Ghostland (ghostland)

by Jory Strong

  Zurael turned and captured her hands in one of his, saw need in her eyes, a vulnerable tenderness that made his heart and soul weep. “Aisling,” he whispered, pulling her to him, enjoying the press of her breasts against his chest, the way she trembled in reaction to the desire between them.

  He held her, ran his hands over her as he kissed her neck, her shoulders, her ears. He built the fire between them until she was clinging to him, then turned her, put her on her knees and urged her to lean over, to grasp the edge of the tub.

  She spread her thighs willingly, and the sight of her parted folds nearly distracted him from his purpose. Thoughts of pushing through wet lower lips, of being gripped by the tight muscles of her sheath, made him take himself in hand to stop from moving closer and impaling her with his cock.

  He tightened his fingers, let a hint of pain clear the lust so he could concentrate on preparing the way to even greater pleasure. She pressed backward when he palmed her buttock, but when he grazed the rosette of her back entrance she tried to escape his touch, whispered, “no,” as she’d done other times, the word lacking resolve.

  “Yes,” he said, moving closer, sliding his penis between her thighs, coating it with the arousal he found there as he rubbed over her swollen labia and clit.

  She whimpered in response, tried to cant her hips so he’d find her hot opening. His hands on her buttocks kept her from doing it; his thumbs exploring the crevice between the silky cheeks reinforced his intention to take her there.

  When she was shivering with need, he reached for the light blue bead he’d kept her from selecting earlier. It crushed easily between his fingers. The lubricating oil warmed immediately, tingled briefly as it penetrated skin in search of nerve endings.

  Aisling jerked when he applied it to the tight pucker of her anus. She tensed, but within seconds she was panting lightly, responding to his commands as he stretched and prepared her, tempted her with the press of his cock head against her opening.

  Lust flooded Aisling. Colors exploded on the insides of her eyelids.

  Her cunt clenched and her skin slickened with sweat as she pressed backward, and took him into her forbidden entrance as slowly as she’d taken him into her mouth.

  His tortured breathing echoed her own. His words of praise and husky pleas filled her with the desire to please him.

  She moaned when he was all the way in, felt as though every nerve ending called his name, demanded she move, pull away from him-but not so far he would escape.

  Pain and pleasure blended into indescribable ecstasy as she yielded to dark cravings. And he rewarded her with guttural cries and the hot wash of seed, with shuddering release.

  They bathed again, sharing the soap generated by the last of the beads. And as he’d done once before, he used demon heat to speed the drying process as he brushed her hair and then his own before they left the bathroom.

  Aisling pulled the sheet back, prepared to slide beneath it. He stilled her with a hand to her wrist, a carnal reminder. “You disobeyed me earlier. I told you not to touch me.”

  Dark lust and erotic fear chased away the deep contentedness, the desire to cuddle and sleep.

  She licked her lips. It was a provocative reminder of just how she’d disobeyed him, by taking him in her mouth. It was a subtle challenge for him to deliver the punishment he’d promised.

  Molten eyes darkened, narrowed. Before she could do more than gasp, razor-sharp talons slashed the sheet she was holding, left only a long strip of fabric between fingers that shook slightly.

  He released her wrist and took the cloth from her hand. “Get on the bed, Aisling.”

  The command in his voice, the knowledge of what he intended, made her shiver and ache, gave birth to a hidden fantasy as she did as he ordered. His face tightened as he read her desire, scented the arousal rushing to coat her inner thighs, her flushed folds.

  Aisling was acutely aware of the cool sheet against her heated skin as he bound her wrists and secured them to the bedpost. It was a symbolic admission of how helpless she was against him. A gesture forcing her to admit how much she liked having him above her, straddling her so his rigid cock and heavy testicles rubbed against her abdomen as he looked down at her with possessiveness in his eyes.

  “Zurael,” she whispered, unable to think past his name, past the masculine satisfaction edged with desire she saw in his face.

  She cried out when he lowered his head and took a nipple between his lips, tortured her as she’d tortured him-with teasing swirls and licks, light touches when she craved the fierce suction of his mouth.

  He tormented her until she writhed and thrashed and pleaded. And then he kissed downward, pinned her splayed thighs to the bed with ruthless hands, pleasured her with his mouth and tongue-taking her to the edge of release over and over again-but didn’t let her come until he thrust his cock into her channel and made her scream.

