“What you say could be true,” Aisling said, a knot forming in her belly. If a governess disappeared the night before, then there were more dark priests than the one Zurael had slaughtered. “How many gifted have been murdered?”

“I can’t say for sure. Some go missing and are never found. Five have disappeared from families settled here for more than one generation. There have been others as well, recent arrivals, here and then suddenly gone-maybe by their own choice, maybe not.”

Zurael said, “Who would know more about these disappearances?”

“Javier. The occult shop on Safira Street belongs to him. He has an ear in the human world as well as the supernatural one.”

“Is there a newspaper here?” Aisling asked. “A library where I could look at past editions?”

A laugh of derision greeted her question. “There’s a newspaper, but you won’t find anything useful in it. Those who run this city ensure only the truth they peddle is printed.”

“But there is a library?” Aisling pressed.

“Yes,” Raisa said. “You’ve been to the church?”

Aisling nodded.

“Then you’ve been to the center of Oakland. The powerful govern from there. The library is several blocks away from the church. It’s next to the building housing the police and the guardsmen.”

Aisling wiped her palms against the knees of her worn pants. She hesitated to express an interest in Ghost, but if what Raisa said about the newspaper was true, then it seemed foolish to waste the opportunity to ask in the hope of finding answers at the library.

She startled when Zurael’s hand covered hers, took it to his knee and held it there, this thumb lightly stroking across her knuckles like a tongue extending from the serpent tattooed on his skin. When she looked up, she found Raisa’s gaze riveted to their joined hands.

“Have there been rumors of a drug called Ghost?” Aisling asked.

“Drugs aren’t illegal here. Lawbreakers won’t escape the tattoo or the death sentence for acts they commit while using them.” Raisa shrugged. “The Church would ban them if they could. But even they don’t have the power to do it. Too many of the founding families add to their wealth because of the drug trade. They won’t allow the first ban because they know it’ll only open the doorway to having others made illegal.”

Aisling nodded. It was the same in Stockton. There were few resources, and even the most conservative didn’t want to see them wasted on an effort to eradicate the substances humans used to escape the harshness of their reality.

It hadn’t always been so. Geneva’s history books were filled with stories of a prohibition on alcohol and, later, a war on drugs that left those in control of production and distribution wealthy and powerful beyond anything they could have accomplished otherwise.

“You’ve heard something about Ghost?” Aisling pushed, aware Raisa hadn’t answered her question.

“Perhaps.” Raisa touched her fingertips to the saucer holding Aisling’s empty teacup. “May I?”

Misgiving coiled in Aisling’s stomach. She wanted to say no, to turn away from the offered reading, the implied cost of having her question answered. But images of her family members scattered dead throughout the farmyard forced her to say, “Yes.”

Raisa picked up the saucer and carried it to her knees, balanced it there as she stared at the pattern left by the tea leaves. Dark, birdlike eyes remained motionless, transfixed by whatever they saw.

Outside a cloud masked the sun and the light faded, casting the room in the same heavy gloom it had held when Aisling arrived with Father Ursu. Failure wafted through with the scent of Henri’s soap, though his spirit wasn’t present.

“Death drapes you like a billowing cloak,” Raisa said. “It writhes at your feet and twines around you like a nest of serpents, so your touch becomes its harbinger.”

A shudder went through Raisa, strong enough to make the teacup rattle against the saucer. She placed it back on the table and rose from her chair. “Speak to Javier about Ghost as well as those who are missing. If you will excuse me, I’ll let myself out. I need to return to the tearoom.”

Aisling stood and followed Raisa to the door, stepped outside in the hopes of finding Aziel waiting. She shrugged aside the reading as she watched her visitor hurry away. Given Zurael’s presence, and hers in Henri’s home, it was easy to see death in the tea leaves.

The sun left its hiding place behind the clouds when Aisling went back inside. Zurael was still on the couch. She bent to gather the dirty dishes. His hands circled her wrists, sending molten lava through her veins despite the deadly serpent tattooed on his arm in a wicked reminder of what he was.

His fingers tightened. Forced her to look up and meet his eyes.

Aisling shivered, grew short of breath at the carnal heat burning there. She remembered too well what it had been like to stand in the bathroom in front of the mirror, to obey his command and watch as he took her.

“We only have the daylight to find answers,” she whispered, not wanting to compound her weakness by giving in to him again and losing the chance to visit the library and the occult shop.

Zurael read the resistance in her face, saw her fight the desire that sprang to life between them like a living flame. He knew he should fight it as well.

He’d meant to assure himself she was okay, unbothered by Raisa’s reading. But as soon as he touched Aisling, he wanted nothing more than to pull her onto the couch, to strip her out of her clothing and cover her body with his.

He carried her hands to his chest and pushed them under his shirt. He held them against hardened male nipples, felt her touch all the way down to his cock.

A hiss escaped when she tried to pull away. A moan followed when her eyelashes lowered submissively and the tension left her so her palms softened and rubbed sensuously against him.

Lust roared through him, hot need. When she wet her lips, he was swamped with the impulse to toss the coffee table aside and put Aisling on her knees before him, to unbind her hair and guide her mouth to his throbbing cock.

She leaned closer, whispered his name on a breath that caressed his lips, jolted him into an awareness of the danger he was in. He stood abruptly and released her hands, stepped away from her before he yielded to the temptation of kissing her.

Confusion, embarrassment, hurt-Aisling’s emotions danced across her face before her expression became guarded. She picked up the saucers and turned away from him, leaving him feeling regretful, confused.

He wondered again if Malahel and Iyar had known he’d be ensnared, entangled. He thought of his father positioned in front of the mural of Jetrel, talking of the past and the son who’d lost his life because of a human female.

Zurael’s attention returned to Aisling. She stood at the sink, rinsing the dishes.

He willed his heart to harden, his mind to close to what her future held. Death.

Aisling dried her hands. She could feel Zurael’s gaze blistering her, as if he held her responsible for the desire burning between them.

Nervously she touched her pocket, felt the folded dollar bills and the bus pass. Without looking at Zurael, she went to the front door and opened it, forced herself through it.

The demon could do what he wanted with the day. She’d known even as she clung to him in passion that it wasn’t wise to forget what he was and what caring for him could cost her.

She had only herself. And Aziel. It was enough. It had to be.