“You can look now,” he said, watching her closely, giving her only enough time to scan each line once before he cleared it away. “Can you copy it?”

Her eyes met his. Pleasure had given way to somber expression, to private, guarded thoughts he longed to coax from her as much as he feared what they might reveal.

She leaned forward. Her hand moved with the same sure confidence she exhibited when re-creating only a solitary symbol. There was only a brief hesitation on the name of an angel whose purpose the Djinn had never been able to determine, before she moved on to complete the task, her perfect accuracy deepening his fear for her.

He had to ensure she never saw the tablet he sought. Even the pleading of a Serpent prince wouldn’t spare her from a Djinn assassin if she did.

Zurael erased her work and stood. He offered his hand because he couldn’t stop himself from wanting the feel of her skin against his. A shudder went through him when she placed her hand in his in a simple display of trust. Pain over possibly betraying her lanced his heart even as his cock responded by growing harder and fuller.

They resumed walking. Silence reigned between them, though around them the increasing dusk brought the sounds of insects and frogs, of swaying weeds and the rub of leaf against leaf-the thinly veiled hush before the predators stirred and woke, arrived to claim the night.

“In Stockton the Church or a religious council is always involved when magic practitioners are on trial,” Aisling said as they drew close to her home. “It happens rarely, since few admit openly to being gifted, but if the brands Elena saw are punishment brands as Aubrey said, then Father Ursu might be able to identify the man who sold Ghost if he was judged here. If nothing else, he’d know what offenses they represent.”

Zurael’s hand tightened on hers in protest. He didn’t trust the Church not to set Aisling to a task in the spiritlands if she went to them. Father Ursu may have claimed Henri’s death weighed heavily on him, but that hadn’t stopped him from going with armed men to take Aisling from her home and family.

“It would be dangerous for me to be with you if you go to see him,” Zurael said.

In a non-corporeal form, as he’d been when he followed her from the house, he was nearly impossible to kill or detect. But he was also at his weakest, when a spell trap set for any number of other beings would also ensnare him. He would expect such traps at the church, just as he’d expect one of those rare humans who could read heavily masked auras to be present. They’d think him demon instead of Djinn, but the damage would be done and the risk for Aisling increased unnecessarily.

“You asked Raisa about the library. Let’s look for information there first. If you ask Father Ursu about the brands or the man who wears them, he’ll wonder what your interest is, perhaps have the authorities intervene and collect the man for questioning.”

“You’re right,” Aisling said, and he could hear the worry in her voice. “We might never get a chance to talk to him if the police or Church get to him first.”

They rounded the corner and her house came into sight. He felt her tension build with each step. Several times she called for the ferret, Aziel, but there was no flash of black or chirped greeting.

Zurael pulled her keys from his pocket as they neared the front door. He laughed at her consternation when she realized she’d been in such a hurry to escape his presence earlier that she’d left without them.

She took them from him, glanced around again, though the yard was overgrown and held a number of places for her pet to hide. “Maybe he’ll show up once I start cooking dinner,” she said, worrying her bottom lip. “I can leave a window open for a little while longer.”

Zurael’s thoughts went to the few things she had in her cabinets. In the Kingdom of the Djinn, few knew hunger. Even the sila, those of lesser birth who had no ability to change shape or become non-corporeal, didn’t lack for food or shelter unless they were cast out into the elements by their houses or clans and not accepted into another.

His life had been one of luxury, of fine food and respectful servants, of incredible freedom borne along with the heavy weight of responsibility that came with being The Prince’s son. Until he’d been summoned, he’d never known true fear, had never experienced so deeply the emotions that buffeted him when he was in Aisling’s presence.

“Let me provide tonight’s meal,” he said, and as soon as the words were out, he saw the opportunity they provided for him to return to the occult shop.

“Full darkness will be here in-”

He stopped her by the touch of a fingertip to her lips and felt his heart fill with tender warmth when a fleeting look of worry moved through her eyes before she gave a slight nod, accepting he would be safe out in the night, where she wouldn’t be.

“I’ll travel fast and be back soon,” he said, finding himself suddenly reluctant to leave her.

She nodded and turned back toward the barred, metal door, slid the key into the lock and opened it enough to unlock the wooden door behind it.

He couldn’t resist the temptation to touch her one last time, to trace her spine and feel her shiver as desire flared inside her as surely as it did inside him. When he returned he’d have her again. He’d know the silky heat of her wet core, the ecstasy of being buried so deep inside her their heartbeats blended and pulsed in sync with one another.

“I’ll have to close the windows before you get back,” Aisling said, letting the exterior barred door close as she gave Zurael the house keys.

Somehow he managed to part from Aisling, to seek the shadows and will his physical shape to fade. He became a swirling, eddying wind that twisted, picking up random twigs and leaves as he retraced their steps to the occult shop. He knew even as he did it there might be no chance to examine the primitive statue and perhaps destroy it.

Javier’s assistant had assumed the crystal in the figurine’s forehead reacted to Aisling because she was first through the door. But he’d seen images of similar statuettes in the history books of the Djinn, and all of them were dangerous tools in the hands of someone capable of summoning and binding those who could shed their physical form.

What had taken quite a bit of time to do as a man took only a few minutes without the hindrance of flesh. With a thought, unseeable particles condensed, re-formed and clothed him in the manner he’d chosen when he left the Kingdom of the Djinn.

From deep in the shadows another presence emerged. The aura was heavily masked but recognizable to Zurael. He turned and said, “What brings you here, Irial?”

“My father sent me,” Irial said, stepping closer, the green of his eyes a sharp contrast to the stylized raven marking his cheek.

Where Iyar en Batrael was the pitch-black of night, the eldest prince of the House of the Raven was the golden-brown of the forest floor in evening light. Teeth flashed white, but the amusement didn’t quite reach the green of his eyes as he said, “I think my father worries the little shamaness will distract you from your task and perhaps be your downfall. From what I’ve witnessed, even from a safe distance, he has cause for concern. Beyond that, I’m simply a messenger boy, sent to gather what you’ve learned so he can feed the information to Malahel en Raum in silken threads for whatever web the two of them are weaving.”

There was no reason for Zurael to withhold most of what he’d learned, though he carefully parsed through it, avoided mentioning Aisling’s ability to quickly memorize script and symbols. And underlying his recounting was a subtle message: He didn’t view her as an enemy of the Djinn. He would see her spared.

Irial’s face was grim by the time Zurael stopped speaking. He glanced at the occult shop. “I can feel the traps from here. They’re powerful. I’m not sure it would be safe for you to enter the shop again, even in a corporeal form.”