Ghostland

by Jory Strong

  In theory, any abandoned property was up for grabs, belonged to whoever was willing to restore and defend it. Aisling doubted the reality here differed from the one in Stockton. There would always be the rich preying on the poor, the strong bullying the weak, demanding payment or tribute.

  Closer to the center of town, the reclaimed trucking depots and docks along the bay were guarded by men carrying machine guns, just as the waiting warehouses and the incoming boats were guarded, escorts standing ready to protect the cargo. At the outskirts of town, residents took their chances against human and supernatural predators alike.

  Aisling knew they were nearing The Mission when she saw the children along the banks, manning a long row of crude fishing poles. They wore rags, but they laughed and teased, played tag and threw a ball, stopped occasionally to check the lines or pull a struggling fish from the water.

  A wave of homesickness washed through her at the sight of them. The work of survival was different on the farm. But the joy of having food and shelter, family though few were related by blood, erased the sting of having been abandoned and chased the dark shadows of fear away.

  Determination and resolve returned to her in a rush. Regardless of what it cost her, she wouldn’t allow the future she’d seen in the spiritlands. She wouldn’t allow her family to be slaughtered.

  The laughter of the children slowly subsided as she and Zurael drew near. Some of them gathered in small groups to watch the two of them pass, while others turned their backs. Their expressions ran the gamut—fear, suspicion, weary indifference. Hope. Several started forward, only to be caught and pulled back by those near them.

  Next to her Zurael stiffened, as if unused to the attention of so many children, but Aisling didn’t have time to question him. Her attention was drawn to The Mission’s front door.

  A woman was hurrying away, leaving a toddler behind. The child screamed and cried, tried to follow, but its tiny wrist was tethered to an iron railing by a strip of cloth.

  Pain radiated through Aisling’s heart. A knot formed in her throat as she rushed forward. The front door opened just as she knelt in front of the devastated child.

  Aisling spared a glance, saw an older woman and a teenage girl, but concentrated her efforts on freeing the child from its tether. When it was done the teenage girl took up the abandoned toddler and disappeared inside.

  The older woman said, “That child won’t be free to adopt for a month, maybe longer. I like to give the parents a chance to change their minds.” Her attention was on the spot where the mother had disappeared from sight. She turned her head and looked at Aisling, then Zurael. “There are plenty of other children here in need of homes. You’ll need references, and there are fees to be paid. The ones to the government aren’t negotiable, but the ones to help keep The Mission going are. Proof of marriage is optional. Proof of residency isn’t.”

  “We aren’t here to adopt,” Aisling said, remembering the burlap sack she’d dropped in her haste to free the screaming toddler. She picked it up and offered it the woman. “I thought you could find a use for the material.”

  The woman took the bag, opened it and nodded. “Come inside then. I’ve got enough time to give you a quick tour. I’m Davida.”

  “I’m Aisling.”

  Davida’s glance sharpened when Aisling didn’t offer Zurael’s name and he didn’t introduce himself. But a slight shrug indicated it wasn’t important to her.

  “The Mission got its name before The Last War,” Davida said. “It was a homeless shelter originally, then later a drug rehabilitation center. During the war it was a church. At the start of the plague it was a place to bring the dying. Now it’s a place for the children. The guardsmen and police come this far, but they don’t go farther—into The Barrens—unless they’re hunting. Sometimes children find their way here from The Barrens. Sometimes parents bring them. But just as many come from the other direction, from people barely surviving on the work they can find in Oakland.”

  Inside the building it was hushed but not quiet. Girls of all ages worked at household chores, talking quietly among themselves.

  “We try to teach them what life skills we can,” Davida said, entering a room where girls and boys alike were sewing clothing and patchwork blankets. She opened the burlap sack and dumped its contents onto a table.

  Aisling said, “Keep the bag if you’ve got a use for it,” and it joined the pile.

  The next room was the nursery. They stopped beside a table where a teenage girl was in the process of changing the diaper of a newborn. “He was left at dusk last night,” Davida said.

  Aisling’s throat tightened painfully with thoughts of her abandonment on Geneva’s doorstep. It’d been at the edge of dark, just before the final check on the livestock and barring of the doors.

  There’d been others abandoned, before and after her, but none had been left in the moments before the predators claimed the night. Later, when Aisling’s supernatural gifts began to emerge, Geneva said she was relieved. Given the time of Aisling’s arrival on her doorstep, she’d feared Aisling would turn out to be a shapeshifter and put them all in mortal danger.

  Aisling reached out and took the infant’s tiny hand in hers. So small. So helpless. “Will you find a home for him?”

  “I don’t know. There are too many children. It’s a struggle to feed and clothe them. And ultimately, despite what moral training we provide, far too many of them return to the streets when they get older. They disappear into The Barrens and join gangs of lawbreakers, only to end up hunted by the guardsmen.

  “If only there were fewer children. I try to make sure the ones who are adopted, all of them, but the small ones in particular, go where they’ll be treated well and cared for. But it’s hard. There are days . . .”

  Davida sounded tired, defeated. She shrugged and turned away. “At least I don’t have to deal with the ones who aren’t normal. The police come for those.”

