King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel Page 4

  When she couldn’t stand the silence any longer, she let her hair fall and turned to him. He stared at her, his mouth tight, eyes hard. Something stirred within him. She felt the shift.

  After a few moments, she spoke. “Now do you understand?”

  Chapter 4

  The mark lay at the base of Rowan’s neck, a coiled snake ready to strike, its long, forked tongue pointed upward. It appeared dull, not at all like the luminescent ones he’d seen in the Hell realm, and there had been many. Azaiel frowned. The mark belonged to a demon lord—of that there was no doubt. But who? And why?

  He thought of the powerful presence he’d sensed earlier. Azaiel ran his hands over the day-old beard along his jaw. This wasn’t good. Things had just become a lot more complicated.

  “You must explain,” he said finally, as she let her curtain of hair fall back into place. She moved away from him, her limbs long and graceful, and leaned her hip against the kitchen table.

  “No.” She gazed at him, eyes as huge as saucers, her mouth pinched in anger. “I’m done sharing.” She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s your turn.”

  “My turn?” Her attitude intrigued him. “Is this a game?” He considered her words—knew he was going to have to give her something—but what to share? The League’s protection was paramount.

  “If this were a game, I’d have kicked your ass out of here last night, and you would never have seen it coming.” Her eyes flashed. “If this were a game, my Nana wouldn’t be dead, and my mother . . .” She shook her head savagely. “This is no game. This is life and death, and the curse ends here. Right now. With me.”

  “Curse?” Azaiel didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Shut up. I’m asking the questions.” Her chest heaved, and Azaiel couldn’t help but notice the strain of the thin T-shirt against the soft roundness of her breasts. She was slim, with the lines of a dancer, but her curves were all woman. Breasts that were more than a handful, hips that rounded nicely, and a butt that filled out the worn jeans in a way any man would like.

  His body reacted instantly in a way that surprised him.

  He’d not felt desire—true physical desire—in more time than he cared to remember. The lust he’d felt for the eagle shifter Skye Knightly had been twisted, born from the darkness he’d fallen into. But this . . . this was something else entirely. It was not expected, and it made him wary.

  It brought to mind how weak he’d been in the past and the treacherous path he’d chosen. He would never let a woman get under his skin and steal his control again. Never.

  “Who sent you here?” She was angry. He saw this in her darkened eyes, which were now a shade past navy.

  Azaiel decided it couldn’t hurt to feed the little bird a few bread crumbs—a bit of the truth would suffice. “An old friend of your grandmother’s.”

  “Yeah, I got that last night, but it would sure as hell be nice to a have a name.”

  Energy erupted into the air around her. It shimmered around her head like a halo of red, and once more he sensed the true depth of her power. The James witches came from no ordinary line.

  “You would know him as Bill.”

  Her brow furled, and she repeated, “Bill?” She chewed her lip for a moment, brows furled in concentration. “Would Bill be a short, fat, round little guy? With a motormouth and an insane candy addiction?”

  “That would be the one,” Azaiel answered dryly. If she only knew what Askelon’s human facade hid, she wouldn’t be so cavalier. But he supposed that was the very reason that Askelon—or Bill as he was known in the human realm—paraded around in such ill-equipped human skin. He wanted no one to know what really flowed inside his veins.

  “I haven’t seen him in years.” She ran her fingers along the top of the kitchen table. “I just thought he was some eccentric guy who was sweet on Nana.”

  Rowan looked up at him suddenly. “What are you?” There was suspicion in her voice. He heard it in her words and saw the way it colored her eyes even darker. “You’re otherworld, but I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

  Outside, sunlight played upon the window, casting vignettes of shadow that fell from the trees to parade across the windowsill. It was a beautiful fall day. Not a cloud in the sky, and the sunshine was golden. The brightness of it called to a part of his soul that was long dead. The part of him most thought was beyond redemption.

  Except for Bill, of course.

