Waking The Serpent
“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
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
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.”