Ghostland (ghostland)

by Jory Strong

  She followed him, careful to pay attention to her surroundings and not lose track of the way home, as he darted through alleyways and abandoned yards, always staying just in sight-until finally he disappeared into a lot overgrown with poisonous plants and needle-sharp bushes.

  “Aziel,” Aisling called, knowing it was pointless, but doing it anyway. They’d played this game many times and in all of his various forms.

  There was no answering chatter, though the stillness of the yard told her she wasn’t alone in it. In front of her a narrow path pushed through poison oak and thorns.

  Partially concealed flat rocks on either side of the path drew her eye. When she moved closer, she saw the sigils etched on the slate-gray surfaces. They were common witch symbols, warning against trespass and theft.

  “Aziel,” Aisling called again. “Come out. I can’t come in after you.”

  “You’re the shamaness who lives in Henri’s house now,” a voice said, causing Aisling to startle and turn away from the path.

  A heavily pregnant young girl stood at an opening in the thorn bushes that hadn’t been there a moment earlier.

  “Yes, I’m Aisling.”

  The girl nodded and clasped her hands over her swollen belly. Small white teeth worried her bottom lip. She was seventeen-maybe-pale-faced with shadowy, pain-filled eyes.

  “I’m Tamara Wainwright. This is my family’s garden. Is Aziel your pet? They say you have a ferret.”

  “Yes. Have you seen him?”

  “No.” Tamara’s face tightened and she rubbed tiny circles on her abdomen. She glanced quickly in the direction of the nearest house before saying, “Would you like to look in the garden?”

  Unless Aziel came to her, Aisling knew she wouldn’t find him in the garden, but he’d led her here and so she said, “Yes.”

  Tamara stepped away from the opening and ushered Aisling onto the path before freeing a bush of long-needled thorns to fall across the entranceway. The abandoned lot was surprisingly deep, the tangle of thorns and poisonous plants thick until they abruptly gave way to order, to clusters of plants arranged to form a pentacle with an altar at its center.

  “This is incredible,” Aisling said, awed by the design and the fact that it survived the night’s predators.

  “My family was already settled in this area of town when law and order were restored and Oakland was reclaimed by the Church and the non-gifted humans. They say my ancestors sacrificed anyone who trespassed, and marked the edges of the lot with cursed blood.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s true or not. It was a long time ago. We don’t practice black magic, despite what you might hear from others.” Tamara’s eyes hardened. “Or the Church.”

  Aisling sighed softly. Would she forever be linked to the Church and viewed with suspicion because of it?

  “I know very little about Oakland or those who live in this section of it,” Aisling admitted, hoping the truth would ease her way with her neighbors. “It wasn’t my wish to be brought here from my family’s farm outside of Stockton. But when the guardsmen arrived with Father Ursu… what choice was there?”

  “The Church wanted something from you?”

  Given what she’d already told Raisa, Aisling didn’t see any reason to deny it. “Yes, an important man’s lover was missing, and they wanted me to see if her spirit had passed into the ghostlands.”

  Tamara bit her lip and looked away quickly. “Were you able to find her?”

  “Yes.”

  Tamara’s attention returned to Aisling’s face. Old eyes stared out of a pinched, young face. “But then they brought you here instead of taking you back home. They want something else from you. Others have gone missing. Henri couldn’t find them. And then he was gone, too.”

  “Father Ursu stopped by this morning to check on me. I asked him about Henri. He told me Henri died in service to the Church. He admitted the police have found sacrificed remains, but he didn’t tell me anything more.” Aisling’s hands curled into fists as she remembered the fear and embarrassment that had assailed her. “Do the police and the Church spy on those who live in this section?”

  Tamara shrugged. “I’m sure they’ve got informants. But considering how many of the wealthy and powerful find their way here, what do they gain from knowing who visits which home or shop? It’s not illegal to visit and do business with us. It’s not even considered a sin any longer-not if the Church wants to keep its influence in Oakland.”

