Ghostland

CHAPTER 1

FEAR rolled through the San Joaquin farmland with the rumble of a heavy truck. Children were called in from their chores and women abandoned their laundry without putting it on the lines. Heavy doors and barred windows were closed and locked as prayers were said to whatever gods might still linger in a world altered forever by war-born plague.

A cold knot of dread formed in Aisling McConaughey’s stomach as she ran toward the farmhouse. Beyond it she could see some of the others slip into the barn, but she was too far away to make it there and into the well-concealed safe room.

The front door opened. Aisling hurried past Geneva, the woman whose doorstep she’d been left on as an infant.

She raced down the hallway and slipped into the storage closet, then into the small hiding space between it and the kitchen pantry. Her throat closed with dismay when she saw she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t made it to the barn. One of her youngest sisters sat with her knees hugged to her chest, her eyes dark with fear.

Aisling scooped the girl up in her arms and claimed the spot on the floor. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered as she hugged the child. “They’re probably driving through to make sure the orchards are being taken care of properly. Maybe they’re bringing workers. You know the new mayor doesn’t let people stay in the city if they can’t earn their keep.”

The floor in the safe room vibrated as the heavy truck drew closer. Since The Last War and the plague that ended it, only the rich or those on government business had been allowed access to fuel for their vehicles.

Thin arms tightened around Aisling’s neck. “What if they want one of us?”

“It hasn’t happened yet,” Aisling whispered, wanting to soothe her sister’s fears with a lie, but giving her the truth instead.

After war and plague killed so much of Earth’s population, the supernaturals had emerged from hiding. In the decades since, territories had been carved out. Stockton and the surrounding farmlands were controlled by humans who feared vampires and shapeshifters as well as anyone gifted with supernatural abilities.

The screech of brakes sent a fresh wave of fear rushing through Aisling. The pounding on the door, coupled by a man’s voice demanding entry, made her breath grow short.

Shuffling footsteps marked Geneva’s slow progress toward compliance. Others, orphans without abilities to mark them as different, scrambled and rustled as they took up positions around the house so everything appeared normal.

“Come in,” Geneva said, though the tread of boots telegraphed that their unwelcome visitors were already inside.

Nausea radiated out from the tight knot in Aisling’s stomach as the house was searched. She closed her eyes and envisioned the room she shared with several other girls. Her chest tightened just as a voice called, “Captain. In here.”

In her mind’s eye she followed the heavy footsteps into her bedroom and over to the dresser where the unfinished amulet rested.

The captain’s next words sent ice sliding down her spine. “Where’s the shamaness?”

Aisling knew then that they’d come for her. The amulet could belong to a witch or an artist. Many of the non-gifted humans hedged their bets by buying talismans and fetishes for protection. But for the guardsmen, the fox carved in abalone was confirmation of what they were looking for.

She hugged her sister again, before extricating herself and moving to the small door that led to a closet seemingly packed with stored clothing. In the room above them the guardsman asked again, “Where’s the shamaness, old woman?”

Aisling expected to hear the telltale click of a bullet being chambered or the sound of physical violence. For the rich and well connected, life was much different; freedom and equality were something they took for granted. But for the poor, especially those who didn’t own the land they worked, civil rights were something to be found in history books and dreams.

She eased the hidden door open. Some of the tightness left her chest when she encountered nothing but darkness. There’d been only a cursory opening and closing of the closet door when the guardsmen searched the house. She suspected their actions were done for show, to intimidate rather than with the expectation of finding someone.

In the hallway a different voice said, “Ms. McConaughey, we don’t want to harm you or any of those in your care. The Church is aware of your good work. Unfortunately, more is at stake here than a woman and her family of orphans. I have been directed to find a shamaness and take her to the Oakland diocese. My search has led me here, to your home. It would be best for everyone concerned if you cooperated.”

Aisling closed the hidden door. She took a deep, steadying breath before slipping through the long raincoats and blankets hung to cover the entrance to the hiding place. Her fingers smoothed over the small leather fetish pouch she wore underneath her shirt. There was no choice but to surrender herself.

The guardsmen could kill everyone here and claim they were eradicating disease or defending themselves. As long as the orchards and gardens and livestock weren’t destroyed, there would be no protest, no outrage.

