Medium Rare: (Intermix)

by Meg Benjamin

  Evan’s practical side wanted to tell her to forget the whole thing and just send him an invoice. But his other side, his Delwin side—all Celtic music and wild laughter—was caught by the faint spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the arching honey-colored brows over those lush eyelashes. To say nothing of those gorgeous thighs. “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he found himself replying.

  As he turned and headed back down the front steps, he heard her voice behind him, low and sultry. “Evan?”

  He turned. Maybe things were looking up.

  She leaned in the doorway, one bare leg stretched in front of the black mountain of dog beside her. “I may be a little late tomorrow.”

  Ah well. Too much to hope that she’d invite him in for a little get-to-know-you-better nightcap. “Right. Whenever.” Frowning, he headed for his car.

  ***

  The hound, Helen, pressed her cold nose against Rose’s bare thigh and whimpered. Rose knew just how she felt. Evan Delwin had looked faintly disheveled and incredibly hot. And all she could do was send him away.

  She glanced down at the huge canine presence at her side. “She looks hungry. What do hellhounds eat?”

  “Their victims, usually.” Skag paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, or rather, since his feet never made real contact with the ground, he floated.

  “I guess I’ll try giving her whatever real dogs eat, in massive amounts.” Rose started for the kitchen.

  “Rose, this is important. We need to talk.”

  “We can talk while I feed the dog. I have a feeling it wouldn’t be a good idea to let her get peckish.” She opened the refrigerator and checked the meat drawer—a plastic container full of rotisserie chicken and a package of salami. More stuff in the freezer, of course, but she didn’t want to hurt Helen’s teeth.

  Hurt Helen’s teeth? Rose shook her head, glancing at the hellhound’s jagged incisors. Maybe she was suffering from post-traumatic stress. She opened the container of chicken, then put it on the counter while she looked for a bowl.

  Helen put her front paws on the counter and swallowed the entire container in a single gulp.

  “Helen, no!” Rose cried. “Not the plastic box, too.”

  Helen eyed the refrigerator hopefully.

  Rose pulled a metal pie tin out of the cupboard and dumped in the salami. “Don’t do that again. Just the meat, not the pan. And this is it for the evening.”

  Skag hovered for a moment above the kitchen table, then moved into a chair at the end. “Get yourself something alcoholic to drink. You look like you need it desperately.”

  She found a wineglass and poured herself a generous measure of Syrah, shaking her head at Helen when the dog glanced hopefully at the bottle.

  Skag materialized his own martini shaker and glass, then poured himself a sizeable portion of smoky liquid.

  “Now,” he intoned, “tell me what happened. All of it. From the beginning.”

  Rose took a deep breath. Better to get it over with. “I went to the Nightmare to ask Augie about that customer he mentioned.”

  Skag narrowed his eyes over the rim of his martini glass. “Alone? Dressed like that?”

  “What are you, my mother?” She took a swallow of wine. “Alone. Dressed like this. Has it occurred to you that my social life these days is virtually nil? I was trying to liven it up a little.”

  He fished an olive out of his martini glass and popped it into his mouth. “Well, dressing like that at the Nightmare will certainly garner you attention, although, as you discovered, it may not be the type of attention you were planning upon.”

  “No kidding. I’m pretty sure the dogs picked up my scent somewhere around the Nightmare. I heard them over there as I was starting the car.”

  “You heard them? Close-by?”

  “Close enough. I think I saw them behind me as I drove away, but I didn’t know what they were at the time.”

  She glanced over at Helen, who was happily chewing her way through the metal pie tin. Rose sighed and turned back.

  Skag munched on his olive pensively. “What happened inside the club?”

  “Not much. I wasn’t there more than a half hour or so. Augie couldn’t talk to me.”

  Skag’s eyebrows rose. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

  “Wouldn’t, I guess. He sort of escorted me back to the bar and left me there.”

  “And how long did you stay after that?”

  “Not long. I danced a little, fended off a couple of passes from the other customers and drank a glass of wine. Then I went back to my car and drove home.”

  “And saw the hellhounds before you left?” He poured more vaporous liquid into his martini glass.

  “And saw something—maybe the hellhounds.” She moved her shoulders, trying not to shiver. “Something was behind the car for a few seconds as I drove away.”

  “Hellhounds, probably. They must have followed you back here.”

  “Followed me back?” She set her glass on the table. “I took the freeway most of the way. You’re saying they could go seventy and dodge traffic?”

  “My dear Rose, once they had your scent, they could have followed you in the space shuttle. These are not dogs. These are hellhounds. Their only purpose is to hunt and kill.” He drained his glass, his eyes grim.

  Helen, having finished her salami and pie tin, flopped down beneath the table, resting her chin on Rose’s foot.

  “What about her?” She nodded toward her feet. “Why do I now have my own pet hellhound, who doesn’t seem particularly interested in killing me?”

  He sighed. “Truthfully, I don’t know. I’ve never seen this happen before. And I have no idea who could send a pack of them after you in the first place. I don’t know why any supernatural figure would be annoyed with you.”

  “You mean aside from the fact that I’m investigating William Bradford and Alana DuBois.”

