King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (14 page)

Frank leaned in and nodded. “Okay then. Guess we’re headed to Maine.”

A
zaiel nodded to Priest. “A word?”

Priest and Nico followed him outside. They left Rowan and Hannah quietly packing up their tools of magick, while Cedric and Frank had disappeared into the basement to check out the weapons situation.

Azaiel’s long strides didn’t stop until he’d reached the far end of the property. A large oak tree spread its branches above him, most of the leaves dead and missing. The sun still shone—he felt the warmth on his face—but coldness settled inside him and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Priest lit the end of his cigar, his eyes hard as he clenched the cigar tightly between his teeth. “You felt it? You saw?”

Azaiel nodded. “The power inside her is impressive. Above the norm even for a James witch.”

Soft swirls of smoke blew between them. Nico glanced back toward the house, eyes flat, voice subdued. “What the hell is she?”

“I have no idea,” Priest offered up, his gaze sharp as he stared at Azaiel. “But this changes things. A lot.”

The coldness inside Azaiel fisted. He knew what the Templar was getting at. And he knew Priest was right.

“Yes.” Azaiel nodded. “It does.”

Azaiel followed Nico’s gaze and exhaled a long, slow breath. Mallick would never stop searching for Rowan. She held something inside her that made it impossible for the demon to do so—which meant that the demon had to be destroyed. He could not be allowed to claim her. The balance between the realms would fall apart and plunge their worlds into chaos.

But Mallick was a demon lord. Destroying him wasn’t going to be easy. If only . . . Azaiel turned away in disgust, his hands clenched into fists, his jaw sore with tension. If only he had the full extent of his power, it would be within reach. But he’d been cut off, and rightly so.

“If we can’t defeat Mallick . . .” Priest said, the cigar held tight in his mouth.

“She’ll have to be destroyed,” Azaiel finished. Hearing the words spoken filled him with anger, and he rolled his head, stretching out the muscles in his shoulders and neck.

“A shame,” Nico said grudgingly. “Even though the witch hates my guts, there’s something about her I like.”

The coldness inside Azaiel evaporated, leaving a rush of heat that electrified his spirit and mind. He might be weaker than any other of his kind, but he was still Seraphim. He could still do damage. And he wasn’t alone.

He addressed the two men, for the first time really feeling his own power—one that was fed with purpose.

“Remember that, shifter, because I have a feeling this is going to be the toughest assignment you’ve had, and I”—his eyes bled black—“don’t intend for her to die.”

“Well then.” Priest tossed his finished Montecristo into a pile of browned, dead leaves. “Let’s get this done.”

They turned toward the house. “But Seraphim, one suggestion?”

Azaiel paused, brow arched in question. He didn’t like the Templar’s tone.

Priest grinned widely and pushed past Azaiel. “A change in wardrobe might be a good idea. I don’t relish the thought of storming an otherworld asylum beside a man wearing Hello fucking Kitty on his T-shirt.”

Chapter 14

T
hey arrived on the coast of Maine at nightfall.

A cold wind blew off the water, carrying with it a hint of darkness that immediately had everyone on edge. Overhead a moonless sky held up a blanket of diamondlike stars though their light was muted and did nothing to penetrate the inky black that hovered over them. Large swells of water broke against the shore, a melody Azaiel had not heard in eons, and though it was a crisp, cold, fall evening, there was something soothing about the sound that warmed his soul.

“Goddamn, it’s miserable out here.” Frank shivered and pulled his thick black sweater closer to his burly frame.

Nervous tension hung in the air—so thick you could cut your teeth on it—and Azaiel knew there was good reason for it. The otherworld asylum was well guarded with both protective spells and who knew what else. This was not an easy task.

Their plan was simple in theory. Gain access to the island and split into three teams. The locator spell had given them the island, but it wasn’t an exact science, and Rowan’s mother could be anywhere. Once her mother was located and extracted they’d fall back to their boat and head to the mainland, then to Salem, where several of the coven were due to arrive.

They’d decided to go ahead with the extraction and not wait for any members of the coven due in to Salem—time was their enemy, and the sooner they retrieved Rowan’s mother, the better. They’d left Cedric at The Black Cauldron, safe behind a heavily fortified protective wall that Hannah and Rowan had worked on for several hours. The charm should be enough to keep anything that didn’t belong out.

“There’s the boat.” Priest nodded toward the dock. He’d made a few inquiries and found someone willing to take them out to the island—but more importantly someone willing to wait for their return. Who knows what the hell they faced.

“Let’s go.” Rowan led the way, and several moments later their boots treaded soundlessly across a rickety dock until they stood before a tall man Priest addressed as Scar.

He was otherworld, there was no mistaking the scent of it, but exactly
what
he was remained a mystery. Priest hadn’t offered up that information, and no one had asked. It was enough that he’d been willing to get them to the island though apparently he owed Priest a favor. Judging by the scowl that settled on his craggy face, it most likely was the only reason he’d agreed to it.

Scar stared at them in silence for a few moments, eyes narrowed. Each of them had charmed guns strung across their shoulders, as well as daggers tucked into scabbards tied to their waists and boots.

