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

  “Well, they don’t usually leave home without it,” Hannah observed dryly.

  “A warning?” she said pointedly to Azaiel. “Don’t piss that thing off.”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her marbles.

  “It’s not just a donkey,” she reiterated.

  Azaiel looked as if he was trying his hardest not to laugh. “It’s not,” he said carefully. “Just a donkey.”

  “Nope,” Hannah answered. She pounded the seat in front of her, earning a growly acknowledgment from Nico. “That goes for all of you. The donkey needs to be treated with kid gloves, and if it talks to you . . .”

  At the expression on Azaiel’s face, Rowan laughed, feeling a sense of lightness for the first time in days.

  “If it talks to you,” Hannah continued, “ignore it.”

  Nico turned around and gave her a “what the fuck” look, his eyebrows fierce in his rugged, handsome face as he glowered at the blond witch.

  “I’m serious,” Hannah retorted, opening the door. She slid out and shrugged. “That donkey will fu—”—she grimaced—“will screw with you, and the damn thing has a nasty side that makes Lucifer look like a mother-truckin’ angel.” At Nico’s huff, she shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you”

  “Warning noted,” the jaguar answered silkily. It was obvious he thought the girls were jerking him around.

  “And I’m pretty sure Leroy doesn’t like cats.”

  “Leroy?” Nico looked incredulous.

  Hannah, blew out hot air. “The donkey? They call him Leroy, which is ridiculous considering he’s fecking Satan’s spawn.

  “You two are serious.” Nico glanced from Hannah to Rowan.

  “Dead serious.” Hannah arched a brow. “Don’t talk to it, don’t answer any of its questions, don’t humor the damn thing.” She bit her lip, brows furled. “Actually, don’t even look at it.”

  “It’s a donkey,” Azaiel said.

  Rowan snorted and shook her head. “It’s one mean son of a bitch. If I were you guys, I’d do as Hannah says and ignore Leroy.”

  The SUV’s passenger door opened, and Rowan moved out of the way, sliding alongside Azaiel. She then turned and watched in silence as Marie-Noelle exited the large Suburban and stared up at the main house. Mikhail was at her side, and Rowan assumed by the way he hovered over her that their relationship was more intimate than watcher and . . . and what? What exactly was her mother to this creature?

  Marie-Noelle turned then, and Rowan’s throat constricted as she observed the many emotions that ran across her mother’s face.

  “Something’s wrong,” Marie-Noelle whispered harshly.

  Rowan opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, her mother tugged her hand from Mikhail’s and ran toward the house, a tortured cry drifting back to them.

  “Mother.”

  The fist that had been playing havoc with Rowan’s guts all evening turned, sharply and with a heavy hand. She clenched her jaw tightly, hating the dread that now kept her company. She’d not told her mother about Cara.

  Marie-Noelle yanked on the door and was immediately greeted by Cedric. The old man’s arms wrapped her in a hug that lingered, as if the woman were his own child. His gnarled hands held her tight, and he whispered into her ear, drawing her close when she would have collapsed.

  The gargoyle stood to the side of the steps and seemed unsure, while Priest and Nico stood in silence beside him.

  The woman’s sobs were heartbreaking, her small wails quieted by the whisperings of the man who held her. They cut through the gray morning like a blade through flesh, and it hurt to listen to her pain.

  Azaiel couldn’t watch, and so he turned, his eyes wandering over the tops of the trees that lined the property. He wanted to look anywhere but up to that porch. Her pain reminded him too much of his own . . . of things lost and regrets that would never heal.

  “Shit,” Hannah whispered as she ran past Azaiel toward the house.

  “She doesn’t know.” Rowan’s voice was subdued. “About Nana.”

  It said something, that Hannah and Cedric comforted Marie-Noelle while her own daughter watched from the shadows.

  A light went on in the RV that tethered the donkey, and seconds later a petite brunette appeared. She pushed small, round glasses off the end of her nose and tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear. A riot of shoulder-length curls framed an interesting face—wide forehead, small bow mouth, and large, expressive eyes.

