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Waking The Serpent
Jane Kindred
The Millionaire's Redemption...When Sedona's most eligible bachelor is accused of murdering a local psychic, medium Phoebe Carlisle finds herself drawn into the danger that surrounds him--by the meddling of the shades she channels and by his irresistible charms. A public defender and a gifted medium, Phoebe is devoted to justice—and not just for the living. Proving Rafe Diamante’s innocence means conjuring up two shades who were former lovers and now ignite the chemistry between their hosts.Rafe can't afford to lose control and act on his feelings for Phoebe. His unfulfilled sexual tension begins to stir something inside him--the legacy of Quetzalcoatl. But as these newfound abilities awaken a dormant power in Rafe, can he stop the real murderer in time to claim his true destiny?


The millionaire’s redemption...
When Sedona’s most eligible bachelor is accused of murdering a local psychic, medium Phoebe Carlisle finds herself drawn into the danger that surrounds him—by the meddling of the shades she channels and by his irresistible charms. A public defender and a gifted medium, Phoebe is devoted to justice—and not just for the living. Proving Rafe Diamante’s innocence means conjuring up two shades who were former lovers and now ignite the chemistry between their hosts.
Rafe can’t afford to lose control and act on his feelings for Phoebe. His unfulfilled sexual tension begins to stir something inside him—the legacy of Quetzalcoatl. But as these newfound abilities awaken a dormant power in Rafe, can he stop the real murderer in time to claim his true destiny?
The black ink spiraled over his left pectoral like a segment of conch shell sliced down the center.
Phoebe was having trouble focusing on the tattoo itself. The flesh beneath it was kind of spectacular. She tried not to drool. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s an ehecacozcatl. A wind jewel that belongs to the god. It’s sort of a family coat of arms.”
“Your family’s ancestry is Aztec?”
“Maybe. Probably not, but who knows? The Diamantes like to say so.” Rafe flashed another of those smiles that were beginning to do funny things to Phoebe’s stomach. Because stomach was the organ involved. Sure.
Rafe started to settle onto the floor in front of the coffee table.
“You’re keeping the pants on?” Phoebe had to resist rolling her eyes at herself. The words had just jumped out. “I mean—you said the fabric gets in the way.”
He answered as if she weren’t a complete loon. “I figured going fully skyclad would be a little presumptuous.”
About the Author (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
JANE KINDRED is the author of the Demons of Elysium series of M/M erotic fantasy romance, the Looking Glass Gods dark fantasy tetralogy and the gothic paranormal romance The Lost Coast. Jane spent her formative years ruining her eyes reading romance novels in the Tucson sun and watching Star Trek marathons in the dark. She now writes to the sound of San Francisco foghorns while two cats slowly but surely edge her off the side of the bed.
Waking the Serpent
Jane Kindred


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Cover (#u1bf21932-360a-5767-909c-3f1f0a17aa57)
Back Cover Text (#u7db66660-15b4-5a78-8251-a12d358cd952)
Introduction (#ufe7db1f0-eac4-5838-9bc1-c3656aaf3138)
About the Author (#udcbb2a65-dfc3-5c32-af1b-6ca908ef52a9)
Title Page (#u453d1de5-3e1f-547f-a545-e75818776b88)
Chapter 1 (#ue9d81804-459c-59f2-837a-a65165b16621)
Chapter 2 (#uba6dff78-d812-5c41-8ba9-e96f10fe59a1)
Chapter 3 (#ue435e6e8-1e00-5f6d-a789-2cfce4805d58)
Chapter 4 (#u9c834bd3-bc55-50a1-b26d-f08a40924481)
Chapter 5 (#ubdf6b03a-ac59-5244-9add-6e8c1e74c176)
Chapter 6 (#u42a2bb82-87d0-590f-b7ce-d7b233c0b74f)
Chapter 7 (#u58ac8689-3f00-5d2b-a7d2-9fd2bdf75741)
Chapter 8 (#u65ea7aee-52d2-5dd9-949b-3b9e0924dc92)
Chapter 9 (#ub001d38c-8167-558b-960d-2ae5641e664d)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
Hello vertigo and free-floating anxiety, my old friends. Phoebe let the familiar nausea-inducing miasma wash over her as the lights in her Sedona ranch house flickered and went out. The latter might be reasonably explained by the summer storm rolling over the desert, downed power lines, the fact that the old house had bad wiring, maybe—if it were anyone but Phoebe. But she’d driven around the bend of reasonable and onto the unimproved county road of completely certifiable a long time ago.
The dead and Phoebe had an uneasy truce. She’d given up trying to ignore them, because looking like the crazy lady who occasionally talked to herself was infinitely preferable to public outbursts worthy of an exorcist. She agreed to help them find justice, or closure, or peace—as long as they backed off when she told them to.
The electrical activity of a rainstorm actually brought them out. Or gave them energy to manifest, anyway. They’d been mumbling about her all day, the spectral aura of a migraine telling her somebody wanted in.
The shade trying to step in right now was new at it, making the room swim around Phoebe in gut-churning waves.
Phoebe stood over the couch with a death grip on the back of it, teeth clenched to keep from losing her lunch on the faux leather upholstery, trying to focus on the room through the dark bob of her ponytail swinging in front of her eyes. “For the love of Mike. Just step in already. The damn door’s open.”
As if in contradiction to her statement, the kitchen door slammed behind her, yanked by the air being sucked through the house in the wind tunnel created between the front entrance and the screen door opening onto the back porch. There was nothing better than the smell of petrichor stirred up by an oncoming storm. Phoebe had left the doors open to let it clean out the house and freshen things up. Given her housekeeping habits—and Puddleglum’s litter box habits—any little bit helped.
The storm-dark sky visible through the windows in front of her lit up for an instant with a horizontal bolt of lightning, and the answering crack of thunder came swiftly.
“I think he set me up.” The uncertain murmur had come from her own lips. The shade was in.
“It’s okay.” Phoebe spoke aloud, though it wasn’t necessary. Someone else talking through her was bad enough without answering in her head. She had some mental dignity left. “You can talk to me. You’re safe here.”
“Here?” The answering voice seemed youngish but Phoebe couldn’t get a handle on the gender. “Where’s here? I don’t know where I am.”
From experience, Phoebe knew it was better to prevaricate a bit. Especially with the newly dead. “You’re at the hospital. Do you remember what happened to you?”
Her heart began to hammer—the shade’s fear—as the answer came. “I was supposed to meet someone. But I... Something went wrong. Oh, God. Why is he here?”
Phoebe had to center the shade in the present before panic took over and it got stuck on a loop at the moment of its death. “Why don’t we start at the beginning, hon? Can you tell me your name?”
“I...I can’t... I think... I’m not sure.”
“That’s okay. Don’t worry about that right now. Do you remember who you were meeting? Where were you supposed to meet?”
“I got a message, and I... He isn’t supposed to be here. Oh, my God. He set me up.”
Before Phoebe could bring the shade back to center, her throat began to tighten as though a pair of strong, gloved hands had closed around it. Fantastic. A violent murder and the shade was going to relive it inside her. There was no use fighting. She had to let the shade go through it—let it make Phoebe go through it—before it would release her.
Her lungs, however, were harder to convince. They fought like hell. Adrenaline shot through her bloodstream, a last-ditch, futile attempt at fight-or-flight, as Phoebe stumbled backward, hands convulsing at her throat. Before she could lose consciousness from the air being squeezed out of her, however, the back of her head hit the hardwood floor, beating it to the punch.
* * *
Rain spattered the entryway through the screen door as the storm broke at last. Phoebe lay and listened to it for a moment without moving. She hadn’t felt the shade go. But, like being blackout drunk, it had left her with a serious hangover. The ungrateful little wretch.
Howling at her like a Klaxon from the coffee table, her cell phone announced there wouldn’t be time to indulge her headache.
Phoebe crawled around the couch and jabbed the speaker button to let it know who was boss. “This had better be good.” Her voice sounded like she’d been gargling kitty litter.
“Ms. Carlisle? Phoebe Carlisle?”
Phoebe cringed at the booming, deep baritone. “Yeah, you got her. Who’s this?”
“I was given your name for representation.”
Her stomach gave a little lurch of protest at his volume and Phoebe pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m a public defender. If you need an attorney and you can’t afford legal assistance—”
“Jesus. I don’t need a fucking Miranda recitation.” Wow. Charming. “I need a lawyer. Now. I’ll pay your standard hourly rate.”
Despite his rudeness, Phoebe’s ears perked up at the sound of money. Being an assistant public defender wasn’t exactly a high-paying gig. But she wasn’t about to let this jerk get the upper hand. She needed to be the one in control of any potential client relationship. She’d refused clients before when she knew their anger issues—or their woman issues—were going to prevent that. Which didn’t help the pay situation any, but it was where she drew the line.
“How about you stop swearing at me and tell me what kind of lawyer you—”
“I don’t have time for sweet talk. I’m at the Yavapai County Jail. Rafael Diamante.”
The line went dead while Phoebe’s mouth worked, poised on a pointless rebuke of her potential client. Rafael Diamante. Why was that name familiar? She’d seen it somewhere in her newsfeed this morning.
Phoebe pulled up the browser on her tablet and thumbed through her feed until she found the post from the Sedona Red Rock News.
Local Businessman Brought in for
Questioning in Mystic Murder.
Barbara Fisher, a self-described psychic medium who offered palm and tarot readings from her residence on Cedar Road, was found strangled in her home early this morning. An anonymous Sedona PD source confirmed entrepreneur Rafael “Rafe” Diamante was discovered at the scene—apparently intoxicated.
Unless two people had been strangled in Sedona this morning, the victim had to be Phoebe’s step-in. And Rafe Diamante—Phoebe had seen his name on signs all over town: Diamante Construction and Excavation. He owned half of Yavapai County. Why he would want Phoebe to represent him, she couldn’t fathom. Was this some kind of joke? Common sense and her conscience told her to stay far away from this one. Representing the accused killer of someone whose shade she had just hosted had to be a pretty big conflict of interest. But neither common sense nor her conscience was in the driver’s seat of her Jeep as she headed to the county lockup in Camp Verde.
Chapter 2 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
Rafe Diamante wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Waiting for him in an interrogation room, Phoebe had been picturing a man in his sixties with a beer belly and a receding hairline. Apparently she was thinking of his father. This Rafe Diamante was perhaps thirty, tall, hard and lean—a fact accentuated by the white T-shirt hugging his abs—his skin a deep coppery brown, as though he worked the construction sites himself. Far from a receding hairline, he had a rich, dark head of hair with a wavy curl to it, tied back in a short ponytail, while penetrating brown eyes glowered at Phoebe from under some serious eyebrows. Damn. He could excavate at her place any time.
When he spoke, the illusion of hotness was shattered. “You’re Phoebe Carlisle? Un-fucking-believable.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a goddamn Girl Scout.”
Dropping the hand she’d extended when he was escorted in, Phoebe sat across from him, taking her tablet out of her bag and flipping the cover open before making a point of tugging her bouncy ponytail tighter behind her head. “I made Cadette, actually. But the uniform doesn’t really fit anymore and I got stuck on the goddamn deportment badge.”
Diamante wasn’t amused. “Do you even have a law degree?”
“Mr. Diamante, I’m an assistant public defender. You don’t get that position without having a law degree and having passed the bar. But I’m quite certain you’re aware of that. You’re the one who called me, if you remember.”
He folded his arms—such an impressive display of his biceps she almost expected him to beat his chest—and deepened his glower. “You were recommended to me.”
“So you said. I have to confess, Mr. Diamante, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t already have a lawyer who represents your family and your business—someone who I’m sure has the requisite gray hair to satisfy your age requirement. And a penis.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and his glower warmed as if he would have smiled if he wasn’t concentrating so hard on being on the offensive—a tiny sign he might not be a complete douche. “I can’t use my family’s lawyer. It’s complicated. But I can certainly afford exceptional legal counsel. Your recommendation, however, involved a specific unique skill.”
It was Phoebe’s turn to stifle a mouth twitch. “What skill would that be?”
“I was told you’re...” Diamante paused and the tips of his ears turned an adorable pink. “A step-in.”
Her amusement at his boyish blush dissipated instantly. Phoebe flipped the cover back onto her tablet as she rose. She remembered now why his name seemed familiar. It wasn’t just the construction signs. The outline of his pendant was visible under the shirt—she’d been thinking it was some kind of saint medallion. It was a pentacle. He belonged to her sister’s coven.
“A step-in, Mr. Diamante, as you well know, is an unanchored shade. Not the vehicle. That’s an offensive term for someone who does what I do, and I won’t sit here and put up with your bigoted insults just because you’ve gotten yourself into some kind of metaphysical bind and can’t use Daddy’s money to get you out of it.”
