Waking The Serpent. Jane Kindred
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crazy cat ladies, providing motives and inner dialogue for Puddleglum as a sad testament to having no life. Nah. That was totally what he was thinking.
“At least you don’t bolt in horror if you accidentally see me naked.” Because there was nothing weird about having a one-sided conversation with her cat. Not that talking to herself was new. It had taken her until fifth grade to realize no one else had “guests” stepping into them to ask questions—out loud, through their mouths. She’d developed coping mechanisms, becoming a theater geek so she could pass off her random changes of voice and non-sequiturs as doing impressions or rehearsing lines.
Ione had teased her mercilessly, thinking Phoebe was just a weird kid, while the twins, Theia and Rhea, five years younger, were immersed in their own private language—and what often seemed to be their own private world. Then Ione had taken an apprenticeship with the Covent, leaving Phoebe to her own devices. Luckily, being on her own was something she’d always excelled at. She’d had to. By the time she went off to college, it had become second nature to have step-ins wander in and out—which wasn’t exactly conducive to friendships or romantic relationships.
Despite the delicate balance on the edge of consent, she’d sometimes enjoyed the company. But she’d also resented it, being at the beck and call of the dead because no one else was ever listening. It had made her cautious about letting anyone get close. And it had also made her protective of the shades.
But the step-ins last night—she’d never experienced anything so overwhelming, never had one direct her own actions against her will. Though maybe the will part was the problem. Maybe she hadn’t been entirely resistant on some deeper level. Or some not-so-deep level. She hadn’t been touched, after all, since...well, in an embarrassingly long time. Or maybe it had been the wine.
And maybe she could come up with a million other excuses for being so easily controlled by Lila. The fact remained that her engine had already been revving for Rafe Diamante without the influence of the step-in. Lila had just stepped on the gas pedal. And floored it.
Phoebe opened the broom closet and chucked the candle viscera into the trash, cringing as she recalled how Rafe had looked as if he’d sobered up in the middle of a “coyote” date. “Yeah, well, you’re not so hot, Rafe Diamante. Bet you were a dork in high school.”
“Sorry?”
With a sharp inhalation, Phoebe swallowed the gum she’d been chewing to keep the morning-after nausea at bay, narrowly missing her windpipe. She whirled around to find Rafe Diamante standing on the other side of the screen door.
Rafe’s heart sped up a little just at the way she moved. This was starting to seem like a worse idea than it had before.
Phoebe stood poised in the open arch between the kitchen and the living room, limbs smooth and supple in a light-blue ribbed tank and a pair of curve-hugging cutoffs, the ponytail clipped high and swooping over backward. “How long have you been lurking out there?”
“Not lurking.” He held up her tablet. “You left this at the jail yesterday and I forgot to give it to you.”
“Oh. Wow.” Phoebe came to the door and opened it to accept the tablet. “I thought I’d never see that again. Thanks. You’ve saved me a lot of time and aggravation.” She held it awkwardly inside her folded arms, as if aware of the effect the skin-hugging fabric was having on him. “Did you want to come in?” It was obviously an invitation he was meant to refuse.
“No, I just came to...” He paused, distracted by what he thought he’d heard. “Were you talking to me just now? I thought you said my name.”
“To you?” Phoebe gave him a look that said he was full of himself. “I was just working with a step-in. Some dead cheerleader or something. She was kind of incoherent.”
“Oh.” Rafe ran a hand over the thick waves of his hair, kept manageable in a short tail at his nape. “Anyway, I wanted to apologize for what happened last night, and to make sure you were all right.”
Phoebe stared him down. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Rafe pocketed his hands. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “I should have stayed to see that you were. You were pretty shaky on your feet. And I think maybe I’m the reason things got so...weird.” Her cheeks flushed pink and he hurried on. “I think it was the invocations I used.”
“The invocations?”
“To the Aztec deities. The Lord and Lady of the Underworld. I think it may have created a double channeling—you channeling the shades and the shades channeling Mictlantecuhtli and Mictecacihuatl. They’re more chaotic, passionate gods than the usual pantheon invoked in the craft. A lot of practitioners stay away from them because of the darker history they became associated with, but I’ve always felt drawn to their primal archetypes. I never thought their history mattered. I assumed the symbolism invoked by the deeper mind was important, and not the specific energy it raised. At any rate, I feel responsible, and I just wanted to say that.” He reached into the back pocket of his khakis for his checkbook. “I still want to pay for your time last night. And don’t worry. I won’t be bothering you for any further help contacting the shades. I’ll figure something out. What’s your hourly rate?”
Phoebe’s eyes darkened from periwinkle to violet and she pushed the screen door wide. “Don’t write me a check standing on my porch.” Her smile seemed forced. “People will talk. Come in and sit down for a minute. I’ll get you a lemonade.”
Rafe hesitated but decided he’d seem like more of a jerk if he said no. He stepped inside, surveying the stained wood of the wax-encrusted coffee table as he sat on the couch while Phoebe went to the kitchen. “I should have put foil under the candles.”
Phoebe grabbed some glasses from her dish rack and took a pitcher out of the fridge. “I should have put them out instead letting them burn down into a soup.”
“You were in the bath. I should have put them out when I left.”
“I—” Phoebe came around the bar with two glasses of lemonade and cocked her head. “Wait, whose turn is it again? Does one of us win a prize if we manage to be the most self-effacing?”
“I wasn’t trying to be self-effacing—”
“Man, I don’t have the energy for ‘who’s more defensive.’ Besides, I think you’d win that one hands down.”
Rafe scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smirked as if he’d proved her point. “You seem to be taking all of this personally, like your honor’s in question. It was an awkward night, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Let’s call it a learning experience and move on.”
This had definitely been a bad idea. Rafe stood, feeling large and awkward in her cozy living room. “You can mail me an invoice.”
“Jesus, Diamante. Just drink the damn lemonade. Fresh squeezed.” Phoebe shoved a glass at him. He was out of his element here. “It’s okay to be freaked out by what happened last night. It freaked me out a little, too. But let’s not make any hasty decisions just because it was uncomfortable. You’re facing a murder charge, and the evidence is stacked against you. If we set some ground rules for the shades next time we summon them, we can avoid any surprises.”
The condensation-damp glass nearly slipped from his hand. “Next time? You’d actually consider doing that again? Knowing the risk?”
“You said they wanted your help. It doesn’t seem like they’d be deliberately contrary if we make the rules clear and tell them they have to abide by them to get what they want.”
Perhaps the shades Phoebe was used to dealing with weren’t contrary, but he had a feeling she hadn’t dealt with any like these before. These shades had a history. That much, at least, Rafe could explain.