King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel

by Juliana Stone

  “She’s what?” Rowan’s eyes were huge as she stared into a face devoid of emotion. There was a coldness there that was unsettling.

  “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “She’s dead.”

  The iron poker slipped from her fingers as she stared up at the stranger. She heard the words, but her brain wasn’t translating them. Rowan shook her head, “I don’t . . . that can’t be, I’d know . . .” She couldn’t articulate the words in her mind. None of this made sense. Her eyes fell to the book on the bed, the reading glasses at its side, and she felt something inside her break.

  Nana.

  In that moment she knew the truth, felt the pain and the guilt. It’s my fault. The whisper slid through her mind. I never should have left.

  A low keening erupted, one that shot up several decibels in seconds until the window shattered. Glass blew everywhere and shredded the curtains into billowing tatters, long plumes of crimson silk that fluttered like crazed feathers in the wind.

  Rowan winced at the sharp sting of shrapnel as it sliced into her arms and legs. Searing pain ripped across her cheek, but she paid no mind. The wind pulled at her, whirling into the room with a hazy cloud of freezing mist that made it difficult to breathe.

  The touch of his hand on her flesh pulled her from the darkness. The roaring dialed down, and as she stared up at him, her lungs expanded, and she was able to draw a shuddering breath.

  “Who . . . who did this?” she rasped. She had no idea who the hell he was, but in that moment she knew he meant her no harm. The darkness, the evil, wasn’t in this room. It was out there, beyond the broken window.

  “I think your answer is there.” His solid, flat, black eyes were intense, and the white of his teeth flashed through the gloom as he spoke. He pointed outside, and Rowan turned to the window. Thunder and lightning had joined the chaotic dance of rain and wind. A bolt of energy streaked across the sky, illuminating the entire front yard in a flash of white.

  It was a quick, precise hit, and gave just enough light for her to see seven hulking figures standing in the pouring rain.

  Their scent reached her, and she nearly gagged on the thickness of it. Demons. Their eyes glowed red. Blood demons. A weird calm settled over her. She’d come full circle it seemed.

  Rowan squared her shoulders and glanced up at the man beside her. “Who sent you?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Someone who cared deeply for your grandmother.”

  She felt her stomach twist. She didn’t like the stranger’s vague answer. Her Nana was dead, and outside seven blood demons called—his presence was no coincidence.

  A guttural cry rent the night—a harsh echo that slid like nails against chalk—and her hackles rose. She didn’t have time to worry about the details.

  “I’m Rowan. What should I call you?” she asked as she grabbed the iron poker off the ground.

  “Azaiel.”

  The name whispered through her mind.

  The demons howled in unison, their voices rising into a crescendo of noise that dropped suddenly until there was nothing but the rain to break the heavy silence. It was eerie.

  The tallest of the demons grunted and started toward them, a deadly machete trailing behind him in the mud as it took slow, deliberate steps. Another series of lightning strikes crashed across the sky, and its ugly horned face split open into what she supposed was a grin.

  “I’m sorry, but it looks like things are about to get nasty,” she whispered, her gaze focused upon the gathering outside. “But then again, with a name like that, I suppose you’ve not forgotten.”

  “Forgotten what?” he asked, moving beside her.

  Rowan whispered. “What it feels like to get your ass kicked.”

  Chapter 2

  Azaiel turned from the woman and peered out into the dark, instantly dismissing such a notion. The ominous keening picked up once more, an off-key chorus that grated something fierce.

  “Let’s go.” He had no intention of getting his ass kicked, especially not by the slimy bastards outside.

  “The attic.” Her voice was husky.

  He knew she’d just suffered one hell of a shock, but there was no time for hand-holding. “Lead the way.”

  She ran past him, and Azaiel followed her through the darkened house and up the stairs located in the foyer. The wind and rain continued to duke it out, lashing against the brick with an intensity that screamed otherworld.

  This was no ordinary storm. This was a gathering of the elements, called to this place by someone with great power.

  “Wait here,” she whispered. They were on the second floor, and Azaiel paused as she slipped inside a room a few feet away. A crash and shattering glass was heard below. There wasn’t much time.

