by Jory Strong
“Nor would I,” Zurael said.
“We believe the black mass you interrupted is proof a human is in possession of an ancient stone tablet we thought lost,” Malahel said. “Find whoever is in possession of this knowledge and kill them, then bring the tablet to us without delay.”
Zurael’s eyebrows drew together in consternation and confusion. To accept the task was to remain at risk of being summoned and bound by the human female. “The House of the Scorpion is full of assassins capable of doing what you ask.”
Malahel’s hands left her knees to float over the table in an all-encompassing gesture. “What you say is true, but none of them were summoned as you were. None of them were brought to the House of the Spider by their destinies.”
A bow of his head, a gracious acknowledgment of the tea and the company, and Zurael would be free to escape with his question unanswered. But he couldn’t deny the strangeness of finding himself in a place he had rarely visited in centuries of existence.
“We believe the tablet is in Oakland,” Iyar said. “The city you were summoned to.”
So he would be near the human female, Zurael thought. “I will accept the task,” he said.
Malahel clapped her hands. Immediately the door slid open. The male Djinn who’d ushered Zurael into the room stepped through the doorway followed by two females who were also wearing the white clothing that marked a student. Without speaking they doused the charcoal and removed the brazier as well as the table before closing the door behind them.
Zurael leaned forward to study the slab of clear phantom quartz that had been hidden by the table. It shimmered with secrets, ghost crystals trapped in the larger one. The surface was etched with spider lines, their design a spiral of interweaving patterns he found impossible to untangle.
Next to the slab was a ceramic bowl with tiny stones, each one polished and perfectly round, their colors mixed. He could fit a hundred of them in his cupped hand. A second bowl contained larger stones, half the size of his smallest fingernail. They were round and polished as well. It was this bowl Malahel picked up.
She held it out to him. “Choose the stone that will go by your name. When you have found it, place it in the bowl with the ones you will cast.”
Zurael dipped his hand into the bowl and let the stones flow through his fingers like water. He recognized many of the stones and knew what they signified in the teachings of his own house, but he didn’t make the mistake of thinking they would hold the same meaning in this house. He closed his eyes so the stones would whisper and guide him to the one that would represent him. At the bottom of the bowl he found what he sought and captured it.
He opened his eyes and looked at the obsidian he’d selected. Then he did as he’d been instructed and dropped it into the bowl containing the tiny polished stones.
“Choose the stone that will serve the one who summoned you,” Malahel said.
Once again Zurael closed his eyes. Immediately the female’s image came to mind and his body tightened, his cock stiffened. His jaw clenched and he shifted position on the cushion in the hopes his physical response wouldn’t be noticed.
The female’s stone rested close to the top. Misgiving at having delayed his own task filled Zurael when he opened his eyes and saw the blue-and-white angelite with its flecks of red. In the House of the Serpent it was a stone signifying an enemy, one who was angel-touched and dangerous. He placed it next to the obsidian.
Malahel set the bowl with the larger stones aside. She picked up the second bowl and handed it to Zurael. “Mix the stones as you will. Speak your question as you cast them.”
Zurael closed his eyes in an effort to center himself. There was no turning away, no escape from the web that held him.
He did as Malahel commanded. When he felt the moment was right he tipped the bowl and said, “I would know what power the human holds over me that she was able to summon me the way she did.”
The tiny stones rolled across the phantom quartz of a spider’s altar. There were a thousand lines to capture and hold them, but most of the colorful ones fled, rolling into narrow gutters at the edges of the slab. Zurael stared at what was left-the gray shades of the ghostlands and the red clay of the humans, the bloodred of angels and the black of powerful forces, all circling, trapping the obsidian and the angelite together.
Malahel studied the stones for long moments before leaning forward. The tip of her finger hovered above the stones. It traced the curve trapping the obsidian next to the angelite. It silently pointed out that the obsidian stood alone, untouched by any but the angelite, while red, gray and black stones all crowded against the token representing the human who’d summoned him.
“The one who possesses the tablet you seek will be drawn to the one who summoned you,” Malahel said. “She is deeply connected to the ghostlands. She was born of them and can call the spirit winds at will. That’s how she was able to bring you to her. It’s good you already intend to kill her. She is dangerous to us and will be made even more so if she learns what’s written on the tablet.”
Malahel placed her hands on her knees and Zurael knew she was finished speaking. She had answered his question just as the stones now revealed that in order to accomplish the task he’d agreed to, he would need to find the human who’d summoned him and watch over her until the ancient tablet was recovered and the one who possessed it destroyed.
THE house with the shaman’s symbol painted on it appeared worn and tired, haunted by failure and sadness. It was small, old, its door and windows barred like the houses around it.
Father Ursu’s hand left the pocket of his robe. “You can do the honors,” he said, pressing a key ring into Aisling’s palm.
She unlocked the barred door and opened it, then unlocked the wooden door behind it and opened it as well. The house smelled musty, closed up, dead.
Sunlight fought against the darkness of the curtains covering the windows. Small rays of it slipped in to capture dust motes and gloom and tattered furniture. The ferret perched on Aisling’s shoulder chattered in excitement over a chance to explore.
