Every muscle in Aisling’s body tensed as he took a step toward her. Her breath moved in and out of her lungs in fast pants.

There was no point in screaming. Even if her neighbors heard her, they wouldn’t brave the night to come to her aid.

Death. Delay. They were the only two options.

Aisling didn’t let the open doorway tempt her into making a wild dash into another room. But she cursed her ignorance and her ready acceptance of Zurael’s protection for not having paid enough attention to the details that could make a difference between life and death. She had no idea if there were locks on the internal doors, if they were strong enough to last until Zurael’s return.

At home she knew every hiding place, every defensible space, each room that offered a safe refuge and a chance for survival from not only supernaturals should they attack, but from bands of outcast, lawless humans. Living in the country-on land with an abundance of food, water and shelter-was dangerous, though other than those times when the landowners came with their militiamen, or the police came on some pretext, she’d never felt threatened.

She kept her attention on her assailant’s eyes-counted on his intentions arriving there first and giving her enough warning. How many times had the eldest of Geneva’s fostered children drilled and driven that point home to the youngest as they were growing up? How many bruises had blossomed on her skin in the course of learning how to defend herself?

There was only a second to act and she did it-swung the large fetish like a club without stopping to question or second-guess her instinct.

Her attacker howled with pain as the carved stone struck his forearm. Fury contorted his face, chased away the sick amusement she’d seen when he taunted and toyed with her.

Pain screamed through Aisling as he landed a blow to her chest. Agony spread in her stomach when the steel toe of his boot struck her, driving her backward against the workbench.

Rational thought left her and she fought, swinging the fetish as primal sounds and whimpers blended, escaped along with the sound of her breathing.

The will to kill, the necessity of it, rode her. It fed on terror-fueled surges of adrenaline and gave her strength without hesitation.

She managed to drive him back a step, and rather than cower she advanced, swung again, and the sickening crack of a broken bone sent savage satisfaction through her.

He lunged and she sidestepped, used the fetish like a baseball bat and sent him into the edge of the workbench. He struck headfirst and fell to the floor. Didn’t rise.

Aisling tightened her grip on the fetish. Her stomach roiled with the choices in front of her: kill him as he lay unmoving or get close enough to tie his wrists and ankles.

Small tremors warned of larger ones to come. It took her a few seconds to realize the whimpering sounds of an injured animal were hers.

She dared to glance away from her assailant long enough to scan the workbench. There were some strands of wire within arm’s reach. She picked them up, and the tremors grew stronger at the thought of putting the fetish down so she could secure her attacker.

Aisling watched him carefully as she slowly knelt. She willed herself to strike first, to club him if he moved at all.

She couldn’t kill him in cold blood. But she wouldn’t let him subdue her.

He remained completely still, so still she paused to see if his chest rose and fell. When she couldn’t be sure, she dropped the wire in order to check his pulse.

A wrenching shudder gripped him just as she placed her fingers on his throat. His eyes opened, revealing shock and horror in the instant before his spirit entered the ghostlands, leaving a hollow body staring at the ceiling.

Relief came and Aisling sat on the floor. Tears emerged to run freely down her cheeks in a release of fear at first, and then in acknowledgment of the agony radiating from her stomach and chest where her assailant had struck her.

For long moments she gave in to emotion and pain, buried her face against her knees and hugged them to her, until the need for answers pressed her into action.

Unlike the men who’d been Ghosting at Sinners, she felt no guilt over this man’s death. He’d meant to kill her.

The tattoos on his face told of his crimes-assault against a family member and against a lover, both offenses inflicting damage severe enough for him to be charged. She guessed his victims had been women, glanced to the cord still wrapped around his knuckles and doubted he’d been warned of Zurael’s presence.

Had her attacker slipped into the house when she’d gone around back to call for Aziel? Or had he entered earlier in the day to lie in wait?

Aisling forced her arms away from her knees and knelt next to him. She braced herself to touch him, to search his pockets for answers. She tried to close her mind, but it was impossible to hide from her gift. The absence of a soul made the body nothing more than an already-decaying husk of flesh.

There was folded paper money in his front pocket. She set it aside, wondered if it was what he’d been paid to kill her.

Her pulse leapt when she found keys in a second pocket. She wouldn’t be sure until she tested them, but they looked like duplicates of the ones she’d given Zurael so he could get back into the house when he returned with dinner.

Physical pain screamed through Aisling when she rolled her assailant over. It continued to pass in waves that made her want to curl into a ball.

There were no answers to be found in the back pockets, and she knew she didn’t have the strength necessary to undress him in case there were hidden pockets sewn into his clothing or identifying marks on him. She wondered if they’d find a cross branded into his flesh but knew looking for it would have to wait until Zurael returned.

Aisling rose to her feet, swayed and nearly collapsed. Her hand curled around the healing amulet she’d gotten in payment from Tamara. If it was as powerful as the witch claimed… If she could just make it to the kitchen and boil some water…

But what if there’s a next time? She’d only just started looking for whoever was creating Ghost.

The tears she’d fought successfully returned with indecision. She had no way of knowing how much of the amulet’s healing properties would be leached away if she steeped it in tea, even for only a few minutes, and used it now.

Aisling closed her eyes. She forced herself to combat the waves of pain and nausea with steady breathing and sheer determination. If she wasn’t better in a little while, she promised herself, she’d use the amulet. And the promise helped.

Breath by breath her strength returned. She took a step, then another. Found the second easier than the first.

Her destination was the couch, where she could curl up and wait for Zurael. But as she passed the bed of dirt in the center of the room, she remembered asking, Who sent you? and heard her assailant reply, You’ll know when you’re dead.

Aisling shivered as, unbidden and unwanted, an idea came to her. If she followed him into the ghostlands, she might gain the answer to her question. If she got to him before his soul was claimed, he might gladly exchange the name he held for what protection she could offer-even if it was only temporary.

Nervousness made the nausea intensify. She worried that she might have internal injuries making her bleed into her stomach. Shortness of breath and the rapid beating of her heart made the pain in her chest seem sharper, more piercing. But the idea of following her attacker was unshakable.

Slowly she sat on the red dirt. As she enclosed herself in a protective circle, she thought of the names she could call upon for help, and discarded them in favor of a more powerful spirit guide. The price she paid would be higher, but she’d never traveled to the spiritlands when she was in pain or weak. She didn’t know whether her astral form would be more vulnerable because of her physical injuries. When the circle was closed, she pulled the pouch containing the fetishes from underneath her shirt and spilled them across her palm just long enough to select a falcon, its wings and legs outstretched.