by Jory Strong
“I overheard Bishop Routledge telling Luther you went into The Barrens and because of it the Church incurred a heavy debt to the guard. Were you looking for the man who sold Ghost to me the night I was taken from Sinners?”
“He’s dead,” Aisling said but didn’t reveal the Ghost seller’s connection to the Church, that the brands on his hands were given to him for consorting with demons. “Was Luther’s brother, Peter, at Sinners the night you were taken?”
Elena snorted. “You’ve met him?”
“No. I saw him there, the day you visited and hired me. Later I found out who he was.”
“Hypocritical zealot. He claims visiting the clubs is part of his job as deputy police chief and Church liaison. But it’s the only time I’ve ever seen his cock pressing against the front of his pants. He’s particularly fond of visiting rooms where the women are tied and gagged. I’ve met plenty of men like him. He believes women are inferior and weak, but at the same time sees them as seductresses who lead men astray.
“Peter despises me. He claims Luther will wind up in hell because of his affair with me—as if Luther hasn’t had plenty of other lovers besides that cold, religious bitch he’s married to. Peter would think it divine justice if I was sacrificed to the devil. But he wasn’t at Sinners the night I was Ghosting. And he hasn’t got the balls to act anyway. Peter never does any dirty work himself. He’s convinced Judgment Day is right around the corner and he doesn’t want to taint his soul.”
Aisling looked down at her own hands. She’d killed with them. And at her feet lay even more bodies. The burden of their deaths weighed heavily on her.
Death drapes you like a billowing cloak, Raisa had said as she stared at the tea leaves. It writhes at your feet and twines around you like a nest of serpents, so your touch becomes its harbinger.
Yet as Aisling remembered those who’d come for Felipe and Ilka in the ghostlands, she realized she didn’t fear for her soul as she once had. The ability to rive spirit from flesh might be her terrifying and unwanted demon birthright, but if those she touched were claimed by dark places that could be labeled hell, it was a result of the choices they’d made in their lives.
The car entered into the red zone. They drove through an area containing sex shops and brothels where prostitutes lounged naked behind windows. They passed the street where the row of Victorians lined either side, then began traveling along a wall that stretched for so many blocks Aisling lost count of them.
“This is The Maze,” Elena said. “There are cameras set up all through it, with feeds to some of the betting clubs. Convicted criminals are offered a chance to run it in order to escape a tattoo or death sentence. Others run it for money.”
Aisling’s hand went to her amulet pouch. “What’s in The Maze?”
Elena shrugged. “I don’t know. I imagine it depends on what can be captured or purchased. I’ve never been there or to the betting clubs connected to it. Gambling on blood sports doesn’t appeal to me.”
The car slowed to a stop in front of a house set well apart and secluded from its neighbors. “I want you to meet an acquaintance,” Elena said.
“Who?”
“Does it matter? I hired you and so far I’ve gotten nothing for my money.”
The chauffeur opened the door and Elena slid out. She scowled impatiently at Aisling, began worrying her rings and bracelets again.
“Would you prefer to return the silver coins and the paper money I gave you? I’m perfectly capable of taking the matter to court.”
Aisling shivered. Her stomach knotted with tension. She understood the game Elena was playing, but she had no choice but to participate.
Uneasiness settled on her as she left the car. Her spirits were lifted only a little bit by the warm breeze that swirled around her, smelling of the desert.
Elena didn’t knock when she reached the front door. She stepped inside, seemed to care only about whether or not Aisling was following her.
The furniture was functional, the walls left bare. The sound of their footsteps traveled in front of them down the hallway. At the end of it a heavy door was propped open.
Warm air flowed past Aisling’s arms. Elena stepped through the doorway first. Aisling followed.
A flash of red was the only warning Aisling had of a trap snapping shut. She saw the statuette from Javier’s shop just as arterial spray from Elena’s throat jetted onto the tile flooring and Javier began chanting.