  “Terre.” Rowan took a step forward and halted. It was obvious she was unsure, and once more Azaiel was reminded that the family dynamics at play here were convoluted.

  Terre stepped down and glanced toward the house, sniffling as she did so and wiping her nose with a Kleenex.

  “You didn’t tell her?” Accusation rang in Terre’s voice, and something puffed up in Azaiel’s chest when he saw pain flicker across Rowan’s face.

  “There hasn’t exactly been time for niceties,” he inserted as he took a step forward.

  “Niceties?” Terre turned incredulous eyes his way. “Niceties? Are you kidding me?” She shook her head and looked at Rowan. “How could you not tell Auntie Marie that her own mother was dead?”

  The woman at his side was silent, but the pain in her eyes was long gone and had been replaced with a coldness that didn’t belong. It sucked the warmth from her, turning the azure blue of her eyes into winter cold.

  “She isn’t just dead, Terre. She was brutally murdered.” Rowan gestured toward the house. “In that kitchen with no one there to protect her.” Her voice trembled slightly. “She was slaughtered like an animal, and I don’t even have a body to hold. I don’t have anyone to say good-bye to.” She arched her brow. “Though they left behind a lot of blood in case you were wondering. I should know, I had to clean it up.” She cocked her head and smiled, cruelly. “Nana meant more to me than anything else in this world. Do you understand what that means? Did you really think I was going to discuss her murder on a ride back from the insane asylum?” She clenched her hands, and the ground beneath his feet shifted. “With the woman who gave up on all of us years ago?”

  Terre’s chin went up, and Azaiel realized these women were not afraid of confrontation. In fact, it seemed as if they sought it out.

  “I think,” Terre began carefully as she flexed her fingers and moved forward, “that you want your mother to hurt more than she already does.”

  “You’re full of shit,” Rowan said stiffly.

  “Am I?”

  The ground quaked some more, while overhead, clouds erupted with flashes of energy. Azaiel heard rumblings from Priest, and Nico swore. He stepped between the two women, hoping like hell neither one made a move that would burn his ass.

  “I don’t think now’s a good time to point fingers,” Azaiel said as he glanced from Rowan to Terre. “Especially fingers juiced up with witch mojo.”

  “And you are?” Terre bit out.

  “A friend,” he answered softly.

  Her eyes narrowed, but she backed away from Rowan.

  A second woman emerged from the remaining RV and strolled over in a T-shirt that barely covered her ass. Long, trim legs moved gracefully as bare feet picked their way over the cold earth. DIXIE CHICK was emblazoned across her chest, the large, silvery letters doing a lot to enhance her generous . . . assets.

  She rubbed sleep from her eyes, stretched her arms above her chest, and Azaiel actually held his breath, wondering if the woman was clothed beneath her T-shirt, only dragging his gaze from the tops of her thighs when Rowan cursed. The woman tossed a headful of long dark hair over her shoulder—one of which was bare, showing a lot of creamy skin.

  Rowan exhaled and stepped away. “Vicki, I’m not in the mood for the two of you to tag team the whole blame thing on me.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that.” Vicki shot a dark look at Terre. “I’m sure my sister has more than enough guilt and blame to throw around for all of us. It’s what she does.” The woma
n turned his way and made no effort to hide the interest that widened her eyes to large ice blue jewels. She held out her hand and, after a pause Azaiel offered his own.

  “A name would be good,” she purred.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Vicki. His name is Azaiel, and for the duration of his stay in Salem, he’s off-limits.”

  Azaiel glanced down at Rowan. Her hands were bunched, her face fierce. She nodded toward the RV. “And keep Leroy away from the rest of them or . . .”

  “The rest of them?” Vicki moved to her right and licked her lips as she gazed behind them, a seductive smile breaking wide. “Oh my God, Rowan, did you hijack an America’s Got Hot Men bus or what?”

  The donkey brayed, and Azaiel couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the damn thing had said, suckers!

  Rowan made a weird noise, muttered, “stay away from her” in his general direction, and disappeared into the darkness that still lingered around the edges of the house.

