Ghostland (41 page)

At the doorway he patted the clothing until he found the key to the room and slipped it into the dead bolt. “I’d suggest you stay here, enjoy your pet. You’ll know when we’re gone for good.”

Demon talons became clear fingernails with John’s departure. Zurael locked the door and returned to the bed. The driving energy to protect gave way to the pulsing desire to possess when Aisling’s firm breasts and hardened nipples pressed against his chest. Except for the soft leather pouch containing her fetishes, she was still naked from the waist up.

The image of her turning, allowing others to see her—the memory of Felipe and Ilka touching her, even briefly, even though it had been necessary—drove all rational thought from Zurael’s mind. She belonged to him.

Zurael stripped her with possessive hands, knowing that the only way to eradicate all vestiges of another’s touch, of another’s glance, was to give in to the hunger riding him with primitive intensity. He shed his own clothing without ever lifting his mouth from her mouth, her neck, her breasts.

Aisling trembled in eagerness beneath him. Opened for him so that when he settled his weight on her, his cock found wet heat and swollen, parted folds.

Her willing submission buffered the rawness of his lust, kept him from rutting like a feral creature. His thighs bunched with the effort to remain still, to savor the ecstasy of being inside her as his tongue mated with hers.

He shuddered when she freed his hair from its braid and it draped over them in a sensual curtain. He did the same to hers and was enthralled by the sight of Aisling’s honey-gold locks entwined with the raven-black of his.

Zurael rolled to his back, taking her with him. He luxuriated in the silky feel of her skin and hair against his flesh. Grew more aroused when her mouth claimed his in a sultry kiss as she bathed his cock in hot, throbbing arousal.

His hands roved over her body, palmed her breasts and buttocks. He swallowed her moans of pleasure and arched off the mattress when she began rocking, rubbing her clit against his abdomen, fucking herself on his cock with excruciating slowness.

It was too much, the raw pleasure more than he could bear. He put Aisling underneath him again, and this time he didn’t fight the savage urge, the frenzied need to couple with her, to take her body and soul, and reinforce his claim to her heart.

Afterward he held her, buried his face in the gold of her hair as she clung to him in exhausted sleep. He traced the delicate line of her spine, contemplated the future and what he might say to The Prince, to Malahel of the House of the Spider, and Iyar of the House of the Raven.

He would die for Aisling. The realization should have filled him with terror. Instead it brought only determination to finish what needed to be done so he could fight for a future with her.

Zurael’s thoughts strayed to the Hall of History, to Jetrel, the first of The Prince’s sons, the one who had turned his back on the House of the Serpent and chosen to live among the alien god’s creations instead of the Djinn. Idly he picked up a lock of Aisling’s hair, finally understanding what had driven Jetrel to make such a choice.

The sun-shaped amulet glowed at her wrist. His attention was drawn for a moment to the amulet pouch. In his mind’s eye, Zurael saw the tapestries in the House of the Spider, the erotic images of intertwined humans, angels and Djinn. And for the first time, he wondered if the Djinn might reclaim the land that was once theirs through alliance instead of bloodshed.

Noise beyond the door drew Zurael from his contemplations. Shouts of “Vote! Vote! Vote!” pulsed through Sinners like an electric current.

Zurael eased away from Aisling. She didn’t stir as he dressed, didn’t wake when he dressed her in case they needed to leave quickly.

He slipped from the room and locked the door behind him. The halls were empty, but the buzz of conversation told him those on the second floor were gathered at the front, where bay windows provided a view every bit as good as the one on the ground floor.

Anticipation clung to the air, rose and fell like a beast inhaling and exhaling. Zurael braided his hair as he walked.

There was a ripple of excitement as he reached the front rooms. Dressed and semi-dressed men and women crowded forward, murmured and whispered, their voices running together.

He stepped closer, not bothering to listen to their words. He didn’t take pleasure in what he saw on the street beneath him. But there was a savage satisfaction in watching as werewolves and feral dogs tore apart the abandoned corpses of Felipe and Ilka Glass.

