Ghostland (ghostland)

by Jory Strong

  Ghostland

  ( Ghostland )

  Jory Strong

  In a post-Apocalyptic world where supernaturals have emerged from hiding, wealthy humans delight in decadence while the religious gain power through temptation. For the masses, fear reigns from birth to death, and the afterlife holds beings that only the bravest can summon—or dare to desire…

  Taken from her home and family, shamaness Aisling McConaughey has no choice except to enter the “ghostlands” in order to learn the fate of a wealthy man’s mistress. But there is always a price to pay for the use of her power. To save the woman’s life she must summon the Djinn prince Zurael en Caym—and yield to his savage, sensual rage.

  Zurael fears nothing except being called and bound to a human’s will. He intends to kill Aisling after she’s served as bait to find an enemy in possession of an ancient tablet. But the more he tastes of her innocent spirit, the more he’ll use his fiery touch and seductive whispers to keep her hungry for his mercy—even as they weave an erotic spell that he cannot escape…

  Powerful forces threaten both their worlds, leaving Aisling and Zurael with an unbearable choice. Follow their hearts…or stay true to their honor and risk losing an eternity of pleasure.

  GHOSTLAND

  Jory Strong

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Without others, the dream Ghostland represents would never have been realized. Thanks to my parents, Neal and Joy Howard, and my husband, Paul, for their unfailing support and encouragement on the long, often-painful road from unpublished author to published one. Thanks to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg, for finding just the right home for Ghostland. Thanks to Cindy Hwang, for falling in love with the project and being enthusiastic about a sometimes-grim, post-apocalyptic world. And thanks to Sue-Ellen Gower, who has helped me and challenged me to become a better writer with each story I’ve crafted.

  CHAPTER 1

  FEAR rolled through the San Joaquin farmland with the rumble of a heavy truck. Children were called in from their chores and women abandoned their laundry without putting it on the lines. Heavy doors and barred windows were closed and locked as prayers were said to whatever gods might still linger in a world altered forever by war-born plague.

  A cold knot of dread formed in Aisling McConaughey’s stomach as she ran toward the farmhouse. Beyond it she could see some of the others slip into the barn, but she was too far away to make it there and into the well-concealed safe room.

  The front door opened. Aisling hurried past Geneva, the woman whose doorstep she’d been left on as an infant.

  She raced down the hallway and slipped into the storage closet, then into the small hiding space between it and the kitchen pantry. Her throat closed with dismay when she saw she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t made it to the barn. One of her youngest sisters sat with her knees hugged to her chest, her eyes dark with fear.

  Aisling scooped the girl up in her arms and claimed the spot on the floor. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered as she hugged the child. “They’re probably driving through to make sure the orchards are being taken care of properly. Maybe they’re bringing workers. You know the new mayor doesn’t let people stay in the city if they can’t earn their keep.”

  The floor in the safe room vibrated as the heavy truck drew closer. Since The Last War and the plague that ended it, only the rich or those on government business had been allowed access to fuel for their vehicles.

  Thin arms tightened around Aisling’s neck. “What if they want one of us?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet,” Aisling whispered, wanting to soothe her sister’s fears with a lie, but giving her the truth instead.

  After war and plague killed so much of Earth’s population, the supernaturals had emerged from hiding. In the decades since, territories had been carved out. Stockton and the surrounding farmlands were controlled by humans who feared vampires and shapeshifters as well as anyone gifted with supernatural abilities.

  The screech of brakes sent a fresh wave of fear rushing through Aisling. The pounding on the door, coupled by a man’s voice demanding entry, made her breath grow short.

  Shuffling footsteps marked Geneva’s slow progress toward compliance. Others, orphans without abilities to mark them as different, scrambled and rustled as they took up positions around the house so everything appeared normal.

  “Come in,” Geneva said, though the tread of boots telegraphed that their unwelcome visitors were already inside.

  Nausea radiated out from the tight knot in Aisling’s stomach as the house was searched. She closed her eyes and envisioned the room she shared with several other girls. Her chest tightened just as a voice called, “Captain. In here.”

  In her mind’s eye she followed the heavy footsteps into her bedroom and over to the dresser where the unfinished amulet rested.

  The captain’s next words sent ice sliding down her spine. “Where’s the shamaness?”

  Aisling knew then that they’d come for her. The amulet could belong to a witch or an artist. Many of the non-gifted humans hedged their bets by buying talismans and fetishes for protection. But for the guardsmen, the fox carved in abalone was confirmation of what they were looking for.

  She hugged her sister again, before extricating herself and moving to the small door that led to a closet seemingly packed with stored clothing. In the room above them the guardsman asked again, “Where’s the shamaness, old woman?”

  Aisling expected to hear the telltale click of a bullet being chambered or the sound of physical violence. For the rich and well connected, life was much different; freedom and equality were something they took for granted. But for the poor, especially those who didn’t own the land they worked, civil rights were something to be found in history books and dreams.

  She eased the hidden door open. Some of the tightness left her chest when she encountered nothing but darkness. There’d been only a cursory opening and closing of the closet door when the guardsmen searched the house. She suspected their actions were done for show, to intimidate rather than with the expectation of finding someone.

