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

  Either way he had no time to dwell on such things.

  “We’ve lingered too long,” he said roughly. Rowan’s mouth was inches from his, the small pink tongue he’d grown to appreciate licking her generous bottom lip as her forehead crinkled in concentration.

  “Let me help you up.” Rowan hooked her arms through his, but he shrugged out of her grasp, swearing once more as he did so. Son of a bitch. So much for the numbed shoulders.

  Once upright, he cracked his neck and for the first time saw a deep laceration down Rowan’s right cheek. Unbidden, his hand rose.

  “Seems as if you’ve a war wound as well.”

  She took a step back, cleared her throat, and his hand fell back to his side.

  “Its tongue got me,” she said huskily. “I’ll make a salve when we get back to Salem.” She offered a nervous smile. “It will be gone by tomorrow.”

  Hannah and Frank appeared, arms laden with weapons of all sorts and large bags that were equally full strung from their shoulders. “We’re ready.”

  Azaiel turned. “Let’s head out.”

  “Holy Mother of God.” Hannah’s whispered words stopped him cold.

  Azaiel cocked his head to the side, anger coursing through him as he caught sight of the horrified look on her face. “You’ve never seen a tattoo before?”

  “That’s a tattoo? I’ve never seen one like that before. Dude, I hope you got your money back,” Hannah answered.

  Rowan stepped beside him, her pale features pinched. “Azaiel, who did that to you?”

  Images of his body suspended in the air flashed before his eyes. Memories of the cold. The wet. The miserable. The desolate.

  The pain had been incredible, the sorcerer Cormac O’Hara who’d wielded his tools of torture, insane, and yet Azaiel was the Fallen—it had all been deserved.

  He stared down into her heart-shaped face. “No one you would know.”

  The door opened and he escaped into the cool air that lingered outside. The freshness of it slid over his heated flesh and for a moment he basked in the comfort it offered.

  Azaiel was bare from the waist up and though it was as cold as a winter morning, he felt nothing but fire. Whether it was fueled by the poison in his system or the rage that simmered beneath the surface was anyone’s guess.

  Azaiel had no time for a walk down memory lane. There would be all the time in the world for that later. At the moment, they still had a demon problem, and he knew that by nightfall, it would be much worse.

  The unnatural darkness still lingered, bathing the parking lot and Brick House in a thick blanket of mist. Frank and Hannah walked past him and stowed their gear in a shiny black pickup truck parked near the building. He nodded to Rowan. “Ride with them. I don’t want you exposed.”

  “No.”

  He turned to her, and lucky for the little witch he was able to clamp down on his anger. “You will do as I say and not question my authority.”

  Rowan hopped down the steps, grabbed an impressive-looking gun from her cousin, and started toward the far end of the now-empty parking lot, to where he’d parked the bike. “First off, Tarzan, you’re not the boss of me.”

  In two long strides Azaiel was beside her. “You will listen to me. Out in the open you’re a sitting target.”

  “That’s a lame-ass excuse, and you know it.” They were beside the bike now. “The demon can’t see me, Azaiel, remember?” She pointed to her neck. “The eye is closed. It makes more sense for me to ride back with you, so that when the bastard goes for Hannah, I can take him out.”

  She thrust her chin out as if daring him to take her on. The little witch was itching for a fight, and if he had the time, it would give him great pleasure to show her exactly how things were going to work.

  “This is my turf, Azaiel. Mine.” She squared her shoulders. “I didn’t ask for your help. Hell, I’m not even sure that I trust you one hundred percent, but if you’re determined to stick around”—she heaved an exasperated sigh—“if I let you stick around, you need to remember that I call the shots. Got it?” She jerked her head toward the idling truck. “They take orders from me, not you. Do you really want another shot of extraextra special? Huh?” Her eyes flashed with a dangerous glow. “ ’Cause next time, you might end up with a couple of bullets in the ass instead of the shoulder.”

  Azaiel had had enough. “We’ll finish this conversation when we reach Salem.”

