Ghostland

CHAPTER 10

AISLING woke to incredible warmth and feelings of profound security. The first was reality, the second illusion, though she didn’t try to banish it. Instead she allowed herself to savor the heat of Zurael’s skin as he held her in his arms, his hand cupping her breast, his chest against her back. She allowed herself to linger in a fantasy where she was safe, loved. Complete in a way she hadn’t known she could be until he was in her life.

An ache formed in her chest. Her heart and mind warned her of the foolishness of weaving images of the future with him in it. And yet her labia grew slick and parted as memories of the night rushed in-the carnal pleasure he’d shown her and the things she’d allowed him to do to her.

A shiver went through her. She snuggled more deeply into Zurael’s sleeping embrace, welcomed the feel of the erection pressed against her buttocks. She understood dominance and submission, accepted it as the natural order of things when it came to the domesticated animals she’d grown up tending or the wild ones she’d observed. But when it came to humans, gifted and normal alike, she’d always equated it with weak and strong, with loss of power and the helplessness of being at another’s mercy.

Zurael had shown her differently. But in the process he’d peeled away some of her protective armor, made her crave something she might not ever find with another man-with a human.

Her world had always been insular, limited but made safer by those limits. There’d been Aziel, her family, the people Geneva trusted. There’d been long days of physical work. Evenings spent reading or exploring the spiritlands with Aziel.

Sometimes there were dreams of having a home, a husband, children, of living in a place where she wasn’t feared, hated, looked at with suspicion and hostility. But more often there were nightmares of militiamen driving them from the farm. And underneath dreams and nightmares alike was a simple reality she greeted each morning: She had little control over her future, so she needed to make the most of each day.

Masculine lips against her shoulder pulled Aisling from her musings. She moaned when Zurael’s hand left her breast and slid downward over her abdomen, before slipping between thighs she parted willingly for him.

“You’re remembering the night,” he said, his voice husky with satisfaction as his fingers bathed in her arousal, then went to her stiffened clit.

“Yes,” she whispered, need for him rising to a flash point with his touch, his attention.

Words Zurael had never spoken to any female fought to escape as Aisling pressed against him in subtle offering and sweet submission. He wanted to demand that she acknowledge his dominance, wanted to hear her say she belonged to him in all ways and always would.

The very strength of his desire to possess her so thoroughly revealed how dangerous she was to him, had his heart and his mind urging him to erect an emotional barrier.

There was no future with her. He couldn’t remain in her world. She couldn’t enter his.

Fear sliced through him like an angel’s icy sword. He had yet to ensure she would be safe from the Djinn.

“Aisling,” he said, desperate to keep her safe. Unable to fight the feelings she engendered in him, the need that was more than physical, though he knew only the physical could be satisfied.

She edged upward, whispered his name as her hot, wet cunt lips kissed the tip of his penis. He shuddered and let her engulf him in the fiery heat of her tight channel, gave up the uncertainty of the future in favor of the ecstasy to be found in the present.

AFTERWARD they showered and dressed. Aisling went to the kitchen, and Zurael found himself once again lounging in the doorway, watching her as she prepared their breakfast.

Her movements were smooth, assured, pleasing in a way that surprised him. Until Aisling, he’d never given much thought to the effort behind the meals served him. They were prepared by servants, served by servants, the remains taken away by servants, all at his command.

Even by the standards of the poorest Djinn, the meals Aisling made were meager, and yet… His chest filled with emotions he didn’t want to identify as he watched her combine the leftovers of the previous night with what she had available. He knew he’d prefer a meal made by her hands to the most extravagant feast presented to him by servants.

Aziel joined them for the meal. He chirped and chattered in between bites, then stood on his hind legs and stared into Aisling’s face when the plate she’d placed on the chair seat was clean.

Her laughter made Zurael smile. The simple joy she took in teasing the ferret about becoming fat and lazy as she slid the last bite of food from her plate to his, made Zurael want to take her into his arms and press his lips to hers in a joining of souls.

“Do you know what he says?” Zurael asked, his curiosity about Aisling’s pet renewed.

She hesitated slightly. “Only in the spiritlands. And only if he chooses it.”

“He was there the night you summoned me.”

