by Jory Strong
Spider-Touched
( Ghostland - 2 )
Jory Strong
The author of Ghostland continues her tale of a postapocalyptic world where supernatural beings have emerged from hiding.
Held prisoner by humans, his angelic memory and power lost because of the sigil-inscribed collar around his neck, Tir dreams of freedom and hungers for vengeance. He's sworn he'll never lie with a mortal, but when Araña removes his shackles and helps him escape his captivity, she melts his icy control and leaves him burning with desire. She's a temptation he can't resist — an unknowing enemy who might well enslave him more thoroughly than the chains he's worn for centuries.
Powerful forces have brought them together to serve a greater purpose, but learning the truth of what they are will destroy them — unless their love is strong enough to overcome the dark legacy of a battle that began with the birth of mankind.
Spider-Touched
Jory Strong
For my aunt Hazel, who got me hooked on romance stories
One
THE city was straight out of Araña’s nightmare. A reclaimed port rising from the devastation wrought by The Last War and the anarchy that followed when the supernaturals emerged from hiding.
Pain lanced through her chest in a spasm at the sight of it. An echoed emotion, the blending of reality and the demon vision she’d walked in ten years earlier, on the day she’d climbed onto Erik and Matthew’s boat to avoid the mob hunting her.
Oakland. She’d had no name for the city then, but its image had haunted her for years. Now, as she knocked aside the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes, she wanted to claim it was the cold ocean breeze causing the tearing, but she knew otherwise.
A gruff male voice cut across her thoughts. “Stop daydreaming, girl,” Matthew said. “Free the jib and ready about.”
Araña did as ordered, freeing the line from its cleat as Erik took up the slack and the Constellation turned away from Oakland, a short reprieve even as the wind drew them deeper into the bay.
Emotion closed her throat as her eyes traveled over Erik, taking in the gaunt appearance of his features, the excess of clothing he required to keep warm. There’d be no cure in this city. No healer who could change the course of the wasting disease and restore him to health.
She wished she could turn aside the future she knew was waiting, the death to come, but her gift was useless except to bring pain and suffering.
Their eyes met, warm brown irises to the solid black of hers, and she saw only what she always saw—confidence, intelligence… love.
“That’s San Francisco,” Matthew said, drawing her attention away from Erik by pointing out the city across the bay from Oakland. “Vampires rule there, and only a fool deals with them directly.”
Erik’s laugh was soft, weak, but heartfelt all the same. “And the desperate. There was a time when we were forced to deal with them, until we worked our way into Thierry’s good graces and he mediated.”
Matthew grunted but didn’t reply. Araña smiled, remembering the old bookseller who’d visited them shortly after they’d taken her in.
The sails fluttered as the wind shifted. “Ready about,” Matthew said, and she automatically reached for the jib line, pulling it in when Erik loosened his.
They swung around, once again facing Oakland, steadily working their way deeper into the bay and then into the channel. They were operating under sail rather than using the Constellation’s motor because its heavy throb would draw attention to them and reveal the speed the engine was capable of when needed.
Guardsmen in camouflage-patterned uniforms patrolled the docks along with the heavily armed private security forces stationed on container ships. The sight of them tightened Araña’s stomach to the point of pain.
There was safety in the waters she called home, in the boat towns formed when crafts of all shapes and descriptions were tethered together on a calm sea.
There was safety in the small armed settlements held in land surrounded by packs of werewolves. But here…
Matthew and Erik were wanted men, though their days of piracy had ended shortly after she arrived in their lives. Not that they’d given up thievery.
She’d learned from the best and felt no guilt over the jobs she’d accompanied them on. Why would she?
It was hard to find evil in the deed when they earned their money helping one rich man steal from another while the vast majority struggled to survive in a land forever changed by war and plague and the emergence of the supernaturals.
In the books that were Erik’s passion, there were stories of a United States where civil rights prevailed, opportunity abounded, and humans lived in ignorance of the unseen. There were pictures bearing little resemblance to the places that now existed. Towering, gleaming cities turned to burned-out rubble and hollowed-out sanctuaries for the lawless as well as the desperate, most of it slowly being reclaimed by the forests.
Where human civilization made a stand, its nature was determined by those in power, all of them wealthy, all of them beyond the daily struggle for food and shelter. But whether those places were controlled by the religious—as the settlement where she’d spent the first twelve years of her life had been—or by politicians backed by guardsmen and police, they held only the daylight hours. The night belonged to the predators—natural and supernatural alike.
Araña’s eyes settled on Erik again. Only pride and the stimulants coursing through his system gave him the strength to help with the jib. He was in no condition to walk long distances.
“What part of the city is the healer in?” she asked as they neared the dock, her throat tightening on the words as the emotion of her long-ago vision surged from the past, washing over her in an agonizing wave to remind her that only death waited in this city called Oakland.
“The Church has influence here,” Matthew said. “There’s a section set aside for humans born with controversial abilities. The healer will live there. Best go ahead and put your glove on.”