  The air around him shimmered, and the ground at their feet shook as several large cracks split the concrete around them. He would lay things out for the witch, nice and simple-like, just not right now. There was no time. The remaining Replicatus was nearby.

  He tossed her a don’t fuck with me look and straddled the bike, the pain in his shoulder, the nausea, long forgotten as a wave of anger rolled over him. He nodded, a quick jerk of his head. “Get on.”

  She opened her mouth, but something in his eyes must have conveyed the danger in that action because she didn’t say a word and, instead, jumped on behind him. She signaled for Frank to move out, and Azaiel followed though he kept a good distance behind. Hopefully when the demon showed itself they’d have a good vantage point to take the damn thing out.

  The streets of Ipswich were strangely silent, and it seemed as if they were the only souls on the road. Thick, cold, gray mist covered everything, its long spidery fingers slithering along the ground like tentacles . . . tasting, searching.

  Azaiel’s skin was flush with sweat, and he gritted his teeth, fighting the nausea that still bothered him. Extraextra special my ass, he thought. Didn’t even come close. At the moment it felt like he’d been hit with Thor’s hammer.

  The truck turned left and as Azaiel approached the turn, the Replicatus demon swooped in from the shadows above and hovered overtop the Chevy. Rowan raised herself behind him, using her legs to steady herself as she aimed the rifle toward it.

  He kept the bike steady, watching as the demon’s robes began to bubble, and he knew they had seconds until the damn thing replicated itself, which would make the whole exercise much more dangerous.

  His eyes widened as Hannah slid halfway out the window, motioning toward the demon—taunting it—and as he approached rapidly from behind, he saw that she was giving it the one-finger salute that was widely used in the human realm.

  The demon’s mouth opened wide, and it bellowed, its focus only on Hannah. It never saw the shot. Rowan’s hand gripped his shoulder after she let two rounds go, and for a second the bike skittered out of control.

  The demon roared as they hurtled down the road, its safety net shattered, its anger unparalleled. It lunged toward Hannah, but she was ready and with one well-played swipe of a long, deadly saber, she separated the head from the body.

  Azaiel watched the head roll off to the side as the body exploded into a mess of demon roadkill. Within seconds, it would turn to ash.

  He gripped the handlebars, fingers so tight they cramped, and clenched his mouth tightly as the taste of cloves intensified. He would hold on, but damn, it was going to test his strength.

  As the bike sped through the late afternoon, behind them the strange cloud that had hovered over Ipswich and beyond slowly evaporated, leaving all as it had been.

  Chapter 10

  They pulled into The Black Cauldron about forty-five minutes later. Driving through Salem had been a chore. Traffic was thick, hordes of tourists littered the sidewalks, and a general sense of chaos prevailed. It wasn’t in-your-face but had a more subtle vibe—hidden in the smiles, shouts, and overanimated actions of many of the townspeople as well as the tourists.

  There was nothing natural about the atmosphere in Salem, and Rowan knew it signaled that the game had changed. Demons were close by—their presence was enough to ramp up the darkness that lingered in the air like a seductive whisper.

  And it was the whispers that humans found hard to resist.

  Have another drink and make sure you drive home, no one will get hurt.

  T
ake the woman up on her offer, your wife won’t know.

  Why should you pay for this? You deserve something for free.

  Things were happening much quicker than she’d anticipated. The sooner the coven was gathered the better. And then there was her mother to deal with.

  Rowan had clung gingerly to Azaiel the entire way home. He was still in pain—it was pretty obvious he favored his left shoulder—so she took care not to hurt him any more than he’d already been. She knew what magick charmed the bullets he’d been hit with—it was Hannah’s specialty—and she didn’t want to think about the kind of power it would take for someone to overcome that.

  Rowan made a silent vow to find out as much as she could about Azaiel and what he was capable of. She didn’t like being in the dark, and with the stakes so high, it wasn’t a good plan to enlist the aid of someone she wasn’t entirely sold on. She wasn’t scared of Azaiel, she just didn’t trust his motives—not yet, anyway.

  Her eyes rested on the wings that had been carved into his flesh. The macabre rendering stretched across the width of his shoulders—a raw, angry etching that drew a wince as she gazed at it.