“Yes. Sometimes he goes with me.” She stood and gathered their dishes, her unbound hair becoming a curtain hiding her face from him.

He let the conversation drop, not wanting to admit to her that he no longer felt even an ember of the fury and rage he’d experienced when she’d whispered his name on the spirit winds and commanded his presence. Not wanting to admit he trusted her as no Djinn should ever trust a human.

Zurael followed her into the kitchen and stopped behind her as she washed the plates and silverware. Her body vibrated subtly against his, telling him without words how much she craved the physical contact.

She moaned when he cupped her breasts, whispered his name as he stroked and pet her, nuzzled the silky fineness of her hair and luxuriated in the feel of it against his chest.

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.

Still, hope settled in Aisling’s heart. If what Davida said was true, and the gifted took care of their own, then she would find a home for the child if she had to visit every house in the area set aside for those with otherworldly talents.

“What are your names?” Aisling asked, careful not to show a particular interest in any of the children though she tried to memorize every distinguishing feature of the undiscovered witch.

Zurael crouched next to her, studying the children intently as one by one they gave their names. The little girl was Anya.

Curiosity made Aisling turn to him and say, “You seem fascinated by them.”

His eyes met hers and her breath caught at the burning fury in them. His arm made a sweeping gesture encompassing the children not only in the sandbox but in the building and manning the fishing poles along the water. “In the place I call home, the birth of a single child is call for a kingdom’s celebration. And here-it is wasted on those created of mud. Like the earth they walk on and the air they breathe, they aren’t worthy of what they’ve gained.”

Davida appeared in the doorway before Aisling could think of anything to say. Rather than linger with the children and risk revealing her interest in Anya, Aisling rose to her feet.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Davida said. “Let me finish showing you around.”

Workrooms followed. Then crowded dormitory rooms and a kitchen connected to a dining area.

As they walked back to the front door, Aisling said, “In Stockton, lawbreakers are tattooed, but since coming to Oakland I’ve seen both a man and a woman branded with the sign of the cross. What are they guilty of?”

Davida laughed. “Only of being devout in their faith. They belong to the Fellowship of the Sign. Its members have carved out a community in The Barrens, or beyond. Several I thought lost eventually found their way to God when they were taken in by the Fellowship. They come back to help occasionally. And when the number of adults in the community expands, they offer a home for some of the children.”

“You’ve visited their community?” Aisling asked.

“No. I’ve had to act on faith that I’m doing what’s right for the children.”

They reached the front door and were ushered out.

The worst of Zurael’s rage faded as they distanced themselves from The Mission. It cooled with the need to remain vigilant.

“You did well in drawing her out,” he said as they passed the clusters of houses separated by remnants of destruction and nature’s reclaiming of the land.

Aisling glanced up at him, her eyes troubled. “I didn’t ask about Ghost or whether people have gone missing in this area, too.”

“I doubt Davida would have anything to offer about either. It’s better you left those questions unasked and didn’t alert her to your true interest in the Fellowship of the Sign.”

“How are we going to find their community or get there without trusting Father Ursu or Elena?”

Zurael chuckled. His hand curled around her arm and he stopped walking, turning her to him as he did. “Do you think the wings I’ve worn in your presence are useless except for show and defense? Do you think I’m limited to only the forms you’ve seen so far? If necessary we’ll search The Barrens and beyond.”

“You can fly?” she asked, making him groan when her hand settled on his chest.

“Of course, but first we’ll try to get a better idea of where to look for the Fellowship’s compound. And tonight, I will do a preliminary search of The Barrens.”

Zurael covered her hand with his and tormented himself by guiding it beneath his shirt to a male nipple hardened by the desire that needed only a touch, a look from her to flare to life. He closed his eyes when she rubbed her palm over puckered, sensitive flesh. He knew he had no one to blame but himself for the throbbing ache in his cock and the fiery need coursing through his bloodstream.

“Aisling.” It was warning and plea, curse and benediction.

A soft feminine mouth pressed to his, shocking him, tempting him nearly beyond reason. He jerked away, stepped back. Only the deeply ingrained training that came with being his father’s son, a prince in the House of the Serpent, kept him from responding to her overture, from parting his lips, taking what she offered and returning it, sharing breath and spirit with her.