She stepped out into the hallway and climbed the stairs of the old wooden farmhouse. When she reached the top, the dark-robed figure of the priest turned. Their eyes met. His flashed with satisfaction and perhaps a hint of relief.

He stepped forward, his body language conveying friendliness. She allowed her hand to be engulfed by his.

Her palms were rough, her fingers callused against the baby-softness of the priest’s. Aisling forced herself to relax, to pretend she accepted his overture and didn’t view him with suspicion.

“Your name?” the priest asked.

“Aisling.”

“Come,” the priest said. “Gather what’s necessary. Your services are needed.”

“I’ll be able to return?”

There was just the barest flicker of hesitation before he said, “Of course, but I don’t know when. Clothing and food will be provided. There’s no need to pack either of those.”

Fear tried to claw its way out of Aisling’s throat. Panic filled her at the idea of being without her larger fetishes, the ones that remained in the barn safe room except for those times when she traveled deep into the ghostlands and required them for protection.

She couldn’t retrieve them, not with the police and the priest here. “I’m ready,” she said, unable to keep the shakiness from her voice.

The priest frowned. Creased eyebrows telegraphed his worry. A small flower of hope blossomed in Aisling’s chest. He was knowledgeable. Perhaps her lack of stronger protections would make her appear weak to him, unsuitable for whatever task had led him to her.

“You’ve got everything you need?” he asked. His eyes went to her neck and wrists, to the flat pockets of her working pants and the thin belt that was free of amulets and fetishes.

“I’ve had no formal training as a shamaness,” Aisling said.

It was the truth. What she knew, she had learned on her own or from the spirit guides who aided her.

For the wealthy, or for those living in communities where supernatural gifts were embraced, there were apprenticeships to be had and formal education available. She hadn’t benefited from either.

The priest closed his eyes, perhaps in prayer. Or perhaps he looked elsewhere for guidance, though the Church was prone to view such talents in the same way they viewed vampires and shapeshifters, as devil-born or devil-touched.

Aisling’s hand closed into a fist. She willed herself to show no emotion. Even so, she felt herself tremble slightly as the small bud of hope was mercilessly crushed when he opened his eyes and said, “If you’re ready, then, we’ll leave. I want to be back at the diocese before nightfall.”

Movement beyond the priest caught her attention. When she saw the black ferret with the golden eyes, a small ray of happiness penetrated the darkness of her fear at being taken away. Aziel meant to go with her or he wouldn’t have come out in the presence of these strangers.

“You’ll need to take your pet,” Geneva said, her expression stoic. “I won’t have him here unattended and going after the chickens.”

“Come, Aziel,” Aisling said, though it was unnecessary. The ferret was already scampering toward her. He made quick work of climbing up her clothing and draping himself around her neck in a living stole.

“You’re sure you have everything you need?” the priest asked, his eyes drifting to the ferret briefly before returning to Aisling’s face.

She nodded, afraid if she tried to speak the sudden lump in her throat would prevent it.

The walk to the front door and beyond, to the heavy truck favored by police and guardsmen when traveling into the countryside, was a blur. Aisling focused inward. She tried to isolate herself from what was happening.

Unconsciously she sought comfort. Her hand curled around Aziel’s luxurious tail and the ferret chirped softly.

Only two guardsmen and the priest had gone into the house, but lounging around the truck were three men carrying machine guns. A fourth stood in the bed, leaning against a machine gun mounted there.

The captain opened the back door and stepped aside; the priest waved Aisling forward. She resisted the urge to look back as she climbed in.

She could feel the eyes of her family members watching her. She could imagine the fear that would cling to them even after the rumble of the truck faded.

The truck doors slammed and the engine roared to life. The guardsmen took up positions on the bed.

“Ready?” yelled the driver.

One of the men in back pounded on the roof in a signal to go.

The priest said nothing and soon they were on the highway. Signs marked the distance to Oakland, to San Francisco and beyond-to worlds both foreign and familiar to Aisling, places she’d never seen except in her imagination and in the books Geneva loved to collect and share.

Fear faded and curiosity grew with each mile they traveled. Aziel repositioned himself to look out the window. Every now and then he chirruped as though he were a tour guide pointing out the various landmarks.

