expression flickered with disapproval before settling back into the usual, neutral-yet-confident smile he must have learned in law school. “Of course. So long as there are no surprises that come up in the prelim. I don’t like surprises.”
“I’ll call you, Phoebe.” Rafe nodded to Hamilton. “I guess we’d better get this over with.”
* * *
Rafe thought perhaps his father would show up for the arraignment, but as the judge read the charge of second-degree murder, Rafael Sr. was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was avoiding the inevitable media swarm. Or maybe he just didn’t give a damn. After all, he’d thrown his money at the problem and he expected it to go away.
With his plea entered and bail posted, Rafe had seen enough of courts and lawyers to last him indefinitely, but Hamilton was sticking to him like an annoying lapdog.
“You’re going to need some help getting through the media gauntlet outside.” Hamilton followed close behind as Rafe headed downstairs. “Why don’t I have my car brought around to take you back to your place? I can have someone drop yours off later when things settle down.”
“I’m parked around the side.” Rafe pulled out the baseball cap he’d tucked into his back pocket and tugged it on as he headed for the exit. “I’m good.”
“I’ll follow you over, then.” Hamilton was still at his heels. “We can talk about strategy.”
Rafe sighed and turned around, palm in front of him to hold the lawyer at bay. “No offense, Hamilton, but all I want to do right now is have a drink. And maybe a smoke.”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t.”
“I see.” Hamilton gave him a patronizing smile. “We can’t really afford to get complacent right now—”
“That’s what my father is paying you the big bucks for. So why don’t you go be lawyerly somewhere and I’ll go do what my father thinks I do best—enjoy the fruits of his labor.”
Hamilton was speechless for once as Rafe put on his sunglasses and pushed open the doors. The reporters waiting outside for their scoop weren’t quick enough to identify him, focused on Hamilton trailing behind, and they mobbed the lawyer as he emerged, expecting him to precede their prey.
Rafe ducked out of the crowd and made a beeline for the side lot before they caught on. That was probably the last time that trick would work. In his rearview mirror, he saw one of the crews dash for their van to follow him as he pulled out.
As he drove toward Sedona, he remembered what Phoebe had said about being drawn to the temple when she’d come this way on Saturday. It would be empty today, and taking the private road to the temple grounds through the Covent’s glamour would leave his pursuers wondering how they’d lost him.
Sure enough, when he turned toward the white pinnacles of the temple, the news van drove on down Highway 179 toward town—and Stone Canyon, where they wouldn’t find him.
The oppressive feeling he’d noted during the ritual definitely still lingered as the tires of his Escalade rumbled over the brick pavement of the parking lot. The heaviness increased after he’d crossed the courtyard and entered the nave to approach the altar. If Matthew was dead as Rafe feared and his shade lingered here among those the ritual had trapped, perhaps Rafe could reach him with the conjuring spell.
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