 

 

THEY emerged from the locked room shortly after dawn. In the gray light Aisling saw the thin tracery of lines that defined the boundaries of the physical self and contained the spirit in every person she looked at—save for Zurael.

She refused to believe he was soulless, settled instead on the explanation that because he could become formless, his spirit wasn’t contained the way a human’s was.

But even letting the weblike lines fade from sight and leaving Sinners didn’t obliterate the terrible certainty that all it would take was a touch, coupled with a thought, and the gossamer strands she could see when she willed it would blacken and dissolve into nothingness, separating soul from body.

She wanted a shower and breakfast, a chance to come to terms with the events in the spiritlands, with the horrible gift of her birthright. But when they rounded the corner onto her street, Elena was waiting for them, pacing next to her chauffeured car.

“She might be able to help us get to Peter Germaine,” Aisling said, balling her hands into fists, willing herself forward.

Elena was tapping her foot impatiently by the time they got to her. Her gaze shifted back and forth between Aisling and Zurael, until finally settling on Aisling. “I need to speak with you, privately.”

A step took her to the car. She opened the door. When Aisling hesitated, Elena said, “If you no longer want my business, then you can give me back the silver pieces.”

Sweat broke out on Aisling’s skin despite the chill of the early morning air. Her stomach tensed with worry as the conversation with Father Ursu played out in her mind. She would need those coins to find a safe place to stay.

Instinct rebelled against getting in the car with Elena, but reason dictated. The engine was off and Zurael was close.

Aisling slid onto the backseat. Elena followed, closing the door behind her.

Automatic locks engaged. The driver started the car and pulled away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” Aisling asked, fighting the panic welling up inside her by telling herself Zurael could easily follow them by taking another form.

Elena shifted restlessly in the seat, fidgeted. She played with the rings on her fingers and the bracelets on her wrists, reminding Aisling of the junkies she sometimes encountered in the spiritlands.

“I overheard Bishop Routledge telling Luther you went into The Barrens and because of it the Church incurred a heavy debt to the guard. Were you looking for the man who sold Ghost to me the night I was taken from Sinners?”

“He’s dead,” Aisling said but didn’t reveal the Ghost seller’s connection to the Church, that the brands on his hands were given to him for consorting with demons. “Was Luther’s brother, Peter, at Sinners the night you were taken?”

Elena snorted. “You’ve met him?”

“No. I saw him there, the day you visited and hired me. Later I found out who he was.”

“Hypocritical zealot. He claims visiting the clubs is part of his job as deputy police chief and Church liaison. But it’s the only time I’ve ever seen his cock pressing against the front of his pants. He’s particularly fond of visiting rooms where the women are tied and gagged. I’ve met plenty of men like him. He believes women are inferior and weak, but at the same time sees them as seductresses who lead men astray.

“Peter despises me. He claims Luther will wind up in hell because of his affair with me—as if Luther hasn’t had plenty of other lovers besides that cold, religious bitch he’s married to. Peter would think it divine justice if I was sacrificed to the devil. But he wasn’t at Sinners the night I was Ghosting. And he hasn’t got the balls to act anyway. Peter never does any dirty work himself. He’s convinced Judgment Day is right around the corner and he doesn’t want to taint his soul.”

Aisling looked down at her own hands. She’d killed with them. And at her feet lay even more bodies. The burden of their deaths weighed heavily on her.

Death drapes you like a billowing cloak,
Raisa had said as she stared at the tea leaves.
It writhes at your feet and twines around you like a nest of serpents, so your touch becomes its harbinger.

Yet as Aisling remembered those who’d come for Felipe and Ilka in the ghostlands, she realized she didn’t fear for her soul as she once had. The ability to rive spirit from flesh might be her terrifying and unwanted demon birthright, but if those she touched were claimed by dark places that could be labeled hell, it was a result of the choices they’d made in their lives.