Phoebe turned on her heel and headed for the door, anger at Ione making the blood pound in her ears. Ione had never had any respect for her younger sister, imagining herself morally superior because she had the backing of a group of twelve equally uptight jerks behind her. And now she had the gall to tell this rich-boy witch Phoebe could defend him because he’d murdered a psychic?
“Wait. Ms. Carlisle.” Diamante rose and came around the table, grasping for her arm before she could open the door.
Phoebe moved out of his reach with a smooth sidestep and turned the handle, facing him as she did a quick twist to go through the door. “I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding another lawyer with your charming personality.” The multilayered insult was probably lost on him.
“Not one who can talk to the people I’m trying to help.”
Phoebe paused. “What people?”
“The shades.”
He was full of crap. “Exactly how would someone of your affiliation be helping shades? I think you’re confusing ‘help’ with ‘persecute.’”
“I don’t share the majority opinion of the Covent.”
The name always annoyed her. They couldn’t just use “coven” like normal people. They had to be snooty about it.
Diamante was unconsciously rubbing the pentacle through his shirt—an unfortunately sexy quirk. “If you’d come back in and close the door, I’ll be more candid. And I apologize. I didn’t realize that was an offensive term.” He looked annoyed, as though he’d never needed to apologize before. Which strained credulity.
Phoebe stepped back inside and shut the door, leaning against it with her briefcase in front of her as if to ward off any underhanded spell-casting. “All right. I’m listening.”
“To the rest of the Covent, I’m a warlock. An ‘oath-breaker.’ I was working with Barbara Fisher to communicate with shades. It goes against the Covent’s creed.”
“No kidding.” Despite her skepticism, Phoebe couldn’t help but be intrigued. She hadn’t pegged Diamante for a spiritual maverick. “If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t really look like the type to buck the system.” If anything, he looked like the type who owned the system.
Diamante slipped his hands into his pockets. “My little brother died a few years ago. Broke into one of my father’s construction sites to party after his senior prom and fell to his death trying to impress some girl. His shade visited me.” He’d been glancing down as he spoke, but he looked up and met Phoebe’s eyes. “I insisted on crossing him over. He didn’t want to go. He seemed confused, not understanding he’d died, but I stuck to the strict doctrine and cast the crossing spell. I exorcised my own brother from the mortal plane. And he was sobbing and begging for mercy when he went.”
“Jesus.” It was an ironic exclamation in such a pagan context, but it was automatic from her years in the church. Not that she’d set foot in one recently.
“You have to understand, the fear behind the doctrine is real—shades are vulnerable to being manipulated by unscrupulous practitioners—”
“Like me, you mean.”
Diamante sighed. “I didn’t say it. But some people do take advantage of step-ins...” He paused, the pink returning to his ears. “Is it okay to call them that? The shades, I mean.”
“Of course. If they’re stepping in, that’s what they are. It’s using the term to describe the person hosting the step-in that’s offensive. The implication being the host has no soul of her own.” Phoebe studied him as she relaxed her stance. Rafe Diamante was a marvelous bundle of contradictions. She’d never met anyone so thoroughly belligerent and sure of himself yet so quick to express self-conscious awareness of his own ill-mannered behavior. The pink-tipped ears were downright hot.
Diamante shrugged and took his seat once more. “Some people take advantage of them, and often for unsavory purposes. The Covent doctrine that it’s unnatural for them to remain here is based on centuries of experience. Crossing them over is meant to be an act of kindness. But in practice, it seems to me it’s an act of self-righteousness. After Gabriel, I knew it was wrong. Since then, I’ve argued against crossing a shade against its will. And I’ve been branded an oath-breaker.”
Phoebe dropped back into her chair and set the tablet on the table, ready to take notes. “So you’re out of the Covent, then.”
Diamante’s mouth opened but before he could answer, the door swung open, admitting a pair of well-dressed witches and a flustered desk officer.
The officer glared at Phoebe. “She said she was his legal counsel.”
“Mr. Diamante already has legal counsel. We’ll handle this, Phoebe. Thanks for coming by.” Ione held the door open for her.
Phoebe rose, bristling. “He called me.”
“This is a serious matter that requires an experienced legal team. We’ve got it covered.” Her sister flipped her expensively straightened and ombréd hair over her shoulder as she took the seat opposite Diamante, all maternal concern. “Why didn’t you call us, Rafe?”
The officer took Phoebe’s arm. “Ms. Carlisle.”
Phoebe cast one last glance at Diamante, who skirted her gaze. “Yeah, I’m going.”
Chapter 3 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
Well, that had gone swimmingly. Rafe rubbed his hands over his face with a quiet groan. He’d actually called her a goddamn Girl Scout. And if she was a Girl Scout, he was having really inappropriate thoughts.
The golden-haired, overgrown frat boy who’d arrived with Ione Carlisle held out his hand when Rafe glanced up, an overly confident smile showing professionally whitened teeth. Rafe had seen him at the temple earlier that week when the Conclave had convened.
“Carter Hanson Hamilton.”
Rafe shook the offered hand and tried not to roll his eyes. The name sounded like it should be a law firm all by itself.
“The Covent has me on retainer, Mr. Diamante. Don’t worry—we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Rafe glanced at the high priestess—impeccably dressed and professional, she couldn’t have been more different from her sister. “I appreciate your coming down here, but I had things under control.”
Hamilton answered for her. “I’m sure the younger Ms. Carlisle is a fine public defender, but you’re not exactly the public, Mr. Diamante. You can’t afford to make any mistakes here. The Covent takes care of its own.” Hamilton was still standing, which irked him unreasonably.
Rafe got to his feet to meet him at eye level and leaned back against the wall with his arms folded—as if he hadn’t just been found with a dead woman and brought in on suspicion of murder. “I wasn’t aware I was still one of the Covent’s own. Did I not just get slapped with a scarlet W?”
Ione spoke before Hamilton could cut her off again. “Rafe, the Covent has to take matters of doctrinal dissent seriously. We can’t all follow our own brand of the craft. That’s for Eclectics. As a respected member of the Sedona Coventry, you’re held to a higher standard. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to throw you to the wolves when you’re in trouble. Even if ignoring the wishes of the Covent is what put you there.”
“Ione’s right.” Hamilton sat, leaving Rafe the only one standing. “This situation is a direct result of your oath-breaking, and I’m sure it’s brought home to you just why the proscription against allowing shades to continue to occupy the physical plane is in place. But the Covent intends to stand by you. We’re all unified on that front.”
Rafe scowled. “Unified. Like you were when my apprentice spoke in support of my position at the Conclave.”
Ione maintained a stern expression but the color in her high cheekbones wasn’t all cosmetic. “You had a responsibility to Matthew—to groom him and guide him, not fill his head with false doctrine.”
“He made one misstep and you dismissed him from his apprenticeship.”
The stern look faltered. “It was a misstep in front of the entire Conclave, Rafe. If I hadn’t responded swiftly and firmly, the entire Sedona Coventry would have been in jeopardy.”
“Well, now he’s missing. You know that, right?” Rafe glanced at Hamilton, but his expression was neutral. “He disappeared right after you all presented your unified front against him. So I guess the Conclave won’t have to worry about my bad influence on him anymore.”
“It’s an unfortunate situation, but ‘missing’ is a strong word. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. And I’d think that would be the least of your worries right now.” Carter gave him a patronizing smile. “Luckily, I’m on your team.”
Rafe stifled a snort. Yay. Lucky him.
* * *
Rain battered the car as Phoebe drove through Oak Creek Village, letting the rhythmic thump and whine of the windshield wipers pound out a sort of mantra to exorcise her anger at Ione. Her big sister had been upstaging her all her life. And what had she done to deserve Ione’s scorn? Treated the dead like people and listened to them when they talked. Phoebe might be green, but she was a damned good lawyer, and Ione had no business swooping in to pat her on the back and usher her out like a precocious child.
Ione had imagined herself an adult—and the only adult—from the day Phoebe was born. Only four years Phoebe’s senior, she seemed to think she’d raised Phoebe and their younger sisters, Theia and Rhea. Their mother would have begged to differ—if she’d been around to finish raising them, anyway.
The white open-work Gothic spires of Covent Temple rose out of the misty backdrop of a huddle of low clouds against the improbably red hoodoos scattered around Bell Rock and Courthouse Butte. The less dramatic geological formations among which the temple nestled couldn’t be found on any tourist map. To the casual eye, the temple was effectively invisible, hidden by a glamour. But once seen, it teased with half-glimpsed visions, a mirage ever-approaching but never reached.
It tended to be more visible the more it was brought to mind, and Ione’s slights had definitely brought the Covent and the temple to mind. Phoebe turned onto the brick-cobbled road almost without thinking, drawn by its presence. She’d never been inside. That was for the privileged few. But Diamante’s status as an oath-breaker had piqued her curiosity. From what little she knew of Covent doctrine, branding a member of the Covent as a warlock required a convention of the Conclave. Which meant the regional Covent officials had either come here in person or convened magically. Either way, such a meeting ought to have stirred up the shades, but Phoebe had heard nothing of it.
The brick drive wound through the rocks, giving glimpses of the towers, but the rain was coming down hard now and Covent Temple didn’t seem to want to be found. But just as she circled back to return to the highway, it rose out of the wall of rain ahead of her like Brigadoon on its hundredth anniversary.
Phoebe hit the brakes hard and the car whipped back and forth on the road, but the cobbled texture of the brick surface broke the swerve before she went into a tailspin. There it was, much smaller than it seemed from the highway, but gorgeously out of place with its shockingly white Gothic design. It was like coming upon the brilliant San Xavier Mission—the White Dove of the Desert—in the southern part of the state. She supposed its appearance had a similar purpose, if more arcane, visible in stark relief against its rugged surroundings for those who were meant to see it. The only difference was that the Covent didn’t proselytize.
But something other than just the temple’s aura had drawn her here. She sensed the ethereal tug of a shade but without the usual step-in immediacy. It had the same feel as the shade she’d encountered earlier, but this time it kept its distance, and its confusion and fear had receded. If it was Barbara Fisher, she’d accepted her fate surprisingly quickly. But why would Barbara bring Phoebe here? And why not step in and try to communicate?
A strong atmosphere of shade activity shrouded the temple as she drew closer, different from the shade that had prodded her here, prickling in the air with a soft electric vibration Phoebe couldn’t fully tune in to. She’d never experienced anything like it. Shades often congregated around sacred spaces, but they tended to hone in on Phoebe when she was anywhere near them, like bees to their queen, and none of them here was trying to step in. There was something off about the feel of them, as though they were hovering between one plane and the next.
For a moment she felt a little flutter, a voice trying to manifest in her head, a held breath. She caught a name—Matthew—before something jolted her as if the shade had been yanked away as it tried to make contact. In the wake of the missed connection, her head throbbed with pressure as if she’d made a sudden change of altitude. Everything felt wrong. Whatever was going on at the temple didn’t bode well, and it had Covent interference written all over it.
* * *
By the time she reached the semiprivate drive to her house, the uneasiness had faded and Ione’s unbelievable stunt was playing musical chairs in Phoebe’s head once more, with Phoebe metaphorically dumped on her ass. Leaving the wipers at half-mast, Phoebe switched off the engine and pounded her fists on the steering wheel with a loud, cathartic expletive. Thank goodness for the county zoning that kept her closest neighbors just beyond screaming distance.
Okay, Ione was out of her system. Done. She wasn’t wasting another minute on her sister’s crap.
In its place, however, the image of Gabriel Diamante—begging his brother for mercy as he was forced to leave behind everything he’d known—slid to the fore. She couldn’t get it out of her head. Something about it triggered her, too close to the feeling of helplessness she’d experienced in the early days of hosting step-ins.
In the beginning, when she hadn’t been careful about setting boundaries, she’d been paralyzed by the emotions of shades. If their deaths had been sudden and unexpected, they were often awash in anguish over what they’d lost and drowning in fear of the unknown. To force them to move on before they were ready was like holding their heads under water—killing them all over again. It was a prime example of the Covent’s arrogance, and why Phoebe was willing to let the shades in. Someone had to speak for them. But letting them in had also meant opening herself up to an intimacy that wasn’t entirely consensual.
She shivered, trying to dispel the feeling of violation, and swept her bag off the seat as she hopped out of the Wrangler. The leather briefcase seemed light. Son of a—Phoebe opened it, knowing full well what the missing weight was. She’d been so flustered, she’d left her tablet at the county jail. It had an encrypted password, at least, but what were the odds she’d ever see that thing again? It had all of her recent case notes, along with personal files—photos and videos she hadn’t uploaded to the cloud for backup yet. A quick call to the jail confirmed the worst. The tablet was long gone.