Before Aisling could react, Javier’s assistant was behind her with a knife, the blood-slick blade pressed to Aisling’s neck preventing speech or movement.
Horror, regret, an agony of love pounded through Aisling as Zurael shimmered into sight, a band of sigils forming like a collar around his neck.
He struggled, naked except for flowing, nearly transparent trousers. His face contorted and his throat worked as if he screamed, though no sound emerged.
The chanting didn’t stop until Zurael stood motionless, covered in sweat, muscles rippling and breath short. His eyes burned with the same terrible rage and hatred she’d seen the night she summoned him.
“A crude way of binding a demon by your standards, beautiful Aisling, but effective,” Javier said.
She opened her mouth only to have the knife’s blade draw blood. Javier shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to speak until I’m certain we understand one another. Aubrey will kill you if you struggle or attempt to summon help. I’m hopeful it won’t come to that. As I said during our all too brief lunch, I believe we can be very good together. And I’m content to share nothing more than a working relationship with you. In fact, at some point in the future, I’ll even be willing to let you have your lover back.”
Aisling forced her body to relax. She willed her heart to slow. Fought the panic that too easily scattered her thoughts.
She became aware of the fetish pouch hidden under her shirt. It felt as though icy shards pierced the soft leather and burrowed into her skin.
The crystal amulet representing the being she now thought was her father grew heavy, making her remember the day she’d found it, when Aziel named her most powerful protector and told her he wasn’t bound by the spiritlands. She could call upon him with a thought and pay whatever price he demanded—except Zurael was helpless and he’d already named her father his enemy.
As the cold radiating from the crystal filled Aisling’s chest, clarity came and brought hope. She thought of the horrifying birthright she’d gained when she forced Felipe and Ilka into the spiritlands, and the beginnings of a plan formed.
Her mind calmed. She saw Aubrey’s arm, held high to keep the knife in its deadly position, a tanned limb covered in silken metaphysical strands of gray.
It would only take a touch. A thought. But despite the knife in Aubrey’s hand, she wasn’t the greatest threat. Aisling met Zurael’s eyes and saw the helpless rage in them, knew that with a command, he would become Javier’s weapon against her.
She exhaled on a shaky sigh, and Javier nodded. “I believe you can ease up just a bit, Aubrey. At the moment we have more than enough blood for our purposes.”
Aubrey relaxed her grip. Blood trickled down Aisling’s neck, her own and Elena’s.
Javier glanced down at the circle around him, then over at where Elena lay in a pool of blood, the jets of her arterial spray having triggered and powered a larger circle, the one used to trap Zurael until he was bound.
“It’s quite ironic, really. The Church—operating under the erroneous assumption they own me and therefore I can’t possibly have anything to do with the dramatic increase in black magic ceremonies—whispered in my ear that I should make it known there’d be financial compensation if the mayor’s little Jezebel ended up as a sacrificial lamb on a certain night.” Javier chuckled. “Their plan was clever in some ways. Dear Luther coughed up the money to have you brought to Oakland, so their interest in you wasn’t obvious. Father Ursu was probably beside himself with joy when he caught a glimpse of your aura. I
did warn you about his special talent. No doubt he was expecting it to be a waste of time, but people with your gift, and who might be considered disposable, aren’t that easy to come by.
“And Elena? I hope you don’t feel sorry for her, Aisling. Raisa spotted her leaving your house the other day and unwittingly told me about it, thinking it harmless gossip. It piqued my curiosity, as you can imagine.
“Elena was never really interested in learning why she was taken from Sinners. It took all of three minutes in her presence to figure out she wanted to make a deal with whoever was creating Ghost, form a partnership where she offered the services of her captive shamaness for guided tours into the spiritlands. It took another minute to convince her you’d figured out how to make Ghost. And by our fifth moment together, I’d sold her on the idea that you could be persuaded to cooperate if she only brought you here.
