King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (11 page)

“I shot him with an extraextra special,” Hannah said sheepishly. “Twice.”

Cedric studied Azaiel closely. “Well now, it didn’t kill him outright, so that’s good.”

“Hurry, Cedric.”

“Of course, Miss Rowan. Where are you taking him?”

Frank had come inside and slipped his shoulder under Azaiel’s other arm. They both winced at the grunt of pain that fell from the tall Seraphim’s lips.

“He’s burning up,” Frank acknowledged, and Rowan shot a worried glance toward the bartender.

“Nana’s room.” It was the closest, and she didn’t think they’d be able to get him up the stairs.

She started forward, down the hall, but paused at the sound of booted feet on the porch. She cocked her head to the side.

“One more thing, boys. If either of you call me
witch
again, I will hex a part of you that neither of you wants hexed. Got it?” She nodded at Frank, and they started forward, the anger in her voice unmistakable.

“My name is Rowan, and you’d both be smart not to forget it.”

P
riest stood on the porch and watched the witch drag Azaiel down the hall until they disappeared from view. He leaned against the railing and grabbed a cigar from his pocket without offering one to the Jaguar.

The wind continued to howl, carrying bits of debris and dead things into the air. The long fingers of sunlight were fast disappearing—evening came early at this time of the year, and he knew once nightfall descended the danger would triple.

A smile crept over his features as he lit the cigar. He was fine with that. As much as his life was a lonely existence—had been for centuries—he enjoyed the battle when it came his way. Of late, he’d been pretty fucking busy.

“It’s gonna be a long night.” Nico cracked his neck and stared off into the distance.

Priest let the sweet tobacco settle on his palate—the Montecristo’s unique blend of cocoa and coffee was something he’d never get tired of. It was a smooth taste of heaven, here amidst the drudgery found in the human realm.

He nodded but remained silent as wisps of smoke drifted in front of him. He’d never been a man of words, not even centuries earlier when he’d been made a Knight Templar. Priest had always been a man of action, and words seemed to get in the way.

He glanced at Nico. The shifter was new to the League, and they’d only just met. Only days earlier, Nico, Declan O’Hara, and the vampire, Ana DeLacrux had been key in keeping the Mark of Seven contained—for now—and his initial impression of the shifter was that of a man on the edge whose loyalties ran deep and whose strength was impressive.

But he was also dangerous and could prove volatile.

O’Hara and DeLacrux were on another assignment for Bill—something to do with the Mark of Seven—and when Cale had put out the call for extra bodies to help out in Salem, there were only he and Nico. Priest preferred working alone, but in this instance, he understood that numbers would count. He only hoped they had enough.

An owl hooted, an eerie cry that echoed into the coming dusk. Priest clenched the cigar between his teeth and spoke quietly. “Did you see the power that lives inside her?”

Nico squared his shoulders and nodded. “She isn’t your everyday witch, now is she?”

Priest pushed away from the railing and took the steps two at a time, his long legs eating up the distance to the black Suburban in seconds. “No.” He shook his head and opened the driver-side door. “She’s not. This complicates things.”

“What is she?”

“I don’t know, but you can bet your ass I’m going to find out.”

Nico slid in beside him, and Priest glanced toward the house once more before he put the SUV into gear and pointed the vehicle toward town. This was more than just complicated, and he made a mental note to fill Cale in on everything as soon as he got the chance.

Priest would do whatever it took to keep the witch from Mallick’s grasp.

Even if it meant he had to kill her himself.

Chapter 11

A
zaiel woke with a start, heart pounding, body bathed in sweat. Unclear images wavered in his mind—ghosts from the past no doubt—and he pushed them away angrily, hating the weakness. He swung his feet around and groaned—his head swam, and his gut roiled. His shoulder throbbed like a son of a bitch, and for a few seconds his eyes were unable to focus.

Remnants of the nightmare rolled around his head and though he couldn’t remember specifics, it always left him feeling the same. Hopeless. Ashamed. Betrayed. Furious.