  CHAPTER 10

  AISLING woke to incredible warmth and feelings of profound security. The first was reality, the second illusion, though she didn’t try to banish it. Instead she allowed herself to savor the heat of Zurael’s skin as he held her in his arms, his hand cupping her breast, his chest against her back. She allowed herself to linger in a fantasy where she was safe, loved. Complete in a way she hadn’t known she could be until he was in her life.

  An ache formed in her chest. Her heart and mind warned her of the foolishness of weaving images of the future with him in it. And yet her labia grew slick and parted as memories of the night rushed in-the carnal pleasure he’d shown her and the things she’d allowed him to do to her.

  A shiver went through her. She snuggled more deeply into Zurael’s sleeping embrace, welcomed the feel of the erection pressed against her buttocks. She understood dominance and submission, accepted it as the natural order of things when it came to the domesticated animals she’d grown up tending or the wild ones she’d observed. But when it came to humans, gifted and normal alike, she’d always equated it with weak and strong, with loss of power and the helplessness of being at another’s mercy.

  Zurael had shown her differently. But in the process he’d peeled away some of her protective armor, made her crave something she might not ever find with another man-with a human.

  Her world had always been insular, limited but made safer by those limits. There’d been Aziel, her family, the people Geneva trusted. There’d been long days of physical work. Evenings spent reading or exploring the spiritlands with Aziel.

  Sometimes there were dreams of having a home, a husband, children, of living in a place where she wasn’t feared, hated, looked at with suspicion and hostility. But more often there were nightmares of militiamen driving them from the farm. And underneath dreams and nightmares alike was a simple reality she greeted each morning: She had little control over her future, so she needed to make the most of each day.

  Masculine lips against her shoulder pulled Aisling from her musings. She moaned when Zurael’s hand left her breast and slid downward over her abdomen, before slipping between thighs she parted willingly for him.

  “You’re remembering the night,” he said, his voice husky with satisfaction as his fingers bathed in her arousal, then went to her stiffened clit.

  “Yes,” she whispered, need for him rising to a flash point with his touch, his attention.

  Words Zurael had never spoken to any female fought to escape as Aisling pressed against him in subtle offering and sweet submission. He wanted to demand that she acknowledge his dominance, wanted to hear her say she belonged to him in all ways and always would.

  The very strength of his desire to possess her so thoroughly revealed how dangerous she was to him, had his heart and his mind urging him to erect an emotional barrier.

  There was no future with her. He couldn’t remain in her world. She couldn’t enter his.

  Fear sliced through him like an angel’s icy sword. He had yet to ensure she would be safe from the Djinn.

  “Aisling,” he said, de
sperate to keep her safe. Unable to fight the feelings she engendered in him, the need that was more than physical, though he knew only the physical could be satisfied.

  She edged upward, whispered his name as her hot, wet cunt lips kissed the tip of his penis. He shuddered and let her engulf him in the fiery heat of her tight channel, gave up the uncertainty of the future in favor of the ecstasy to be found in the present.

  AFTERWARD they showered and dressed. Aisling went to the kitchen, and Zurael found himself once again lounging in the doorway, watching her as she prepared their breakfast.

  Her movements were smooth, assured, pleasing in a way that surprised him. Until Aisling, he’d never given much thought to the effort behind the meals served him. They were prepared by servants, served by servants, the remains taken away by servants, all at his command.

  Even by the standards of the poorest Djinn, the meals Aisling made were meager, and yet… His chest filled with emotions he didn’t want to identify as he watched her combine the leftovers of the previous night with what she had available. He knew he’d prefer a meal made by her hands to the most extravagant feast presented to him by servants.

  Aziel joined them for the meal. He chirped and chattered in between bites, then stood on his hind legs and stared into Aisling’s face when the plate she’d placed on the chair seat was clean.

  Her laughter made Zurael smile. The simple joy she took in teasing the ferret about becoming fat and lazy as she slid the last bite of food from her plate to his, made Zurael want to take her into his arms and press his lips to hers in a joining of souls.

  “Do you know what he says?” Zurael asked, his curiosity about Aisling’s pet renewed.

