King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (8 page)

Chapter 8

A
zaiel was on his feet when Rowan pushed back into the bar. The blond woman who’d been eyeing him up was no longer content to display her charms from across the room. She stood inches from Azaiel, her overly large breasts near to bursting from a low-cut cream blouse that barely kept them contained.

Rowan eyed the long length of trim legs exposed by the short, charcoal-leather skirt she wore. They, of course, were enhanced by six-inch candy red stilettos, and Rowan had to admit, the woman’s curves were enviable. She
was
attractive—in a dirty, skank, biker kind of way.

The woman turned, and the edges of a tramp stamp showed along her lower back as well as the top of her scarlet-colored G-string. Rowan made a face—the look was so yesterday.

Azaiel caught sight of Rowan and turned without another word—brows furled, eyes dark with frustration.

“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” she asked softly.

A scowl crossed his features. “Not at all. She’s annoying.”

Rowan glanced at the woman, who was now shooting daggers her way. “She’s got a great rack, though.”

She turned back to Azaiel, and her mouth went dry. Slowly he dragged his gaze from
Rowan’s
chest and gazed directly into her eyes. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Bartender man cleared his throat and stopped beside them, with Hannah close on his heels. “Hate to break up whatever the hell this is between the two of you, but like I said out there”—he nodded toward the door—“trouble’s on its way and we better come up with a plan or the shit’s gonna hit before we’re ready.”

“Trouble?” Azaiel barked. He shouldered between them and strode outside.

Rowan turned to the bartender. “You didn’t introduce yourself, so unless you give me a name, I’ll have to call you bushy bartender guy.”

“Bushy?” He smiled and ran fingers through the hair on his face. “I’ve been called worse.” He cocked his head. “Frank Talbot.”

The name suited him. “Nice to meet you, Frank.” Rowan turned to Hannah. “We have any idea what that dark cloud is all about?”

Hannah shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” She tugged on Frank’s arm. “We need to clear the bar. Get everyone to go home.”

Frank nodded and turned, cursing under his breath. “This is really gonna hurt our bottom line this month.” He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled long and loud. “Everyone out!”

A few groans met his command, but nobody jumped to do his bidding. He turned in a circle and grabbed Hannah’s arm. “You want the crazy lady with the gun to ask? ’Cause I don’t think she’ll be as nice as me.”

Within seconds, the place was hopping with patrons throwing cash onto the tables and leaving.

Azaiel came in from outside, his face hard as stone and eyes full-fledged black. The power inside him was hard to miss. It rolled off his tall frame in waves, and Rowan realized that for the most part he kept it hidden.

“Holy crap,” Hannah whispered. “He’s hot as hell, but seriously, he scares me more than anyone we’ve hunted in the past. Are you positive we can trust him?”

I wish I knew.

“No. But at the moment, he’s all we’ve got.”

“Great.” Hannah took a step back. “Good to know.”

Azaiel stopped a few inches from them, his gaze sweeping the now-empty bar. When his eyes rested on Rowan, the intensity in his eyes touched her as if he’d taken his hand and run it along her cheek. It made her nervous—scared her even—this connection she felt to him.

“Do you know what that cloud is?” Thank God she sounded somewhat normal.

He nodded. “First wave.”

“First wave?” Hannah asked, a touch of fear in her voice. “God, do I want to know what that means? Sounds like a mother-trucker of a sci-fi movie or something.”

“Okay, I can’t let this go again.” Rowan turned to her cousin. “
Mother-trucker?
Really?”

“Look, I’m trying to curb my potty mouth, all right? You got a problem with that?”

“No, I just . . . it’s not you.”

“Well this is the new me. So get used to it.”

“More like Simon Bayfield’s idea of a new you,” Frank snorted.

“Who?” Rowan asked.

“He’s no one,” Hannah answered a little too quickly. “First wave?” she prodded.

“The first of many if I’m reading this right,” Frank answered. The burly man heaved a sigh and shook his head. “This is worse than I thought.” He looked at Rowan. “It’s him, right? Mallick?”

Startled, Rowan glanced at Hannah, but her cousin shrugged. “He knows everything.”

“That is a family secret.” Rowan was incensed. “Only the coven knows. Only the coven is
supposed
to know.”

