Ghostland (11 page)

His hand left her neck and swept down her spine. She moaned softly as he cupped her hips and ground himself against her clit. He made her ache in a way she’d never ached before. He made her fantasize about things that shouldn’t be allowed to happen.

She turned her head and kissed his neck. His hips jerked in response.

“Aisling,” he said, and the sound of him saying her name made her labia swell and part in readiness for him.

Her hands moved up his sides and around to find his nipples. They were hard points against her palms. She rubbed over them and thrilled at the way he panted lightly and cupped her buttocks so he could pull her more tightly against his hardened penis.

“Tell me, Aisling. Can I can pass for human?” There was a dark amusement in his voice that made her shiver.

“Yes.”

He laughed softly then set her aside. For an instant she felt bereft, rejected. But when her eyes met his, she encountered molten gold and a hunger to match her own. He lifted his hand but let it drop to his side before he touched her. This time it was Zurael who said, “We need to leave if we intend to take the bus.”

Five

IT was a short ride. If they’d had more time before sunset, they could have walked it.

Aisling tugged at the unfamiliar clothing. She felt self-conscious in the expensive blouse and pants, like a field hand dressed up to impersonate a wealthy landowner.

Zurael took her hand in his. All along the street, chauffeured cars stopped to discharge their passengers before driving away.

Aisling’s emotions ran the gamut from anger to sadness as she looked at the beautifully restored Victorians, housing clubs with names like Lust, Greed and Envy. She found it ironic that the powerful and privileged, the people who lived comfortably and without concern for what life was like for anyone outside their class, would gather here for their entertainment.

The Last War had been started by religious zealots, by people determined to cleanse mankind of sin. There were those who believed the plague finally ending the war was god-created and not war-born—apocalypse averted because mankind was forced to concentrate on survival instead of the afterlife.

Aisling knew only that the ghostlands were full of cast-aside gods, and human souls lingered or passed through at the will of something unknowable, that the spiritlands could be a place of heaven or hell.

She shivered and spared a glance at the demon by her side, became acutely conscious of the fiery heat of his palm against hers as they approached the club named for those who might one day find themselves in his domain.

Sinners was in the middle of the block. Despite its name, it was painted in cheerful yellow tones. Its windows were unmarred by bars, though Aisling didn’t doubt some type of elaborate security was in place. Colorful curtains were pulled back. Well-dressed patrons lingered behind the glass and viewed the activity on the street.

Aisling rubbed her palm against her pants as they approached the bouncers on either side of the doorway. They were heavyset men with bulging muscles and hard, emotionless eyes.

“Hand,” the one on the right said.

She offered her hand and felt nothing but callused skin against callused skin.

The bouncer’s eyes narrowed slightly. He dropped her hand and turned his head toward his partner. “Gifted.”

The second bouncer took her hand. “What are you?”

“A shamaness,” Aisling said, feeling afraid and exhilarated at the same time at being able to acknowledge a gift she’d rarely admitted openly before.

“You can go in.” The bouncer’s attention returned to Zurael. Zurael’s hand was already lifting. The contact was brief. “You’re clear.”

Aisling pulled out the bills Elena had given her and paid. The bouncer to the right opened the door.

A party was already in progress inside the house. People gathered in small groups. Most held crystal glasses full of colorful liquid. More than one of the women paused in their conversation to give Zurael a hungry, inviting look while men stripped Aisling with their eyes.

Zurael took her hand again and led her to a bay window. Outside, the night was arriving rapidly.

Nervousness and curiosity warred inside Aisling. Everything around her was so different from anything she’d ever known.

Zurael pulled her back against his front, then settled his muscular arms around her waist. The image of the two of them captured in the window glass filled Aisling with a longing that went beyond the physical.

A man and woman joined them at the window, their predatory expression captured in the glass before they turned and in a perfectly choreographed move lifted their hands, hers toward Zurael’s bare arm, his reaching for Aisling’s.