Where the hell am I?

He forced himself to calm down as the darkness that slept with him fell away. Eventually his breathing returned to normal, and he opened his eyes as memory returned.

Salem. Demons. Rowan. Her crazy cousin and a couple of—he winced and gingerly touched his shoulder—extraextra specials.

Damn, it felt as if he’d been put through the ringer and thrown back in for a second round. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen, and the taste of cloves still clung to the back of his throat.

A poultice of some sort pressed into his wounds—he grunted and wrinkled his nose. The smell alone should have been enough to chase away the poison inside him. He supposed it had done much to ease his suffering; he just wished it didn’t smell like the back end of a dead rat.

Slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he realized he wasn’t alone. He got to his feet and sucked in a harsh breath, stretching out tight muscles as he walked toward the overstuffed floral-patterned chair tucked into the corner on the other side of the bed.

He recognized the room—it was Cara’s—and glanced toward the window. The shattered pane had been boarded up with plywood, and the remnants of broken glass were long gone. The flimsy bloodred curtains dressed each side of the window, their tattered ends trailing along the wooden floor like whispers of silk.

He thought of Cara. He’d never met the woman, but judging from the pain in Bill’s eyes and that of the League members, she was much loved. He hissed as a wave of pain skittered along the side of his neck. All this was wrong, and he gritted his teeth as he stared down at the foot that hung over the edge of the chair. It was covered by a fuzzy pink sock that sported a small hole along the underside of the big toe.

Rowan was asleep, curled up like a child, a quilt of many colors pulled up to her chin as she rested her head on the faded, worn armrest. A soft glow from the night-light plugged into the wall beside the chair caressed her features with shadow. She drew long, even breaths—seemed no demons stalked her dreamland.

Azaiel ran his hand over the rough stubble along his jaw and frowned. At least not yet.

She moaned softly and turned, her tongue darting out as she settled herself once more, her head at an awkward angle that couldn’t be comfortable. Judging by the grimace that touched the edge of her mouth, she was going to be stiff for sure.

The clock on the table near her glowed 5:15, and the sight of it filled Azaiel with frustration. Damn, he’d been out for hours. Once more his gaze rested upon the sleeping woman.

A large leather bag lay a few feet from her chair, and he spied the unmistakable hard lines of several daggers as well as the barrel of a rifle. She’d been hunting while he’d been passed out like a weakling.

He eyed the bed once more and before another thought entered his brain crossed to the chair and carefully scooped Rowan James into his arms. The pain in his shoulder was ignored, and for one small moment he stilled. Everything inside him quieted.

He held her close and took in her warmth, savoring the feel of her against his cool flesh. She was small and tucked into him perfectly. Her scent drifted in the air, invaded his body, and filled up the spaces that were empty—the spaces that were dead.

He closed his eyes, aching with a hurt that he didn’t understand. He barely knew this woman, yet she touched the dead places inside him. He didn’t deserve to feel. At least, nothing like this.

Something broke then, a crack in the wall he’d built around his soul. It was a sensation unlike any he’d felt before—a slow surrender from the inside out. It caught him by surprise, and for a moment he did nothing—he let the wall of feeling engulf him. He was hungry for her, aroused, and hard. A wave of hot need rolled through him, and he nearly stumbled.

What the hell?

Azaiel swore beneath his breath, ancient speak that sounded rough and belligerent. He ignored the erection that strained against his jeans and gently placed Rowan on the bed. The patchwork quilt was once more tucked under her chin, and he paused for a second, then—because he was weak—took the time to caress a silky strand of hair from her brow. She sighed, turned onto her side, her fingers clutching at the pillow, and buried her head in its softness.

He gazed down at her, took in the tumbled hair, candy red mouth, and creamy skin. Her long lashes swept downward, casting inky shadows onto her cheeks, and her mouth parted slightly as she exhaled. She was earthy, sexy, fierce, and loyal.

She was not meant for someone like him—the Fallen.

“She’s a beautiful woman.”

Azaiel stiffened.

