from the river. “Sure. Anything in particular you want to know?”

He shrugged. “Anything you can find out is fine.”

She still looked faintly doubtful, but he had a cure for that. He took her hand, pulling her further into the shadows again. “Come on, Ms. Shea, at least you can kiss me goodnight.”

Chapter 9

A few more kisses next to Emma’s car did nothing to improve Ray’s mood. After she drove away, he climbed the front steps to Rosie’s house, wanting nothing so much as a couple of beers and an early night. If he wasn’t going to have sex with Emma Shea, he might as well sleep, assuming that was possible.

The fates weren’t exactly going his way, however.

“Ray,” Rosie called when he stepped inside the foyer. “Come in here, we need to talk.”

He rolled his eyes as he redirected his steps toward the living room. He didn’t like those words any better now than the last time he’d heard them. He really hoped this wasn’t going to turn into a discussion of his sex life—the non-supernatural part of it, that is. “What?”

Rosie was sprawled on the couch, her laptop propped on her knees and her huge dog lying on the floor beside her, snoring. He couldn’t figure out how he could have missed it the day before. It was the size of a Volkswagen Beetle.

She glanced up at him. “Evan called tonight. I’m going to fly out tomorrow afternoon and meet him for a long weekend in Chicago. I’ll leave you a key so you can use the house.”

And just like that the evening became immeasurably brighter. Three or four days with Rosie’s house all to himself. And a possible guest. “Need a ride to the airport?”

“No, thanks. I’ll park at one of the lots.”

“Okay, well, I’ll take care of things while you’re gone.”

She gave him a very dry smile. “I’m sure you will. Have fun.”

“What does your dog eat and how much at a time?” He gestured toward Helen who peered up at him groggily. Judging from her size, he might be dealing with sides of beef. “I’m assuming you’re not going to board her some place.” He wasn’t even sure there was a kennel big enough to hold her.

“Okay, that’s the other thing.” Rosie waved at an armchair. “Sit down.”

“That sounds ominous.” He slid into the chair, trying not to feel apprehensive. If Rosie had some kind of problem with the dog, he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. He only hoped it didn’t involve either administering pills or cleaning up massive piles of dog poo.

“Nothing bad. It’s just . . . a little weird.” She took a deep breath. “Helen’s not exactly a run-of-the– mill dog.”

“No shit. She’s the size of a Hummer.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how I missed her yesterday.”

“It’s more than that.” She paused again. “The thing is, she’s not exactly real, or anyway she’s not real the way other dogs are. You didn’t see her yesterday because she wasn’t ready to be seen.”

Helen yawned widely, showing rows of enormous jagged teeth, then settled her chin on her paws.

Ray leaned back in his chair, feeling his shoulders tense again.
Just when everything had been going so well
. “You’re not going to tell me she’s a ghost, Rosie. I just scratched her ears, for Pete’s sake.”

“No. She’s not a ghost. She’s a spirit animal.”

He sighed.
Of course she is.
“Right. Meaning what?”

“Meaning she’s not a living dog.” Rosie reached down to run her hand along the dog’s head. “She’s kind of a guardian spirit. When she came to me, she was a hellhound, but she’s reformed.”

“A hellhound.” He almost felt like growling himself. “Come on, Rosie.”

“Look, I can show you some of what I’m talking about. Come with me.” She pushed herself up, patting Helen on the rear end as she slid her feet into her flip-flops. Helen yawned again as she moved upright and followed Rosie and Ray toward the back of the house. Rosie picked up a leash from a shelf beside the back door, fastening it to Helen’s collar.

“She doesn’t really need it, but it makes me feel better,” she explained.

He nodded as if he really understood what she was talking about. Having Helen under some kind of control would make anybody feel better. They moved down the walk to the riverside, then stepped among the walkers on the trail. Helen moved alongside the strolling couples, padding along like a domesticated tiger who’d allowed herself to be momentarily tied to a human.

Nobody looked at her.

It took him a moment to realize what was happening. The great dog trotted along the hiking path, dodging around the people in her way, but no one seemed to be aware that she was there. No double-takes. Nobody stepping back in fear. Nothing. A couple of people glanced curiously at Rosie, whose arm was outstretched holding Helen’s leash, but that was about it.

“I don’t suppose all the neighbors are just used to her,” he muttered finally.

