by Jory Strong
“Why have you come to greet me, John Rousseau?” she asked, repeating the sentence she’d met him with.
“How boring. I’d hoped we could spend some time together.” He cupped the front of his pants. “Not that I’d risk eternal torment and damnation by actually fucking you. But even a dead man can fantasize.” His eyes traveled over her again. “Oh yes, a man can certainly fantasize, which I intend to do. Until we meet again,” he said, his voice lost in a swirl of gray as he was reclaimed by the ghostlands.
Aisling rubbed her arms, conscious of the stares of the men who remained against a Sinners backdrop. She closed her eyes, willed the scene away and felt the spirit winds caress her naked flesh.
Relief filled her when she opened her eyes and found unending grayness. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, more conscious of her lack of clothing in the spiritlands than she’d been for a long time, and unnerved by it.
A small man dressed in a brown suit stepped into view. His expression remained somber, his demeanor respectful. His gaze remained fixed on her face as he approached.
He was a figure out of one of Geneva’s history books, a man wearing a bowler hat—a derby from the 18 and 1900s—a time well before The Last War. His manner suggested a man with a task to perform. And though she’d never seen him before, Aisling wasn’t surprised when he doffed his hat to reveal the sigil she’d used in asking for aid.
“I am Marcus. How may I serve you?”
Aisling removed the ring from her finger and offered it to him. “The man who gave this to his lover was named Christopher Alan Cooper by his parents. I want to know if his spirit passed through this land or can be found lingering here.”
Marcus took the ring. His hands were as delicate as a woman’s and it fit easily on the same small finger Aisling had worn it on.
He closed his eyes and Aisling wondered if perhaps a part of him searched the ghostlands, or if he simply spoke with the being whose sigil she’d drawn. When he opened his eyes, he said, “For the answer to your question, you’ll owe a shaman’s task, one not meant to be either difficult or dangerous.”
“I accept.”
Marcus rotated his wrist. Inside the derby hat a new sigil replaced the one he’d first revealed. “The bearer of this mark will call upon you for your service.”
Aisling memorized the symbol, then nodded. He placed the hat on his head. “Follow me.”
As always, time and distance were immeasurable, meaningless. Phantom hands, tendrils of hot and cold, glanced over her bare flesh as they walked. Nothingness gave way to building-lined streets, to a bridge separating two cities and a distant skyline that was now home.
“This is San Francisco,” Aisling said.
“An illusion of it, yes.”
She looked around, absorbed everything she could, so if she ever found herself in the city across the bay, she’d know something of it. They continued walking along streets lined with shops. It took Aisling a block to notice how thoroughly those offering ordinary services and products were integrated with those operated by humans with supernatural gifts.
A small Italian bakery stood next to a palm reader. An apothecary shared a painted mural front with a witch’s candle and herb shop.
“Do the people mingle freely as well?” Aisling asked her guide as they passed a grocery store. Its front was a large window of glass, an open invitation for burglary and theft.
“For the most part.” Marcus stopped in front of an occult shop. It was the last one on the block and close enough to the bay that Aisling could hear the phantom lap of water against the docks and shore.
He pointed out a symbol etched in the glass next to the door. A serpent held an apple in its mouth. From a point behind its head to just before the tip of its tail, the three segments of its S-shaped body were impaled by an arrow. “This is the mark of the ruling vampire family here.”
Aisling noticed that the other shops also bore the symbol. “They own these businesses?”
Marcus shrugged. “In some cases, perhaps. In most, those who do own them have paid for protection with money or services rendered. San Francisco is a deadly place to cause offense in, as the man you’ve asked about discovered.”
The door opened easily enough to reveal a pale corpse lying amid chaos. The twin puncture marks of a vampire’s fangs in his throat revealed the cause of his death. The transparent nature of the form told Aisling it wasn’t Christopher Alan Cooper’s spirit but an illusion provided for her benefit.
“He died here?”
“Yes.”
She studied the scene more closely and realized the illusionary doorway Marcus had opened led to an interior room in the shop, an office instead of a place where merchandise was displayed.
A flat stone with unfamiliar text engraved on it was close to Christopher’s hand. But it might easily have ended up on the floor during his struggle with the vampire who’d discovered him trespassing.
Or maybe Tamara’s lover hadn’t come as a thief at all. Maybe there’d been a disagreement or he’d failed to live up to a bargain he’d made.
“What did he do to offend?” Aisling asked. “What brought about his death?”
Marcus removed the ring from his finger. In the dim light of the shop it was dull and cheap. “For a shaman’s service yet to be performed you’ve been given fair value and then some. Would you add to your debt for additional answers?”
“No,” Aisling said, taking the ring and letting the spirit winds cast her from the ghostlands.
TAMARA’S face was tight with fear and her arms wrapped protectively around her swollen belly. Her gaze darted nervously to a point behind Aisling, and Aisling knew what she would find there.
Heat, the exotic scent of Zurael. Aisling turned her head and saw him crouched behind her. He was a portrait of deadly power, his attention focused solely on her, his eyes promising retribution for some sin he’d judged her guilty of.
