Ghostland by Jory Strong Page A

dark amusement in his voice that made her shiver.
    “Yes.”
    He laughed softly then set her aside. For an instant she felt bereft, rejected. But when her eyes met his, she encountered molten gold and a hunger to match her own. He lifted his hand but let it drop to his side before he touched her. This time it was Zurael who said, “We need to leave if we intend to take the bus.”

Five
    IT was a short ride. If they’d had more time before sunset, they could have walked it.
    Aisling tugged at the unfamiliar clothing. She felt self-conscious in the expensive blouse and pants, like a field hand dressed up to impersonate a wealthy landowner.
    Zurael took her hand in his. All along the street, chauffeured cars stopped to discharge their passengers before driving away.
    Aisling’s emotions ran the gamut from anger to sadness as she looked at the beautifully restored Victorians, housing clubs with names like Lust, Greed and Envy. She found it ironic that the powerful and privileged, the people who lived comfortably and without concern for what life was like for anyone outside their class, would gather here for their entertainment.
    The Last War had been started by religious zealots, by people determined to cleanse mankind of sin. There were those who believed the plague finally ending the war was god-created and not war-born—apocalypse averted because mankind was forced to concentrate on survival instead of the afterlife.
    Aisling knew only that the ghostlands were full of cast-aside gods, and human souls lingered or passed through at the will of something unknowable, that the spiritlands could be a place of heaven or hell.
    She shivered and spared a glance at the demon by her side, became acutely conscious of the fiery heat of his palm against hers as they approached the club named for those who might one day find themselves in his domain.
    Sinners was in the middle of the block. Despite its name, it was painted in cheerful yellow tones. Its windows were unmarred by bars, though Aisling didn’t doubt some type of elaborate security was in place. Colorful curtains were pulled back. Well-dressed patrons lingered behind the glass and viewed the activity on the street.
    Aisling rubbed her palm against her pants as they approached the bouncers on either side of the doorway. They were heavyset men with bulging muscles and hard, emotionless eyes.
    “Hand,” the one on the right said.
    She offered her hand and felt nothing but callused skin against callused skin.
    The bouncer’s eyes narrowed slightly. He dropped her hand and turned his head toward his partner. “Gifted.”
    The second bouncer took her hand. “What are you?”
    “A shamaness,” Aisling said, feeling afraid and exhilarated at the same time at being able to acknowledge a gift she’d rarely admitted openly before.
    “You can go in.” The bouncer’s attention returned to Zurael. Zurael’s hand was already lifting. The contact was brief. “You’re clear.”
    Aisling pulled out the bills Elena had given her and paid. The bouncer to the right opened the door.
    A party was already in progress inside the house. People gathered in small groups. Most held crystal glasses full of colorful liquid. More than one of the women paused in their conversation to give Zurael a hungry, inviting look while men stripped Aisling with their eyes.
    Zurael took her hand again and led her to a bay window. Outside, the night was arriving rapidly.
    Nervousness and curiosity warred inside Aisling. Everything around her was so different from anything she’d ever known.
    Zurael pulled her back against his front, then settled his muscular arms around her waist. The image of the two of them captured in the window glass filled Aisling with a longing that went beyond the physical.
    A man and woman joined them at the window, their predatory expression captured in the glass before they turned and in a perfectly choreographed move lifted their hands, hers toward Zurael’s bare arm, his