Ghostland

by Jory Strong

  There was no attempt at concealment. Like disciples to a messiah, men and women gathered around the Ghost dealer. They offered silver, gold, jewelry. They received small metal boxes in return.

  Aisling shivered at the sight of the containers. The one in Elena’s possession had made her think of an antique pill- or snuffbox. Now she saw small metal coffins.

  Three of the buyers hurried from the room. The remaining five settled on the chairs and couches. Aisling braced herself when their fingers reverently stroked the lids of the tiny boxes.

  Zurael’s heat warmed her back. She longed for the comfort and security his touch had come to represent, but she didn’t blame him for standing apart until he knew she wouldn’t be dragged into the ghostlands.

  Aisling felt the spirit winds as soon as the first lid was opened. Her hand went to the hidden fetish pouch containing the pentacle.

  The winds recognized her. They swirled around her but didn’t pull at her spirit.

  The Ghost users dug their fingers into the tainted substance. Some of them rubbed it on their bodies, while others licked and sucked it off their skin.

  One by one they were taken.

  Club patrons drifted into the room like theatergoers waiting for the show to begin. A few checked their watches. The Ghost seller moved to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

  He surveyed the room, perhaps looking for other customers. Aisling tensed when his gaze settled on her. It was there for only an instant, then gone.

  She’d expected to feel a jolt of recognition, to feel something of the ghostlands in him. Instead she felt nothing, as if he were only human, a man with no connection to the spirit world.

  Aisling turned to look at Zurael. “I’m going over to him.”

  Zurael’s eyes burned with an intensity that sent wild heat coursing through her. His hand curled around her forearm, possessive and protective, allowing for no argument. “I’ll go with you.”

  She acquiesced. Until dawn arrived, they were all trapped in the house. There was little point in pretending she and Zurael weren’t together.

  The five men who were Ghosting started to moan. Like Elena they must have been seeking pleasure in the spiritlands. Zippers gave way. Hardened cocks emerged to be taken in hand. Hips rose as backs arched.

  Aisling couldn’t stop the blush from coloring her cheeks. She’d grown up on a farm and witnessed animals mating. She felt no shame in sexual desire or attending to those needs but she’d never imagined men and women, strangers, entertaining themselves like this.

  She couldn’t tell whether the Ghost dealer was monitoring those he’d sold to or whether he was merely watching them. His attention shifted to her as she drew near. “Last one,” he said, pulling a container from his pocket.

  Even as he said it, the spirit winds shifted and the rhythmic grunting of the men who were Ghosting was silenced. A coldness swept into the room along with a malevolent presence.

  Aisling turned away from the dealer to look at the Ghosters. Their fingers were locked around their swollen organs, forgotten. They were all sitting, focused on her though they had the dead, empty eyes of zombies.

  She heard a faint whispering, a command spoken on the spirit winds. Dull nothingness gave way to gleeful hatred in the men’s expressions, and the Ghost dealer quickly left the hearth.

  Instinctively Aisling grabbed the poker from the fireplace tool set. It wasn’t as good as a hoe or pitchfork, but it would serve as a weapon.

  “They mean to attack,” she said.

  Zurael was already positioning himself in front of her. The men didn’t bother with their trousers before closing in.

  Aisling stepped to the side even as the first one launched himself toward where she’d been. A second man attacked as Zurael tossed the first one across the room. The third and fourth were right behind him, and while Zurael dealt with them, the fifth leapt at Aisling.

  She swung the poker and hit his arm, but he kept coming, slamming her against the wall. His fingers locked around her neck.

  The thrust of the steel in her hand and her raised knee broke his hold. But her freedom lasted for only a second before he was on her again, his fingers a vise depriving her of air.

  Aisling was vaguely aware of the room filling with shouts as the bouncers rushed in. Zurael’s arm went around her assailant’s neck. His hand grabbed her assailant’s chin, and with a sickening crack he snapped the man’s neck before tossing him to the side.

