Ghostland

by Jory Strong

  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 t
hrew 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 f
led.

  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.

  Two

  ZURAEL shimmered into existence in the exact spot he’d abruptly and involuntarily left moments earlier. The wings and talons were gone, as was the blood, but the rage remained, deadly and focused.

  Desert winds streamed through windows hung with a thin, gauzy fabric. Rather than soothe and calm him, the breeze made him think of the woman who’d whispered his name on the spirit winds, who’d dared to summon a Djinn prince and command him.

  She would pay with her life. Such magic could not be allowed to rise again.

  A knock sounded at the door. It was his father’s advisor. Zurael could feel the signature energy. He’d known it wouldn’t take long for the knowledge of what had happened to reach The Prince.

  Zurael went to the door and opened it. Miizan en Rumjal stepped back, the tilt of his head indicating Zurael was to follow him. His features gave no hint of his thoughts, and Zurael had no intention of asking for them. Though Miizan was bound to the House of the Scorpion and not the House of the Serpent, his loyalty to The Prince was forged in a time thousands of years earlier, when there were no ghostlands, no Kingdom of the Djinn to serve as both paradise and prison, when there was only the place that had been defiled by the humans and stolen from the Djinn by bloody conquest and foul, enslaving magic.