Ghostland (23 page)

He wanted to undo his pants and let the golden beauty of her hair cascade over his cock. He wanted to once again see it spread across the bed, interwoven with the raven black of his.

“We need to go to The Mission and the library,” she said when the last dish was drying in the rack next to the sink. But she didn’t move from his arms.

His cock pulsed in protest. His hands lingered at her waist. Images of pushing her pants down and bending her over the counter, as he thrust through gold satin and found heated ecstasy, invaded his thoughts—warred with images of urging her to her knees, of thrusting into her mouth as her hair wound around his legs and pooled at his feet like sunshine.

“I know,” he said, forcing himself to step away from her.

A final shiver slid through Aisling. Somehow she managed to leave the kitchen instead of begging Zurael to touch her again.

Her vulva was swollen, the folds slick, but she knew the day needed to be faced and the task of finding the ones responsible for Ghost and the human sacrifices resumed. She went into the bedroom and gathered all of Henri’s clothes. She returned to the kitchen only long enough to stuff them into a burlap bag, then went to the workroom and did the same with the clothes Zurael had stripped from her attacker.

“You’re taking them to The Mission?” Zurael guessed from the doorway.

“Yes.” At home nothing was wasted. Cloth was salvaged and reused until it eventually disintegrated.

He took the sack from her as she passed him, and the gesture made heat flare in her heart. Aziel waited at the front door. At her nod he climbed up to drape across her shoulders.

A quick touch to her front pockets confirmed that the bus pass and folded money were there. The sudden dampness of her palms revealed her nervousness about leaving the house after coming back to it and being attacked.

Zurael’s hand cupped her cheek and forced her gaze to his. Heat flared again in her chest, not the hot burn of lust but something deeper, something that would leave a gaping, charred opening when he was gone from her life.

His thumb brushed across her mouth. “Trust me to protect you.”

“I do.”

It was several blocks to the bus stop. As they walked, Aisling could feel the eyes of her neighbors. Watching. Speculating. She wondered what Raisa had told them, if any of them had witnessed her assailant letting himself into the house, if they’d also taken note he never left it.

The bus was old, a belching shell of salvaged metal and parts. The woman driver squinted when she noticed Aziel. “Keep him under control or I’ll put you off,” she said as Aisling ran the card Father Ursu had given her through the slot twice, worried as she did so that he’d get a record of it and know she didn’t travel alone.

They walked past cages full of squawking chickens to claim vacant seats at the back of the bus. A dog barked from the arms of an elderly woman. A young boy turned, talked excitedly to his mother and pointed to Aziel while the other passengers averted their eyes.

It was a long trip to The Mission, not because of the distance but because of the number of stops the bus made. They traveled past the church, past the library, skirted the edges of places where the wealthy lived, before entering a section where the poorest of the poor lived.

The bus stopped. Its driver announced they were at the route’s end point.

Only Aisling and Zurael remained. As soon as they were clear of the doors, the bus drove away.

Few signposts stood. Aisling was thankful The Mission’s location appeared on the map Father Ursu had given her. Without a word, Zurael passed her the sack of clothing so both of his hands would be free. They began walking toward the bay, then along its edges.

Houses huddled together in clusters, like tiny outposts of civilization reclaimed from the horror of the past. Rubble, burned-out buildings and cars, blackened remains, all crawling with heavy vines, separated one group of salvaged buildings from the next.

In theory, any abandoned property was up for grabs, belonged to whoever was willing to restore and defend it. Aisling doubted the reality here differed from the one in Stockton. There would always be the rich preying on the poor, the strong bullying the weak, demanding payment or tribute.

Closer to the center of town, the reclaimed trucking depots and docks along the bay were guarded by men carrying machine guns, just as the waiting warehouses and the incoming boats were guarded, escorts standing ready to protect the cargo. At the outskirts of town, residents took their chances against human and supernatural predators alike.

