by Meg Benjamin
“Which leaves coincidence.”
“Maybe.” She stared back at him again. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
Terrific. “And?”
“While I was doing research for Gabrielle, I kept coming across people who say spirits have energy, like they give off some kind of cosmic rays or something.”
“So?”
“So maybe something we did tapped into that energy. Maybe it was Gabrielle or maybe it was us. I don’t know. But it feels like we shook up something.”
“I’d say we did,” he muttered as he took another swallow. He should just take the caffeine intravenously to speed things up. If there was one thing he absolutely wasn’t going to do, it was discuss last night’s dreams with Emma Shea, the prim little production assistant.
“So what do you know about the house?” she asked. “I mean, what kind of history did it have before you bought it?”
He shrugged. “No clue. We bought it from an estate, an old guy who lived there for thirty years or so and then died. Some of his relatives sold it, but they had to fight one another through the courts first to decide who got what. And by the time they figured it all out, nobody wanted the house.”
“I guess the spirit could be somebody who lived there,” she mused. “The candles are sort of a poltergeist thing, though.”
He took another swallow of coffee. At least his synapses seemed to be firing again in a limited way. “Poltergeist thing?”
She leaned back in her chair, considering. “Poltergeists aren’t exactly ghosts as I understand it. I mean, they don’t have any particular character. If it’s a poltergeist, we might not be able to track it down.”
Ray rubbed his eyes. This was an insane conversation to be having at this time of day. Or any time of day, now that he thought about it. “Just to be clear here, I’m not tracking down anything. I’ve got too much work to do as it is.”
“I didn’t think you’d be the one to do it,” Emma said a bit stiffly. “It’s part of my job. I’m supposed to research the history of any house we work with so that Gabrielle can talk about any juicy bits of gossip when she does her introduction.”
“Juicy bits?”
“You know, anything risqué or spooky. Most older houses have something in their history that’s a little colorful. That’s what I’ll be looking for.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. How this was going to help them sell the damn house he hadn’t a clue. “When will you film the show?”
“It’ll be at least another week before we’re ready. Gabrielle’s already back in Houston finishing up on some other shows.”
“So you’re the only one around?”
She nodded. “Just me.”
“Glad to hear it.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Good luck with the research. Let me know if you need anything else.”
She blinked. “You don’t want to find out what happened last night?”
“I don’t know how to do that.” He paused, staring down at her. “I’m guessing you don’t either, right?”
She gave him an annoyed look, but then she shook her head. “All I can think of to do is research the history of the house. I can’t guarantee I’ll find anything doing that either. But I thought we could sort of join forces. I mean, since both of us felt . . . something last night.”
Ray’s jaw was suddenly tight. “Neither of us knows enough about what’s happening to join forces. It would be the blind leading the blind. The best I can do is keep working. Let me know if you find anything in your research, and we can go from there.”
He left her sitting at the table, watching him with wounded blue eyes.
Walking back to his truck, he ignored the slight twinge in his conscience. So they’d both had ghostly encounters last night. So what? Joining forces didn’t make any sense when you had no forces to join.
He sighed. Besides, if he ignored the whole thing, maybe it would go away. Maybe last night was just a one-time thing, brought on by the presence of Gabrielle DeVere and, for all he knew, the phases of the moon.
Wishful thinking, Raymundo. Maybe so. But wishful thinking was about all he was up to at the moment. Now he was going to go back to the house and work so hard he’d sleep for at least twelve hours straight tonight.
Without dreams.
***
Jerk. Stupid jerk. Emma repeated the words like a mantra all the way over to the King William Historical Society. She shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he’d told her he had no imagination, that he didn’t like “intangibles.” That he liked what he could touch.
She swallowed hard. That last bit wasn’t something she needed to think about right then. Clearly, finding out what had happened at that house—what was still happening unless she missed her guess—took priority over cursing Ray Ramos. Or doing anything else with him, as far as that went.
The King William Historical Society was housed in a mansion that Emma would have given her eyeteeth to have used for the show—three stories, a sloping mansard roof, a metal roof cresting above that, and a little tower to crown it off. Any house that looked like that was bound to have a few juicy bits in its past to recommend it.
The woman seated at the receptionist’s desk just inside the door didn’t seem to go with the house. Her hair was the shade of orange Emma associated with Popsicles, and it was held up in a topknot supported by chopsticks. She wore jeweled cat-eye glasses that curved up elaborately at the ends along with a violently green smock. She was, in fact, one of the most colorful women Emma had ever seen, in more ways than one. The nametag on her desk read Gracie DeZavala.
“Can I help you?” she said in a tone that implied Emma had about fifteen seconds to state her business.
“I hope so.” Emma gave her the kind of friendly smile that usually brought forth an answering response from her interrogator. It didn’t work this time. “I need to do some research on a house here in the King William District. I hoped you might have some information in your files that I could use.”
“We’ve got a lot of information in our files,” Gracie DeZavala said dryly. “Where’s the house?”