With the swipe of her hand, Aisling erased the circle with its protections and the sigil she’d used to summon a spirit guide. Against her palm the ring felt cold.
She opened her fist and offered it to Tamara. “I’m sorry,” Aisling said, her tone imparting the news.
Tears welled up, emphasizing the bruised look in Tamara’s eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how?” Tamara whispered. “Where?”
“San Francisco.”
Tamara’s face grew paler. “Vampires?”
When Aisling nodded, Tamara drew a deep, shuddering breath but held her tears inside. She took the offered ring and exchanged it for the promised amulet before rising unsteadily to her feet. “I’ll let you out of the garden now, before someone in my family comes to check up on me.”
Aisling looked at the sky and frowned with dismay at how much of the day she’d lost in the ghostlands, where an hour could pass in a minute, or a minute could be stretched to a painful eternity. Zurael shackled her upper arm with his hand, burned her with heat similar to what she’d experienced when he’d accompanied her in serpent form to the spiritlands.
A small hiss escaped when she tried to pull out of his grasp as they walked. In front of her, Tamara shivered and hastened her steps.
They exited in the same place they’d entered. But when Aisling turned, wanting to offer a word of comfort for Tamara’s loss, she was met by a wall of thorns and poison oak.
“You risked yourself unnecessarily,” Zurael said. There was purring menace in his voice as he pulled her against him and cupped her face with his free hand, forced her to meet the molten gold of his gaze.
Aisling wet her lips, nervous, unexpectedly excited at the same time when she felt his cock respond, pulse against her belly as his face tightened with lust. She shivered at the need he could generate in her with a look, a touch, tried to remember why she should fight it.
“I did what I had to do,” she whispered. “For my family. The amulet was worth the risk. It was worth an even greater risk than the
one I took.”
She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t even sure how to kill a demon, or if they could be killed.
“I did what I had to do,” she repeated, lifting her chin, speaking the truth she was coming to dread. “You won’t always be here to protect me from harm.”
A dark thought passed through his eyes, there and gone, instantly replaced by fierce possessiveness, but not before Aisling’s heart spiked with fear. His grip on her tightened, and the heat between them built as though it would reduce their clothes to ash so flesh could touch, meld, turn two beings into one living flame.
“For the moment, I am here. There’s no escape from this spider’s web for either of us,” Zurael said as thick waves of lust pounded through him, urged him to press his lips to hers, to thrust his tongue into the wet, heated depths of her mouth in preparation for stripping them of their clothing and taking her.
She made him forget his obligations, his home. She tangled him deeper in strands of desire and passion, until the thought of being separated from her became a painful agony. Only the programming of a lifetime, the horror of being discovered in the spiritlands and made ifrit, had kept him from joining her in the circle, coiling around her arm in serpent form and going with her as he had before.
Her nipples were hard points against his chest. He could feel the tiny tremors running through her, the electric combination of fear mixed with arousal.
Intoxicating. Mesmerizing.
He tried to remember a female of his own race who’d affected him as Aisling did, but couldn’t. Instead images from the tapestries on the walls in the House of the Spider flickered through his thoughts, carnal scenes of humans, Djinn and angels.
His cock ached and he found himself leaning forward, lost in blue eyes, drawn by wet, parted lips. Their breaths mingled. Honey gold and desert spice filled his lungs, drove the air out in sharp pants.
Her whimper was music to his ears. Her lowered eyelashes a submission he feasted on.
She was so fragile, so delicate, so utterly desirable he forgot how dangerous she was to him. Their lips were nearly touching when some tiny part of his brain overrode the needs of the flesh, reminded him that to kiss her was to deepen his physical enslavement as thoroughly as if an incantation had been used to secure him to a hollow vessel.
A shudder ripped through him as he forced himself away from her, turned aside so she couldn’t see what it cost him, how he still struggled with the need to finish what he’d begun. And though separating was his doing, his choice, the desire to prove to her she wanted him flared hot and white in his chest when she immediately put more distance between them, as if it were she who wanted to escape the entanglement of their souls and not him.
“How much of what I’ve learned from Father Ursu and Tamara did you hear?” Aisling asked, somehow managing thought with a mind hazy with desire, a body tormented by lust-abraded nerves crying for intimate contact.
“All of it,” Zurael said, acknowledging his ability to follow her unseen.
Aisling slipped the amulet necklace over her head and tucked it underneath her shirt. She glanced at the sky again. “When I left the house, I intended to go to the occult shop Raisa mentioned. There’s still time to get there and return home before it’s dusk.”
“A good plan,” he said and started walking.
Aisling didn’t immediately hurry to catch up with him. He confused her, one minute darkly possessive, lust blazing in his eyes, the next pushing her away, his features remote, tight, as though he were angry at her for his lust.
Desire pooled in her belly. Her cunt lips were swollen, parted, open for him, despite her knowing it would be wiser to keep her distance. Tears threatened to escape, and she told herself their appearance was because of the need pulsing through her with no hope of being satisfied, and not because his actions hurt her.