“The ferret is unusual,” the priest said, breaking the long silence. “Do you consider him your familiar?”

Aisling turned from the window to look at the man who’d taken her away from her home. He was older than she, with crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and a mouth that seemed ready to smile.

“He’s a pet. I thought familiars were for witches and warlocks to claim. Do shamans have them, too?”

The priest shook his head. “No, not that I’ve ever encountered.” He tentatively reached a hand toward the ferret, but Aziel turned quickly and hissed a warning.

“He’s not friendly with strangers,” Aisling said. She didn’t want to make an enemy of someone who might prove to be an ally. “Why am I being taken to Oakland?”

The priest tilted his head slightly to indicate the two men in the front seat of the truck. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter.” His gaze drifted to the ferret that once again had his paws on the window and was looking out. “Where did you get Aziel?”

His continued interest troubled Aisling. She suspected he wouldn’t admit to possessing supernatural gifts, at least not to her, but she worried that he’d guessed Aziel was something more, even if she herself wasn’t sure exactly what her companion was.

She didn’t think of Aziel as her familiar. If she were to label his role it would be spirit guardian. Perhaps a witch’s familiar acted in a similar manner. Unfortunately the few witches she knew about were secretive and coven-bound. They were not women to share a confidence with or to ask one of.

When the priest didn’t turn away from her, she said, “I found him. I think he was hitching a ride with a trader’s caravan. Probably the chickens on the farm tempted him out of one of the vehicles. A day or so after they moved on, I discovered him.”

The priest chuckled and let the topic drop. Aisling returned her attention to the rapidly approaching cityscape. “I don’t know much about Oakland and who rules it.”

“At the moment it has a mayor and a board of supervisors. The Church is represented, as are various human groups. It’s safe enough during the day but the night belongs to the predators.”

Goose bumps rose on Aisling’s arm and spread when they reached the city and were greeted by the burned-out buildings. After the plague had run its course and the supernaturals revealed their presence, anarchy had reigned for a while.

The streets, especially in the big cities, filled with violence and fear, and with the raw need to survive in a place where shelter was plentiful but food and fuel scarce. Eventually the armed services and guardsmen brought order, but the cities were still scarred by their pasts. And though the United States still existed as a nation, it was not the same glorious nation it had once been-if the history books and stories were to be believed.

It all happened well before she was born, and had seemed irrelevant to everyday life until now. She never expected to see any of the big cities. There was no reason to go there and no money to do so. Unless a person was rich or well connected or joined a merchant caravan, travel was expensive and dangerous.

Aisling startled as the men in the back of the truck fired a quick burst from their machine guns. The priest said, “Nothing to worry about. Those are just warning shots.”

She studied the scene in front of her: fallen buildings and shattered glass, abandoned automobiles and faded trash. Whether real or imagined, she suddenly felt watched. “Who lives here?” she whispered despite the impossibility of anyone outside the truck hearing her.

“Malcontents. The insane. The unfit and outcast.”

“Humans?”

“For the most part, though I imagine it’s a hunting ground for the predators.”

The blackened, destroyed section slowly gave way to areas where buildings were being reclaimed. Heavily guarded warehouses stood next to abandoned ones. Run-down, darkened tenement houses stood next to buildings with iron bars silhouetted in soft yellow light.

Landscaped medians and planted trees marked the point where poverty and struggle gave way to comfort, though the bars on the windows and doors remained. Armed police and guardsmen patrolled the streets. Men, women and children dressed in bright clothing hurried to get their business accomplished before the daylight faded.

Aisling looked down at her own worn and work-stained clothes. She thought about the priest’s hesitation when she’d asked if she would be able to return home.

Fear lodged in her chest and throat again as she wondered if she’d survive this city, this task that had brought armed men and a servant of the Church to the San Joaquin in order to retrieve her.

Aziel turned from the window. His wet nose found her ear in a rooting, affectionate gesture conveying his belief everything would be okay.

She smiled despite the turmoil of her emotions and the sight of the Church that loomed ahead when the truck turned onto a narrow street. They passed through a heavily guarded gate, then slowed to a stop.

“Here we are,” the priest said. He smoothed the black material of his cassock as he glanced at the streaks of red marking the impending sunset.