  She hesitated slightly. “Only in the spiritlands. And only if he chooses it.”

  “He was there the night you summoned me.”

  “Yes. Sometimes he goes with me.” She stood and gathered their dishes, her unbound hair becoming a curtain hiding her face from him.

  He let the conversation drop, not wanting to admit to her that he no longer felt even an ember of the fury and rage he’d experienced when she’d whispered his name on the spirit winds and commanded his presence. Not wanting to admit he trusted her as no Djinn should ever trust a human.

  Zurael followed her into the kitchen and stopped behind her as she washed the plates and silverware. Her body vibrated subtly against his, telling him without words how much she craved the physical contact.

  She moaned when he cupped her breasts, whispered his name as he stroked and pet her, nuzzled the silky fineness of her hair and luxuriated in the feel of it against his chest.

  He wanted to undo his pants and let the golden beauty of her hair cascade over his cock. He wanted to once again see it spread across the bed, interwoven with the raven black of his.

  “We need to go to The Mission and the library,” she said when the last dish was drying in the rack next to the sink. But she didn’t move from his arms.

  His cock pulsed in protest. His hands lingered at her waist. Images of pushing her pants down and bending her over the counter, as he thrust through gold satin and found heated ecstasy, invaded his thoughts-warred with images of urging her to her knees, of thrusting into her mouth as her hair wound around his legs and pooled at his feet like sunshine.

  “I know,” he said, forcing himself to step away from her.

  A final shiver slid through Aisling. Somehow she managed to leave the kitchen instead of begging Zurael to touch her again.

  Her vulva was swollen, the folds slick, but she knew the day needed to be faced and the task of finding the ones responsible for Ghost and the human sacrifices resumed. She went into the bedroom and gathered all of Henri’s clothes. She returned to the kitchen only long enough to stuff them into a burlap bag, then went to the workroom and did the same with the clothes Zurael had stripped from her attacker.

  “You’re taking them to The Mission?” Zurael guessed from the doorway.

  “Yes.” At home nothing was wasted. Cloth was salvaged and reused until it eventually disintegrated.

  He took the sack from her as she passed him, and the gesture made heat flare in her heart. Aziel waited at the front door. At her nod he climbed up to drape across her shoulders.

  A quick touch to her front pockets confirmed that the bus pass and folded money were there. The sudden dampness of her palms revealed her nervousness about leaving the house after coming back to it and being attacked.

  Zurael’s hand cupped her cheek and forced her gaze to his. Heat flared again in her chest, not the hot burn of lust but something deeper, something that would leave a gaping, charred opening when he was gone from her life.

  His thumb brushed across her mouth. “Trust me to protect you.”

  “I do.”

  It was several blocks to the bus stop. As they walked, Aisling could feel the eyes of her neighbors. Watching. Speculating. She wondered what Raisa had told them, if any of them had witnessed her assailant letting himself into the house, if they’d also taken note he never left it.

  The bus was old, a belching shell of salvaged metal and parts. The woman driver squinted when she noticed Aziel. “Keep him under control or I’ll put you off,” she said as Aisling ran the card Father Ursu had given her through the slot twice, worried as she did so that he’d get a record of it and know she didn’t travel alone.

  They walked past cages full of squawking chickens to claim vacant seats at the back of the bus. A dog barked from the arms of an elderly woman. A young boy turned, talked excitedly to his mother and pointed to Aziel while the other passengers averted their eyes.

  It was a long trip to The Mission, not because of the distance but because of the number of stops the bus made. They traveled past the church, past the library, skirted the edges of places where the wealthy lived, before entering a section where the poorest of the poor lived.

  The bus stopped. Its driver announced they were at the route’s end point.

  Only Aisling and Zurael remained. As soon as they were clear of the doors, the bus drove away.

  Few signposts stood. Aisling was thankful The Mission’s location appeared on the map Father Ursu had given her. Without a word, Zurael passed her the sack of clothing so both of his hands would be free. They began walking toward the bay, then along its edges.

  Houses huddled together in clusters, like tiny outposts of civilization reclaimed from the horror of the past. Rubble, burned-out buildings and cars, blackened remains, all crawling with heavy vines, separated one group of salvaged buildings from the next.

  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 watc
h 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.