Happy Medium: (Intermix)

by Meg Benjamin

  Ray shook his head. “I don’t know what that means. What’s a succubus exactly?”

  Skag sighed again. “Modern education is deplorable.”

  Ray waved an impatient hand. “I’ve heard of succubuses, I just don’t know anything about them.”

  “Succubi, which is the correct plural by the way, are spirits that derive their energy from sexual activity.” Skag grimaced as Helen rolled over on her back, waving her paws in his general direction. “As I told you, the Old Ones seek out humans in order to absorb their souls, their energy. In the case of succubi, they accomplish that absorption through sexual intercourse.”

  “You’re saying Amina Becker was a succubus?”

  He shook his head impatiently. “Not while she was alive, no. But somehow she might have invoked a succubus that possessed her, absorbing energy from her and from Grunewald since theirs was obviously a sexual relationship. It’s that spirit, that essence, that remains in the house.”

  “Did the succubus make Amina kill herself?”

  Skag shrugged. “Possibly. Succubi have a talent for locating weaknesses, particularly when those weaknesses are related to sex. If she found Amina had some kind of personal frailty, she might have exploited it until the girl succumbed.”

  Ray narrowed his eyes. “Personal frailty?”

  “Something she was sensitive about, a perceived flaw. Or perhaps Ms. Becker was simply unwise enough to fall in love with Grunewald and died of a broken heart. Stranger things have happened.”

  Ray’s jaw tightened. He really didn’t want to think about love just then. “Okay, say you’re right, say this is a succubus. What do we do about it? How can we stop it?”

  “You can stay out of its way,” Skag snapped. “The fact that we know the nature of this manifestation in no way changes the tactics for dealing with it. Find the object that anchors it to the house, destroy the object, and avoid any contact with the spirit until then. Surely that’s not too complex for you to comprehend.”

  “But if it’s a ghost that gets off on sex, couldn’t I just sort of refuse to . . . participate?” His ears heated up again.

  Skag gave him a withering glance. “First of all, a succubus does not require your consent in order to initiate contact. Second, if for some reason the sexual part of her approach was unsuccessful, she’d simply consume you in some other way. Demons like her have a variety of methods for absorbing human souls.”

  Ray rubbed his eyes. “Terrific. So basically if the damn thing touches me, I’m toast?”

  “Crudely put, but accurate. She can’t consume you from a mere touch or even a more robust grasp, but she’ll try to do more than that as soon as she can. If she manages to kiss you, or initiates any other kind of sexual contact, she’ll very soon be able to suck the life out of you. You were very fortunate that Siobhan was able to wake you when the succubus attempted fornication.”

  Ray shuddered, remembering the feel of the woman’s mouth in his dream, the marks of her nails on his back. He pushed himself to his feet abruptly. “So are we done here?”

  “Don’t be so touchy.” Skag waved a hand. “I apologize if I’ve wounded your delicate sensibilities. There’s one other thing to keep in mind.”

  “Which is?”

  “Succubi are also shape shifters, as are all of the Old Ones. They can assume anyone’s form. From now on you’ll need to be on your guard with any stranger that approaches you in that house, particularly at twilight.”

  Helen’s head came up swiftly. She regarded him with her burning orange gaze.

  Ray narrowed his eyes. “Twilight?”

  “The threshold time, the transition from light to darkness. During the day, the succubus will have less power. At night, she’ll be particularly strong. Dusk is the point at which the ghost takes form, thus twilight is the time to be most wary. And night is to be absolutely avoided.”

  Ray’s shoulders tightened. “Okay. I’ll do my best to make sure we’re out of there by late afternoon.”

  “Very wise. And it would also be wise to keep a charm with you whenever you’re there.”

  “A charm?” He frowned. “Such as what?”

  “Iron, silver, chalcedony, obsidian. Even salt will work, although carrying a salt cellar around with you might be a bit of a nuisance.” Skag gave him a dry smile.

  Ray sighed. “I’ve got lots of iron around, nails and fasteners. Should be easy enough.”

  Skag nodded. “Of course, you’ll need to give some to Miss Shea as well.”

  Ray’s jaw tightened. “I’ll make sure she’s covered.”

  “No doubt.” This time the smile was definitely dry.

  Ray chose to ignore it. “Anything else we need to know?”

  “Not at the moment. When I obtain more information, I’ll contact you in the usual way.”

  Ray managed not to sigh. “Did you talk to Great-grandma?”

  If it was possible for a ghost to go pale, Skag did it. “I haven’t spoken to Siobhan in some time. She doesn’t customarily communicate with others.”

  “Maybe you could contact her. She might have more information.”

  “One does not contact Siobhan. One waits to be contacted.” He might not be paler, but he’d definitely dimmed. “Take this hound, will you? She’s becoming a nuisance.”

  Ray shook his head. “She goes where she wants to go. If she wants to come back here, I guess she will.”

  “Damnation,” Skag snarled. “And since she’s a hellhound, that might well be literal in her case.”

  Ray shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Ray grinned as he watched Skag’s body fade, showing the fireplace behind him more distinctly. Helen seemed to be fading right along with him.