It was definitely time for a drink.
Inside, Phoebe opened a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and poured herself an oversized glass, ready to curl up on the papasan chair and do nothing but sip wine and listen to the rain as the sky brooded with storm-induced dusk. Her head still pounded from the incident with the step-in; she might as well earn the hangover. Besides, tomorrow was Sunday and she could sleep in.
Halfway to the living room, her phone vibrated in her pocket. Maybe someone had found the tablet, after all.
“This is Phoebe Carlisle.” She assumed every call was professional. Wherever she happened to be at any given moment functioned as her “office” much of the time.
“Phoebe, it’s Di.” Ione’s given name was actually Dione. She’d dropped the D when she was younger, but the nickname had stuck.
Phoebe’s thumb hovered over End Call.
“Don’t hang up, Phoebes, I need to explain.”
“Don’t call me Phoebes like we’re BFFs. We’re not children anymore. And we’re most certainly not friends.”
Ione sighed into the phone. “I don’t blame you for being angry, but that wasn’t my call. Diamante Senior hired his own counsel for Rafe and he wanted it to go through the Covent so Rafe wouldn’t refuse. And you have to recognize you would have been in over your head, anyway. The evidence is pretty damning, and there are a lot of people in the valley who’d love to see a wealthy business owner like Rafe take a fall. It’s going to be a media circus.”
“And you don’t think I can handle a serious case. I get it. Thanks for calling.”
“Phoebe. Do not hang up this phone.”
“Oh, my God. You really think I’m twelve.” Phoebe decided to act like it and clicked the button.
Predictably, the phone rang again. She put it in do-not-disturb mode and took her wine to the papasan chair, kicking off her heels and sinking into the soft cushion. The voice mail notification popped up a moment later. With a sigh, Phoebe played the message.
“Listen, Phoebe. This is about Rafe. I gave him your card when he started messing around with this step-in business. We may not see eye to eye, but I know you believe in what you do, and I think you can help him. Just...don’t get too tangled up with him. He can be very charming.”
Phoebe laughed out loud as the message ended. Right. Mr. Charm. It was exactly the nickname she would have given him. She couldn’t decide what offended her more, Ione’s dismissal of her as a serious attorney or assuming Phoebe was so gullible—or so desperate—she’d fall for any good-looking guy who said two words to her. Though, to be fair, Diamante was slightly more than just good-looking.
She was half considering calling Ione back to tell her off when the doorbell rang followed by a rap on the frame of the screen door. She took another big swallow of wine before opening the door and choked on the mouthful, coughing gracelessly as she stared at her unexpected visitor. Speak of the devil.
Chapter 4 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
Rafe Diamante, looking like Heathcliff out on the moors, narrowed his eyes with concern, reaching for the handle of the screen door. “Are you all right?”
“Am I all right?” Phoebe continued coughing up a lung. “Weren’t you just in jail on a murder charge? How do you even know where I live?”
He held up her business card. “I promise I’m not stalking you, Ms. Carlisle. Your sister gave it to me.”
Right. Ione. The jerk. The rain was coming down in sheets and Diamante was soaked to the skin.
“Sorry to show up unannounced. I called first, but your phone kept going straight to voice mail.”
Phoebe unlocked the screen door and held it open. “Better come in before you drown.”
Mr. Charm stepped in, wiping his boots on the welcome mat to avoid tracking red desert mud inside. “Before you go calling the cops to report a fugitive, they can’t officially charge me with murder until the coroner’s report comes back. My lawyer challenged the police on holding me without cause.”
“Right. That serious lawyer.” Phoebe took another sip, trying not to stare at Diamante’s pecs through the white tee plastered to them. Beneath the shirt, some kind of dark, patterned tattoo swirled over his heart beside the pentacle. She mimicked the motion of the art with her wine. “Can I get you a glass?” She took his shrug for ascent and headed to the kitchen.
When he remained standing, Phoebe waved the bottle at the rustic wood-frame couch in the living room. “Have a seat.”
He cast a doubtful glance at the couch. “It’s leather. I’m soaking wet.”
Phoebe snorted as she came around the bar with his glass. “It’s pleather. Don’t worry about it. I can’t afford anything real on my salary.” She took the matching chair kitty-corner to the couch while Diamante sat on the edge of a cushion. “My sister said you needed my help with the step-ins. Why did you call me from county? Why not call your family? You can’t really have wanted my representation.”
“I wanted to deal with this myself. Without my father or the Covent using their influence to sweep things under the rug.”
“What would there be to sweep under the rug?” Phoebe’s eyebrows drew together. “You didn’t actually kill Barbara Fisher?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I’m...fuzzy on what actually happened. I remember driving to her house for the appointment last night, and I have a vague idea we argued. I can’t remember what about. She gave me a cup of tea and I guess it must have been drugged. The next thing I can recall clearly is waking up feeling sluggish, like I’d been in a trance—with Barbara dead on the floor beside me and the cops breaking down the door.”
“A trance. So you think maybe one of the shades...?”
“Stepped in and took over? I don’t know. It’s possible.” His expression was pained. “I find it difficult to believe I could do something so completely against my nature under the influence of a step-in, but it’s what the Covent has always argued. And someone had been controlling the shades—using them to control their hosts. So it could have been me they used this time.”
“Do the police have any evidence? Besides circumstantial, I mean. Were there any prints on the body? Your hair?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can find out for you. I mean, your lawyer can.”
“There were leather gloves lying on the floor next to her.” Diamante’s expression was grim. “They fit.”
A shiver rippled along her spine. Gloves. Like the ones she’d felt closing around her throat when the shade possessed her.
She shrugged off the unpleasant memory with a flippant comment before she could stop herself. “So they won’t acquit.” Phoebe stared wide-eyed into her glass at her stupidity as she finished her wine. “Sorry. Sometimes I have an infantile urge to say whatever pops into my head.” She set the glass on the coffee table and tried to act more like a normal person. “I’m still not quite sure how you expect me to help you, Mr. Diamante.”
“Please—call me Rafe.”
Phoebe returned his smile despite herself. “Rafe.” Crap. He was charming. “I’m not a medium. I can’t just call on a shade. They come to me on their own.” It occurred to her she ought to disclose that one shade in particular had come to her this afternoon. But perhaps it would be better to keep that to herself. The shade hadn’t stayed long enough to confirm it was Barbara Fisher or to give any indication of her killer’s identity, but if Diamante—Rafe—had done it under the control of a step-in, Barbara could identify him. Which could make things awkward for Phoebe if he knew.
“But they trust you. The ones you’ve dealt with. As I understand it, you have something of a reputation with them.”
“If you mean they know to come to me, I suppose they do. Or maybe they try several people until they find someone who’s receptive. I don’t really know. I’ve never asked.”
“But the point is, they might come to you. The ones I was communicating with.”
“I suppose so.”
“And if they did, would I be able to talk to them? I mean, would you be able to talk to me—as the shade?”
Phoebe sat back. “They don’t usually communicate with anyone else through me, just to me.” Though that was more Phoebe’s choice than the will of the shades. “Usually they come to me because they’re confused and don’t understand what’s happened to them. Or because they want my help finding someone or something. I’m sort of like an afterlife private detective.” She grimaced and added, “Except my clients are all pro bono.”
“Well, I could pay you.” Rafe finally took a sip of his wine. “I’ll give you the same hourly rate you charge for legal consultation. And as you probably know from your sister, there are spells that can summon a shade.”
Just as her inner accountant was getting excited, anger flared inside her. “You mean entrapment spells. So you can force them to cross.”
Rafe had the grace to look embarrassed. “That’s what the Covent uses them for, yes. But the spell can be cast merely to bring them here. It doesn’t hurt the shade.”
“Here. As in now.” Phoebe narrowed her gaze. “That’s why you’re here.”
He nodded and took another sip. “Time is of the essence if I’m going to stop him and clear my name.”
“Stop whom?”
“Whoever it is that’s manipulating them. Whoever wanted to retain that power over them so desperately he was willing to silence Barbara Fisher.”
Phoebe studied his dark, intense eyes. Whether or not someone in Sedona was manipulating shades for nefarious purposes, Rafe Diamante obviously believed they were. And he seemed sincere in his respect for the shades’ autonomy. Unless the summoning spell wasn’t as harmless as he claimed.
“If you summon a shade and I find out it doesn’t want to be here—if any of this summoning process is against its will—my ‘consulting’ with you will be over. Is that clear?”
Rafe nodded, holding up his right hand with his thumb over his pinkie. “Scout’s honor.” The sudden warm smile accompanying the gesture distracted her. It took her a moment to make the connection with the comment he’d made when they’d met at the county jail.
“Oh...you were actually a Boy Scout. I was kidding when I said I was in the Scouts. I’m afraid I was never a Cadette.”
“Oh. Well, that’s embarrassing.” He dropped his hand to his side with an apologetic smile that was possibly even more endearing. “Sorry about my reaction earlier. I was having a pretty bad day.”
“I imagine you were.” It was impossible not to return the smile as she rose. “So what do you need for the spell?”
“I’m going to guess you don’t keep an altar yourself.” When Phoebe laughed, Rafe recited the ingredients without skipping a beat: “Three candles, preferably white, some incense—if you don’t have any, I can show you how to make something serviceable with your spice collection—a bowl of salt, a bowl of water and a libation.” He tapped his glass. “We’ve got the libation.”
Phoebe went to the kitchen and set out two condiment bowls. “Salt’s on the bar. And I’ve got the candles and incense somewhere around here.”
After fetching the supplies from the bedroom, she returned to find Rafe stripping off his shirt. A tattoo of a colorful winged serpent adorned his back, the ink in vivid shades of an almost iridescent blue-green and violet with a deep scarlet red down the breast of the creature, its wings spanning both broad shoulders.
Phoebe clutched the candles to her chest. “Whoa.”
Rafe turned as he pulled the shirt over his head, ears reddening at the tips. “Sorry. I should have asked first. It’s easier to spell-cast without fabric—and this fabric is freezing. But I can put it back on.” He was halfway to doing it.
“No, it’s fine. I should have offered to dry it for you anyway.” Phoebe set the candles and incense on the coffee table and held out her hand to take the shirt. “It was just—unexpected. And I was admiring your tattoo.”
“Oh. Quetzalcoatl.” His expression took on an element of defiant pride, as if he expected to have to defend his choice of body art. “I forget he’s there since I can’t see it without a bit of acrobatics.” He cast his gaze downward as he turned to face her. “The one on the front, of course, I’m much more aware of.” The black ink spiraled over his left pectoral like a cross section of a conch shell.
Phoebe was having trouble focusing on the tattoo itself. The flesh beneath it was kind of spectacular. She tried not to drool. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s an ehecacozcatl. A wind jewel that belongs to the god. It’s sort of a family coat of arms.”
“Your family’s ancestry is Aztec?”
“Maybe. Probably not, but who knows? The Diamantes like to say so.” Rafe flashed another of those smiles that were beginning to do funny things to Phoebe’s stomach. Because stomach was the organ involved. Sure.
Rafe started to settle onto the floor in front of the coffee table.
“You’re keeping the pants on?” Phoebe had to resist rolling her eyes at herself. The words had just jumped out. “I mean—you said the fabric gets in the way.”
He answered as if she weren’t a complete loon. “I figured going fully sky-clad would be a little presumptuous. I can work with this.”
“But they’re soaked. If I’m going to dry the shirt, I may as well dry those, too. Unless you’re commando under there?” Geez, Phoebe. Get a grip.
Rafe smirked. “No, I’m not really the commando type.” He emptied his pockets onto the couch and unbuckled his belt and the utility knife holster at his hip before reaching for the buttons on his fly. “You’re sure this is okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? They’ll be dry in a jiff.” There was something seriously wrong with her mouth. Or her brain. Who the heck said “jiff”?
As he bent to untie his boots and work them off before stepping out of the pants and handing them over, it was all Phoebe could do not to ogle his ass in the white boxer briefs. Maybe she ogled a little.
“Is it ohgle or ahgle?” Oh, my God. She’d said that out loud.
Phoebe escaped down the hall and opened the laundry closet to toss the wet things into the dryer, leaning back against the appliance to take a deep breath. When she returned to the living room, she managed to have a normal expression on her face. She hoped.
Rafe was clearing off the coffee table to arrange things for the spell—two candles in the top corners and the third in the center, with the condiment bowls holding water and salt on either side of his nearly untouched glass of wine.
