Ghostland (14 page)

With a moan, she obeyed. She turned her face and met his eyes in the mirror, didn’t resist when he urged her to lean forward, to grasp the edge of the counter, to spread her thighs.

Her hips jerked. Lightning strikes of lust ripped through her as his cock bathed in her arousal, glided over her swollen folds and rigid clit. Kissed her belly in sweet torment and agonizing delay.

“Please,” she whispered and tried to change the angle of her body so he would find her opening and press inside.

Zurael grabbed her hips. He kept her where he wanted her, though the image captured in the mirror revealed how much the effort cost him.

The muscles on his arms stood out as if he fought himself. His chest rose and fell in sharp, quick movements. But it was his face that sent erotic fear slithering downward to pool between her thighs and pulse into her woman’s knob. He was beautifully savage. His eyes were molten gold, his expression dominant, possessive, his attention completely focused on her.

Aisling’s breath caught in her throat. The batlike wings she’d seen twice before unfurled and opened on either side of them, and for an instant she was held on the edge, caught between the terror she’d experienced when she first saw him and the dark, dark desire he now generated in her. But then he moved, once again sliding his cock over her engorged clit and plump, wet folds—and she was lost.

“Please,” she whispered, moving the little bit his hands on her hips would allow, trying to entice him into penetrating her.

Satisfaction softened the hard line of his mouth. Victory deepened the gold of his eyes.

The wings came forward, soft suede against her arms, forming a protective cocoon as he found her opening and thrust with a single, hard stroke. She cried out in relief, in need, obeyed his command to watch until ecstasy claimed her in a rush of lava-hot sensation and demon seed.

Aisling returned to the shower, this time with her hair braided and coiled to minimize the wetness, this time with Zurael accompanying her, bringing memories of the previous night, along with the urge to go to her knees and take him in her mouth.

She cleansed herself as quickly as possible and escaped, dressing hastily before retreating to the kitchen and busying herself preparing breakfast. If she’d been home, there would have been fresh eggs and fruit, sausage from a pig slaughtered the previous fall and milk brought in from the barn by whoever was assigned the task of letting the livestock out for the day.

Her heart lodged in her throat; homesickness blended with worry as her earlier panic threatened to reappear and trap her like delta quicksand. She forced the unwelcome emotions away, finding it easier when Aziel scampered in and climbed to his familiar place on her shoulder.

“Do you know him?” she asked, glancing in the direction of the bathroom and wondering again whether Aziel was demon also. “Is that why you offered me his name? Why his presence is allowed when you’ve bitten other men? Do you serve him?”

The ferret didn’t answer, didn’t acknowledge the question. His attention seemed fixed on the meager contents of the cabinet, and with a sigh, Aisling studied them, too.

She’d used coupons for flour and yeast when she’d gone to the grocery store, and the thought of making bread was tempting. But it’d only serve to delay the task of looking for whoever was responsible for Ghost.

As she pulled canned pears from the cabinet, panic flared with the memory of how Zurael had fed her peaches when she was left weakened by her blood sacrifice in the spiritlands. She had no will to resist him, no ability to. He’d proven as much to her with every sensual interaction, taken a bit of her soul each time he’d touched her.

She put the can on the counter, retrieved a small carton of eggs and the remainder of the chicken breasts. Her thoughts went to the pouch of silver she’d gotten from Elena, the handful of bills given to her by Father Ursu, the possessions left in the house by the dead shaman. She’d have to return to the grocery store, or trade with her neighbors for supplies.

Eventually Aziel would hunt and scavenge. But at the moment she hated the idea of letting him roam freely outside.

It was foolish to worry about him, to grieve for him when one day he didn’t return, to imagine him dying and ache over the possibility that he suffered. But she’d never been able to stop herself from doing it, from fearing each of his deaths would be the final one, the one that took him permanently.

Zurael emerged from the bathroom wearing black pants and a black shirt. Her pulse quickened, and she hastily ducked her head to concentrate on fixing them something to eat.

