shrugged off the unpleasant memory with a flippant comment before she could stop herself. “So they won’t acquit.” Phoebe stared wide-eyed into her glass at her stupidity as she finished her wine. “Sorry. Sometimes I have an infantile urge to say whatever pops into my head.” She set the glass on the coffee table and tried to act more like a normal person. “I’m still not quite sure how you expect me to help you, Mr. Diamante.”
“Please—call me Rafe.”
Phoebe returned his smile despite herself. “Rafe.” Crap. He was charming. “I’m not a medium. I can’t just call on a shade. They come to me on their own.” It occurred to her she ought to disclose that one shade in particular had come to her this afternoon. But perhaps it would be better to keep that to herself. The shade hadn’t stayed long enough to confirm it was Barbara Fisher or to give any indication of her killer’s identity, but if Diamante—Rafe—had done it under the control of a step-in, Barbara could identify him. Which could make things awkward for Phoebe if he knew.
“But they trust you. The ones you’ve dealt with. As I understand it, you have something of a reputation with them.”
“If you mean they know to come to me, I suppose they do. Or maybe they try several people until they find someone who’s receptive. I don’t really know. I’ve never asked.”
“But the point is, they might come to you. The ones I was communicating with.”
“I suppose so.”
“And if they did, would I be able to talk to them? I mean, would you be able to talk to me—as the shade?”
Phoebe sat back. “They don’t usually communicate with anyone else through me, just to me.” Though that was more Phoebe’s choice than the will of the shades. “Usually they come to me because they’re confused and don’t understand what’s happened to them. Or because they want my help finding someone or something. I’m sort of like an afterlife private detective.” She grimaced and added, “Except my clients are all pro bono.”
“Well, I could pay you.” Rafe finally took a sip of his wine. “I’ll give you the same hourly rate you charge for legal consultation. And as you probably know from your sister, there are spells that can summon a shade.”
Just as her inner accountant was getting excited, anger flared inside her. “You mean entrapment spells. So you can force them to cross.”
Rafe had the grace to look embarrassed. “That’s what the Covent uses them for, yes. But the spell can be cast merely to bring them here. It doesn’t hurt the shade.”
“Here. As in now.” Phoebe narrowed her gaze. “That’s why you’re here.”
He nodded and took another sip. “Time is of the essence if I’m going to stop him and clear my name.”
“Stop whom?”
“Whoever it is that’s manipulating them. Whoever wanted to retain that power over them so desperately he was willing to silence Barbara Fisher.”
Phoebe studied his dark, intense eyes. Whether or not someone in Sedona was manipulating shades for nefarious purposes, Rafe Diamante obviously believed they were. And he seemed sincere in his respect for the shades’ autonomy. Unless the summoning spell wasn’t as harmless as he claimed.
“If you summon a shade and I find out it doesn’t want to be here—if any of this summoning process is against its will—my ‘consulting’ with you will be over. Is that clear?”
Rafe nodded, holding up his right hand with his thumb over his pinkie. “Scout’s honor.” The sudden warm smile accompanying the gesture distracted her. It took her a moment to make the connection with the comment he’d made when they’d met at the county jail.
“Oh...you were actually a Boy Scout. I was kidding when I said I was in the Scouts. I’m afraid I was never a Cadette.”
“Oh. Well, that’s embarrassing.” He dropped his hand to his side with an apologetic smile that was possibly even more endearing. “Sorry about my reaction earlier. I was having a pretty bad day.”
“I imagine you were.” It was impossible not to return the smile as she rose. “So what do you need for the spell?”
“I’m going to guess you don’t keep an altar yourself.” When Phoebe laughed, Rafe recited the ingredients without skipping a beat: “Three candles, preferably white, some incense—if you don’t have any, I can show you how to make something serviceable with your spice collection—a bowl of salt, a bowl of water and a libation.” He tapped his glass. “We’ve got the libation.”
Phoebe went to the kitchen and set out two condiment bowls. “Salt’s on the bar. And I’ve got the candles and incense somewhere around here.”
After fetching the supplies from the bedroom, she returned to find Rafe stripping off his shirt. A tattoo of a colorful winged serpent adorned his back, the ink in vivid shades of an almost iridescent blue-green and violet with a deep scarlet red down the breast of the creature, its wings spanning both broad shoulders.
Phoebe clutched the candles to her chest. “Whoa.”
Rafe turned as he pulled the shirt over his head, ears reddening at the tips. “Sorry. I should have asked first. It’s easier to spell-cast without fabric—and this fabric is freezing. But I can put it back on.” He was halfway to doing it.
“No, it’s fine. I should have offered to dry it for you anyway.” Phoebe set the candles and incense on the coffee table and held out her hand to take the shirt. “It was just—unexpected. And I was admiring your tattoo.”
“Oh. Quetzalcoatl.” His expression took on an element of defiant pride, as if he expected to have to defend his choice of body art. “I forget he’s there since I can’t see it without a bit of acrobatics.” He cast his gaze downward as he turned to face her. “The one on the front, of course, I’m much more aware of.” The black ink spiraled over his left pectoral like a cross section of a conch shell.
Phoebe was having trouble focusing on the tattoo itself. The flesh beneath it was kind of spectacular. She tried not to drool. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s an ehecacozcatl. A wind jewel that belongs to the god. It’s sort of a family coat of arms.”
“Your family’s ancestry is Aztec?”
“Maybe. Probably not, but who knows? The Diamantes like to say so.” Rafe flashed another of those smiles that were beginning to do funny things to Phoebe’s stomach. Because stomach was the organ involved. Sure.
Rafe started to settle onto the floor in front of the coffee table.
“You’re keeping the pants on?” Phoebe had to resist rolling her eyes at herself. The words had just jumped out. “I mean—you said the fabric gets in the way.”
He answered as if she weren’t a complete loon. “I figured going fully sky-clad would be a little presumptuous. I can work with this.”
“But they’re soaked. If I’m going to dry the shirt, I may as well dry those, too. Unless you’re commando under there?” Geez, Phoebe. Get a grip.
Rafe smirked. “No, I’m not really the commando type.” He emptied his pockets onto the couch and unbuckled his belt and the utility knife holster at his hip before reaching for the buttons on his fly. “You’re sure this is okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? They’ll be dry in a jiff.” There was something seriously wrong with her mouth. Or her brain. Who the heck said “jiff”?
As he bent to untie his boots and work them off before stepping out of the pants and handing them over, it was all Phoebe could do not to ogle his ass in the white boxer briefs. Maybe she ogled a little.
“Is it ohgle or ahgle?” Oh, my God. She’d said that out loud.
Phoebe escaped