Phoebe grabbed a box of matches from the pantry. “Anything else we need?”
“Just one or two things, but I’ve got them covered.” Rafe took his knife from the holster and set it in front of the incense holder. “I use it as an athame in a pinch.” He unhooked the pendant from around his neck and let the disc drop from the chain into his hand. “And this will do for the pentacle.” He set it in front of the center candle. “My wind jewel tat can stand in for the image of the god. Do you have anything that can serve as a goddess image? It’s not absolutely essential—”
“If we’re having a god, we’re having a goddess.” Phoebe began to unbutton her blouse.
Rafe’s dark brows twitched. “What are you doing?”
She reached the center button and showed him the silver-blue crescent moon that curled around her navel. “This should do, right?”
Rafe nodded. “That’s nice work.”
“Thanks.” Phoebe slipped off the blouse and set it aside. “My little sister designed it.”
“You don’t really have to undress. It’s mostly symbolic, helps me get my head in the right space.”
She unzipped the back of her skirt and stepped out of it. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I wouldn’t want you to feel weird being the only one undressed. Frankly, I feel a little weird being dressed when you’re not. I think this evens the playing field. Or the spell-casting field.” She still wore her bra and panties. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t worn skimpier bathing suits in public. Phoebe sat opposite him and tried to maintain an air of nonchalance.
Rafe struck a match, calling the guardians of the four corners as he lit the candles and incense in a counterclockwise pattern. She’d seen all this before—had even done it, once upon a time, dabbling with witchcraft in middle school until it had become Ione’s “thing.” But the summoning spell was one she’d never witnessed.
Holding the makeshift athame aloft in his left hand and the wineglass in his right, Rafe began the invocation. “I call on Xolotl, brother of Quetzalcoatl, protector of the sun in its journey through the valley of the dead, and upon Mictlantecuhtli and Mictecacihuatl, Lord and Lady of the Underworld, to open the gates of Mictlan and usher forth the three souls who’ve visited this plane in recent days to share knowledge of the afterlife with me. Jacob, Lila and Ernesto, join us now and speak with us here.” The black ink of his wind jewel tattoo seemed to glow with a pale blue luminescence as he spoke the words, but perhaps it was only the lightning flickering in the window at Phoebe’s back. Thunder rumbled in the wake of the latest flash. A moment later, the electricity went out for the second time today, leaving them in the fluttering glow of candlelight.
The hairs on Phoebe’s arms rose. For an alarming instant, she thought lightning was about to strike right through the roof, until she recognized the familiar tug. The shades had come and they were seeking entry—all three at once.
She’d never hosted more than one step-in at a time. When Phoebe opened her mouth to tell them to wait their turn, a wild laugh came out of it. Not her own.
Dimly, she heard Rafe asking if she was all right, but the shades were pushing her consciousness down, making her a sort of backseat passenger. There was no uncertainty as with the shade this morning, and even her own uneasiness felt secondary to the personalities of these shades. They’d done this before.
“Marvelous, darling.” Her mouth formed the words in a husky, sensual purr. She sensed Lila as an older woman, pleased with the youthful body she occupied. “Though it’s crowded in here.”
“Step out, then, chica.” Phoebe’s voice this time was rough and deep, and heavily accented. Ernesto.
“You step out.” Another masculine cadence, slightly amused, with a soft, Texas twang, challenged the first.
Phoebe was beginning to feel light-headed, and she must have looked it.
Rafe reached across the table and took her hands in both of his. “Let me speak with Phoebe for a moment.”
She opened her mouth to assure him she was still there, but her breath seemed to be sucked from her across the table, and Rafe took in a deep, gasping inhalation, eyes wide, as one of the shades leaped from her into him. It was a first in her experience.
“What are you doing?” Ernesto protested with Phoebe’s mouth. He swore in Spanish and then Phoebe felt a strange wrenching sensation. Lila was shoving Ernesto out. She thought she’d have more control now with only one shade to deal with, but instead of coming to the fore, she felt herself slipping deeper, her distress at the sensation all but subsumed by Lila’s eminent self-satisfaction.
Rafe pulled her to her feet and drew her around the table. But it wasn’t Rafe, of course. It was Jacob. “Care to dance?” Jacob’s amusement sparkled in the dark eyes.
“I thought you’d never ask.” She could swear she was hosting Kathleen Turner. Before she could try to wrest some control from the step-in, she found herself in Rafe’s arms, arousal evident in the hard warmth against her thigh as he pulled her in tight. Rafe’s lips were kissing hers and Phoebe’s were ardently kissing back. She gasped into his mouth as his tongue prodded her open, his fingers drawing goose bumps along her skin, and she moaned as he pinched one of her nipples through the thin cup of lace.
She was instantly wet, needing this man as she’d never needed anyone, desperate, lest he disappear once more and fade into the incorporeal shade of the man she loved but was denied. Too much time had passed since he’d been taken from her, too much time had been spent alone, and she would not allow this moment to be taken from her, as well. Jacob was hers and she meant to have him inside her, to experience the union she ached for finally.
Rafe’s fingers slid down Phoebe’s side as he kissed her, dipping inside the elastic of her panties. Phoebe begged with little moans into his mouth for him to go farther, to open her. Two fingers teased at the perimeter of her sex, one slipping toward the center and stroking like a warm knife against buttercream frosting on a springy cake.
Deep in her mind, alarm bells were going off. This wasn’t her. It wasn’t Rafe. Something neither of them had consented to was about to happen. Even if she couldn’t deny wanting the body pressed against her, the desire flooding her decidedly her own, this wasn’t right. She ought to be the one in control here. She was the mediator. Rafe was essentially at her mercy.
The panties dropped to the floor and Rafe slid down one bra strap and let the taut nipple peek out, just at the edge of the fabric.
He lowered his head, his breath against her breast. “God, I want you.”
God, she wanted him, too. His mouth closed over the nipple, sucked between his teeth, his other hand prodding between her legs, fingers poised to enter.
“No!” The word tore out of her throat, even as she writhed with pleasure under the adoration of his mouth.
Rafe paused and lifted his head, confused.
Phoebe gritted her teeth. “Get out, Lila. Jacob, let him go.”
Rafe’s hands dropped away from her and he took a step back, doubling over with a sudden groan as if he’d been punched in the gut. The shade rushed out.
Phoebe heard herself screaming—Lila, anguished and mournful, a banshee’s wail as she was torn from Phoebe’s corporeal matter. For a moment, while the connection still held, she experienced the shade’s desperate sorrow as her own. She felt like a heel as Lila left her. But that was only fleeting next to the full awareness flooding back to her. And just to help out, the electricity blinked back on, leaving them standing facing each other in the glaring light of the wagon-wheel chandelier.
“Oh, my God.” The blood drained from Rafe’s face as Phoebe tried to re-cover herself with as much cool, collected calm as she could muster—which was zilch.
Rafe grabbed an afghan from the back of the couch and threw it around her. “Phoebe, I—I swear to you, that wasn’t my... I don’t know what happened—”
“You don’t have to explain. It was the shades. I’ve never felt any quite so...determined before.” Her knees began to shake in the aftermath of the possession, quickly morphing into a full-body tremble, complete with chattering teeth. “I need to warm up.” How ironic. She’d been plenty hot a second ago. “This happens sometimes, after.”
“What can I do? What do you need?”
“Run a bath for me. Please.” Her knees buckled and Rafe caught her, easing her to the couch. After gently setting her head on a pillow, he hurried down the hall, the sound of running water announcing he was doing as she’d asked. He stayed in the bathroom while the tub filled, too mortified, she supposed, to be in the same room with her. She had to admit, not looking at him right now was probably a really good idea.
When it was ready, he came to get her, dressed in his damp, steamy clothes fresh from the dryer. She was still unsteady, and she made a little yip of surprise when he swept her off the ground and carried her the rest of the way, setting her on her feet only when he’d reached the bathroom rug.
“Do you need any help?” He addressed the top of her left ear.
“No. I’ve got this. Thanks. It’ll just take me a few minutes to warm up.”
Rafe nodded and stepped out, closing the door to give her privacy. He’d also given her bubbles—lavender. That was sweet. Phoebe dropped the afghan and her underthings in a heap and climbed into the claw-foot tub, sinking into the aromatic suds. It was impossible not to replay every touch—illicitly received though they might have been—as she lay back against the porcelain and closed her eyes. Her body wasn’t likely to forget it, even if she managed to stop thinking about it. Even the taste of his mouth and the smell of his skin lingered.
A sound carried from the front of the house—the click of the front door closing. Damn.
Chapter 5 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
Rafe drove through the storm toward home on autopilot, his gut churning as his truck wound through the hills. What the hell had just happened? He was beginning to think the Covent was right about step-ins. If one could control him so completely, it was easy to imagine he’d been taken over by a step-in long enough to kill poor Barbara Fisher. Yet for this, despite being unable to take autonomous action, he’d been fully aware on some level—watching himself. Feeling every sensation.
And what sensations. Phoebe’s skin against his had felt like the rain itself, caressing, enveloping, washing him clean. He knew it was Jacob’s desire for Lila he’d felt, but it was impossible to extricate his own from the experience. He’d never wanted any woman so intensely. His cock was still stiff as a steel rod in his pants.
He could smell her on his fingers gripping the wheel, intoxicating and incredibly arousing. There was no way he’d be able to sleep tonight without relieving the tension. Yet the thought of what he’d done, lack of personal volition notwithstanding, was mortifying. How could he even think of taking pleasure in the memory?
The storm had passed over the valley by the time he punched in his code at the gate to Stone Canyon. His place was modest compared to the family home, but the gated community always made him feel like an imposter. Phoebe Carlisle’s little cottage was much more his style. Of course, if his lawyer couldn’t get him acquitted of the murder charge, he’d be living in an altogether different gated community soon enough.
That ought to be what occupied his mind right now—the very real possibility that he might spend his life in prison for a murder someone else had committed, whether with his hands or otherwise—not his inappropriate arousal at being used as a vessel for another man’s desire. How very Freudian it all was, even without the puppet sex show he and Phoebe had almost starred in. Had starred in. Things had gone far enough to constitute one hell of a performance.
He had to get her out of his head, and the scent of her off his skin. As soon as he arrived at the house, he hit the shower: cold and pounding him with the ultra-massage setting. It was a temporary reprieve, but he needed to pull himself together and take care of some business before clients started backing out after hearing he was being investigated for murder. God only knew what kind of conversations they’d already been having with Rafael Sr. The fact that his father had sent his fancy lawyer to the county jail to intervene but hadn’t contacted Rafe himself spoke volumes.
After drying off and getting dressed, he pushed down the insanity of the entire day and dove into his business communications to keep operations running smoothly. He’d earned a reputation as a solid manager in the years since graduating from college and taking on increasing responsibility while Rafael Sr. concentrated on his political career, and he knew he could count on the people in his employ.
In the beginning, the men and women on the ground at the Diamante sites had viewed him as some kind of pampered playboy amusing himself with his father’s money, but he’d quickly proved himself and earned their respect. And when he’d taken his place in the Covent after earning that on his own, as well, through hours of mundane magical practice, the privileged connections available through the arcane community had also become his own instead of hand-me-downs from his father.
When he made his calls, he made a point of asking after family members and mentioning them by name before addressing the Fisher business, as if it were an unfortunate misunderstanding that would blow over by Monday.
Distracting himself with business worked until he collapsed into bed and closed his eyes. The scent and taste and texture of Phoebe rushed back at him as if she were lying right beside him. Worse than the ill-gotten knowledge of her body was the certainty that his desire for her was distinct and his own. This wasn’t some residual effect of the step-in. And no amount of worry about the Fisher case or the business could seem to dampen it.
But it didn’t matter, because the unfortunate incident with the step-ins wasn’t going to be repeated. He’d have to clear his name without Phoebe Carlisle’s help.
As he drifted off into a fitful sleep, the tattoo seemed to prickle under the skin at his back, as though Quetzalcoatl were moving.
* * *
The evidence of last night’s debacle spread across the coffee table like a surrealist painting: The Persistence of Memory in encaustic. She’d let the candles burn down, too tired to come back to the living room after her bath.
Phoebe sighed and got to work scraping the spattered puddles of wax off the table and the hardwood while Puddleglum looked on with disapproval at her apparent misplaced interest in something that didn’t involve rectifying the travesty of the tiny spot of emptiness visible at the center of his otherwise full cat dish.
It was possible she was getting dangerously close to becoming one of those crazy cat ladies, providing motives and inner dialogue for Puddleglum as a sad testament to having no life. Nah. That was totally what he was thinking.
