When the baton was pointed at Aisling, the man in red said, “Having second thoughts, beautiful?”

“But will she play or will she be as interesting as a stone?” his female companion asked.

A stranger stepped forward. He waved his hand in the direction of the four men who’d used Ghost. “You’ll find it far more entertaining to vote her out with the others. She’s a shamaness.”

“An interesting piece of information, Peter,” the man in red said.

The woman in red smiled, but the flash of her teeth made Aisling think of a vicious dog. The mood of the crowd became more predatory. She said “Out!” and the others joined in.

The bouncers grabbed the two Ghosting men by their arms. People shifted, jostled, parted to form a pathway out of the room. With horrifying clarity Aisling understood what it meant to be voted in or out, as the bouncers dragged the men toward the front door.

Additional bouncers appeared carrying guns. “Out,” one of them said, pointing toward the two spirit-possessed men. The entities from the ghostlands were only too happy to comply.

Pure terror at the prospect of being outside after dark held Aisling frozen in place for an instant. Then she gathered her courage and picked up the discarded poker. She wouldn’t surrender this life without a fight.

Zurael leaned down. His soft chuckle melted some of the icy fear trapped in her chest. He brushed his lips against her cheek. “Tonight I am your weapon.”

A bouncer pointed a gun at them. “You two, out.”

No one tried to take the poker from Aisling as she walked from the parlor to the front door. Heavily padded bouncers wearing helmets had dragged the men still Ghosting out into the middle of the street and were hurrying back to the club, while other bouncers stood on the porch, rifles ready in case of attack.

Aisling’s breath came in fast, shallow pants as she stepped through the door and onto the porch. Despite Zurael’s confidence, his easy assurance he would serve as her weapon, her heart raced so fast she thought it might burst in her chest.

Her hand tightened on the fireplace poker. She forced the terror down. If she was going to survive, she couldn’t afford to act in a blind panic.

People gathered at the windows in the other Victorian houses as well as Sinners. Low-wattage spotlights illuminated the street. The scene made Aisling think of ancient Roman coliseums and the men and women whose fight for their lives served as a spectator sport.

Her skin pricked. She felt the enjoyment of the strangers watching from the safety of the clubs. Beyond that, she sensed a feral hunger radiating from the dark alleyways between the Victorians.

As soon as the heavily padded bouncers stepped back into Sinners, the armed men retreated. The door closed. The lock clicked into place. The low hum warned of additional safeguards.

The street held the waiting silence of prey and predator examining their surroundings carefully before acting. One of the men in the middle of the street stirred and sat up. He looked around with the incomprehension of a sleeper waking in a strange place and wondering if he was still dreaming. When reality crashed down on him, he scrambled to his feet and took off running. The two spirit-possessed men followed him.

None of them got farther than a house-length away before the werewolves emerged from a night-shrouded alleyway.

Zurael fought the urge to take Aisling’s hand and cripple her ability to protect herself. His mind sorted through possibilities even as he cursed the angels who patrolled this world. He could shift into nothingness, but he couldn’t protect Aisling against this threat without a form. He could transport both of them to her house, but the rapid travel would alert the angels to his presence and lead them to him.

Savage snarling drew Zurael’s attention to the man lying in the middle of the street, still lost to the spiritlands. Feral dogs prepared to claim the prize the werewolves ignored.

They circled and gathered around the body. They lunged in to bite. The boldest growled as they gripped arms and legs in their jaws and pulled in a bloody tug-of-war.

Zurael spared a glance at the windows crowed with spectators. The downed man held little interest for them. Most of the crowd watched as the werewolf pack toyed with the men who’d run, providing entertainment in exchange for the easy meal.

He could sense other predators waiting in the dark alleyways between the clubs. For the moment Aisling was safe on the porch, but she wouldn’t remain that way for long.

The wolves couldn’t kill him. Even the angels would probably try to capture him rather than destroy him if they came upon him. But Aisling…

Zurael looked at her and felt a fierce pride in her courage. Her face was strained. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the poker, but she wasn’t cowering in fear, though he could smell it on her.

The werewolves tired of playing with their food. The night filled with the sound of screaming.

Zurael glanced up to witness the sick pleasure on the faces of the men and women safe inside the clubs, and decided on a course of action. He grabbed Aisling’s hand and led her from the porch. When they reached the pitch-black alleyway, he pulled her into the concealing darkness and stopped. “Trust me,” he said, taking the poker from her hand and tossing it aside.

He could feel werewolves closing in on them. “Climb on my back.”

Aisling didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around Zurael’s neck and her legs around his waist.

In the street behind her there was a sudden silence followed by the growling, snarling sounds of a feeding frenzy. In front of her she could hear the rustle of predators.

She gasped when Zurael’s wings emerged and slid along her sides in a sensual caress. In her mind’s eye she saw him as he’d been when she summoned him, black-taloned and black-winged, demonic.

From somewhere in the darkness a beast launched itself at them. The hot spray of blood struck Aisling’s face and arms even as something gurgled and fell away.

She tightened her grip on Zurael. His wings were stretched out. She had only a second to wonder how he would defend an attack from behind, before she felt the swing of a powerful tail inches below her buttocks and heard the crack of bones being broken. Another attack followed, and this time the blood struck her back and soaked into her shirt. She closed her eyes and pressed her face to Zurael’s neck.

Zurael felt no satisfaction in killing the werewolves. He was coated in their blood, but rather than draw more of them to him, it began to act as a repellent. They started howling, announcing the presence of a demon.

His lips curled in a fierce smile. Long ago, in an effort to make the Djinn bow down before the creatures of mud, the alien god created a single demon by cursing The Prince into a hideous image. In the millennia since then, the humans had followed the example of their god. They’d conjured up thousands of nightmare creatures, named them demon, and along with their wars and false prophets had given the Djinn a way to disappear from human memory.

Zurael clung to the darkness as he carried Aisling away from Sinners. Behind and in front of him natural and supernatural predators alike scurried out of his way.

As the adrenaline faded and he no longer feared an attack, he found it impossible to ignore the warm press of Aisling against his back. He was aroused, beyond aroused. Part of it was genetic instinct, the need to mate and ensure another generation after being in the presence of violence and death. The larger part of it was his fascination with her.

He stopped a block away from her house. The moon was higher, the darkness less complete. He assessed the area for danger and found none. With a thought the wings, talons, and barbed tail faded.