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

  “Don’t be so grumpy,” she shot back.

  For the hundredth time he cursed Priest’s insistence that he patrol with Rowan, yet there’d been no choice. At least one of the League had to stay close to Rowan. Just in case.

  His gut tightened.

  Just in case Mallick himself showed. There was no way they could let the demon lord anywhere near Rowan. If he managed to get his slimy hands on her, the game would change yet again.

  And it could cost Rowan James her life.

  “Azaiel, we need to move out.” She was much too close to him, and he moved away, wanting only distance and peace.

  “Wait for my signal,” he growled.

  “Who said you were in charge?”

  There was the attitude he’d been waiting for. He needed her to focus on the danger at hand. His arm shot out, and he gripped her tightly, turning so that she felt the full extent of his anger. He was done playing her game. Done with her fantasy imaginings. What was the point?

  “I am in charge,” he growled. “This isn’t a game, witch. You may think you’re the alpha in this whole mess”—her cheeks reddened at his comment—“but make no mistake, you’re just a little girl in over her head. If you want to survive this . . . if you want your family, your lover”—he ground out the words—“to survive this, then you’d better learn to take orders and listen the fuck to me.” Azaiel bent low until his breath warmed her cheeks. “Are we clear on this?”

  She yanked her hand away. “Lover? What are you—”

  A low moan drifted between them, one filled with anticipation and darkness. They both whirled around. “Shit.” Rowan muttered. She took off running down the street.

  Azaiel swore, several ancient words falling from his lips as he strode toward the drama now playing out. A young couple, out for a night of partying, was now surrounded by four sand demons. Their human eyes couldn’t quite see what hid amongst the shadows, but they sure as hell sensed the danger.

  The young woman clung to her boyfriend or husband’s hand, tugging at her long blond hair nervously as they turned in a circle. They stumbled, obviously drunk, making it incredibly easy for the demons to lure them into a trap.

  Rowan was almost upon them, and she yelled loudly, her voice echoing into the night wind. “Hey, assholes, why don’t you pick on someone who can actually fight back?” She’d withdrawn a sidearm—one of her charmed guns from what he could see—and aimed it at the sand demon closest to the couple. She quickly fired off several rounds, and the woman screamed loudly, backing away and dragging her husband straight into the two demons behind them.

  Their mouths opened wide, and a strange melody drifted in the air. It was a hypnotic blend of notes designed to lull a potential victim into a state of paralysis.

  The sand demon closest to Rowan—the one she’d shot at—howled in pain, his head morphing into a swirl of sand and mist. It was a quick repair, and seconds later the demon had grown several inches and stared down at Rowan, with beady, bloodred eyes.

  She was furiously drawing a charm into the air—small luminescent designs appeared like whispers of smoke—but she wasn’t fast enough.

  Azaiel shouted to gain its attention, as he armed himself with a couple of his own, extraextra specials. He spoke in an ancient tongue, one he knew the demon would understand.

  “Leave now or die.”

  The tallest demon—the one closest to Rowan—paused and turned his massive head toward Azaiel. It smiled, a blatant sign that it had no fear. It was all Azaiel needed. “Actually, we’re just going to go with . . . die. Open wide, you ugly son of a bitch.” He ran forward and shot one of his grenades down the bastard’s throat.

  Rowan dove away and grabbed for the couple but only managed to get hold of the male. She rolled to the side, taking him down with her, and Azaiel scooped up the woman, as he tossed grenades at the remaining demons. He managed to get two of them, but the third whirled away, just out of reach.

  The two he’d caught exploded, and force of it sent him flying though he used his body to shield the woman from the brunt of the blast. The air filled with the putrid scent of burned demon flesh, and he set the woman aside, shoving her into a doorway. “If you want to live, you will not move. Understand?”

  She nodded, stunned and more than a little confused.

  “Rowan!” His eyes searched the darkness—the blast had taken out the streetlights on both corners. With the swirling bits of demon remains and the massive surge of sand, he couldn’t see shit.