“At least you don’t bolt in horror if you accidentally see me naked.” Because there was nothing weird about having a one-sided conversation with her cat. Not that talking to herself was new. It had taken her until fifth grade to realize no one else had “guests” stepping into them to ask questions—out loud, through their mouths. She’d developed coping mechanisms, becoming a theater geek so she could pass off her random changes of voice and non-sequiturs as doing impressions or rehearsing lines.
Ione had teased her mercilessly, thinking Phoebe was just a weird kid, while the twins, Theia and Rhea, five years younger, were immersed in their own private language—and what often seemed to be their own private world. Then Ione had taken an apprenticeship with the Covent, leaving Phoebe to her own devices. Luckily, being on her own was something she’d always excelled at. She’d had to. By the time she went off to college, it had become second nature to have step-ins wander in and out—which wasn’t exactly conducive to friendships or romantic relationships.
Despite the delicate balance on the edge of consent, she’d sometimes enjoyed the company. But she’d also resented it, being at the beck and call of the dead because no one else was ever listening. It had made her cautious about letting anyone get close. And it had also made her protective of the shades.
But the step-ins last night—she’d never experienced anything so overwhelming, never had one direct her own actions against her will. Though maybe the will part was the problem. Maybe she hadn’t been entirely resistant on some deeper level. Or some not-so-deep level. She hadn’t been touched, after all, since...well, in an embarrassingly long time. Or maybe it had been the wine.
And maybe she could come up with a million other excuses for being so easily controlled by Lila. The fact remained that her engine had already been revving for Rafe Diamante without the influence of the step-in. Lila had just stepped on the gas pedal. And floored it.
Phoebe opened the broom closet and chucked the candle viscera into the trash, cringing as she recalled how Rafe had looked as if he’d sobered up in the middle of a “coyote” date. “Yeah, well, you’re not so hot, Rafe Diamante. Bet you were a dork in high school.”
“Sorry?”
With a sharp inhalation, Phoebe swallowed the gum she’d been chewing to keep the morning-after nausea at bay, narrowly missing her windpipe. She whirled around to find Rafe Diamante standing on the other side of the screen door.
Chapter 6 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
Rafe’s heart sped up a little just at the way she moved. This was starting to seem like a worse idea than it had before.
Phoebe stood poised in the open arch between the kitchen and the living room, limbs smooth and supple in a light-blue ribbed tank and a pair of curve-hugging cutoffs, the ponytail clipped high and swooping over backward. “How long have you been lurking out there?”
“Not lurking.” He held up her tablet. “You left this at the jail yesterday and I forgot to give it to you.”
“Oh. Wow.” Phoebe came to the door and opened it to accept the tablet. “I thought I’d never see that again. Thanks. You’ve saved me a lot of time and aggravation.” She held it awkwardly inside her folded arms, as if aware of the effect the skin-hugging fabric was having on him. “Did you want to come in?” It was obviously an invitation he was meant to refuse.
“No, I just came to...” He paused, distracted by what he thought he’d heard. “Were you talking to me just now? I thought you said my name.”
“To you?” Phoebe gave him a look that said he was full of himself. “I was just working with a step-in. Some dead cheerleader or something. She was kind of incoherent.”
“Oh.” Rafe ran a hand over the thick waves of his hair, kept manageable in a short tail at his nape. “Anyway, I wanted to apologize for what happened last night, and to make sure you were all right.”
Phoebe stared him down. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Rafe pocketed his hands. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “I should have stayed to see that you were. You were pretty shaky on your feet. And I think maybe I’m the reason things got so...weird.” Her cheeks flushed pink and he hurried on. “I think it was the invocations I used.”
“The invocations?”
“To the Aztec deities. The Lord and Lady of the Underworld. I think it may have created a double channeling—you channeling the shades and the shades channeling Mictlantecuhtli and Mictecacihuatl. They’re more chaotic, passionate gods than the usual pantheon invoked in the craft. A lot of practitioners stay away from them because of the darker history they became associated with, but I’ve always felt drawn to their primal archetypes. I never thought their history mattered. I assumed the symbolism invoked by the deeper mind was important, and not the specific energy it raised. At any rate, I feel responsible, and I just wanted to say that.” He reached into the back pocket of his khakis for his checkbook. “I still want to pay for your time last night. And don’t worry. I won’t be bothering you for any further help contacting the shades. I’ll figure something out. What’s your hourly rate?”
Phoebe’s eyes darkened from periwinkle to violet and she pushed the screen door wide. “Don’t write me a check standing on my porch.” Her smile seemed forced. “People will talk. Come in and sit down for a minute. I’ll get you a lemonade.”
Rafe hesitated but decided he’d seem like more of a jerk if he said no. He stepped inside, surveying the stained wood of the wax-encrusted coffee table as he sat on the couch while Phoebe went to the kitchen. “I should have put foil under the candles.”
Phoebe grabbed some glasses from her dish rack and took a pitcher out of the fridge. “I should have put them out instead letting them burn down into a soup.”
“You were in the bath. I should have put them out when I left.”
“I—” Phoebe came around the bar with two glasses of lemonade and cocked her head. “Wait, whose turn is it again? Does one of us win a prize if we manage to be the most self-effacing?”
“I wasn’t trying to be self-effacing—”
“Man, I don’t have the energy for ‘who’s more defensive.’ Besides, I think you’d win that one hands down.”
Rafe scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smirked as if he’d proved her point. “You seem to be taking all of this personally, like your honor’s in question. It was an awkward night, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Let’s call it a learning experience and move on.”
This had definitely been a bad idea. Rafe stood, feeling large and awkward in her cozy living room. “You can mail me an invoice.”
“Jesus, Diamante. Just drink the damn lemonade. Fresh squeezed.” Phoebe shoved a glass at him. He was out of his element here. “It’s okay to be freaked out by what happened last night. It freaked me out a little, too. But let’s not make any hasty decisions just because it was uncomfortable. You’re facing a murder charge, and the evidence is stacked against you. If we set some ground rules for the shades next time we summon them, we can avoid any surprises.”
The condensation-damp glass nearly slipped from his hand. “Next time? You’d actually consider doing that again? Knowing the risk?”
“You said they wanted your help. It doesn’t seem like they’d be deliberately contrary if we make the rules clear and tell them they have to abide by them to get what they want.”
Perhaps the shades Phoebe was used to dealing with weren’t contrary, but he had a feeling she hadn’t dealt with any like these before. These shades had a history. That much, at least, Rafe could explain. As long as he could keep his mind off the soft slope of Phoebe’s skin where the moon tattoo nestled above the hip-hugging panties she’d been wearing last night. And everything beneath them.
Rafe took a swallow of lemonade and cleared his throat. “You need to understand where these shades are coming from. There’s been an increase lately in the number of shades who aren’t crossing on their own. That was the source of my falling out with the Covent. They felt they needed to address it and I, of course, disagreed. But they overruled me and decided to convene the Conclave.” He sat on the couch again and Phoebe sat beside him.
“To censure you.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Censuring me was just a convenient bonus. They actually came for the ritual.”
“What ritual?”
“A sort of wide-net snare—to cross every shade in the valley.”
Phoebe made a noise of outrage. “Every shade? Shades they hadn’t even encountered, who hadn’t bothered anyone—they were going to haul them all in?”
Rafe nodded. “Regardless of how recently they’d passed or whether they had any unfinished business.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“I don’t disagree.”
Phoebe’s eyes, darkening again to violet, held the same passionate intensity they’d had last night, though this time it was the passion of anger. She reminded him distinctly of a young Liz Taylor.
He realized he was staring. “They went ahead with the ritual, and I stood in the back of the temple refusing to be part of it.” Gabriel’s pleading had been fresh in his mind, and Rafe had been unwilling to leave, wanting to stop it from happening somehow, to keep his coven from doing to any other shades what he’d done to Gabriel. “You could feel the energy of the shades being drawn into the circle as the ritual began. It was palpable. I couldn’t see or hear any of them like I had with Gabriel, of course. When he came to me, I could see the apparition because we had a blood bond. I’m sure you’ve experienced that with people you’ve known who’ve passed.”
The terse shake of Phoebe’s head surprised him. “I’ve never had that kind of visitation. Just the step-ins.”
“Well, these shades weren’t visible or audible, but the energy was like a pulsing wave. It was heavy and oppressive and I couldn’t just stand there any longer and let it happen. As the rest of the coven began the crossing invocation, I raised my voice in objection.” He hadn’t meant to, but he’d called the shades to him, and he and Matthew had been surrounded. He didn’t feel like describing that peculiar moment when the psychic energy in the temple had nearly overwhelmed him. It had seemed for a moment as if the shades were waiting for him to command them.
“So what happened?”
“I must have disrupted the coven’s focus. The shade energy dispersed before they could cross them and the ritual was in chaos.” Rafe shrugged. “Most shades, new ones, anyway, aren’t aware there’s a self-appointed afterlife policing effort from the Covent. But they’d drawn in so many with this ritual the word is presumed to be out, and they’ve been having trouble raising any shades at all.”
“That must be why.” Phoebe looked thoughtful as she sipped her lemonade. “I drove by the temple yesterday. Something drew me there, the presence of a shade that seemed to want to make contact, except it didn’t step in—maybe couldn’t. And the air around the temple seemed full of shades, but none of them tried stepping in, either. Which, well...you probably can’t appreciate how unusual that is. But I got the feeling they were caught in some halfway state. It was unsettling.”
The idea was worse than unsettling. As much pain as it caused him to think about what he’d done to his brother, he’d hate to think of Gabriel’s spirit being trapped.
Phoebe regarded him. “So that’s when they branded you an oath-breaker.”
He nodded. “The Conclave revoked my active status with the Covent and the right to practice ritual.”
“Which you evidently ignored.”
Rafe met the twinkle in her eye with one of his own. “Evidently.”
“But the Covent’s lawyer is still defending you. How’s that work if you’ve been excommunicated?”
“It’s not quite that severe. It’s more like I’m on a metaphysical ‘time out.’ At any rate, their reputation is at stake if my association with them comes up in a murder trial. And the lawyer is actually my father’s, which he thinks I’m unaware of.”
Phoebe leaned her elbow on her knee with her chin propped in her hand. “Ione didn’t think you knew.”
He shrugged as he took a sip of the lemonade. “We all do a lot of pretending, I guess, so everyone gets what they want.”
“So, after the ritual, you went to the psychic?”
Rafe nodded. “My apprentice left town without a word right after the ritual. I was worried about him and hoped she could help me find him.”
“You have an apprentice?”
“Well, had, anyway. The Covent gave him the boot for not standing against me. Matthew’s a freshman at the University of Metaphysics. He applied to the Covent as an apprentice after a summer internship. But no one there has heard from him since last week.”
She was staring at him with an odd expression. “Matthew?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I just...heard the name Matthew somewhere recently. It’s probably nothing.” The way she said it gave him a feeling of misgiving, but she didn’t elaborate.
Rafe finished his lemonade and set the glass on the coffee table. “When I went to see Barbara Fisher, she couldn’t help me with Matt, but she told me there were three souls attached to me, invoked by what I’d done at the Covent’s ritual. She was able to channel them, and the shades appealed to me for help, claiming someone was compelling them to step into unsuspecting hosts.”
“A necromancer.” It was a label he hadn’t thought to use. The idea was chilling.
“She could only channel them for short intervals. We had two more sessions, but the last was cut short. Barbara didn’t channel shades the way you do.” Rafe reached for his glass to cover the awkwardness conjured by the unspoken implication before remembering it was empty.
Phoebe jumped up. “Would you like another? There’s plenty.”
He accepted, glad of the distraction as she went to refill his glass. “Her method was fairly traditional. Tarot, and similar summoning spells to what I’ve used. So there was no direct communication, just her acting as an interpreter. She said she sensed the shades were being pursued by the man trying to control them. She was trying to get details about who he was, or where he was, but they went silent and she couldn’t raise them again. But we were so close to something. I felt it. The shades had begun to trust me.” Rafe glanced up as Phoebe brought him the lemonade. “I think we would have gotten a name that evening, before whatever spooked them. And I think that’s why someone stopped Barbara from contacting them. Permanently.”
Phoebe looked as if she was about to say something, but a loud clatter from the kitchen startled them both. A striped Siamese cat scrabbled at the window over the sink, eyes fixed on a large owl perched in the mesquite tree framed in the glass.
“Puddleglum!” She ran to the kitchen and pulled the cat away from the window, but it was the bird that caught Rafe’s attention. The yellow eyes rimmed with ivory in the dark-brown face stared in at them boldly.
Puddleglum struggled out of Phoebe’s arms and made a dash for the cat door. A moment later, the owl took off from its perch, the pale breast the only spot of color against the chocolate-brown wings as it flew away.
