by Jane Kindred
“Not at all. It’s refreshing.” Carter’s smile put her at ease. “And if you’re at all uncomfortable with the idea of staying here, I’d be happy to pay for a cab to get you home. You can pick up your car tomorrow.”
She really was being silly. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Phoebe smiled and drank the amaro. “And I am enjoying this. I’ve never had an amaro before.”
Carter smiled. “I’m a big fan of taking advantage of whatever amenities a place has to offer.”
“Makes sense to me.” The room seemed to sway away from her a little as she set the glass aside.
He reached for her with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I think that may have been one too many, after all.”
“Why don’t you lie down on the couch for a bit? You can take a little nap and then decide if you’re up to the drive home or a cab later.” Carter eased her back against the throw pillows propped in front of the arm of the couch.
Phoebe started to tell him she was fine but the pull of the horizontal seemed to override her planned response. “Maybe just for a minute.” She closed her eyes, sinking into the comfortable loft of the pillows. Soft, warm fabric drifted over her as Carter covered her with a blanket. “Sorry to be such...lame company.”
* * *
A moment of disorientation struck when she opened her eyes, unable to remember where she’d gone to sleep. The room didn’t look familiar and she couldn’t place what time it was. Phoebe sat up in the unfamiliar bed, groggy and nursing a throbbing headache.
“Ah, you’ve joined the land of the living.”
She turned to find Carter Hamilton seated at a desk with a laptop. This was a hotel room. Carter’s hotel room.
“How long was I out?” The sound of her own voice in her head made her cringe.
“About fifteen hours.”
“What? What time is it?”
“A little after one.”
Phoebe threw off the covers and realized she was in her bra and underwear.
“Before you ask, you undressed yourself. My chivalrous instinct was to let you continue to sleep in your clothes, but you insisted they’d get wrinkled.” Carter smiled. “You were pretty out of it. I had to prod you off the couch around midnight and lead you in here so you wouldn’t get a stiff neck.”
She’d never gotten so drunk that she’d blacked out before. “I don’t know what to say. I’m really embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. You obviously needed the sleep.” He rose and closed his laptop with a nod toward the closet. “I hung up your clothes in there.”
Phoebe discovered the clothes weren’t just hanging up—they’d been laundered and pressed. Talk about service. She stepped into the bathroom after she’d slipped on the blouse and skirt, taking a few minutes to smooth down her hair with some water and splash some on her face. Her eyes were puffy and red and she looked like she’d been wrestling alligators all night, but she was as decent as she was going to get.
Her phone lay on the table next to the bed. Phoebe clicked the button to see if she’d missed any calls, but it didn’t respond. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d charged it.
When Phoebe came out, footage of a sheet-draped body being wheeled out of a house appeared on the muted television, a picture of a smiling Monique in the corner of the frame.
Carter nodded at the screen. “They’re ruling it a suicide. Looks like she overdosed. Apparently she posted on her Facebook account shortly before she took the pills that there was only ‘one way out of this mess’ and apologized to her friends and family for disappointing them.”
It seemed like a reasonable conclusion. If one didn’t consider Barbara’s warning.
* * *
A car she didn’t recognize was parked in her drive when she arrived home. Phoebe parked behind it and got out warily, expecting to be waylaid by reporters or cameras, but there was no sign of anyone hanging around. When she headed up the walk, however, her front door opened. Phoebe’s adrenaline spiked until she saw it was Rafe.
Anger replaced the rush of fear. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday afternoon, but your phone rolls straight to voice mail.”
“So you thought you should just break and enter since I wasn’t returning your calls?”
“I thought something had happened to you. I came by to check on you—no easy feat sneaking out of Stone Canyon unnoticed, by the way, so you’re welcome—and when I saw Puddleglum meowing inside with an empty dish, I climbed in the kitchen window, expecting to find you dead on the floor somewhere.”