  Azaiel scrubbed at his eyes, cursing madly—pissed at his lack of skills, at the powers that had been stripped from him. In another time and place he would have been able to kill these bastards sight unseen. He would have thought it, and it would have been done.

  The demon’s song reverberated and crashed into his brain. He felt the pull. The strength and determination, and it chilled him. This one had some legs on it.

  He charged toward where he thought Rowan might be and gritted his teeth as light filtered through the clouds of crap in the air. She was there, beams of light emanating from her hands as she shielded the man with her body. The sand demon rose above her, its mouth open wide, and the human male, so susceptible to the dark notes it sang, pushed forward, trying to move past Rowan.

  “Rowan!” She turned, pushed the man to the ground, and he tossed the remaining grenade at her. She caught it, spun around and threw it up at the creature.

  An incredible wailing noise erupted from within the beast, and Azaiel rushed forward, grabbed Rowan and pushed her backward as the demon exploded, blowing chunks of mist, sand, and guts all over the place.

  He felt the sting of shrapnel slice into his body. And then there was silence. Only the whistle of wind in his ear.

  She moved beneath him, and he rolled away, staring up at a clear night sky filled with twinkling diamonds. His back hurt like hell, but he knew it would pass. He’d been stripped of a lot of things, yes, but his ability to heal wasn’t one of them.

  “Are you all right?” Rowan sat up and leaned over him, her fingers on his face. The velvet sky was gone, replaced with a vision of red hair, blue eyes, and a mouth that he longed to touch.

  “I’m good.” His answer was curt. “Check on the humans.”

  She stared down at him for several seconds, then moved away, leaving only the cool wind to ruffle his hair as he got to his feet. The carnage was impressive. Azaiel reached into his jacket and pulled out a small bag containing fluid and a lighter. He bent down, aware that Rowan was somehow charming the couple—hopefully removing any remnants of memory—and he set the pile of demon waste to flame.

  It didn’t take long, maybe a few minutes at the most, and when it was done only he and Rowan stood on the darkened street.

  “That was . . .” she began and stopped, her eyes not quite meeting his.

  He reached over and plucked what looked to be bits of demon crap out of her hair. Her scent was heightened, it filled the air and his lungs, teasing his nostrils with her earthy, sexy perfume.

  “That was pretty awesome,” she finished, this time looking up into his eyes and smiling wide. “You have to admit, we do make a good team.”

  Watch yourself, Azaiel.

  His gaze lingered on her lips. “Let’s go,” he said abruptly. He needed to move. To kill and maim. As long as he had that on his plate he couldn’t think about her. Couldn’t think about how she’d felt beneath him. Of how she’d tasted.

  He strolled down the street, ignoring her shouts, and rounded the corner. A sliver of darkness lingered in the air. A hint of decadence that got his attention. A crowd had gathered near the far corner, their silhouettes black against the soft glow from the lights above them.

  The WITCHES BREW sign flashed neon red. He headed toward the crowd and shoved his way through, aware that Rowan was fast on his heels and yelling madly.

  He couldn’t explain his anger. Or actions. And at the moment didn’t care to. He pushed his way inside, ignored the doorman, and ente
red a world unlike the Salem he’d encountered so far.

  The Witches Brew was located in the shell of an old building that looked to have been a warehouse at one time.

  Rowan yanked on his arm. “We shouldn’t be here.”

  He ignored her and moved forward. Neon lights in pink, green, and blue were strung along the exposed brick walls, with Gothic paintings as decor. Exposed ductwork crept across the high ceiling, and along the far wall was a bar that ran the length of the building.

  The club was dark, hot, filled with all kinds of scents and all kinds of bodies. Sex and lust lingered in the air like day-old cigarettes.

  He sensed several otherworld creatures right away though he focused on the closest. A tall vampire leaned against the bar, surrounded by a trio of adoring human women. One sat on his lap, her breasts nearly falling from the low-cut blouse unbuttoned to her waist. Two small puncture marks stood out along her neck, while the other women clung to his sides as if he were a rock star, waiting their turn.

