Ghostland

CHAPTER 11

AISLING studied the witches’ home from the safety of the cracked and broken sidewalk. Elaborate sigils were carved into the door and the window frames as well as the posts marking the front corners of the yard.

A short wrought-iron fence stood guard against the fey in a not so subtle warning. And though Aisling wasn’t magic sensitive, as some of the gifted were, she could feel the ley line humming through the souls of her feet, rising from the depths like a great whale close to breaching the surface of the ocean.

Tamara might have claimed her family didn’t practice black magic, but Aisling knew the Wainwrights were more than witches whose craft was tied to the elements and their goddess. At least some of them would be sorceresses, able to pull on the rich power pulsing through the ley line their house sat on.

Instinctively her fingers curled around the fetish pouch beneath her shirt. She glanced at Zurael and thought about returning from her trip into the spiritlands to find Tamara’s face tight with fear and her arms wrapped protectively around her swollen belly. At the time she’d attributed Tamara’s reaction to Zurael’s unexpected arrival and the menace radiating from him; now she wondered if Tamara had guessed what he was.

“I don’t think it’s safe for you to come with me,” Aisling said. “I haven’t got an affinity for spell magic, but I can feel a ley line close to the surface here. It’s strong enough to power any number of entrapment or revelation spells.”

Aziel nuzzled the side of her face in approval, then surprised her by jumping from her shoulder to Zurael’s, the unusual behavior making her wonder again about Aziel’s true purpose in giving her Zurael’s name.

“I can feel the line as well,” Zurael said, accepting the ferret’s presence without comment. “You won’t linger?”

“As soon as I tell them about the child at The Mission and either get their promise to retrieve Anya or the name of someone else to talk to about her, I’ll leave.”

“Your pet and I will wait out here then.”

Aisling pushed through the wrought-iron gate and walked to the front door. The decision to come here for help was an easy one to make. The only other gifted person she’d met since moving into the shaman’s house was Raisa. And given Father Ursu’s arrival minutes after Raisa’s departure and then the attacker who’d been waiting later, Aisling wasn’t prepared to trust the tearoom owner.

A thick brass gargoyle with a ring held in its mouth served as a door knocker. An older version of Tamara responded to Aisling’s use of it. She studied Aisling for only a second before looking past her and smiling slightly. “You must be Aisling. I’m Annalise, Tamara’s mother. She’s unavailable at the moment. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m here about a child who needs a home.”

Dark eyebrows rose, the smile widened. Ice slid down Aisling’s spine with the impression that she’d been expected.

Annalise stepped out of the doorway and confirmed Aisling’s suspicion by saying, “Come in. Levanna is waiting in the parlor.”

The inside of the house reminded Aisling of the luxury she’d found at the church, though the prewar artwork gracing the walls or residing on polished wooden furniture would have been viewed as sinful and destroyed if it had come into the hands of the religious. Naked men and woman danced and worshipped. They coupled in rites of fertility, their faces and bodies full of emotion and life.

“Ah, the shamaness is here,” Levanna said from the couch, her voice strong despite the frailty of a body shrunken and bent by age.

She wore a long black dress and was kept warm by a fringed shawl draped over boney shoulders. Her hair was silver, her eyes made sightless by cataracts, though Aisling imagined the Wainwright matriarch hadn’t needed them to see for a long time.

Annalise sat on the couch next to Levanna while Aisling claimed a chair across from them. “Tell us about the child,” Annalise said, and Aisling did, tracing on the coffee table the symbols she’d seen Anya draw in the sand and feeling relief when Annalise nodded, recognizing their importance.

“It’s good you came to us about her,” Levanna said. Her hand went to the spot where the ends of the black shawl overlapped, her fingers caressing the amulets and charms she wore. “It’s too late to retrieve Anya today, but first thing tomorrow we’ll send someone in good standing with the authorities to get her. We can ensure she has a good home, if not with us then with others who will attend to her training and care.”

Cataract-blinded eyes met Aisling’s as Levanna’s hand fell away from her shawl to reveal a pendant. The gold sun caught and held Aisling’s attention. Tendrils of awe and dread slid through her like whispers too faint to hear, knowledge just out of reach.

Annalise freed her from the amulet’s fascination by saying, “Tamara told us about her visit with you and why the Church brought you to Oakland. She confessed what she asked of you. I’m not surprised the father of her child met the end he did. He was like a lot of the rich younger sons who’ve taken to dabbling in magic and lost their lives because of it. You’ve heard a male sex witch has disappeared?”

