King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (7 page)

“Look, I don’t have time to debate the war or the baddies you’re not keen on. If you really want to help, then tell my cousin I’m here.”

Several long seconds passed before the bartender reluctantly reached beneath the bar and grabbed a phone. He turned, but Azaiel heard his words nonetheless. “She’s here, and she’s not alone.”

He then turned back to them and gestured toward a table hidden in shadows near the exit. “Hannah will be out in a minute. We had a cook quit earlier in the week, so she’s filling orders and helping out in the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” Rowan murmured.

“You can thank me by keeping your pet on a tight leash.”

Azaiel ignored the taunt and followed Rowan to a table. He was aware of the eyes upon them—of the interest they generated, and the lust that filled the eyes of the woman two tables over. She smiled as Azaiel passed, her shoulders hunched forward, her breasts on display.

And he felt nothing.

Rowan followed the line of his gaze as she slid into the seat opposite him. “If we had time, I’m sure you could score some of that.”

“Not interested.”

“Really?”

He settled his large frame into the smallish wood chair. “Why do you find it hard to believe I don’t want to have sex with that woman?”

Her cheeks flushed pink at his words. “I didn’t mean . . . ah, I wasn’t talking about sex.”

His eyebrow rose, and the flush in her cheeks darkened even more.

“What I meant was that most guys would be all over a woman like that.”

Azaiel leaned closer, his elbows on the table. “What kind of woman is she?” He slid a glance sideways, vaguely disgusted by the provocative display as the woman in question licked her lips and smiled at him.

Rowan’s eyes were on the woman. “She’s obviously the kind of woman who doesn’t care that you’re with someone. She wants you and wants you to know it.” Her blue eyes settled back onto him. “Most men would follow her up on her offer, or at the very least be somewhat flattered.”

“There you have it,” he said softly, enjoying himself.

“Excuse me?” Her arched brows furled, and once more, his gaze was drawn to her mouth.

“I’m not most men.”

They stared at each other for a long time. Or at least it seemed that way, but as with everything of late, things were about to get dicey.

“I’ll give you ten seconds to get your ass out of my bar and take your new boy toy with you.” The unmistakable click of a gun sounded, and they both looked up at a small, blond, pixie of a woman. That she’d managed to sneak up on them without either Rowan’s or Azaiel’s notice said something.

Azaiel just wasn’t exactly sure what that something was.

She wore faded jeans that were so tattered they looked as if they’d been dragged behind his bike—all the way from Salem. A tight, bright pink tank top—with
MOFO
emblazoned across her chest—showed off trim, muscular arms that were covered in tattoos, or, on closer look, runes of some sort. Her short, spiky, platinum hair topped a face that was almost elfin in feature, wholly feminine, with large expressive eyes and a generous mouth free of gloss.

The look in the woman’s clear blue gaze, however, was anything but friendly. She was pissed as hell and aimed the gun in her hands directly between Azaiel’s eyes.

“Hannah.” Rowan stood, her face pale and lips tight.

So this was the cousin. Another surprise. And it seemed to him, Rowan and Hannah hadn’t parted on good terms.

“Don’t push me, Rowan.” Hannah moved closer. “You know I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

“For Christ sake, Hannah. It was six years ago. Are you still mad?” Rowan made a disgusted sound. “
How
can you still be mad?”

Hannah cocked the gun in answer and squared her shoulders. A loud gasp echoed in the bar, and Azaiel realized the band had stopped, and all eyes were on them.

“The bullets this baby is packing are special if you know what I mean, so if Mr. Blond God means anything to you, you’ll convince him to leave.” Her mouth thinned. “Now.”

Neither Rowan nor Hannah was focused his way, and that was fine—the gun was the only thing paying attention to him. Azaiel knew a bullet wouldn’t kill him—special or otherwise—it would just hurt like hell. He settled back into his chair, long legs stretched out casually as he gazed up at the two women.

This was going to be good.

