Ghostland

by Jory Strong

  They ordered and Raisa went inside the shop. She returned long enough to bring them their tea service before retreating again. Aisling struggled to find the best way to pose her questions.

  Javier leaned forward to ask his own. “Aubrey said you mentioned Ghost. You’ve encountered it?”

  “Yes,” Aisling said, knowing she’d have to give up some information if she hoped to gain any.

  His lips curved in a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll admit to trying it. Once. I’ll also admit to being extremely grateful I survived the experience. But I’m sure you understand Ghost better than I and have greater reason to fear it.”

  Aisling parsed through his words, considered the possible meanings. His tone was conversational but his eyes were intent.

  “Do you know where it comes from?” she finally asked.

  “No, and I suspect it would be very dangerous to get too close to its source, either in this realm or another. The power necessary to create a substance like Ghost, one that allows untalented humans such easy and ready access to the supernatural realms . . .” He gave a dramatic shudder. “I can only imagine what kind of entities are behind its creation.”

  His words rang with truth, enough of it that Aisling felt some of the tension leave her. Raisa appeared with their food and left again.

  Aisling studied Javier while they ate. She couldn’t be sure, but she believed whatever disguising glamour he’d been cloaked in had disappeared as they passed through the wards guarding Raisa’s establishment. She thought she was seeing him as he truly was—physically at least. He was attractive, deeply tanned as Zurael was. But where Zurael was a muscled predator with a long mane of hair, Javier was lean, his scalp shaved and free of stubble.

  “I find you very attractive,” Javier murmured, as if reading her thoughts about his appearance. “I think you’d find we have a great deal in common if you’d spend some time with me. And I’m very interested in your work.”

  She looked down, not wanting to encourage him.

  “You asked about Ghost,” Javier said, filling the silence. “I’m curious, understandable given the wide range of books I’ve acquired over the years. Under the right circumstances, could you summon a lingering spirit and require it to possess the physical shell left empty by someone foolish enough to Ghost?”

  Images of both Elena and Nicholas—the sigils painted on them—rose like an icy tidal wave. And this time some of the ancestral memories were freed from Aisling’s subconscious.

  Her skin crawled as she realized the nature of what the dark priests, or perhaps more accurately, the dark sorcerers, were trying to accomplish. They weren’t making an offering to a Satan-like god. They weren’t making a human sacrifice to feed a spell or gain power. They’d been trying to trap a demon in human flesh, where its strength might be limited though its knowledge would be vast. No wonder Zurael hunted the one guiding them in their pursuits.

  Javier’s hand captured hers, forcing her eyes to his. “I’ve shocked you with my question. And now you’re wondering if I have something to do with the sudden rise in sacrificial victims. A reasonable question, one the police ask me almost every time they find a body these days.”

  He grimaced and leaned forward, offering a confidence. “What they seem to forget, though I’m sure they’re aware of it—or at least those in power are—is that I spent a great deal of my childhood in the tender care of the Church. The Church itself helped arrange for me to open my store. What better way to monitor how far the non-gifted humans are straying than to know what sinful reading material interests them?”

  Javier brushed his fingers over Aisling’s knuckles. But where Zurael’s touch sent liquid hunger through her, Javier’s deepened the chill spreading with every heartbeat.

  If he’d thought to deflect her suspicion, he hadn’t. He’d solidified it instead.

  She’d wondered if the Church played a role in Elena’s abduction when she found the connection between it and the branded man who’d sold Ghost to Elena and taken her from Sinners. And now Aisling had another link, this one between the Church and a man whose store was visited by humans without supernatural abilities. Men like Anthony Tiernan, the dark priest Zurael killed. Men like the son of Nicholas’s wealthy client, the pretend sorcerer Irial killed.

  Aisling escaped Javier’s grip when Raisa returned to take away their empty plates and offer dessert. “None for me,” she said through frozen lips, fumbling as she pulled the folded money from her pocket and counted out what she thought she owed.

