King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel Read online

  The cell to her right was as empty as the other, but the glass had been shattered. Something had escaped. The question being . . . was it her mother or something else entirely?

  Ahead were two passageways, and both were in darkness. Above them runes were carved into the stone, but the scripture was ancient, and Rowan wasn’t familiar with it.

  “Nico and Hannah have taken the right,” Azaiel said. “We’ll take the left.”

  He stood aside, and Rowan passed through the entrance, her skin shuddering as she did so. There was a ward in place—some sort of spell—but it had already been breached and was weak.

  Again she held her hand aloft, the light from the ends of her fingers throwing beams of light ahead. From what she could see it was very similar to the passage they’d just traveled except the elevation was dropping as if they were going deeper into the earth.

  What if this was a trap?

  Unease rolled in her gut, cold fingers of it that made her stomach roil. She broke into a sweat and found that she was holding her breath, ears straining as she listened for any clue as to what lay ahead. She was wound so tight her jaw ached with tension, and the beginnings of a headache pinched behind her eyes.

  “Not much farther. I sense a presence ahead,” Azaiel said quietly.

  Rowan paused and nodded. “I feel it, too. We need to hurry.” She broke into a run, Azaiel close behind. She was glad he was there with her and not just because he was a big, strapping warrior, but because . . . she just didn’t feel so damn alone.

  They would do this. They would get the job done.

  The tunnel veered to the left before straightening once more. The glow of a light shot weird shadow caricatures along the walls, and Rowan extinguished her own charm, plunging the immediate area into darkness.

  She knew Azaiel was at her side, but for a moment it felt as if nothing were there. She was disoriented—it was so black she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. Her stomach rolled, and she felt as if she were spinning in place. The sensation passed just as quick, and they moved toward the light—which grew brighter the closer they got. She and Azaiel were at least twenty feet away when she heard voices—one a female’s. Her mother?

  Rowan’s heart quickened, and she ran, not caring about the darkness or the uneven terrain, or the unknown—and nearly landed on her ass. Would have landed on her ass if not for the strong arm that grabbed her.

  Azaiel righted her, his whisper harsh against her ear. “Are you crazy? Caution is a must.”

  She yanked her arm from his grasp and whispered harshly, “I’m fine.” Then she stood back and barely caught her breath when a blinding light erupted from the blackness, a piercing strobe that had her wincing and shielding her face.

  When the intensity subsided, Rowan blinked rapidly and widened her stance. She still couldn’t see shit—nothing but stars and haze—but she knew someone was there.

  Scratch that. Two someones.

  Rowan fisted her palm against her eyes, trying to clear them, and stepped to the side. She banged into Azaiel’s hard body and moved forward, trying in vain to see what was there.

  Suddenly the dagger was wrenched from her hand and an iron grip closed around her neck. She was lifted several feet off the ground and slammed into the wet rock at her back.

  Stars danced inside her mind, and she struggled to breathe, her fingers clawing at the large hand around her neck. Azaiel made an inhuman sound—a bark or a cry of rage—and charged forward only to stop dead in his tracks when the owner of the iron grip spoke.

  “One more inch and I take her head off.” His words were heavily accented, and he spoke slowly, with careful enunciation, so there was no mistaking his intent.

  The fact that he squeezed harder drove his point home with a vengeance. The man would not hesitate to snap her neck. Rowan was furious—at herself. How could she have let this happen? The bloody cloaking charm must have failed.

  Cold steel pressed into the base of her neck and sent shock waves of pain dancing across her skin. Azaiel growled like an animal—a sound that would make most take notice—yet the knife pressed in harder. It drew blood. She felt every single drop that dripped down into the crook of her neck. The blade was charmed—heavily so—and the burn was fierce.

  Slowly the gray haze faded from her vision like fog rolling away at dawn, and her sight cleared. The man who held her wasn’t a man at all . . . at least not in the normal sense. He was massive—had a few inches on Azaiel—with skin the color of peat moss and eyes as yellow as a sunflower in bloom. From the chest down his body was humanoid—powerfully so, with muscular shoulders and arms of steel—and what appeared to be wings hovered behind him. Yet his face was definitely not human.

