Ghostland by Jory Strong Page B

up a bear. Once it was placed in Aisling’s hand, he scratched the ground until the remaining carvings were in a pile.
    Aisling set the four she held in her hand aside and collected the others. She returned them to the leather pouch and dropped it under her shirt.
    Another step took Zurael to a wooden strip, one of four trapping the dirt into a square. Aisling’s gaze flicked nervously to his face then back to what she was doing.
    He crouched but didn’t interfere as she selected the raven and stood it on the dirt. The spider followed, to the right and down, east to the raven’s north. South was marked by the serpent, west by the bear. She picked up the hawk resting in the center of the other four and set it aside.
    Zurael tensed when she drew a small athame from a sheath hidden at her lower back. He cursed himself for not thinking she could be armed, even if it would be nearly impossible for her to kill him.
    She connected the four fetishes with arced lines so they were bound in a circle. When she turned her palm up and he saw she intended to drag the knife’s blade over it, Zurael reacted without thought.
    Fear and rage flooded him. He knocked the athame from her hand and took her to the ground with the swiftness of a pouncing cougar.
    “You will not bind me,” he said.
    The confusion in her face calmed him as quickly as the sight of her getting ready to make a blood offering had spurred him to strike. In place of the rage and fear came awareness, of the softness of her body beneath his, of her scent, of the hardness of his cock where it pressed against the juncture of her thighs.
    She licked her lips in a nervous gesture and he wanted to cover her mouth with his own. He wanted to plunge his tongue into her heated depths and taste her essence.
    Shock made him scramble off her. For the Djinn, the sharing of breath was the sharing of spirit, and he had no wish to give a piece of his soul to another—especially one of the alien god’s creations.
    Aisling sat. His words reverberated through her mind. The heat of his body and a fierce awareness of his arousal lingered.
    She hesitated only a second before saying, “I have no desire to bind you, and even if I wanted to, I don’t know how. I’m not a witch or a sorceress.”
    Anger flashed in the demon’s eyes. She knew he was remembering her summons.
    “I wouldn’t have called for you if the need wasn’t urgent. If there was another name I could have used instead, I would have.”
    Her admission surprised him. His gaze traveled to the fetishes that had been scattered when he pinned her to the ground. She could see the question forming, but before he could ask it, someone knocked on the front door. The knock was followed by the sound of the door opening and a female voice calling, “Hello. Is anyone home?”
    Aisling rose from the dirt and brushed herself off. Aziel darted into the living room ahead of her. Surprise held Aisling in the doorway for a second when she recognized the woman the dark priest and his followers had intended to sacrifice.
    “I hope you don’t mind me coming here,” Elena said.
    “I don’t mind.”
    “May I have a seat? Can we talk? Or do you have a client with you?”
    “Please, sit down. I can give you water or make hot tea.”
    “No. I’m fine.” Elena took a chair.
    Aisling sat on the couch while Aziel curled up on the second chair.
    “Luther says you saved my life last night,” Elena said.
    Aisling didn’t think Elena meant Father Ursu or Bishop Routledge. “Luther?”
    “Luther Germaine.” Elena’s eyes widened slightly when Aisling didn’t respond. “He’s the mayor of Oakland.”
    “Until yesterday I lived outside Stockton.”
    Elena smiled. Her gaze traveled around the room. “That explains a lot. Someone with your ability . . .” Her eyes met Aisling’s. There was a fevered intensity in them. “I want to hire you to find out what happened to me last night.”
    Aisling’s stomach fluttered nervously. “What