  For an instant Aisling flashed back to the black mass and the bodies he’d casually discarded. Her gaze met his, but unlike that night, tonight Zurael’s eyes promised protection instead of retribution.

  “Put the poker down,” a bouncer said. He was one of three closing in on them, leading with batons Aisling knew were capable of delivering a shock large enough to render someone unconscious.

  She dropped the fireplace tool at her feet. “We were only defending ourselves.”

  The bouncer shrugged but didn’t turn away. He and his companions stopped several feet back. They lowered their weapons to their waists. Their bulk continued to trap Zurael and Aisling near the fireplace.

  Across the room additional bouncers hovered around the four remaining attackers. Two of the Ghosters were once again lost in pleasure. The other two were on their feet, dead-eyed, though Aisling sensed a different spirit presence hidden in them, beings who’d found a host and planned to remain in possession.

  Slowly the room filled with the powerful and privileged. The air grew heavy with anticipatory excitement just as it had right before the club locked its doors. Conversation faded to hushed expectancy, only to give way to a chant. “Vote! Vote! Vote!”

  The word traveled through the club with pulsing intensity. It brought more elegantly dressed men and women crowding in.

  When it reached a crescendo, the bouncer who’d pronounced Aisling gifted raised his baton. Silence descended.

  The bouncer pointed toward one of the men who was Ghosting, his hips jerking as his hand worked his penis. “In or out?”

  A feminine laugh answered. The woman dressed in red waved a hand and said, “His act has gotten old and boring. Out!”

  Those around her took up the chant. They were only silenced when the bouncer lifted his baton.

  The same routine followed for the second Ghosting man, and then for the two who stood like zombies. They were all voted out.

  When the bouncer pointed his baton at Zurael, the woman in red licked her lips and undressed him with her eyes. “What do you say? Will you play nice if we vote you in?”

  Aisling glanced up and shivered at the sight of Zurael’s liquid gold eyes. They burned with a hatred so deep it was impossible to miss his intent to kill anyone who tried to force his or her will on him.

  “I think not,” the man in red said. “Out!”

  The chant was taken up immediately. It rolled through the house and filled the air until it was silenced.

  When the baton was pointed at Aisling, the man in red said, “Having second thoughts, beautiful?”

  “But will she play or will she be as interesting as a stone?” his female companion asked.

  A stranger stepped forward. He waved his hand in the direction of the four men who’d used Ghost. “You’ll find it far more entertaining to vote her out with the others. She’s a shamaness.”

  “An interesting piece of information, Peter,” the man in red said.

  The woman in red smiled, but the flash of her teeth made Aisling think of a vicious dog. The mood of the crowd became more predatory. She said “Out!” and the others joined in.

  The bouncers grabbed the two Ghosting men by their arms. People shifted, jostled, parted to form a pathway out of the room. With horrifying clarity Aisling understood what it meant to be voted in or out, as the bouncers dragged the men toward the front door.

  Additional bouncers appeared carrying guns. “Out,” one of them said, pointing toward the two spirit-possessed men. The entities from the ghostlands w
ere only too happy to comply.

  Pure terror at the prospect of being outside after dark held Aisling frozen in place for an instant. Then she gathered her courage and picked up the discarded poker. She wouldn’t surrender this life without a fight.

  Zurael leaned down. His soft chuckle melted some of the icy fear trapped in her chest. He brushed his lips against her cheek. “Tonight I am your weapon.”

  A bouncer pointed a gun at them. “You two, out.”

  No one tried to take the poker from Aisling as she walked from the parlor to the front door. Heavily padded bouncers wearing helmets had dragged the men still Ghosting out into the middle of the street and were hurrying back to the club, while other bouncers stood on the porch, rifles ready in case of attack.

  Aisling’s breath came in fast, shallow pants as she stepped through the door and onto the porch. Despite Zurael’s confidence, his easy assurance he would serve as her weapon, her heart raced so fast she thought it might burst in her chest.