“I didn’t tell him.” Hannah’s chin rose defensively. “Your mother did.”

Rowan opened her mouth but didn’t quite know how to respond. It seemed as if Frank Talbot knew her mother a lot more intimately than she’d realized.

“None of that matters now. That cloud dispatched several assassins, who are now looking for”—Azaiel’s gaze swung to Hannah—“you.”

“Me? But I’m not the one they want . . .” Her voice trailed away as she fisted her hands, the gun still held within her grasp. “Right. The entire coven is marked. I guess they don’t really care who they take out.”

Hannah’s gaze swung past Azaiel until her electric blue eyes rested on Rowan.

“Hannah—” Rowan started.

“It’s okay, Rowan.” She shrugged, nonchalantly, but Rowan knew it wasn’t. Her cousin was scared, and so was she. Neither one of them had faced something like this before—and they’d faced a lot in their day. For as long as Rowan could remember, the James witches had protected Salem. Ever since the infamous witch trials of the 1600s, the entire area had been a hotbed of demon activity. But this? This was unprecedented.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve gotten out of hand, don’t you think? And I don’t know about you, but I’m kinda looking forward to kicking some demon ass.”

Rowan stared at her cousin, helpless anger bubbling to the surface. She couldn’t stand to lose anyone else. Not Hannah. Not Abigail.
Not anyone.
There would be no more James blood spilled. She glanced at Azaiel. Or anyone else’s for that matter. Not if she could help it.

Hannah tucked the gun inside the waistband of her jeans and grinned. “So what’s the plan?”

“We leave this place,” Azaiel said. “There are too many innocents, and if we stay, there will be casualties, of that you can be certain.”

Rowan nodded. “The Black Cauldron is where we need to be. It’s where we’re the strongest and because it’s on the outskirts of Salem, it’s isolated. There’s less chance of any civilians getting hurt. I don’t think a second wave will look there again. Not yet.”

“So that leaves the first wave to deal with,” Hannah inserted.

“Sure does,” Frank answered.

“It will be dangerous.” Rowan needed him to understand the severity of the situation.

Frank’s pale eyes glistened with a fire that she recognized all too well. He was a
warrior,
and it was obvious that he wanted to fight.

“Call your family and get them as far away from here as you can.”

“Already done.”

Rowan nodded. “Okay. Let’s head to Salem.” She turned to Azaiel. “Do you know how many we’re dealing with?”

He nodded. “I saw four lightning bolts.” He cocked his head, put his finger to his mouth, and for several tense moments there was silence. “One is already here.”

“Shit,” Hannah whispered, her hand on the gun once more. “Frank, get our gear.”

The bartender disappeared into the kitchen just as the lights flickered and went out. It was early afternoon, yet the darkness that surrounded the bar was as thick as night. Outside, the wind howled and moaned, lashing at the Brick House with a ferocious slam of power. Otherworld power. The air was rancid with the smell of it.

Rowan threw her hand out and called forth an illumination spell—even then she held her breath, not sure if it would work or not, which for a witch was sad indeed. She exhaled in relief as a warm glow fed from her fingers to light up the darkened room.

Eerie shadows flickered in the dark as she turned, throwing grotesque images along the wall. The Harry Potter replica that hung from the ceiling became a macabre monster with horns and long, spidery legs. A shiver rolled over Rowan as she gazed at it.

“Here,” Hannah whispered.

Rowan accepted a large modified rifle, as well as two sharp daggers with intricate charms carved into the shiny blades. Power emanated from them.

We’re going to need it.

“Where’s the big guy?” Frank asked.

Rowan whirled around, her eyes moving quickly as she scanned the entire room. What the hell? Azaiel was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s gone,” she whispered, unsure if that was good or very, very, bad.

“Crap,” Hannah said roughly. “I knew he was too good to be true. He probably led the bastards right to us.”

“No. He wouldn’t do that.” Her spidey sense was going haywire, her heart beating like a jackhammer inside her chest. She set the rifle on the table beside her. “It’s here.” She turned in a circle, both hands gripping daggers, her feet planted apart.

“I feel it, too. But where is it?” Hannah whispered.

“Right here, you dumb bitches.” The voice was rough-hewn, like amplified, thickened nails being dragged across a chalkboard.