Chapter 7

R
owan stared at her cousin and fought to keep some sort of control. Energy burned inside her chest and gathered there, growing in strength with each tortured breath she drew. She needed to get a handle on her emotions, or the damn gun was going to be the least of her problems.

She was too rusty to control her magick, and there were too many innocents in the bar. Rowan took a deep breath and stepped back though she let a flicker of power light her eyes crimson.

It was enough to let Hannah know she wasn’t going down without a fight, and though the cousins were both from the same bloodline—the James witches—Hannah’s magick wasn’t anything like the monster that Rowan commanded.

She eyed her cousin. How dare Hannah stand in front of her, a gun pointed at Azaiel, while the world as they knew it was gone. Could she not feel the empty space left by Rowan’s grandmother?

Mallick had flexed his muscles with deadly consequences, and Hannah had done nothing. Why hadn’t she gone to Salem as soon as she’d known something was wrong?

She thought a phone call would suffice? Had their family become that disinterested in each other? That fractured?

The empty beer glasses left on the table beside them began to shake, the light fixture overhead flickered and went out, while the oak floorboards beneath her feet creaked and moaned—a few split apart in protest to the anger she projected. Whispers floated on the air—or maybe they were screams—and several patrons left quickly, money thrown on tables and food left untouched.

The giant of a bartender moved toward Hannah, but with one flick of Rowan’s wrist, he stumbled and nearly fell.

“Don’t,” Rowan warned, as one of the glasses crashed to the floor.

The bartender cursed and motioned toward the door. “Maybe you girls should take this outside.” He glared at Rowan. “Not exactly good for business.”

Rowan glanced at Azaiel. His gold eyes had an amused look to them that pissed her off even more. “Give me five minutes.” She spoke curtly and gave no chance for his reply.

She turned and strode through the door, inhaling a crisp shot of fall air as she walked along the worn wooden deck that ran the entire width of the Brick House. It was a weather-beaten gray building with cream trim and lots of fall displays. Pumpkins, cornstalks, and sunflowers filled the corners of the veranda, while bales of straw were scattered about. It seemed as if Hannah still had a soft spot for All Hallows Eve.

Rowan lifted her face to the sun and closed her eyes, suddenly so weary and tired of it all. Which was stupid. There was so much to do and tons of ground to cover, but the weight of her situation had been heavy for years, and she realized she might not be strong enough to do what needed to be done.

Sure, she’d fled to California, but had she ever truly believed her family could outrun Mallick? That he wouldn’t find a way to get to her? It had always been at the back of her mind—she’d just learned to ignore it and, as it turned out, had paid a very high price.

An image of her grandmother floated behind her eyes, and pain lanced across her chest. Her throat was tight, and her heart hurt. It was times like this a girl wanted her mother, and for Rowan, that had been Nana. God, how she’d love to rest her head against her grandmother’s breast. Feel the wiry fingers run through her hair, hear the beat of her heart—smell the soft vanilla scent of her bath oils.

But that was to be no more.

The pain in her chest grew sharper and though it hurt, she drew strength from it. It was a reminder of what she’d lost, and Rowan wouldn’t rest until Mallick paid.

The sound of a boot scuff tore her mind from the darkness, and she whirled around to face her cousin. Hannah still had the gun in her hand though it was held loosely and pointed to the ground. A couple had followed her out and stopped just shy of the steps leading to the parking lot. She waved the weapon toward them, and they didn’t hesitate. The man yelled, “crazy bitches,” as he hopped down the steps, dragging his lady behind him.

Rowan watched them slip into a faded, black, rusted Chevy and turned back to her cousin.
You’re not far off, Mister.

The two women stared at each other in silence. It stretched long and thin, like a weakened spider’s weave about to snap.

Where to start?
She squared her shoulders and kept her voice level. “I see you cut your hair.”

Hannah snorted. “Are we really going to do this? I told you six years ago that we were done, and I meant it. Nothing’s happened to change my mind.”