Emma gave her the address, trying to keep her hopeful smile in place but not entirely succeeding.
DeZavala leaned back in her chair, pushing her pencil into her topknot. “That’s the house Ray Ramos bought. Why do you want to know about it—is he selling it already?”
“I’m working with Ray. I told him I’d research the house.” It wasn’t a lie exactly, just a slight embroidery of the truth. Emma dialed down the smiles a bit.
DeZavala regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Okay sweetheart, before we go any further with this, who are you and who do you work for. Cause it sure as hell isn’t Ray Ramos. If he needed help with research, he’d go to his sister, Rosie. She’s a pro.”
Emma considered arguing, but there didn’t seem to be much future in it. Plus she had a feeling Gracie DeZavala could be more valuable as a source than anything she found in the historical society files, given her apparent knowledge of everybody in the district. “My name is Emma Shea and I work for DeVere Productions. We’re filming a show at Ray’s house, and he actually did agree to let me do some research about the place.”
DeZavala’s eyes stayed narrow, but she shrugged. “Okay, that particular house was Allard Hampton’s place until he died. Those good-for-nothing nieces and nephews of his let it go to seed while they fought over who was going to make the most money off it.”
“Could I find some information about Mr. Hampton here?”
She shrugged again. “I doubt it. Allard owned a box factory down on the west side. He retired about twenty years before he died. A more placid soul you’ll never find. So far as I know, the only things he was interested in were whooping cranes and golf.”
Emma had a feeling what Gracie didn’t know wouldn’t help her. “What about the people who ow
ned the house before he did? It must be close to a hundred years old.”
“Oh it’s all of that, but nobody famous lived there. Or infamous, so far as that goes.”
“And how would I find the names of the owners?”
“You’d go to the county offices and check the deeds, only most of that information’s online now.”
Thank the Lord for small favors. “Are the society’s records online too?”
Gracie gave her a slow smile. “Nope. A lot of it’s digitized, but you’ll have to use it here. We’re strictly private.”
Emma blew out a breath. “So I can get the names from the county records, then come back here and check your records to see if you have any information about the people.”
DeZavala nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”
Emma bit back a sigh and turned toward the door.
“Of course . . .” DeZavala’s voice came from behind her.
Emma turned back.
“Of course, you could always use one of our computers to access the county records and then check the files here to see if any of the owners show up. That would be a lot easier, I’d say.” DeZavala gave her a Cheshire cat smile.
Emma smiled through gritted teeth. “I’d say so too.”
“Computers are back there,” DeZavala said, nodding toward the rear of the building. “Go to it.”
Emma went.
Chapter 5
Ray’s plan was to work himself to exhaustion, which, given the state of the house, wasn’t likely to be too difficult. He picked the room that Gabrielle DeVere had labeled “impossible” and began removing damaged sheetrock from the walls. This involved a reciprocating saw, a pry bar, and so much dust that he hung plastic sheets over the doors to keep most of it inside the room.
By the time he was ready to quit, he resembled a golem. Plaster dust covered him from head to foot. When he removed his goggles and dust mask, his face looked like he was wearing clown makeup. He shook the dust off his feet, then walked out into the backyard where he stripped down to his shorts and rinsed himself and his clothes with the garden hose.
He figured any neighbors watching him could just live with it. The less limestone dust that went down his drain, the better.
Later he took a long rinse in the upstairs bathroom. The water pressure wasn’t great, but at least the shower worked. He figured he had enough energy left for dinner and an hour or so of TV, but after that he was going to crash.
And this time he was going to sleep long and quietly, with no interruptions.
He deliberately ate his ham sandwich in the kitchen with the TV blaring. He hadn’t been back in the dining room since the night before, and he had no intention of going in there this evening. Whatever had happened in that room was all over. He intended to ignore it from now on. Or at least until Gabrielle DeVere and her film crew showed up on his front step, whenever that might be.
He did his best not to think about Emma Shea either. He’d spent the day not mulling over the fact that they’d both been through something weird last night while Gabrielle DeVere had apparently been immune to the whole thing. And he’d also worked on not thinking about her expression when he’d walked out on her at the coffee house. And not remembering the way her curls fell across her forehead when she leaned forward to talk to him.
He’d just as soon not have any psychic experiences in common with her or anybody else, thank you very much. And her plans for “joining forces” were clearly ridiculous. Join forces to do what? He wouldn’t even know where to start.
Maybe you could begin by trying to figure that out.
Maybe he wouldn’t.
At nine he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, exhaustion dulling the faint stirrings of unease in his gut. He was tired. He’d sleep. There was nothing to worry about.
Except, of course, for the shadowy woman who appeared as soon as he managed to drop off. He could feel her hands on his body, her mouth leaving a searing line from his chest to his abdomen, her nails digging into the flesh of his back. He started to tell her to stop but moaned instead as her lips fastened on the head of his cock.
