Waking The Serpent. Jane Kindred

many names did this guy have? Phoebe leaned back against the door, her hand still on the knob. “And if you could have your Jacob? If you could be with him...what would you do?”

      She felt the shiver of arousal run through her, from the top of her head to her core, like a little shock of lightning.

      Lila’s voice on her tongue was full of both anguish and desire. “If I could be with Jacob as we were meant to be, just once, I could be at peace.” With that, she was gone.

      It was absolutely out of the question. Phoebe shouldn’t even be thinking it. But if she offered an exchange—the evidence against whoever this Tloque Nahuaque or Titlacauan was, as the price for giving Lila what she wanted—wouldn’t that be worth the minor inconvenience of being temporarily at the mercy of someone else’s desires?

      Of course, it didn’t hurt that Phoebe was hopelessly attracted to the vessel Lila’s Jacob had chosen to occupy. Phoebe covered her face with her hands and groaned. What was the matter with her? She couldn’t make that kind of deal and involve someone else. What was she really thinking, anyway? That she could blackmail Rafe Diamante into having sex with her in exchange for exonerating him of a murder charge? How pathetic was that? She’d sunk to a new low.

      * * *

      When Phoebe checked her messages in the morning, her caseload had tripled. As the lowest on the totem pole at the Public Defender’s Office, she had to take what she could get—especially if she wanted to have any hope of eventually removing “assistant” from the front of her title. That little word meant the difference between getting a mix of grunt work and the cases no one else wanted and getting to work serious cases that would challenge her. And it also meant the difference between people like Ione seeing her as some kind of glorified legal secretary and respecting her as an actual lawyer. Not to mention not having to always live hand to mouth.

      After the forty-five-minute drive to the county courthouse at Camp Verde, Phoebe met with her first client, a scared eighteen-year-old kid charged with a DUI who’d spent the night in lockup, afraid to call his parents. Since it was his first offense, she managed to bargain the charges down to reckless endangerment. The prosecutor owed her one, and he was in a good mood.

      Phoebe glanced at the time while she scheduled her next client consult and found it wasn’t quite eleven. Not bad for a morning’s work. She even had time to grab a scone and a latte.

      Heading upstairs from the basement café with the latte in hand, Phoebe nearly ended up wearing the drink when she took a corner too swiftly and met someone else coming down.

      She held the sloshing beverage out of the way as the lid popped off the cup and a dollop of foam hit the tip of an expensive Italian dress shoe. “Shoot. I’m so sorry. Let me get that.” She’d knelt to dab her napkin on the mess without waiting for an answer, but an amused voice made her pause.

      “That’s really not necessary, Ms. Carlisle.”

      The face she glanced up into was familiar but she couldn’t place it. Thirty-something and blond with soulful blue eyes, he looked like he ought to be on the cover of GQ.

      Phoebe straightened with the napkin wadded in her hand. “Sorry—have we met?”

      “Just briefly. Carter Hanson Hamilton.” He held out his hand and Phoebe pocketed the napkin before extending hers, still not sure where she’d seen him before. He had a firm, easy grip. “I’m representing Rafael Diamante in the Barbara Fisher case.”

      “Oh.” Phoebe pulled back her hand. Of course. She’d seen him yesterday when Ione had blindsided her.

      “I hope there are no hard feelings. The Covent only has Mr. Diamante’s best interests in mind.”

      “No, I get that, Mr. Hamilton. I do.” She might as well be gracious. “I wasn’t sure why he called me, anyway. He was probably in shock and just dialed the first number he found in his pocket.”

      “Please, call me Carter. And I’m sure you’re selling yourself short. Your sister speaks very highly of you.”

      Phoebe couldn’t contain the short outburst of laughter. “Ione? She did not. That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Hamilton—Carter—but I’m not exactly the Covent’s favorite person. As I’m sure you know.”

      Carter smiled. “You may not be the poster girl for Covent doctrine, but I think you may be wrong about your sister’s regard for you. Blood transcends belief.”

      Phoebe regarded him quizzically. “You’re not exactly what I expected from a Covent lawyer.”

      “And you’re not exactly what I expected from an evocator.”

      “Evocator?”

      “Evocation is the official name for what you do. Has no one ever applied the term to you before?”

      Phoebe shook her head. “I’ve always called it ‘stepping in.’”

      “That’s what they do, of course. Not what you do.” Carter glanced at his watch. “I have some time before my next appointment. Care to join me for an early lunch?”

      Phoebe looked down at her latte. “I just got breakfast.”

      Carter smiled. “Half of it’s on my shoe. Toss it. I’m buying.”

      * * *

      They ended up downstairs in the café again. The Camp Verde neighborhood boasted little more than the courthouse and county jail, a shooting range and an incongruously placed African wildlife park. Carter looked a little out of his element in his impeccable suit.

      Phoebe tore open the little envelope of Caesar dressing to squeeze onto her salad. “Big spender. I’m impressed.”

      Carter laughed. “I thought about suggesting the promising-sounding Carl’s Custom Meats, but it’s a little too close to the wildlife park for comfort.”

      Phoebe grinned. “That’s why I’m sticking to salad.” She carefully speared a cherry tomato. “So, you’re not from the local chapter, I take it.”

      “No, does it show? Not wearing enough crystals?” He winked and ate a bite of his sandwich, managing not to end up with mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth as Phoebe would have done. “I live in Scottsdale. I’m with the Phoenix chapter.”

      “And do they not have strict rules about consorting with ‘evocators’ in the Phoenix chapter?”

      “They don’t think highly of the practice, I have to admit. Though most who profess to have the ability are charlatans.”

      Phoebe paused with a hunk of romaine on her fork. “Do you think I’m a charlatan?”

      “I haven’t seen your work, so I have no basis upon which to make such a judgment. But your sister’s talent as a witch is impressive. I imagine your talent must be every bit as much so.”

      “Well, I don’t do it to impress anyone. I do it because I can, and people seem to need it.”

      “By people, you mean shades.”

      “You don’t think shades are people?”

      “I think they were people. But I think letting them cling to what they were can be dangerous. For both the shade and the evocator.” He paused and looked up from his lunch, giving Phoebe a perfect million-dollar smile. “But I’m willing to keep my mind open to other possibilities.” It was more than Ione or the rest of the local Covent had ever done. Carter took another meticulous bite while Phoebe pondered and chewed. “Have you ever encountered a hostile shade?”

      “Hostile?” She swallowed her bite. “No, I wouldn’t say hostile. A few who were angry and confused at first.” And of course there was Lila, who’d tried to feed her to a snake last night to appease some Aztec god. “What do you think of Rafe’s—Mr. Diamante’s situation?”

      Carter set down his sandwich and took a sip of his Perrier. “As his legal