“Time to do this.” Scar motioned toward the boat.

Azaiel waited until all were on board, then hopped over to land a few inches from Rowan. She’d been quiet since they’d located the island though he’d caught her eyes upon him a few times. Questions hung there and maybe . . . fear?

He thought of the mysterious Kellen, who most likely would be waiting for them when they got back. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like that this Kellen meant something to Rowan.

His mouth tightened, and he looked away. He sure as hell didn’t like that he was thinking about her ex-lover when he should be preparing for what promised to be an intense mission.

Scar was aptly named—a jagged raw line ran from his temple down his cheek and disappeared beneath the edge of his coat. His expression sharpened as he settled in behind the wheel. “Hold on. These waters are rough, and I’m sure you can sense the ill wind that blows.”

Azaiel drew his jacket closer. The man was right. He didn’t like the feel of things out there and knew by the way Rowan kept biting her lip, she felt the same.

Silence fell between them all as the boat slowly moved away from the dock, and, once clear, Scar gunned the motor.

The ride was rough as they navigated their way through several islands. Some of them were nothing more than large rocks protruding from the water, while others were miles long and sported luxury hotels or private homes.

After nearly twenty minutes the boat slowed as thick fog rolled around them in waves of cool mist that swirled crazily, pushed along by the wind. There was no sound other than the motor, and Azaiel’s heart beat against his chest, a strong pounding that fed the adrenaline inside.

They were close. He felt it.

He glanced down at Rowan and, without thinking, his hand rose, his fingers dragging softly against her cheek. For one brief moment, she leaned into his touch, and something inside him unraveled, filling him with such intense emotion that it startled him, and he pulled back.

“Stick with me, and you’ll be fine,” he said roughly.

She cleared her throat and shot him a grin, answering cheekily. “More like the other way around, I think.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”

He nodded. Good. She was going to need all the spunk she could handle in order to make it through the next few hours.

“Something’s not right.” Nico stared into the darkness ahead, and they gasped as the mist evaporated, and the craggy shoreline of the asylum island came into view. Huge swells of water rushed against the rock, spilling massive fists of foamy water into the air, threatening to crush anything that came close.

But it wasn’t the near-impossible landing that grabbed everyone’s attention.

“Holy fuck.” Hannah’s tortured whisper pretty much said it all.

A lighthouse perched overtop the edge of the island was in darkness, its shape only discernible because behind it, all the buildings that made up the asylum were in flames.

Like the turning of a page, reality bled through the charms that hid the island from human view. Chaos reigned, and shouts of pain and anger colored the night sky.

“Hurry,” Azaiel barked. He glanced at Priest. “Is he here?” And cursed his need to ask. As Seraphim, he should know if the demon lord Mallick was close. He hated that he’d been blinded in this way . . . that he could sense something dark but had no clue what it was.

“No,” Rowan answered bitterly. “He’s still hiding, but it’s obvious he knows my mother is here.”

Priest’s terse nod confirmed her answer, and he breathed a bit easier. If the demon lord had decided to come on this raid personally, that would open up the whole can of worms regarding Rowan’s need to live. Or die.

Azaiel wasn’t ready to deal with that just yet.

“We need to get to her before they do,” Rowan said quietly. He nodded and turned.

We will.

Scar guided his boat around the top end of the island and brought them in alongside several boats already moored in place at a large, rickety dock. Frank and Priest jumped onto the platform and tied up the boat while Rowan, Azaiel, Hannah, and Nico followed them onto the dock.

“Well, now, at least we can thank these dumb bastards for one thing.” Frank adjusted his rifle and waved his Glock toward the asylum.

“What’s that?” Priest asked, his eyes trained on the chaos before them.

“They pretty much took care of security. There’s no one here.”

Rowan exhaled. “We stick to the same game plan and use the craziness up there to our advantage. As soon as we locate my mother, signal the rest of the teams and fall back. Hannah and Nico take the left side, Priest and Frank the right. Azaiel and I will take the center.” She glanced at each and every one of them, and it struck Azaiel how easy it was for the woman to take command and be a leader. “Remember, we’re cloaked under a powerful invisibility charm, but I have no idea how long it will last. We need to make this quick.”

Azaiel nodded. “We all set?” he asked. The jaguar was still, his eyes narrowed as he studied the terrain before them.

“Nico?”

“Sure.” Nico smiled harshly. “Hundreds of crazy-ass otherworlders on the loose, a pack of who the hell knows what waiting for us . . . we’re outgunned and outnumbered . . .” The shifter grinned, his eyes lit with an unholy fire. “What the hell are we waiting for?” Nico pushed Hannah forward. “Let’s go.”

The two of them disappeared from sight as they scrambled up the steep steps that led to the top of the island. Frank and Priest followed suit. Azaiel looked down into Rowan’s tense features. He knew how hard this was for her. It wasn’t just another mission to run. This wasn’t just another target to retrieve. It was her mother.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

Rowan nodded, eye focused on the steps. “More than ready, but the question is”—she arched a brow and smiled, a bit of crazy lighting her features—“are you?” Rowan took off at a run, leaving him to follow in her tracks as she followed the others. Once they cleared the steps that led from the shoreline up the cliff, he was greeted by a sight that was sobering to say the least. It looked as if the entire world was on fire.