  She couldn’t imagine the pain it would have caused, or the evil mind of whoever had done this to him.

  “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  They’d pulled in behind Frank, and the bartender frowned as he glanced toward the main house.

  Hannah hopped from the truck, and Rowan carefully slid from the Harley, careful not to touch Azaiel any more than she had to. There was a large, shiny, black Suburban parked beside her rental, and it sure as hell wasn’t Cedric’s. His small red beater was closer to the house.

  Rowan cocked the rifle in her hands and made sure her dagger was still tucked into the waist of her jeans. Power was close by—ancient power that reeked of otherworld. She glanced at Hannah just as two men appeared on her porch as if from thin air, their tall frames falling from shadow.

  The first one stepped down, and she eyed him with suspicion. He was large, broad of shoulder, with lean hips and long, muscular legs tucked into black boots. A distressed black-leather jacket, black T-shirt, and worn denim jeans dressed a body that was impressive. There were strange markings along the right side of his neck that drew her eyes. Tattoos of some sort, but from this distance she couldn’t make them out. Tribal perhaps?

  His features were bold, rugged—his eyes intense—but it was the blue Mohawk he sported that garnered the most attention—that and the piercings in his nose and ear. He was like a big-ass version of Gibson’s Road Warrior only ten times as dangerous. Ten times sexier. And he was otherworld.

  Rowan’s gaze penetrated his energy—shapeshifter to be exact.

  The second man moved past him, and Rowan swallowed slowly. He moved with predatory grace, his steps sure, his gaze unwavering.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Hannah shot a look toward Rowan. “What the hell is going on?” Hannah pointed toward Azaiel. “There are three of them? Three? Are we in some weird supernatural version of The Bachelorette or something?” Her cousin turned back to the strangers, who remained silent and more than a little intimidating. “They’re hot. Really hot . . . in a scary I’m gonna eat you for dinner kind of way.” Hannah grinned. “Do I get to pick one?”

  Rowan grimaced. Six years gone and Hannah hadn’t changed at all. At this point Rowan wasn’t sure these men were friendlies, and she was more than a little concerned about Cedric. Where the hell was he?

  She didn’t take her eyes from the tall, dark-haired man who slowly made his way toward her. He was strong-featured, with prominent cheekbones and a square jaw. More than a day’s worth of stubble graced his chin, and the thick head of hair, while dark, was shot through with strands of gray. His eyes were so light they appeared white, but as he moved closer, she saw the merest whisper of ice blue in their depths.

  He wore a long duster that swept the ground near his feet—it, too, was leather—seemed as if men who looked like that had some kind of dress code. Underneath he wore black military-type pants, heavy kick-ass boots, and a plain T-shirt with Five Finger Death Punch across his chest in large, red, metallic font.

  Rowan gripped the rifle in her right hand and squared her shoulders as he stopped in front of her. The energy inside her pulsed, and she let it simmer beneath the surface, ready to call upon in case she needed to. Her cheeks heated as he held her gaze for several long seconds, and she jumped when Azaiel spoke, his voice strained and rough.

  “Priest.”

  Rowan glanced back toward Azaiel. He’d slid from the bike and stood several feet away. With the late-afternoon sun shining down on him, dusting his thick blond hair in a halo of light, he looked exactly like what he was—a fierce warrior with ties to the upper realm.

  “Damn, this is like my birthday and Christmas morning wrapped into one yummy present,” Hannah said gleefully. “I haven’t seen this much beefcake since the last time Abigail and I went to the Foxes Den for her roommate’s bachelorette party. Mind you none of that beefcake can compare to—”

  “Seriously, Hannah?” Rowan glared at her cousin, aware that blue Mohawk man had descended the stairs as well and was only a few steps behind the man Azaiel had called Priest. “Can we tone it down? There are no hidden cameras, and this sure as hell isn’t a game.”

  “You look like shit,” the shapeshifter growled, his eyes cold as he glared at Azaiel.

