Medium Rare: (Intermix) Read online

  Also by Meg Benjamin

  Medium Well

  INTERMIX BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA)

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  MEDIUM RARE

  An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  InterMix eBook edition / August 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by Meg Benjamin.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA),

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-62257-5

  INTERMIX

  InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group

  and New American Library, divisions of Penguin Group (USA),

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA)

  Contents

  Also by Meg Benjamin

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  A couple of years ago . . .

  Rose Ramos studied the large limestone behemoth that had just entered her life and wondered if she was as far up shit creek as she feared. When the lawyer had informed her about Granny Riordan’s bequest, she’d been too thunderstruck to really consider what she might be getting into. She didn’t even know Granny Riordan—so far as Rose knew, they’d never met, although it was always possible that Granny had seen her when she was an infant and thus unable to defend herself.

  Granny was rumored to have a somewhat acid point of view.

  Actually, the house should have gone to Rose’s mother, and Rose had been surprised when it hadn’t. But as it turned out, Ma hadn’t been surprised at all.

  “We only saw each other a few times after I married your father,” Ma explained. “I didn’t expect her to leave me anything. I just wish she’d let me know she was feeling sick. I wish someone had told me.”

  Her mother’s expression, that combination of exasperation and grief, had done a lot to reduce Rose’s enthusiasm over moving into her inheritance. Not that it had eliminated it entirely, just dampened it a bit.

  Now she stood in the driveway, shifting a box full of kitchenware in her arms as she studied her mansion. Standard white limestone, three stories, bright blue wooden gingerbread trim dripping from the porch roof and the eaves. Typical King William Victoriana, with a front porch that curved around half of the first floor, and a gallery that extended across the front of the second.

  Two large live oaks shaded the house in the rather small front yard. A white gravel drive curved around one side, leading to a much larger backyard that stretched down to the gated iron fence that surrounded the property. Beyond the gate was a hike and bike path beside the San Antonio River. If she squinted, Rose could see people moving along it at a leisurely pace, enjoying the early summer evening.

  She sighed again. The house was ridiculously large for a single woman. The property taxes would undoubtedly ruin her, given her salary as a reference librarian at the downtown San Antonio library. She probably should have followed her brother Danny’s advice and sold it. Maybe she’d still do that one of these days.

  Or maybe not. Another little spurt of excitement pushed her forward toward the front door.

  Her mother pulled one last box out of the back of her CRV. “Is this everything, sweetheart? Do we need to make another trip?”

  Rose shook her head. “That’s all I need for now. I’ll clear the rest of the stuff out of the apartment next week sometime.”

  Ma nodded absently, then headed up the drive toward the front steps, pausing to study the shadows creeping across the porch. “Are you sure you want to stay here tonight? You’ve got nothing set up yet. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow so your father or Danny can get your bedroom cleared out at least? We can order a pizza for dinner.”

  “That’s okay. Dad got the bed set up this afternoon, and I don’t need the dresser yet. Most of my clothes are still in boxes.” Rose balanced the box more solidly in her arms and climbed the steps, holding the door open so that her mother could slip in.

  Her mother paused for a moment in the doorway, her smile becoming a bit narrower. “You really could stay with us tonight. It’s no trouble. Absolutely no trouble at all.”

  Ma’s smile stayed in place, but her eyes were sharp. Rose wasn’t sure what was up, but she knew it was something.

  “I’m fine, Ma. Really. I just want to sleep here tonight. I mean, it’s my place now.” She gave her mother a bright smile that suddenly seemed wildly inappropriate, given her mother’s increasingly bleak expression.

  After a moment, she nodded. “Yes my darling, it’s yours now. But if you ever decide you don’t want to live in this miserable pile of limestone, don’t hesitate to come back home until you can get it sold.”

  Rose blinked. “I don’t think I’ll feel that way, Ma.”

  “No, of course you don’t.” Her mother sighed, placing her box on the floor of the living room. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I don’t mean to bring you down. It’s just . . . I wasn’t very happy when I lived here myself. Maybe it’s making me worry about you more than usual.”

  Given that her mother was a world-class worrier, anything more than usual would be way over-the-top. “I’m sorry, Ma, I keep forgetting you grew up here. It just doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

  She took a quick survey of the living room, the first room off the entry hall. Thick velvet curtains blocked off most of the sunlight. Heavy lace sheers cut off a significant portion of what was left. The large, blocky furniture loomed in the dimness, sort of like primordial beasts rising from a swamp.