  “This way.” The woman, Rowan, had a large bag slung across her shoulders. It was old and weathered, with a well-used look to the peat-colored distressed leather. Her cream-colored blouse had come loose, the buttons half undone, the ends no longer tucked neatly into the waist of her skirt. Her feet were bare, and her hair fell from its binding, long strands of crimson that hung wildly about her neck.

  Diamonds glittered at her delicate ears. She was, if nothing else, a study in contrast.

  A second stairwell was located at the far end of the landing, and they slipped up to the attic. It was dark, filled with all sorts of things—boxes, trunks, books, and furniture. There was a small window located to his right, but other than that, no other way to gain access except the stairs they’d just taken.

  She unpacked her bag with careful, deliberate actions. “Do you know what we’re dealing with?” Her voice had changed. There was a new strength there, one fueled by tragedy. In situations like this it was the best kind, and he hoped it would be enough. One dead witch was all he had time to deal with.

  “Blood demons,” she continued. “They’re nasty.” She glanced up at him and hoisted an impressive crossbow onto her shoulders. “First off don’t let them get close. Their tongues have a radius of nearly two feet, and the poison they wield”—she grimaced—“well, let’s just say that pretty face of yours will never look the same.”

  Azaiel watched in silence. She was nervous, high on adrenaline. That was good, she’d need it.

  He wasn’t concerned with the blood demons—not for himself—he could eat them for lunch and go back for seconds. It was the other, the malevolent presence he sensed beyond that held his attention. It watched and waited—he felt its interest—and that had him concerned. The energy in the air was thick with the scent of something ancient. But what did it want?

  “Here.” Her voice was tense.

  Azaiel arched a brow. She walked toward him, a dagger in her hand. “It’s charmed. I don’t know how strong it is.” She shrugged, shook her head, “It’s been lying in my bag for years.”

  Azaiel accepted the dagger and felt a jolt of energy shoot up his arm as he touched it. “I think it’s still got some juice,” he murmured. Her eyes widened. They were blue, cerulean blue, like the warm waters of the Caribbean.

  Her eyes had been blue as well. Azaiel turned away, banishing thoughts of Toniella, the betrayer. Would there ever come a time that thoughts of his ex-lover didn’t taunt him?

  “They’re coming.” He glanced at Rowan. “Make sure you separate their—”

  “—heads, or pierce the brain through the ears. I know. I may be rusty, but I remember how to kill them.”

  He watched her load the impressive crossbow in seconds, and she slung it across her back before scooping up extra daggers and guns. She tossed him a Glock—modified of course—and a bag of ammunition.

  She squared her shoulders and turned to face the stairs.

  Azaiel shoved the gun into the back pocket of his jeans and felt the familiar rush of power flood his cells. He had no need for human weapons, modified or not, but sometimes it was fun to shoot the damn things.

  He glanced at the dagger in his hand. The hilt was inscribed with powerful runes, and his fingers tingled wi
th the magick that resided there. This he’d keep. There was something poetic about using a sharp blade to slice through demon hide.

  Rowan swore as five demons erupted from the hole in the floor. She shot two right away, their screams of pain as the charmed arrows ripped through their skulls, loud and abrasive.

  They kept on, lunging toward her. But the little witch was fast. She ran toward a large trunk and used it to launch herself into the air. She sailed overtop them, and the crossbow let off once more, rifling their bodies with another round of the deadly spears.

  The remaining three rushed Azaiel, and a smile broke over his face as they neared. The first one stopped suddenly, nostrils flaring, and Azaiel took great satisfaction at the look of fear that crept into its eyes.

  These blood demons were bottom feeders—weak, pathetic creatures. They were no match for someone like Azaiel. He flashed a smile—one as cold as a winter morn—and held out his hand, beckoning with his fingers.

  Come on, assholes.

  They hesitated, and Azaiel attacked. He moved so quickly, he was inches from them before they could blink. He drop-kicked the closest, grinning as bone cracked, ribs separated, and blood erupted. The demon went flying into a solid support post and squealed harshly at the force of the hit. The second was silenced rather quickly by the crushing grip of his hand at its neck. He grabbed hold of it with his other and twisted violently, separating the head from its body in seconds.

  Sulfur-laced blood spewed everywhere, and the third demon howled in anger as it slammed into Azaiel. This one was a little different. It was larger, heavier, and more than a little pissed off.

