Waking the Serpent

by Jane Kindred

  Calming his nerves with a shot of bourbon from the flask in his pocket, Rafe set up the altar and undressed. He called the quarters first for protection, invoking Tezcatlipoca, god of night and invisible forces, as the Guardian of the North; Xipe Totec, god of force and rebirth, as the Guardian of the East; Huitzilopochtli, god of will and fire, as the Guardian of the South; and instead of Quetzalcoatl as Guardian of the West, he chose Chalchiuhtlicue of the Jade Skirt—goddess of rivers, seas and storms—for a more feminine aspect.

  As he called upon Matthew’s spirit to join him, however, the tattoo on his back began to itch. He thought he’d imagined it two nights ago as a hypnagogic hallucination at the brink of sleep, but now he felt distinct movement under his skin—the movement of a snake.

  Rafe turned to look over his shoulder in front of the small mirror above the altar. In the flickering flame of the temple candles, the ink was undulating, the scarlet scales of the serpent’s belly rippling over invisible terrain, reflected candlelight glittering off the teal and violet feathers as they fluttered in an unseen wind. Rafe touched his fingers to the ink. There was no doubt about it. Quetzalcoatl was moving.

  He’d called on the guardians for protection. Maybe this vision of Quetzalcoatl’s image was a message from his patron god. But he’d never heard of such a thing.

  After taking a few deep breaths, Rafe collected a dried cutting from the century plant in the entryway and returned to the altar. Whatever was happening, it was clearly magic, and he needed to channel it before it got out of hand.

  “I call on Quetzalcoatl, Lord of the star of the dawn.” He pressed the thorns of the agave spine to his tongue, letting the pain give him clarity. The old way involved a more intimate body part, but Rafe was interested in symbolic sacrifice, not masochistic fanaticism.

  As the blood rose around the thorns, he let it drip onto the dried edge of the spine, and then burned the clipping in the censer with the incense. “Invest me with your wisdom, O Ehecatl-Quetzalcoatl, god of wind and light. Accept my sacrifice—chalchiuatl from my own veins—as your divine sustenance.”

  Invoking the wind-god aspect of Quetzalcoatl seemed to make the wind rise outside, the inner doors to the narthex rattling as though moved by it, though the outer doors were closed and locked. Gooseflesh raised along his skin, the hairs standing up, and something rushed him, a shade stepping into him. He thought for an instant it was Matthew, after all. But he’d felt this presence before. Jacob.

  * * *

  Branches whipped in the wind outside Phoebe’s front window as another monsoon storm began to brew above the brooding sandstone dome of Thunder Mountain. Over the sound of the wind, she heard the rumble of a truck on the gravel drive. Curled up in the papasan with a cup of tea and a paperback, Phoebe peered out, aggravated that someone would interrupt her moment of quiet. The black Escalade looked familiar, and it was definitely heading for her place. Phoebe lowered her cup. That was Rafe’s truck.

  Puddleglum protested in his best throaty, mournful moan when she moved him from her lap, but he wasted no time taking her spot.

  Phoebe set down the tea and went to the door, watching Rafe pull up in front of the carport. “What’s up?” She held the screen door open as he strode toward her with purpose. “Everything okay?”

  When he arrived in front of her, Rafe pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard enough to have knocked her on her ass if he hadn’t been holding on to her.

  With a sputter, Phoebe drew back from the unexpected greeting. “Are you feeling all right?” His eyes had a glossy, energized look.

  “I’m wonderful.” With his arms still hooked around her lower back, he nuzzled her neck, making her shiver. “This vessel has everything I need.”

  Not again. Phoebe peered into his eyes. “Jacob?”

  His face fell, bottom lip protruding almost like a child’s disappointed pout. “You’re not my Lila.”

  “No. And you have no business stepping into Rafe. If you want to talk to me, you talk to me. You don’t need to do it through him.”

  Rafe’s arms dropped away from her. “He was willing.”

  “I doubt that.” Phoebe regarded him expectantly, but Jacob only blinked at her through Rafe’s eyes. “Well? Are you going to release him?”

  He folded his arms. “No.”