  Aisling felt foolish for pushing, but she couldn’t let the subject drop. “What about cameras and listening devices?”

  Tamara’s laugh was genuine. “Did you find them hidden in Henri’s house? I’m surprised either the Church or the police would waste their time installing them. They don’t work in this area. The signals are jammed by technology from The Last War.” She flinched and rubbed circles lower on her swollen belly.

  “When is the baby due?” Aisling asked, noting the small basket for collecting leaves and roots that had been left near one of the pentagram’s points.

  “In another week. It’s a boy. He’ll be born gifted. My great-grandmother’s never wrong when she does her scrying using fire.” Tamara glanced sideways at Aisling and worried her bottom lip. “Are there any plants you’d like from the garden?”

  Aisling shook her head. There were only a few things she recognized, but nothing she wanted badly enough to incur a debt for. “I have everything I need. Thank you for offering.”

  Tamara pushed her dark hair behind her ears, making her look even younger. “Do you have a healing amulet? One that’ll draw the poison from even the most venomous snakebites?”

  Aisling startled, wondered briefly if Tamara somehow knew about Zurael and his serpent form, then dismissed the thought. Healing amulets were a common enough offering of witches, since few could afford to see a trained doctor.

  She skimmed her fingertips over the bills folded in her pocket. It would be wise to have an amulet, but she couldn’t afford one, not when her cabinets held little food and the silver coins were set aside for the dream of security for her family.

  Tamara removed an amulet from around her neck. It was circular and multitextured, a hard disk made completely of intricately woven strands of dried plants. Aisling had never seen anything like it, though she recognized some of the sigils stained on it.

  “My great-grandmother made this one. It’s like the ones that saved my ancestors during the plague. None of them died, even when all of their neighbors and most of Oakland did. They steeped the amulet in tea as soon as the first symptom appeared, and kept doing it for three days to rid their bodies of disease. For things like poisonous snakebites or gangrene, the skin can be cut open and the amulet pressed against the wound so it’ll draw out the toxin as it’s absorbed by the blood.”

  “I don’t have the money for such a powerful amulet,” Aisling said.

  Tamara hugged her extended belly. “I want to trade it for your services. My son’s father is missing.”

  Sadness filled Aisling. “You think he’s one of the sacrificed?”

  Thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I don’t know. When I’m able, I slip off to the library and check the newspapers for word of him. His family is influential. Even if I could approach them, what would I learn? He was a black sheep for his interest in sorcery. They’ve threatened to send him away plenty of times. If he told them about the baby…”

  Her hands trembled as she stroked her stomach. “He wasn’t happy about the baby. I knew he wouldn’t be, so I didn’t tell him until it became impossible to hide it. I didn’t tell anyone-I was afraid of what my family would do. He used to meet me here or in an abandoned house we’d pretend was ours-where he was a great sorcerer and I was a powerful witch.”

  Tears trailed down her cheeks when she looked up to meet Aisling’s eyes. “He was angry about the baby. For months and months he was angry. He didn’t leave notes for me or answer the ones I left in our hiding places. Then a month ago I saw him and… We agreed to mee
t at the house.” She wiped angrily at the tears. “I waited there so long it wasn’t safe to come home until the next morning. He never came and I haven’t seen him again. I just need to know if he’s still alive. Will you help me?”

  Aisling glanced at the offered amulet and was tempted. Surely Aziel had led her here for this purpose. Her family’s survival depended on her being able to find whoever was selling Ghost. She couldn’t afford to let injury or sickness stop her.

  “You’re offering the amulet in exchange only for learning if your child’s father is dead?” Aisling asked, making sure Tamara didn’t want or expect more.

  Tamara wiped additional tears off her cheeks. “Yes.”

  “I’ll look for your answers in the ghostlands.”

