Waking the Serpent

by Jane Kindred

  “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

  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 circl
ed 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 t
o 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...?”