  The vamp nodded at him, and as far as Azaiel could tell he’d not broken any covenants. He sensed no thrall, and the women seemed willing.

  “This place is a safe house,” Rowan whispered. “It’s been years since I’ve been in here, but the humans that come know exactly what they’re in for. I tried to tell you . . .”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That we shouldn’t have come here.”

  “I see,” he said tightly, his gaze fixed upon the dance floor and the writhing bodies that moved to the hypnotic beat provided by—what else? An otherworld band comprised of shifters and vampires.

  The singer, a witch, had a voice Etta James would envy, and her coffee-colored skin glistened against the soft glow from the candles that lit the stage around her. Her hair hung down to her waist, in long strands of caramel braids, and her eyes locked onto Azaiel, their dark brown depths glittering, her plump red lips wet and inviting.

  She sang a note, one that was full of rapture, and he felt the pull of her sexuality as surely as if she’d rubbed her voluptuous curves against his skin.

  “She’s throwing her magick at us, Azaiel,” Rowan said hoarsely. “She wants you. She wants me.”

  He was hot and pulled his gaze from the witch, only to settle upon two shifters—werewolves by the looks of it—engaged in a very public display of sex. They were in the corner and though shadows fell over them, he knew by the way they moved—slowly, back and forth—exactly what they were doing.

  Suddenly he was surrounded by bodies—hot writhing bodies—and Rowan was crushed to his frame. The music slowed, the melody became darker, more provocative, and before he could stop himself, he pulled her in close. He held her, moved with her as her arms slipped around his waist.

  The beat was inside him, a living, breathing thing, and it set every single cell in his body on fire with need and want.

  Rowan moved against him, sensually, her soft belly pressed tight to his erection, and he groaned as her hands slid up to his chest. He stared down at her. Into her large, expressive eyes, the small nose and lips that were enough to make anyone insane.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” he whispered, lowering his head.

  “I know.” Her tongue peeked out from between her teeth, and he sighed harshly, his hands sliding down to her rounded butt. “It’s her . . . Alexis . . . the witch. She’s a sex witch . . . a succubus.”

  “I don’t care.” Azaiel’s lips grazed her mouth, and her scent was everywhere. Erotic images played out in his mind. Rowan, beneath him. On top of him. Naked. Writhing amongst this crowd as he entered her. As his cock swelled and filled her. As she moaned and cried out his name.

  The couple beside them began to doff their clothes, and others followed suit. The woman’s top disappeared, her pert breasts claimed by her partner’s mouth as he grabbed at her skirt and hiked it over her hips.

  Azaiel couldn’t look away. He wasn’t strong enough.

  The woman wrapped her legs around her lover, and he entered her with one, quick thrust that brought an immediate whimper from the woman. They moved back and forth, their bodies joined. Right there beside Azaiel and Rowan.

  Rowan’s hand was at his crotch. Her fingers seeking, rubbing, and he swelled beneath her touch.

  What the hell was happening?

  “Oh God, Azaiel. I tried to warn you. I can’t stop.”

  His tongue sought the refuge of her mouth, and he ate the words unspoken. We shouldn’t have come here.

  He slid inside her warmth, his mouth plundering, stroking, and he found that he couldn’t get enough. She tasted like honey and cinnamon, and when she groaned into his mouth, he gripped her tighter and picked her up so that she clung to him, her feet several inches off the ground.

  The feel of her thrilled and excited him, as did the smell of sex and lust and danger. The song in his head magnified, and as his mouth trailed kisses down her neck, he found himself reaching for her jacket. The need to both touch and see her skin clawed at him, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, very much like the couple who fucked beside them.

  Each movement of the man’s hips plunged his body deeper into that of his partner, and their groans of pleasure rang in Azaiel’s head.

  “I knew you would feel like this,” Rowan whispered, her hands inside his jacket, her palms beneath his T-shirt. “So hard.” She bent and kissed his collarbone. “And perfect.”

  “I’m far from perfect,” he answered harshly as he gazed up at her. Long tendrils of hair clung to her moist skin, and he angled his head, smiled wickedly, and claimed a nipple through the thin cotton of her shirt.