  “I’ve had better days.” Azaiel’s words were frosted, and judging by the closed look in Priest’s eyes, there was no love lost between these men.

  An uneasy feeling coiled in Rowan’s gut. She didn’t much care for the mixed signals, and she really didn’t care for the overabundance of testosterone that littered her front yard.

  Azaiel was beside her, and her heart lurched when she glanced up at him. His face was pale, a shade past gray, that left no doubt the man wasn’t well. She needed to get him into the house and treat him with something. Nana always kept healing potions and herbs on hand. There had to be something she could use to draw out the poison. If not, it was going to be a long night for him.

  Her eyes narrowed as she glanced up at the house. Cedric would be able to help.

  “I don’t know you,” she said with more than a hint of anger coloring her words. “But you’re uninvited, and as you can see, The Black Cauldron is closed for the next few . . . weeks.”

  “Penance is a bitch, whose master is Regret.” The man called Priest ignored her completely, his eerie eyes focused on Azaiel.

  “Trust me. Penance has nothing to do with this,” Azaiel hissed.

  “Hello.” Rowan pointed her gun toward the two strangers. “I’m standing right here.” Nothing pissed her off more than being ignored simply because she was a woman. She’d dealt with that kind of nonsense at the law firm and knew it needed to be nipped in the bud right away.

  “Either you tell me who you are and what your business is here, or I’ll introduce you to my friend Mr. Extra Extra Special.” She waved the rifle once more. “And then maybe you’ll understand the kind of pain Azaiel is feeling.”

  “She shot you?” Blue Mohawk grinned widely at that though his eyes remained hard, the color of golden topaz.

  “Actually,” Hannah interrupted, and stepped forward, her large shiny eyes gleaming, “I shot him.”

  Blue Mohawk’s focus shifted, and Hannah’s words dried up as the full power of his gaze rested on her. “Well then, I’m impressed. It’s not every day someone can impart such pain on a creature like him.”

  Rowan cocked her rifle and aimed it directly between the shifter’s eyes. “I’m not asking again.” Frank had moved closer, his weapon drawn as well, and it seemed that Hannah finally got it—these men were dangerous. She pulled out her Glock with a smile and held it aloft.

  Priest didn’t look worried. In fact he stared at the four of them with an amused look on his face. “Save your impressive ammo for later. Darkness has already descended on your town, witch, and it plans on having one hell of
a party.”

  “Who are you, and why are you here?” Rowan asked pointedly.

  The stranger’s eyes lingered on Azaiel for several more seconds, then he turned his full attention to Rowan. “I’m called Priest, and my friend here”—he nodded toward the shifter—“Nico.”

  “No kidding. Please tell me you’re not really a priest,” Hannah interjected. “ ’Cause that would be a total waste.”

  Rowan ignored her cousin and narrowed her eyes as she faced Priest. “And you’re here because . . .”

  For a second she caught a flicker of something almost human in his eyes—a shadow of pain, or sadness—but then it was gone, and she wondered if it had ever been there. “We’re here for Cara. To invoke justice in her name and to find the persons responsible for her murder.”

  Surprise clogged Rowan’s throat, and she worked hard to clear it, aware that Hannah had taken a step closer. “You knew my grandmother?”

  Priest nodded. “I did. I know you, too, little witch, though you were but a child the last time I visited.”

  A groan escaped Azaiel, and all thoughts about the newcomers and her grandmother fled as she turned to him. A thick sheen of sweat glistened against his skin, rivulets of it sliding down his chest and abs until they disappeared beneath his low-slung jeans. The path drew her eyes, and she swallowed thickly as she dragged her gaze back up, frowning at the wound on his shoulder. It oozed blood once more, the vibrant red liquid harsh against his pallor, which was awful—the color of dirty dishwater.

  Rowan slipped her arm beneath his, and when he would have shrugged away from her help, she clasped him harder. Azaiel glanced down at her, and the dullness of his golden eyes was troubling.

  “If you’re really here to help, then someone get the damn door. Your friend here is about to pass out.”

  “He’s no friend of mine,” the shifter muttered harshly.