  “Hello?” Rowan spoke sarcastically and waved her hand in front of Azaiel’s face.

  “I am Seraphim.”

  She was surprised though quick to hide her reaction. “Seraphim,” she repeated. “As in Angels?”

  Azaiel’s face darkened as his thoughts turned to his past. “Humans would call us that, but simply put, Angels is too broad a term. Like the humans who populate this realm, we are many different kinds—different breeds if you will.” He shrugged. “Seraphim are the most powerful sect in existence, and I’m one of the original seven.” He said the words not to be boastful but because they were the truth. The thought of his betrayal and subsequent fall drew a scowl. His eyes flashed, and he took a step toward her. “There is nothing angelic about me.”

  For a moment only silence accompanied the whistle of wind and the moaning protest of the old house.

  “Bill sent you here because he knew my grandmother was already dead.” She gazed at him intently, blue eyes glued to gold.

  “Yes,” he answered simply. “Bill asked me to find the person responsible for your grandmother’s death. He cared deeply for her, which is why I won’t leave until I have an answer for him.”

  And until I know Cara’s death isn’t related to her association with the League.

  “Is he . . .” She frowned. “Is he like you? How did he know she’d been killed?”

  Azaiel shook his head. “That I can’t answer, but it should be enough that I’m here and willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

  She bristled at that. “I don’t need you to keep me safe. In case you didn’t notice last night, I’m more than capable of kicking ass when I need to. I might be a little rusty, but it won’t take me long to get up to speed.”

  The lady had spunk. Azaiel had to give her that. He nodded. “I meant no disrespect.” He took a step toward her. “It’s my turn, no?”

  She shrugged but remained silent.

  “Who placed the mark upon you?”

  Azaiel watched the curve of her cheek as she turned to look out the window. She leaned her hands upon the faded, rust-colored countertop and sighed. It was a deep sigh, one filled with resignation, but judging by the jut of her chin, it was also filled with determination.

  She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “My ancestors fled Europe to avoid persecution and as fate would have it they ended up in Salem.” She snorted. “Can you believe it? And only a few months before the Salem witch trials broke out. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to live through that. The ignorance. The hatred. The fear. A whisper in the right person’s ear, a nod in that direction . . . a nudge.” She shook her head. “That’s all it took.”

  “So your family came under suspicion. Were they accused of witchcraft?”

  “No,” she said softly. “It never got that far. Agatha didn’t let it happen.” Rowan turned back to Azaiel. “Our family has gifts that are special, power that is stronger than most, but as I’m sure you know, everything comes with a price. To save us Agatha did something desperate. She called forth a demon. Of course, not just any demon would do.” She arched a brow. “Mallick.”

  Azaiel’s jaw clenched. In all the years he’d been below, he’d never met the mysterious demon lord—but he knew that Mallick was a sadistic son of a bitch. Even in his gilded prison, deep in the bowels of Hell, Azaiel had heard rumblings about the scope of his power.

  “She made a deal with him, and we’ve been paying its price ever since. He marked our coven.”

  He thought of Rowan’s words the
night before. “So this is about the coven.”

  “No, not entirely. It involves only our line—the James witches.” Rowan’s eyes were bright yet they were filled with a sadness that weighed them down. “He claimed Agatha that night, and has come for one of us every generation or so.”

  His eyes narrowed. “For what?”

  “Our blood and magick. He feeds from us. Uses us. Claims us in every way.”

  Azaiel swore, ancient speak that rumbled from his chest. Why would someone like Mallick need these witches? He was a powerful demon lord. It made no sense.

  Rowan ran her hand along the tabletop and gazed at the polished floor beneath her feet. The oak was buffed to perfection thanks to their efforts the night before. “The thought of him filled my mother with terror because she knew he’d come for her. There was no one else. My grandmother was too old for his purposes, and as you can imagine, our line thinned. Some of my ancestors refused to have children.” She laughed—a harsh echo that slipped into the empty air. “I can’t blame them. Why would you bring a child into the world knowing it might end up in the Hell realm, slave to that evil monster?” She was lost in thought, haunted by memories. “My mother was a bit of a rebel, which was Cara’s way of saying that she was a boozer and loose—if you know what I mean.”