Araña reached for the fingerless glove she was never without and slipped it over her left hand, hiding the brand burned into her flesh by a now dead clergyman. Her gaze flicked to Matthew. The hard set of his features hid his worry, but she knew it was there, just as she knew something inside him would die with Erik.
They turned into the wind. “Drop the jib,” he said.
Araña lowered the triangular staysail then went to the front of the boat to gather and stow it in a waterproof bag. The mainsail followed and she secured it to the boom, their momentum carrying them close enough to throw a line to a thick-necked man who pulled them into an unoccupied slip.
“Pay at the end of the dock,” he said when the boat was secure. “If you bring trouble here, the boat gets impounded along with everything on board.”
He left without waiting for acknowledgment. Araña climbed from the boat and turned to offer her hand to Erik as Matthew waited, allowing Erik his pride but there to aid him onto the finger pier all the same.
“Where’s the spider?” Erik asked, taking her hand before she could answer him and continuing to hold it longer than necessary after he’d stepped onto the dock, the gesture telling her some part of him was already braced for his own death.
“On my shoulder,” she said, knowing without conscious thought where the demon mark rested, four of its legs streaking downward to touch her collarbone, its body so much a part of hers there was no change in the smooth texture of her skin—brown yielding to the solid black of the spider shape then becoming brown again.
She never felt the demon mark move, could only guess at the reasons it positioned itself where it did. But it was always present, as deadly to others as her flame-trapped visions were.
Matt
hew followed them onto the wooden dock. Araña resisted the urge to ask how far they had to go before they reached the healer. Their destination mattered only in that it offered them a place of safety and rest.
The pier was crowded with fishing boats and a few houseboats. She used the silence as they traveled its length to study her surroundings, to notice those who took an interest in them.
When they neared the small concrete building at the dock’s end, Erik murmured, “Camera. On the lamppost.”
She glanced surreptitiously at it, keeping her head ducked.
“You two keep walking while I pay for the slip,” Matthew said. “By the time they identify any of us—if it’s even possible—we’ll be long gone from Oakland.”
“Let me pay the fee,” Araña said, misgiving filling her, the framed “Wanted” pictures on the wall of Erik and Matthew’s bedroom crowding her mind, tightening the knots in her stomach.
Matthew shook his head. “If the camera is there for any reason other than scaring people into good behavior, then there will be others. For all we know the dock attendant wore one and took our pictures when he pulled us in. The technology existed well before The Last War. We’re safe enough. It’s been a long time since Erik and I were here.”
Araña had no choice but to follow Matthew’s dictates. No reason to dispute his logic. She and Erik kept going as he detoured to pay for the slip. They stopped only when they were beyond the lamppost and the camera.
She longed to take Erik’s hand in hers—the contact too brief when she helped him from the boat. She ached to turn into him, to wrap her arms around him and let the hot wash of tears escape to wet his neck as she told him how much he meant to her, how much she loved him. How he was father and older brother, best friend and confidant, irreplaceable and unequal in her life—even though she loved Matthew, too.
But she didn’t dare press her skin to his. The demon mark had killed for the first time when she was five and a stranger had grabbed her. It had killed again when she was sixteen and thought she was in love. She wouldn’t risk losing Erik that way, even though she ached to be held close and feel the brush of his lips and the soothing stroke of his hand, the rub of his cheek against hers in comfort offered and received.
Be strong, she told herself. Here in this city, that’s what Erik and Matthew needed from her.
As they left the dock area, Araña’s hands settled near the hilts of the knives she wore in inconspicuous sheaths sewn into the dark fabric of her pants. A gun would have made her feel safer, but they’d left them locked on the boat with the longer knives.
Along the coast and canals, in the settlements without enough wealth to pay for more than a few policemen, an open display of weapons was viewed as a wise precaution for avoiding trouble. The larger cities were different.
There they were viewed as a threat to society. People remembered that after the plague ran its course and the supernaturals revealed their presence, anarchy reigned for long years and the streets filled with violence and fear.
Eventually the armed services and guardsmen brought order and harsher gun laws. There was no way to ban them, not when any abandoned and unclaimed building was fair game for salvage. But obtaining ammunition was difficult and expensive, and the penalty for using a gun without just cause was death.
Araña’s hands curled around the hilts of her knives in an unconscious search for security as Erik’s breath grew labored with each step, until finally he said, “We can separate. It’s still early enough for the buses to run. I can take one and wait for the two of you just inside the area set aside for the gifted.”
“No,” Matthew said. “You and I stay together. Araña can—”
“No.” Her stomach clenched on the thought of not being with them. “I don’t want to be separated from you and Erik.”
“Then we stay together,” Matthew said, one hand leaving its position near his knife to curl around Erik’s arm in unprotested assistance. “We’ll turn up ahead.”
Already the bustle of the docks had faded and the reclamation of buildings slowed. Restored houses with iron bars and fortified doors stood next to burned-out buildings and rubble. If there were children present, they played inside or elsewhere.