“We need to talk,” Priest said softly, then he was gone.

Azaiel flicked his wrist and extinguished the night-light before turning and following the Knight Templar from the room. He closed the door behind him, nodded to Cedric, who was busy at the sink, and rolled his shoulders in an effort to loosen up the stiffness that had spread across them and down his back. His chest was still bare, but at the moment, his overheated state meant the chill in the early-morning air eased his discomfort.

He grabbed a milk carton from the fridge and strode down the hall. Priest and Nico were on the porch, their low-pitched voices echoing into the still morning. He had no idea where Frank or—a scowl crossed his face—the witch Hannah was, though judging by the hour, they were most likely asleep somewhere.

He ignored the two men lounging to his left and drank the entire carton before he turned to them. Nico’s barely contained hostility was palpable. The tall shifter literally thrummed with repressed anger.

Azaiel understood it. The warrior was a man of honor, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the shapeshifter would never trust him.

“You still look like shit, Fallen.”

Azaiel placed the carton on the window ledge. As it was, he didn’t give a rat’s ass if Nico trusted him or not, but if they were going to work together, some rules needed to be established.

“Do not call me that again.” Azaiel said the words slowly so that there wasn’t any confusion—the shifter had not earned the right to call him Fallen. They had no history. No connection. “I have a name.” He turned to the jaguar, whose teeth were now bared. “Use it.”

He might have been stripped of some of his power, but it was time for Azaiel to let the jaguar warrior know he wasn’t to be trifled with. He was still Seraphim, and if the shifter was smart, he’d back off.

Azaiel took a step forward, muscles bunched, nerves tingling, but Priest interrupted. “We’ve no time for posturing, boys. Let’s try to get along.” Priest let the cigar in his mouth roll to the corner, and he glanced at the shifter. “Understand, Nico?”

The shifter growled but kept silent.

Azaiel slowly unclenched his hands and inhaled the fresh, crisp, morning air. In the distance a line of fire spread out along the horizon, signaling the imminent arrival of dawn. He arched a brow and addressed Priest, sensing it would be better for them all if he and Nico kept communication to a minimum.

“What happened last night?”

Priest withdrew the cigar and studied the red glow that burned on the end as he slowly twirled the long, brown stogie between his thumb and forefinger. “We were busy.” His pale eyes narrowed as he glanced up at Azaiel. “Busier than I thought we’d be. The demon numbers were significant, and though I caught the scent of vampire, I didn’t come across any.” He arched a brow, his pale eyes intense. “But they’re close by, and Dark fae have joined the party.”

Azaiel shook his head. That wasn’t good. The fae hardly ever interfered with the affairs of men. They were content to live in the between worlds and watch from afar. So why now did they think to involve themselves in a witches’ war with Mallick?

“The human Frank held his own as did the other witch, Hannah. She’s a little excitable, but her aim is always true.” Priest’s gaze fell to his shoulder. “As I’m sure you already know.” He exhaled and took a few steps, turned, and leaned against the white railing that ran the length of the porch. “Rowan is impressive. She preferred to hunt alone and refused help from any of us. I followed her at a distance.”

Azaiel’s eyes narrowed. “And how did that go?”

“Like I said. She’s impressive, and it only took her a few minutes to lose me.”

Azaiel found that hard to believe. “You’re a Knight Templar. How did that little slip of woman evade the likes of you? Witch or no?”

The air stilled around them, and Priest blew out a long plume of smoke. “Well, now. That seems to be the question of the hour, don’t you think?”

An uneasy feeling rolled through Azaiel’s gut. What the hell was Priest getting at?

Priest butted his cigar, leaving a long line of gray ash on top of the railing, and cocked his head. “Mallick can never be allowed to claim her.”

Nico moved forward, and the two of them stared at Azaiel, their faces intense, their eyes dark with hidden meaning. Something wasn’t right.

“What are you not telling me?” Azaiel stretched out long fingers in an effort to release the tension that held everything inside him tight and uncomfortable.