  A chill of horror spiked through Aisling. “What do you mean?”

  “Some of the children come to us damaged beyond our ability to cope with them. Brain damaged, physically damaged. Some are already more like wild animals than humans.”

  “Gifted?” Aisling asked, forcing the word out as she remembered how difficult some of those taken in by Geneva had been at first.

  “Is that what you call it?” Davida’s voice held a certain chill. “No, that’s one good thing I’ll say for those who’ve been cursed, they take care of their own.”

  “What do the police do with the children you send them?” Zurael asked, speaking for the first time.

  Davida spared him a glance. “I don’t ask.”

  The toddler abandoned minutes before their arrival was still screaming as they entered the next room. From the clothing, Aisling thought the child was most likely a little girl. She’d been set on the floor among wooden blocks and other children, but it was no consolation. A teenage boy and girl monitored the children while cleaning household items that looked as though they’d been salvaged from a long-abandoned home.

  An open doorway led to a small fenced yard. Colorful balls littered the lawn in front of a large sandbox where several young children played.

  Aziel stirred from his position on Aisling’s shoulder. His head lifted, and some of the children in the room squealed with the realization he was a live animal.

  Soft chirps and the direction of his gaze told Aisling he’d found something of interest in the small yard. When he would have slid from her shoulder, Davida’s frown warned it wasn’t acceptable.

  Aisling saw the instant Davida stiffened and could guess at the direction of her thoughts—that she was in the presence of one of the cursed and Aziel was a witch’s animal familiar.

  “What section of Oakland do you live in?” Davida asked, confirming Aisling’s suspicions.

  She tried to deflect Davida by saying, “I’m new to Oakland. Until a few days ago, when Father Ursu came to get me, I lived with my family in Stockton. D
oes the Church offer assistance?”

  “Occasionally.”

  Aisling breathed a sigh of relief when another woman stopped in the doorway and summoned Davida for a discussion.

  Aziel dug his claws into her shirt, reminding her of his interest in something outside. A quick glance at Davida and Aisling went into the play yard.

  The ferret wasted no time. He jumped from her shoulder and raced to the sandbox.

  Aisling followed, and as soon as she saw the crude sigils a tiny blond girl was drawing in the sand, she knew immediately what Aziel had wanted her to see. He didn’t resist when she scooped him up and placed him on her shoulder.

  The sight of the symbols brought a lump to Aisling’s throat. She pictured her youngest sister. She’d been about the same age as the child now studying Aziel intently when she’d begun scribbling similar sigils. Three years later, when she turned seven, it had become apparent she had a witch’s innate talent.

  Aisling knelt and casually smoothed the sand to erase the symbols. The braver children began petting Aziel, while the more timid hung back.

  If only she could get the little girl to Geneva. But even as she thought it and pictured the pouch of silver coins she’d gotten from Elena, Aisling knew it was impossible.

  Travel was expensive and dangerous. There were men and women who’d think nothing of taking her money then claiming afterward that the child had been accidentally killed en route.

  Aisling’s heart ached at the thought of leaving the little girl, of not being able to do anything immediately, or make any promises. But given Davida’s coolness toward the gifted, she didn’t dare say anything about the child. And even if she could produce the necessary paperwork, Aisling knew she was in no position to adopt the little girl. Her own future was uncertain, threatened, and though she refused to dwell on it and live in terror, she’d known when she agreed to the task in the spiritlands that it might lead to her death.

  Still, hope settled in Aisling’s heart. If what Davida said was true, and the gifted took care of their own, then she would find a home for the child if she had to visit every house in the area set aside for those with otherworldly talents.

  “What are your names?” Aisling asked, careful not to show a particular interest in any of the children though she tried to memorize every distinguishing feature of the undiscovered witch.

  Zurael crouched next to her, studying the children intently as one by one they gave their names. The little girl was Anya.

  Curiosity made Aisling turn to him and say, “You seem fascinated by them.”

  His eyes met hers and her breath caught at the burning fury in them. His arm made a sweeping gesture encompassing the children not only in the sandbox but in the building and manning the fishing poles along the water. “In the place I call home, the birth of a single child is call for a kingdom’s celebration. And here—it is wasted on those created of mud. Like the earth they walk on and the air they breathe, they aren’t worthy of what they’ve gained.”

  Davida appeared in the doorway before Aisling could think of anything to say. Rather than linger with the children and risk revealing her interest in Anya, Aisling rose to her feet.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Davida said. “Let me finish showing you around.”

  Workrooms followed. Then crowded dormitory rooms and a kitchen connected to a dining area.

  As they walked back to the front door, Aisling said, “In Stockton, lawbreakers are tattooed, but since coming to Oakland I’ve seen both a man and a woman branded with the sign of the cross. What are they guilty of?”

  Davida laughed. “Only of being devout in their faith. They belong to the Fellowship of the Sign. Its members have carved out a community in The Barrens, or beyond. Several I thought lost eventually found their way to God when they were taken in by the Fellowship. They come back to help occasionally. And when the number of adults in the community expands, they offer a home for some of the children.”

  “You’ve visited their community?” Aisling asked.

