Waking The Serpent
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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
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.