Aisling knew they were nearing The Mission when she saw the children along the banks, manning a long row of crude fishing poles. They wore rags, but they laughed and teased, played tag and threw a ball, stopped occasionally to check the lines or pull a struggling fish from the water.

A wave of homesickness washed through her at the sight of them. The work of survival was different on the farm. But the joy of having food and shelter, family though few were related by blood, erased the sting of having been abandoned and chased the dark shadows of fear away.

Determination and resolve returned to her in a rush. Regardless of what it cost her, she wouldn’t allow the future she’d seen in the spiritlands. She wouldn’t allow her family to be slaughtered.

The laughter of the children slowly subsided as she and Zurael drew near. Some of them gathered in small groups to watch the two of them pass, while others turned their backs. Their expressions ran the gamut—fear, suspicion, weary indifference. Hope. Several started forward, only to be caught and pulled back by those near them.

Next to her Zurael stiffened, as if unused to the attention of so many children, but Aisling didn’t have time to question him. Her attention was drawn to The Mission’s front door.

A woman was hurrying away, leaving a toddler behind. The child screamed and cried, tried to follow, but its tiny wrist was tethered to an iron railing by a strip of cloth.

Pain radiated through Aisling’s heart. A knot formed in her throat as she rushed forward. The front door opened just as she knelt in front of the devastated child.

Aisling spared a glance, saw an older woman and a teenage girl, but concentrated her efforts on freeing the child from its tether. When it was done the teenage girl took up the abandoned toddler and disappeared inside.

The older woman said, “That child won’t be free to adopt for a month, maybe longer. I like to give the parents a chance to change their minds.” Her attention was on the spot where the mother had disappeared from sight. She turned her head and looked at Aisling, then Zurael. “There are plenty of other children here in need of homes. You’ll need references, and there are fees to be paid. The ones to the government aren’t negotiable, but the ones to help keep The Mission going are. Proof of marriage is optional. Proof of residency isn’t.”

“We aren’t here to adopt,” Aisling said, remembering the burlap sack she’d dropped in her haste to free the screaming toddler. She picked it up and offered it the woman. “I thought you could find a use for the material.”

The woman took the bag, opened it and nodded. “Come inside then. I’ve got enough time to give you a quick tour. I’m Davida.”

“I’m Aisling.”

Davida’s glance sharpened when Aisling didn’t offer Zurael’s name and he didn’t introduce himself. But a slight shrug indicated it wasn’t important to her.

“The Mission got its name before The Last War,” Davida said. “It was a homeless shelter originally, then later a drug rehabilitation center. During the war it was a church. At the start of the plague it was a place to bring the dying. Now it’s a place for the children. The guardsmen and police come this far, but they don’t go farther—into The Barrens—unless they’re hunting. Sometimes children find their way here from The Barrens. Sometimes parents bring them. But just as many come from the other direction, from people barely surviving on the work they can find in Oakland.”

Inside the building it was hushed but not quiet. Girls of all ages worked at household chores, talking quietly among themselves.

“We try to teach them what life skills we can,” Davida said, entering a room where girls and boys alike were sewing clothing and patchwork blankets. She opened the burlap sack and dumped its contents onto a table.

Aisling said, “Keep the bag if you’ve got a use for it,” and it joined the pile.

The next room was the nursery. They stopped beside a table where a teenage girl was in the process of changing the diaper of a newborn. “He was left at dusk last night,” Davida said.

Aisling’s throat tightened painfully with thoughts of her abandonment on Geneva’s doorstep. It’d been at the edge of dark, just before the final check on the livestock and barring of the doors.

There’d been others abandoned, before and after her, but none had been left in the moments before the predators claimed the night. Later, when Aisling’s supernatural gifts began to emerge, Geneva said she was relieved. Given the time of Aisling’s arrival on her doorstep, she’d feared Aisling would turn out to be a shapeshifter and put them all in mortal danger.

Aisling reached out and took the infant’s tiny hand in hers. So small. So helpless. “Will you find a home for him?”