Her hand shook slightly as she curled it around the hidden pouch containing her most powerful fetishes and drew comfort from the tiny carved figures. Zurael’s footsteps slowed subtly to allow her to catch up, to walk at his side. Resolve stiffened her spine, and when she reached him she repeated the question he had yet to fully answer. “Why do you stay here if you no longer intend to kill me for summoning you?”
He stopped and turned, cupped her face again. She shivered when she felt sharp, deadly talons brush lightly over the skin of her neck. “Because I am hunting and my prey will be drawn to you.”
“I’m bait?” Aisling whispered, feeling the sting of tears return with the thunder of her heart.
Amber gold darkened with unfathomable emotion. Zurael leaned in. He touched his cheek to hers as his free hand went to her side and pulled her against him so she felt the rigid length of his erection.
“At your summons I killed those who intended to make a human sacrifice. By my own choice I will kill any others who follow that same path. Your search for whoever is responsible for Ghost, and mine for the guiding hand behind the dark masses, are tangled strands in the same spider’s web. There is no escape for either of us.”
His tongue caressed her earlobe and sent a jolt of icy-hot desire straight to her clit, caused her to grind against his hardened cock. She felt his shudder of pleasure. When he released her and stepped away, she read his intention to have her again when they returned to the house. Her body rejoiced even as her heart and mind argued against it.
Eight
AISLING was worried by the time they arrived at the occult shop. It’d taken far longer than she’d anticipated and would take them even longer to return home.
The shadows were deep in places and the area felt deserted. The abandoned buildings and rubble remains of war-torn streets were already being reclaimed by wild creatures as well as supernatural ones.
Eyes glowed from dark hollows and disappeared in a blink. The wind brought whispered voices, but whether they belonged to her imagination or some fey beings, she didn’t know and wouldn’t risk discovering.
There were other buildings, their doors shut and barred, their interiors darkened. The occult shop stood alone, apart, an inscribed circle painted in red on the concrete sidewalk surrounding it.
The sigils were traditional, simple, so common Aisling thought perhaps they were done for show, for those humans without inherent magic, rather than with the true intention of keeping spectral beings out.
“Can you cross the circle?” she asked.
Her question was greeted with an amused chuckle. “Yes,” Zurael said, proving it by stepping forward and pushing the door open, holding it for her to pass through.
A woman looked up just as a crystal embedded in the forehead of a primitive statuette behind the counter flared red and stayed that way for a long moment before going dark. “Cool,” she said, tugging at a ring pierced through her eyebrow, then rubbing her palm over a shaved, almond-colored head. “That’s never happened before. I’ll have to tell Javier.”
“He’s not here?” Zurael asked.
“No,” she answered, sparing him a quick glance before asking Aisling, “So what are you? You’re not a witch or a sorceress. We get plenty of them in here and the crystal’s never reacted.”
“A shamaness.”
Aisling didn’t know what to think of the woman’s claim that the crystal had reacted to her presence. She moved closer, studied the crude figurine. It reminded her of the artifacts she’d seen in Geneva’s books on ancient history, of something unearthed long ago and created millennia before then, in what was once called the Holy Lands, though in the end those same lands became the birthplace of The Last War.
“You’re the one who has Henri’s house now?” the woman said, drawing Aisling’s attention away from the primitive statuette.
“Yes.”
“I’m Aubrey, Javier’s assistant and apprentice. Shop’s open for a few minutes more. Since you’re new to Oakland, here are the rules. Cash only. If you want to trade services, you have to wait until Javier’s around to negotiate. Candles and supplies are for sale. The books ar
en’t unless there’s already a duplicate made up.”
She lifted a hand holding a pen. “If you want a book you can pay to have us copy the entire thing; sometimes we do it by hand, other times we do it on a copy machine. You can also buy copies of a page or more. Price varies depending on the book. You take your chances if you try to memorize the information and leave with it. If we catch you copying it yourself, you get a warning the first time; after that you’re banned.”
The pen tilted to point out a collection of books in a glass case at the end of the counter. “Those come out one at a time and have to be looked at right there. They’re spelled and you don’t want to know what’ll happen if you try to leave with one of them.” Aubrey glanced down at the counter, to a page she was copying by hand. “I need to get a little more of this done, otherwise I’d give you a tour of the books. Ask if you have questions.”
Aisling nodded and began exploring. Zurael did the same.
The shop was larger than it had looked from the front, but laid out in a way so whoever was tending it could keep an eye on any visitor. Candles, pentagram jewelry, fetishes, herbs, wands, caldrons and athames—all were available and with plenty to choose from. But it was the sheer number of books on magic and witchcraft that left Aisling both awed and wary.
An entire wall contained a library of handwritten spell journals, individual Book of Shadows that no living witch would have willingly parted with, much less shared for a price or allowed to be copied by someone she didn’t know or trust. Most were old, probably salvaged from homes where entire families had been lost to plague and war.
Aisling turned away from them, saddened by the loss they represented. She joined Zurael at the glassed bookcase and immediately understood the stiffness of his posture, the menace she read in him when their eyes met. Among the texts there were books filled with demon names and rituals for summoning and commanding them, as well as books on Satanism and performing black magic.
A chill slid up Aisling’s spine at the sight of them. “How can you offer these?” she asked, her voice holding the horror and disbelief she felt.