Chapter 2

      Rafe Diamante wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Waiting for him in an interrogation room, Phoebe had been picturing a man in his sixties with a beer belly and a receding hairline. Apparently she was thinking of his father. This Rafe Diamante was perhaps thirty, tall, hard and lean—a fact accentuated by the white T-shirt hugging his abs—his skin a deep coppery brown, as though he worked the construction sites himself. Far from a receding hairline, he had a rich, dark head of hair with a wavy curl to it, tied back in a short ponytail, while penetrating brown eyes glowered at Phoebe from under some serious eyebrows. Damn. He could excavate at her place any time.

      When he spoke, the illusion of hotness was shattered. “You’re Phoebe Carlisle? Un-fucking-believable.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “You’re a goddamn Girl Scout.”

      Dropping the hand she’d extended when he was escorted in, Phoebe sat across from him, taking her tablet out of her bag and flipping the cover open before making a point of tugging her bouncy ponytail tighter behind her head. “I made Cadette, actually. But the uniform doesn’t really fit anymore and I got stuck on the goddamn deportment badge.”

      Diamante wasn’t amused. “Do you even have a law degree?”

      “Mr. Diamante, I’m an assistant public defender. You don’t get that position without having a law degree and having passed the bar. But I’m quite certain you’re aware of that. You’re the one who called me, if you remember.”

      He folded his arms—such an impressive display of his biceps she almost expected him to beat his chest—and deepened his glower. “You were recommended to me.”

      “So you said. I have to confess, Mr. Diamante, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t already have a lawyer who represents your family and your business—someone who I’m sure has the requisite gray hair to satisfy your age requirement. And a penis.”

      The corner of his mouth twitched and his glower warmed as if he would have smiled if he wasn’t concentrating so hard on being on the offensive—a tiny sign he might not be a complete douche. “I can’t use my family’s lawyer. It’s complicated. But I can certainly afford exceptional legal counsel. Your recommendation, however, involved a specific unique skill.”

      It was Phoebe’s turn to stifle a mouth twitch. “What skill would that be?”

      “I was told you’re...” Diamante paused and the tips of his ears turned an adorable pink. “A step-in.”

      Her amusement at his boyish blush dissipated instantly. Phoebe flipped the cover back onto her tablet as she rose. She remembered now why his name seemed familiar. It wasn’t just the construction signs. The outline of his pendant was visible under the shirt—she’d been thinking it was some kind of saint medallion. It was a pentacle. He belonged to her sister’s coven.

      “A step-in, Mr. Diamante, as you well know, is an unanchored shade. Not the vehicle. That’s an offensive term for someone who does what I do, and I won’t sit here and put up with your bigoted insults just because you’ve gotten yourself into some kind of metaphysical bind and can’t use Daddy’s money to get you out of it.”

      Phoebe turned on her heel and headed for the door, anger at Ione making the blood pound in her ears. Ione had never had any respect for her younger sister, imagining herself morally superior because she had the backing of a group of twelve equally uptight jerks behind her. And now she had the gall to tell this rich-boy witch Phoebe could defend him because he’d murdered a psychic?

      “Wait. Ms. Carlisle.” Diamante rose and came around the table, grasping for her arm before she could open the door.

      Phoebe moved out of his reach with a smooth sidestep and turned the handle, facing him as she did a quick twist to go through the door. “I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding another lawyer with your charming personality.” The multilayered insult was probably lost on him.

      “Not one who can talk to the people I’m trying to help.”

      Phoebe paused. “What people?”

      “The shades.”

      He was full of crap. “Exactly how would someone of your affiliation be helping shades? I think you’re confusing ‘help’ with ‘persecute.’”

      “I don’t share the majority opinion of the Covent.”

      The name always annoyed her. They couldn’t just use “coven” like normal people. They had to be snooty about it.

      Diamante was unconsciously rubbing the pentacle through his shirt—an unfortunately sexy quirk. “If you’d come back in and close the door, I’ll be more candid. And I apologize. I didn’t realize that was an offensive term.” He looked annoyed, as though he’d never needed to apologize before. Which strained credulity.

      Phoebe stepped back inside and shut the door, leaning against it with her briefcase in front of her as if to ward off any underhanded spell-casting. “All right. I’m listening.”

      “To the rest of the Covent, I’m a warlock. An ‘oath-breaker.’ I was working with Barbara Fisher to communicate with shades. It goes against the Covent’s creed.”

      “No kidding.” Despite her skepticism, Phoebe couldn’t help but be intrigued. She hadn’t pegged Diamante for a spiritual maverick. “If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t really look like the type to buck the system.” If anything, he looked like the type who owned the system.

      Diamante slipped his hands into his pockets. “My little brother died a few years ago. Broke into one of my father’s construction sites to party after his senior prom and fell to his death trying to impress some girl. His shade visited me.” He’d been glancing down as he spoke, but he looked up and met Phoebe’s eyes. “I insisted on crossing him over. He didn’t want to go. He seemed confused, not understanding he’d died, but I stuck to the strict doctrine and cast the crossing spell. I exorcised my own brother from the mortal plane. And he was sobbing and begging for mercy when he went.”

      “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,