“They can’t see her. Nobody can. Like I said. Spirit animal.”

She turned back toward the house, pausing to let Helen irrigate a tree. Apparently spirit animals weren’t all that different from the non-spirit kind in some respects.

In the backyard, Rosie turned the dog loose and dropped onto a cast-iron bench under one of the live oaks. Helen plopped down a few feet away. “Like I told you before, she used to be a hellhound, but then she became my house pet.” Ray narrowed his eyes, but Rosie shook her head. “Long story. Don’t ask. The thing is, she’s invisible to most people. I’ve got a spirit bird too, but she’s off on her own somewhere right now. Both of them come and go pretty much as they please. And nobody notices them. Or anyway, most people don’t.”

“I can see her. Or I could see her today. Was she here yesterday?”

“Like I say, she comes and goes. It’s hard to explain. I’m not surprised you could see her. I’d be willing to bet Danny would be able to see her if he ever came over, which he hasn’t lately. Mom saw her the last time she was here.”

“So just members of the family?”

“No. Evan can see her too. She loves Evan.”

Ray’s chest felt tight suddenly. “Emma saw her. When we came in, she saw her before I did.”

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Rosie stared up at the night sky. “I’d bet that Biddy would be able to see her too if she came over with Danny now that they’re living together. That’s another thing you need to know. We Riordans attract and are attracted to people who are like us.”

“You’re not telling me Emma’s a medium.”

“Not necessarily. Just sensitive. But you knew that already. The ghost went after her at the séance just like it went after you. While Gabrielle DeVere, who’s about as sensitive as a head of lettuce, didn’t feel anything at all.”

“Sensitive.” He closed his eyes for a moment.
Listen to the sensitive.
“In my dream the old lady told me to pay attention to the sensitive. Is that Emma?”

“It’s possible. I suppose there could be other sensitives around, but Emma’s the one who’s obviously closest to you.”

He rubbed his hands across his face. “Crap. Any idea what it is I’m supposed to be listening to? I’m not even sure what that means. Is she in some kind of danger too?”

Rosie shook her head. “We’re playing it by ear, bro. I’m trying to run down some leads about the house but so far I’ve got nothing.”

“Leads?” He frowned. “What leads? Where do you find the information?”

Rosie looked away. “I have my sources.”

He blinked. Ever since she’d started dropping bombshells about the Riordan genetic legacy, his sister had been a fount of knowledge. Now all of a sudden she was going silent on him. “What’s up, sis?”

She sighed. “Let it go, Ray. I’ve got sources you don’t have access to. Leave it at that.”

“We’re talking supernatural here?”

“Yeah, call it that.
Supernatural
is as good a word as any.” The edges of her lips moved up in a faint smile. “I like Emma, by the way.”

“I do too. She’s Irish like us. Does that have anything to do with anything?”

“I don’t know, Ray. I don’t know a lot of things. Evan’s people were Welsh, but German too, so the Celtic thing gets diluted. And we’ve got all those rabble-rousing Mexican revolutionaries in our bloodline, along with the Riordans.” She leaned her head back against the tree trunk, closing her eyes.

After a moment, he pushed himself to his feet. “If that’s everything, I’m heading off to bed. Will I see you tomorrow before you take off?”

“Probably.” She opened her eyes again, smiling. “I’ll show you where Helen’s dog food and water bowl are tomorrow. She may be around while you’re here by yourself or she may take off again. As I said, she comes and goes on her own.”

He grinned. “So do I sometimes. Night, sis.”

“Good night.”

He glanced back when he got to the door. Rosie still sat beneath the tree, rubbing Helen’s ears and watching the lights along the river.

***

Emma tucked her cell phone back in the charger, grimacing. Gabrielle wasn’t any easier to take at a distance than she was when she was close at hand. The only thing that made the phone call even slightly tolerable was the fact that she hadn’t ordered Emma back to Houston. Apparently, she was spending most of her time in the production facility trying to punch up film of their previous séances. She hadn’t exactly said she was inserting sound effects, but Emma had a feeling that was happening. She didn’t keep track of the special effects they used on the program because she didn’t really want to know what they were doing.