“I don’t know. There are too many children. It’s a struggle to feed and clothe them. And ultimately, despite what moral training we provide, far too many of them return to the streets when they get older. They disappear into The Barrens and join gangs of lawbreakers, only to end up hunted by the guardsmen.

“If only there were fewer children. I try to make sure the ones who are adopted, all of them, but the small ones in particular, go where they’ll be treated well and cared for. But it’s hard. There are days . . .”

Davida sounded tired, defeated. She shrugged and turned away. “At least I don’t have to deal with the ones who aren’t normal. The police come for those.”

A chill of horror spiked through Aisling. “What do you mean?”

“Some of the children come to us damaged beyond our ability to cope with them. Brain damaged, physically damaged. Some are already more like wild animals than humans.”

“Gifted?” Aisling asked, forcing the word out as she remembered how difficult some of those taken in by Geneva had been at first.

“Is that what you call it?” Davida’s voice held a certain chill. “No, that’s one good thing I’ll say for those who’ve been cursed, they take care of their own.”

“What do the police do with the children you send them?” Zurael asked, speaking for the first time.

Davida spared him a glance. “I don’t ask.”

The toddler abandoned minutes before their arrival was still screaming as they entered the next room. From the clothing, Aisling thought the child was most likely a little girl. She’d been set on the floor among wooden blocks and other children, but it was no consolation. A teenage boy and girl monitored the children while cleaning household items that looked as though they’d been salvaged from a long-abandoned home.

An open doorway led to a small fenced yard. Colorful balls littered the lawn in front of a large sandbox where several young children played.

Aziel stirred from his position on Aisling’s shoulder. His head lifted, and some of the children in the room squealed with the realization he was a live animal.

Soft chirps and the direction of his gaze told Aisling he’d found something of interest in the small yard. When he would have slid from her shoulder, Davida’s frown warned it wasn’t acceptable.

Aisling saw the instant Davida stiffened and could guess at the direction of her thoughts—that she was in the presence of one of the cursed and Aziel was a witch’s animal familiar.

“What section of Oakland do you live in?” Davida asked, confirming Aisling’s suspicions.

She tried to deflect Davida by saying, “I’m new to Oakland. Until a few days ago, when Father Ursu came to get me, I lived with my family in Stockton. Does the Church offer assistance?”

“Occasionally.”

Aisling breathed a sigh of relief when another woman stopped in the doorway and summoned Davida for a discussion.

Aziel dug his claws into her shirt, reminding her of his interest in something outside. A quick glance at Davida and Aisling went into the play yard.

The ferret wasted no time. He jumped from her shoulder and raced to the sandbox.

Aisling followed, and as soon as she saw the crude sigils a tiny blond girl was drawing in the sand, she knew immediately what Aziel had wanted her to see. He didn’t resist when she scooped him up and placed him on her shoulder.

The sight of the symbols brought a lump to Aisling’s throat. She pictured her youngest sister. She’d been about the same age as the child now studying Aziel intently when she’d begun scribbling similar sigils. Three years later, when she turned seven, it had become apparent she had a witch’s innate talent.

Aisling knelt and casually smoothed the sand to erase the symbols. The braver children began petting Aziel, while the more timid hung back.

If only she could get the little girl to Geneva. But even as she thought it and pictured the pouch of silver coins she’d gotten from Elena, Aisling knew it was impossible.

Travel was expensive and dangerous. There were men and women who’d think nothing of taking her money then claiming afterward that the child had been accidentally killed en route.

Aisling’s heart ached at the thought of leaving the little girl, of not being able to do anything immediately, or make any promises. But given Davida’s coolness toward the gifted, she didn’t dare say anything about the child. And even if she could produce the necessary paperwork, Aisling knew she was in no position to adopt the little girl. Her own future was uncertain, threatened, and though she refused to dwell on it and live in terror, she’d known when she agreed to the task in the spiritlands that it might lead to her death.