Bodies littered the immediate area—some demon, but most were guards. Nico was right. The outer security detail had been decimated.

Cries of anguish ripped through the night, followed by screams of pain and bellows of rage. “Hurry!” Rowan shouted, and she was off running full tilt for the largest building in the center of everything. Its shell consisted of large slabs of slate stone, but the roof was awash with flame, and through the windows, more of the same was visible, with the added bonus of billowing black clouds of smoke.

Azaiel followed on Rowan’s heels, his large sword unsheathed and held in his right hand, while a deadly modified Glock in his left pointed ahead. The bullets were freshly charmed and would rip apart anything—human or otherwise.

They zipped past an intense battle between a pack of blood demons—the aggressive creatures seemed to be Mallick’s demon of choice—and a security detail of mixed otherworld creatures, including magicks, vampires, and a couple of gargoyles. The blood demons were ferocious creatures, and he understood why Mallick cultivated their loyalty. Death was the only thing that stopped the damn things.

The large door to the building was open, barely hanging from its hinges, and thick smoke continued to erupt from inside. Rowan dove in without pause, Azaiel inches behind.

Fear was as thick as the smoke that clogged his throat, and Azaiel stared into eyes half-crazed from the weight of it. A female werewolf, howling in pain because her body was caught in half shift—her bottom half lupine while the top still human—stumbled past him and disappeared into the chaos outside.

He and Rowan moved with quick precision through the main lobby, dodging the flood of demons and inmates who roamed about crazily. It was like a scene from one of the horror movies that humans seemed to love so.

She made a quick turn to the right, slicing off the head of a demon as she went by, and disappeared down a dark corridor. The fire continued to rage over their heads, and the moans of pain and fear sounded vaguely familiar—raw and animalistic. It was the music of choice below, deep in the bowels of District Three.

They entered a long, dormitory-type area, with cells lining each side. Several of the cell doors hung wide open, and the small rooms were empty. Demons were everywhere and Rowan was like an avenging angel as she made her way toward each and every one of them, calling for her mother and slaying anything that stood in her path. The dumb bastards had no chance as they couldn’t see her, but a few of the demons sensed her presence just seconds before she separated head from shoulders.

Azaiel took the left side, and the two of them made quick work of it. They liberated poor souls still trapped as they made their way down the long rows, but when they reached the end, there was no sign of Rowan’s mother.

“She must be in one of the other buildings.” Rowan’s voice cracked, and he knew how hard it was for her to be there. To do this. Hell, less than a week earlier, she’d been playing the part of a normal human, safe and secure in her life on the West Coast. And now? Now she was an executioner, a demon-fighting queen with a master of darkness hard on her ass.

Her eyes met his then, and his breath caught in his chest. She was magnificent.

A small man darting through the chaos caught his eye, and he leapt forward, hands nearly crushing him as the small weasel tried to escape. He looked up, startled, eyes wide and arms flailing.

“Who’s there? What madness is this?” He was dressed for bed, his small, round body cloaked in red-and-gold brocade. One foot still wore a slipper while the other was bare, the fat, stubby toes pale in the dull light. The man coughed furiously, his body shaking as he tried to clear his lungs.

“Where is the James witch?” Azaiel growled, leaning forward and willing his face to bleed through the invisibility charm so that the little man could see exactly who held him.

The man stopped moving as his watery blue gaze stared into Azaiel’s features in astonishment. His energy shifted, and Azaiel realized he was fae. Dark fae . . . and the mention of the James witch filled the man with fear.

Interesting.

“Where is she?” Rowan moved in closer, and the man’s head whipped around crazily.

“Who are you?” he shouted into the darkness, while all around them demons continued to flood the room, searching for the same prize that Rowan so desperately sought.

“I’m going to be your worst nightmare if you don’t tell me where my mother is.” Rowan was inches from the man’s face, and though he couldn’t see her, his fear was palpable.

“Her line ended. The mark died out.” The whites of his eyes bulged, and a whimper fell from his lips. “We would never have taken her otherwise.”

“Her line has been remade.”

Rowan fell from shadow; for one brief moment, the small fae went limp in Azaiel’s hand.

“How can it be?” he whispered hoarsely. “I would know. Surely, Darrak would have . . .” A sob caught in his throat. “Sweet goddess, but you look so much like Marie-Noelle.” He paused, and something akin to fear crept into his eyes. “God help us.”

“News flash, buddy.” Rowan smiled harshly. “God isn’t here, and he sure as hell isn’t helping you, so listen closely. I will only ask one more time. Where is she?” Rowan held her bloodied and well-used sword aloft, and it seemed to Azaiel that she enjoyed the fae’s fear immensely.

“I knew it was a bad idea to take her. All those years ago. I knew this and now . . . now Mallick knows.” The little man gulped for air and coughed crazily as he struggled to breathe. “You must take her from here.” The smoke was thicker, and Azaiel knew they were nearly out of time.