Opulence, wealth, pictures painted by masters who’d been dead hundreds of years before The Last War. Those were the impressions Aisling was left with as she was led through the hallways by a woman in a nun’s habit. “Now that I know your size, I’ll arrange for fresh clothing,” the nun said as she ushered Aisling into a small, comfortably furnished room. “Take a shower. There will be food waiting when you’re finished.” She glanced at the ferret with curiosity. “Do you need anything for your pet?”

“A litter box.”

The nun nodded and shut the door. A lock slid into place with a nearly silent click, trapping Aisling in a room with handwoven rugs and polished wooden floors, furniture that was pleasing to the eye as well as functional. It didn’t look like a prison, but even without the locked door, the unfamiliar city and lack of money or allies made it one.

She glanced out into the nearly dark sky and let her thoughts flow to the hot shower and the promised meal. They were all prisoners of the night and the predators waiting in it.

Aisling pulled Aziel from her shoulder and set him on the back edge of a chair before going into the bathroom. She stripped out of her clothing, and shivered with pleasure when she stepped under the hot water. She stayed until a shadow announced the nun’s return.

Dismay filled her when she left the shower to find her clothes missing, replaced by a long black dress with a wide skirt. It was a modest garment, meant to conceal the female form.

Aisling didn’t want to wear it, but the dress was her only choice other than wrapping herself in a towel or bedsheet. Her eyes widened when she saw a hair dryer next to the sink. It was a luxurious use of electricity she wasn’t accustomed to.

In her enjoyment of the hot water, she’d gotten her hair thoroughly soaked. The thick, honey-blond strands curled around her buttocks when unbound and could take hours to dry.

Using the hair dryer was almost as blissful as the shower. She lingered several minutes beyond the point where her hair could be braided and coiled at the back of her head.

Aziel was helping himself to a piece of chicken by the time Aisling emerged from the bathroom. She laughed at his naughtiness. He wouldn’t have dared to get on the kitchen table at home, Geneva would have…

A lump formed in Aisling’s throat. She blinked, suddenly overwhelmed by homesickness and worry.

The ferret looked up from the meat clasped between his paws. He chirped excitedly.

Aisling forced away all thought but appreciation for the food in front of her. She joined Aziel at the table and ate. When it was done she checked the door and found it locked. With no books to read and no one to talk to, she lay down on the bed with Aziel curled on her pillow.

It was getting late when the sound of the door opening woke her. “Come, they’re waiting for you,” the nun who’d escorted her to the room said.

Aisling slipped from the bed. “I’d like my clothes back.”

“They’re being washed. When they’re clean, they’ll be returned.”

It was such a small thing, considering everything that had happened and might yet happen, but the knowledge she’d soon be wearing her own clothing lifted Aisling’s spirits. “Thank you,” she whispered as Aziel reclaimed his perch on her shoulder.

The nun’s expression gentled. “Come,” she said, her voice warmer. “They’re waiting for you. I believe it must be important given the mayor’s presence.”

Aisling was led to a room. It was cold, as if it wasn’t used much and therefore wasn’t heated often. Though the nun had said the mayor waited, there were only two men in the room-one was the priest who’d come for her, the other a much older man wearing bloodred robes.

“You’ve met Father Ursu,” the unknown priest said. “I’m Bishop Routledge. Your services are needed. In exchange for a successful performance of them, you’ll be granted a license to practice your skills in Oakland. You’ll be provided with a residence in the area of town where others with controversial abilities have settled. You’ll also receive vouchers for food and transportation as well as a small fee in order to ease your transition.”

He started to turn away. Aisling said, “Father Ursu told me I’d be allowed to return home.”

The bishop halted. He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Returning home with a financial reward is a possibility. But first let’s see if you succeed tonight.”

Aisling tried to appear confident, unafraid. His voice and wording confirmed what she already knew. There was no choice about whether or not she would help them. “What service have I been brought here to perform?”

She asked, and yet she knew there could be only one thing they wanted of her, to enter the spiritlands where the dead waited for judgment or rebirth, where they found heaven or hell, depending on belief. It was a shaman’s gift to go into the ghostlands, to walk in the afterlife and bargain for answers and help from the beings found there.