Pain, mingled with a pulse of power, surged down Rowan’s arms and settled into her hands. It was hot—white-hot—and she stretched her fingers to alleviate the stress. Or maybe it was a warning. Either way, she was done playing games.

“Cara is dead.” The words spoken were wooden, without a hint of emotion. That she kept inside. Nothing good could come of it if she unleashed her rage on Hannah.

Her cousin’s face whitened, and she took a step backward—her blue eyes wide and frozen, the pupils bleeding through with the sifting blackness of an oil spill.

“No,” she whispered. Hannah took a step toward her and faltered, her boot scraping the deck. “How?” she said hoarsely.

“Mallick, of course. Who else?”

Hannah stared at her for several long moments, tears filling the corners of her eyes, which she made no effort to wipe away. A visible shudder rolled over her body, and she clasped her arms around her chest.

“The other night I felt something but I . . .” She paused and fought for control. “I had no idea Cara was in trouble.”

Rowan leaned her hip against the railing. “Knowing my grandmother, she shielded you and the rest of the coven. She wouldn’t want you anywhere near The Black Cauldron when Mallick attacked.”

“I should have gone to her. I knew something was wrong.”

“Yes, you should have.”

Hannah’s eyes darkened with hurt, but there was something else there. Accusation.

Rowan shook her head and looked away. Hannah was right. “
I
should have been there, too.” The fist of pain in her chest tightened even more, and Rowan leaned both her hands on top of the railing. God, she felt like shit.

Two scuffed-up boots stopped beside her, and though Rowan wanted nothing more than to hug her cousin tight and cry for all things lost, she couldn’t. There was no time.

“How has it come to this?” she whispered instead.

A rumble in the distance signaled a turn in the weather, underscored by a sudden gust of wind that blew thick ropes of her hair into the air. The sun disappeared, and her chilled flesh gave credence to the quick drop in temperature.

“Rowan.”

Rowan stared down at the wandering vines that crept along the foundation of the Brick House. The edges were no longer green but crap brown, ruined from cold nights and the blankets of frost that accompanied them. She didn’t know what to say and needed a moment to collect her thoughts.

“Rowan, please look at me.”

I can’t.

She took a moment, gathered her strength, then carefully pushed away from the railing before turning to Hannah.

“I’m sorry,” her cousin whispered, bottom lip tremulous though she managed to keep her voice steady. “So, sorry.”

Rowan nodded. “I know.”

“Six years ago—”

“I can’t talk about that, Hannah,” Rowan interrupted. “It’s in the past and right now those ghosts need to stay there. There’s no time for stuff that doesn’t matter anymore.” How could she make her understand? “A war is coming our way, and we need to prepare.”

“I don’t understand.” Hannah frowned.

Rowan turned and glanced at the gathering clouds. “He’s marked the coven.”

“Mallick? But why?” Her voice gained some strength. “It’s you that he wants.”

“But he can’t find me. The mark is blind, remember?”

Hannah’s face whitened. “But why would he mark the coven? What good would that do? None of us are the kind of witch that he wants.” Her tone was harder.

You are.

The words weren’t spoken, but Rowan read them in Hannah’s eyes. It seemed old wounds were still raw, but she chose to ignore the obvious dig.

“I don’t think he cares about that. I think Mallick wants to make the James witches pay for keeping me from him, and if it takes eliminating the entire coven to get to me, that’s what he’ll do.”

“Mother-trucker,” Hannah bit out. “So what are we going to do?”

Rowan met her gaze full on and welcomed the fire that burned in her gut. It was the one what was going to get her through the next few weeks. The one that would get her to the end.

“We fight back. We need to gather the coven. Right now we’re scattered across the state, and we’re weak.”

Hannah nodded. “All right. I can make some calls.”

“Good, because I have no idea where anyone is.”

“I think Abigail is still in Canada, but Auntie Dot will know for sure.”

“Canada? Seriously?” Rowan frowned. “Why would she leave Salem?”

“Why else would a twenty-nine-year-old single woman leave her family and friends?”

