Ghostland by Jory Strong Page B

reaching for Aisling’s.
    “No,” Zurael said with such deadly menace both hands dropped immediately.
    “Not many people turn us down,” the man said, leaning against the edge of the bay window, the woman next to him in matching red.
    “You’re new here,” the woman said. “We can help you get into the swing of things. In fact, there’s nobody better. Everybody follows our lead, especially when it comes to the voting.”
    The man met Aisling’s eyes. “Come play with us. Alone, if your companion can’t be persuaded. You’ll enjoy it. I promise.”
    “No.”
    “Suit yourselves, though I think you’ll find you’ve made a mistake in turning us down.” He pushed off from the window bay, but not before Aisling saw the flash of anger at being rejected. The woman slipped her arm through his and they walked away.
    Aisling’s attention lingered on them. She wondered what the woman meant about the others following their lead when it came to the voting, but then her focus shifted to a man scurrying into the red zone from the direction of the bus stop just outside of it.
    The people in the room migrated to the front windows. The conversation grew hushed, the atmosphere heavy with anticipatory excitement, like a collective beast getting ready to pounce.
    Aisling’s arms settled over Zurael’s. Her fingers slipped through his.
    The windows of the Victorians across the street were free of bars, too, and crowded with watchers. One by one the bouncers guarding the entrance to those clubs went inside before the hurrying man reached the sidewalks leading to their doors.
    “He’s not going to make it,” someone whispered in the hushed silence of the room.
    “He will,” someone else said, a hint of regret in his voice. “Sinners is always the last to close.”
    As the man reached the bay window, excitement slid through Aisling. It wasn’t the man who’d sold Ghost to Elena, but the cross on his cheek marked him as one of the regular dealers.
    A deflated sigh went through the gathered crowd as the door to Sinners opened and the man darted inside. The bouncers followed.
    There was the definitive sound of a lock clicking into place. A low-level hum signaled that some type of electrical current also served to keep the unwanted out.
    Slowly the crowd dispersed. Elegantly dressed patrons re-formed into smaller groups. Some wandered up a beautiful wooden staircase. Others slipped into open rooms.
    Aisling noticed that none of the interior rooms had doors, and understood the significance of Elena’s comment. Why privacy was hard to find.
    The man and woman in red lingered nearby. The Ghost dealer went through a doorway with a small flock of people behind him. Aisling forced herself to leave the comfort of Zurael’s arms and walk across the room.
    The dealer stood in an old-fashioned parlor. Furniture from the era, or copies of it, graced the room. There was a fireplace. The blackened and ash-coated tool set on the hearth indicated it wasn’t just for show.
    There was no attempt at concealment. Like disciples to a messiah, men and women gathered around the Ghost dealer. They offered silver, gold, jewelry. They received small metal boxes in return.
    Aisling shivered at the sight of the containers. The one in Elena’s possession had made her think of an antique pill- or snuffbox. Now she saw small metal coffins.
    Three of the buyers hurried from the room. The remaining five settled on the chairs and couches. Aisling braced herself when their fingers reverently stroked the lids of the tiny boxes.
    Zurael’s heat warmed her back. She longed for the comfort and security his touch had come to represent, but she didn’t blame him for standing apart until he knew she wouldn’t be dragged into the ghostlands.
    Aisling felt the spirit winds as soon as the first lid was opened. Her hand went to the hidden fetish pouch containing the pentacle.
    The winds recognized her. They swirled around her but didn’t pull at her spirit.
    The