The car entered into the red zone. They drove through an area containing sex shops and brothels where prostitutes lounged naked behind windows. They passed the street where the row of Victorians lined either side, then began traveling along a wall that stretched for so many blocks Aisling lost count of them.

“This is The Maze,” Elena said. “There are cameras set up all through it, with feeds to some of the betting clubs. Convicted criminals are offered a chance to run it in order to escape a tattoo or death sentence. Others run it for money.”

Aisling’s hand went to her amulet pouch. “What’s in The Maze?”

Elena shrugged. “I don’t know. I imagine it depends on what can be captured or purchased. I’ve never been there or to the betting clubs connected to it. Gambling on blood sports doesn’t appeal to me.”

The car slowed to a stop in front of a house set well apart and secluded from its neighbors. “I want you to meet an acquaintance,” Elena said.

“Who?”

“Does it matter? I hired you and so far I’ve gotten nothing for my money.”

The chauffeur opened the door and Elena slid out. She scowled impatiently at Aisling, began worrying her rings and bracelets again.

“Would you prefer to return the silver coins
and
the paper money I gave you? I’m perfectly capable of taking the matter to court.”

Aisling shivered. Her stomach knotted with tension. She understood the game Elena was playing, but she had no choice but to participate.

Uneasiness settled on her as she left the car. Her spirits were lifted only a little bit by the warm breeze that swirled around her, smelling of the desert.

Elena didn’t knock when she reached the front door. She stepped inside, seemed to care only about whether or not Aisling was following her.

The furniture was functional, the walls left bare. The sound of their footsteps traveled in front of them down the hallway. At the end of it a heavy door was propped open.

Warm air flowed past Aisling’s arms. Elena stepped through the doorway first. Aisling followed.

A flash of red was the only warning Aisling had of a trap snapping shut. She saw the statuette from Javier’s shop just as arterial spray from Elena’s throat jetted onto the tile flooring and Javier began chanting.

Before Aisling could react, Javier’s assistant was behind her with a knife, the blood-slick blade pressed to Aisling’s neck preventing speech or movement.

Horror, regret, an agony of love pounded through Aisling as Zurael shimmered into sight, a band of sigils forming like a collar around his neck.

He struggled, naked except for flowing, nearly transparent trousers. His face contorted and his throat worked as if he screamed, though no sound emerged.

The chanting didn’t stop until Zurael stood motionless, covered in sweat, muscles rippling and breath short. His eyes burned with the same terrible rage and hatred she’d seen the night she summoned him.

“A crude way of binding a demon by your standards, beautiful Aisling, but effective,” Javier said.

She opened her mouth only to have the knife’s blade draw blood. Javier shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to speak until I’m certain we understand one another. Aubrey
will
kill you if you struggle or attempt to summon help. I’m hopeful it won’t come to that. As I said during our all too brief lunch, I believe we can be very good together. And I’m content to share nothing more than a working relationship with you. In fact, at some point in the future, I’ll even be willing to let you have your lover back.”

Aisling forced her body to relax. She willed her heart to slow. Fought the panic that too easily scattered her thoughts.

She became aware of the fetish pouch hidden under her shirt. It felt as though icy shards pierced the soft leather and burrowed into her skin.

The crystal amulet representing the being she now thought was her father grew heavy, making her remember the day she’d found it, when Aziel named her most powerful protector and told her he wasn’t bound by the spiritlands. She could call upon him with a thought and pay whatever price he demanded—except Zurael was helpless and he’d already named her father his enemy.

As the cold radiating from the crystal filled Aisling’s chest, clarity came and brought hope. She thought of the horrifying birthright she’d gained when she forced Felipe and Ilka into the spiritlands, and the beginnings of a plan formed.

Her mind calmed. She saw Aubrey’s arm, held high to keep the knife in its deadly position, a tanned limb covered in silken metaphysical strands of gray.

It would only take a touch. A thought. But despite the knife in Aubrey’s hand, she wasn’t the greatest threat. Aisling met Zurael’s eyes and saw the helpless rage in them, knew that with a command, he would become Javier’s weapon against her.