  If it was possible for Skag to pale, he did so. Then he shook his head. “No. This is a more drastic solution than that problem warrants.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I expected her to make a meal of you back in the entrance hall.”

  Rose rubbed a hand across her neck, trying to ease the ache beginning at the base of her skull. “Nice to know.”

  “The fact that she didn’t must mean something. Perhaps this house has some type of warding spell I wasn’t aware of. Or perhaps this particular hound was tired of being a hellhound.” He narrowed his eyes suddenly. “Were you wearing that pendant at the club?”

  She looked down at her chest, closing a stray button at her midriff. “Grandma Caroline’s chalcedony? Yeah. I put it on to go to the Nightmare.”

  He nodded slowly. “That could do it. Chalcedony’s natural protective properties, plus Caroline’s particular power, plus being inside the threshold of the front door could create a shield of some sort when you crashed into the house. Perhaps enough to change the dog’s mind.”

  Rose raised an eyebrow. “Grandma Caroline’s ‘particular power’?”

  “Your grandmother was a very powerful woman, as was your great-grandmother. All the Riordans are powerful.”

  “Including me?”

  Skag looked down at his martini again. “Perhaps. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  She reached down absently and scratched Helen’s ears. “Assuming someone sent those hellhounds after me, I’d like to know why. Do you have any ideas?”

  He stared down into his martini, his lips a thin line. “No more than a theory or two. But you’re right, it may well be connected to Alana DuBois and whatever happened to her. And it may be connected to Bradford. Perhaps Delwin can help you find out.”

  “Delwin?” Her headache spiked. “He saw the hellhound, Skag.”

  “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “I noticed that.”

  “No one els
e did. When I was running up the river path, none of the people knew what was happening. They all thought I was crazy.”

  “Perhaps the dog took on material form only when she entered the house.”

  “Or maybe Delwin actually saw her, even though she’s supernatural.” Rose rubbed her neck again. Definitely time for Tylenol. “What would that mean?”

  Skag chewed on a second olive. “It means I need to find out a great deal more about Mr. Delwin.”

  Just then Rose’s cell phone began to bleep from her purse. She pulled it out, flipped it open, and checked the number. Oh, terrific. Just terrific.

  “Hi, Ma.” She managed to make herself sound moderately cheerful. “What’s up?”

  “Are you all right, Rose?” Her mother’s voice was strained.

  “Me?” She glanced down at Helen, snoozing on her right foot. Well, all things considered . . . “I’m fine, Ma. Why?”

  She heard her mother exhale quickly. “Nothing, I guess. I just . . . all of a sudden . . . I wanted to call, that’s all. But you’re all right, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. Well, I’ll talk to you later.”

  Rose stared down at her cell phone. Curiouser and curiouser.

  ***

  Evan couldn’t sleep. It was the crowning injustice of his day—and night. For two days, he’d thought Rose Ramos was a drab secretary with no social life. Judging from her appearance earlier in the evening, her social life was probably more active than his. The whole situation was annoying as hell.

  Screw her.

  Of course, that was pretty much what he wanted to do, and that was probably the major reason he couldn’t sleep. Rose Ramos was a real pain in the ass, no matter how you looked at it.

  He pulled a longneck out of the refrigerator and sat down at his computer. At least he had Google, although it wouldn’t be as entertaining as sharing a beer with a gorgeous woman in a short skirt.

  He typed in “Rose Ramos” and waited for something, anything, to come up. Quite a bit did. There seemed to be a lot of Rose Ramoses, some of them doing things he was pretty sure his Rose Ramos wouldn’t do.

  Evan frowned. His Rose Ramos? Definitely time to get a grip.

  He added “San Antonio” to “Rose Ramos” and tried again. This time he got an outdated page from the San Antonio Public Library listing Rose as part of the reference staff. It looked like she’d been there two years ago, at least. He wondered again what she’d done to earn money for a house in King William—freelance researcher didn’t strike him as a high-paying gig.

  On an impulse, he typed in “freelance researcher San Antonio,” and got a surprising number of hits. He scrolled the list—media researchers, library researchers, marketing specialists. Midway down there was a listing for something called “Locators, Ltd.”

  The phone number looked familiar. He checked Rose’s résumé and confirmed it was hers.

  He clicked on the link. The Web site was so dignified it made him feel unworthy to look at it. Apparently, Locators, Ltd. specialized in finding the unfindable—missing papers and artifacts, unfiled family records, missing wills, information about ancestors. No staff was listed, and the contact information consisted of Rose’s phone number and an e-mail address. Nothing on the page besides the phone number indicated that Rose was involved at all. But she was.

  He clicked through the Web site again, trying to decide why he was feeling an uncomfortable prickling along the back of his neck. She’d said she was a researcher, and Locators, Ltd. looked like it did research. So she was just what she said she was.

  Except he didn’t believe it. If she was a simple researcher, why hadn’t she listed her biography on the Web site? Wouldn’t she want people to know her credentials? And she didn’t seem like the type to want to keep her name off the Web. What other reason could she have?

  He drained the beer and chucked the bottle into the recycling bin. Now she’d given him a headache. Was there no end to the havoc she could wreak on his peace of mind?