“No. Raisa came by my house yesterday and introduced herself. She didn’t tell me about the sex witch, but she told me a governess went missing.”

“We heard about that as well. The governess wasn’t one of us, though we’re making inquiries,” Annalise said. “We don’t know the details of the witch’s disappearance yet. His family hasn’t come to us or asked for aid, but others have told us he went missing, along with the son of his wealthy patroness.”

Levanna leaned forward abruptly and the golden sun swung toward Aisling, making her breath catch involuntarily though there was no logical reason for her to react to the pendant.

“In my dreams I saw a dark priest and his followers slaughtered by a powerful demon,” Levanna said. “If you’re not careful, you’ll meet the same end as Henri and the vampire’s shaman. There are beings of absolute evil trying to break into this world and reclaim it. But despite our efforts and allies we haven’t been able to find the human servants who call those beings master.”

Aisling’s breath froze in her lungs. After trusting Cassandra so readily at the library, she didn’t dare risk making the same mistake by acknowledging what happened the night she’d gone into the ghostlands to find Elena. “Do you know what happened to the vampire’s shaman?” she asked instead.

“He was not a powerful shaman, yet his screams lingered and echoed in a nightmare shared by many of us with talents that brush against the spiritlands,” Levanna said, subtly acknowledging she was more than a witch who practiced nature-based magic. She settled against the back of the couch once again and tilted her head slightly toward Annalise. “Only my granddaughter saw anything of his passing.”

“He was strapped to a bed in a cold basement room of the church,” Annalise said. “Bishop Routledge was there, as was Father Ursu. There was only a sliver of awareness between his waking and finding himself there, and when they anointed him with Ghost and told him to seek its source. That’s all I saw before the screaming began.”

Zurael’s words whispered in Aisling’s thoughts. No one is beyond suspicion.

They were followed by John’s taunt in the ghostlands. I see they’ve sent a sacrificial lamb. Or maybe that’s Elena’s role. Then again, maybe third time’s the charm.

Elena’s visit and the pouch full of coins took on a new meaning, making Aisling wonder if the Church had played a role in her abduction, if the man branded for summoning and lying with a demon had repented his sins and sought penance from the Church, only to be disposed of when it was done.

Aisling didn’t think it was likely that there were two men wearing the same brands. She didn’t think it was a coincidence he’d been killed.

She shuddered, glad she hadn’t gone to Father Ursu with questions about the Ghost seller. “Do the vampires know what happened to their shaman?”

Levanna said, “Those in power know. But they bide their time and pretend ignorance. If the Church has suspicions about who is behind the creation of Ghost, then it’s someone they’re afraid to act openly against.

“The vampires are content for the moment to let the Church’s game play out. If the barrier between our world and the spirit world breaks down because of Ghost, then the humans without gifts will once again fear those of us who have them. Their fear will lead to blame and to violence, both of which will soon spill over to the vampires as the Church and its allies are given an excuse to claim the wealth accumulated in San Francisco.”

Aisling nodded in understanding. Stockton and the surrounding areas had come under Church and non-gifted human control because of violence waged as a result of fear and blame. It’d happened long before she was born, when a wave of disease killed children by the dozens.

Weres and vampires were hunted and slaughtered, blamed for carrying the sickness. Some of the gifted were killed as well, accused of creating the illness through magic or for harboring the supernaturals responsible for it.

Levanna’s hand lifted to the sun pendant and drew Aisling’s eye. “You should return home in case the family of the young sex witch comes to you on his behalf. Travel carefully. We will send word tomorrow when the child has been retrieved from The Mission.”

Aisling took her cue and left.

“You had a successful visit?” Zurael asked as Aziel launched himself from his shoulder to hers.

“Yes.”

Aisling told him what had transpired with the Wainwright witches as they walked toward her house. When they rounded the corner, they saw Raisa waiting there with a young woman.

“I don’t like this,” Zurael said. “We don’t know where Raisa’s loyalties lie. If this is about the missing sex witch, it could be a trap set for you in the spiritlands.”

Aisling shivered as Levanna’s warnings slid down her spine like ice. “I’ll be careful.”

“You’ll turn them away without offering your services.”

She stopped and he turned to face her. Strength of purpose gave Aisling the courage to stand up to him. “I’ll listen to what they say and make my own decision.”

“More is at stake here than some stranger’s life,” he said, fury in his eyes.