He joined her in the kitchen, working by her side as if he’d always been there, his movements sure and smooth. “I thought I’d visit some of my neighbors,” she said a short while later, after they’d eaten and taken care of the dishes.

Zurael cocked his head, his mouth curved upward in a smile that made her want to press her lips to his. “I believe one of your neighbors has come to you.”

A knock on the door attested to the truth of his comment. Aisling rubbed suddenly damp palms against the comforting, worn fabric of the pants she’d been wearing when Father Ursu arrived at the farm. She hesitated, wondered if she should ask Zurael to hide his presence, then shrugged the question away, allowing the demon to make his own choice as she crossed to the front door.

Habit made her pause long enough to peek through the window before unlocking the door, opening the wooden one first and then the metal one. A flash of black at her ankles made her heart race in her chest. “Aziel!” But it was already too late; the ferret was out and disappearing around the corner of the house.

It would be pointless to shout or follow him, but the urge distracted her long enough that she flushed in embarrassment when she realized she’d ignored her visitor. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking in the colorful long skirt and blouse, the black-and-gray-streaked hair and the wealth of hand-fashioned jewelry worn by her neighbor.

“So Henri is dead,” the woman said. There wasn’t even a hint of a question in her voice.

Aisling stepped back. “Would you like to come in?”

“I’m Raisa,” the woman said, entering the house. Her attention moved past Aisling and sharpened with interest.

Aisling guessed Zurael had elected to remain in his human form. She turned slightly, indicating the shabby sofa and chairs. “Can I get you some hot tea? I’m Aisling.” She didn’t offer Zurael’s name.

He stepped to her side. “The water is on in anticipation of tea.” To Raisa he said, “Henri was the shaman who lived here previously?”

“Yes.”

They crossed to the furniture, Raisa claiming a chair while Aisling sat on the couch. Zurael returned to the kitchen, though Aisling knew both she and her unexpected guest were aware of his presence.

“Do you know what happened to Henri?” Aisling asked.

“I saw his death and warned him against keeping his appointments. He ignored me.” Raisa shrugged. “But what choice did he have? As you can see from his possessions, he wasn’t a wealthy man, and the Church works with the politicians to keep those of us with special abilities contained in this area of town.”

“You’re a seer?” Aisling asked.

“I own a tearoom several blocks away. It’s a popular meeting place, and considered neutral territory. I read the leaves for those who ask me.”

Aisling’s fingers worried with a mended tear at the knee of her pants. She considered whether Raisa could be trusted and how much she could ask without revealing her search for the maker of Ghost.

Zurael rejoined them, carrying two small mismatched cups on chipped saucers and setting them on the table. Aisling picked up the cup in front of her and noted the leaves it contained. Her eyes went to his face. Was it a challenge? Or was he merely curious about Raisa’s abilities?

Aisling glanced at Raisa and found her watching them, taking in Zurael’s physical closeness and her reactions to him.

“Do you know what happened to Henri?” Aisling asked, returning to the question Raisa had yet to answer.

Raisa lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip, delaying, perhaps also wondering what it was safe to reveal. “No,” she finally said, lowering her cup and leaning forward as if sharing a confidence. “I suspect the Church had a hand in it. Henri was an unhappy man, given to bouts of melancholy as a result of his dealings with the spirit world. He often went to services, and occasionally the priest who brought you here visited him.”

She took another sip of tea, perhaps waiting to see how Aisling would react. But Aisling said nothing. She’d felt the eyes of her neighbors watching her as she’d gotten out of the car with Father Ursu, had known it would lead to talk and speculation. She was new, unfamiliar to them. It would be the same for anyone taking up residence.

The silence dragged and hovered, wary but not uncomfortable. Raisa broke it by saying, “I’ve heard that the last anyone saw of Henri was when a car arrived at dusk and he came outside immediately, dressed as he usually dressed when he went to services or to confess the things weighing on his soul. He got into the car and his house has remained empty until now.”