She rubbed her eyes. Talking to Gabrielle hadn’t exactly distracted her from the more pressing problem—what she was supposed to do about Ray Ramos. Of course, she might not need to do anything at all about him. He looked like he’d come to his senses after they’d had their make-out session beside the bridge. She sighed. Too bad they hadn’t been a little closer to downtown. She had a feeling if her motel room had been across the street, she wouldn’t have been calling Gabrielle that evening, and she wouldn’t be sitting here by herself now.

Which was probably just as well. She’d only known him for a few days, and she’d never been the type to hop into bed with somebody she didn’t know. Better to be cautious.

Actually, she suspected that last thought was crap. She might not hop into bed with someone she didn’t know, but she sure as hell would hop into bed with Ray, given the opportunity. Caution be damned. Even though she still didn’t understand a lot about him—or rather, she understood a lot but not the right lot. There was something mysterious going on with him, and she had a feeling it would be good for her to know what it was before their relationship went much further. Assuming you could call whatever they had a
relationship.

Of course, that assumed that Ray was interested in having a relationship with her, which was far from certain. The look he’d given her when she’d left tonight made her think he was reassessing the whole thing.

On impulse, she fired up her laptop. Maybe she should do a little research on the Riordan clan. She’d check for Siobhan Riordan in the historical society database tomorrow while she tried to run down more information about Alexander Grunewald, but maybe she’d do a quick Google search first just for the heck of it.

Twenty minutes later she’d turned up next to nothing. There were a lot of Siobhan Riordans around, even a few in the San Antonio area. It might have helped if she’d had dates, but the only thing she had to go on was Ray’s casual reminder that Siobhan had built the house Rosie lived in now.

Emma frowned, picturing gingerbread trim and a mansard roof. Unfortunately, she didn’t know much about architectural periods, plus architects in San Antonio might have held onto older styles longer than architects in the east. Still, it looked like early twentieth century to her. She tried combining Siobhan Riordan, San Antonio, and 1900.

And got zip.

She leaned back in her chair again, drumming her fingers on the desk. What was the Riordan grandmother’s name, anyway.
Carol?
Carrie? Caroline?
That sounded right. She tried Caroline Riordan. There were still a lot of names, but a few of the references looked more like the right period.

At the bottom of the page, she found an obituary in the
San Antonio Express-News
. It was relatively brief. Apparently, Caroline had died three years ago. The writer referred to her as a “long-time resident of the King William District” and a “San Antonio businesswoman,” although the nature of her particular business remained vague. She was survived by Deirdre Riordan Ramos, Danielo Ramos, Rose Ramos, and Raymundo Ramos.

Raymundo.
Emma rolled the name around on her tongue. It fit him.

She checked the obit again. No mention of Siobhan Riordan. Scant mention of Caroline herself. It was perfunctory at best.

That was a little weird, now that she thought about it. Caroline’s house was imposing, and it rested on a solid chunk of land in a very prosperous section of the city. Both Siobhan and Caroline must have been wealthy to have built it and then hung onto it through rising property taxes and economic ups and downs. Moreover, the money must have been theirs since there was also no mention of a Mr. Riordan in either case.

She frowned. No Mr. Riordan and Caroline had the same last name as Siobhan. Was Caroline’s daughter illegitimate? Ray hadn’t said anything about it.

The family history seemed odd. And certainly worth investigating. She only hoped Ray wouldn’t regret asking her to do it.

***

Ray made it down to breakfast bright and early the next morning, which was the only upside of not having spent the night with Emma Shea.

Rosie was pouring kibble into a monstrous dog bowl while Helen watched. “Going back to the house today?” she asked.

He nodded. “I made some progress on one of the bedrooms yesterday. With any luck I can finish up today.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbing a box of cereal off the shelf.

“Do you have any iron nails?”

He paused, cereal bowl in hand. “I’ve got steel. Iron isn’t used much anymore—it rusts.”

Rosie frowned. “So steel wouldn’t be iron?”

He shrugged. “Steel is mostly iron. It’s carbon steel—iron and a little bit of carbon, usually with some kind of anti-rust coating.”

“That might work, I guess.”

He set the cereal down. “Okay, Rosie, why would I want to find iron nails? They’d be expensive as hell and they wouldn’t work as well as steel. What would I be using them for?”

“Protection,” she said flatly. “Ghosts don’t like iron. Neither do evil spirits, for what that’s worth. But I think steel would work as well. You might want to check online though.”