Feminine intuition guided her actions, steered her away from anger and hurt. She placed her palms on his chest and felt the wild, fast beat of his heart. He was worried for her, afraid. “I know what’s at stake. But I’m not without protectors in the spiritlands. Trust me.”

The anger fled from his expression. His hands framed her face. “I already trust you far more than is wise or safe for either of us.”

She wanted to lean into him, to wrap her arms around his waist and press against his hardened body. She wanted… impossible things, even if there’d been time to pursue them.

“They’re watching,” she whispered. “They’re waiting.”

Zurael released her and they continued to the house.

“This is a neighbor, Nicholette,” Raisa said in greeting. “Her brother is missing.”

Dark smudges underneath light brown eyes gave Nicholette a bruised, fragile appearance but didn’t diminish her beauty. Her hand trembled slightly when she took Aisling’s. “We’re new here and I can’t offer much in the way of payment, but I’ll give you whatever I can if you’ll…” Her lips trembled. “Please, can you find Nicholas?”

“Your brother is the missing sex witch?” Aisling asked.

“Yes. He’s also my twin.” Delicate fingers tangled and twisted in strands of wavy brown hair.

Aziel’s sharp claws slid through the fabric of Aisling’s shirt. She said, “Let’s go inside and you can tell me what you know.”

When they were seated, Nicholette said, “My brother was with a client last night. It was an overnight visit, not the first with this woman, though all the others were… spontaneous… or at least he didn’t go to her home intending to stay.”

“But last night he intended to stay,” Aisling said.

“Yes. He’d scheduled the visit.” Nicholette glanced down, smoothed her hands over the bold flowers captured in the material of her dress. “Some clients are easier to… serve than others. He expected to return shortly after dawn. He scheduled another appointment at noon.”

So he’d have an excuse to leave.

The words hovered unspoken in the air. Aisling’s stomach tensed at the thought of intimacy, of engaging in the sexual act with someone she didn’t care for.

There were places where all sex witches were labeled prostitutes. Just as there were practitioners who were non-gifted humans making a living selling sex. But true sex magic was powerful, and those born with the ability to wield it were as talented as any healer, as holy as any priest or priestess called to serve a fertility deity.

“Nicholas didn’t return from his overnight visit,” Aisling said.

“No.” Haunted eyes met hers. “I thought he’d been delayed. His client… She’s very demanding and not used to being denied. We have no telephone. Noon came and went. With each hour I felt more anxious. Finally, I went to his client’s house. Things were in an uproar there. One of the family cars was found abandoned shortly before noon. There was blood on the seat.” Huge tears welled up and spilled down Nicholette’s cheeks. “She has a son, older than Nicholas and me. This morning her son offered to drive Nicholas home in exchange for using the car. They left just after dawn.”

Aziel slid from Aisling’s shoulder and shocked her by scrambling across the coffee table to settle on Nicholette’s lap. Nicholette gave a watery smile, busied trembling hands by stroking his fur.

“What area of town?” Aisling asked, hating that she felt a touch of jealousy at Aziel’s defection, hating the hint of insecurity that made her glance at Zurael to see if he, too, wanted to go to Nicholette and offer comfort.

“The car was found on Rhine Street,” Nicholette said.

Petty emotion gave way to icy chill. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Nicholas was taken to serve as bait in a different kind of trap, a direct challenge from someone who knew about the death of the dark priest and his acolytes on that same street.

“Can you find him?” Nicholette asked. She touched a delicate hand to her chest. “He’s alive. I think I’d know if he weren’t. But the disappearances… the deaths… Raisa said you found a wealthy man’s mistress who was also taken. Will you help me?”

Nicholette’s gaze slid to Zurael then back to Aisling. “My brother and I can pay you in a trade of services, or with fresh food. We’ve got a few chickens and a small garden.”

Heat moved through Aisling’s cheeks in acknowledgment of the first offer, though she couldn’t imagine any other lover than Zurael-or the need for one. A touch of homesickness spun through her with thoughts of garden-fresh produce.

It was Aziel who decided her. Their eyes met and his communicated a message as clearly as if they were in the spiritlands. He wanted her to accept the task of looking for Nicholette’s brother.

“I’ll help you,” Aisling said and felt Zurael stiffen next to her. His displeasure was like a living flame reaching out to surround her and steal the air from her lungs.

