Ghostland (6 page)

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.”

Three

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 kill 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.

Her hands shook as she dealt with the groceries under Zurael’s unblinking stare. Her stomach had been cramped with hunger while she walked, but now the thought of food made it tense in rebellion.

Aziel gathered his courage and scurried into the kitchen. He climbed up the leg of her pants and settled on her shoulder, his familiar presence bringing comfort.

Aisling turned her head slightly and closed her eyes. She buried her face in his soft fur and concentrated on the faint beat of his heart and his warmth.

The rumble of his stomach made her smile. She returned to the task of dealing with the items she’d purchased. A package of chicken breasts remained on the counter when she was finished.

Aziel would have been happy to eat his food raw, but she needed to keep her hands and mind busy. She washed a cutting board then cast a nervous glance at the demon before pulling a knife from an oak block. His smile was a savage flash of white in a face worthy of an ancient god.

Her heart fluttered. Heat painted her cheeks and made her look away. She remembered only too well how his eyes had traveled over her naked body, and his penis had grown hard in response. She wondered if the reason he hadn’t killed her was because he intended to use her first.

Aziel’s tail twitched. His sharp claws dug into her flesh as if he sensed the direction of her thoughts and wanted to derail her fear before it rose to consume her.

Aisling took a deep breath and cut a chicken breast into slices before searching for oil and a skillet. The smell of frying meat stirred her hunger. She added more chicken. Her gaze strayed to the demon and she willed herself to meet his eyes, to reclaim her courage when dealing with him.

His name had been given to her by Aziel. She’d summoned him with a pure heart and commanded him to fight something evil. Those were not things she could undo and she didn’t want to.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

Surprise flickered across Zurael’s face. It was followed by a tightening of his features and a stiffening of his spine, as if somehow she’d struck him with her question in a way she couldn’t with the knife. “No.”

Aisling’s attention returned to the chicken. She removed the strips cut for Aziel and set them aside to cool.

While the remaining piece cooked, she opened the cabinet and studied the cans she’d brought home. None of the vouchers covered fresh fruits or vegetables, and the small amount of money she’d been given by Father Ursu would barely have paid for salad. She’d have to plant a garden once she found a way to protect it from human and animal scavengers.

Homesickness stabbed through Aisling’s chest. Her hand went to her work pants. She touched the bills folded inside the pocket. At the moment it seemed impossible that she’d ever have enough money to return to the farm. Traveling was a luxury for those who could afford the road tolls and the cost of protection as well as transportation.

She pulled out a can of green beans and opened it, then cleaned a pan and heated the vegetables on the stove. When her meal was finished cooking, she loaded it onto a plate. She put Aziel’s dinner on a saucer before setting it on the floor.

There was a table in the corner of the living room but Aisling remained in the kitchen, conscious of Zurael’s unwavering stare. Aziel ate greedily, then scampered past the demon to disappear into the shaman’s workroom.

Aisling finished her meal slowly. It was difficult to eat with Zurael watching her, but the prospect of finishing her meal and walking past him was equally unnerving. She washed the dishes when she was done with them. Her stomach knotted when Aziel reappeared holding the carved image of a hawk in his mouth.

It was time to pay for the name he’d given her.

The ferret retreated to the shaman’s ceremony room. Aisling stiffened her spine and approached Zurael. She tried to concentrate on the narrow space between the edge of the counter and where he leaned on the door frame.

It was impossible to keep her eyes from traveling over the exposed skin, the tightly fitted pants, the tattooed serpent coiled around his arm. Her gaze darted upward when he shifted position. Her eyes met his, but he didn’t reach for her or speak as she slipped past him.

 

 

ZURAEL was finding it harder and harder to remain aloof. She’d caught him off-guard with her offer to share her meager food supplies.

He’d known life was hard for the humans without wealth or privilege. He’d assumed a female with the ability to summon a Djinn would reek of arrogance and hold a position of power. Instead he found Aisling vulnerable and strangely innocent.

It was an intoxicating combination.

From the moment she’d returned home, he’d been unwillingly aroused. He’d been assaulted by darkly erotic fantasies and the scent of sweet surrender.

Her fear had lessened. Her gaze had strayed to linger over his flesh. Her mind had filled with images that left her lowering her eyelashes and blushing.

He could have her if he wished it. The Djinn weren’t promiscuous, but they weren’t afraid of the carnal side of their nature either.

Zurael’s hands curled into fists. He forced his thoughts to veer from the direction they were taking. He reminded himself that once he’d honored his debt to the House of the Spider then he was free to finish what he’d come here to do—not only for himself, but for his people. Aisling couldn’t be allowed to live, not if she was able to summon any of them at will and might one day bind them.

Misgiving slithered through him. He’d thought it would be simple to kill her, but now there was no rush of rage to catapult him into action. There was no satisfaction to be found in bloody images of retribution.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment his resolve had weakened. Was it her offer to share her food? Was it the instant she’d bravely faced him and their eyes met as his talons danced over her jugular and her terror beat against his palm?

He was no longer sure he could kill her, and yet he knew with certainty an assassin from the House of the Scorpion would be sent if he returned to the Kingdom of the Djinn and she remained alive. A human who could summon a Djinn was a threat to all of them.

Zurael rolled his shoulders and shrugged the thoughts aside. There was little point in thinking of the future and his part in it. For the moment Aisling was bait for a more dangerous prey.

His eyes followed her when she gracefully sat on a bed of packed earth at the center of the room. When she folded her legs and ducked her head, he couldn’t look away from the delicate curve of her neck.

She pulled on a thin leather string until a small pouch emerged from underneath her shirt. Zurael stepped farther into the fetish-guarded room when she opened the pouch and dumped a dozen tiny carvings into her hand before scattering them onto the dirt.