“An important constituent is in need of aid. He asked me to act as a go-between. A woman acquaintance of his has disappeared. The police haven’t been able to find out what happened to her. Our constituent wants closure, even if the news is bad. It’s not something the Church would typically condone or take part in, but there are extenuating circumstances. We’re hoping a shaman or shamaness might be able to locate her, especially if her soul has already departed.”

Bishop Routledge retrieved a photograph from a table Aisling hadn’t noticed. He handed the picture to her. “The woman’s name is Elena Rousseau. I fear time is of the essence. Father Ursu will remain with you. I have other matters to attend to.”

The bishop left the room without another word. Father Ursu indicated a chair next to the table. “I’ve witnessed this kind of thing before. I won’t interfere.” He picked up a chalice and handed it to her.

Aisling managed to contain her expression and her thoughts when she glanced down to find grains of salt in the silver cup. Aziel chattered happily as he buried his hands in the white granules and threw some of the salt to the floor.

Father Ursu cleared his throat. His face was tense. “It’s nearing midnight. The police have discovered several bodies recently. We have reason to believe the victims were all murdered during the witching hour.”

Aisling wondered again what abilities he possessed. Fear lurked deep in his eyes, as if he’d seen some of the beings drawn to the dead hours of the night.

She moved to the center of the room and sat on the bare, cold floor. If she’d been at home she would have put Aziel on her lap and enclosed them both in a circle of chalk or ash, or surrounded them with the fetishes she used when she wanted to project her astral self into what most thought of as the ghostlands. Though in truth it was a land of spirits, an ancient place holding much more than human souls. But here, under the watchful eyes of the priest, guided more by intuition than reason, she plucked the ferret from her shoulder and set him away from her.

She dipped her fingers in the salt, uncertain about using it. It was a witch’s protection, not hers. She wondered if other shamans used salt to open a doorway into the spirit world.

Tentatively Aisling enclosed herself in a salt circle. Though her eyes were closed, she was aware of Father Ursu watching her. She was aware of another presence as well, of someone nearby and able to witness what happened.

She tried to still the panic deep inside herself, felt caught in a deadly spider’s web where to struggle was to become more thoroughly entangled. She focused on breathing, on steadying the rhythm of her heart, on clearing her mind of fear.

There were sigils she usually drew, but once again instinct warned her against revealing the most sacred parts of her ritual. She concentrated instead on visualizing them, on making them real in her mind as she silently called the true names of the ones who offered her protection in the spiritlands.

Her heart rate tripled as the heavy gray clouds of the spirit world rushed toward her. She held herself open and the ghost winds blew through her, seeking resistance, weakness, filling her with the terror of endless death even as they welcomed and claimed her. When they calmed and settled, she looked down and saw her body, there and yet not there, naked as she always appeared in the ghostlands, her hair a curtain down her back.

Without warning a man stepped from the gray mist. His face bore the tattoos of a lawbreaker.

He licked his lips as he glanced at her naked body. His own was covered in clothing that looked expensive. He leaned forward slightly, emphasizing the fact that his hands were bound behind him as they had been in the moment of his death. A metal cable served as a hangman’s noose. It twisted around his neck then trailed down his back before disappearing into the mist swirling at their feet.

“I see they’ve sent a sacrificial lamb,” he said in a raspy voice. “Or maybe that’s Elena’s role.” He cocked his head. “Then again, maybe third time’s the charm.”

Aisling resisted the urge to smooth her hands over nonexistent clothing. “You’re here to lead me to Elena?”

“I can find her if I must. Blood calls to blood and all of that.” He tilted his head. “And in a few minutes there’ll be plenty of blood. You might not need me at all by then.”

“What do you want in exchange for your aid?”

“If only it was a matter of what I want. Personally I’d leave Elena to her fate. Once I began collecting the facial artwork, my sister wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”

He smiled and some of the tattoos cataloging his crimes merged. His eyes reflected a cruel enjoyment. “It was only a matter of time before Elena became disposable. When you make your bed in a nest of vipers, you eventually get bitten. But time’s wasting. In exchange for my help you’ll agree to take the good bishop’s offer. Stay in Oakland.” He laughed. “You might as well. They don’t intend for you to leave. This is only the beginning act-if you survive it, of course. You realize that, don’t you?”