Aziel slid from Nicholette’s lap and onto the floor. Aisling watched as the ferret jumped onto a chair, then the eating table, raced across the counter with seeming abandon and sent the saltshaker bouncing to the floor and spilling white crystals as it rolled.

It was a message. Aisling couldn’t be sure of its meaning. She wouldn’t know if she fully understood it until she was in the spiritlands-and even then, confirmation would come only if she was proven right or Aziel joined her and elected to communicate mind to mind.

The magic in the living world wasn’t readily accessible to her, not in the way it was to witches or sorcerers or those with healing gifts. She’d rarely been able to leave the ghostlands in an astral state as she’d done the night she’d located Elena. But thinking back on it now, comparing what she’d done that night to other times when she’d been drawn back to the living world while traveling outside her body, Aisling couldn’t repress a shudder. In every instance, a magic practitioner was involved, either performing a ritual or shoring up a curse-their acts thinning the barrier between the world of the living and the dead. If Nicholas was still alive, she would find him only if he was in the hands of a dark priest as Elena had been.

Aisling’s hand went to the hidden fetish pouch. Misgiving filled her, worry that it was a trap.

Aziel returned to Nicholette and climbed onto her shoulder. He nuzzled her hair, her ear, and she laughed softly. “Is he always so affectionate?”

A tiny ache speared through Aisling’s heart. On rare occasions Aziel had stoically allowed himself to be handled by some of the children in Geneva’s home, but he’d never been demonstrative with anyone other than her.

“I don’t know much about a shaman’s craft,” Nicholette said. “Will you look for Nicholas now?”

Aisling hesitated before answering, not wanting to reveal the limits of her gift. She could find Nicholas now if he were already dead, or she could find him alive but only if he were in the hands of someone using him to work magic, as she suspected. It wouldn’t be a comfort to Nicholette to learn either.

“I’ll have to wait until after dark.”

Nicholette’s face lost the color it’d gained because of Aziel’s antics. Fear and worry returned with a tremor. “If you find him, there’ll be no way for me to get to him. Maybe for his client’s missing son, the police or guardsmen would go out in the night, but…” She glanced at the window, to the approaching dusk. “There’s no time to get to his client’s house.”

Caution and compassion fought inside Aisling and struck a balance. She leaned forward, touched her hand to the back of Nicholette’s. “I’ll do what I can to find Nicholas and help him. Go home or stay with friends tonight, be with someone.”

Aisling could read Nicholette’s desire to remain. But she couldn’t offer that comfort, and Nicholette didn’t press, perhaps believing a shaman’s magic required privacy similar to a sex witch’s.

“Can I return at first light?” Nicholette asked, her hand trembling under Aisling’s.

“Yes. Do you have something that belongs to Nicholas? Or something he’s given you?”

Nicholette pulled her hand out from underneath Aisling’s and unclasped a necklace. An entwined couple hung at the end of a thin chain, their sexual joining captured in jasper. “Nicholas wears an identical amulet. Our mother had them made for us. They were crafted from the same piece of stone since he and I are twins. I think this will be better than anything else I can give you.”

Aisling took the necklace. And minutes later, her guests departed, hurrying to stay ahead of the darkness.

ZURAEL didn’t like the jealousy burning in his veins. It was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, unwelcome. He’d known almost from the first that Aziel was more than he appeared, but witnessing the silent communication between Aisling and the ferret, how easily she let herself be guided by a creature whose true nature she didn’t understand, had left him edgy, unsettled-feeling challenged-as if his possession of her was an illusion. He wanted to argue against Aisling searching for Nicholas-not because he hadn’t been touched by Nicholette’s distress, but because he knew it was a trap of some kind, and he couldn’t protect Aisling in the spiritlands.

He studied the ferret sitting at Aisling’s feet in the kitchen and waiting for her to finish preparing the meal. In his mind’s eye he was once again in the House of the Spider, sitting before Malahel’s altar and seeing the stones he’d cast.

Had one of them represented Aziel? Or did Aziel serve a greater power?

Zurael’s attention shifted to Aisling. The fire burning through him intensified, jealousy yielding to something more primal and threatening to burn out of control.

Images of tethering her to the bed, of having her helpless, her world reduced to him and the pleasure he gave her, tempted him to abandon the course of action he’d set for himself. He closed the distance between them without intending to, pressed his hardened cock to the curve of her buttocks, only to be assaulted by different images, recaptured moments of taking her anally.

“You’re trusting him with your life,” Zurael said, his mouth finding the satin skin of her neck as his hands stroked up her sides then around to claim her breasts.