  It was, Azaiel thought, one of the most bizarre evenings he’d ever known. He eyed the donkey, whose large, moist eyes had settled on him with an intensity that was unnerving, and decided that Rowan was right. He aimed to stay the hell out of its way.

  “She’s always been a bit overly dramatic. You need a coffee or something?” Vicki’s seductive drawl was impressive. “I just put a pot on and don’t mind sharing.”

  The invitation wasn’t subtle, amplified by Terre’s disgusted huff before she disappeared inside her RV.

  And yet it did nothing for him.

  “Thanks but I’m good.” Azaiel nodded and before he’d even thought about it turned to follow in Rowan’s footsteps.

  Chapter 17

  He found her among the large oak trees that bordered the back of the property. The smell of damp, rotting leaves hung in the air, while the crisp morning left a blanket of powdery white frost over everything.

  She stood a few feet away, shoulders hunched forward, arms wrapped around her body as if trying to find what warmth she could. There was something forlorn about Rowan that tore another chunk of the hard part inside him away. He felt it crack like a physical snap of bones, and he clenched his hands, trying to calm whatever the hell it was stirring inside him.

  He didn’t much care for feelings of any kind, so he quickly clamped down on the ball inside his chest and cleared his mind.

  The old trees stood like silent men at arms, their generous span of branches cloaked in shadow but illuminated from behind by the ever-lightening sky. Along the ground fog snaked across the earth, seeking shelter from the coming sun, which would dissipate the smokelike tendrils as soon as they met.

  Rowan turned slightly, aware of his presence, and he was struck once more by her delicate bone structure, the high cheekbones, small nose, and graceful curve to her chin. She was wholly feminine and a study in contrast.

  A beautiful princess in need of rescue. A powerful witch who could kick ass along with the best of them. It’s what made her so interesting. Rowan James was made up of many, many layers, and lucky was the man who’d one day have the time to delve through them.

  The mysterious Kellen entered his thoughts, and Azaiel frowned, wondering once more as to the nature of their relationship. The thought of intimacy between the two left a taste in his mouth he didn’t like, which was ridiculous. He had no claim on Rowan.

  “I’m going to apologize now for my family, then you’ll never hear me speak to their craziness again, because trust me . . . it’s never-ending.”

  Azaiel paused, a few feet behind her. He cleared his throat. “They seem . . .” He thought of the donkey and an unbidden smile crossed his face. “A little eccentric.”

  Rowan shook her head. “You have no idea.” She took a step forward and bent down—he couldn’t help it, his gaze followed the line of her body and rested on the feminine curve of her butt. The jeans she wore fit her like a glove—he envisioned his hands there, him behind her, and his groin tightened uncomfortably.

  Azaiel grimaced but was unable to tear his gaze away.

  She righted herself, a yellowed, waxy oak leaf in her hand, and twirled it absently between her fingers, studying it closely as if it held the many secrets she sought.

  She turned toward him suddenly. “We hardly agree on anything from politics to music to”—she held the leaf aloft-“what color this leaf is.” Rowan stared at it closely, still twirling it between her fingers. “I’d call this butter cream, but Vicki would call it gold and Terre?” She shook her head. “She’d have some fancy name for it . . . sun-ripened ash . . . blah blah blah.”

  Her brows furled, and Azaiel thought he saw a hint of tears in their recesses.

  “Abigail would call it yellow because at the end of the day that’s what it is. And Hannah wouldn’t give a flying . . . duck”—she snorted and muttered—“because she doesn’t swear anymore.”

  She looked up suddenly. “Do you have family? Brothers? Sisters?”

  The question took him unaware, and, for a moment, Azaiel was silent. He thought of Askelon and the others from the original seven. They were family. Blood of his blood and yet, he’d not felt a connection to them in eons, save for Askelon. But even that connection was tenuous. Untested. Askelon believed in Azaiel, it’s just that Azaiel wasn’t sure he deserved such devotion.

  “I have . . . brothers but my situation is complicated.”

  She nodded. “Oh I get that, trust me. Families are messy. Just when I think I’m fine on my own, something like this happens, and I realize when all is said and done, family . . . blood is the only thing that matters.” Her eyes dropped to the ground. “I haven’t seen much of my cousins over the last five years, and yet our bond is as strong as ever.” She paused, chewed her lip, and frowned. “I didn’t know that until now.”