Aisling’s heart raced in her chest. His words rang with the same hidden truth she’d heard in the bishop’s voice. “Who do you serve?”

“One whose name you’re not meant to hear at the moment.” He rolled his shoulders, and the cable he’d been hung with shimmered, a long silver leash leading to an unseen master.

Aisling studied him. Good or evil, malicious or beneficial-with no formal training she had only her instinct to rely on when it came to the spirit guides and entities she encountered in the ghostlands. “I will stay in Oakland, for a time.”

The man cocked his head as if listening to an unspoken voice. “Good enough,” he said before turning and walking deeper into the gray landscape.

There was no sense of time or distance in the spiritlands. They may have traveled for seconds or hours, yards or miles. There was a sense of being watched, but Aisling couldn’t be certain which plane it was on given Father Ursu’s presence in the room where her body awaited her return. Heat and cold brushed across her ankles; occasionally there was a phantom touch to the back of her hand.

The gray gave way to pink. The pink darkened and became bloodred. Her guide stopped. “End of tour for me unfortunately.” He kicked at the red mist at his feet. “Too bad. I wouldn’t mind seeing how Elena is faring.” He tilted his head. “She’s not screaming. Could be a good sign-or a bad one. If she escapes this fate, be sure to tell her that her dear brother John hopes to see her soon.” He laughed before taking a step backward and being swallowed by the ghostlands.

Aisling closed her eyes and let herself sink into the physical world as she remained in her astral self. She was greeted by the sound of chanting, by the thick smell of burning incense mixed with blood. Her breath caught in her throat when she opened her eyes and found herself in a nightmare scene of flickering candles mounted on goat heads, of dark-robed figures surrounding an altar where Elena lay naked and spread-eagled. Sigils were painted on her eyelids and lips, on her palms and on the soles of her feet. The steady rise and fall of her chest was the only indication she was still alive.

The gleam of a blade being raised turned Aisling’s attention to a man next to the altar. He wore the headdress of a goat. The chanting stopped when he began to speak in a deep, mesmerizing voice.

The words were unfamiliar to Aisling, but she could guess their meaning, their purpose. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She had no true physical presence here. She was only a witness to the events. Even if she left the room and determined where Elena was, by the time she returned to her own body and conveyed the location, it would be too late.

Warm fur brushed against her ankles. She looked down and startled at the sight of Aziel. Always before, he’d touched his physical body to hers and entered the ghostlands with her, or he didn’t appear at all.

The flames of the candles flickered and reflected in his yellow eyes as he met Aisling’s gaze. Their minds touched in a way they did only when they were both in spirit form. There is a name you can whisper on the spirit winds, a being you can summon.

It was her choice. It always was. But there would be a price to pay. Tell me.

The ferret climbed to her shoulder. His face pressed to hers as if to ensure the name he yielded would only be heard by her.

Zurael en Caym. Serpent heir. Son of the one who is The Prince.

A shiver streaked down Aisling’s spine in soul-deep recognition. There was no time to question the reaction or agonize over her decision. The dark priest’s prayer climbed toward a crescendo. When he reached it, the athame in his hand would plunge into Elena’s heart.

“Zurael en Caym. Serpent heir. Son of the one who is The Prince. I summon you,” Aisling said. “I summon you to me and command you to end this ceremony before the sacrifice is made.”

The dark-robed acolytes shrieked as Zurael appeared, black-winged and taloned. With a casual swipe he severed the jugular of the dark priest and sent blood spewing across the altar. In panic the participants tried to escape, only to be grabbed and killed, their bodies tossed casually to the floor as their hearts ceased beating and their souls fled.

Terror and horror filled Aisling at the sight of the demon, at the destruction he wrought with so little effort. His face and naked body were human but his eyes burned like molten gold. When the last of those participating in the black mass was dead, he came to stand before her, coated in blood, his expression promising retribution for being summoned and commanded.

A ring flared to life at her feet, circling her, protecting her. Zurael’s eyes slitted as his gaze traveled the length of her and his cock became engorged. “Savor these few moments when you hold me enslaved, child of mud. They will cost your life,” he said before disappearing as suddenly as he’d arrived.