  He had no idea what might be an appropriate farewell. See you definitely didn’t seem to work.

  “Keep looking for the love token,” Skag intoned. “And you should smash that locket, just as a precaution.”

  “Right.”

  “When she calls, tell Rose we have work to do. She and Delwin need to stop gadding about. And tell her to call off her twice-damned dog.” The voice seemed to come from almost empty space now.

  “I’ll pass it along.”

  “Do that.”

  Ray stared at the now empty space in front of the fireplace. He really wished he could pretend the entire conversation had been a dream, but he knew it had been all too real. Plus his bare feet were getting cold.

  He glanced back up the stairs. On the other hand, there was nothing dreamlike about Emma, still lying his bed where he’d left her. And that was good news all around. He headed back up the stairs two at a time.

  ***

  Emma entered the King William Historical Society with a definite spring in her step. Waking up in Ray’s bed was the sort of thing that started the day off right, even if he did seem to be a restless sleeper. She thought about asking him why he’d gotten up in the middle of the night, but decided against it. Lord knows they both had enough reasons to develop insomnia.

  She settled reluctantly at one of the computers. She felt honor-bound to check the history on the other owners of the Hampton house, even though she was pretty certain Livingston Grunewald and Amina Becker were the couple who were responsible for the haunting. The other owners were probably the kind of people she’d expect to live in the King William District. The kind of people who’d be scandalized by Amina and her relationship with Livingston.

  But apparently not by Siobhan Riordan or her daughter. Emma frowned, staring at the computer. Siobhan and Caroline had both been mediums, famous enough to have made it into a book about San Antonio legends. And yet they hadn’t been shunned by their neighbors, at least not so far as she’d been able to determine.

  But, of course, they were the “right” kind of medium.

  She lean
ed back in her chair. Who would be the “wrong” kind of medium? Where would Amina have gone to find someone to help her? How had people found Siobhan and Caroline when they wanted a good medium, given that Google wasn’t available? Did mediums advertise? Where would they do that?

  She turned back to the computer again. Currently she had the San Antonio Light for 1946 up on the screen. She scrolled to the classified advertising. There was, of course, no category for supernatural help. She glanced through the various headings for goods and services, not finding much of anything. Finally she reached the personals section.

  Most of them were blandly routine—some very careful requests for companionship, small advertisements for hair-restorers and energy tonics, cryptic messages that probably made sense to somebody at the time but didn’t make any sense to Emma now. Toward the bottom of the column, she saw an ad for Madame Constantine, Personal Consultant.

  Personal Consultant could mean anything. She checked further down the column and came to another ad. “Senora Suerte, Sees All, Knows All.”

  That was more like it. She kept going. Madame Noire, Miss Desiree, La Feliz. In all, there were eight classified ads for women who looked like fortune-tellers. Emma rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. Even the air-conditioned sections of the historical society seemed humid.

  Emma checked Miss Desiree’s ad again. “Readings, Advice, Charms.”

  Charms. She leaned back in her chair, frowning. What if the keepsake came from the “wrong medium” rather than being a present from Livingston? Maybe it wasn’t a token of love for one lover to give another. Maybe it was a charm to make sure love lasted.

  What kind of charm would a medium have given to Amina to keep Livingston around? She paused, considering. A four-leaf clover would be long gone by now and she really couldn’t see Amina toting a horseshoe around town. What kind of charm went with love? Or obsession?

  She stared at the screen again, willing inspiration to come and feeling fairly certain it wasn’t going to. Somewhere on one of the lower floors a buzzer sounded. Emma checked her watch.

  Good Lord, how had it gotten to be four forty-five so quickly? She glanced at her cell phone a little guiltily—she’d turned it off when she’d walked in. It was a rule in the historical society, but she had a feeling Gabrielle wouldn’t see it that way if she’d tried to call and gotten a voicemail.

  Emma pulled her printouts together, tucking them into her tote bag. At least she might have something to tell Ray this evening, although it wasn’t enough to really count for much. Gracie was gathering her own belongings together when she got to the front desk.

  “Find what you needed, sweet cakes?” she asked without really looking up.

  “Yes, I did.” Emma started toward the door, then turned back. “I don’t suppose you know anything about fortune-tellers who practiced in town during the twenties?”

  Gracie shrugged. “We’ve always had fortune-tellers around here. The twenties wouldn’t have been any different.”

  “Anybody in King William?”

  She shook her head. “They’d be downtown. Or over on the west side. King William wouldn’t have put up with it.”

  Only with the right kind of medium. Emma sighed.

  Gracie pulled the pencil out of her topknot. “Why do you need to know about old-time fortune-tellers?”

  “I need to know what they might have given a woman who was looking for a love charm.”

  Gracie’s lips curved up. “Ray Ramos not treating you right, sweet cakes?”

  Emma felt the blush from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “I’m looking for what someone might have gotten in the twenties.”

  Gracie’s eyes narrowed as she thought. “Maybe something like a rabbit’s foot or a clover?”

  “I thought of that. But I’m looking for something that might still be around—something you might find in a historic house.”

  “Jewelry, then. Or something like a watch fob.”