  “No. I’ve had to act on faith that I’m doing what’s right for the children.”

  They reached the front door and were ushered out.

  The worst of Zurael’s rage faded as they distanced themselves from The Mission. It cooled with the need to remain vigilant.

  “You did well in drawing her out,” he said as they passed the clusters of houses separated by remnants of destruction and nature’s reclaiming of the land.

  Aisling glanced up at him, her eyes troubled. “I didn’t ask about Ghost or whether people have gone missing in this area, too.”

  “I doubt Davida would have anything to offer about either. It’s better you left those questions unasked and didn’t alert her to your true interest in the Fellowship of the Sign.”

  “How are we going to find their community or get there without trusting Father Ursu or Elena?”

  Zurael chuckled. His hand curled around her arm and he stopped walking, turning her to him as he did. “Do you think the wings I’ve worn in your presence are useless except for show and defense? Do you think I’m limited to only the forms you’ve seen so far? If necessary we’ll search The Barrens and beyond.”

  “You can fly?” she asked, making him groan when her hand settled on his chest.

  “Of course, but first we’ll try to get a better idea of where to look for the Fellowship’s compound. And tonight, I will do a preliminary search of The Barrens.”

  Zurael covered her hand with his and tormented himself by guiding it beneath his shirt to a male nipple hardened by the desire that needed only a touch, a look from her to flare to life. He closed his eyes when she rubbed her palm over puckered, sensitive flesh. He knew he had no one to blame but himself for the throbbing ache in his cock and the fiery need coursing through his bloodstream.

  “Aisling.” It was warning and plea, curse and benediction.

  A soft feminine mouth pressed to his, shocking him, tempting him nearly beyond reason. He jerked away, stepped back. Only the deeply ingrained training that came with being his father’s son, a prince in the House of the Serpent, kept him from responding to her overture, from parting his lips, taking what she offered and returning it, sharing breath and spirit with her.

  She pulled away from him and resumed walking, but not before he saw the hurt in her eyes, the tremble of pain that spiked through her the same way it did him when he witnessed it. He wanted to grab her arm and haul her back into his, to finish what she’d unknowingly started, or if not, then to explain how dangerously he already cared for her.

  Zurael remembered too well standing in the Hall of History, then taking tea in the House of the Spider, unable to hide the lust she’d inspired in him from those he was with. Fear permeated every cell when he thought about an assassin from the House of the Scorpion being sent for Aisling after the tablet was reclaimed. He could keep her safe from the Djinn if Malahel and Iyar stood with him, if The Prince agreed. But if they knew how thoroughly she’d ensnared him . . .

  Zurael allowed her to put physical and emotional distance between them. It wouldn’t last. Just as he’d catch up to her once they reached the bus stop, the wall of hurt separating them would fall under the onslaught of passion as soon as they touched again.

  Aisling pulled the silence around her like a protective blanket. She willed herself to concentrate on the scenery she passed as she walked to the bus stop, on the tasks in front of her as she got onto the bus, anything but Zurael.

  How often had she told herself to deny the desire? To fight the attraction? It was a mistake to accept more than his protection and aid, to continue allowing him access to her body.

  For comfort she plucked Aziel from her shoulder and cuddled him against her chest. “As soon as we get back to the house, I’ll see what I can do about finding a place for Anya,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his soft fur before restoring him to his usual spot.

  She sighed in relief when the bus stopped in front of the library and
she escaped the close confinement. Zurael followed her into the building, seemed content to let her take the lead. But then this was her world, not his.

  Some of the tension eased from Aisling as she looked around. Surprise made her gape when she saw the row of computers against one wall, each one claimed by a citizen sitting on a stool.

  The entire space labeled “library” was hardly bigger than the shaman’s house she now called home. It held few books; those she could easily see were set aside in an area enclosed by short walls so children could be contained and kept away from the racks of magazines and newspapers.

  Aisling browsed the magazines on her way to the newspapers. Most were about cooking or construction, salvage and reclamation of the land, crafts and gardening, practical topics, though a few dealt with beauty and fashion, sports and the pleasures only the rich could afford.

  The newspapers were all local. Oakland. San Francisco. San Jose. There were editions going back several weeks. She spared a glance at Zurael. “Can you read them?”

  His expression became one of dark amusement. “Of course.” And despite the fact that he was the one who’d shunned her touch and sent pain crashing through her, he leaned forward and lightly scraped his fingernails against her neck in a subtle reminder of his talons. “I don’t spend all of my time lost in fantasies of retribution.”

  She looked away from him. Knew he wouldn’t miss the tight points of her nipples against her shirt. But she refused to let him see desire in her eyes. “We should start with the Oakland papers. I’ll take today’s.”

  Aisling didn’t wait for him to answer. She rummaged through the papers on a table and quickly found what she was looking for, then retreated to a chair away from the other patrons.

  Within minutes she felt chilled to the core at what she’d discovered. A touch to Zurael’s thigh and he leaned over to read the article about a body found in an area plagued with violence.

  Final Judgment For Another Sinner! the story caption proclaimed above a picture of a partially savaged man lying among rubble. A smaller insert showed the brands on his hands.