by Jane Kindred
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
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 s
hut 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.