Phoebe examined her scored arms. “Dammit, Puddleglum.”
“Interesting name.” Rafe tried not to show his concern at the visitation by the bird. “He doesn’t look like a marshwiggle.”
Phoebe glanced up at him with a pleased smile. “You know the books.”
Rafe laughed. “I don’t live in a cave. Who hasn’t read the Chronicles of Narnia?”
“Most men, in my experience. At least, not that they’d admit to. I’m more likely to get a positive response to Bilbo Baggins. My theory is the preponderance of strong females in Narnia. Or females at all.”
Rafe blinked at her. “Wait, how did this happen? I thought we were sharing a nerd moment. Now I feel like I’ve had my feminism card revoked.”
She cocked her head, setting the ponytail bobbing. “You have a feminism card?”
“A man can’t be a feminist?”
“Of course he can.” Phoebe studied him as if she’d just found a new species of his genus. “I just don’t meet a lot of them who look like you.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Like me?”
Phoebe laughed. “I think I’m the one being sexist now. Never mind.”
He couldn’t help wondering what he looked like to her. A Neanderthal? Some kind of machismo-obsessed asshole? But the symbolism of the owl nagged at him, putting his ego on the back burner.
The owl was the nagual of Mictlantecuhtli, Lord of the Underworld, whom Rafe had invoked only last night to such spectacular and mortifying effect. The nagual could be a spirit animal offering protection or it could be the animal form of a sorcerer. He’d never heard of a single documented case of such a transmogrification happening literally, but such myths abounded. And with everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, he couldn’t afford to dismiss the bird’s appearance as coincidental.
He set down the untouched lemonade and rose. “I should probably get going.”
Phoebe frowned. “I thought we were going to try to work with the shades to get some answers.”
“We?” It was Rafe’s turn to frown. “You said we’d need to set ground rules. I think one of those should be that I don’t participate in the summoning. Whatever happened, whether it was my energy or the gods I invoked for the ritual, it doesn’t seem wise for the two of us to put ourselves in that position again.”
Phoebe’s mouth set in a tight line. “Right. Because that would be horrible.”
He didn’t know what to make of that comment. Was she actually offended that he was trying to protect her from whatever had tried to use them last night? She couldn’t possibly be willing to risk being assaulted just to help him channel a few shades.
“My lawyer is coming over this afternoon, anyway. I need to get back.” Rafe went to the door and paused at the threshold, glancing over his shoulder at her. Bare arms and legs glistened with a light sheen of perspiration in the humidity. Rain was always in the offing this time of year. It made him wonder what she’d taste like with rainwater coursing over her skin.
Rafe cleared his throat. “I suspect the shades might seek you out now that they know you. If they do, let me know what you find out. I appreciate your help.” He tried to smile amiably as he pushed open the screen door. “And the lemonade.”
“Rafe.”
He took a deep breath and turned back, sure she was going to press him on participating in summoning the shades.
“I remember where I heard the name of your apprentice. At the temple yesterday, the presence that drew me there. The name I got from it was Matthew.”
Chapter 7 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
Rafe felt himself go pale. Hearing Matthew’s name in connection with a shade unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
“Are you sure?”
Phoebe gave him an almost apologetic nod. “I couldn’t get much else. It was like something was blocking the shade from stepping in. But that name—it was almost tangible.”
He tried Matthew’s phone once more on the way home, but this time he got a recording instead of Matthew’s voicemail: “The wireless customer you are attempting to reach cannot be located.”
The phrase had a terrible finality, and the appearance of the owl this afternoon took on an ominous significance. One of the things that had drawn Matthew to apprentice with Rafe was his interest in Aztec studies. Mictlantecuhtli and the underworld of Mictlan, in particular, had fascinated him. Born on the Day of the Dead, Matthew had identified strongly with the skull-faced god. And now Mictlantecuhtli’s nagual was hanging about Phoebe’s backyard.
Rafe glanced at the clock on the dash as he arrived at Stone Canyon to find Hamilton waiting for him. The lawyer was early. Hamilton waved to him from in front of the red convertible parked beside the gate and stepped up to the truck, sticking out his hand as Rafe rolled down the window.
Instead of shaking his hand, Rafe nodded and handed him a guest card for the gate. “Hamilton.”
The lawyer flashed his improbably perfect teeth. “Call me Carter. It’s better if we’re on a first-name basis. And I hope I can call you Rafe?”
“Rafael.” He wasn’t sure why this guy rubbed him the wrong way, but something about him made Rafe want to be difficult.
Hamilton followed him up to the house and parked in front of it, admiring the décor as they entered and Rafe ushered him into the great room. “The construction business seems to be treating you well.”
Rafe crossed his arms as he sat in the leather armchair. “We do all right. As I’m sure my father must have told you when he hired you.”
Hamilton paused in opening his briefcase on the couch. “The Covent hired me, Rafael. I am acquainted with your father, of course.”
“Of course.”
Hamilton took a pocket voice recorder out of his briefcase like a flashback from the 90s and set it on the table between them. “Do you mind if I record this meeting? It helps me keep track of what we’ve agreed on.” Rafe nodded and Hamilton hit the record button. “So, Rafael, in your own words, please tell me exactly what you recall from the night of July 29 and the morning of July 30.”
For the dozenth time, Rafe went through the details he remembered.
Hamilton nodded as Rafe spoke, making notes as Phoebe had, only his tablet was old school. “And how would you characterize your relationship with Barbara Fisher?”
“I’d met with her a few times prior. As a client.”
“So it was cordial but professional.”
Rafe shrugged. “Yes.”
“There was no intimacy between you?”
“Intimacy?”
“I have to ask. Anything that might be relevant to the prosecutor’s case is liable to come up in the preliminary hearing. I need to be sure there aren’t any curveballs being thrown. I’m sure you’d prefer to avoid an indictment so we don’t have to build a defense for a criminal trial.”
“Right.” Rafe’s skin felt clammy. This was all beginning to seem a lot more real than it had yesterday.
Hamilton gave him a reassuring smile. “Relax, Rafael. I’m going to be with you every step of the way. I know it all seems pretty overwhelming now, but the evidence is purely circumstantial.” He paused, waiting for Rafe to say something, then prompted, “You didn’t have an intimate relationship with Ms. Fisher?”
“No. I barely knew her.”
“So the police aren’t going to find any of your DNA on her. Or in her.”
“Jesus. No.”
Hamilton made a note. “You mentioned you thought the tea she gave you might have been drugged. Can you think of any reason Ms. Fisher would want to drug you?”
“No, of course not. She seemed like a very nice woman. Honest. Her abilities seemed genuine.”
“But people aren’t always what they seem. If she wasn’t what she appeared to be, what reason do you think she might have to drug you?”
Rafe raked his fingers through his hair. “To rob me, maybe? Wouldn’t be a very smart way to go about it, though, with a client in your own house. I don’t know. What I thought, honestly, was maybe one of the shades was controlling her.”
Hamilton paused. “You know that’s not going to wash in court. The Covent might find it plausible, but the government rarely takes the word of a witch in such matters.” He made a rueful face. “Going back to the Dark Ages.”
“I know. I’m only telling you what I think happened. If you’re going to defend me, I assume you want the truth.”
“Of course. We just need to come up with something more plausible to the general public so shades and spells don’t get brought up. People are generally okay with someone going to a medium for a reading, maybe even amenable to the idea that it’s possible to contact someone who’s passed on. But the minute you say ‘shade’ or ‘possessed,’ your credibility is shot.”
Rafe nodded tightly. He knew all this. Which was why he needed to find out who’d killed Barbara Fisher—and find evidence tying the killer to the crime—before his case went to trial. “And if she was shade-walked...or I was...what then?”
Hamilton turned off his digital recorder. “If you say anything like that in court, I won’t be able to help you. Your defense simply cannot be ‘I was possessed when I killed her.’”
Rafe didn’t flinch from the serious pale gaze. “Then I guess we’d better hope there’s not enough evidence to charge me.”
“Well, we may have a problem, given your answer about your level of familiarity with the victim.”
Rafe blinked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The police have a witness who alleges to have seen you and Ms. Fisher together on multiple occasions engaged in behavior that didn’t appear to be related to palm reading.”
“What?” Outrage spiked in his blood. He leaned forward in his chair, his posture challenging, as if Hamilton had made the false accusation himself. “That’s ridiculous. I only met Barbara Fisher a week ago, and saw her exactly three times, including Friday night—as a client.”
“That’s what the witness is implying. That you were a client of Ms. Fisher’s—in a rather different sort of business.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Barbara Fisher operated more than one business out of her home. She also advertised her services on adult websites as a masseuse—for very personal massage, if you catch my drift. The police tracked IP addresses of her correspondents on the site—and one of them matched yours.”
Rafe’s hands clenched around the armrests. “That’s impossible. I’ve never even been to any adult services websites—or any high-end masseuses.”
Hamilton set down his pen and paper. “Then I’d have to conclude, Rafael, that someone must be setting you up.”
Chapter 8 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
The weather stayed muggy all afternoon, with nothing but heat lightning to show for it, though the bolts of current across the sky made a pretty picture at dusk over the stone pylons of Cathedral Rock. The view from the back of the house was mostly obscured by newer housing developments, but even a little bit of a view could be spectacular.
A chime from her phone provided a welcome distraction—a text from Theia. She hadn’t talked to either Theia or Rhea since they’d been home from college for spring break.
Had a dream about you. It wasn’t the first time Theia had started such a conversation out of the blue. You were flying on the back of a snake.
Snakes don’t fly. She typed the reply automatically, but Rafe’s tattoo of Quetzalcoatl immediately came to mind, brilliant blue-green wings rippling over his shoulder blades.
This one did. It had feathers. A pause for effect was followed with, Maybe it was a boa.
Hilarious. Theia was studying zoology; maybe she could identify Puddleglum’s bird. Speaking of feathers, Glum treed a bird earlier, some kind of owl. Dark brown, except for white on its chest and around its eyes. Is there anything like that around here?
Sounds like a spectacled owl. Not native this far north. Maybe somebody’s pet got loose. Theia typed for a moment. Could be an omen. Anyone new in your life?
Phoebe hesitated, which was foolish, because Rafe wasn’t in her life. No, no one new.
Well, there should be. You’re going to get cobwebs up there.
Phoebe sent an eye-rolling emoji.
All kidding aside, I’d keep an eye out for someone untrustworthy entering your life. Maybe a client, someone bright and attractive who’s not what he seems. Just be careful.
Phoebe hated how intuitive her little sister could be. After Theia signed off, she set the phone down and wiped the sweat from her temple. The evaporative cooler was useless in this humidity. She shut it off and opened the windows wide, letting the ceiling fan in the living room move the air around.
Phoebe was serving up Puddleglum’s “beef and chicken feast” in the kitchen when the air grew heavy with the familiar aura of a step-in. She considered refusing it. Maybe it was time to start putting up some defenses. But if it was Barbara Fisher or one of the other shades who might have information about her murder, Phoebe needed the shade as much as it needed her. She’d go with her gut.
Phoebe sat on the couch, not wanting to take another fall. Her skin prickled with goose bumps as the shade began to step through into the same corporeal space. Some might dismiss the sensation as someone “walking over their grave,” unaware a shade moved through them unable to find an anchor. Phoebe, on the other hand, had always been solid for them, a body they could merge with without displacing its usual occupant, as might otherwise be the case. And thus, a body they could communicate with, and through.
But this shade wasn’t trying to communicate. It was trying to manipulate her physically. Though it seemed to be attempting to hide its identity, she recognized it now as the one she’d hosted the night before. For whatever reason, Lila had stepped in and wanted to control her.
Phoebe rose from the couch, her limbs directed by the shade, though she felt she could wrest control from her if she had to. Perhaps Lila wanted to show her something. For now, Phoebe would let her steer.
She walked to the back door and opened it, stepping out into the yard. She was only wearing flip-flops, but presumably, Lila wouldn’t take her far. Unfortunately it was also getting dark and Lila hadn’t stopped for a flashlight or turned on the porch light.
Phoebe continued walking toward the rear of the property. She hadn’t been out here to deal with the weeds and briars in weeks, and she was beginning to brush against the spiky overgrowth of graythorn bushes.
A sound ahead of her in the brush sent a chill up her spine. She’d never encountered one on her property before, but the telltale maraca-like sound of a rattlesnake gave warning. And Lila was directing her right to it.
Phoebe tried to stop, but her feet continued moving forward. She dug her nails into her palms and gritted her teeth, slowing a little but still walking.