  Jewelry. Like a gold locket. Emma nodded. “Maybe.”

  “But if your fortune-teller’s got any kind of black magic roots, it might be more like gris-gris.”

  “Gris-gris?” Emma frowned.

  “Comes from voodoo—New Orleans style. It’s a little bag with magic stuff inside.”

  “Magic stuff like what?”

  Gracie shrugged. “Depends on the person, from what I hear. Sometimes it’s a doll that’s supposed to represent whoever you want to charm. Sometimes it’s just things that belong to somebody—a piece of cloth or a lock of hair or a pebble from somebody’s garden.”

  “And they go in this bag?”

  Gracie shrugged again. “Bag or leather pouch. That’s something a fortune-teller might pass on. Something sort of magical. Impress the customer.”

  “I can see that.” Emma nodded. “That sounds right.”

  “Glad to oblige. Now run on home to Ramos. I got to lock up.”

  Emma stepped outside in the setting sun, digging for her car keys. Gris-gris might not be any more likely to be the keepsake than the locket they already had. The locket that didn’t give her any kind of feeling when she touched it. Still, at least the gris-gris idea gave her something new to look for.

  She flipped her phone on and saw six calls from the same number. Gabrielle. She grimaced. Whatever she and Ray were going to do, they’d better do it soon. She was willing to bet Gabrielle would make good on her threat and be headed down to San Antonio by the end of the week.

  Chapter 18

  “Gris-gris?” Ray narrowed his eyes.

  “Maybe. I mean, Gracie was the one who brought it up.” Emma shrugged, wishing now she hadn’t mentioned it. The whole gris-gris thing sounded a little weird when she tried to describe it in the warm light of Rosie’s kitchen. “Have you heard of it before?”

  “Gris-gris? Sure. Most people in South Texas have headed over to New Orleans once or twice, including me. But I’m not so sure about a voodoo practitioner setting up business here in town, even in the twenties. We’re more into curanderismo in South Texas.” He smiled a little tentatively. “The fortune-teller angle sounds more likely, though.”

  Emma shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be a real gris-gris, but it could be something like that. Something of Livingston’s that Amina took to the fortune-teller, maybe to get a spell put on it.”

  He nodded. “I can see that, but I’m not sure how it helps us. If it’s a piece of cloth or a button, we may never find it.”

  “Yeah, the locket still seems like a better bet. But if we go in the fortune-teller direction, maybe we shouldn’t toss anything out without taking a good long look.”

  He gave her a flat smile. “You mean aside from those eight boxes of magazines and newspapers I already put out for recycling pickup?”

  She grimaced. “No. Well, not exactly. I mean, I can’t see her taking a newspaper to the fortune-teller. And besides, those were all from later than 1927.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. This has been a long day.”

  “Did you finish the rooms you were working on?”

  He nodded. “Most of them. Everything except for the room I was sleeping in. I’ve still got to take down the wallboard in there. I’ll try and get a crew in here to start redoing the walls once the filming is over.”

  “About that . . .”

  Ray turned toward her, narrowing his eyes. “What?”

  “Gabrielle wants me to find another table we can rent for the séance in the dining room. She’s decided she doesn’t like the one I found before. I’ve got an appointment with an antique dealer tomorrow to see if he’s got anything I can rent. Then I need to get the tables switched out before she shows up next weekend.”

  “What kind of table are we talking about here?”

  “Oh you know . . .” She drew an invisible circle with her fingers. “Big, round, sp
ooky.”

  “Spooky?” His lips quirked up.

  “You know—heavy, carved. Sort of medieval looking.”

  “Oh yeah, nothing says ghost like the middle ages.” His grin broadened.

  Emma narrowed her eyes. “Are you making fun of me here? Or are you trying to get me to lighten up?”

  “Maybe a little of both.” He reached across the table, catching her hand in his. “Is it working?”

  “Maybe.” She turned her hand over so that her palm rested against his. “Maybe I should give this a rest for a while.”

  “Which ‘this’ are we talking about?” His grin stayed wide, but his eyes seemed to go watchful.

  “You know, ghosts and hauntings and séances and Gabrielle. Maybe just give it a rest.”

  “Sounds good to me.” The warmth in his gaze turned sultry. “I’m better at action anyway.”

  She felt a blush coming on. Geez, get a grip. “I know,” she muttered.

  The blush was suddenly even hotter.

  Ray threw his head back and laughed. “Emma, love, you’ll never be able to cover up anything you’re thinking about. That gorgeous complexion will give you away every time.”

  She blinked as her pulse suddenly sped up to pounding. Gorgeous. Emma, love. Which probably didn’t mean anything. Probably just a turn of phrase. Or something.

  Don’t see anything that isn’t there. Don’t plan on anything that won’t happen. Remember who you are.

  He wasn’t grinning anymore, but she wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe . . . “Want something to eat?” She managed to murmur past the huge lump in her throat.

  He watched her for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Sure. Eating’s good.”

  She watched him smile again, her pulse thudding so loudly she wondered if he could hear it. She reached toward him almost without thinking, brushing a bit of plaster from his hair.