“Oh, damn. Puddleglum.” Phoebe hurried inside past him to find Puddleglum curled up in the papasan chair having a bath and looking quite pleased with himself. And extremely disdainful of her.
“I fed him,” said Rafe as he closed the door. “I’m not completely bereft of good judgment.”
Phoebe’s brow flicked upward at his choice of words. “Thanks for looking out for him. And me.”
“So, what happened? I saw footage from the courthouse yesterday on the news. Where have you been?”
“Carter got me out of there and I had dinner at his hotel. I had a little too much to drink so I ended up staying the night.” She blushed as she realized how that sounded. “I mean, I was in no condition to drive. I passed out on the couch.” Was it her imagination or had Rafe’s jaw tightened at the idea of her spending the night with Carter? “Anyway, I guess my phone died.”
“Oh.” Rafe seemed to realize his posture was contentious and he relaxed his stance with a glance around the room. “Seems like I may have overreacted. I just thought...what with the nagual and the aggressive reporters, I imagined the worst.”
Despite the fact that he’d gone a little off the rails, his concern was touching. Extra points for his concern for Puddleglum.
Rafe threaded his fingers through the hair at his crown. “Sorry to hear about your client. I saw on the news this morning it was a suicide. As horrible as that is, after learning about her connection with Barbara Fisher, I was relieved to hear it wasn’t murder.”
“I’m not so sure it wasn’t.” Phoebe hadn’t meant to tell him about her step-in experience with Barbara, but after everything that had happened, she found herself wanting to tell someone. Maybe if she left out the shade’s identity... “I had a visit from a shade yesterday.”
Rafe’s ears went a little pink. “One of our...friends?”
“No, it was someone who knew Monique Hernandez. The shade said something that made me think Monique may have been manipulated by a step-in into taking her own life. She referred to something called ‘ride-alongs.’”
“Ride-alongs?”
“Monique was caught up in some kind of prostitution ring that included cops and government officials. And it sounded like there were step-ins involved.”
“Involved?” Rafe frowned. “As in...stepping into the prostitutes?”
“Or the clients. It wasn’t clear. The shade was pretty agitated. But I got the impression there was no getting out of the arrangement for the girls—not even through death.”
Rafe looked ill. “You mean someone’s compelling shades to...?”
“Keep working.” Phoebe shuddered. “Yeah. I know. Do you think it could all be part of the same thing? Could the necromancer be behind the ride-alongs?”
“He’d almost have to be, wouldn’t he? Unless there’s a rash of unaffiliated magical practitioners taking advantage of the dead in Sedona.” Rafe rubbed at his stubble. “If Barbara was involved in it, she might have even been working for him. Connecting me with the shades could have been a setup from the start.”
“Except Ernesto said they’d come to warn you. That Barbara was a weak evocator.”
“He could have been lying.” Rafe
sighed. “Well, this all gives me food for thought. I’ve been reading through some journals my father kept, trying to find out about this ‘quetzal’ power the shades keep mentioning. I haven’t come across anything concrete, but there’s definitely some family legacy involving the Aztec pantheon. If I could figure out how all this fits together, maybe I’d be able to come up with a motive for the necromancer’s actions. And then I’d be one step closer to figuring out who he is and putting a stop to it.”
Phoebe nodded, though putting a stop to the necromancer’s enterprise was starting to seem like an extremely ambitious goal. Her head began to throb again. From Rafe’s reaction, it must have been obvious in her expression.
“I should get going before the reporters catch on to my ruse.” He pulled a cable company cap out of his back pocket and put it on, tugging his ponytail through the loop at the back. Rafe stepped into the entryway and turned toward the door. “Sorry about the misunderstanding. And the breaking and entering.” He gave her a contrite grin. “Charge your phone.”
Phoebe smiled. “Yeah, I’ll do that.” She walked him to the door, conscious of the unspoken awkwardness still between them surrounding his transgression with Jacob and the admission he’d made to her afterward. “Rafe.”
