Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(54)

Then Mommy had returned. Debbie had been none too happy to find us there, even though in addition to pizza, we’d brought her favorite wine—the good kind, from a vineyard in the area that sold their bottles to expensive restaurants in New York City for three times what they cost locally. Debbie had drunk a whole bottle on her own and was working on a second one.

“I just don’t get it,” I said to Jesse as he poured me some of the very good wine from an extra bottle we’d hidden in the car. “Brad used to tease me that he knew I had a boy in my room, back in high school, because he said he heard us talking. But I think he only overheard my end of the conversation. He never actually saw you. And Debbie never did, either. So how can their children be mediators?”

“Neither of your parents saw spirits. Obviously it can skip a generation. Maybe even two or more.” Jesse poured a splash of pinot noir into his own glass. “And we don’t know that the girls are full-fledged mediators, necessarily. Children tend to be more sensitive in general to paranormal phenomena than adults. They’re more imaginative, and more open-minded.”

“Sensitive? Did you see those girls fighting over that horse, Jesse? They each grabbed a leg and pulled. If I hadn’t stopped them, they’d have ripped it apart, then killed each other. I wouldn’t exactly call the Ackerman girls sensitive.”

“Well . . . a better description might be high-spirited, like their aunt.”

“I’m not even related to them by blood, remember? None of that is from me.”

I shivered in the cool night air. The fire from Brad’s pit wasn’t doing much to cut the chill, though the pungent smell of the smoke was pleasant, as was the crackling sound of the wood as it burned.

“What I don’t get is how this could have happened right under our noses, without us ever noticing. I had no clue. Did you?”

“The girls had that private language,” he reminded me. “They spoke it among themselves until last year.”

I straightened. “That’s right! How could I forget? You even wrote that paper on it—cryptophasia. Debbie was so worried the mission was going to put them into special education.”

“But it’s not unusual for multiples. There’ve been many incidents of siblings—mainly twins, but occasionally triplets and quads—developing their own language. And, like your nieces, they usually grow out of it by the time they get to school.”

“That’s why it took so long for us to catch on.” I relaxed a little. “And all of us thinking it was so cute probably only encouraged them to use it more, and be more secretive. Well, all of us except Debbie. She didn’t think it was cute. And she was right! Jesse, they must have been talking to each other about the ghosts they were seeing. Could we have been bigger idiots?”

“I think you’re being a little hard on yourself,” Jesse said mildly.

“Do you really think Lucia plays with them, like they said, or is she only setting them up to push them down the stairs, too, when they least suspect it?”

“You’re the one who keeps insisting she’s an innocent child in pain.”

“She is,” I said hastily. “I’m sure.”

“You’d better hope so. Otherwise, if she murders Brad and Debbie in their sleep tonight, we’ll end up with custody of your nieces, since we’re their appointed legal guardians.”

“Why do you think we’re here? Brad and Debbie don’t have life insurance. We can’t let them croak. We’ll have to put off having our own kids in order to be able to afford to raise theirs.”

He glanced around the balding, toy-strewn lawn and muttered something rapidly in Spanish. I didn’t understand what he said, but I understood the tone.

“Oh, my God, Jesse, I was kidding! Would you stop worrying so much about money? I told you, I have plenty. And we can get on the having children of our own thing tonight, if you want.” I laid a hand upon his knee. “I’m pretty sure their guest room door has a lock on it.”

The look he gave me was crushing. “Really, Susannah? That’s where you’d like for us to make love for the first time, in your brother Brad’s guest room, where he keeps his wrestling trophies?”

“Stepbrother. God.” I removed my hand. “Way to ruin the moment. When are you going to—”

Max leapt suddenly to his feet. But this time it wasn’t because either of us had dropped food, or even spilled our wine. Max had sensed something he didn’t like in the darkest corner of the yard, over by the girls’ pink and white fairy playhouse, big enough only for three very small girls (and one sheepish step-aunt) to squeeze into.

“What—?” I began, but Jesse shushed me.

All the fur on Max’s back had risen, and he began to growl, deep in his throat. For an elderly dog of such a mild, friendly temperament, Max had reverted with startling abruptness to his lupine ancestry. His lips were curled to reveal yellowed fangs I was certain I’d never seen before.

Now Jesse placed a hand on my knee, but unfortunately it was only to keep me in my seat, since my instinctive reaction had been to rise and head toward the fairy playhouse sitting so benignly in the blackness.

“Stay where you are,” Jesse whispered, his own gaze never leaving the innocuous plastic structure. He’d risen and begun following Max, who’d sunk down to his haunches and was creeping toward the dark corner of the yard like a wolf stalking prey.