Crimson light emanated from within thin air, a spiraling dirge of bloodred energy that solidified into a tall, gruesome-looking creature. Its thin frame was draped in several layers of robes the color of wet clay, and they swept along the ground, billowing outward as if riding an invisible breeze.

It pulled a long, luminescent hood off its head and snarled at them, flashing huge fanglike teeth that dripped crimson liquid onto the worn wood planks of the floor. Several thick, gooey drops splattered at its feet, and smoke rose into the air as the liquid melted through the wood.

Its eyes were merely sunken holes of swirling mist, and its long tongue darted out, twisting in the air as if seeking something. Rowan stared at it in disbelief. She’d never seen anything like this. Never even dreamed up anything like this before.

Its gaze settled upon Hannah, and Rowan realized in that instant that it had no idea Rowan was a witch—the one they were hunting. With the eye of Mallick’s mark closed, she was in fact hidden in plain sight.

She aimed her dagger, dead center of the back of its head, and fired it hard, only to watch it bounce off an invisible wall and fall to the ground several feet away.

Its head swiveled around, and what looked like rotting flesh appeared from inside its gaping hole of a mouth. Rowan hazarded a glance at Frank, but the bartender was eyeing up the demon, eyebrows twisted in concentration, hands holding tight to an impressive-looking shotgun.

The air around the demon swirled in a flash of crimson light. It was so bright that for a second, Rowan was entirely blinded. Panic ate at her, and she stumbled backward, trying to gain some equilibrium. How could she kill something that she didn’t understand? Or more importantly, see?

She shook her head hard, and when she was able to see, the sight wasn’t exactly what she’d hoped for. Three of the massive creatures now stood in front of them.

“Mother-trucker,” Hannah said as she took a step back and tossed a wild look at Rowan. “What the hell are these?”

“Replicatus.” Frank cocked his rifle and moved forward. “Demons that have the ability to replicate into as many versions of themselves as they need. I’ve never seen one before, but I’ve done some reading on them.”

“Really?” Rowan cocked a brow, finding her strength. “And it thinks it only needs three of itself to take us out?”

Frank grinned at her. “Apparently, so. The only way to kill them is to cut their heads off.” He aimed his rifle and fired point-blank into the face of the demon closest to him. Sparks flew everywhere as the bullet cracked the shield that somehow protected them, and the demons screeched in anger.

“Now!” Rowan shouted, and all three sprang forward, daggers drawn and guns at the ready.

The original demon ignored Rowan completely and turned toward Hannah, its focus solely on the only witch it could sense. That was fine. She’d help her cousin out as soon as she took care of the ugly-looking bastard whose toothless, rotted mouth smiled down at her.

She called up the energy that waited inside her chest—felt it scald her skin with power—and crouched in a defensive position as the demon moved toward her. Her rifle was on the table to her left, locked and loaded, and she held her remaining charmed dagger loosely in her hands. She needed to get close enough to cut its head off—but she also had its shield to deal with.

Another shotgun blast rent the air, and the smell of gunpowder slid up her nostrils. It was followed by grunts and a string of profanity that was familiar.

“I’ll rip your head off you fucking piece of filth.

“Really? You think that punk-ass mouth of cockshit is going to scare me? Are you for real, you ball-less fuckwad?
”

Rowan dared not take her eyes off the advancing enemy, but she smiled nonetheless—Hannah’s foray into a world without potty mouth had ended. It was somehow comforting.

A sliver of energy rippled through the air, and Rowan realized she’d lingered too long. She leapt for the rifle and twisted in the air so that she slid across the table on her back, the gun held in front of her as she blasted away at the thing’s head. The shield cracked into a shower of light, and she fired once more, yelling as its body fell backward.

“Take that, dickhead.” Guns had always been her cousin’s specialty. The charms she infused them with were unparalleled.

Rowan jackknifed her body and landed on the floor in front of the demon, bending backward just in time to avoid a large, clawlike fist to the face. She slid to the side and nearly lost her balance but was helped up—by the demon’s fist in her hair. Long talons curled along the curve of her scalp and dug in painfully.

The demon held her aloft, several inches off the ground and only a few inches from its face. The putrid smell that fell from its mouth made her want to puke. Its rotted flesh quivered in anticipation; its blackened, empty eyes seemed to focus solely on her throat.