  Her hand tightened on the fireplace poker. She forced the terror down. If she was going to survive, she couldn’t afford to act in a blind panic.

  People gathered at the windows in the other Victorian houses as well as Sinners. Low-wattage spotlights illuminated the street. The scene made Aisling think of ancient Roman coliseums and the men and women whose fight for their lives served as a spectator sport.

  Her skin pricked. She felt the enjoyment of the strangers watching from the safety of the clubs. Beyond that, she sensed a feral hunger radiating from the dark alleyways between the Victorians.

  As soon as the heavily padded bouncers stepped back into Sinners, the armed men retreated. The door closed. The lock clicked into place. The low hum warned of additional safeguards.

  The street held the waiting silence of prey and predator examining their surroundings carefully before acting. One of the men in the middle of the street stirred and sat up. He looked around with the incomprehension of a sleeper waking in a strange place and wondering if he was still dreaming. When reality crashed down on him, he scrambled to his feet and took off running. The two spirit-possessed men followed him.

  None of them got farther than a house-length away before the werewolves emerged from a night-shrouded alleyway.

  Zurael fought the urge to take Aisling’s hand and cripple her ability to protect herself. His mind sorted through possibilities even as he cursed the angels who patrolled this world. He could shift into nothingness, but he couldn’t protect Aisling against this threat without a form. He could transport both of them to her house, but the rapid travel would alert the angels to his presence and lead them to him.

  Savage snarling drew Zurael’s attention to the man lying in the middle of the street, still lost to the spiritlands. Feral dogs prepared to claim the prize the werewolves ignored.

  They circled and gathered around the body. They lunged in to bite. The boldest growled as they gripped arms and legs in their jaws and pulled in a bloody tug-of-war.

  Zurael spared a glance at the windows crowed with spectators. The downed man held little interest for them. Most of the crowd watched as the werewolf pack toyed with the men who’d run, providing entertainment in exchange for the easy meal.

  He could sense other predators waiting in the dark alleyways between the clubs. For the moment Aisling was safe on the porch, but she wouldn’t remain that way for long.

  The wolves couldn’t kill him. Even the angels would probably try to capture him rather than destroy him if they came upon him. But Aisling . . .

  Zurael looked at her and felt a fierce pride in her courage. Her face was strained. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the poker, but she wasn’t cowering in fear, though he could smell it on her.

  The werewolves tired of playing with their food. The night filled with the sound of screaming.

  Zurael glanced up to witness the sick pleasure on the faces of the men and women safe inside the clubs, and decided on a course of action. He grabbed Aisling’s hand and led her from the porch. When they reached the pitch-black alleyway, he pulled her into the concealing darkness and stopped. “Trust me,” he said, taking the poker from her hand and tossing it aside.

  He could feel werewolves closing in on them. “Climb on my back.”

  Aisling didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around Zurael’s neck and her legs around his waist.

  In the street behind her there was a sudden silence followed by the growling, snarling sounds of a feeding frenzy. In front of her she could hear the rustle of predators.

  She gasped when Zurael’s wings emerged and slid along her sides in a sensual caress. In her mind’s eye she saw him as he’d been when she summoned him, black-taloned and black-winged, demonic.

  From somewhere in the darkness a beast launched itself at them. The hot spray of blood struck Aisling’s face and arms even as something gurgled and fell away.

  She tightened her grip on Zurael. His wings were stretched out. She had only a second to wonder how he would defend an attack from behind, before she felt the swing of a powerful tail inches below her buttocks and heard the crack of bones being broken. Another attack followed, and this time the blood struck her back and soaked into her shirt. She closed her eyes and pressed her face to Zurael’s neck.

  Zurael felt no satisfaction in killing the werewolves. He was coated in their blood, but rather than draw more of them to him, it began to act as a repellent. They started howling, announcing the presence of a demon.

