Ghostland

by Jory Strong

  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.”

  Aisl
ing 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.

  “Drugs aren’t illegal here. Lawbreakers won’t escape the tattoo or the death sentence for acts they commit while using them.” Raisa shrugged. “The Church would ban them if they could. But even they don’t have the power to do it. Too many of the founding families add to their wealth because of the drug trade. They won’t allow the first ban because they know it’ll only open the doorway to having others made illegal.”

  Aisling nodded. It was the same in Stockton. There were few resources, and even the most conservative didn’t want to see them wasted on an effort to eradicate the substances humans used to escape the harshness of their reality.

  It hadn’t always been so. Geneva’s history books were filled with stories of a prohibition on alcohol and, later, a war on drugs that left those in control of production and distribution wealthy and powerful beyond anything they could have accomplished otherwise.

  “You’ve heard something about Ghost?” Aisling pushed, aware Raisa hadn’t answered her question.

  “Perhaps.” Raisa touched her fingertips to the saucer holding Aisling’s empty teacup. “May I?”

  Misgiving coiled in Aisling’s stomach. She wanted to say no, to turn away from the offered reading, the implied cost of having her question answered. But images of her family members scattered dead throughout the farmyard forced her to say, “Yes.”

  Raisa picked up the saucer and carried it to her knees, balanced it there as she stared at the pattern left by the tea leaves. Dark, birdlike eyes remained motionless, transfixed by whatever they saw.

  Outside a cloud masked the sun and the light faded, casting the room in the same heavy gloom it had held when Aisling arrived with Father Ursu. Failure wafted through with the scent of Henri’s soap, though his spirit wasn’t present.

  “Death drapes you like a billowing cloak,” Raisa said. “It writhes at your feet and twines around you like a nest of serpents, so your touch becomes its harbinger.”

  A shudder went through Raisa, strong enough to make the teacup rattle against the saucer. She placed it back on the table and rose from her chair. “Speak to Javier about Ghost as well as those who are missing. If you will excuse me, I’ll let myself out. I need to return to the tearoom.”

  Aisling stood and followed Raisa to the door, stepped outside in the hopes of finding Aziel waiting. She shrugged aside the reading as she watched her visitor hurry away. Given Zurael’s presence, and hers in Henri’s home, it was easy to see death in the tea leaves.

  The sun left its hiding place behind the clouds when Aisling went back inside. Zurael was still on the couch. She bent to gather the dirty dishes. His hands circled her wrists, sending molten lava through her veins despite the deadly serpent tattooed on his arm in a wicked reminder of what he was.

  His fingers tightened. Forced her to look up and meet his eyes.

  Aisling shivered, grew short of breath at the carnal heat burning there. She remembered too well what it had been like to stand in the bathroom in front of the mirror, to obey his command and watch as he took her.

  “We only have the daylight to find answers,” she whispered, not wanting to compound her weakness by giving in to him again and losing the chance to visit the library and the occult shop.

  Zurael read the resistance in her face, saw her fight the desire that sprang to life between them like a living flame. He knew he should fight it as well.

  He’d meant to assure himself she was okay, unbothered by Raisa’s reading. But as soon as he touched Aisling, he wanted nothing more than to pull her onto the couch, to strip her out of her clothing and cover her body with his.

  He carried her hands to his chest and pushed them under his shirt. He held them against hardened male nipples, felt her touch all the way down to his cock.

  A hiss escaped when she tried to pull away. A moan followed when her eyelashes lowered submissively and the tension left her so her palms softened and rubbed sensuously against him.

  Lust roared through him, hot need. When she wet her lips, he was swamped with the impulse to toss the coffee table aside and put Aisling on her knees before him, to unbind her hair and guide her mouth to his throbbing cock.

  She leaned closer, whispered his name on a breath that caressed his lips, jolted him into an awareness of the danger he was in. He stood abruptly and released her hands, stepped away from her before he yielded to the temptation of kissing her.

  Confusion, embarrassment, hurt—Aisling’s emotions danced across her face before her expression became guarded. She picked up the saucers and turned aw
ay from him, leaving him feeling regretful, confused.

  He wondered again if Malahel and Iyar had known he’d be ensnared, entangled. He thought of his father positioned in front of the mural of Jetrel, talking of the past and the son who’d lost his life because of a human female.

  Zurael’s attention returned to Aisling. She stood at the sink, rinsing the dishes.

  He willed his heart to harden, his mind to close to what her future held. Death.

  Aisling dried her hands. She could feel Zurael’s gaze blistering her, as if he held her responsible for the desire burning between them.

  Nervously she touched her pocket, felt the folded dollar bills and the bus pass. Without looking at Zurael, she went to the front door and opened it, forced herself through it.

  The demon could do what he wanted with the day. She’d known even as she clung to him in passion that it wasn’t wise to forget what he was and what caring for him could cost her.

  She had only herself. And Aziel. It was enough. It had to be.

  Seven

  THE street was quiet, though Aisling felt the eyes of her neighbors on her. It was unnerving to be in a place where her talent was named on the house, where the ability that led to suspicion and ostracism somewhere else was openly revealed.

  A car turned onto the street and approached slowly. It glided across the open lane to stop along the curb just as she got to the sidewalk. Father Ursu emerged from the backseat. “I thought I’d check up on you and make sure you survived your first night on your own,” he said, gaze flicking from Aisling to the house and back.

  Aisling rubbed her palms over the fabric of her pants. A breeze swirled around her, hot like the desert and smelling of exotic spice, of Zurael.

  “I’m fine,” she said, wary, suspicious, wondering if he knew what had transpired at Sinners.

  “Good. Have you met any of your neighbors yet?”

  Was it a trap? Had Raisa’s visit been prearranged?

  Fear made Aisling’s heart race faster. Worry, then embarrassment, sent heat to her face.