  He switched off the desk lamp and headed for bed, after taking a couple of aspirin. At least he was finally tired enough to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  The first dream came almost as soon as he closed his eyes. He was in the dungeon again. Gray stone walls dripped mold. The distant ceiling was invisible through the gloom.

  He steeled himself. Sooner or later, he’d wake up, but he’d probably have to fight off a few monsters before he did.

  Footsteps echoed in the passage outside the cell door. He tensed. Light streamed across the threshold, and he stared at the silhouette. Not the wolf. Not the bat swarm. Not the . . . he shuddered. No, not that, either.

  In fact, the silhouette in the doorway looked a lot like a man. Evan squinted. He’d never encountered another human being in his dungeon dreams. In fact, he’d always assumed that he was the only one down there.

  The man smoothed a hand across his lightly oiled hair, glancing around him without a great deal of interest. He looked vaguely familiar. Evan took a quick inventory—tuxedo, black tie, white shirt, wing-tip shoes. All in all, he looked like the best-dressed man of 1952.

  “Mr. Delwin?” The fifties refugee raised an eyebrow. He had a pronounced English drawl that made him sound even more familiar, although Evan still couldn’t place him.

  “Do I know you?” He kept his back against the wall. Any minute now, the man might turn into a Komodo dragon or something, given that this was his nightmare dungeon.

  “Not exactly.” The man stepped through the door, pulling a ladder-back chair behind him. Impressive—particularly since the door remained closed as he did it.

  The man sat down. “We’ve never met. But I’ve been aware of your work.”

  Evan stared at him blankly. “My work?”

  “Your books,” the man explained. “Your work with psychic fraud. I must say, I’m somewhat surprised that you turned to that particular profession when you come from such a distinguished line of magicians. Magic not good enough for you?”

  Evan felt slightly dizzy. Even for one of his nightmares, this was moving into weird territory. “Magic was my father’s thing, not mine.”

  “Yes, he was magnificent at it, too.” The man pulled a cigarette holder with a lit cigarette out of his breast pocket, taking a long drag. “Dell the Great. Why didn’t he use his real name?” He blew a stream of smoke into the darkness.

  Evan grimaced. “The Great Delwin always sounded like somebody who did kiddie parties.”

  “Which he most definitely was not.” The man fastened his cool gray gaze on Evan again. “His death was a tragic loss.”

  That was true enough. Particularly a loss for Evan. He leaned back against the wall, trying to get a good look at the man’s face. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “You may call me Addison.” Addison smiled at him, flipping a bit of ash on the floor.

  “Terrific, Addison. Why exactly are you here? And when do you turn into something horrible?”

  An explosion of fluttering wings brought Evan’s head up. He could hear the flock of bats descending from the darkness above him, gibbering, beating the air into turbulence with their leathery wings. Instinctively, he raised his hands over his head to fend them off.

  “Reach to your left.” Addison sounded slightly bored.

  Evan’s hand fumbled to his left and closed upon a wooden rod, which turned out to be a broomstick with broom attached. He swung it over his head in a series of wide circles, hearing the satisfying thunk of the broom connecting with writhing bat bodies. The bats disappeared in a flurry of outraged squeaks.

  “In answer to your earlier questions, I shall remain myself throughout our conversation, and I’m here so that we can become better acquainted.” Addison’s chair had transformed itself into padded leather. He leaned back, gesturing to hi
s side where another leather recliner had mysteriously appeared.

  Evan approached the chairs somewhat warily, but Addison didn’t seem to be on the verge of transforming into anything else. He sank into the leather easy chair, hearing the slight hiss of escaping air beneath him.

  “Either I’m getting a lot better at dreaming or something really strange is going on,” he murmured.

  “The latter, of course. This is the only time and place in which I can converse with you—when you’re in a trance state. I’ve cleared a slight space in your dreamscape, but I don’t imagine I can keep it clear for long, given your active subconscious.”

  Evan wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment, but he was betting on not. “All right, what do you want to know, exactly?”

  “Two things.” Addison extended one finger. “First, some basic information about your family, and second,” he extended a second finger, “a progress report on your latest project.”

  “Latest project?” Evan frowned. “You mean William Bradford? Or Alana DuBois?”

  “We’ll get to that.” Addison blew a quick cloud of smoke. “Tell me about your people. Where do they come from?”

  “What’s left of my ‘people’ live in Illinois. Right outside Galesburg.”

  Addison grimaced, waving his cigarette holder dismissively. “Not your current relatives, such as they are. Your people. Your ancestors. From whom are you descended?”

  “Welsh on my father’s side, German on my mother’s.”

  “With whom did you live after your father’s death?” Addison raised an eyebrow. “I understand your mother died earlier.”

  “With my mother’s parents. Not that it’s any of your business, whoever you are.”

  Addison gave him a chilly smile. “My business encompasses a great many things, Delwin. Currently, you’re one of them. Now, about Alana DuBois.”

  “What about her?” Evan settled his shoulders deeper into the leather padding. “Small-time con artist from Dallas. Came to San Antonio. Felt the need to move on and took off. Not much mystery there.”