He paused on the gravel walkway and looked back. There was something absurdly endearing about that cap.
“I can’t tell you for certain how I would have reacted if you’d been honest with me the other night, and I guess we’ll never know.” She leaned against the door frame, holding the screen door closed to make sure Puddleglum didn’t try to make a dash for it. “But I can tell you—knowing what I know now—it wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for me.”
Rafe’s forehead wrinkled, maybe from squinting at the sunlight hitting him directly as the shadows from the house began to narrow on the path, or maybe because he couldn’t make out what Phoebe was trying to say.
She stood on one foot, scratching the back of her calf with the toe of her sandal. “I mean, it isn’t a deal-breaker. In case you were wondering.”
His eyes widened, despite the glare of the sun. “Oh.” Rafe gave her a tentative smile. “Well, that’s...definitely more food for thought.”
“Any other undisclosed involvement with shades, on the other hand, is a definite deal-breaker.” She wanted to make sure he knew he wasn’t off the hook.
The smile faded and he nodded soberly. “Right. You have my word.”
“Okay. Well...just wanted to put that out there. Talk to you later.” Phoebe closed the door and leaned back against it, her face flushing with heat as she realized she’d essentially just propositioned Rafe Diamante. On the other hand, he hadn’t seemed to mind.
Chapter 17
When Phoebe’s phone had charged up enough to restart, she found three messages from Rafe, along with half a dozen texts expressing increasing concern. She smiled as she read through them. It was kind of nice to have someone worry about her. The Public Defender’s Office had also left an urgent message asking her to call in. Her head was still fuzzy, but she had the sinking feeling she’d missed a consultation with a client or a meeting with a prosecutor. Or worse, a court date.
She called and got Sylvia, the receptionist. “Hey, Syl. It’s Phoebe Carlisle. I got a message—”
“Hang on.” That didn’t bode well. Sylvia was normally a sweetheart. The hold music came on for a minute before Sylvia clicked back onto the line. “Mr. Arbogast wants to speak with you. I’ll connect you.” The hangover headache started to throb.
“Ms. Carlisle.” That really did not bode well. They were usually on a first-name basis.
Phoebe decided to pretend she didn’t notice. “Hi, Bob. My phone’s been on the fritz and I just got it charged up. Anything wrong?”
“I would have preferred to talk about this in person, but that’s actually the heart of the matter.”
Phoebe swallowed. “The heart of what matter?”
“You’ve become a distraction at the courthouse. I’m not making any judgments about your personal life, but when it begins to affect this office, that’s a problem.”
“I understand things have been awkward.” Phoebe rolled her eyes at the understatement. “I can’t apologize enough. But I can promise you I’m taking every precaution to make sure I don’t find myself in a position for the media to take further advantage. I think if we just give it a few days—”
“There have also been some questions about potential conflicts of interest.”
Phoebe’s stomach did a nauseating flip.
“I’m sure you’re right and this will blow over, but in light of the allegations, I’m afraid I’m going to have to reassign your outstanding cases until further notice.” Arbogast sighed. “You’re a good attorney, Phoebe. I’d hate to see something like this damage your career. But I’m obligated to act in the best interests of the Public Defender’s Office and in our clients’ best interests.”
Tears were prickling behind her eyes and Phoebe shook them away in irritation. He’d taken her under his wing when she’d first started, and she felt like she was disappointing her own father. “I understand.”
“I hope so, Ms. Carlisle.” Things had gotten formal again. “I really hope you can resolve your...publicity issues.”
She sank into the couch as she tossed the phone back onto the table to finish charging. Fabulous. Because who needed to pay a mortgage or eat? Maybe it was time to hang out her shingle as a medium. There was an opening in Sedona, after all.
