“BACK so soon?” a familiar voice said when the gray settled to reveal Aisling’s naked form and unbound hair. Dismay filled her as she turned to find Elena’s brother instead of the spirit guide she’d expected. “You’re disappointed,” he said, licking his lips in a blatantly carnal gesture as his gaze traveled over her, settling on the triangle of dark gold curls between her thighs. “Well, I won’t say I am.” His eyes flicked briefly to the arm where Zurael had been coiled on her last visit. “And it’s so much nicer without your pet. So much cozier.” He offered his hand. “Walk with me? Let’s get to know one another better.”

Instinct made her hesitate to follow him. Caution kept her from taking his hand. Rarely did she touch a spirit in the ghostlands.

“Why have you come to greet me, John Rousseau?” she asked, stressing the name, guessing his surname was the same as Elena’s.

John threw back his head and laughed. He reached back to tug at the long silver cable serving as leash and hangman’s noose. It coiled around his hand. “Nice try, but that witch’s trick won’t work on me. As you can see, my soul is not my own, though at the moment my master’s attention appears to be lax.”

A sly expression moved through his eyes. “You asked who I served on your first visit. Would you like to see the place he calls home?” He leaned forward and whispered, “I’ll let you in on a secret. He’d like for you to join him here. Your mother got away from him, or so they say. But that’s a story for another day.”

Cold chills and burning curiosity splintered through Aisling. She wasn’t the only child to be abandoned on Geneva’s doorstep with no history or clue to his or her parentage. She didn’t feel alone or alienated or unloved because of it, though a small part of her had always longed for answers, wanted them desperately, especially when she realized she could travel to the spiritlands. But until now, those answers had seemed impossible to obtain.

Temptation eroded her sense of purpose. It pushed back the urgency of her tasks in both the ghostlands and in Oakland.

John gave a sigh. He made a show of rolling his shoulder, and as he did so the grayness on that side gave way under a subtle breeze.

A row of Victorian houses with Sinners at their center became a backdrop for a group of hollow-eyed men. They stood, their attention focused on her. Their faces undamaged though their bodies were ripped open, the organs hanging and bones broken, the carnage mixed with bloody, torn clothing.

Bile rose in Aisling’s throat. Guilt lodged in her heart at the sight of the men who’d been Ghosting, whose deaths had come because of her presence at the club.

John shuddered dramatically. “Your work? I’m sure they had it coming to them, but what a way to go.” He stroked the cable around his neck. “It makes my own demise seem humane.”

Once again he offered his hand. “Shall we appease your curiosity about the being who would claim you as his own?”

Wicked amusement made John’s eyes gleam. His words of her being claimed by a being in this realm brought thoughts of Zurael and made Aisling hesitate just long enough for Tamara’s ring to draw her attention, to make her question John’s purpose and remember he’d yet to demonstrate he’d come as a result of the sigil she’d drawn before entering the ghostlands.

“Why have you come to greet me, John Rousseau?” she asked, repeating the sentence she’d met him with.

“How boring. I’d hoped we could spend some time together.” He cupped the front of his pants. “Not that I’d risk eternal torment and damnation by actually fucking you. But even a dead man can fantasize.” His eyes traveled over her again. “Oh yes, a man can certainly fantasize, which I intend to do. Until we meet again,” he said, his voice lost in a swirl of gray as he was reclaimed by the ghostlands.

Aisling rubbed her arms, conscious of the stares of the men who remained against a Sinners backdrop. She closed her eyes, willed the scene away and felt the spirit winds caress her naked flesh.

Relief filled her when she opened her eyes and found unending grayness. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, more conscious of her lack of clothing in the spiritlands than she’d been for a long time, and unnerved by it.

A small man dressed in a brown suit stepped into view. His expression remained somber, his demeanor respectful. His gaze remained fixed on her face as he approached.

He was a figure out of one of Geneva’s history books, a man wearing a bowler hat-a derby from the 18 and 1900s-a time well before The Last War. His manner suggested a man with a task to perform. And though she’d never seen him before, Aisling wasn’t surprised when he doffed his hat to reveal the sigil she’d used in asking for aid.

“I am Marcus. How may I serve you?”

Aisling removed the ring from her finger and offered it to him. “The man who gave this to his lover was named Christopher Alan Cooper by his parents. I want to know if his spirit passed through this land or can be found lingering here.”

Marcus took the ring. His hands were as delicate as a woman’s and it fit easily on the same small finger Aisling had worn it on.

He closed his eyes and Aisling wondered if perhaps a part of him searched the ghostlands, or if he simply spoke with the being whose sigil she’d drawn. When he opened his eyes, he said, “For the answer to your question, you’ll owe a shaman’s task, one not meant to be either difficult or dangerous.”

“I accept.”

Marcus rotated his wrist. Inside the derby hat a new sigil replaced the one he’d first revealed. “The bearer of this mark will call upon you for your service.”

Aisling memorized the symbol, then nodded. He placed the hat on his head. “Follow me.”

As always, time and distance were immeasurable, meaningless. Phantom hands, tendrils of hot and cold, glanced over her bare flesh as they walked. Nothingness gave way to building-lined streets, to a bridge separating two cities and a distant skyline that was now home.

“This is San Francisco,” Aisling said.

“An illusion of it, yes.”

She looked around, absorbed everything she could, so if she ever found herself in the city across the bay, she’d know something of it. They continued walking along streets lined with shops. It took Aisling a block to notice how thoroughly those offering ordinary services and products were integrated with those operated by humans with supernatural gifts.

A small Italian bakery stood next to a palm reader. An apothecary shared a painted mural front with a witch’s candle and herb shop.

“Do the people mingle freely as well?” Aisling asked her guide as they passed a grocery store. Its front was a large window of glass, an open invitation for burglary and theft.

“For the most part.” Marcus stopped in front of an occult shop. It was the last one on the block and close enough to the bay that Aisling could hear the phantom lap of water against the docks and shore.

He pointed out a symbol etched in the glass next to the door. A serpent held an apple in its mouth. From a point behind its head to just before the tip of its tail, the three segments of its S-shaped body were impaled by an arrow. “This is the mark of the ruling vampire family here.”

Aisling noticed that the other shops also bore the symbol. “They own these businesses?”

Marcus shrugged. “In some cases, perhaps. In most, those who do own them have paid for protection with money or services rendered. San Francisco is a deadly place to cause offense in, as the man you’ve asked about discovered.”

The door opened easily enough to reveal a pale corpse lying amid chaos. The twin puncture marks of a vampire’s fangs in his throat revealed the cause of his death. The transparent nature of the form told Aisling it wasn’t Christopher Alan Cooper’s spirit but an illusion provided for her benefit.