  His lips curled in a fierce smile. Long ago, in an effort to make the Djinn bow down before the creatures of mud, the alien god created a single demon by cursing The Prince into a hideous image. In the millennia since then, the humans had followed the example of their god. They’d conjured up thousands of nightmare creatures, named them demon, and along with their wars and false prophets had given the Djinn a way to disappear from human memory.

  Zurael clung to the darkness as he carried Aisling away from Sinners. Behind and in front of him natural and supernatural predators alike scurried out of his way.

  As the adrenaline faded and he no longer feared an attack, he found it impossible to ignore the warm press of Aisling against his back. He was aroused, beyond aroused. Part of it was genetic instinct, the need to mate and ensure another generation after being in the presence of violence and death. The larger part of it was his fascination with her.

  He stopped a block away from her house. The moon was higher, the darkness less complete. He assessed the area for danger and found none. With a thought the wings, talons, and barbed tail faded.

  Aisling slid from his back without him saying anything. His body tightened in protest. He turned and took in the sight of her. She was pale, blood-covered, her eyes shadowed with emotions he couldn’t read.

  He took her hand and they hurried the remaining distance to her house. When they were safely inside, he followed her into the bathroom. Bloody clothes hit the floor an instant before she wrenched the shower curtain open.

  In those first few minutes, as red water swirled around their feet before disappearing down the drain, Zurael wasn’t sure she was aware of him. But when the water finally cleared, she looked up and met his eyes. Heated need flashed between them.

  The reasons he’d stepped away from her earlier flickered through his mind briefly and then were gone. His breath caught in his throat when she lathered her hands and touched his chest.

  His cock bobbed against his abdomen. Stretched upward as if it wanted to reach her fingers.

  “You saved my life,” she said, stroking across his nipples, then down his sides, driving the hunger higher with her caress.

  He placed his hand on her neck and wanted to kill her assailant all over again for the bruises left on her throat. Her pulse thundered against his palm. Her eyes darkened with desire as he followed the delicate line of her neck to her shoulder. She licked her lips when his other hand settled on her hip, mimicking the slow slick glide of her fingers on his sides.

 
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

  He knew she was right. He knew it didn’t matter.

  Her nipples were hard, tight points begging for his attention. She closed her eyes and arched her back when his fingers traced her collarbone, then slid down to circle a pale pink areola. He leaned in and captured its twin with his mouth.

  Lust spiked through him as her belly rubbed against his cock. His hand moved from her hip to her lower back. Now that he was touching her he couldn’t stop.

  Her sweet moans turned the shower into a sultry paradise. Her aroused scent made his penis weep and throb.

  Zurael wanted to bathe in her. To plunge into her wet, hot depths. He wanted to thrust in and out of her until she screamed his name and summoned the lava-hot release of his seed.

  He burned for her with the primal fire of the Djinn. It snaked through his veins in a roar that couldn’t be denied.

  Zurael forced himself away from her breast and turned off the water. There would be other times for taking her in the shower. This first time he wanted her underneath him.

  Aisling stepped from the shower stall. She toweled herself dry, though she could barely take her eyes off Zurael’s glistening body.

  He was hard muscle and easy strength, masculine promise and otherworldly sensuality. There were those who would burn her at the stake if they found out she’d lain with him. She didn’t care.

  She burned with the need to feel him against her, inside her. Longed to lose herself completely in the passion he promised.

  Later she would remember what happened at Sinners. Later the guilt would assault her. For now she wanted her only reality to be what she shared with him.

  She squeezed the water from her braid as best she could, then passed the towel to him. Watched as he rubbed it over his slick skin.

  His cock pulsed when her gaze lingered on it. His testicles were smooth globes, like a stallion’s.

  Aisling shivered as she imagined him covering her like a stallion mounts a mare. She turned her head slightly, flushed and aroused, already wet and parted for him—a willing participant in a seduction that might leave her damned.