Ghostland (19 page)

Zurael pulled her keys from his pocket as they neared the front door. He laughed at her consternation when she realized she’d been in such a hurry to escape his presence earlier that she’d left without them.

She took them from him, glanced around again, though the yard was overgrown and held a number of places for her pet to hide. “Maybe he’ll show up once I start cooking dinner,” she said, worrying her bottom lip. “I can leave a window open for a little while longer.”

Zurael’s thoughts went to the few things she had in her cabinets. In the Kingdom of the Djinn, few knew hunger. Even the
sila
, those of lesser birth who had no ability to change shape or become non-corporeal, didn’t lack for food or shelter unless they were cast out into the elements by their houses or clans and not accepted into another.

His life had been one of luxury, of fine food and respectful servants, of incredible freedom borne along with the heavy weight of responsibility that came with being The Prince’s son. Until he’d been summoned, he’d never known true fear, had never experienced so deeply the emotions that buffeted him when he was in Aisling’s presence.

“Let me provide tonight’s meal,” he said, and as soon as the words were out, he saw the opportunity they provided for him to return to the occult shop.

“Full darkness will be here in—”

He stopped her by the touch of a fingertip to her lips and felt his heart fill with tender warmth when a fleeting look of worry moved through her eyes before she gave a slight nod, accepting he would be safe out in the night, where she wouldn’t be.

“I’ll travel fast and be back soon,” he said, finding himself suddenly reluctant to leave her.

She nodded and turned back toward the barred, metal door, slid the key into the lock and opened it enough to unlock the wooden door behind it.

He couldn’t resist the temptation to touch her one last time, to trace her spine and feel her shiver as desire flared inside her as surely as it did inside him. When he returned he’d have her again. He’d know the silky heat of her wet core, the ecstasy of being buried so deep inside her their heartbeats blended and pulsed in sync with one another.

“I’ll have to close the windows before you get back,” Aisling said, letting the exterior barred door close as she gave Zurael the house keys.

Somehow he managed to part from Aisling, to seek the shadows and will his physical shape to fade. He became a swirling, eddying wind that twisted, picking up random twigs and leaves as he retraced their steps to the occult shop. He knew even as he did it there might be no chance to examine the primitive statue and perhaps destroy it.

Javier’s assistant had assumed the crystal in the figurine’s forehead reacted to Aisling because she was first through the door. But he’d seen images of similar statuettes in the history books of the Djinn, and all of them were dangerous tools in the hands of someone capable of summoning and binding those who could shed their physical form.

What had taken quite a bit of time to do as a man took only a few minutes without the hindrance of flesh. With a thought, unseeable particles condensed, re-formed and clothed him in the manner he’d chosen when he left the Kingdom of the Djinn.

From deep in the shadows another presence emerged. The aura was heavily masked but recognizable to Zurael. He turned and said, “What brings you here, Irial?”

“My father sent me,” Irial said, stepping closer, the green of his eyes a sharp contrast to the stylized raven marking his cheek.

Where Iyar en Batrael was the pitch-black of night, the eldest prince of the House of the Raven was the golden-brown of the forest floor in evening light. Teeth flashed white, but the amusement didn’t quite reach the green of his eyes as he said, “I think my father worries the little shamaness will distract you from your task and perhaps be your downfall. From what I’ve witnessed, even from a safe distance, he has cause for concern. Beyond that, I’m simply a messenger boy, sent to gather what you’ve learned so he can feed the information to Malahel en Raum in silken threads for whatever web the two of them are weaving.”

There was no reason for Zurael to withhold most of what he’d learned, though he carefully parsed through it, avoided mentioning Aisling’s ability to quickly memorize script and symbols. And underlying his recounting was a subtle message: He didn’t view her as an enemy of the Djinn. He would see her spared.

Irial’s face was grim by the time Zurael stopped speaking. He glanced at the occult shop. “I can feel the traps from here. They’re powerful. I’m not sure it would be safe for you to enter the shop again, even in a corporeal form.”

Frustration spiraled through Zurael, but he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore Irial’s assessment. Irial was gifted with the ability to recognize the presence of entrapment spells before they could be triggered.

“We can get closer,” Irial said, “I want to see the figurine.”

 

 

AISLING remained on the door stoop long moments after Zurael disappeared. She’d been so anxious to return to the house, to escape the impending darkness. But now the thought of going inside alone held no appeal.

“Aziel,” she called, knowing it was useless but unable to stop herself from doing it.

Goose bumps rose on her arms as she left the stoop. She was determined not to give in to the fear and uneasiness that being completely by herself engendered.

Resolutely she forced herself to go around the corner of the house, as Aziel had done when he’d escaped earlier in the day. But there was no sign of him in the tangled weeds and rubble.

She frowned as she imagined the work it would require to reclaim the yard. Perhaps Henri’s size had kept him from tackling the physical work necessary to garden, or perhaps, as the gloom of his house indicated and both Raisa and Father Ursu had alluded to, he suffered from depression and had no energy for managing a yard.

“Aziel,” she called again before returning to the stoop and glancing to the spot where Zurael had disappeared into the shadows. Need for him coiled in her belly and snaked up her spine to her breasts. Each time she resolved to keep her distance emotionally, to deny the desire for him, her resistance melted against the lust that flared between them.

Aisling shivered. Her nipples tightened and her clit stiffened against panties wet with arousal as she remembered the light scrape of his talons against her neck after they’d left Tamara, the heated promise in his eyes and hard intent of his body after they’d left the occult shop.

Another shiver passed through her, this time with thoughts of the script and symbols he’d drawn in the dirt. So many of them were vaguely familiar—perhaps ancestral memories as he’d claimed. But if they were . . .