  Phoebe sighed. Better to keep watch on him here than to leave Jacob on the loose with Rafe’s body, doing who knew what. “Then at least come inside.”

  Whether of his own volition or at Jacob’s direction, Rafe stepped into the house—barefoot, she noted—and let Phoebe close the door. “Where’s Lila?” He touched Phoebe’s face, drawing his hand sensuously along her jaw. “She was here. Recently. You smell like her.”

  “I smell like her?” He meant Lila as she’d been in life, obviously, but Phoebe grimaced at the idea of smelling like the dead.

  “You have the look of her, as well. Maybe I can draw her in.”

  Phoebe took a step back. “Or not. Why don’t we just talk? You could tell me what you know about the necromancer who’s been manipulating you. Rafe said you wanted his help to stop it.”

  Rafe’s eyes regarded her. “Tezcatlipoca is very powerful, and he’ll become more powerful still because of Rafael Diamante.”

  “Because of Rafe? Why? What does Rafe have to do with it?”

  “He’s a conduit.” Jacob strolled farther into the house, touching the surfaces of things—the walls, Phoebe’s knickknacks—running his fingers over them as if it were a luxury to be able to feel things through Rafe’s skin. Which it probably was. Phoebe tried not to think about what else those fingers had touched at Jacob’s direction.

  “A conduit for what? Not for shades? Is he a...an evocator? Like I am?” It seemed unlikely Rafe could have gone this long without being aware of such an innate skill.

  Jacob’s eyes narrowed, studying Phoebe with renewed interest. “No. Not an evocator. A conduit for energy. He bears the mark of the ancients.” Jacob began to unbutton Rafe’s crisp white shirt with slow, sensuous movements.

  “Jacob. What are you doing?”

  He turned and continued down the hall. The shirt fell from his shoulders and slipped down his arms to the floor, revealing the magnificent tattoo of Quetzalcoatl, wings flexing as Rafe’s arms swung easily with his gait.

  Phoebe couldn’t take her eyes off the ink. “Where are you going?” She raised her voice as he disappeared into her bedroom. Great. That was all she needed. Half-naked Rafe Diamante in her room, possessed by the shade of a smooth-voiced Lothario. “Jacob.” No answer.

  She followed him against her better judgment. If she could keep him talking, she might be able to discover the identity of the necromancer. In the dusky half-light of her room, Rafe—or Jacob, rather—reclined on her bed with his hands clasped behind his head. The position displayed his pecs to maximum advantage. Man, this guy was like a catnip mouse to her inner Puddleglum.

  Phoebe leaned against the door frame. “If the necromancer is so powerful, why does he need Rafe’s energy?”

  “How do you think the powerful become what they are? By taking the power of others.” Jacob ran Rafe’s tongue over his bottom lip and Phoebe felt her own lips clamping shut on a frustrated mewl. “Come here and I’ll tell you more.”

  “I’m not going to give you Lila. I can’t, even if I wanted to. She’s not here. I don’t sense her anywhere nearby.”

  “I know you want this man.”

  Good grief. If Rafe was hearing this... Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe he’d have another memory lapse with Jacob taking such complete control.

  “Phoebe Carlisle.” Rafe’s voice sounded so ordinary as he spoke her name she thought Jacob had left him suddenly.

  Phoebe opened her eyes and took a step toward the bed. “Rafe?”

  “He desires you, as well.�
�

  “Dammit, Jacob. That’s enough.”

  Jacob lifted Rafe’s shoulders in a shrug. “I’m only telling you what this body is telling me.” His eyes flicked downward and back at Phoebe, just enough to draw her gaze to the obvious erection in Rafe’s jeans.

  Phoebe yanked her gaze away, heat radiating off her skin. “I thought you wanted to tell me about the necromancer. Does he have a name?”

  “Tezcatlipoca.” Him again. “That’s the name he calls himself. It’s a stolen name. He imagines himself a god.”

  “And the reason he wants Rafe’s power is because of Rafe’s affinity for the Aztec deities? His family’s ancestry?”

  “His family’s legacy.” Jacob withdrew his arms from the headboard and leaned forward. “Come. I’ll show you.” She’d heard that one before. Jacob turned away, looking over Rafe’s shoulder. “Touch the serpent.”