  Her eyes widened, and she squirmed as his eerie yellow ones studied her. His features were demonlike, with a wide forehead, small horns protruding from his skull, and fangs peeking from between his generous mouth. Two large silver rings pierced his nostrils, and an intricate marking, or tattoo, was etched from temple to jaw. He sported a mane of hair that was thick and wavy, hanging well past his shoulders.

  He was beautiful and repulsive at the same time. Rowan’s vision blurred once more as she struggled to breathe.

  He was also strong as hell.

  “Gargoyle,” Azaiel spat. “Take your hands off her now, or I will destroy you.”

  The creature smiled—a macabre caricature that stretched his face tightly. “You could try, but she would be dead before you moved.” The smile left, and he loosened his hold. “Who are you and why are you here?” he growled.

  The light from behind him grew bright just then, beams of energy falling over his shoulder and blinding Rowan with its intensity. The gargoyle snarled and dropped her to the ground like a piece of garbage.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rowan spat as she struggled to her feet. She had no idea what the hell was going on, but she was pissed. Pissed and tired and pretty much fed up. The ominous darkness that pressed on her was too much. Something was coming, and she didn’t need two fucking guesses as to who it was.

  They needed to get off the island. Like yesterday.

  The gargoyle stared down at her, the dagger clutched in his hand, his eyes confused. “What trickery is this?” he said harshly.

  Rowan pushed her hair off her face and glared right back at him.

  “Who the hell are you?” she rasped, rubbing her hands along the tender skin at her neck.

  “I am . . . Mikhail.”

  Azaiel was at her side in an instant, his hand warm against her cheek. His eyes were full-on black, and the energy that slithered across his body was just as dark.

  The Seraphim was livid. Blood would be spilled.

  He whirled around, slammed his fist into the gargoyle, and both of them tumbled to the ground inches from a slight figure draped in long robes that once were ivory yet now were yellowed with age.

  “Rowan?” The voice was tentative. Strained. And so very familiar.

  The gargoyle and Azaiel rolled away from her, both on their feet in an instant, squaring off in silence as the woman stepped closer. Her long auburn hair was shot through with bolts of silver—it hung to her waist in tangled waves. A face so achingly familiar stared at her in wonder.

  It was a face that was older—more wrinkles and a softening of features—yet the glittery rage of crazy wasn’t there. Her eyes were clear and more than a little wary.

  Rowan stood on shaky legs, feeling all her strength waver as she looked upon a ghost from her past. Her throat constricted. Tears pricked her eyes.

  Mother.

  She supposed if she were eight again, she would have run into her mother’s arms. Laid her head on her breast and let the warmth of her mother’s embrace seep into the coldness inside her. She would have clung to the woman with all the mad longing of a child who didn’t know better. One who still believed in fairy tales at bedtime, and hot chocolate and giggles and hugs.

  Rowan cleared her throat. Too much ha
d happened. She was none of those things.

  “We need to go, Marie-Noelle. He’s coming for you, and I won’t let him win.”

  For several seconds there was nothing. No noise. No air. No color. No sound. Just the four of them staring at each other.

  Marie-Noelle nodded. “I know,” she whispered. “I feel him. But why? He refused me . . .” Pain tightened the woman’s mouth, and she lowered her eyes. “It’s you he wants. Why have you put yourself in his path?” Marie-Noelle’s brows furled, and she took a step toward Rowan. “Why would you risk capture for me?”

  Rowan held her mother’s gaze steady. “This has nothing to do with you, Mother.” She ignored the wince and flash of pain that crossed her mother’s face. “For once.”

  Mikhail growled a warning, and Rowan turned to him. “You’d best keep it under your hat, Mister. I’m calling the shots.” The temper that simmered beneath the surface flushed her cheeks, and her chest burned with nervous energy.

  Azaiel butted in and turned to the gargoyle. “You are a watcher?”