“I always have,” Aisling said, but the huskiness of her voice and the way she softened against him kept the words from inflaming him further.

Zurael closed his eyes and fought the need pulsing through him. They didn’t have time, not if he intended to make the most of the night by searching The Barrens, as he’d told her he intended to do after they’d left The Mission. Still, he hesitated over leaving her body unprotected while her spirit traveled in astral form.

He’d seen the protective sigils carved into the wood around her windows and doors, but they hadn’t kept him out, wouldn’t have protected her from death the first time he entered her home if killing her had remained his purpose. Few of the Djinn dabbled in spell craft, fewer still-if any-understood or used most of the magic wielded by human sorcerers and witches.

“I can search tomorrow night,” he said.

“You might have to do that as well. Finding the Fellowship’s compound is important. I’ll be okay by myself tonight.”

It was a show of weakness, an admission of the power she held over him, but Zurael couldn’t force himself away from Aisling. He stroked her, placed kisses along her neck, held her against him while she prepared their meal, and only reluctantly released her so they could eat.

When the meal was done, he gathered her in his arms again, hungered and burned with the need to carry her into the bedroom and couple with her. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will be. Promise me the same.”

Zurael laughed. “There’s little I fear in this place.” And for an instant he was trapped in the warmth of her concern, caught in angelite eyes and unfamiliar tenderness. But too soon it faded, replaced by a remembrance of rage and true terror, scenes of the dark priest and his acolytes. “Do not summon me.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, shivering at the promise of death in his eyes, but he didn’t offer comfort. If she summoned him while he was in her world, the angels would hear it and come.

Zurael stepped away from her. With a thought, he let flesh and blood, muscle and bone give up their shape, become the potential for a swirling wind before gathering, re-forming into an owl.

At Aisling’s gasp of surprise and pleasure, Zurael spread his wings so she could further admire him. He allowed her touch and wasn’t any more immune to her as an owl than he’d been in the serpent’s form.

An owl-voiced protest escaped when she stopped stroking him. He watched with approval as she wrapped a burlap sack around her arm before offering him a place to perch.

Sharp talons dug into the material, touched her skin. He used his wings for balance so he wouldn’t pierce her flesh as she lifted and carried him to the back door, offered him the night.

Zurael hesitated for an instant, torn between the urge to remain with her and the need to take flight. Finally, reluctantly, he launched himself from her arm and headed toward The Barrens.

What had taken a good part of their morning now took only a short time. He soon flew over The Mission, its doors locked and most of its windows dark.

There was no sign of human life close to the city, but the streets weren’t empty. A flash of gray marked the presence of a lone werewolf. Larger packs of feral dogs ran boldly through abandoned streets. Somewhere in the distance, a cougar-Were or pure animal-screamed.

Beneath the owl’s wings, bats swooped on insects. Cats hunted for rats in blackened, fallen buildings while others yowled from the hoods of rusted cars, announcing their desire to mate.

The farther into The Barrens he traveled, the more nature dominated. Trees grew among rubble. Vines crawled over objects and sites no longer identifiable.

He looked for light, for fire. Listened for the sound of voices. He abandoned his task only when he required food in order to sustain flight. And in those moments he savored the hunt, the kill, relived the primitive beginnings of the Djinn when this land belonged only to them and they hunted it just as he was hunting it, in whatever form would bring success.

Thick forests of pine, juniper and oak rose and went on for miles. He banked and circled, knew the night wasn’t long enough to search where leaves and darkness created an impenetrable shroud of secrecy.

The passing of time was marked by the way the light changed as stars were added to the sky and the moon traveled across it, by in the rising crescendo of insect song, the howling of wolves and yipping of coyotes.

He flew and perched. Waited and observed. Took flight again and again, until the sound of engines and gunfire exploded into the night, abruptly silencing all other noise and filling the air with the promise of unnatural violence.

The jeeps arrived moments later, four of them racing down parallel streets. Spotlights struck the sides of long-deserted buildings and patches of vegetation. Any movement caused a barrage of bullets, followed by whoops and hollers.

A feral dog lost its nerve and darted from underneath a burned-out car. Its body danced over cracked sidewalk long after it was dead.

“One confirmed kill! You got that?” a man yelled and radios crackled to life, each of them repeating, “One confirmed kill. Got it.”

Hatred and fury roared through Zurael. He only barely suppressed the impulse to become a thing of human nightmare, a demon swooping from the sky to deliver terror-filled death to the guardsmen in the jeeps.