“No,” Zurael said with such deadly menace both hands dropped immediately.

“Not many people turn us down,” the man said, leaning against the edge of the bay window, the woman next to him in matching red.

“You’re new here,” the woman said. “We can help you get into the swing of things. In fact, there’s nobody better. Everybody follows our lead, especially when it comes to the voting.”

The man met Aisling’s eyes. “Come play with us. Alone, if your companion can’t be persuaded. You’ll enjoy it. I promise.”

“No.”

“Suit yourselves, though I think you’ll find you’ve made a mistake in turning us down.” He pushed off from the window bay, but not before Aisling saw the flash of anger at being rejected. The woman slipped her arm through his and they walked away.

Aisling’s attention lingered on them. She wondered what the woman meant about the others following their lead when it came to the voting, but then her focus shifted to a man scurrying into the red zone from the direction of the bus stop just outside of it.

The people in the room migrated to the front windows. The conversation grew hushed, the atmosphere heavy with anticipatory excitement, like a collective beast getting ready to pounce.

Aisling’s arms settled over Zurael’s. Her fingers slipped through his.

The windows of the Victorians across the street were free of bars, too, and crowded with watchers. One by one the bouncers guarding the entrance to those clubs went inside before the hurrying man reached the sidewalks leading to their doors.

“He’s not going to make it,” someone whispered in the hushed silence of the room.

“He will,” someone else said, a hint of regret in his voice. “Sinners is always the last to close.”

As the man reached the bay window, excitement slid through Aisling. It wasn’t the man who’d sold Ghost to Elena, but the cross on his cheek marked him as one of the regular dealers.

A deflated sigh went through the gathered crowd as the door to Sinners opened and the man darted inside. The bouncers followed.

There was the definitive sound of a lock clicking into place. A low-level hum signaled that some type of electrical current also served to keep the unwanted out.

Slowly the crowd dispersed. Elegantly dressed patrons re-formed into smaller groups. Some wandered up a beautiful wooden staircase. Others slipped into open rooms.

Aisling noticed that none of the interior rooms had doors, and understood the significance of Elena’s comment. Why privacy was hard to find.

The man and woman in red lingered nearby. The Ghost dealer went through a doorway with a small flock of people behind him. Aisling forced herself to leave the comfort of Zurael’s arms and walk across the room.

The dealer stood in an old-fashioned parlor. Furniture from the era, or copies of it, graced the room. There was a fireplace. The blackened and ash-coated tool set on the hearth indicated it wasn’t just for show.

There was no attempt at concealment. Like disciples to a messiah, men and women gathered around the Ghost dealer. They offered silver, gold, jewelry. They received small metal boxes in return.

Aisling shivered at the sight of the containers. The one in Elena’s possession had made her think of an antique pill- or snuffbox. Now she saw small metal coffins.

Three of the buyers hurried from the room. The remaining five settled on the chairs and couches. Aisling braced herself when their fingers reverently stroked the lids of the tiny boxes.

Zurael’s heat warmed her back. She longed for the comfort and security his touch had come to represent, but she didn’t blame him for standing apart until he knew she wouldn’t be dragged into the ghostlands.

Aisling felt the spirit winds as soon as the first lid was opened. Her hand went to the hidden fetish pouch containing the pentacle.

The winds recognized her. They swirled around her but didn’t pull at her spirit.

The Ghost users dug their fingers into the tainted substance. Some of them rubbed it on their bodies, while others licked and sucked it off their skin.

One by one they were taken.

Club patrons drifted into the room like theatergoers waiting for the show to begin. A few checked their watches. The Ghost seller moved to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

He surveyed the room, perhaps looking for other customers. Aisling tensed when his gaze settled on her. It was there for only an instant, then gone.

She’d expected to feel a jolt of recognition, to feel something of the ghostlands in him. Instead she felt nothing, as if he were only human, a man with no connection to the spirit world.

Aisling turned to look at Zurael. “I’m going over to him.”