  In the hallway a different voice said, “Ms. McConaughey, we don’t want to harm you or any of those in your care. The Church is aware of your good work. Unfortunately, more is at stake here than a woman and her family of orphans. I have been directed to find a shamaness and take her to the Oakland diocese. My search has led me here, to your home. It would be best for everyone concerned if you cooperated.”

  Aisling closed the hidden door. She took a deep, steadying breath before slipping through the long raincoats and blankets hung to cover the entrance to the hiding place. Her fingers smoothed over the small leather fetish pouch she wore underneath her shirt. There was no choice but to surrender herself.

  The guardsmen could kill everyone here and claim they were eradicating disease or defending themselves. As long as the orchards and gardens and livestock weren’t destroyed, there would be no protest, no outrage.

  She stepped out into the hallway and climbed the stairs of the old wooden farmhouse. When she reached the top, the dark-robed figure of the priest turned. Their eyes met. His flashed with satisfaction and perhaps a hint of relief.

  He stepped forward, his body language conveying friendliness. She allowed her hand to be engulfed by his.

  Her palms were rough, her fingers callused against the baby-softness of the priest’s. Aisling forced herself to relax, to pretend she accepted his overture and didn’t view him with suspicion.

  “Your name?” the priest asked.

  “Aisling.”

  “Come,” the priest said. “Gather what’s necessary. Your services are needed.”

  “I’ll be able to return?”

  There was just the barest flicker of h
esitation before he said, “Of course, but I don’t know when. Clothing and food will be provided. There’s no need to pack either of those.”

  Fear tried to claw its way out of Aisling’s throat. Panic filled her at the idea of being without her larger fetishes, the ones that remained in the barn safe room except for those times when she traveled deep into the ghostlands and required them for protection.

  She couldn’t retrieve them, not with the police and the priest here. “I’m ready,” she said, unable to keep the shakiness from her voice.

  The priest frowned. Creased eyebrows telegraphed his worry. A small flower of hope blossomed in Aisling’s chest. He was knowledgeable. Perhaps her lack of stronger protections would make her appear weak to him, unsuitable for whatever task had led him to her.

  “You’ve got everything you need?” he asked. His eyes went to her neck and wrists, to the flat pockets of her working pants and the thin belt that was free of amulets and fetishes.

  “I’ve had no formal training as a shamaness,” Aisling said.

  It was the truth. What she knew, she had learned on her own or from the spirit guides who aided her.

  For the wealthy, or for those living in communities where supernatural gifts were embraced, there were apprenticeships to be had and formal education available. She hadn’t benefited from either.

  The priest closed his eyes, perhaps in prayer. Or perhaps he looked elsewhere for guidance, though the Church was prone to view such talents in the same way they viewed vampires and shapeshifters, as devil-born or devil-touched.

  Aisling’s hand closed into a fist. She willed herself to show no emotion. Even so, she felt herself tremble slightly as the small bud of hope was mercilessly crushed when he opened his eyes and said, “If you’re ready, then, we’ll leave. I want to be back at the diocese before nightfall.”

  Movement beyond the priest caught her attention. When she saw the black ferret with the golden eyes, a small ray of happiness penetrated the darkness of her fear at being taken away. Aziel meant to go with her or he wouldn’t have come out in the presence of these strangers.

  “You’ll need to take your pet,” Geneva said, her expression stoic. “I won’t have him here unattended and going after the chickens.”

  “Come, Aziel,” Aisling said, though it was unnecessary. The ferret was already scampering toward her. He made quick work of climbing up her clothing and draping himself around her neck in a living stole.

  “You’re sure you have everything you need?” the priest asked, his eyes drifting to the ferret briefly before returning to Aisling’s face.

  She nodded, afraid if she tried to speak the sudden lump in her throat would prevent it.

  The walk to the front door and beyond, to the heavy truck favored by police and guardsmen when traveling into the countryside, was a blur. Aisling focused inward. She tried to isolate herself from what was happening.

  Unconsciously she sought comfort. Her hand curled around Aziel’s luxurious tail and the ferret chirped softly.

  Only two guardsmen and the priest had gone into the house, but lounging around the truck were three men carrying machine guns. A fourth stood in the bed, leaning against a machine gun mounted there.

  The captain opened the back door and stepped aside; the priest waved Aisling forward. She resisted the urge to look back as she climbed in.

  She could feel the eyes of her family members watching her. She could imagine the fear that would cling to them even after the rumble of the truck faded.

  The truck doors slammed and the engine roared to life. The guardsmen took up positions on the bed.

  “Ready?” yelled the driver.

  One of the men in back pounded on the roof in a signal to go.

  The priest said nothing and soon they were on the highway. Signs marked the distance to Oakland, to San Francisco and beyond-to worlds both foreign and familiar to Aisling, places she’d never seen except in her imagination and in the books Geneva loved to collect and share.

  Fear faded and curiosity grew with each mile they traveled. Aziel repositioned himself to look out the window. Every now and then he chirruped as though he were a tour guide pointing out the various landmarks.