“It’s a shame I can’t risk letting you speak, Aisling. Unlike the vast majority of magic practitioners, I’m not in love with the sound of my own voice. But perhaps we’ll break the monologue up a bit by letting your demon talk. I’m curious. Beyond curious actually. I’m fascinated. And envious.”
Javier stepped to the boundary of the small protective circle he was in. His hands slid from the folds of his black robe. One of them was wrapped with white strips of cloth, dotted where blood had seeped through.
“Where to begin?” he asked, steepling his hands so the fingertips rested on his lips. “A name would be appropriate. I don’t need it with this particular entrapment spell, but I know just how much demons hate giving up their names.”
He touched a band of sigils circling his wrist. The forms were the same as those around Zurael’s neck. “Give me your name.”
Aisling ached as she watched Zurael fight the command. Sweat beaded on his temples, rolled down his cheeks and made her aware of the tears on her own face. What tiny bit of hope she’d held that he might be stronger than the spell binding him faded when he said, “Zurael en Caym.”
“An interesting name. I have volumes upon volumes of texts naming demons, and yours doesn’t resemble any of them. What type of entity are you?”
Zurael struggled against answering. The night Aisling called his name on the spirit winds, he’d seethed and raged, known true terror for the first time in his life. He would have killed her without a second thought. But now he realized how gentle her summons was, how much of his own will he’d retained compared to the compulsion of Javier’s spell.
He fought to remain silent. But the answer formed over and over, looped through his mind, growing louder and louder.
Javier grew impatient and asked a second time. Then a third.
Zurael became disassociated from his physical self. He became a spectator, watching as his lips parted and the words left his mouth. “I am Djinn.”
His eyes met Aisling’s and his heart wept at the sight of her tears, the guilt and anguish he read in her face.
Javier’s eyebrows drew together. “The word is vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve run across it.” He shrugged and tilted his head to the side. “Time enough to explore it later. What I’m interested in seeing is your true demon form. By all accounts you made quick work slaughtering my students. And then there are rumors Aisling was ejected from Sinners along with her companion—you, I suppose—which would explain the werewolf carcasses and the fact she lived through the experience. Show me what you look like.”
Because he was in his truest form, Zurael felt no compulsion to change. But he took on the demon image, hoped to be able to use the sharp talons and deadly tail to free Aisling.
If she broke the larger circle, the one containing him, it might free him from the entrapment spell. And freed, he could kill Javier without the fear of becoming ifrit.
“Impressive,” Javier said. “Can the Djinn take possession of a human body?”
“No,” Zurael said, conserving his strength by not forcing Javier to repeat the question for a second and third time.
“Too bad. I’m curious. How did Aisling summon you?”
Zurael fought against answering this. He didn’t want to reveal anything about her. But in the end he couldn’t prevent himself from betraying her. “She called my name on the spirit winds.”
“How is that possible?”
She is deeply connected to the ghostlands. She was born of them and can call the spirit winds at will.
Malahel en Raum’s words rang in Zurael’s mind. They grew louder and louder, until, with a third repetition of the question, he couldn’t contain them any longer.
Excitement lit Javier’s eyes. He hesitated only a second before leaving the small protective circle he was in and going to a table draped with a black cloth. He leaned down and pulled a wire cage from underneath, where it had been hidden by the dark material.
Aisling gasped despite the blade pressed to her throat. A fresh wave of fury swallowed Zurael at the sight of her pet, his fur matted with blood, one front paw tucked against his chest, unable to bear weight.
Javier lifted his bandaged hand and made a show of studying it. “Strangely enough, Aisling, despite an amazing collection of witches’ shadow books, not a single healing potion or spell has worked on the wounds I sustained capturing your ferret. I hadn’t intended to leave your house in such a state of destruction, but it hardly matters. You’ll be moving in with me. Think of it as a get acquainted period as we begin working together.”
He retrieved a gunlike weapon from underneath the table. Zurael didn’t immediately recognize it, but Aisling’s whimper of distress transmitted her horror and anguish at the sight of it.
