Jory Strong - Ghostland

She smiled, and it touched every part of him, reached his heart and completely encased it. “It’s done?” he asked, though the corpses on the floor seemed to answer the question.

“There’s one more. Peter Germaine. He was here that night.”

“I remember him.”

Zurael pressed his lips to hers, shared the breath that was Djinn spirit.

The raw feelings of helplessness he’d experienced while she was in the spiritlands with Felipe and Ilka faded with Aisling in his arms.

In his time with her he’d gained a new appreciation for those pledged to the House of the Raven, and the ones who loved them. If the human ghostlands were a dangerous place, then the spirit birthplace of the Djinn would be no less harrowing. He didn’t envy those whose task it was to guide the Djinn back for rebirth.

He deepened the kiss and moaned when her tongue greeted his with a warm slide of heat against heat. Fierce emotion swelled in his chest and he pulled her more tightly against him. He felt so close to her-spirit entwined with spirit-as if they were one being forced to live in separate bodies and unable to find completion unless they were together.

“Aisling,” he whispered when he lifted his mouth, allowed her to take a breath that wasn’t his.

He lost himself in eyes that were an endless blue sky, a deep ocean pool. When her lips parted and she glanced down shyly, suddenly appearing more vulnerable, his heart raced in anticipation of hearing her name what was between them.

“I-” she started, only to stiffen and turn in his arms, her skin chilling against his.

Protectiveness surged through Zurael. He put Aisling in the center of the bed before rising to his feet. With barely a flicker of thought, clear fingernails became black demon talons.

The corpses stood. Felipe’s blank, dead eyes slowly filled, revealing amusement along with a hint of cruelty and madness. Ilka’s held the nothingness of a zombie.

What had been Felipe laughed with John’s voice and touched his neck. His gaze flicked over Zurael, dismissed him in favor of Aisling. “Another deadly pet, beautiful? And I was hoping… Well I’m sure I can amuse myself elsewhere before I’m forced to leave.” He tilted his head toward Ilka. In a stage whisper he said, “Now she’s dead weight, which is a shame, but I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

John grabbed Ilka’s arm, then noticed the studded baton at his feet. He bent down and scooped it up.

“A toy. How fun! Using it on Ilka won’t be the same since she’s not really with us, but it’s the thought that counts, and I will enjoy the thought.”

At the doorway he patted the clothing until he found the key to the room and slipped it into the dead bolt. “I’d suggest you stay here, enjoy your pet. You’ll know when we’re gone for good.”

Demon talons became clear fingernails with John’s departure. Zurael locked the door and returned to the bed. The driving energy to protect gave way to the pulsing desire to possess when Aisling’s firm breasts and hardened nipples pressed against his chest. Except for the soft leather pouch containing her fetishes, she was still naked from the waist up.

The image of her turning, allowing others to see her-the memory of Felipe and Ilka touching her, even briefly, even though it had been necessary-drove all rational thought from Zurael’s mind. She belonged to him.

Zurael stripped her with possessive hands, knowing that the only way to eradicate all vestiges of another’s touch, of another’s glance, was to give in to the hunger riding him with primitive intensity. He shed his own clothing without ever lifting his mouth from her mouth, her neck, her breasts.

Aisling trembled in eagerness beneath him. Opened for him so that when he settled his weight on her, his cock found wet heat and swollen, parted folds.

Her willing submission buffered the rawness of his lust, kept him from rutting like a feral creature. His thighs bunched with the effort to remain still, to savor the ecstasy of being inside her as his tongue mated with hers.

He shuddered when she freed his hair from its braid and it draped over them in a sensual curtain. He did the same to hers and was enthralled by the sight of Aisling’s honey-gold locks entwined with the raven-black of his.

Zurael rolled to his back, taking her with him. He luxuriated in the silky feel of her skin and hair against his flesh. Grew more aroused when her mouth claimed his in a sultry kiss as she bathed his cock in hot, throbbing arousal.

His hands roved over her body, palmed her breasts and buttocks. He swallowed her moans of pleasure and arched off the mattress when she began rocking, rubbing her clit against his abdomen, fucking herself on his cock with excruciating slowness.

It was too much, the raw pleasure more than he could bear. He put Aisling underneath him again, and this time he didn’t fight the savage urge, the frenzied need to couple with her, to take her body and soul, and reinforce his claim to her heart.

Afterward he held her, buried his face in the gold of her hair as she clung to him in exhausted sleep. He traced the delicate line of her spine, contemplated the future and what he might say to The Prince, to Malahel of the House of the Spider, and Iyar of the House of the Raven.

He would die for Aisling. The realization should have filled him with terror. Instead it brought only determination to finish what needed to be done so he could fight for a future with her.

Zurael’s thoughts strayed to the Hall of History, to Jetrel, the first of The Prince’s sons, the one who had turned his back on the House of the Serpent and chosen to live among the alien god’s creations instead of the Djinn. Idly he picked up a lock of Aisling’s hair, finally understanding what had driven Jetrel to make such a choice.

The sun-shaped amulet glowed at her wrist. His attention was drawn for a moment to the amulet pouch. In his mind’s eye, Zurael saw the tapestries in the House of the Spider, the erotic images of intertwined humans, angels and Djinn. And for the first time, he wondered if the Djinn might reclaim the land that was once theirs through alliance instead of bloodshed.

Noise beyond the door drew Zurael from his contemplations. Shouts of “Vote! Vote! Vote!” pulsed through Sinners like an electric current.

Zurael eased away from Aisling. She didn’t stir as he dressed, didn’t wake when he dressed her in case they needed to leave quickly.

He slipped from the room and locked the door behind him. The halls were empty, but the buzz of conversation told him those on the second floor were gathered at the front, where bay windows provided a view every bit as good as the one on the ground floor.

Anticipation clung to the air, rose and fell like a beast inhaling and exhaling. Zurael braided his hair as he walked.

There was a ripple of excitement as he reached the front rooms. Dressed and semi-dressed men and women crowded forward, murmured and whispered, their voices running together.

He stepped closer, not bothering to listen to their words. He didn’t take pleasure in what he saw on the street beneath him. But there was a savage satisfaction in watching as werewolves and feral dogs tore apart the abandoned corpses of Felipe and Ilka Glass.

THEY emerged from the locked room shortly after dawn. In the gray light Aisling saw the thin tracery of lines that defined the boundaries of the physical self and contained the spirit in every person she looked at-save for Zurael.

She refused to believe he was soulless, settled instead on the explanation that because he could become formless, his spirit wasn’t contained the way a human’s was.

But even letting the weblike lines fade from sight and leaving Sinners didn’t obliterate the terrible certainty that all it would take was a touch, coupled with a thought, and the gossamer strands she could see when she willed it would blacken and dissolve into nothingness, separating soul from body.