  Rose shivered. That was a really unnecessary metaphor. And not at all fair to the house or her grandmothe
r.

  Her mother gave her another thin smile. “It wasn’t my kind of place. That’s why I left to be with your father. But maybe you can change it into your kind of place. Now that . . . Mama is gone.” Her gaze traveled slowly around the living room, almost as if she expected Rose’s grandmother to step out from behind one of the velvet curtains.

  Rose shivered again. This was turning into a remarkably morbid conversation. “Come on out to the kitchen, Ma. I’ve got some champagne. We can toast my new house.” Rose tried her best reassuring smile.

  Her mother shrugged. “All right, sweetie. If I can’t convince you to leave with me, I can at least have a glass of champagne with you.”

  Rose led the way through the dining room and down the hallway to the kitchen that ran along the back of the house. “Sort of inconvenient having to carry your food up the hall. Did you and Grandma Caroline eat in the kitchen?”

  Her mother shrugged. “Sometimes. When your great-grandmother built the house, there were servants who did the cooking and brought the food to the dining room. Having the kitchen in back helped keep the house cool.”

  “Oh.” Rose pushed open a swinging door, flipping on the light switch. “Did Grandma have servants, too?”

  “Not exactly.” Her mother stood in the doorway, staring out the wide back windows. The sky had begun to darken over the river. “We did our own cooking.”

  Rose ducked into the deep pantry at the side of the room, retrieving her bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. Her mother had the right to be moody, returning to a house she’d left over thirty years ago. The place probably held lots of uncomfortable memories. Still, Rose wished, a little guiltily, that Ma could be just a little more cheerful about her daughter’s new adventure.

  When she came back, her mother was lifting a pair of crystal champagne flutes from an upper shelf. “These look old. They may go all the way back to Great-grandma Siobhan.” She carried the flutes to the sink to rinse them.

  “Look, Ma”—Rose fumbled with the cork for a moment—“if there’s anything around here you remember, anything you want to take home with you . . .”

  Her mother shook her head quickly, setting the glasses back on the table. “There’s nothing here for me, sweetheart. Nothing I want to remember. Now where’s that champagne?”

  Rose lifted the bottle over the two flutes, pouring each one half-full. She picked up a glass, handing the other to her mother. “To my new house.”

  She lifted the glass to her lips. After a moment, her mother did the same.

  She raised her gaze to Rose again. “I hope you’re happy here, sweetheart. I’ve got a toast of my own.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then lifted her head to stare at the darkness of the hall door. “The mantle of Brighid about us, the memory of Brighid within us, the protection of Brighid keeping us. From harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness. This day and night, from dawn till dark, from dark till dawn.”

  Rose stared at her for a long moment, then took a quick swallow. “Geez, Ma. That was fairly creepy.”

  Her mother shook her head, sipping her champagne again. “Sorry, sweetheart. Like I said, this place stirs old memories, and not all good ones.”

  “Is it? . . .” Rose licked her lips. “I know you and Grandma didn’t get along. Is it a problem for you to be here?”

  Her mother shrugged. “It was never a happy place, but maybe it will be now. I hope so, anyway. Just . . . call me if you need me. Promise me you’ll do that.”

  “Sure, Ma. You know I will.”

  Her mother touched her cheek gently. “I love you, Rosie. Take care of yourself.”

  “Love you, too, Ma.” But all of a sudden she found herself wishing her mother would head on home. The longer she stayed, the less certain Rose was that she’d made the right decision.

  ***

  She ate her supper standing up. The bentwood chairs at the kitchen table looked like they’d collapse under anyone weighing more than an average-size toy poodle. Rose resolved to start rearranging tomorrow when she got home from work. Her own furniture was piled in the dining room, waiting for her decision on how much of her grandmother’s stuff she wanted to keep. At the moment, it didn’t seem like she’d be keeping much.

  She glanced up at the glass-doored kitchen shelves. The dishes and crystal all looked antique. Not exactly to her taste, but she’d probably hold onto it. No matter what her mother said, they might be family heirlooms. Sooner or later, someone might want them—maybe her brothers. Her brother Ray had moved to Boerne to open his carpentry and renovation business. Her brother Danny lived in a fixer-upper in the Monte Vista neighborhood. Up until now, they’d been more settled than she was.

  She gathered up her plate and glass, carrying them to the sink. Outside the darkened kitchen window, she could see the streetlights glowing beside the river’s edge. Some people still strolled the trail, along with the occasional biker, festooned in reflective tape. She considered taking a walk herself to check out the river path. She was a homeowner—in King William. With river access. The corners of her mouth edged up in a secret smile. Okay, Rosie, let’s admit it—life is good.