  The tall creature moved toward Marie-Noelle, his stance protective as he glared at Azaiel and Rowan. He nodded. “She’s my ward, yes.” He then motioned toward Rowan. “Is this her daughter?”

  “I am,” Rowan answered defiantly. “And I’m right here, so don’t talk as if I’m not.” Rowan held her hands up and threw a burst of energy toward the gargoyle. He deftly avoided it, but the stone wall behind him wasn’t so lucky. Large slabs of gray rock crumbled to the ground.

  “Holy Mother of . . .” Azaiel turned eyes as black as oil on her. “We’ve no time for childish games.”

  Rowan’s temper fizzled and left in a rush. He was right. She glanced at her mother, feeling utterly defeated and not knowing why. “Let’s go.

  The woman eyed her for a moment, then whispered, “I’m not leaving without Mikhail.”

  Rowan arched a brow at that and shrugged. “Fine by me, but I suggest you keep your little pet on a leash, or, next time, I won’t miss.” She tilted her chin. “And it won’t be his butt-ugly head or shoulders I’ll be aiming for . . .” She nodded to the impressive package between the gargoyle’s legs. “I’ll hurt him where it matters most to the both of you.”

  Mikhail took a step toward her and growled.

  Here doggie. She wanted him to come at her. She wanted to hurt him.

  Marie-Noelle’s eyes widened at the insult—for just a moment—and then she nodded but remained silent.

  A tumble of emotion ran riot inside Rowan, and her chest felt as if it were going to burst with the heaviness of it all. She pushed past Azaiel, not really trusting herself with words or actions at the moment.

  She felt no different than she had as a child. Confused. Ashamed. Scared.

  And how sad was that. Rowan James. Self-appointed executioner of the demon lord Mallick. All twisted up over her crazy mother.

  Except her mother didn’t seem crazy at all.

  And maybe that was the scariest thing of all.

  Chapter 16

  Dawn was breaking by the time they neared the outskirts of Salem. Rowan sighed and rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window as they drove down the mostly quiet, mostly deserted streets. The odd group of partiers were still out, weaving along empty sidewalks, their loud, animated conversations echoing into the silence. With Samhain two weeks away, the town was overflowing with tourists.

  Halloween decorations blew in the wind, hung from various businesses that lined the streets—witches on broomsticks, bats, skeletons, and vampires. Cobwebs hung from doorframes—eerie wisps of smoke gray silk, while bales of straw and pumpkins were everywhere.

  It was a beautiful fall scene straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting—and one that was false. If only the regular folk knew most of what they fantasized about was all wrong—that the monsters, the vampires, and the demons who populated their highly rated television shows and movies really did exist.

  And they sure as hell didn’t glitter.

  The human population wouldn’t romanticize these creatures if they really knew what hid in the shadows. They’d freaking pack their things and flee.

  She settled into her seat as best she could and watched closely as they drove through town. There was nothing dark lurking amongst the shadows that she could see. Seemed as if the filth of the underworld had retired early this night.

  Whatever the reason Rowan was grateful. She wasn’t in the mood to bash demon heads. She was bone tired, and a nasty headache had fingered its way up her cranium, squeezing hard until it hurt even to blink her eyes.

  Bed was looking pretty good right about now. She glanced at Azaiel, startled to find his golden eyes fixed on her. Immediately her cheeks stung red, and she gulped air, embarrassed at her reaction.

  She was very much aware of Azaiel’s warm leg pressed against her own—with the added body count of her mother and the gargoyle—they were pressed together like sardines in a can. She wriggled slightly, but it didn’t help.

  Damn but the man ran as hot as a furnace. And he smelled way too damn good for someone who’d just run crazy through an otherworld insane asylum. She shivered at the thought of what they’d left behind. Of how they’d hacked their way back to the dock.

  When they’d finally reached the boat, it looked as if Armageddon had visited the island. More mercenaries had shown up—human and otherworld. Priest and Frank had used them for target practice, clearing a path for the six of them to make it to the boat. While they’d scrambled aboard, the heaviness inside Rowan had pinched hard, and she’d had the disturbing notion that someone was there, just on the other side of reality, watching her.