  Azaiel didn’t know how to respond to that, so he remained silent.

  “She slept around. Didn’t look after herself.” She shrugged. “Marie-Noelle lived life like she was starving and the only thing that would fill her up were men, booze, drugs, and sex. She lived like she had no future and subsequently lost her reality. She did things . . .” A painful sigh escaped. “Things that no mother should ever do.” Her voice was wooden. “And now, here we are.”

  “You’ve been marked.” His words were not a question but a statement of fact.

  Rowan nodded. “By the time I was thirteen, she was really bad. Her mind wasn’t strong, and her body was weak from years of abuse. She’d disappear for days, and none of us knew where she’d been. Cara was more a mother to us than she ever was.”

  “Us?” he asked, but she continued as if she’d not heard him.

  “When he came for her, she was wasted. High on something illegal.” She paused as if lost in a memory. “He was so angry with her, and afterward, she wasn’t the same. I don’t know what he did to her exactly, but it scrambled her brains even more than they’d already been.”

  “Where is she?”

  “We locked her away, somewhere safe.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “An otherworld asylum. At least there they can deal with her special needs, and she won’t hurt anyone.”

  Azaiel understood. “So Mallick marked you instead.”

  “He would have taken Nana, but I begged him not to. How could I live without my grandmother?” She smiled—a bitter whisper of a smile. “Nana was furious with me, but it wasn’t the first time I defied her. I was a bit of a bad seed myself.” She hunched her shoulders. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  He found that hard to believe. The woman before him seemed well put together and in control.

  Silence fell between them, and Azaiel let it pass as he watched Rowan closely. Her young face was tight with memory and tragedy. The tears that reflected like mirrors in her eyes remained unshed. The girl was strong, and considering what she’d just imparted, she was going to have to remain so. Mallick was no bottom feeder. He was pretty much the top of the food chain down below.

  It changed everything.

  “He marked me as his property.” She sneered. “Said he’d come for me when I was older.” She ran her hand through the tumble of hair at her nape, her voice bitter as she spoke. “He was gracious enough to let me have more time to develop my powers.”

  “A demon’s mark, especially the kind put down by one with as much power as Mallick, can’t be denied. And yet he searches for you.” Azaiel thought of the dullness to it and arched a brow. “How have you managed to hide from him?”

  “Nana,” she whispered, “was exceptional. She conjured forth such magick I can still feel the caress of its power.” Rowan blinked several times and cleared her throat. “She closed the eye, and Mallick’s mark has been blind ever since. We thought . . . we hoped that it would be enough. That if he couldn’t find me, he’d turn his attention elsewhere, and we could find a way to break his claim on our family.”

  “Mallick is a formidable demon to call enemy.”

  She nodded. “He killed my grandmother because I was too weak and pathetic to stand up for myself. What was I thinking? I never should have left. Deep down I knew he wouldn’t stop until . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Azaiel stepped forward.

  “Until what?”

  “Until he finds me,” she spit out. “He’s hunted my family down like we’re animals, feeding off our blood and magick for hundreds of years, but it ends here.”

  “What are you planning?” He didn’t like the light that shone in her eyes. It spoke of pain, reckless anger—and that could prove dangerous.

  Rowan pushed away from the table, crossed to the sink, and ignored his question. She grabbed the empty vase off the counter and headed toward the door. Azaiel let her leave and once she was outside grabbed his cell phone. Bill needed to know what they were dealing with.

  The phone was answered before it even had a chance to ring.

  “Cale.”

  Azaiel frowned. “Are you now Askelon’s secretary?”

  Cale ignored the sarcasm. “What did you learn?”