AISLING knelt in the shaman’s workroom, laughing at Aziel’s antics, enjoying the moment even as the time to enter the ghostlands approached. The ferret sat on top of a mound of salt, gleefully digging into the white granules and tossing them onto the floor underneath the table.

She’d assumed the heavy sack contained cheap stones used for making inexpensive amulets or fetishes. But when she entered the workroom, Aziel’s chatter insisted she open the bag.

Have I been doing it wrong all along? she wondered, thinking on how Father Ursu had given her the bowl of salt the night she searched for Elena, and how Aziel had tossed those grains to the floor, too, subtly telling her she was to form a protective circle using them.

Aisling rose long enough to find a container, a can that had once contained peaches. She dumped the collection of polished stones it held on to the workbench, couldn’t stop herself from remembering how she’d returned from her unwilling Ghost trip into the spiritlands to find herself in this room, and how Zurael helped her to the kitchen, fed her peaches by hand. It was the beginning of her downfall, her seduction.

Aziel chattered urgently. He tossed more salt onto the floor, his movements shifting from playfulness to the beginnings of agitation, hinting that his uncharacteristic show of affection toward Nicholette was more than a means of communicating to Aisling that she should agree to search for Nicholas.

She knelt and filled the can full of salt then took her place on the dirt in the middle of the room. The ferret scrambled onto her lap. But when she would have traced protective sigils in the dirt as she cast a circle in salt, Aziel went completely still-his signal for her to stop and think, to consider past lessons-and she understood she needed to duplicate what she’d done the night she searched for Elena.

Do not summon me.

Zurael’s earlier warning, the promise of death she’d read in his eyes, made her heart race just as surely as did the knowledge that she’d encounter another dark priest tonight. Only a lifetime of trusting Aziel gave her the courage to allow the spirit winds to rush through her, to pull her into the world of the dead.

When the ghost winds settled, Aisling welcomed the gray nothingness around her, the calm stillness requiring no action, no decision, no payment. It could last seconds, minutes, hours if she let it, and a part of her wanted to let it go on, but instead she lifted her hand and touched the necklace she’d gotten from Nicholette, let her fingers caress the entwined lovers carved from jasper.

Gray swirled and parted, allowing a familiar figure to step through, though it wasn’t the one Aisling expected. Sinead’s husky laugh filled the space around them, became the purr of a predator. “You’d prefer John?” she asked, touching the scarf tied around her neck, stroking the instrument of her death as she lightly tapped the crop she carried against her leg. “Oh, he’s dabbled in the sex trade, if you can call taking money so guardsmen can have a little sport on their days off being part of the pleasure business.”

Sinead glided forward, leather and perfume, crackling dominance. “Umm, a natural submissive,” she said, circling Aisling, crowding her, making Aisling self-conscious of her nakedness in the ghostlands. “You’d be a fun one to train, but I don’t think that’s why you’re here. Am I right?”

Aisling took the necklace off and held it between them. “I’m searching for a missing sex witch,” she said, and the spirit winds rose, shimmered over the jasper and made it appear as though the man and woman writhed, their bodies glistening with sweat as they fucked.

Sinead licked her lips. “What a temptation. Who is she?”

“The witch I’m looking for is named Nicholas. This is his sister’s necklace.”

“A pity.” Sinead tapped the crop against the leather of her pants. “A pity it’s the brother and not the sister. But better for you.” She closed her hand around the lovers trapped in jasper. Her eyes lost focus until a sly smile formed. “Oh my, this is a delicious turn of events. Karmic fate for those who have the luxury of believing in such things. I can take you to him. If we hurry you might even arrive before he’s welcomed to this world.” Sinead released the necklace and again licked her lips, made a show of caressing Aisling with her eyes. “It will, of course, cost you, and even here my time is valuable.”

Aisling steeled herself against reacting to the blatant display. It was part of the bargaining process, something she’d learned early on. And because she knew that only those who lived fully in this realm could conceal themselves in clothing, she didn’t wish to look down and find herself wearing it.

Sinead circled. Tapped the crop lightly on her leg. “I could do so much with you if you put yourself in my hands for training. Men and women alike would line up, all vying for the privilege of hearing you call them Master.” She stopped at Aisling’s side, her breath a cold whisper across bare flesh. “Or have you already been claimed? Shown the pleasures of being submissive?”