  Somewhere within the house she heard a creak, like a tentative footstep somewhere above her, and ice water dripped down her spine. She took a deep breath and told herself to cool it. Just settling. Old houses make noises.

  Still. She walked back up the hall, then through the dining and living rooms, clicking on lamps here and there. The lamps didn’t seem to make much difference in the living room, of course—it still looked like a fortune-teller’s den. Those velvet drapes were going to be the first thing she took down.

  She double-checked the very solid lock on the front door, then thought again about a walk. Just a quick one—down the river to the Johnson Street footbridge. But her shoulders gave a quick twinge to remind her how many boxes she’d hefted today, even though she’d had help from both Danny and Ray, along with Ma and Dad. All of a sudden, a glass of wine and a good book had a lot of appeal. Drunk in her own bedroom in her own house in the King William District. The secret smile slipped back into place.

  Oh yes, life is definitely good!

  ***

  Rose fell asleep before she’d finished her wine. She had just enough consciousness left to turn out the bedside lamp and put her bookmark in place before she curled up for the night. Her dreams were filled with a strange woman named Brighid in a red velvet cloak who kept wandering around the house in her bare feet, sprinkling some kind of liquid on the drapes.

  “What’s that?” Rose asked.

  “Holy water.” Brighid sprinkled more water on the carpet.

  “Will it work?”

  Brighid turned dark eyes toward her. “I doubt it.”

  Ahem!

  Rose glanced around the dream room. Brighid seemed to have disappeared.

  Ahem!

  Someone was clearing his throat. Rose surveyed the room once again, and discovered she was no longer in the living room. In fact, she seemed to be back in her bedroom. In fact . . .

  “Ahem!”

  She was wide awake, sitting in the middle of her bed in the middle of her bedroom, where logically no one should be clearing his throat. Rose grabbed the sheet convulsively, pulling it up to her chin.

  “Who’s there?” she called and then felt like kicking herself. Nothing like letting the potential burglar-rapist–serial killer know you were awake and aware that he was there.

  “Good evening.” The voice was faintly accented, slightly British, definitely masculine and . . . vaguely familiar.

  Rose peered into the darkness at the corners of the room. A lot of darkness, actually. More darkness than she’d been aware of before. In fact, it was the darkest freakin’ bedroom she’d ever been in.

  Not what she’d call a plus at the moment.

  Her hand scrabbled around the night table, t
rying to find her cell phone. She flipped it open, squinting at the keys in the darkness.

  “Please don’t bother,” the invisible man said. “You don’t need the police. Besides, you’ll find you can’t get service in here right now.”

  Rose stared down at the glowing screen. No bars. How the hell could she have no bars? She’d just made a call this afternoon from the living room.

  “Sorry,” the man said mildly. “It’s me. You won’t be able to get service while I’m in the room with you.”

  She took a deep breath, lowering the phone to the spread. Calm, stay calm. “Where are you? Step out where I can see you. And do it slowly—I’m armed.” She picked up her book, a hardback fortunately. Assuming she could hit him, he’d probably have a lump.

  “Throwing things at me won’t have any effect. Except to increase your own sense of satisfaction, of course.”

  She gritted her teeth. She really hated being the straight man in this exchange. “Show yourself anyway.”

  “I already have. You’re just not looking in the right place.”

  Rose licked her lips. Okay. You’re okay. “Give me a hint.”

  “Look up.”

  She raised her gaze slowly to the ceiling of the room. At the far end, something glowed a dim yellow-green, like some kind of night-light. She squinted. The yellow light became a blob, then seemed to elongate, becoming vertical, stretching from the ceiling halfway to the floor, perhaps five feet or so. Slowly, the light began to change, becoming bluish white, then gray, then resolving, very slowly into the outline of a figure.

  Rose’s hands closed tightly on the coverlet. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as her pulse hammered.

  The figure became more clear. A man. Shortish. Stocky. Wearing a blue jumpsuit with a white undershirt showing at the V-neck. Hair slicked back, high forehead, deep-set eyes . . . Holy shit! A deeply satisfying wave of exasperation washed over her.

  “Hannibal Lecter?” she snapped. “Really? Are you kidding me? Hannibal Lecter? What kind of sick joke is this? Get the fuck out of my bedroom!” Amazing how the combination of terror and annoyance made her sound like she was in control.