  “I need to speak to Bill.” Azaiel owed his life to the head of the League. Simply put, he would do anything for the powerful Seraphim leader. His brother.

  “He’s no longer at The Pines and will be off the grid for a while. He’s doing a little digging of his own.”

  The Pines was a protected sanctuary, close to the Canadian/American border, where members of the League could gather in safety. The town wasn’t large, barely two hundred humans called it home, but it was their base in the human realm.

  Azaiel’s lips thinned. The less he had to do with Cale, the better. None in the League had welcomed him with open arms. He knew of their animosity—their distrust—and sadly couldn’t blame them.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Azaiel, there’s always a problem. Some just matter more than others.” Azaiel’s frown deepened. He was going to have to adjust Cale’s attitude. He clenched his hand and smiled—a dark, dangerous glint lighting up his eyes at the thought.

  “Mallick is our problem now.” Silence greeted his words, and Azaiel knew the severity of the situation was not lost on Cale.

  “Shit,” was the gruff response.

  “Thought that would get your attention.”

  “Has the League been breached?”

  “I don’t know. At this point the only thing I’m sure of is that Cara’s granddaughter has been marked by Mallick, and he’s coming for her. Whether Cara got in the way and was murdered in anger is anyone’s guess.”

  “We need to know if Mallick has more than the granddaughter on his radar.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Damn, but I’d love to kick that son of a bitch’s ass.”

  “Sounds personal.”

  “It is.” There was no hesitation, but then a pause. “Did you have dealings with Mallick when you were on vacation in Hell? Is your identity safe? Wouldn’t be smart if he finds out the Fallen is prowling the streets of Salem.”

  “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “Good. You’re not going to be able to deal with this on your own. If he wants Rowan James, nothing will stop him, and I’m sure you can appreciate the kinds of monsters he has in his employ. Unfortunately, I can’t join the party as he and I have an interesting history.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Glad to see our lines of communication are so open,” Azaiel murmured.

  “I’ll send backup as soon as
I can. Just not sure how long it will take to rustle up a crew.”

  “More like, no one wants to work with the Fallen?” Azaiel responded dryly.

  “Well, there is that. Hold on.” Cale yelled to someone in the background, and Azaiel heard shouting, some loud grunts, and a crash that had him holding the cell phone inches from his ear.

  “Trouble?”

  “Nah, just a couple of blockheads reenacting the latest UFC fight. Samael is bored.”

  Azaiel didn’t reply because he had no clue what UFC was.

  “All right. I’ll see what I can dig up on Mallick and the James witches. In the meantime, hold tight, and I’ll send a team ASAP.”

  The line went dead, and Azaiel pocketed the cell phone. He moved toward the sink and peered out the window. Sunshine spilled through thick, fluffy clouds, finding its way to the earth and kissing the vibrant colors of fall in a soft glow.

  Vines crawled along the trellis, their once-soft green leaves already turning dull brown, and in the corner of the yard, large stalks of corn swayed in the breeze as pumpkins littered the patch beside them. It was no longer a time for flowers and soft pastels. The yard was filled with oranges and reds of every shade. Leaves whistled by the window, falling from the huge oak trees that bordered the property. In the distance he spied Rowan, vase in hand, filled with cattails, twigs, and sunflowers.

  An interesting combination.

  Her hair looked as if it were on fire, and he found himself mesmerized by the fluid movement of her limbs as she meandered through the garden. There was a loneliness to the picture she presented, and it pulled at a melancholy rooted deep within him.

  Azaiel pushed away from the counter abruptly. It was time to come up with a plan, but first . . .

  He turned around and came face-to-face with an elderly black man. The newcomer’s short, coarse hair was peppered with gray, and his small frame was lean and whipcord hard. He wore a bright red-and-white-checked shirt tucked into faded jeans held up by a thick leather belt that had seen better days. His nose was sprinkled with dark freckles, his mouth thinned into a grimace.