  It was an effort for Aisling to control her desire to escape Javier’s presence and hurry home. She scanned the area past the wrought-iron boundary of the tearoom for Aziel, for Zurael—and found neither.

  Javier followed Aisling’s lead and paid for his lunch, too. Raisa lingered as if hoping for an invitation to sit or read the tea leaves. When one didn’t come, she walked away slowly.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you with my confession, Aisling,” Javier said, “but apparently I have and I’m sorry for that.” A small smile curved his lips. “I shared a little known fact, my connection to the Church, with you, because I hoped to put you at ease, to show you we share a certain dangerous predicament in that we share an undesirable connection with the Church, one we have to handle with great care given their financial and political resources.”

  Aisling forced calm into her limbs. She forced herself to meet his gaze. His nearly black irises made her think of the soul-stealing entities that could be found in the spiritlands. And in a moment of clarity she realized this was the true trap, the one she’d expected to be waiting for her when she went searching for Nicholas.

  “I don’t trust the Church,” she admitted, willing to draw Javier out, to delay the moment when she had to leave the tearoom, because now the walk home seemed far more treacherous.

  “You’re smart not to trust them,” Javier said, relaxing, seeming to accept that he’d managed to reduce her fear. “They have their own agendas, one of which is to find Ghost, I think. I can’t imagine they’re thrilled with the prospect of having its use spread through the wealthy classes. No telling what voices those in power might start hearing, and what Church whispers might no longer be heard because of them.”

  Aisling nodded, encouraging him to continue. She believed Annalise Wainwright’s vision was true and the Church had sent the vampire’s shaman to his death trying to find Ghost. She suspected Henri had lost his life for the same reason.

  Javier’s reasoning was in keeping with what she knew of those whose lives had moved beyond the daily struggle for survival—but she would find it equally believable that he was behind the creation of Ghost.

  He leaned forward and said, “I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer. It’s a hazard that comes with owning the shop. Not all the guardsmen serve only the city or the Church. Some of them are in the pocket of wealthy and powerful families who’ve recently lost loved ones in magic ceremonies gone wrong. They’re looking for someone to blame and I make a wonderful target.

  “I wasn’t lying earlier when I said I find you attractive, Aisling. I think we could be very good together.” Javier reached out to stroke her cheek, but even for answers she couldn’t bear his caress.

  She jerked back. His eyes flashed, narrowed, then slowly filled with speculation. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Does the demon who accompanied you to my shop serve you so willingly, kill for you so willingly, because you’ve enslaved him with sex, perhaps even love, Aisling? It’s a dangerous game to play with a demon. I wonder if you’re equally ensnared.”

  Aisling did her best to hide the alarm she felt. She refused to acknowledge his reference to Zurael.

  Javier smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Gaining access to your special gifts interests me far more than access to your body. I’m content to share nothing more than a working relationship with you.”

  His absolute confidence unnerved her. Every instinct shouted that she was in the presence of the man who’d orchestrated
the dark ceremonies—the man Zurael hunted.

  Aisling doubted Javier would admit his guilt, but she pushed anyway. “I won’t work with you. Those who practice black magic and attempt to gain power by human sacrifice are damned to dark, horror-filled places in the spiritlands.”

  Javier’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you saying you fear for your soul? I rather imagine there’s a place in hell for you already, at the side of your demon lover.”

  He opened his jacket. From a deep inside pocket he retrieved the figurine that had been behind the counter of his shop. His thumb stroked the red crystal set in its forehead. “My assistant mistakenly thought this reacted to your presence. I didn’t disabuse her of the notion. It’s an old artifact, predating much of civilization.

  “Before The Last War it spent centuries in the hands of various private collectors, all of whom gained possession of it through illegal means. I believe it was originally relegated to a storage room in a museum after being found by archaeologists, though it disappeared shortly thereafter and was sold on the black market.