  It wasn’t Mallick.

  As they’d pulled away the feeling eventually subsided, but for one brief moment the terror she’d felt had nearly brought her to her knees.

  “Are you all right?” Azaiel’s low timbre tickled her ear, and she shuddered.

  “Of course,” she answered abruptly. No, not really. How can I be all right? We just sprang my mother from an insane asylum, and I hate the fact that she doesn’t even seem insane, which makes no sense. She’s brought along a fucking frog-man-gargoyle thing and. . .

  “You seem tense.”

  “Well, you would be, too, if you knew.” She changed the subject.

  “Knew?”

  “If you knew what the hell is waiting for us at The Black Cauldron.” Their whispers drew the curious gaze of Hannah. She was on the other side of Azaiel.

  “You don’t think they brought the donkey, do you?” Hannah leaned toward them.

  “Oh God, I hope not.” Rowan made a face.

  “Donkey?” Azaiel arched his brow.

  “Don’t ask,” they answered in unison.

  “Pea-knuckle.” Hannah laughed.

  A smile cracked Rowan’s stiff features, and she felt a bit of the heaviness dissipate. Hannah held her gaze and reached across Azaiel to squeeze her hand. “It will be fine, Ro. All of it.”

  Rowan nodded, not trusting herself to speak as she cleared her throat of the lump that had suddenly appeared. She was pretty sure they wouldn’t be fine, but at the moment, that was the least of her worries. The more pressing question was where the heck was she going to put everybody? Sure, the Caldron was a bed-and-breakfast, but there were only so many beds to go around, and if Abigail and the others had arrived, who knew where they’d lay their heads.

  She groaned and tried to relax. Almost there. But it was too hot. Too confined. And Rowan would have cut off her right arm to be anywhere but pressed up against the Seraphim, with only the back of her mother’s head to look at. Over four hours of driving, and she was ready to go mad.

  Azaiel made her feel things she had no time for, and Marie-Noelle . . . Rowan closed her eyes, hating the taste of bitterness that clung to the back of her throat. It was full-bodied and ripe.

  Her mother opened up a lot of wounds she wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with. Ever.

  It wasn’t just the abando
nment issues. Or the fact that Rowan’s life had become forfeit the moment Mallick had chosen her. Sure there was resentment and anger toward a mother who’d boozed and drugged her way through most of her child’s younger years.

  It was more than all of that. It was . . . she bit her bottom lip and glanced down at her hands. Her mother had given up. Taken a long vacation on the island of looney and left Rowan and Cara to deal with the fallout.

  Marie-Noelle should be buck-crazy. She should be a shadow of her former self. She should be on her hands and knees, begging forgiveness.

  And yet she was none of those things.

  Rowan peeked at the huge gargoyle. What was his story?

  They passed a gift shop, and for a second she thought she saw a reflection in the glass—a strange man with glittery glass eyes, dark hair, and striking features. She sat up a little straighter and narrowed her eyes, but when she focused once more, there was nothing.

  Priest turned left onto Millen Road—it led to The Black Cauldron—and as they came upon the laneway, she groaned.

  Good God . . . it looked as if a gypsy caravan had set up camp. Two large RVs were parked off to the side, near the old oak tree. One was laden with several bicycles—not sure when there would be time for a leisurely ride through New England, but hey . . .

  A beat-up jeep was beside her rental, its rusted back bumper held tight with lime green twine. The faded red paint wasn’t much different in color than the rust that ate up a good portion of the side panels.

  Shit, Abigail had been driving the damn thing since before college but then she was a girl who never threw anything away. Well, except for boyfriends. Those she went through on a regular basis, which made the thought of her settling down north of the border that much more interesting. As if it would have lasted.

  “Oh God,” Hannah groaned and pointed.

  Rowan followed her gaze and shook her head. “Great.” A large black donkey stood next to the largest RV, it swiveled its head slowly their way as they pulled in behind it.