“Lila.” The sound of her voice seemed to shake Lila’s hold, and Phoebe managed to stop herself in her tracks, though she couldn’t yet persuade her limbs to turn back. “Lila, what are you doing? What do you want?”
“Stop fighting me.” The throaty Kathleen Turner voice came out of her. “He wants you to go.”
“Who wants me to go?” Her own voice was stronger now. She was breaking Lila’s hold.
“Tloque Nahuaque. Lord of the Near and the Nigh.”
The rattler sounded again, threatened in its hiding place.
Phoebe lowered her voice to a whisper. “Why? What does he want with me?”
Lila let out an exasperated sigh. “He wants you gone.” The irritation apparently distracted Lila. Phoebe regained control, backing away from the brush before turning tail and hurrying back toward the house. Lila still lingered but she could sense the shade’s frustration at having failed in her mission.
“Who is this Taloque...?” She couldn’t remember exactly how the name went, though Lila had just used her mouth to pronounce it.
“Tloque Nahuaque.” Lila sighed. “He keeps my Jacob from me.”
“Maybe I can help you.” She’d barely gotten the words out before Lila followed them with a sharp laugh. “If you don’t try to force me to do things against my will, I can be much more helpful to you, Lila. It’s what I do.”
“You can’t help me. The only way you can help is if you go. If you go, I get my Jacob.”
“How do you know?” That seemed to give the shade pause. “Has this Tloque Nahuaque kept any promises to you or does he keep holding them out as something you’ll earn from him eventually when he’s decided to grant them?” She’d managed to reach the back door as she spoke, and Lila was no longer resisting her movements. Phoebe dashed inside and closed the door, locking it behind her. “Lila.” She’d gone quiet in Phoebe’s consciousness, but Phoebe could tell the shade was still there. “Has he done anything but exploit your need for Jacob?”
“Titlacauan commands us. We are his slaves.”
How many names did this guy have? Phoebe leaned back against the door, her hand still on the knob. “And if you could have your Jacob? If you could be with him...what would you do?”
She felt the shiver of arousal run through her, from the top of her head to her core, like a little shock of lightning.
Lila’s voice on her tongue was full of both anguish and desire. “If I could be with Jacob as we were meant to be, just once, I could be at peace.” With that, she was gone.
It was absolutely out of the question. Phoebe shouldn’t even be thinking it. But if she offered an exchange—the evidence against whoever this Tloque Nahuaque or Titlacauan was, as the price for giving Lila what she wanted—wouldn’t that be worth the minor inconvenience of being temporarily at the mercy of someone else’s desires?
Of course, it didn’t hurt that Phoebe was hopelessly attracted to the vessel Lila’s Jacob had chosen to occupy. Phoebe covered her face with her hands and groaned. What was the matter with her? She couldn’t make that kind of deal and involve someone else. What was she really thinking, anyway? That she could blackmail Rafe Diamante into having sex with her in exchange for exonerating him of a murder charge? How pathetic was that? She’d sunk to a new low.
* * *
When Phoebe checked her messages in the morning, her caseload had tripled. As the lowest on the totem pole at the Public Defender’s Office, she had to take what she could get—especially if she wanted to have any hope of eventually removing “assistant” from the front of her title. That little word meant the difference between getting a mix of grunt work and the cases no one else wanted and getting to work serious cases that would challenge her. And it also meant the difference between people like Ione seeing her as some kind of glorified legal secretary and respecting her as an actual lawyer. Not to mention not having to always live hand to mouth.
After the forty-five-minute drive to the county courthouse at Camp Verde, Phoebe met with her first client, a scared eighteen-year-old kid charged with a DUI who’d spent the night in lockup, afraid to call his parents. Since it was his first offense, she managed to bargain the charges down to reckless endangerment. The prosecutor owed her one, and he was in a good mood.
Phoebe glanced at the time while she scheduled her next client consult and found it wasn’t quite eleven. Not bad for a morning’s work. She even had time to grab a scone and a latte.
Heading upstairs from the basement café with the latte in hand, Phoebe nearly ended up wearing the drink when she took a corner too swiftly and met someone else coming down.
She held the sloshing beverage out of the way as the lid popped off the cup and a dollop of foam hit the tip of an expensive Italian dress shoe. “Shoot. I’m so sorry. Let me get that.” She’d knelt to dab her napkin on the mess without waiting for an answer, but an amused voice made her pause.
“That’s really not necessary, Ms. Carlisle.”
The face she glanced up into was familiar but she couldn’t place it. Thirty-something and blond with soulful blue eyes, he looked like he ought to be on the cover of GQ.
Phoebe straightened with the napkin wadded in her hand. “Sorry—have we met?”
“Just briefly. Carter Hanson Hamilton.” He held out his hand and Phoebe pocketed the napkin before extending hers, still not sure where she’d seen him before. He had a firm, easy grip. “I’m representing Rafael Diamante in the Barbara Fisher case.”
“Oh.” Phoebe pulled back her hand. Of course. She’d seen him yesterday when Ione had blindsided her.
“I hope there are no hard feelings. The Covent only has Mr. Diamante’s best interests in mind.”
“No, I get that, Mr. Hamilton. I do.” She might as well be gracious. “I wasn’t sure why he called me, anyway. He was probably in shock and just dialed the first number he found in his pocket.”
“Please, call me Carter. And I’m sure you’re selling yourself short. Your sister speaks very highly of you.”
Phoebe couldn’t contain the short outburst of laughter. “Ione? She did not. That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Hamilton—Carter—but I’m not exactly the Covent’s favorite person. As I’m sure you know.”
Carter smiled. “You may not be the poster girl for Covent doctrine, but I think you may be wrong about your sister’s regard for you. Blood transcends belief.”
Phoebe regarded him quizzically. “You’re not exactly what I expected from a Covent lawyer.”
“And you’re not exactly what I expected from an evocator.”
“Evocator?”
“Evocation is the official name for what you do. Has no one ever applied the term to you before?”
Phoebe shook her head. “I’ve always called it ‘stepping in.’”
“That’s what they do, of course. Not what you do.” Carter glanced at his watch. “I have some time before my next appointment. Care to join me for an early lunch?”
Phoebe looked down at her latte. “I just got breakfast.”
Carter smiled. “Half of it’s on my shoe. Toss it. I’m buying.”
* * *
They ended up downstairs in the café again. The Camp Verde neighborhood boasted little more than the courthouse and county jail, a shooting range and an incongruously placed African wildlife park. Carter looked a little out of his element in his impeccable suit.
Phoebe tore open the little envelope of Caesar dressing to squeeze onto her salad. “Big spender. I’m impressed.”
Carter laughed. “I thought about suggesting the promising-sounding Carl’s Custom Meats, but it’s a little too close to the wildlife park for comfort.”
Phoebe grinned. “That’s why I’m sticking to salad.” She carefully speared a cherry tomato. “So, you’re not from the local chapter, I take it.”
“No, does it show? Not wearing enough crystals?” He winked and ate a bite of his sandwich, managing not to end up with mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth as Phoebe would have done. “I live in Scottsdale. I’m with the Phoenix chapter.”
“And do they not have strict rules about consorting with ‘evocators’ in the Phoenix chapter?”
“They don’t think highly of the practice, I have to admit. Though most who profess to have the ability are charlatans.”
Phoebe paused with a hunk of romaine on her fork. “Do you think I’m a charlatan?”
“I haven’t seen your work, so I have no basis upon which to make such a judgment. But your sister’s talent as a witch is impressive. I imagine your talent must be every bit as much so.”
“Well, I don’t do it to impress anyone. I do it because I can, and people seem to need it.”
“By people, you mean shades.”
“You don’t think shades are people?”
“I think they were people. But I think letting them cling to what they were can be dangerous. For both the shade and the evocator.” He paused and looked up from his lunch, giving Phoebe a perfect million-dollar smile. “But I’m willing to keep my mind open to other possibilities.” It was more than Ione or the rest of the local Covent had ever done. Carter took another meticulous bite while Phoebe pondered and chewed. “Have you ever encountered a hostile shade?”
“Hostile?” She swallowed her bite. “No, I wouldn’t say hostile. A few who were angry and confused at first.” And of course there was Lila, who’d tried to feed her to a snake last night to appease some Aztec god. “What do you think of Rafe’s—Mr. Diamante’s situation?”
Carter set down his sandwich and took a sip of his Perrier. “As his legal counsel, I have to believe he’s sincere in his account of what happened. Whether his suspicions are correct about how it happened, I can’t say.”
“But you think it’s possible. That a shade might have stepped into him without his knowledge.”
“Possible? Absolutely. Whether such testimony would be admissible in court is another matter. Of course, everything Rafael has told me is confidential, so all of this is merely hypothetical, you understand.”
Phoebe nodded and swallowed a mouthful of salad. “Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Carter touched her arm. “I didn’t think you were prying. Just reminding myself, really. You’re easy to talk to. I find I’m forgetting myself.” He regarded her for a moment. “Can I ask you something personal?”
Phoebe pushed lettuce around in her plastic clamshell. “Fire away.”
“Is there a reason you aren’t a member of the Covent? Other than the obvious philosophical differences, of course.”
“Yes, there is.” Phoebe smiled. “I’m not a witch.”
“So you don’t believe the animating forces of nature have a spiritual component.”
“I’ve never been big on spirituality. I believe in science.”
“Yet as an accomplished evocator, you work with spirit beings.”
Phoebe shrugged. “I suppose I consider magic to be just another facet of science. The flip side, if you will. I don’t attribute it to any god.”
“Some might attribute it to the flip side of a god.”
Her brows quirked upward. “The province of the Devil? Isn’t that considered heresy in the craft?”
Carter laughed with genuine amusement. “No, of course not the Devil. I was thinking along the lines of a goddess. Inanna or Astarte, for instance. Lilith.” He glanced at his conspicuously expensive watch. “I’m afraid I need to get back. But it was delightful talking with you, Phoebe—I hope I can call you Phoebe?”
He certainly had a way of making everything he said sound utterly sincere.
She smiled. “Of course.”
* * *
Upstairs, Carter paused before they went their separate ways. “I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again soon.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips and Phoebe blushed, not sure anyone had ever kissed her hand before.
“Phoebe?” The surprised voice was a deep baritone. Phoebe looked up to find Rafe staring at the two of them, dark brows drawn together in mistrust. “What’s going on?”
Carter let go of her hand and gave Rafe a placid smile. “Just lunching with Ms. Carlisle. We all have business in court today, as it happens.”
Phoebe glanced from Carter to Rafe. “You have business in court?”
Rafe looked grim. “Barbara Fisher’s death has officially been ruled a homicide. And I’m officially being arrested.”
Chapter 9 (#u66fc1625-a610-5aca-8fca-b44ccfdc7777)
Phoebe’s face was slightly flushed as she studied Rafe, as if he’d interrupted something more than lunch. Her surprise at the news, at least, seemed genuine.
Hamilton filled in the details Rafe had left out. “I was able to get Rafael an immediate arraignment hearing on the condition that he come in on his own. This is just a formality. We’ll be entering a not-guilty plea, of course. I’m completely confident he won’t be spending a moment in jail.”
Phoebe glanced from one man to the other. “I hope everything goes well.”
“I’m sure it will.” Rafe couldn’t help adding with a touch of bitterness, “When you’re my father’s son, things usually do.”
He couldn’t get the idea out of his head that Phoebe’s lunch with Hamilton was more than just business. Or had they been discussing Rafe’s case? Was that why she was blushing? Was that guilt? What other reason would Phoebe have for meeting with Rafe’s lawyer? He hadn’t slept well last night; maybe he was imagining things. It was probably just a social meeting like Hamilton said. So why did seeing Phoebe Carlisle with Carter Hamilton fill Rafe with such misgiving?
If he had any sense, the legal proceedings he was about to face should be filling him with much greater misgiving. In twenty minutes he’d be standing in front of a judge for his formal arraignment on a murder charge. Every step of this seemed surreal.
He realized he was still staring at the two of them as if he’d caught them in flagrante. Rafe addressed Phoebe, trying to ignore the unpleasant conviction that he was somehow being punked. “Have you had any more contact with the step-ins?”
She cast a sideways glance at Hamilton. “Briefly. We can talk later, if you like.”
Hamilton frowned. “If you have any information relevant to Rafael’s case, it’s important I’m kept apprised.”
“I’ll keep you apprised,” Rafe interrupted. “If there’s something I need you to know.”
Hamilton’s expression flickered with disapproval before settling back into the usual, neutral-yet-confident smile he must have learned in law school. “Of course. So long as there are no surprises that come up in the prelim. I don’t like surprises.”