Zurael’s eyes burned with an intensity that sent wild heat coursing through her. His hand curled around her forearm, possessive and protective, allowing for no argument. “I’ll go with you.”

She acquiesced. Until dawn arrived, they were all trapped in the house. There was little point in pretending she and Zurael weren’t together.

The five men who were Ghosting started to moan. Like Elena they must have been seeking pleasure in the spiritlands. Zippers gave way. Hardened cocks emerged to be taken in hand. Hips rose as backs arched.

Aisling couldn’t stop the blush from coloring her cheeks. She’d grown up on a farm and witnessed animals mating. She felt no shame in sexual desire or attending to those needs but she’d never imagined men and women, strangers, entertaining themselves like this.

She couldn’t tell whether the Ghost dealer was monitoring those he’d sold to or whether he was merely watching them. His attention shifted to her as she drew near. “Last one,” he said, pulling a container from his pocket.

Even as he said it, the spirit winds shifted and the rhythmic grunting of the men who were Ghosting was silenced. A coldness swept into the room along with a malevolent presence.

Aisling turned away from the dealer to look at the Ghosters. Their fingers were locked around their swollen organs, forgotten. They were all sitting, focused on her though they had the dead, empty eyes of zombies.

She heard a faint whispering, a command spoken on the spirit winds. Dull nothingness gave way to gleeful hatred in the men’s expressions, and the Ghost dealer quickly left the hearth.

Instinctively Aisling grabbed the poker from the fireplace tool set. It wasn’t as good as a hoe or pitchfork, but it would serve as a weapon.

“They mean to attack,” she said.

Zurael was already positioning himself in front of her. The men didn’t bother with their trousers before closing in.

Aisling stepped to the side even as the first one launched himself toward where she’d been. A second man attacked as Zurael tossed the first one across the room. The third and fourth were right behind him, and while Zurael dealt with them, the fifth leapt at Aisling.

She swung the poker and hit his arm, but he kept coming, slamming her against the wall. His fingers locked around her neck.

The thrust of the steel in her hand and her raised knee broke his hold. But her freedom lasted for only a second before he was on her again, his fingers a vise depriving her of air.

Aisling was vaguely aware of the room filling with shouts as the bouncers rushed in. Zurael’s arm went around her assailant’s neck. His hand grabbed her assailant’s chin, and with a sickening crack he snapped the man’s neck before tossing him to the side.

For an instant Aisling flashed back to the black mass and the bodies he’d casually discarded. Her gaze met his, but unlike that night, tonight Zurael’s eyes promised protection instead of retribution.

“Put the poker down,” a bouncer said. He was one of three closing in on them, leading with batons Aisling knew were capable of delivering a shock large enough to render someone unconscious.

She dropped the fireplace tool at her feet. “We were only defending ourselves.”

The bouncer shrugged but didn’t turn away. He and his companions stopped several feet back. They lowered their weapons to their waists. Their bulk continued to trap Zurael and Aisling near the fireplace.

Across the room additional bouncers hovered around the four remaining attackers. Two of the Ghosters were once again lost in pleasure. The other two were on their feet, dead-eyed, though Aisling sensed a different spirit presence hidden in them, beings who’d found a host and planned to remain in possession.

Slowly the room filled with the powerful and privileged. The air grew heavy with anticipatory excitement just as it had right before the club locked its doors. Conversation faded to hushed expectancy, only to give way to a chant. “Vote! Vote! Vote!”

The word traveled through the club with pulsing intensity. It brought more elegantly dressed men and women crowding in.

When it reached a crescendo, the bouncer who’d pronounced Aisling gifted raised his baton. Silence descended.

The bouncer pointed toward one of the men who was Ghosting, his hips jerking as his hand worked his penis. “In or out?”

A feminine laugh answered. The woman dressed in red waved a hand and said, “His act has gotten old and boring. Out!”

Those around her took up the chant. They were only silenced when the bouncer lifted his baton.