Ghostland

CHAPTER 2

ZURAEL shimmered into existence in the exact spot he’d abruptly and involuntarily left moments earlier. The wings and talons were gone, as was the blood, but the rage remained, deadly and focused.

Desert winds streamed through windows hung with a thin, gauzy fabric. Rather than soothe and calm him, the breeze made him think of the woman who’d whispered his name on the spirit winds, who’d dared to summon a Dji

She would pay with her life. Such magic could not be allowed to rise again.

A knock sounded at the door. It was his father’s advisor. Zurael could feel the signature energy. He’d known it wouldn’t take long for the knowledge of what had happened to reach The Prince.

Zurael went to the door and opened it. Miizan en Rumjal stepped back, the tilt of his head indicating Zurael was to follow him. His features gave no hint of his thoughts, and Zurael had no intention of asking for them. Though Miizan was bound to the House of the Scorpion and not the House of the Serpent, his loyalty to The Prince was forged in a time thousands of years earlier, when there were no ghostlands, no Kingdom of the Dji

Zurael stepped into the velvety darkness of the night and followed his father’s advisor in silence as they moved through courtyards and beneath elegant arches. Pastel window coverings made him think of night-blooming flowers, their color revealed by the soft glow of candlelight. Though they could have taken any number of forms and traveled faster, they walked until Miizan stopped in front of a door few entered. “He waits below.”

Zurael’s lips curved in a grim smile as he opened the door and began descending the long staircase to the Hall of History. He didn’t need to wonder what his father’s mood was. It was always at its darkest when The Prince thought of the past.

It was pitch-black, but Zurael navigated the steps with the ease of someone who’d done so for centuries. As was fitting for a people created from fire at the very begi

At the bottom of the stairs, muted colors began their fight against the blackness in a sardonic metaphor for the history of the Dji

His father stood in front of a mural depicting the first summoning and binding. But unlike the Dji

His fingers were curled talons. Leathery, batlike wings emerged from his back, their edges draped elegantly over his forearms. A snake-like tail coiled around his leg.

The humans believed they were formed in the image of their god. In truth they were formed in the image of the Dji

“You were summoned,” The Prince said. His voice was barely more than a hiss, but it echoed in the hall. It resonated through Zurael’s mind like a curse hurtled at the past.

“Yes. I will kill her if you’ll grant permission for me to pass through the gates.”

The Prince’s tongue flicked out, forked in keeping with the image he’d chosen to project, though he’d long since broken the curse that had once trapped him into an abomination of Dji

Slowly, demon-red eyes turned to fathomless black. The tail uncoiled, and like the wings and talons, it faded as his father turned to study the mural once again.

Zurael looked at the mural and the depiction of the first Dji

His father had lost dozens of sons and daughters before he, along with the most powerful of the ancients, had created the Kingdom of the Dji

Silence reigned, heavy and full of dark memories in the Hall where The Prince was said to have painted the history of the Dji

His father tilted his head as if listening to voices only he could hear, or perhaps he was glimpsing a sliver of the future, as it was said he could do. “There are few old enough to remember, but this is the moment when even those who belonged to the House of the Dove realized there would be no compromise with the god who came here from a place beyond our understanding and claimed our lands as his own playground. We, who were created of Earth’s fire, were ordered to kneel down to the creatures of mud and submit to their will. When we refused, preferring to fight to the death rather than yield, they were given an incantation allowing them to summon and bind us to a vessel so we could be used as unwilling familiars.”

The Prince’s hand lifted to hover over the image of Jetrel. “This is the moment when we learned what would happen to us if we killed a human who held us enslaved. This is when we learned what it meant to become ifrit, soul-tainted, one whose name can no longer be spoken out loud, one whose spirit can’t be guided back and reborn into a new life.”

His father lowered his hand. Zurael fought the urge to repeat his question, to point out what his father already knew, that he hadn’t yet been bound and so he could kill the one who’d summoned him without becoming ifrit.

“Though few remember it and those who do won’t speak of it,” his father said, “before this moment when we knew we must create a separate kingdom for ourselves, there were Dji

Zurael’s spine stiffened at what his father implied. “I have no interest in the human female other than killing her.”

“Walk with me,” his father said. “Tell me of the summoning.”

Zurael’s earlier rage returned in a heartbeat. The pictures in the Hall faded from his awareness. “There was no warning,” he said, “nothing to hint I was about to be taken. I heard my name and with it a command to end a ceremony before a sacrifice could be made. As we have all been trained to do since childhood, I took the form the humans call demon. There were black-robed figures gathered in a candlelit room and chanting around an altar. Their dark priest had an athame raised and was about to drive it into the heart of a woman. I killed them and would have killed the one who summoned me, but she was protected. When I drew near, a circle flared to life around her and I couldn’t cross it. I left before she could command me further or bind me.”