They turned at the corner, their progress slowing with each block until Araña feared Matthew would need to carry Erik the remaining distance to the bus stop. Relief filled her when they got to a street where gaily dressed people hurried to their destinations and cars carrying the rich drove by.
Araña glanced upward. Despite the slowness of their progress, the sun slid relentlessly through the sky. They’d have to find shelter, either with the healer or at an inn. She didn’t think there would be enough time to get back to the boat by nightfall.
An old woman hunched with age waited at the bus stop, her hand on the arm of a pregnant girl no older than sixteen or seventeen. Both were dressed in black and adorned with amulets.
Witches, Araña thought, the vision rising up to encase her in nightmare ice when the old woman’s face lifted and Araña saw in reality what she’d seen ten years earlier in her vision. Sightless, cataract-covered eyes seemed to stare directly at her, finding the taint on her soul before shifting to where the spidery demon mark hid beneath her clothes.
Matthew’s hand gripped the hilt of his knife when the milky-white gaze moved unerringly to his face then Erik’s. Erik touched Matthew’s arm lightly and spoke to the witch. “Do you know where we can find a healer?”
“Your stop is the last one. It’s close to the red zone.”
The sound of a diesel engine drew Araña’s attention away from the witch. She’d taken the lookout position automatically while Matthew and Erik stood so it would be difficult for cars traveling along the road to see their faces. With a subtle hand signal she told them the vehicle approaching carried guardsmen.
She forced herself to appear relaxed as the brown and gray jeep with the machine gun mounted at the back slowed to a crawl near the bus stop. All three of the guardsmen were young, not much older than her.
Their body language marked them as the rich, younger sons of the elite, as did the way they undressed her with their eyes. Wolf whistles and lewd comments assaulted her as they passed. A block beyond the bus stop they did a U-turn and slowed again, but this time they kept going after they passed.
The bus came into view. It was old, something cobbled together from salvaged parts, but it was a welcome sight.
A jeep carrying guardsmen passed the bus stop coming from the other direction. An older, grizzled man drove while two others sat in the back, arms resting on rifles as their eyes scanned the streets. Their attention lingered on Matthew and Erik, or on the witches—she couldn’t tell which before they sped away.
Her eyes met Matthew’s. A small tilt of his head was enough to convey his intention to get on the bus as it came to a groaning stop.
Matthew and Erik climbed onto it first. Erik kept moving while Matthew stopped to exchange words with the driver about the fees. He paid for the three of them then followed Erik to the back.
The witches climbed on board next, also paying in cash. They took seats toward the front. Araña scanned the road one last time for trouble before boarding.
“You fear your gift,” the old witch whispered as she passed. “It’s a thing of great power. Come to me and I’ll teach you how to use it.”
Araña kept going, refusing to acknowledge either the gift or the offer. The bus lurched forward and picked up speed. She hurried past a mother younger than she was, who already had two children.
Erik and Matthew sat near the rear exit. Araña took a seat across the aisle from them so she could look out the window on the driver’s side.
They rode in silence. Each of them tense, lost in private thoughts.
Blocks later the bus slowed to a stop. The woman with the children stood and hefted the toddler to her hip before disembarking. The infant in a sling on her chest woke and began crying as the bus pulled away.
&n
bsp; Outside, each new neighborhood looked poorer than the last. By the way the houses were positioned, new ones built alongside salvaged ones, Araña guessed the families claiming them were related or joined together for their common safety.
Laundry fluttered on lines. Children screamed in play as they chased one another and were chased in turn by dogs big enough to protect them if necessary.
She knew the instant the bus entered the area set aside for humans who were different, gifted—or damned, as some believed. The houses were marked with symbols, and the distance between them grew, affording privacy. Some of the sigils were familiar; some she’d seen only in Erik’s books.
The bus slowed to another stop, and the witches got out just as a long-bodied vehicle carrying guardsmen passed, going in the opposite direction. Araña shifted in her seat so she could look out through the back window at the truck’s occupants.
Fear soured her stomach. She thought it possible she’d seen them earlier, but she couldn’t be sure, just as she couldn’t know whether they patrolled a set route or if they were trying to get a glimpse of Matthew and Erik.
Her palms glided over the sheaths containing the knives, and she gained a measure of comfort from the feel of the blades. “We get off still?”
Matthew nodded. “We can make it to the red zone if necessary.”
“It’s a safety zone?”
Matthew snorted. “It’s where the rich go to play without any worry about breaking laws. And because of it, it’s also where the vice lords and black magic practitioners live without fear of being arrested. It’s a death trap for anyone who doesn’t know how to take care of themselves.”
Erik’s soft laugh brought a smile to Araña’s heart along with a stab of pain. “The same could be said of the places we’ve called home for the last twenty years. The biggest difference is the rich don’t come to play with us.”
“True enough,” Matthew said, rising from his seat even as the bus driver announced the last stop on the route.