“The lodging is yours, and for the moment, in appreciation of your services, you don’t have to worry about paying for the electricity,” Father Ursu said.
His hand disappeared into his pocket. This time when it emerged it contained a bundle of papers. “Shall we move over to the table?”
Aisling nodded. She left the wooden door open then set the bag containing her new clothing on the floor before detouring to the windows to open them slightly for fresh air and to pull back the curtains rather than turn on the lights. She hadn’t failed to notice the priest’s exact wording and the warning they held. At the moment she wasn’t beholden, but that could change at any time. It was an old game, one in existence even before The Last War and the plague-enslave those who had nothing by letting them build up debt for the cost of food, clothing and shelter.
When she joined Father Ursu at the table, he’d already laid out the papers. “This is the most recent map of Oakland,” he said. “Can you read?”
Aisling hesitated, unsure whether to admit to it or not. He took her delay in answering for embarrassment over her ignorance.
“No matter,” he said, pushing the map aside. “No doubt you’ll make friends here and draw clients quickly enough. They’ll help you navigate the city.”
Father Ursu reached for a card with a magnetic strip on its back. “This is a transportation pass. There are buses to most areas of the city and to San Francisco. Almost everything you’ll require is close enough to reach by foot, but if you need to take a bus, be sure to leave yourself enough time to return home. There is no public transportation beyond sunset or before sunrise and many drivers won’t stop to pick up a passenger at dusk. To enter San Francisco requires authorization papers. Come to the church and ask for me if you find yourself needing them. Don’t attempt to go there alone. Even in the daytime it’s controlled by vampires.”
He placed the card on the table
and picked up a book of vouchers. He flipped through it quickly for her benefit. There were words on the pages but the pictures served as well. Milk. Meat. Canned fruits. Assorted goods. “When you leave the house, if you go to the right and keep going straight, you’ll come to a grocery store. They’ll accept these vouchers.”
He set the vouchers aside and tapped the final item on the table, a small pile of dollar bills. “Whatever you find in the house is yours to keep or dispose of as you see fit. This is the cash fee promised to you.” He hesitated then added, “You should be safe enough here during the day, but be careful. The residents here don’t pay for the area to be patrolled by the police.”
Aisling studied the assortment of items on the table. Panic threatened to well up inside her. She was alone and there was no one she could trust.
A sharp nip to her earlobe made her smile. The panic subsided as Aziel launched himself off her shoulder and onto the table.
“I need to be going,” Father Ursu said.
Aisling walked him to the door and lingered until he got in the chauffeured car and was taken away. Along the street, other cars were parking to dislodge passengers or pulling away from the curb to whisk clients out of the area set aside for those with controversial abilities.
Despite the bars, she saw that most of the houses on the street had parted curtains and opened windows or doors, as though the residents in this part of the city didn’t fear what might enter in the daytime. Aisling leaned against the doorjamb and closed her eyes. Instantly the image of Zurael’s blood-covered body and burning eyes filled her mind, his whispered threat sent a shiver of fear straight to her heart.
There were wards carved in the wood around the door and windows of the shaman’s house, but she couldn’t be certain they would protect her from the demon she’d summoned. “Let me be safe,” she whispered, lifting her face so the sun could caress it.
She willed herself to find the strength to face whatever was to come, to have the courage to meet her fate. Aziel had given her the name Zurael as he’d given her many other names.
She hadn’t lied when she told the priest the ferret appeared shortly after a trader’s caravan visited the farm. What she hadn’t told him was that before the ferret there’d been a crow, and before the crow there’d been a snake, and before the snake, a cat-and they were all Aziel.
Aisling opened her eyes and left the doorway in favor of exploring.
The house was longer than it was wide. The living room and kitchen were a single space separated by a counter. To the right of the front door was another room. Foreboding filled Aisling when she stepped into it and saw the fetishes. They were perched in places where their strengths could be drawn upon. They were positioned to guard and watch.
On a workbench against the wall, stone and crystal lay with shapes unfinished, their creation interrupted. The tools needed to turn rock into something more lay scattered next to them.
A bed of dirt was in the center of the room. It was a poor man’s doorway into the ghostlands, so reminiscent of the barn floor where she had started so many journeys that a wave of homesickness assailed her.
Aisling wiped tears from her eyes and turned away, retreating to the living room and kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink, their surfaces dusty. The refrigerator held a carton of spoiled milk and a drawer of rotted vegetables. The cabinets were empty except for a small collection of bowls and plates. Rings marked the places where cans of food had been stored.
The bathroom was across from the kitchen. A man’s razor rested on the sink. A sliver of soap lay in the bottom of a huge, claw-foot tub that belonged in a past well before The Last War. There was a shower stall as well.
A solid metal door at the end of the hallway opened into the backyard. Aisling peeked outside then locked the door again.
In the bedroom a sparse, threadbare assortment of clothing hung in the closet. The shirts and pants were all made for a man whose bulk explained the size of the tub and shower. Tentatively Aisling reached into the closet and touched a pair of trousers. She knew the man who’d once owned them was dead, not because she felt his ghost or knew his spirit was in the ghostlands, but because the evidence of his passing filled the house.