  Phoebe let out a sharp laugh. She’d definitely heard that one before.

  Jacob smiled. “I don’t mean anything by it. It’s the source of his power.”

  Phoebe’s eyes threatened to fall right out of her head, they were rolling so hard at the double entendres. But Jacob merely waited, his hands propped to one side as if in a yoga pose. Quetzalcoatl’s feathery scales did seem rather luminous despite the low light in the room.

  She closed the space between them, sitting on the edge of the bed so she could reach Rafe’s back, and placed her hand against the tattoo. It was oddly cool, though his flesh was warm. And Rafe smelled like the coming rain. His muscles rippled under her hand. Only it wasn’t muscle. It was the tattoo.

  “What the hell?” Phoebe drew back, but Jacob caught her wrist and tugged her into his lap.

  “The quetzal awakens, charmed by the evocator. And it will soon take flight.”

  “Let go of me, Jacob.” She managed to rise onto her knees, straddling Rafe’s muscular thighs as she tried to climb off and tangling her skirt in the process, but the grip on her arm was like steel. He pulled her down closer. Between her thighs, she could feel Rafe’s heat against hers—nothing between Phoebe’s flesh and his jeans but the thinnest of microfiber. “I don’t think Lila would approve of this.” Her lungs seemed to be having trouble taking in a full breath of air.

  “I can’t help what this body feels. What it desires.” He bucked lightly against her, and Phoebe knew he could feel how damp her panties were. The last time she and Rafe had been this close, she’d been in the grip of Lila’s control, unable to exert her own will. Now she had complete control over her own faculties. And she was moving in tandem with the gentle rise and fall of Rafe’s pelvis.

  What was she doing? It was one thing to have entertained even for a second the thought of bargaining her body to Lila in exchange for the necromancer’s identity, or to have indulged in the fantasy of having Rafe at the mercy of Jacob’s desire for her. But she couldn’t participate in this—whatever this was—no matter how hard up she was.

  Rafe’s lips were against her throat.

  “Rafe.” Her voice came out hoarsely. “You have to tell Jacob to go.” He paused in his caress. “I know you can hear me in there. It’s your body. Tell him to leave.”

  His grip tightened around her wrist and he brought her in closer with his other arm around her waist. The dark eyes looked into hers. “He doesn’t want me to leave. And neither do you.”

  There was a certain truth to the latter. Possessed by Jacob’s shade, Rafe desired her. With Jacob gone, Rafe would recoil from her as before. Not only would he no longer be touching her like this, she’d feel like a fool for having let Jacob manipulate her into this position—mentally and physically—with Rafe aware of how she’d been responding. But that didn’t mean she was willing to let it continue.

  “Rafe. Throw him out.” She placed her hand against the spiral conch shell tattoo on his chest. “You’re stronger than he is.”

  Rafe’s eyes shut tight. “Ehecatl.” He breathed in deeply. “Go. Get out.”

  For a moment she thought Jacob was telling her to get out, but when Rafe’s eyes opened again, Jacob was no longer peering out of them. But Rafe still held her.

  “Rafe?”

  “Phoebe...” He released her and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “God. I can’t—I don’t know how to explain this. Again.”

  She slipped off his lap onto her hip, trying for casual. “You don’t have to explain. Jacob and Lila are obviously determined to be together.”

  Rafe opened his hands like a book and peered around them. “Lila was with you?”

  Phoebe’s cheeks warmed. “Well...no. Not this time. She stepped into me yesterday, though, and tried to take complete control of me. She managed for a few minutes.”

  “But you’re able to cast them out.”

  “So did you just now.”

  “Only with your help.”

  “I’ve been doing this for most of my life. I’ve had a lot more practice than you have. And Lila and Jacob are very different from any step-ins I’ve encountered before. Stronger.”

  Rafe regarded her. “I suppose our chemistry makes it easier for them.”

  Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat. “Chemistry?”

  “I mean—I don’t think I’m imagining there’s something between us.”

