Waking the Serpent Page 3

  “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.