Unbidden, the image of Elena’s brother came to mind. His words held no more comfort now than they’d held when he spoke them in the spiritlands. I see they’ve sent a sacrificial lamb. Or maybe that’s Elena’s role. Then again, maybe third time’s the charm.
Aisling changed the bedding. She returned to the kitchen and disposed of the spoiled milk and rotten vegetables.
A kitchen drawer held burlap shopping bags. She draped those over her arm before picking up the book of food vouchers from the living room table.
Aziel emerged from the shaman’s work and ceremony room. He scampered over to meet her at the front door. She let him out and waited for him to take care of his business. But when he would have lingered to explore, Aisling laughed and said, “We’ll have a long, hungry night if I don’t find the grocery store.”
The ferret returned to her side. He rose on his hind legs in readiness for climbing on her shoulder and riding to a new adventure. Aisling shook her head. “Stay here where I know you’ll be safe.”
His scolding made her smile but she didn’t give in to his pleas. Instead she picked him up and brushed a kiss across his forehead. She rubbed her cheek against his soft fur and put him in the house. “I’ll be back.”
The store was miles away. Normally the distance of the trip and the weight of the groceries wouldn’t have made Aisling tired. But the events of the last twenty-four hours, and the sleepless night she’d spent as she worried about the demon Zurael, finally caught up to her. Her footsteps dragged by the time she returned to the shaman’s house. Her hands shook with a nervousness brought on by lack of sleep and vestiges of fear.
Aisling fumbled for the key and slipped it into the lock. Her spine tingled with the hyperawareness of someone who knew she was being watched and that she was no match for a predator.
With a click the first lock gave. She opened the barred metal door and found the key for the wooden one. A few seconds later it opened as well.
The musty smell was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar exotic spice. It was her only warning before a hand wrapped around her throat and sharp talons scraped lightly over her jugular.
“Greetings, child of mud.”
CHAPTER 3
TERROR held Aisling mute and immobile. Her breath charged in and out of her throat along with small whimpers. Her sole focus was on the sharp tips of Zurael’s talons.
Scenes from the night before rushed through her mind, blood-soaked images of those he’d killed with casual strength. The bags of groceries dropped to the floor as she trembled, and like a cat playing with a mouse, Zurael turned her to face him.
Except for the fingernails elongated into claws, he wore a human body dressed in black leather, pants that molded to his skin and a vest left open to expose a bronzed chest. A serpent tattoo curled its way down his forearm and onto his hand, so lifelike that Aisling shivered at having its eyes only inches away from hers.
His hair was pulled back in a long braid, revealing ears studded with obsidian. Fiery rage danced in the center of pupils surrounded by liquid gold, making his face a promise of death.
Zurael clenched his jaw against the sensations bombarding him. Her fear pounded against his palm. It radiated off her, and yet underneath its scent was a heady fragrance that flooded his nostrils and tempted him with dangerous images of coupling with her. He was aroused, not because of her terror, but despite it.
The knowledge she could not only summon him at will, but could make him want her, sent anger burning through his veins. She was weak, fragile, her life span a day in comparison to his own. She was hardly worthy of a Djinn’s notice, and yet he found it impossible to look away from her.
She was golden sunshine and angelite eyes, delicate as a fawn and as defenseless as one. It would take nothing to ki
ll her. A flick of his wrist and it would be done.
Slowly he released her. With a thought, the talons shortened and lightened to the clear of fingernails.
“What do you call yourself?” he asked.
She blinked. A small tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his cock responded with a pulse of desire, an escape of arousal through the slitted tip. Zurael’s hands curled into fists. “What do you call yourself?” he repeated.
“Aisling.”
Her voice was barely a whisper but her name was a roar across his soul. He stepped back involuntarily as it echoed, claimed, resonated deep within as if combining with his own name to form a melodious chord that gave her more power over him.
It was why the Djinn never spoke of the ifrit, the spirit-cursed. To speak their names out loud was to invite their fate.
The fear left Aisling in a wash of nausea and weakness. She went to her knees and bowed her head, hiding the lack of strength in her legs by gathering the groceries scattered from the burlap bags.
She scanned the room for Aziel. Worry gave way to relief when the ferret slipped from underneath the couch as if sensing her fear for his safety. He chattered at her, his voice reassuring though he remained under the shelter of the coffee table.
From underneath lowered eyelashes, Aisling’s attention returned to the demon. He was like a giant, golden cat ready to pounce.
She stood on unsteady legs. Her eyes met the heated gold of Zurael’s and she shivered.
He could kill her with ease. The knowledge stood between them like an abyss.
“I need to put the groceries away,” she whispered, afraid to take a step for fear he’d strike.
Zurael’s gaze dropped to the burlap grocery bags. He nodded, though his eyes promised retribution if she did anything to threaten him.
Aisling was glad the house was small. Only the force of her will got her to the tiny kitchen. Zurael followed as far as the doorway.