  There’d been very little between them a minute ago. Jesus, Phoebe, don’t say that out loud. Awkwardness was triggering her most inappropriate impulses: make an uncomfortable joke or climb back onto his lap. Or, you know, just stare at him for twenty minutes until he felt uncomfortable.

  “I should go.” Rafe straightened and glanced around the bed. “Where did he leave my shirt?”

  “Or you could not go. And not look for your shirt.” Inside Phoebe was desperately trying to throttle Outside Phoebe.

  Rafe paused on the edge of the mattress. “Phoebe...”

  “Sorry.” She slipped off the bed past him and straightened her skirt, trying to will down the heat in her face. “I think I’m a little worked up.”

  “You don’t think I’m worked up?” Rafe’s gaze drew hers to the still-prominent bulge in his jeans. “And I’m not even sure if what I just did doesn’t count as assaulting you.”

  “You weren’t in control.”

  “Well, that’s one excuse, isn’t it?” Rafe headed down the hall to retrieve his shirt. He wobbled a moment, steadying himself with a hand against the wall when he stood, but hosting a step-in didn’t seem to take it out of him as it did Phoebe. Maybe it was the level of mediation she provided, maintaining dual consciousness and facilitating communication instead of being a passive vessel.

  Phoebe watched him pull on the cool white cotton over the warm hue of his skin—and the oddly animated tattoo. “What did Jacob mean when he said ‘the quetzal awakens’? Did he mean Quetzalcoatl?”

  Rafe paused in buttoning the shirt and turned to face her. “The quetzal? It’s the name of a bird—the resplendent quetzal. It’s where Quetzalcoatl’s name comes from.” He looked thoughtful. “I don’t really know what he meant.”

  “But you know your tattoo is moving.”

  Rafe’s fingers fell away from the middle button, nicely displaying just a hint of his impressive physique from within the contrasting fabric. “That’s the last thing I remember clearly before Jacob took over. You felt it, then. It really is moving.”

  “So it doesn’t normally do that, I take it.”

  Rafe laughed, looking beleaguered as he ran his fingers through hair unencumbered by its usual elastic band—lost somewhere by Jacob, presumably—and pushed it back behind his ears. “No. Not normally. I was performing a protection spell when I felt it. I thought maybe it was some kind of omen from the god. So I called on Ehecatl—Quetzalcoatl’s aspect as the god of wind—and that’s when I felt Jacob step in.”

  As Rafe spoke
of wind, the gusts that had been rattling the house all afternoon at last ushered in the storm. Heavy monsoon raindrops pelted the roof and through the screen door a wall of rain was visible. And largely nothing else.

  Chapter 10

  Phoebe gazed out at the deluge. “You don’t want to drive in that.” Even if it didn’t hit him as hard, hosting a shade was the metaphysical equivalent of tying one on.

  Rafe hesitated. “No, I suppose not.”

  “I’m always famished after a step-in. Why don’t you stay for dinner? I promise not to do anything untoward.”

  “Untoward?” Rafe’s smile was rueful. “If anyone’s been untoward, it’s me. Possessed or not.”

  Yeah, but you don’t know what I was thinking. Phoebe turned and headed toward the kitchen to avoid giving it away with a blush. “I don’t have anything fancy in the house, but there’s pasta and sauce in the pantry.” She checked the pantry to be sure, and glanced up at him as he came through the living room. “And I think I have a bag of salad.”

  Rafe gave her a quizzical smile. “A bag of salad?”

  “It comes in a bag,” she said defensively. “Pre-fab salads. I’m sure you’ve seen them at the store. Or do people like you not do their own shopping?”

  His smile faded. “People like me?”

  Phoebe waved her hand at his clothes. “People who can throw on something casual like that and still manage to look like everything they own is...bespoke, I think is the word.” He was still frowning at her. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be insulting. I was mostly trying to be funny and self-deprecating.” And failing miserably. “I’m sure you do your own shopping.”

  A reluctant and somewhat sheepish smile crept back onto his features. “I’ve shopped. I mean, I’m sure I must have at some point.”

  She couldn’t tell whether he was teasing or not. Rafe Diamante was a hard man to read. A difficult man. Phoebe really needed to stop making unfortunate word associations in her head.