She pulled away from him and resumed walking, but not before he saw the hurt in her eyes, the tremble of pain that spiked through her the same way it did him when he witnessed it. He wanted to grab her arm and haul her back into his, to finish what she’d unknowingly started, or if not, then to explain how dangerously he already cared for her.

Zurael remembered too well standing in the Hall of History, then taking tea in the House of the Spider, unable to hide the lust she’d inspired in him from those he was with. Fear permeated every cell when he thought about an assassin from the House of the Scorpion being sent for Aisling after the tablet was reclaimed. He could keep her safe from the Djinn if Malahel and Iyar stood with him, if The Prince agreed. But if they knew how thoroughly she’d ensnared him…

Zurael allowed her to put physical and emotional distance between them. It wouldn’t last. Just as he’d catch up to her once they reached the bus stop, the wall of hurt separating them would fall under the onslaught of passion as soon as they touched again.

Aisling pulled the silence around her like a protective blanket. She willed herself to concentrate on the scenery she passed as she walked to the bus stop, on the tasks in front of her as she got onto the bus, anything but Zurael.

How often had she told herself to deny the desire? To fight the attraction? It was a mistake to accept more than his protection and aid, to continue allowing him access to her body.

For comfort she plucked Aziel from her shoulder and cuddled him against her chest. “As soon as we get back to the house, I’ll see what I can do about finding a place for Anya,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his soft fur before restoring him to his usual spot.

She sighed in relief when the bus stopped in front of the library and she escaped the close confinement. Zurael followed her into the building, seemed content to let her take the lead. But then this was her world, not his.

Some of the tension eased from Aisling as she looked around. Surprise made her gape when she saw the row of computers against one wall, each one claimed by a citizen sitting on a stool.

The entire space labeled “library” was hardly bigger than the shaman’s house she now called home. It held few books; those she could easily see were set aside in an area enclosed by short walls so children could be contained and kept away from the racks of magazines and newspapers.

Aisling browsed the magazines on her way to the newspapers. Most were about cooking or construction, salvage and reclamation of the land, crafts and gardening, practical topics, though a few dealt with beauty and fashion, sports and the pleasures only the rich could afford.

The newspapers were all local. Oakland. San Francisco. San Jose. There were editions going back several weeks. She spared a glance at Zurael. “Can you read them?”

His expression became one of dark amusement. “Of course.” And despite the fact that he was the one who’d shunned her touch and sent pain crashing through her, he leaned forward and lightly scraped his fingernails against her neck in a subtle reminder of his talons. “I don’t spend all of my time lost in fantasies of retribution.”

She looked away from him. Knew he wouldn’t miss the tight points of her nipples against her shirt. But she refused to let him see desire in her eyes. “We should start with the Oakland papers. I’ll take today’s.”

Aisling didn’t wait for him to answer. She rummaged through the papers on a table and quickly found what she was looking for, then retreated to a chair away from the other patrons.

Within minutes she felt chilled to the core at what she’d discovered. A touch to Zurael’s thigh and he leaned over to read the article about a body found in an area plagued with violence.

Final Judgment For Another Sinner! the story caption proclaimed above a picture of a partially savaged man lying among rubble. A smaller insert showed the brands on his hands.

The damage done to him by nighttime predators was severe enough to make cause of death unclear, but then that wasn’t of interest and the reporter made no apologies. It was the brands that fascinated, that provided shock value and titillation for the reader.

Aisling shivered as she looked at the insert of the hands and overlaid them with the symbols Elena had traced on the coffee table in tea, the ones she’d drawn for Aubrey the previous night at the occult shop. They were the same. And the punishment brands burned into his flesh were for a crime she was equally guilty of, for summoning a demon, for lying with one.

Zurael’s lips against her ear distracted her from the downward spiral of her thoughts. “I will kill anyone who threatens you,” he said, the heat of his breath no match against the deep chill inside her, his promise feeding her fear of punishment, not reducing it.

Aziel made his presence known. He slid from her shoulder far enough for his front feet to find the pouch hidden underneath her shirt. His weight pressed the fetishes against her chest in a reminder she had powerful allies.