Phoebe sighed. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and the weather had been sticky lately, not to mention she’d been nervous-sweating when the cameras had converged on her at the courthouse. She headed for the shower, undressing as she went, but paused before the mirror as she slipped off her bra. There was a reddish mark on her right breast that almost looked like a hickey. Her skin went clammy and she was shaking as she finished undressing. There was nothing else, no bruises, no reason to think anything sinister about the mark. She’d probably caught her skin in the strap of the bra at some point and just hadn’t noticed because her senses had been dulled with drink.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had happened last night. Surely, Carter would have said something if things had gotten physical between them. Could she have had that much to drink that she wouldn’t remember?
She huddled under the shower with the temperature almost scalding. She’d had an experience in college with a friend—or someone she’d thought was a friend—slipping something into her drink at a party. Her roommate had walked in on Phoebe’s “friend” undressing her while she lay unconscious on her bunk and had booted his ass from the dormitory permanently. Phoebe had been lucky nothing worse had happened, but the feeling of violation had stuck with her for a long time afterward. She was feeling that now.
She had no real proof anything had happened, only the gut feeling. And whatever might have happened, she was sure she hadn’t been raped—at least not in the textbook definition of the term. But she had a growing conviction Carter Hamilton had lured her to his hotel with less than altruistic motives and had either gotten her drunk on purpose or given her something in her drink to knock her out. And she was certain now she hadn’t undressed herself and crawled into bed on her own.
No amount of scalding water was going to make that feeling go away.
She considered as she dressed whether she ought to confront Carter, but she knew how that would go. Her college “friend” had denied everything when she’d confronted him, even to her roommate’s face, despite the fact that the roommate had caught him in the act. Men like that were pathological, able to convince themselves they had a right to women’s bodies, especially women they deemed “stupid enough” to lower their inhibitions in their presence—stupid enough to trust them, in other words—and those they felt owed them something by virtue
of having gone on a date with them, or having gone to their room, home...or hotel.
After realizing she’d been staring at nothing for several minutes, seated on the edge of her bed, Phoebe picked up her phone, fully charged now, and thought about calling one of the twins. But it wasn’t fair to dump something like this on them. It would only make them worry when there was nothing they could do about it.
But she could talk to Rafe.
His last message was still open in the app, his concern for her evident. But Carter was his lawyer. And from everything she’d heard, he was an excellent one. Phoebe couldn’t risk damaging that relationship when Rafe’s life might hang in the balance. She clicked the messaging app shut.
* * *
Rafe had a nagging feeling Phoebe wasn’t telling him the whole truth about spending the night at Hamilton’s hotel, but he hadn’t expected the visceral reaction the suspicion prompted. His heart thudded in his chest like he was in a physical fight, his gut tightening and his fists clenching.
It even seemed to set the tattoo off. He hadn’t felt the ink moving for the past day or two, but it was undulating through his skin right now. Rafe had the distinct impression the serpent itself—or dragon, as the compendium called it—was riled with jealousy. On the other hand, it was entirely possible Rafe was losing his mind. The fact that he was beginning to think of his own tattoo as a separate entity wasn’t exactly a healthy sign.
But he also couldn’t stop thinking about the necromancer’s nagual outside Phoebe’s house. She wasn’t safe. He knew that with certainty. And it was because of him. So he was going to have to do something about it.
Mindful of the intrusion of the coyote’s image into his last spell-casting, Rafe was careful not to mention Tezcatlipoca this time. He invoked Quetzalcoatl and immediately felt the power of the quetzal moving through his ink. Using a figure of Xochiquetzal, goddess of female sexuality, as his centerpiece on the altar to represent Phoebe, he cast a spell of protection around her.
“Surround her, O Quetzalcoatl, O Ehecatl, with your enveloping wind, keeping all harm from her.” As he spoke the name of the wind-god aspect of Quetzalcoatl, the wind outside picked up once again, rattling the French doors that opened onto the garden. Whether this was resistance from the necromancer or just a coincidence, he doubled his efforts, adding a symbolic blood sacrifice as he had the time the tattoo first became activated.