Aisling walked him to the door and lingered until he got in the chauffeured car and was taken away. Along the street, other cars were parking to dislodge passengers or pulling away from the curb to whisk clients out of the area set aside for those with controversial abilities.
Despite the bars, she saw that most of the houses on the street had parted curtains and opened windows or doors, as though the residents in this part of the city didn’t fear what might enter in the daytime. Aisling leaned against the doorjamb and closed her eyes. Instantly the image of Zurael’s blood-covered body and burning eyes filled her mind, his whispered threat sent a shiver of fear straight to her heart.
There were wards carved in the wood around the door and windows of the shaman’s house, but she couldn’t be certain they would protect her from the demon she’d summoned. “Let me be safe,” she whispered, lifting her face so the sun could caress it.
She willed herself to find the strength to face whatever was to come, to have the courage to meet her fate. Aziel had given her the name Zurael as he’d given her many other names.
She hadn’t lied when she told the priest the ferret appeared shortly after a trader’s caravan visited the farm. What she hadn’t told him was that before the ferret there’d been a crow, and before the crow there’d been a snake, and before the snake, a cat-and they were all Aziel.
Aisling opened her eyes and left the doorway in favor of exploring.
The house was longer than it was wide. The living room and kitchen were a single space separated by a counter. To the right of the front door was another room. Foreboding filled Aisling when she stepped into it and saw the fetishes. They were perched in places where their strengths could be drawn upon. They were positioned to guard and watch.
On a workbench against the wall, stone and crystal lay with shapes unfinished, their creation interrupted. The tools needed to turn rock into something more lay scattered next to them.
A bed of dirt was in the center of the room. It was a poor man’s doorway into the ghostlands, so reminiscent of the barn floor where she had started so many journeys that a wave of homesickness assailed her.
Aisling wiped tears from her eyes and turned away, retreating to the living room and kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink, their surfaces dusty. The refrigerator held a carton of spoiled milk and a drawer of rotted vegetables. The cabinets were empty except for a small collection of bowls and plates. Rings marked the places where cans of food had been stored.
The bathroom was across from the kitchen. A man’s razor rested on the sink. A sliver of soap lay in the bottom of a huge, claw-foot tub that belonged in a past well before The Last War. There was a shower stall as well.
A solid metal door at the end of the hallway opened into the backyard. Aisling peeked outside then locked the door again.
In the bedroom a sparse, threadbare assortment of clothing hung in the closet. The shirts and pants were all made for a man whose bulk explained the size of the tub and shower. Tentatively Aisling reached into the closet and touched a pair of trousers. She knew the man who’d once owned them was dead, not because she felt his ghost or knew his spirit was in the ghostlands, but because the evidence of his passing filled the house.
Unbidden, the image of Elena’s brother came to mind. His words held no more comfort now than they’d held when he spoke them in the spiritlands. I see they’ve sent a sacrificial lamb. Or maybe that’s Elena’s role. Then again, maybe third time’s the charm.
Aisling changed the bedding. She returned to the kitchen and disposed of the spoiled milk and rotten vegetables.
A kitchen drawer held burlap shopping bags. She draped those over her arm before picking up the book of food vouchers from the living room table.
Aziel emerged from the shaman’s work and ceremony room. He scampered over to meet her at the front door. She let him out and waited for him to take care of his business. But when he would have lingered to explore, Aisling laughed and said, “We’ll have a long, hungry night if I don’t find the grocery store.”
The ferret returned to her side. He rose on his hind legs in readiness for climbing on her shoulder and riding to a new adventure. Aisling shook her head. “Stay here where I know you’ll be safe.”
His scolding made her smile but she didn’t give in to his pleas. Instead she picked him up and brushed a kiss across his forehead. She rubbed her cheek against his soft fur and put him in the house. “I’ll be back.”
The store was miles away. Normally the distance of the trip and the weight of the groceries wouldn’t have made Aisling tired. But the events of the last twenty-four hours, and the sleepless night she’d spent as she worried about the demon Zurael, finally caught up to her. Her footsteps dragged by the time she returned to the shaman’s house. Her hands shook with a nervousness brought on by lack of sleep and vestiges of fear.
Aisling fumbled for the key and slipped it into the lock. Her spine tingled with the hyperawareness of someone who knew she was being watched and that she was no match for a predator.
With a click the first lock gave. She opened the barred metal door and found the key for the wooden one. A few seconds later it opened as well.
The musty smell was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar exotic spice. It was her only warning before a hand wrapped around her throat and sharp talons scraped lightly over her jugular.
“Greetings, child of mud.”
CHAPTER 3
TERROR held Aisling mute and immobile. Her breath charged in and out of her throat along with small whimpers. Her sole focus was on the sharp tips of Zurael’s talons.
Scenes from the night before rushed through her mind, blood-soaked images of those he’d killed with casual strength. The bags of groceries dropped to the floor as she trembled, and like a cat playing with a mouse, Zurael turned her to face him.
Except for the fingernails elongated into claws, he wore a human body dressed in black leather, pants that molded to his skin and a vest left open to expose a bronzed chest. A serpent tattoo curled its way down his forearm and onto his hand, so lifelike that Aisling shivered at having its eyes only inches away from hers.
His hair was pulled back in a long braid, revealing ears studded with obsidian. Fiery rage danced in the center of pupils surrounded by liquid gold, making his face a promise of death.
Zurael clenched his jaw against the sensations bombarding him. Her fear pounded against his palm. It radiated off her, and yet underneath its scent was a heady fragrance that flooded his nostrils and tempted him with dangerous images of coupling with her. He was aroused, not because of her terror, but despite it.
The knowledge she could not only summon him at will, but could make him want her, sent anger burning through his veins. She was weak, fragile, her life span a day in comparison to his own. She was hardly worthy of a Djinn’s notice, and yet he found it impossible to look away from her.
She was golden sunshine and angelite eyes, delicate as a fawn and as defenseless as one. It would take nothing to kill her. A flick of his wrist and it would be done.
Slowly he released her. With a thought, the talons shortened and lightened to the clear of fingernails.
“What do you call yourself?” he asked.
She blinked. A small tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his cock responded with a pulse of desire, an escape of arousal through the slitted tip. Zurael’s hands curled into fists. “What do you call yourself?” he repeated.
“Aisling.”
Her voice was barely a whisper but her name was a roar across his soul. He stepped back involuntarily as it echoed, claimed, resonated deep within as if combining with his own name to form a melodious chord that gave her more power over him.