Zurael’s image came to mind before Aisling could prevent it. Her body responded instantly, tightening her nipples and sending heat coiling through her belly.

Sinead moved around to stand in front of Aisling. She shifted her attention to Aziel, for the first time acknowledging she could see him. “Too bad you’re already claimed, but not by this one I don’t think.”

Aisling slipped Nicholette’s necklace over her head. She wondered if Sinead recognized what Aziel would be if he took his true form.

Sinead’s eyes lingered on the jasper amulet before moving to the pouch containing the fetishes, then abruptly lifting to Aisling’s face. She tapped the crop lightly against the palm of her hand, the sound rhythmic, like a clock ticking away the final moments of Nicholas’s life.

“Very well, my price. I will lead you to the sex witch Nicholas. In exchange you will bring Elena to me after she meets her death.”

Aziel’s sharp claws dug into Aisling’s bare shoulder, urging her to hurry while also warning her to be cautious. She shivered, recognizing both trap and the high cost of the favor.

“You will take me to Nicholas as quickly as possible, before he can be killed?”

Sinead closed her hand around the end of the crop, slid it back and forth through the fist of her fingers, mimicking the sex act. “Yes, I’ll concede that point.”

Her smile was sharp, her eyes hard. “I won’t yield on the other demand, so don’t waste your time-or what little of the witch’s that remains-in trying to put limitations and restrictions on the task I want you to perform. In my own fashion I love Elena, as one does a well-trained and obedient pet. Bring her to me in death and I will take you to the witch in time for you to call on another to save his life.”

Promise me you’ll be careful.

I will be.

But the thundering race of Aisling’s heart made a lie of her words. What Sinead asked was outwardly simple, but could ultimately cost Aisling more than she could afford to pay. There was no way of knowing, in this moment, who might claim Elena’s soul at death, where Elena’s spirit might go when she entered the ghostlands.

Aisling shivered. In her mind’s eye she saw Nicholette’s fear for her brother, and she ached for her. But to risk so much for a stranger… She wavered, torn, also seeing the images of her family’s future captured on a slate of blood. Only slowly did she become aware of the tension vibrating through Aziel as he waited for her to decide.

You’re trusting him with your life.

I always have.

“I’ll pay your price,” Aisling said.

“Come then.”

They walked through gray nothingness and swirling ghost winds until Sinead stopped. No blood seeped into the spiritlands the way it had the night Elena lay on the altar to serve a dark mass.

“Here we are. With time to spare. As promised.”

Aisling nodded, accepting the incurred debt before closing her eyes and willing herself to sink through the barrier separating spirit world from living one.

The scene that greeted her differed from what she’d expected, but was equally horrifying. Black candles lit a room laid out in preparation for an unholy ceremony. Nicholas lay gagged, struggling and fighting against tethers, cuts marring the perfection of his body-small knife wounds made to draw blood for the now-familiar sigils painted on his skin.

Two robed figures were in the room. As they approached the altar, one of them parted his robe to reveal a stiffened cock. He slid his hand up and down his shaft. “We’ve got time. Plenty of ceremonies start this way. Besides, aren’t you curious about why your mother is so hot for him?”

“I’d rather piss on him than fuck him.”

“Suit yourself. But not until after I’m finished with my fun.”

Reflexively Aisling touched the entwined couple of Nicholette’s necklace. A matching one seemed to writhe where it lay on Nicholas’s heaving, fear-slick chest.

Aisling curled her fingers around the fetish pouch, pressed the jasper pendant to soft leather. Aziel?

He shifted on her shoulder, studied the scene intently. This isn’t the trap I expected, the one I wanted you to see and understand. There’s no spell here to capture anyone you might summon. I will give you a name. But you will have no control over the one you call.

The black-robed figure climbed onto the altar and knelt between Nicholas’s legs. His hands reached underneath splayed thighs, wrenched Nicholas upward and Aisling shuddered in revulsion of the rape about to take place.

There was a fleeting thought to ask what it would cost her, but she didn’t give it voice. What is the name?

Irial, Raven prince, son of Iyar en Batrael.

Not even a heartbeat passed between the end of Aziel’s silent communication and Aisling’s spoken summons. This time she felt no shock of terror when the demon arrived, black-winged and black-taloned, furious death given physical form.

The robed figures died in a spray of blood, their heads nearly severed from their bodies. When the demon’s attention turned to Nicholas, his fury like waves of lava-uncaring who was destroyed in the flow of molten hate and deadly retribution-fear engulfed Aisling.