  Her hands crept into his hair, and she held him there, her hips gyrating against him as the music continued to swirl. The moans and cries of pleasure from everyone around him swam in his head. It intensified the need to bury himself inside Rowan, and the sensation was near painful.

  He’d never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted Rowan James at that moment. Not even Toniella, the woman responsible for his stay in Hell—for his fall from grace—had made him feel like this. She’d been an obsession. Rowan was something else entirely.

  The band sped up, the guitars, the bass, and keyboards, all blending into a mad, chaotic melody of sex and lust. Alexis moved through the crowd—even though she never left the stage—her voice touched them all, her sexual appetites filled everyone with the need to mate. To have sex and conquer their most base desires.

  Azaiel watched the vampire feed openly from the human female upon his lap as he settled her against him. Her skirt was tangled around her waist, and the tantalizing view of her nakedness held Azaiel’s gaze. The vampire glanced up and smiled at him, his hands cupping the woman’s ass as he thrust into her. They rocked together in an erotic dance, and Azaiel looked away.

  Highly aroused. Highly disturbed.

  He gripped Rowan tightly, trying like hell to gather his thoughts. To find himself amongst the chaotic music.

  This was hedonism at its finest, and it called to him with an urgency he was helpless to fight.

  He set her on a table in the corner, but she squirmed away from him and knelt between his legs—her hands at his jeans, her fingers tugging at the zipper.

  “I need you now,” she said hoarsely, and he did nothing to stop her as she freed him from his pants. As she slid her fingers over the thick, straining length of him. As her lips, her wet, soft lips licked their way along his cock. As she took him into her mouth.

  “This is wrong,” he whispered, closing his eyes as she suckled and massaged him. His own words from before—his warning to her—echoed in his mind, but he paid no heed.

  Wrong always feels right. It’s why hell is full of lost souls who aren’t strong enough.

  He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the pleasure of her mouth. There was nothing but Rowan and Azaiel, there beneath the shadows and music. He thrust his hips at her. He let her take all of him into her mouth and knew he was lost. He’d never be able to stop.

  An
d he was right.

  There amongst the dark, seductive notes that fell from the succubus witch, amongst the straining crowd of human and otherworld, amongst the shadows shared by so many weak souls . . .

  Azaiel lost his mind.

  Chapter 20

  He tasted like heaven, and the feel of him in her hands—in her mouth—filled her with such power that for a second Rowan was overwhelmed. The music filled her head, and each sultry note liquefied, melted her defenses.

  Her only thought was to give Azaiel as much pleasure as she could.

  She wanted to take him to the brink and fall over the edge with him. He strained against her, large, muscular, and so very, very male. He was beauty and strength. Lust and passion.

  Words she didn’t understand fell from him as he approached the edge, and when he climaxed—when he came for her, he let loose a torrent of ancient speak that made her heart beat faster.

  His hands were everywhere after that, and as the pressure built inside her body, she whimpered. All rational thought had fled. There was only Azaiel. And pleasure. And the darkness that hid the music.

  He ripped at her clothes, his mouth on her breasts as he pushed her back against the table. He was there between her legs, his hands beneath the waistband of her jeans, his mouth and tongue driving her crazy.

  There were no words. Only his body over hers. His rough breaths as his chest heaved. The growl that rumbled in his throat as he flicked his tongue across her turgid nipples.

  “You tempt me like no other,” he said, then his mouth was on hers, his tongue inside. Seeking. Touching. Tasting. Her legs fell wide, and his hand was there, her zipper loosened, her jeans halfway down her hips. His long fingers sought the slick heat, which ached and throbbed, and when he plunged inside her, she lost all conscious thought.

  Rowan’s head fell back, and she was aware of straining bodies in the shadows. Of grunts of pleasure and watching eyes that lingered. It excited her, and the pressure built so hard inside that it made her cry out.

  She wanted Azaiel inside her. Here. On this table. In this club. She felt as if she were losing her mind, and the witch’s song burned into her brain. A slow, seductive melody she’d never forget.