  A pale hand curled around Aisling’s forearm. “Will you do it now? Here? The garden is warded and I don’t want anyone knowing I’ve asked you to do this. I don’t want my family to know I’ve given you his name.” Her grip tightened. “You’ll promise on your soul not to reveal it to anyone in this world.”

  “I promise.”

  “On your soul.”

  “On my soul.”

  “You’ll do it now? Here?”

  Aisling hesitated for only a moment before agreeing, then found a spot beyond the pentacle of the garden and sat cross-legged on the ground. She smoothed the surface of the dirt as Tamara filled her gathering basket with ash-rich soil and returned with it.

  “I’ll need the name,” Aisling said, looking around quickly when a hot breeze tugged at her braid and filled her lungs with the exotic scent of spice underneath a desert sun. And though she didn’t see Zurael, she imagined he was with her, then realized as she should have earlier, that a demon needed no form to be present in this world.

  “Christopher. Christopher Alan Cooper,” Tamara whispered, pulling an inexpensive ring from her pinky finger and offering it to Aisling. “He bought this for me. It’s the only thing I have that was once in his possession.”

  Aisling took the ring and placed it on her own finger. Her heart raced as it always did when she was about to enter the spirit world.

  Instinctively her hand curled around the hidden pouch containing her fetishes. She thought about calling on one of the fetish-linked spirits, but the price was always high, and after her last trip to the ghostlands, she was afraid of what they might demand.

  Aisling took a deep a breath. She wished Aziel would appear and crawl into her lap. But nothing stirred other than the breeze-bent plants.

  She used her fingertip to draw a circle around her in the dirt, adding the necessary symbols of protection. When the circle was closed, she dug her hands into the ashy soil, let it sift through her fingers like baker’s flour as she got a feel for the weight and fineness of her drawing material. She pictured the sigil she would draw, one suited for the task, and a name she could call upon whose price for aid had never been more than she could pay.

  When the soil was as familiar to her as what she used sitting on the floor of her family’s barn, she slowly, painstakingly drew the sigil, one small handful of dirt at a time, the lines formed with the minute opening and closing of her fist.

  By the time she was nearly done, her hand ached and a thin sheen of sweat covered her face. But looking down at her work, Aisling was satisfied. She felt calm as the last line fell into place and the gray swirling mass of the spirit winds rushed to meet and claim her.

  “BACK so soon?” a familiar voice said when the gray settled to reveal Aisling’s naked form and unbound hair. Dismay filled her as she turned to find Elena’s brother instead of the spirit guide she’d expected. “You’re disappointed,” he said, licking his lips in a blatantly carnal gesture as his gaze traveled over her, settling on the triangle of dark gold curls between her thighs. “Well, I won’t say I am.” His eyes flicked briefly to the arm where Zurael had been coiled on her last visit. “And it’s so much nicer without your pet. So much cozier.” He offered his hand. “Walk with me? Let’s get to know one another better.”

  Instinct made her hesitate to follow him. Caution kept her from taking his hand. Rarely did she touch a spirit in the ghostlands.

  “Why have you come to greet me, John Rousseau?” she asked, stressing the name, guessing his surname was the same as Elena’s.

  John threw back his head and laughed. He reached back to tug at the long silver cable serving as leash and hangman’s noose. It coiled around his hand. “Nice try, but that witch’s trick won’t work on me. As you can see, my soul is not my own, though at the moment my master’s attention appears to be lax.”

  A sly expression moved through his eyes. “You asked who I served on your first visit. Would you like to see the place he calls home?” He leaned forward and whispered, “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.”

  Cold chills and burning curiosity splintered through Aisling. She wasn’t the only child to be abandoned on Geneva’s doorstep with no history or clue to his or her parentage. She didn’t feel alone or alienated or unloved because of it, though a small part of her had always longed for answers, wanted them desperately, especially when she realized she could travel to the spiritlands. But until now, those answers had seemed impossible to obtain.

  Temptation eroded her sense of purpose. It pushed back the urgency of her tasks in both the ghostlands and in Oakland.