This time she set the teacup on its saucer and settled back in her chair. Despite her casual pose, Aisling was reminded of a bird of prey perched on a ledge, equally ready to remain or to leave for better hunting elsewhere.

It was her choice. Just as ultimately each decision was.

Aisling cupped her hands around the warm teacup and carefully chose her words. With no allies and little knowledge about Oakland, she had to take chances if she was to accomplish the task she’d accepted in the ghostlands. “Father Ursu took me from my home in the San Joaquin, just outside of Stockton. He brought me here as a favor to someone important to the Church. A woman went missing and her lover wanted her found, or wanted the closure of knowing she’d passed from this world. Father Ursu told me the police had discovered several bodies recently and there was reason to believe the victims were all murdered during the witching hour. They were afraid this woman was one of them, or would be.”

Satisfaction danced in Raisa’s eyes. “I thought as much. Did you find her?”

“Yes.” Aisling resisted the impulse to look at Zurael or to tell Raisa how she’d found Elena.

Raisa leaned forward, the clacking of her necklaces a subtle drumroll. “Another shaman’s house stands empty, in San Francisco. He was a man with more ambition than talent.”

Aisling licked suddenly dry lips. “What happened to him?”

A shrug. “No one knows, which says much about the power behind his disappearance. He was not nearly the shaman Henri was, but still he had his uses to the vampires who control that city. Their minions have been looking for answers without finding any.”

A shiver went through Aisling. She didn’t want to think about what uses the undead might have for one who could visit the land of the spirits.

“Did your Father Ursu mention how many of the supernaturally touched are among those found murdered?” Raisa asked.

“No,” Aisling said, unable to let the comment pass without adding, “He isn’t my priest. I’m not a member of any church.”

A slight nod, a sharpening of Raisa’s gleaming, birdlike eyes, met her words. “There are whispers that some of the murdered were offered up as sacrifices. They were found with their hearts cut from their bodies or with sigils painted on them. But when their loved ones tried to reclaim their remains for burial, they were denied and given only ashes.”

Raisa leaned closer. “I’ve heard rumors there was another disappearance last night, a governess serving a wealthy family. If it didn’t impact their wealthy benefactors, the Church would turn a blind eye to what is happening. I think Henri was asked to seek out some of those sacrificed in an attempt to find out who killed them.”

Aisling set the teacup down. She thought about the hours she’d slept, locked in a tiny bedchamber in the church, only to be awakened close to midnight and brought before the bishop and Father Ursu.

“What you say could be true,” Aisling said, a knot forming in her belly. If a governess disappeared the night before, then there were more dark priests than the one Zurael had slaughtered. “How many gifted have been murdered?”

“I can’t say for sure. Some go missing and are never found. Five have disappeared from families settled here for more than one generation. There have been others as well, recent arrivals, here and then suddenly gone—maybe by their own choice, maybe not.”

Zurael said, “Who would know more about these disappearances?”

“Javier. The occult shop on Safira Street belongs to him. He has an ear in the human world as well as the supernatural one.”

“Is there a newspaper here?” Aisling asked. “A library where I could look at past editions?”

A laugh of derision greeted her question. “There’s a newspaper, but you won’t find anything useful in it. Those who run this city ensure only the truth they peddle is printed.”

“But there is a library?” Aisling pressed.

“Yes,” Raisa said. “You’ve been to the church?”

Aisling nodded.

“Then you’ve been to the center of Oakland. The powerful govern from there. The library is several blocks away from the church. It’s next to the building housing the police and the guardsmen.”

Aisling wiped her palms against the knees of her worn pants. She hesitated to express an interest in Ghost, but if what Raisa said about the newspaper was true, then it seemed foolish to waste the opportunity to ask in the hope of finding answers at the library.

She startled when Zurael’s hand covered hers, took it to his knee and held it there, this thumb lightly stroking across her knuckles like a tongue extending from the serpent tattooed on his skin. When she looked up, she found Raisa’s gaze riveted to their joined hands.

“Have there been rumors of a drug called Ghost?” Aisling asked.