  “The ferret is unusual,” the priest said, breaking the long silence. “Do you consider him your familiar?”

  Aisling turned from the window to look at the man who’d taken her away from her home. He was older than she, with crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and a mouth that seemed ready to smile.

  “He’s a pet. I thought familiars were for witches and warlocks to claim. Do shamans have them, too?”

  The priest shook his head. “No, not that I’ve ever encountered.” He tentatively reached a hand toward the ferret, but Aziel turned quickly and hissed a warning.

  “He’s not friendly with strangers,” Aisling said. She didn’t want to make an enemy of someone who might prove to be an ally. “Why am I being taken to Oakland?”

  The priest tilted his head slightly to indicate the two men in the front seat of the truck. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter.” His gaze drifted to the ferret that once again had his paws on the window and was looking out. “Where did you get Aziel?”

  His continued interest troubled Aisling. She suspected he wouldn’t admit to possessing supernatural gifts, at least not to her, but she worried that he’d guessed Aziel was something more, even if she herself wasn’t sure exactly what her companion was.

  She didn’t think of Aziel as her familiar. If she were to label his role it would be spirit guardian. Perhaps a witch’s familiar acted in a similar manner. Unfortunately the few witches she knew about were secretive and coven-bound. They were not women to share a confidence with or to ask one of.

  When the priest didn’t turn away from her, she said, “I found him. I think he was hitching a ride with a trader’s caravan. Probably the chickens on the farm tempted him out of one of the vehicles. A day or so after they moved on, I discovered him.”

  The priest chuckled and let the topic drop. Aisling returned her attention to the rapidly approaching cityscape. “I don’t know much about Oakland and who rules it.”

  “At the moment it has a mayor and a board of supervisors. The Church is represented, as are various human groups. It’s safe enough during the day but the night belongs to the predators.”

  Goose bumps rose on Aisling’s arm and spread when they reached the city and were greeted by the burned-out buildings. After the plague had run its course and the supernaturals revealed their presence, anarchy had reigned for a while.

  The streets, especially in the big cities, filled with violence and fear, and with the raw need to survive in a place where shelter was plentiful but food and fuel scarce. Eventually the armed services and guardsmen brought order, but the cities were still scarred by their pasts. And though the United States still existed as a nation, it was not the same glorious nation it had once been-if the history books and stories were to be believed.

  It all happened well before she was born, and had seemed irrelevant to everyday life until now. She never expected to see any of the big cities. There was no reason to go there and no money to do so. Unless a person was rich or well connected or joined a merchant caravan, travel was expensive and dangerous.

  Aisling startled as the men in the back of the truck fired a quick burst from their machine guns. The priest said, “Nothing to worry about. Those are just warning shots.”

  She studied the scene in front of her: fallen buildings and shattered glass, abandoned automobiles and faded trash. Whether real or imagined, she suddenly felt watched. “Who lives here?” she whispered despite the impossibility of anyone outside the truck hearing her.

  “Malcontents. The insane. The unfit and outcast.”

  “Humans?”

  “For the most part, though I imagine it’s a hunting ground for the predators.”

  The blackened, destroyed section slowly gave way to areas where buildings were being reclaimed. Heavily
guarded warehouses stood next to abandoned ones. Run-down, darkened tenement houses stood next to buildings with iron bars silhouetted in soft yellow light.

  Landscaped medians and planted trees marked the point where poverty and struggle gave way to comfort, though the bars on the windows and doors remained. Armed police and guardsmen patrolled the streets. Men, women and children dressed in bright clothing hurried to get their business accomplished before the daylight faded.

  Aisling looked down at her own worn and work-stained clothes. She thought about the priest’s hesitation when she’d asked if she would be able to return home.

  Fear lodged in her chest and throat again as she wondered if she’d survive this city, this task that had brought armed men and a servant of the Church to the San Joaquin in order to retrieve her.

  Aziel turned from the window. His wet nose found her ear in a rooting, affectionate gesture conveying his belief everything would be okay.

  She smiled despite the turmoil of her emotions and the sight of the Church that loomed ahead when the truck turned onto a narrow street. They passed through a heavily guarded gate, then slowed to a stop.

  “Here we are,” the priest said. He smoothed the black material of his cassock as he glanced at the streaks of red marking the impending sunset.

  Opulence, wealth, pictures painted by masters who’d been dead hundreds of years before The Last War. Those were the impressions Aisling was left with as she was led through the hallways by a woman in a nun’s habit. “Now that I know your size, I’ll arrange for fresh clothing,” the nun said as she ushered Aisling into a small, comfortably furnished room. “Take a shower. There will be food waiting when you’re finished.” She glanced at the ferret with curiosity. “Do you need anything for your pet?”

  “A litter box.”

  The nun nodded and shut the door. A lock slid into place with a nearly silent click, trapping Aisling in a room with handwoven rugs and polished wooden floors, furniture that was pleasing to the eye as well as functional. It didn’t look like a prison, but even without the locked door, the unfamiliar city and lack of money or allies made it one.