Bloodred mist swam in front of his eyes. He dug his fingers into the woman’s hair, feeling silken strands against his fingertips as he tried to pull her away. But she seemed to have fastened herself to his body like climbing ivy. Or like a wood tick. Her nails dug into his buttocks so deep they must be drawing blood.
His pulse accelerated, the sound of his breath whistling in his ears. His body thrummed with arousal and fear in equal amounts. No. Don’t. Stop. Whatever was happening to him wasn’t good, wasn’t right, but he couldn’t seem to end it.
He tried to see through the mist to the woman’s face but could only get a rough sense of golden hair bending over him, white hands grasping his thighs, the nails red with blood. His blood.
“Stop it,” he managed to groan, but she didn’t look up, didn’t pause. His body tightened, his muscles taut, the climax gathering at the base of his spine. Somewhere in the back of his mind something told him that having an orgasm with this woman would be a really bad idea.
“Stop it,” a voice said.
At first he thought it was his own, that he’d somehow managed to make himself speak again. Then he realized he hadn’t.
“Push her away,” the voice snapped. “Do it now.”
He shoved hard against the woman’s shoulders. Her grasp on his thighs loosened, although she kept her mouth on his cock.
“Get her off you. Give her a kick if you have to.”
The woman reared back, her face lost in mist. And then she was gone as quickly as she’d come.
Ray stood in the mist, drawing air into his lungs in great gulps. The nagging sense of confusion over why the dream had suddenly become so real was pushed to the back of his mind as he leaned forward to catch his breath, bracing his hands on his knees. His arousal disappeared abruptly.
“A narrow escape.”
The mist was no longer bloodred, but it was still thick. Wisps of grayish silver seemed to move in front of his face, half masking the figure a few feet away.
A woman, but not the woman who’d been sucking his dick only a moment ago. This figure stood straight and tall, both hands resting on a cane. Beyond that he couldn’t make her out—she was mostly a silhouette in the darkness.
“Who are you?” he blurted.
She didn’t answer, shaking her head as she looked at him.
He started to step toward her but found he couldn’t move, which should have been frightening but somehow wasn’t.
“Can you come closer so I can see you?” he asked.
She still said nothing, but the fact that she stayed where she was seemed to be an answer. Ray dropped his hands to his sides, waiting and wishing mightily that he was wearing some clothes. He’d never felt so vulnerable in a dream before.
After another moment, she inclined her head. “There’s danger,” she muttered.
“The woman?”
She nodded slowly.
“Who was she?”
She stared at him silently. He could see the shape of her head and body now. She was taller than he’d thought, and ramrod straight in spite of the cane she leaned upon. Her long dress covered her feet. Her hair seemed piled on the top of her head. Old fashioned. But how old he hadn’t a clue.
She seemed to be studying him, almost assessing him. He had no idea what he was supposed to say.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “Thank you for helping me drive her off.”
She inclined her head again. “Danger.”
He frowned. “In this house?”
She didn’t answer, maybe because the answer was obvious.
“Who was she?” he asked again.
“Listen to the sensitive,” she said, turning away from him.
“What? The sensi
tive? What’s that?”
“Listen to her.”
The mist thickened again, obscuring her figure as she seemed to move away. She didn’t walk exactly, just . . . moved.
He squinted after her. “Who is the sensitive?”
The mists billowed around where she’d stood only a moment ago, blanking the space between them. He tried to move again, then jerked against the force that seemed to be weighing on his feet.
And woke up. In his bed. In the master bedroom of the house that he’d been told was dangerous. He lay still for a moment, trying to catch his breath as he rubbed an arm across his forehead. He felt as if he’d been in a fender bender without a seatbelt.
After another moment, he pushed himself to his feet, heading to the bathroom for a glass of water. His back ached as if he’d been sleeping crookedly.
He turned, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. A line of red marks marched along the flesh of his back to his buttocks.
Fingernails.
Ray braced his hands on the sink, taking deep breaths to try to slow down his hammering heart. At least if he had to throw up, he was in the right place.
***
Emma drove up to the house on the dot of nine the next day, carrying two large coffees. She figured Ray was bound to be awake by then, but maybe he wouldn’t have had his coffee yet.
And maybe he’d be willing to talk to her now that they’d put a little space between themselves and the admittedly weird events that had taken place at the séance. She was hoping he’d feel differently today because she needed to talk about the work she’d done yesterday at the historical society. And to broach the whole “joining forces” thing again. They had to get going on that sooner or later—better together than alone.
She took a deep breath before she stepped from her car. She could do this. Ray Ramos was just a guy. She had no reason to feel this nervous.
Just a guy. Yeah right, Emma.
He was sitting on the front steps again as she headed up the walk. She wondered if he did that every morning. Not that it wasn’t a nice place to sit with your morning coffee. She turned and looked up at the pale blue sky, already shimmering with heat. The dark shade of the gallery made a nice contrast with the moist warmth of the day.