A cold knot formed in Aisling’s stomach and banked the fires of need. If they were the memories of her ancestors, did that make her part-demon? What other symbols and script would Zurael know so readily and use to test her with?

She wiped suddenly damp palms against her pants. Her heart beat so loudly it drowned out the call of insects in the deepening menace of dusk.

Shall we appease your curiosity about the being who would claim you as his own?

You asked who I served on your first visit. Would you like to see the place he calls home?

I’ll let you in on a secret. He’d like for you to join him here. Your mother got away from him, or so they say. But that’s a story for another day.

I’d hoped we could spend some time together. Not that I’d risk eternal torment and damnation by actually fucking you. But even a dead man can fantasize.

The taunts Elena’s brother had spoken in the spiritlands whispered through her mind, haunted her with a different meaning than the one she’d attributed to them before. She’d thought John spoke of lust, but what if he spoke of her father?

Aisling curled her hand around the hidden pouch containing her fetishes, pictured again the mix of script and sigils Zurael had drawn in the dirt, the one among them she knew by heart. It was a name Aziel had given her long ago, her most powerful protector though he’d refused to answer her questions or speak of the being the sigil represented.

He’d cautioned her against using the name unless she feared for her soul. He’d warned the cost of summoning her ally and drawing him to her was beyond any she could imagine paying.

Aisling shook off her thoughts and went inside. She moved from window to window, noting as she secured them that the bars she’d set ensuring they couldn’t be raised higher from the outside remained in place.

The shaman’s workroom drew her. The sight of the stones and unfinished forms waiting on the workbench, the fetishes guarding the room, didn’t offer her respite from the unanswered questions and haunting fears circling inside her, not only about her unknown parents and her own identity, but about Zurael and Aziel. If they were both demon, then were they her father’s enemies or his allies?

She glanced at the bed of dirt in the center of the room but knew she didn’t have the courage to seek John out in the ghostlands and ask him to show her the place his master called home. And beyond that, she feared what the knowledge would cost her, what it would mean to her.

With a sigh Aisling forced the swirling chaos of her thoughts to still. She picked up the box of matches on Henri’s workbench and lit several lamps rather than use electricity. Then she turned her attention to examining the large fetishes Henri had positioned around the room to guard him when he journeyed in astral form.

She lifted an owl carved from a heavy greenish-brown stone she didn’t recognize. Henri’s work was less detailed than her own, lacking the tiny lines that made some of her larger pieces seem real, as though they could actually house the spirits of the animals they represented.

For an instant she flashed back to the primitive figurine at the occult shop. She hoped the library would have history books covering ancient times so she’d get a chance to learn more about the statuette, but she didn’t count on it. During the years of plague and lawlessness so many books had been destroyed—burned to provide heat and light, and in some cases because those who came across them found the ideas and thoughts they contained offensive. Any truly valuable books surviving had long since disappeared into private collections

In Stockton there was only a small library because the city government saw no reason to spend money on books when the rich and powerful had their own and the poor who struggled in the city or on the land had little time to read or even to learn how. And even if they had, most were wary, worried their choice of reading material would be noted and judged by the Church and those they supported to power. Aisling wondered if it would be different in Oakland, or if word of her visit to the library with Zurael would find its way to Father Ursu as it seemed the trip to Sinners had.

A presence in the doorway made her glance up. Adrenaline poured into her bloodstream at the sight of the stranger standing there, blocking her escape. Her hand instinctively tightened on the owl fetish.

He was only slightly bigger than she, small against other men, which had perhaps led to the violence he’d been found guilty of. The tattoos of a lawbreaker marked his face, one on each cheek, both proclaiming the nature of his crimes—a serious assault against a lover and another against a family member. A third conviction and he might well be executed, but Aisling doubted he’d ever be found if he escaped from her house.

Zurael.
She cried his name, but she wouldn’t wait for him to rush to her rescue.

The man stepped into the room. His eyes traveled over her and made her skin crawl.

A length of cord unwound when he opened a hand. He grabbed its end and pulled the cord tight, snapping it with a violence meant to add to her terror.

She didn’t dare look away from him, though she frantically sifted through her memories of what was on the workbench behind her. There were mallets and chisels, but none of them would give her the reach or the weight of the fetish in her hand.

“Who sent you?” Aisling asked, managing to push the words out, sure his presence in her home wasn’t accidental.

“You’ll know when you’re dead,” he said, snapping the cord again before slowly wrapping it around his hand, covering his knuckles with it and kissing them like a prizefighter might do his bare flesh.

He grinned and licked his lips when Aisling grasped the owl with both hands. “I like it better when it’s not easy.”

Every muscle in Aisling’s body tensed as he took a step toward her. Her breath moved in and out of her lungs in fast pants.

There was no point in screaming. Even if her neighbors heard her, they wouldn’t brave the night to come to her aid.

Death. Delay. They were the only two options.

Aisling didn’t let the open doorway tempt her into making a wild dash into another room. But she cursed her ignorance and her ready acceptance of Zurael’s protection for not having paid enough attention to the details that could make a difference between life and death. She had no idea if there were locks on the internal doors, if they were strong enough to last until Zurael’s return.

At home she knew every hiding place, every defensible space, each room that offered a safe refuge and a chance for survival from not only supernaturals should they attack, but from bands of outcast, lawless humans. Living in the country—on land with an abundance of food, water and shelter—was dangerous, though other than those times when the landowners came with their militiamen, or the police came on some pretext, she’d never felt threatened.

She kept her attention on her assailant’s eyes—counted on his intentions arriving there first and giving her enough warning. How many times had the eldest of Geneva’s fostered children drilled and driven that point home to the youngest as they were growing up? How many bruises had blossomed on her skin in the course of learning how to defend herself?