  “If there are a handful of these statuettes still in existence, I’d be shocked. I’d be equally shocked if even a handful of people would recognize it and understand its true purpose.

  “You’ve no doubt guessed, but I’ll tell you anyway. Humans—gifted and non-gifted alike—have always called upon otherworldly beings. Angels, gods, demons, devils—name them what you will, through ritual sacrifice, ceremony or rite, prayer and incantation, we’ve tried to enlist their aid, compel their aid.”

  Javier’s eyes glittered. His thumb again stroked the darkened gem in the figurine’s forehead. “This particular statuette was used by priests. It served to warn them whenever malevolent spirits were present, beings the Church would label demons. Imagine my surprise when despite the wards protecting my shop against such entities, it flared when you entered the shop accompanied by one of them walking around in daylight in human form.”

  He placed the figurine on the table between them. “Do you know what happens to those found guilty of consorting with demons? They’re branded, and regardless of gender they become fair game, though women suffer far more than men do. After all, if someone is willing to lie with a demon, then how can they protest sex with a human, willing or not?”

  His smile became predatory. “I think you understand now why I’m so confident we will be working together. The Church won’t protect you. You’re every bit as disposable to them as Henri was. In fact, you’re something of a liability to them. Here’s another little known fact. As I mentioned when we sat down for lunch, I spent a great deal of my childhood in the tender care of the Church, much of it with Father Ursu, who saw the dark nature of my soul—read my aura and the strength of my inherent gifts—then tried to scrub it clean.”

  Aisling’s stomach knotted. She remembered Father Ursu closing his eyes in the hallway of the farmhouse as if he looked elsewhere to ensure she was the one he should take to Oakland. She thought about his interest in Aziel and wondered if he’d seen a demon’s aura.

  If her suspicions were right about the Church being behind Elena’s abduction, and if the vampires were right about the Church being afraid to openly go after whoever was responsible for Ghost—had they used her, knowing, hoping, she’d summon a demon if she found Elena in time to keep her from being sacrificed? Was it a test to see if she could be used to do something they couldn’t? And if she succeeded, would she be branded, put to death for consorting with demons, for carrying a demon taint?

  Javier stood abruptly, jerking Aisling from her private horror. He captured her face between his hands before she could evade him. “I need to be on my way now, but I’ll be in touch soon. Give what I’ve said some thought, Aisling. I’m sure you’ll see the benefits of us joining forces. Imagine what could be gained if even a handful of the wealthy and powerful lost their souls to Ghost—or permanently for that matter—while their bodies housed entities you and I could command.”

  His hands dropped away from her face. He picked up the figurine. “Just a friendly warning, if you truly care for your demon lover, don’t send him after me. I’m well protected.”

  Javier turned and left the patio area. When he stepped beyond the wrought-iron fence marking the tearoom boundaries, he glanced down at the figurine as if checking it for the presence of a demon, then hurried away.

  Aisling shuddered. Icy fear coursed through her, propelled by the fast beat of her heart.

  “Did you have a nice visit?” Raisa asked, startling her.

  “Yes,” Aisling said, and somehow she managed to sound calm underneath the birdlike-scrutiny of Raisa’s dark eyes.

  Aisling stood. “The lunch was wonderful, as was the tea. Thank you.”

  Raisa nodded but didn’t reach for the dishes on the tables. The silence hung between them, demanding to be filled with confidences, but Aisling wasn’t tempted. She said good-bye and left.

  Nervousness trailed her as she hurried toward home. Despite having seen the guardsmen earlier, Aisling worried about what might be waiting for her in the alleyways more than she worried about being out in the open.

  Her thoughts raced. Lunch with Javier played itself over and over again in her mind.

  There was no sign of Aziel. She couldn’t help but think he’d somehow sensed the figurine in Javier’s possession. He’d known the crystal would flare in his presence and confirm her suspicions about his demon origins.

  Worry for Zurael knotted Aisling’s stomach. She couldn’t hide from him what she’d learned. And when she told him, he would hunt Javier.