Javier pressed the end of the barrel against the open mesh of the cage and pulled the trigger. A dart connected to thin wire struck Aziel. He jerked, cried, convulsed as electric charges pulsed into him until Javier released the trigger, leaving Aziel lying on his side, still except for his rapid breathing.
A fury unlike any Zurael had ever known filled him. He fought the entrapment spell until he was panting as hard as Aziel.
Blood poured from Aisling’s neck where she’d tried to get to her pet. Javier shook his head. “This won’t do at all.”
He made a show of adjusting the settings on the gun. “If you force me to pull the trigger, Aisling, it will most likely kill your pet. Do not speak unless I specifically ask you a question. Do not move unless I tell you to.”
Javier glanced at his assistant. “Aubrey, go ahead and release her.” Aubrey stepped away from Aisling, keeping the knife in front of her as if she felt vulnerable without her hostage. Zurael would have struck willingly, but wasn’t given a choice. Javier said, “Kill Aubrey,” and he did in a quick slash of tail and talons.
It was the instant Aisling should have rushed toward Javier and touched him before he could command Zurael to stop her—but she couldn’t do it. Love for Aziel held her in place and the opportunity was lost in a spray of blood and crack of bone.
“I hate to waste a promising and very willing student,” Javier said, “but I’m afraid that given the circumstances it was unavoidable. Students can learn too much. Now then, Zurael, I want you to take Aubrey’s position behind Aisling. There’s no need for you to bother with a knife. Your talons against her jugular should be sufficient.”
It took three commands. But in the end Zurael complied.
Familiar heat swamped her as he held her back to his chest. The sharp tips of his nails pressed to her throat and she shivered with real fear—as she had the first time she’d felt them on her skin—and not the erotic fear she’d experienced since then.
“Make her bleed,” Javier said, not bothering to pause before issuing the command twice more to force Zurael into obedience.
Aisling stiffened. Tears flowed freely down her face as sharp talons dug into her, sending rivulets of blood trailing down her neck.
“That’s enough,” Javier said, apparently satisfied that despite having once belonged to her, Zurael was now completely under his command.
Javier used his bandaged hand to pull the black sheet off what Aisling thought was a table, but now saw was an altar. A clay tablet lay on top of it, next to a rectangular urn placed on its side.
She could feel shock ripple through Zurael. She could feel him fighting to release her, and though she couldn’t be positive, she thought it was the sight of the tablet that caused his reaction, and not the urn.
Javier stood the urn up. It was covered in sigils. He pulled a stopper out and set it on the altar. “I’ll admit, I haven’t had much success in confining demons. For most of us they’re extremely dangerous to summon in the first place, much less order into a containment vessel. And then of course, there’s the risk of offending whatever demon lord they call master. But given Zurael’s apparent devotion to you . . . well, I’m feeling good about my chances of being successful. Bring her closer.”
Aisling barely glanced at the altar. Her attention went to Aziel.
Fresh blood was smeared across the metal floor of the cage. His breathing had steadied, but his eyes remained closed.
She wanted to weep at the sight of him. Instead she curled her hands into fists, readied herself to act when the chance presented itself.
“I’m almost embarrassed to share this with you, Aisling,” Javier said. “And I suspect your skills, perhaps coupled with the application of Ghost, will make me feel as though I’ve wasted years of my life—and quite a few of my students’ lives—trying to gather all the missing pieces of this tablet and translate it into something useful.
“Lately I’ve been so sure that a little tweak here, an educated guess there, and the incantation would work. Unfortunately all I’ve ended up with are empty bodies and, more recently, slaughtered students who brought me unwelcome attention from their wealthy families.”
Aisling glanced at the tablet. It was old, broken, still missing small sections. An empty shape at the bottom captured her attention. Her thoughts flashed to Tamara’s dead lover, his hand inches away from a flat piece of stone with writing etched on it, its shape the same as the one in front of her.