“A man.”

Hannah nodded. “Bingo. She met him out on the water. The boat he was in nearly cut hers in half. There were injuries and blood and lust. They bonded in the ER.” Hannah’s eyes widened. “Auntie Dot is horrified.
Horrified.
Abigail had been dating an Ivy League professor from Boston, and I’m sure Auntie Dot was already planning the wedding. But now she’s shacked up with some Frenchman in another country.” She giggled then. “Living in sin as they would say.”

“Wow.” Rowan exhaled. She’d certainly missed a lot.

“Wow is right.” Hannah paused. “So who’s the tagalong?”

“What?” Rowan had forgotten how fast Hannah changed gears.

“The blond guy with the tight abs and weird-ass energy. You guys been together a while?”

Rowan blushed at the suggestive look in Hannah’s eyes and shook her head. “It’s not like that.”

“Well, what’s it like?” Hannah wasn’t giving up.

“It’s”—Azaiel was hard to define, and for a moment she was stumped—“he’s complicated, and honestly, I don’t know much about him. He showed up at the Cauldron last night.”

“Last night.” The teasing tone fled, and Hannah’s hands gripped tight around the gun once more. “Rowan, I know he’s one hell of a looker, but seriously, how do you know you can trust him?”

“I don’t really, but he helped me slay a pack of blood demons.”

“What?”

Rowan nodded. “It was a great homecoming,” she said bitterly.

“Well I hate to be the one to point this out, but how do you know he’s not the one who killed Cara? Maybe he’s trying to win your trust, so that he can hand you over to Mallick himself. His energy is way off. Like out-of-this-world off. I’ve never felt anything like him before.” Her eyes narrowed. “What is he?”

Rowan shuddered as another strong gust of wind whipped along the veranda. She thought of how he’d gotten down on his hands and knees the night before and scrubbed her grandmother’s blood out of the floor. She sensed something dark in him, but there was also good. “He’s not the enemy. That’s all you need to know at this point. He’s a . . . a friend, I guess.”

“A friend.
”

“Not that kind of friend.” Rowan’s cheeks were hot, and her thoughts turned, however briefly, to the ride in from Salem and how good it had felt to hold on to something so solid. So incredibly male.

“That’s what you said about Danny Bagota, and we all know how that ended,” Hannah said dryly.

“Look, we don’t have time to discuss Azaiel—”

“Aza—what?” The expression on Hannah’s face was near comical. “Shit, Rowan. Does he come from the land of the ice and snow? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“A—zee—el.” She pronounced the name slowly, an irritated frown furling her brows as she stared into the amused blue eyes of her cousin.

“Got it.” Hannah’s smile disappeared. “Okay,
that
doesn’t look good.”

Rowan followed Hannah’s gaze. A swirling black mass of something strange hung in the sky, off in the distance. “What is it?” she murmured, wincing as the bad feeling that had never really left her stomach returned with a vengeance.

“I don’t know, but I can tell you one thing. That sure as hell ain’t a storm cloud. It’s carrying full-fledged storm babies that are gonna drop a shit-ton of crap on top of us.”

The two of them studied the darkened mass for several moments until the door slammed open behind them. The shaggy bartender stood there, chest heaving, a worried expression on his face as he stared up at the sky.

“That there is trouble.” He ran his fingers through the greasy mess of salt-and-pepper hair atop his head and clenched his hands. His steely eyes settled on Rowan, and she felt his anger as clear as day. “Seems to be following you.”

Rowan bit back the pulse of irritation that throbbed near her temple. “The only thing that’s following me is your bad attitude.” She strode toward him. “And that’s going to change. I won’t work with someone who’s got his head so far up his ass, he can’t see the big picture.”

The bartender stared at her in shock, then a slow grin spread across his face. “You really are Marie-Noelle’s daughter.”

She arched a brow. “And?”

He stroked the beard that hung inches past his chin, his intense eyes never leaving hers. He nodded. “It’s about time you showed up.”