  She turned the corner and stopped at the sight of a car parked in front of her house. It was black, its windows tinted. From a distance she couldn’t determine if it belonged to the Church or if it was the one Elena had arrived in.

  Indecision held her motionless. The lack of safe places to go kept her from simply turning and running.

  The driver’s door opened. A man emerged from the car as though he stepped out of the pages of one of Geneva’s history books. He wore a brown suit with a matching derby hat—just as Marcus had in the spiritlands when she’d gone looking for Tamara’s lover.

  Aisling knew in a heartbeat he’d come to collect the ghostland debt. And strangely enough, the thought of it calmed her.

  The man took his hat off and nodded respectfully when she reached him. “I’m Marcus, sent to fetch you, miss.”

  He caught her surprise and smiled as he placed the hat back on his head. “The Master calls us all Marcus, after a favored servant when he was a boy. Says it’s easier all the way around. Any other name and we’ve outlived our usefulness to him and know it.”

  Marcus patted his vest pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “You’ll want to see this before getting into the car with a stranger.”

  Aisling took the paper from him and opened it. She found what she’d expected, a single sigil, the same one the Marcus she’d encountered in the ghostlands had shown her inside his bowler hat.

  “Do we need to leave now?” she asked. There was no sign of Aziel, and Zurael wasn’t back from his search of The Barrens.

  Marcus tugged on a gold watch fob. An old timepiece dropped to his hand. He looked down at it. “We’ve got a few minutes—just—before we have to be on our way. Don’t worry about meals. Cook will serve you. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to drive you home until after sunrise tomorrow.”

  Aisling glanced at her front door, remembered her promise to send Aziel in before going in herself. “I’ll need clothes. And to leave a note. Would you mind going inside with me?”

  Marcus pocketed the watch. All affability left his face. “There’s been trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I must insist on going in first to make sure it’s safe. The Master would be displeased if something happened to you. Not that I would countenance it either, miss.”

  He reached under the car seat. Aisling half-expected him to pull out a Prohibition-era tommy gun. Instead h
e retrieved a wooden truncheon.

  Marcus slipped the rope loop at one end over his wrist, then tapped the palm of his hand with the billy club before nodding, apparently finding the weapon satisfactory. He followed her to the front door and waited while she unlocked the doors, but then insisted she remain on the stoop while he went inside.

  A few minutes later he emerged and held the door open for her. A tug to the watch fob brought the timepiece out of his pocket again. “I’m afraid we’re going to be cutting it close if we don’t leave quickly.”

  Aisling hurried to her bedroom to gather a change of clothes and something to sleep in. Marcus cleared his throat. “The Master won’t expect you to be dressed on par with a coming-out party. He understands you’ve only recently arrived in Oakland. But you might want to pack your best for the appointment tonight.”

  “Thank you, Marcus.”

  “My pleasure, miss.”

  Aisling packed her clothes, then went to the kitchen to search the drawers for the tablet of paper she thought she’d seen there. It was underneath frayed dish towels and yellowed from age.

  A pencil was there, too, its tip broken. She used a knife to sharpen it.

  There was so much to tell Zuarel, none of which she wanted to leave in writing. She hesitated, pencil point on the paper, and asked, “Where are we going?”

  Marcus shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say. You’re leaving a note for someone you care about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then assure them your physical safety is guaranteed. As my counterpart said when he struck this deal with you, tonight’s work involves a shaman’s task not meant to be difficult or dangerous. You understand we can’t offer assurance when it comes to the use of your gift. But to the best of our ability we’ll see no harm comes to you.”

  Aisling nodded her understanding and acceptance. She had to settle for telling Zurael she was paying a debt incurred and would see him in the morning.

  Only when they got to the Bay Bridge and San Francisco loomed ahead of them did her nervousness return like a gust of icy wind. Suddenly references to the Master took on chilly meaning, as did the clothing Marcus wore—clothes centuries upon centuries out of style.