Priest looked off into the distance. “Do you know who her father is?”

Azaiel frowned. “She hasn’t mentioned a father.” He didn’t like the look that passed between the two men. “What the hell are you getting at?”

Priest opened his mouth to retort but slammed his mouth shut before uttering a word, his pale eyes glittering harshly as he gazed behind Azaiel.

Azaiel felt her presence before she stepped foot onto the porch, and when he turned to her his chest tightened in a way that was becoming all too familiar. She was barefoot, must have lost the pink fuzzies that had adorned her feet, and even though frost covered everything in a thick coating of white crystals, she didn’t seem to notice.

Her plain pink T-shirt clung to her curves, and he felt his heart quicken as he took in the faded, worn jeans that hugged her hips and followed the sleek lines of her legs. Long strands of hair hung in disarray, curling past her shoulders, and her sleep-heavy eyes widened, their navy depths filled with concern as she walked toward him.

It hit him then. She cared. About him.

Azaiel didn’t know how to react and stiffened as she paused in front of him. She bit her lip and had to stand on tiptoe as she carefully inspected the wounds on his shoulder. Again, her scent filled his nostrils, and he tensed, bending his head back as if he hated her touch. It was in fact quite the opposite though he didn’t miss the slight tensing of her mouth or the shadows that crept into her eyes.

“They look good.” She nodded and glanced up.

“Thanks to you they’re healing well.”

She shrugged. “It’s my Nana. Her herbs and poultices are legendary.”

For a few moments there was no one but Rowan, and everything faded to gray except the two of them. It was like a physical tether had woven them together. The connection was that instant. That intense.

He drank in her pale features, and his hand rose to her cheek. The wound from the day before had already faded, thanks to her healing magick no doubt, but there was a new bruise along her jaw that traveled nearly to her ear. It was a mottled purple mess that brought anger to him.

She winced as his fingers ran over it and stepped away, clearly rattled.

“Who touched you?” he asked flatly, not liking the fact that someone had done so with a violent hand. Some protector he was, laid out flat on his back, as sick as a newborn. The thought fed his rage, but he knew better than to place the blame anywhere other than where it belonged.

Firmly on his shoulders. If he’d been stronger, this wouldn’t have happened.

She licked her lips and ran fingers along her temple, her brow furling into a frown. “I’m not sure. It was something I’ve never encountered before. I can’t even tell you if it was male or female or animal. There were layers to it that kept shifting, and it was a fast, slippery thing.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I think it was surprised that I saw it.” She sighed. “I guess it was a demon of some sort, and I’m pissed that it got away.”

Azaiel watched her carefully. “From what I understand, it was you who got away.”

Rowan glanced toward Priest and Nico, cheeks coloring slightly as if just realizing they weren’t alone. When she finally spoke, she was all business. “You boys are up early.”

“I don’t sleep much,” Nico answered tersely.

She arched a delicate brow at his ill-concealed hostility. “From the look on your sourpuss face I would have guessed you got up on the wrong side of the bed.” She smiled then, a sweet, fake grin, and Azaiel stepped back, enjoying the show. “It might do you good to get some shut-eye.” She shrugged. “Salem isn’t for everyone, and I’ll be honest, shifter.” She paused, brow arched. “That is, if you want me to.”

Nico’s stony countenance was near comical. With clenched fists at his side, he growled. “I’m a big boy. There’s no need to hold back.”

Rowan nodded and took a step toward him. “I don’t like you.”

Surprise narrowed Nico’s eyes, and Azaiel didn’t think the shifter had expected such brutal honesty.

“Your attitude sucks. I don’t know what your problem is with Azaiel and frankly, I don’t care to. None of your private shit concerns me.” She jerked her head toward the road. “Salem, the people that live here . . . my family . . . they concern me. The fact that I’ve got a deranged demon gunning for my ass.” She glanced at all of them. “
That
concerns me. So check the ego and learn to get along because if you can’t,
Nico”—
her eyes flashed as she emphasized his name—“maybe you should leave.”