Aisling closed her eyes. She forced the fear away. If she was going to save her family, she couldn’t worry about her own fate.

“What’s been done can’t be undone,” she murmured, stroking Aziel’s soft fur then repositioning him on her shoulder before resuming her search through the newspapers.

It was Zurael who found the next item of interest. Aisling immediately recognized the man pictured, just as she remembered his words at Sinners. You’ll find it far more entertaining to vote her out with the others. She’s a shamaness.

Her stomach knotted when she learned Peter Germaine was a man of power-a deputy police chief, the brother of the mayor-and no friend to any human who’d been graced with otherworldly abilities.

“Interesting,” Zurael said. “Did he want you dead because he knew you located his brother’s lover? Or did he influence the others because he hates and fears those with gifts he doesn’t have? Perhaps my curiosity will get the better of me and I’ll hesitate long enough to ask him before I mete out the punishment he deserves.”

There was no heat in Zurael’s voice, no passion. He might have been talking about plans to weed a garden or clean livestock stalls.

Aisling opened her mouth to protest his casualness, to argue against what he planned, but the words remained trapped in her throat. The images Elena’s brother had conjured in the spiritlands drifted into her thoughts on icy winds-the hollow-eyed Ghosters standing in front of Sinners, their attention focused on her, their faces undamaged though their bodies were ripped, torn so organs hung and wet bones gleamed.

Your work? I’m sure they had it coming to them, but what a way to go, John had mocked. And she couldn’t bring herself to tell Zurael she didn’t want him to kill the man who’d so casually suggested she be put out into the predator-filled night.

She shivered. The icy winds settled around her heart like heavy weights as she worried about the corruption of her soul, the ease in which she accepted the slaughter of a human unable to protect himself against a being like Zurael.

Did it prove she was half demon? Her father’s daughter? Or did it only mean that in summoning Zurael, in coupling with him, in coming to-care for him-that the humanity to be measured and judged when she entered the spiritlands the final time was leaching away?

Aisling ducked her head and resumed looking through the paper on her lap. She filled her mind with information as she scanned articles about her new city.

Geneva and the farm seemed a lifetime away. A world away. And by the time she came across a picture of the man and woman in red, Aisling wondered if she could truly return to a place where her gift had to be hidden.

Like Peter Germaine, Felipe Glass, the man in red, was involved in law enforcement. He was in charge of the guardsmen, powerful in his own right but also wealthy. Aisling wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the woman in red was a mistress, but found she was Felipe’s wife, Ilka, the daughter of a founding family.

It helped having names for those faces at Sinners. Aisling doubted they had anything to do with Ghost or the black masses, but she felt better knowing who they were, even if it only confirmed a belief she’d held all her life: The police and the guardsmen couldn’t be trusted.

She passed the newspaper to Zurael without comment and continued through those remaining. There was no mention of Ghost, no mention of the Fellowship of the Sign in any of them.

“You’re tired and hungry,” Zurael said when they’d reached the end of the stack. His voice was as caressing as the knuckles he stroked across her cheek. “Let’s get something to eat.”

There were restaurants and food stalls across the street. Aisling touched her pocket and felt the folded money there. The craving for fresh fruit, for bread and cheese, rose and made her mouth water. She fought it, told herself not to waste the money, but an internal voice overrode her long-ingrained frugality. It reminded her that some of the bills in her pocket had probably been paid to her assailant to bring about death, whispered that she should use it to sustain life.

They were nearing the door when one of the patrons left his spot in front of a computer. Aisling slowed. She looked longingly at the machines capable of housing huge libraries of information, and which had once been so commonplace even children owned and used them.

“Do you know how to use one?” she asked Zurael.

“No. There is no power to run technology such as this in the place I call home.”

Aisling rubbed her palms against her pants and approached the available machine. In the days before The Last War there’d been satellites and land networks allowing for instant communication using computers. Children no longer used books in school, and rarely used pencil and paper, just as the majority of people paid for everything through accounts accessed by magnetic cards like the one she’d used on the bus, instead of using cash.

Relying on technology to such an extent was a foreign notion, intimidating. Yet the possibility of having so much knowledge readily available was exhilarating.