  She glanced up, and he was struck by the sharpness in her glittery eyes. Her hair hung past her shoulders, a riot of crimson tangles that set off her creamy skin to perfection. She was earth and sun and moon all wrapped into one hell of a sexy package.

  “I’ve missed them so much. I know it doesn’t seem like it because all we seem to do is bicker but . . . Terre and Vicki are twins, which I’m sure is hard for you to believe. They shared the same womb, the same DNA, but not much else. Terre studied botany at Stanford while Vicki danced on Broadway in New York. She has a weakness for musicians.” Rowan’s eyes darkened. “Or any male who’s a plus five.”

  “Plus five?”

  “Her standards have never been, shall we say . . . high.” Rowan smiled. “When we were teens, we’d rate guys, with everyone starting out as a one and we added points. You know, body, smile, hair, personality . . . of course.” She raised an eyebrow. “We could always take away points, too.”

  “So a plus five is in the middle?”

  “You got it. Plus ten is the highest you can score.” She shrugged. “There weren’t a lot of plus tens in Salem, that’s for sure.” She paused and nodded toward the house. “Abigail is as crazy as Hannah.”

  Great. As if one crazy witch wasn’t enough to deal with. “I hope she’s not packing a bagful of extraextra specials.”

  Rowan laughed at that. “No. That’s not Abigail’s thing. She’s more of a healer. I think she would have just about died if she’d shot you the other day.”

  Good to know. He decided he liked Abigail, sight unseen.

  “And Kellen?” He asked the question that had been at the back of his mind all night and watched her closely.

  Her expression changed—she glanced away, lips tightened. Gone was any lightness that had been there. His jaw clenched as he waited for her answer. The man meant a lot to her.

  “I don’t want to talk about Kellen,” she said carefully.

  Small puffs of mist shot from her nostrils, and as his eyes adjusted to the changing shadows her features sharpened. Their eyes met and held, and the silence became a heavy, living thing that wrapped them both in a cocoon of their own making. It was intimate. Secretive.

  He was aware wh
en her breathing changed. When her pupils dilated and her heart rate sped up.

  “Rowan—”

  “Have you ever felt like doing something you know you shouldn’t?” A long wisp of hair blew across her face. His gaze lingered there as she tucked it behind her ear.

  He knew where she was going. Hell he wanted to follow her, but it was a dangerous path—for both of them. Azaiel paused for a few seconds. Gathered his thoughts. “If you have to question whether something is right or wrong Rowan, always go with wrong.”

  She licked her lips, slowly, with care, and still their eyes never left each other’s. “Why does wrong feel so . . . right sometimes?”

  They were approaching a line that shouldn’t be crossed. He felt it. Rowan knew it, and she didn’t give a damn. It was in the way her body moved as she took the remaining steps that separated the two of them, a graceful, seductive glide over the cold, wet leaves at her feet. Her scent reached his nostrils, and his body tightened even more, the blood rushing through his veins like a drug from a needle.

  “Wrong always feels right,” he answered woodenly. “It’s why hell is full of lost souls who weren’t strong enough.”

  Her mouth opened slightly, in a provocative, feminine way that drew his attention like a heat-seeking missile about to launch. He caught sight of her even, white teeth and the small, delicate, moist tongue that teased him with a peek. Her mouth was meant for sliding, for licking, nibbling, and moaning sounds of pleasure into a lover’s ear.

  Such need arose in Azaiel that the heat of it, the very rush of it through his body, was painful. He clenched his hands into fists as muscles tightened and strained even more. He grimaced—wanting her to leave—wanting her to slide against him and prolong the torture. It had been so long since he’d felt this kind of pain.

  This kind of need.

  He took a step back, suddenly thinking his chances were a hell of a lot better with the damn donkey. An arrogant ass he could handle, but Rowan? She was a different animal entirely, and this was a very, very bad idea. He’d hurt her. It’s the one thing he managed to do without fail. Hurt and disappoint.