It tried to freeze her in place like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk, but she managed to say, “No! Please don’t!” and the sound of her voice turned Irial away from the altar.

Everything she’d seen in Zurael’s face the night she summoned him, she saw again in Irial’s. The demon rushed toward her, as if only just then understanding she was the one who’d called his name on the spirit winds.

The protective circle flared to life when he got to her, flashed in his green eyes like small flames burning with the absolute promise of death. But then his head turned slightly, and he stilled completely at the sight of Aziel.

Furious rage and unrelenting hatred gave way to subtle surprise and a glimpse of understanding. The threat of violence disappeared like a doused fire.

Aisling became aware of Irial’s masculine perfection, how similar he was to Zurael. And as if thinking it forged a link between them, Irial met her eyes again. Only this time a stylized raven graced his cheek the same way a serpent coiled around Zurael’s forearm.

“Do you trust that one with your life, little shamaness?” Irial asked, tilting his head toward Nicholas, who lay shivering on the altar, streaked with gore, his ankles and wrists raw and bleeding from his struggles.

The ease with which Irial identified her, the casualness of his address, made Aisling’s heart race. But she didn’t hesitate in saying, “Yes. His sister asked for my help. I trust him.” She glanced at the bodies on the floor then back at Irial. “Will you free him?”

“I will free him.”

“Thank you.”

Irial’s eyes darkened, and for the first time they swept downward, over her nakedness. “I understand better your allure,” he said before turning his back and walking to the altar.

Unbidden, the spirit winds swept in, but rather than restore her to her physical body, they carried her back to the ghostlands, to another room and another circle, to a place that once made her think of ancient Greek temples but now made her think of desert lands and a time before humans existed.

Arched doorways formed the walls on all four sides. Gauzy, pastel-colored curtains held the gray of the ghostlands out. Sigils created with priceless gems sparkled in the stone floor. Some glowed so brightly they would imprint on her retinas if she looked at them too long.

Aisling sighed in relief. In the spiritlands all things came at a cost. There’d been no time to contemplate the price of saving Nicholas, no time even to ask what would be required of her. Now she knew she was to pay Aziel for Irial’s name.

It was a heavy price, but one she had always paid willingly. The other spirits who guided her took her blood or a promise of service. Aziel took a part of her soul, what the ancient Egyptians had once labeled ka, the life force.

Aziel slid from her shoulder and settled on one of the jeweled symbols as he’d done any number of times before, as he’d done in each of the forms he’d taken as her companion.

He recognized you, she said, thinking of the instant when Irial saw Aziel, wanting answers, as she always had, but wanting them more desperately now.

Perhaps.

You’re demon. She made it a statement. Hesitated slightly then added, As is my father.

Aziel’s amusement reached her, a sharing of emotion rather than thought, the bond between them stronger in this place. What’s in a name, when it’s given by another and not claimed by the one it’s given to?

The question made Aisling blush and look away. Memories of a similar question crowded in, where she stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror with Zurael.

Do you remember what I looked like beneath the moon and regret letting me cover you, pierce you? Does my form change the nature of who I am? Does it define me?

No.

Then look at me, watch while I take you.

Without conscious thought, Aisling’s fingers curled around the entwined lovers of Nicholette’s necklace, and in the cool of the spiritlands the jasper was warm against her palm. A fleeting, hazy image appeared, an impression of Nicholette writhing on silken cushions in this circle, the curtains in the archways billowing as a man lay on top of her, thrusting into her-and Aisling knew Aziel’s interest hadn’t been feigned.

She let go of the necklace, didn’t want him to feel the childish, selfish insecurity that attacked her and held the larger fear of losing him at bay. But in this place, it was impossible, the bond between them too strong, too deeply ingrained. He’d been with her from her earliest memory. He was father and brother, spirit guide and best friend.

It’s not time for me to leave you yet, he said, and his love surrounded her like a blanket, warmed her so deeply that there was no room for fear or worry about the future.

She let her mind drift, only barely noticing the sigils, flaring and subsiding in random order, as if an unseen hand played notes she couldn’t hear. Tiredness came first, with the faint outline of her clothing as her life, her ka, drained away. Exhaustion came next and she wrapped her arms around bent knees, could almost feel the fabric of the pants she wore in the living world. Lethargy followed and she rolled to her side in a fetal ball, closed her eyes because she didn’t want to see how close to physical death Aziel would take her.