Malahel’s hands left her knees to float over the table in an all-encompassing gesture. “What you say is true, but none of them were summoned as you were. None of them were brought to the House of the Spider by their destinies.”

A bow of his head, a gracious acknowledgment of the tea and the company, and Zurael would be free to escape with his question unanswered. But he couldn’t deny the strangeness of finding himself in a place he had rarely visited in centuries of existence.

“We believe the tablet is in Oakland,” Iyar said. “The city you were summoned to.”

So he would be near the human female, Zurael thought. “I will accept the task,” he said.

Malahel clapped her hands. Immediately the door slid open. The male Djinn who’d ushered Zurael into the room stepped through the doorway followed by two females who were also wearing the white clothing that marked a student. Without speaking they doused the charcoal and removed the brazier as well as the table before closing the door behind them.

Zurael leaned forward to study the slab of clear phantom quartz that had been hidden by the table. It shimmered with secrets, ghost crystals trapped in the larger one. The surface was etched with spider lines, their design a spiral of interweaving patterns he found impossible to untangle.

Next to the slab was a ceramic bowl with tiny stones, each one polished and perfectly round, their colors mixed. He could fit a hundred of them in his cupped hand. A second bowl contained larger stones, half the size of his smallest fingernail. They were round and polished as well. It was this bowl Malahel picked up.

She held it out to him. “Choose the stone that will go by your name. When you have found it, place it in the bowl with the ones you will cast.”

Zurael dipped his hand into the bowl and let the stones flow through his fingers like water. He recognized many of the stones and knew what they signified in the teachings of his own house, but he didn’t make the mistake of thinking they would hold the same meaning in this house. He closed his eyes so the stones would whisper and guide him to the one that would represent him. At the bottom of the bowl he found what he sought and captured it.

He opened his eyes and looked at the obsidian he’d selected. Then he did as he’d been instructed and dropped it into the bowl containing the tiny polished stones.

“Choose the stone that will serve the one who summoned you,” Malahel said.

Once again Zurael closed his eyes. Immediately the female’s image came to mind and his body tightened, his cock stiffened. His jaw clenched and he shifted position on the cushion in the hopes his physical response wouldn’t be noticed.

The female’s stone rested close to the top. Misgiving at having delayed his own task filled Zurael when he opened his eyes and saw the blue-and-white angelite with its flecks of red. In the House of the Serpent it was a stone signifying an enemy, one who was angel-touched and dangerous. He placed it next to the obsidian.

Malahel set the bowl with the larger stones aside. She picked up the second bowl and handed it to Zurael. “Mix the stones as you will. Speak your question as you cast them.”

Zurael closed his eyes in an effort to center himself. There was no turning away, no escape from the web that held him.

He did as Malahel commanded. When he felt the moment was right he tipped the bowl and said, “I would know what power the human holds over me that she was able to summon me the way she did.”

The tiny stones rolled across the phantom quartz of a spider’s altar. There were a thousand lines to capture and hold them, but most of the colorful ones fled, rolling into narrow gutters at the edges of the slab. Zurael stared at what was left-the gray shades of the ghostlands and the red clay of the humans, the bloodred of angels and the black of powerful forces, all circling, trapping the obsidian and the angelite together.

Malahel studied the stones for long moments before leaning forward. The tip of her finger hovered above the stones. It traced the curve trapping the obsidian next to the angelite. It silently pointed out that the obsidian stood alone, untouched by any but the angelite, while red, gray and black stones all crowded against the token representing the human who’d summoned him.

“The one who possesses the tablet you seek will be drawn to the one who summoned you,” Malahel said. “She is deeply connected to the ghostlands. She was born of them and can call the spirit winds at will. That’s how she was able to bring you to her. It’s good you already intend to kill her. She is dangerous to us and will be made even more so if she learns what’s written on the tablet.”

Malahel placed her hands on her knees and Zurael knew she was finished speaking. She had answered his question just as the stones now revealed that in order to accomplish the task he’d agreed to, he would need to find the human who’d summoned him and watch over her until the ancient tablet was recovered and the one who possessed it destroyed.

THE house with the shaman’s symbol painted on it appeared worn and tired, haunted by failure and sadness. It was small, old, its door and windows barred like the houses around it.

Father Ursu’s hand left the pocket of his robe. “You can do the honors,” he said, pressing a key ring into Aisling’s palm.

She unlocked the barred door and opened it, then unlocked the wooden door behind it and opened it as well. The house smelled musty, closed up, dead.

Sunlight fought against the darkness of the curtains covering the windows. Small rays of it slipped in to capture dust motes and gloom and tattered furniture. The ferret perched on Aisling’s shoulder chattered in excitement over a chance to explore.

“The lodging is yours, and for the moment, in appreciation of your services, you don’t have to worry about paying for the electricity,” Father Ursu said.

His hand disappeared into his pocket. This time when it emerged it contained a bundle of papers. “Shall we move over to the table?”

Aisling nodded. She left the wooden door open then set the bag containing her new clothing on the floor before detouring to the windows to open them slightly for fresh air and to pull back the curtains rather than turn on the lights. She hadn’t failed to notice the priest’s exact wording and the warning they held. At the moment she wasn’t beholden, but that could change at any time. It was an old game, one in existence even before The Last War and the plague-enslave those who had nothing by letting them build up debt for the cost of food, clothing and shelter.

When she joined Father Ursu at the table, he’d already laid out the papers. “This is the most recent map of Oakland,” he said. “Can you read?”

Aisling hesitated, unsure whether to admit to it or not. He took her delay in answering for embarrassment over her ignorance.

“No matter,” he said, pushing the map aside. “No doubt you’ll make friends here and draw clients quickly enough. They’ll help you navigate the city.”

Father Ursu reached for a card with a magnetic strip on its back. “This is a transportation pass. There are buses to most areas of the city and to San Francisco. Almost everything you’ll require is close enough to reach by foot, but if you need to take a bus, be sure to leave yourself enough time to return home. There is no public transportation beyond sunset or before sunrise and many drivers won’t stop to pick up a passenger at dusk. To enter San Francisco requires authorization papers. Come to the church and ask for me if you find yourself needing them. Don’t attempt to go there alone. Even in the daytime it’s controlled by vampires.”

He placed the card on the table and picked up a book of vouchers. He flipped through it quickly for her benefit. There were words on the pages but the pictures served as well. Milk. Meat. Canned fruits. Assorted goods. “When you leave the house, if you go to the right and keep going straight, you’ll come to a grocery store. They’ll accept these vouchers.”