“I’ll call you, Phoebe.” Rafe nodded to Hamilton. “I guess we’d better get this over with.”
* * *
Rafe thought perhaps his father would show up for the arraignment, but as the judge read the charge of second-degree murder, Rafael Sr. was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was avoiding the inevitable media swarm. Or maybe he just didn’t give a damn. After all, he’d thrown his money at the problem and he expected it to go away.
With his plea entered and bail posted, Rafe had seen enough of courts and lawyers to last him indefinitely, but Hamilton was sticking to him like an annoying lapdog.
“You’re going to need some help getting through the media gauntlet outside.” Hamilton followed close behind as Rafe headed downstairs. “Why don’t I have my car brought around to take you back to your place? I can have someone drop yours off later when things settle down.”
“I’m parked around the side.” Rafe pulled out the baseball cap he’d tucked into his back pocket and tugged it on as he headed for the exit. “I’m good.”
“I’ll follow you over, then.” Hamilton was still at his heels. “We can talk about strategy.”
Rafe sighed and turned around, palm in front of him to hold the lawyer at bay. “No offense, Hamilton, but all I want to do right now is have a drink. And maybe a smoke.”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t.”
“I see.” Hamilton gave him a patronizing smile. “We can’t really afford to get complacent right now—”
“That’s what my father is paying you the big bucks for. So why don’t you go be lawyerly somewhere and I’ll go do what my father thinks I do best—enjoy the fruits of his labor.”
Hamilton was speechless for once as Rafe put on his sunglasses and pushed open the doors. The reporters waiting outside for their scoop weren’t quick enough to identify him, focused on Hamilton trailing behind, and they mobbed the lawyer as he emerged, expecting him to precede their prey.
Rafe ducked out of the crowd and made a beeline for the side lot before they caught on. That was probably the last time that trick would work. In his rearview mirror, he saw one of the crews dash for their van to follow him as he pulled out.
As he drove toward Sedona, he remembered what Phoebe had said about being drawn to the temple when she’d come this way on Saturday. It would be empty today, and taking the private road to the temple grounds through the Covent’s glamour would leave his pursuers wondering how they’d lost him.
Sure enough, when he turned toward the white pinnacles of the temple, the news van drove on down Highway 179 toward town—and Stone Canyon, where they wouldn’t find him.
The oppressive feeling he’d noted during the ritual definitely still lingered as the tires of his Escalade rumbled over the brick pavement of the parking lot. The heaviness increased after he’d crossed the courtyard and entered the nave to approach the altar. If Matthew was dead as Rafe feared and his shade lingered here among those the ritual had trapped, perhaps Rafe could reach him with the conjuring spell.
Calming his nerves with a shot of bourbon from the flask in his pocket, Rafe set up the altar and undressed. He called the quarters first for protection, invoking Tezcatlipoca, god of night and invisible forces, as the Guardian of the North; Xipe Totec, god of force and rebirth, as the Guardian of the East; Huitzilopochtli, god of will and fire, as the Guardian of the South; and instead of Quetzalcoatl as Guardian of the West, he chose Chalchiuhtlicue of the Jade Skirt—goddess of rivers, seas and storms—for a more feminine aspect.
As he called upon Matthew’s spirit to join him, however, the tattoo on his back began to itch. He thought he’d imagined it two nights ago as a hypnagogic hallucination at the brink of sleep, but now he felt distinct movement under his skin—the movement of a snake.
Rafe turned to look over his shoulder in front of the small mirror above the altar. In the flickering flame of the temple candles, the ink was undulating, the scarlet scales of the serpent’s belly rippling over invisible terrain, reflected candlelight glittering off the teal and violet feathers as they fluttered in an unseen wind. Rafe touched his fingers to the ink. There was no doubt about it. Quetzalcoatl was moving.
He’d called on the guardians for protection. Maybe this vision of Quetzalcoatl’s image was a message from his patron god. But he’d never heard of such a thing.
After taking a few deep breaths, Rafe collected a dried cutting from the century plant in the entryway and returned to the altar. Whatever was happening, it was clearly magic, and he needed to channel it before it got out of hand.
“I call on Quetzalcoatl, Lord of the star of the dawn.” He pressed the thorns of the agave spine to his tongue, letting the pain give him clarity. The old way involved a more intimate body part, but Rafe was interested in symbolic sacrifice, not masochistic fanaticism.
As the blood rose around the thorns, he let it drip onto the dried edge of the spine, and then burned the clipping in the censer with the incense. “Invest me with your wisdom, O Ehecatl-Quetzalcoatl, god of wind and light. Accept my sacrifice—chalchiuatl from my own veins—as your divine sustenance.”
Invoking the wind-god aspect of Quetzalcoatl seemed to make the wind rise outside, the inner doors to the narthex rattling as though moved by it, though the outer doors were closed and locked. Gooseflesh raised along his skin, the hairs standing up, and something rushed him, a shade stepping into him. He thought for an instant it was Matthew, after all. But he’d felt this presence before. Jacob.
* * *
Branches whipped in the wind outside Phoebe’s front window as another monsoon storm began to brew above the brooding sandstone dome of Thunder Mountain. Over the sound of the wind, she heard the rumble of a truck on the gravel drive. Curled up in the papasan with a cup of tea and a paperback, Phoebe peered out, aggravated that someone would interrupt her moment of quiet. The black Escalade looked familiar, and it was definitely heading for her place. Phoebe lowered her cup. That was Rafe’s truck.
Puddleglum protested in his best throaty, mournful moan when she moved him from her lap, but he wasted no time taking her spot.
Phoebe set down the tea and went to the door, watching Rafe pull up in front of the carport. “What’s up?” She held the screen door open as he strode toward her with purpose. “Everything okay?”
When he arrived in front of her, Rafe pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard enough to have knocked her on her ass if he hadn’t been holding on to her.
With a sputter, Phoebe drew back from the unexpected greeting. “Are you feeling all right?” His eyes had a glossy, energized look.
“I’m wonderful.” With his arms still hooked around her lower back, he nuzzled her neck, making her shiver. “This vessel has everything I need.”
Not again. Phoebe peered into his eyes. “Jacob?”
His face fell, bottom lip protruding almost like a child’s disappointed pout. “You’re not my Lila.”
“No. And you have no business stepping into Rafe. If you want to talk to me, you talk to me. You don’t need to do it through him.”
Rafe’s arms dropped away from her. “He was willing.”
“I doubt that.” Phoebe regarded him expectantly, but Jacob only blinked at her through Rafe’s eyes. “Well? Are you going to release him?”
He folded his arms. “No.”
Phoebe sighed. Better to keep watch on him here than to leave Jacob on the loose with Rafe’s body, doing who knew what. “Then at least come inside.”
Whether of his own volition or at Jacob’s direction, Rafe stepped into the house—barefoot, she noted—and let Phoebe close the door. “Where’s Lila?” He touched Phoebe’s face, drawing his hand sensuously along her jaw. “She was here. Recently. You smell like her.”
“I smell like her?” He meant Lila as she’d been in life, obviously, but Phoebe grimaced at the idea of smelling like the dead.
“You have the look of her, as well. Maybe I can draw her in.”
Phoebe took a step back. “Or not. Why don’t we just talk? You could tell me what you know about the necromancer who’s been manipulating you. Rafe said you wanted his help to stop it.”
Rafe’s eyes regarded her. “Tezcatlipoca is very powerful, and he’ll become more powerful still because of Rafael Diamante.”
“Because of Rafe? Why? What does Rafe have to do with it?”
“He’s a conduit.” Jacob strolled farther into the house, touching the surfaces of things—the walls, Phoebe’s knickknacks—running his fingers over them as if it were a luxury to be able to feel things through Rafe’s skin. Which it probably was. Phoebe tried not to think about what else those fingers had touched at Jacob’s direction.
“A conduit for what? Not for shades? Is he a...an evocator? Like I am?” It seemed unlikely Rafe could have gone this long without being aware of such an innate skill.
Jacob’s eyes narrowed, studying Phoebe with renewed interest. “No. Not an evocator. A conduit for energy. He bears the mark of the ancients.” Jacob began to unbutton Rafe’s crisp white shirt with slow, sensuous movements.
“Jacob. What are you doing?”
He turned and continued down the hall. The shirt fell from his shoulders and slipped down his arms to the floor, revealing the magnificent tattoo of Quetzalcoatl, wings flexing as Rafe’s arms swung easily with his gait.
Phoebe couldn’t take her eyes off the ink. “Where are you going?” She raised her voice as he disappeared into her bedroom. Great. That was all she needed. Half-naked Rafe Diamante in her room, possessed by the shade of a smooth-voiced Lothario. “Jacob.” No answer.
She followed him against her better judgment. If she could keep him talking, she might be able to discover the identity of the necromancer. In the dusky half-light of her room, Rafe—or Jacob, rather—reclined on her bed with his hands clasped behind his head. The position displayed his pecs to maximum advantage. Man, this guy was like a catnip mouse to her inner Puddleglum.
Phoebe leaned against the door frame. “If the necromancer is so powerful, why does he need Rafe’s energy?”
“How do you think the powerful become what they are? By taking the power of others.” Jacob ran Rafe’s tongue over his bottom lip and Phoebe felt her own lips clamping shut on a frustrated mewl. “Come here and I’ll tell you more.”
“I’m not going to give you Lila. I can’t, even if I wanted to. She’s not here. I don’t sense her anywhere nearby.”
“I know you want this man.”
Good grief. If Rafe was hearing this... Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe he’d have another memory lapse with Jacob taking such complete control.
“Phoebe Carlisle.” Rafe’s voice sounded so ordinary as he spoke her name she thought Jacob had left him suddenly.
Phoebe opened her eyes and took a step toward the bed. “Rafe?”
“He desires you, as well.”
“Dammit, Jacob. That’s enough.”
Jacob lifted Rafe’s shoulders in a shrug. “I’m only telling you what this body is telling me.” His eyes flicked downward and back at Phoebe, just enough to draw her gaze to the obvious erection in Rafe’s jeans.
Phoebe yanked her gaze away, heat radiating off her skin. “I thought you wanted to tell me about the necromancer. Does he have a name?”
“Tezcatlipoca.” Him again. “That’s the name he calls himself. It’s a stolen name. He imagines himself a god.”
“And the reason he wants Rafe’s power is because of Rafe’s affinity for the Aztec deities? His family’s ancestry?”
“His family’s legacy.” Jacob withdrew his arms from the headboard and leaned forward. “Come. I’ll show you.” She’d heard that one before. Jacob turned away, looking over Rafe’s shoulder. “Touch the serpent.”
Phoebe let out a sharp laugh. She’d definitely heard that one before.
Jacob smiled. “I don’t mean anything by it. It’s the source of his power.”
Phoebe’s eyes threatened to fall right out of her head, they were rolling so hard at the double entendres. But Jacob merely waited, his hands propped to one side as if in a yoga pose. Quetzalcoatl’s feathery scales did seem rather luminous despite the low light in the room.
She closed the space between them, sitting on the edge of the bed so she could reach Rafe’s back, and placed her hand against the tattoo. It was oddly cool, though his flesh was warm. And Rafe smelled like the coming rain. His muscles rippled under her hand. Only it wasn’t muscle. It was the tattoo.
“What the hell?” Phoebe drew back, but Jacob caught her wrist and tugged her into his lap.
“The quetzal awakens, charmed by the evocator. And it will soon take flight.”
“Let go of me, Jacob.” She managed to rise onto her knees, straddling Rafe’s muscular thighs as she tried to climb off and tangling her skirt in the process, but the grip on her arm was like steel. He pulled her down closer. Between her thighs, she could feel Rafe’s heat against hers—nothing between Phoebe’s flesh and his jeans but the thinnest of microfiber. “I don’t think Lila would approve of this.” Her lungs seemed to be having trouble taking in a full breath of air.
“I can’t help what this body feels. What it desires.” He bucked lightly against her, and Phoebe knew he could feel how damp her panties were. The last time she and Rafe had been this close, she’d been in the grip of Lila’s control, unable to exert her own will. Now she had complete control over her own faculties. And she was moving in tandem with the gentle rise and fall of Rafe’s pelvis.
What was she doing? It was one thing to have entertained even for a second the thought of bargaining her body to Lila in exchange for the necromancer’s identity, or to have indulged in the fantasy of having Rafe at the mercy of Jacob’s desire for her. But she couldn’t participate in this—whatever this was—no matter how hard up she was.
Rafe’s lips were against her throat.
“Rafe.” Her voice came out hoarsely. “You have to tell Jacob to go.” He paused in his caress. “I know you can hear me in there. It’s your body. Tell him to leave.”

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