  John gave a sigh. He made a show of rolling his shoulder, and as he did so the grayness on that side gave way under a subtle breeze.

  A row of Victorian houses with Sinners at their center became a backdrop for a group of hollow-eyed men. They stood, their attention focused on her. Their faces undamaged though their bodies were ripped open, the organs hanging and bones broken, the carnage mixed with bloody, torn clothing.

  Bile rose in Aisling’s throat. Guilt lodged in her heart at the sight of the men who’d been Ghosting, whose deaths had come because of her presence at the club.

  John shuddered dramatically. “Your work? I’m sure they had it coming to them, but what a way to go.” He stroked the cable around his neck. “It makes my own demise seem humane.”

  Once again he offered his hand. “Shall we appease your curiosity about the being who would claim you as his own?”

  Wicked amusement made John’s eyes gleam. His words of her being claimed by a being in this realm brought thoughts of Zurael and made Aisling hesitate just long enough for Tamara’s ring to draw her attention, to make her question John’s purpose and remember he’d yet to demonstrate he’d come as a result of the sigil she’d drawn before entering the ghostlands.

  “Why have you come to greet me, John Rousseau?” she asked, repeating the sentence she’d met him with.

  “How boring. I’d hoped we could spend some time together.” He cupped the front of his pants. “Not that I’d risk eternal torment and damnation by actually fucking you. But even a dead man can fantasize.” His eyes traveled over her again. “Oh yes, a man can certainly fantasize, which I intend to do. Until we meet again,” he said, his voice lost in a swirl of gray as he was reclaimed by the ghostlands.

  Aisling rubbed her arms, conscious of the stares of the men who remained against a Sinners backdrop. She closed her eyes, willed the scene away and felt the spirit winds caress her naked flesh.

  Relief filled her when she opened her eyes and found unending grayness. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, more conscious of her lack of clothing in the spiritlands than she’d been for a long time, and unnerved by it.

  A small man dressed in a brown suit stepped into view. His expression remained somber, his demeanor respectful. His gaze remained fixed on her face as he approached.

  He was a figure out of one of Geneva’s history books, a man wearing a bowler hat-a derby from the 18 and 1900s-a time well before The Last War. His manner suggested a man with a task to perform. And though she’d never seen him before, Aisling wasn’t surprised when he do
ffed his hat to reveal the sigil she’d used in asking for aid.

  “I am Marcus. How may I serve you?”

  Aisling removed the ring from her finger and offered it to him. “The man who gave this to his lover was named Christopher Alan Cooper by his parents. I want to know if his spirit passed through this land or can be found lingering here.”

  Marcus took the ring. His hands were as delicate as a woman’s and it fit easily on the same small finger Aisling had worn it on.

  He closed his eyes and Aisling wondered if perhaps a part of him searched the ghostlands, or if he simply spoke with the being whose sigil she’d drawn. When he opened his eyes, he said, “For the answer to your question, you’ll owe a shaman’s task, one not meant to be either difficult or dangerous.”

  “I accept.”

  Marcus rotated his wrist. Inside the derby hat a new sigil replaced the one he’d first revealed. “The bearer of this mark will call upon you for your service.”

  Aisling memorized the symbol, then nodded. He placed the hat on his head. “Follow me.”

  As always, time and distance were immeasurable, meaningless. Phantom hands, tendrils of hot and cold, glanced over her bare flesh as they walked. Nothingness gave way to building-lined streets, to a bridge separating two cities and a distant skyline that was now home.

  “This is San Francisco,” Aisling said.

  “An illusion of it, yes.”

  She looked around, absorbed everything she could, so if she ever found herself in the city across the bay, she’d know something of it. They continued walking along streets lined with shops. It took Aisling a block to notice how thoroughly those offering ordinary services and products were integrated with those operated by humans with supernatural gifts.

  A small Italian bakery stood next to a palm reader. An apothecary shared a painted mural front with a witch’s candle and herb shop.