The young librarian who’d been stationed behind the counter stopped next to them. “Do you need some help? Please say you do. I’ve got hours left on my shift and am going a little crazy just sitting around reading magazines.”

“I’ve never used a computer before,” Aisling admitted.

“It’s easy. You’ll be a pro in minutes. Take a seat. I’m Cassandra, by the way.”

“I’m Aisling.”

She sat and felt even more intimidated in such close proximity to the screen and keyboard.

“Don’t panic!” Cassandra said with a laugh. “Don’t freeze up. Believe me, this is simple. Child’s play. They say before The Last War toddlers used to learn their alphabet and numbers by playing computer games. Believe me, you’ll wonder why you haven’t been a regular library visitor. This is your first time here, right?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. It won’t be your last. You probably noticed how often there’s a waiting line for the computers. Hopefully we’ll be getting more of them soon.”

Cassandra leaned over and touched the sole icon on the screen. “Okay. Here’s the big picture. We’re on a limited local area network. What that means is enough cable has been salvaged so computers like these, and the ones owned privately, are connected to huge computers where information is stored. What’s stored in the mega computers is stuff like news, books that have been input, you name it. Content depends on who owns the huge computers, so take what you read with a grain of salt. Are you new to town, or just to the library?”

“I’ve only been here a few days,” Aisling said.

“Do you like it?”

Aisling’s earlier thoughts returned, along with the unsettling realization that she could no longer see herself content with the life she’d lived in the San Joaquin. True, there was violence and prejudice here, the powerful preying on the weak, but there was also freedom and the opportunity to openly use her gift to help others.

“Life here is different from anything I’ve ever know. But yes, I think I could come to like it very much.”

“Where are you staying?”

Aisling hesitated only a second. “In the area reserved for those with special talents.”

“Cool! Let me guess…” Cassandra tilted her head. “Witch, warlock and ferret familiar?”

Aisling laughed, though a blush rose in her face. “Shamaness. Friend. And pet.”

“Even cooler.” Cassandra turned to the computer in front of them. “Okay, back to work. The easiest way to find what you’re looking for is to type in a word or a couple of words and do a search. Now, hand on the mouse, and I’ll walk you through it.”

Aisling put her hand on the “mouse” and was absolutely amazed at the world that opened up by her doing so. True to Cassandra’s words, within minutes she wondered why she’d ever felt overwhelmed by such simple technology.

“I think you’re good to go now,” Cassandra said, stepping back and beaming with satisfaction. “I’ll leave you to it. Shout out if you hit a snag.”

“I will,” Aisling said, waiting just long enough for Cassandra to move away before typing in Fellowship of the Sign.

Only a few references, links Cassandra had called them, came up. When Aisling followed them, they didn’t provide any more information than what she’d already learned from Davida at The Mission.

She typed in Ghost and was immediately overwhelmed with possibilities, all of them connected to sightings of spirits or old-fashioned horror stories. And even after she’d added and subtracted words as Cassandra had demonstrated, there were no references to the substance called Ghost.

Aisling closed the browser and stood. Despite not finding anything about Ghost or the Fellowship of the Sign, she felt exhilarated, empowered in a way she couldn’t completely put into words.

Zurael’s chuckle and the warmth she saw his eyes only increased her sense of accomplishment. “I’m impressed,” he said, and the liquid heat in his voice found its way to her breasts and cunt.

She glanced away quickly. “Ready to eat?”

“Yes.”

They went across the street, to a food stall serving soup and salad. Aisling’s euphoria over mastering the computer lasted until she saw Cassandra leave the library and enter the building next to it. Fear and worry edged in, with the memory of Raisa saying the library was next door to the building housing the police and guardsmen.

A deep sadness invaded Aisling’s soul at being presented with evidence of how dangerous it was to trust, at having been so foolish as to set aside a lifetime of caution. She’d been as easy to question as a child, had casually revealed enough information to lead the authorities to her, and had never wondered whether the computer would save the contents of her search after she’d closed the browser.

“Your world is far more treacherous than mine,” Zurael said, pulling her back against his front, surrounding her with his heat, his strength. He gave her the security she craved but made her consider again the ease with which her humanity was leaching away-as time and time again she found what she needed in a demon’s arms.