  Azaiel rolled with it, his body loosening as he went. They crashed into a towering pile of boxes that toppled and fell around them. The demon hauled off and swung its fist. Azaiel’s head snapped back from the force of it, and he spat out blood as he rolled to the side.

  Enough games. He was up in a second, his fist flying out and sending the demon flying backward. He flipped his dagger into the air, caught it, aimed, and nailed the son of a bitch to the wall.

  It screamed bloody murder, curses in an ancient tongue that no one but an ancient would understand—something the bottom feeders shouldn’t know. A frown fell over Azaiel’s features. Who the hell did these demons answer to?

  Azaiel growled as he walked toward the snarling demon. Its skin was smoking where the dagger had pierced it. The demon would have yanked it from its body, but Azaiel was there, one hand upon its forehead, the other gripping the hilt and holding it in place.

  A loud crash sounded behind him, but Azaiel paid no mind. From what he’d seen, the witch could more than hold her own.

  “Why have you come? Who sent you?” he asked, watching the demon closely as the monster struggled to speak.

  “We’re collecting.” It sneered, staring at him in defiance. “Witches.”

  “So you killed the old one, Cara.” Azaiel twisted the dagger some more and smiled as the demon roared in pain. He didn’t mind this part—the torture—though it was much nicer to be doling it out rather than receiving for once.

  Surprise flickered in the demon’s eyes, and that made Azaiel uneasy. The bastard stared back at Azaiel in silence but didn’t utter another word.

  “You had no idea she’s been murdered,” he said, more to himself.

  The demon hissed, its eyes now full of malice. “Doesn’t matter. The bounty extends to anyone who carries the coven’s mark.” The demon’s gaze moved behind Azaiel. “The redheaded bitch’s days are numbered.” It smiled, a wheezing breath escaping from its lungs. The charmed dagger was doing a bang-up job. “They will keep coming.”

  A bounty. Interesting.

  “Who ordered the mark?” Azaiel pressed on.

  The demon laughed. “Not who, but what.”

  Azaiel leaned forward and let a glimpse of his true power show. The demon’s eyes widened, and its body stilled as it stared into Azaiel’s eyes.

  “I know you,” it said, grunting in pain as Azaiel withdrew the dagger. The demon staggered, its face pale as the charmed poison worked its way through its veins. “You’re the Fallen. The ancient Seraphim who escaped the Hell realm.” It gritted its serrated teeth and snarled. “Toniella’s bitch—”

  Rage colored Azaiel’s vision. “Nice to know my reputation precedes me.” He lunged forward and with one clean swipe, destroyed the demon. He watched, chest heaving as its head tumbled to the ground, followed by its body.

  An image of the betrayer rose before him. Her long blond hair was all around him, her scent filled his nostrils, and for a second, he was back there. In Hell. Locked away in his prison for eons, with the knowledge that the betrayer had put him there—a woman he’d loved.

  A woman he’d sinned for.

  “Watch out!” The scream ripped him from the past into a very different reality. Azaiel whirled around and ducked, barely missing the wrong end of a machete as it swung toward him. The blade whizzed past and embedded into the wall behind him.

  The fucker he’d sent flying had rebounded.

  Azaiel grabbed the machete, yanked hard, and faced the demon, angry that he’d been so easily distracted. The demon snarled and lunged forward, opening its mouth, ready to let loose the poison its tongue wielded.

  It had no chance. Azaiel moved with preternatural speed. He brought the machete down hard, slicing through bone and flesh with ease.

  He stared down at the remains with disgust, stepped over them, and shook a few remnants loose from his boots. He glanced at Rowan. The witch’s blouse was splattered with blood, bits and pieces of gore clung to her hair. At her feet lay three demons—their bodies already decomposing as the charmed poison continued to work its way through their systems.

  Their eyes caught and held and for a second—for the briefest moment of time—he felt something other than the hatred and self-loathing he’d been living with for longer than he cared to remember. He looked away, cracked his neck, and when he gazed upon her once more, it was gone.

  “Stay put.” He nodded toward the window. “Until I’m sure it’s safe.”

  Azaiel moved past Rowan, but her hand shot out, and she grabbed his arm. Her energy sizzled along his flesh, and he turned to her in surprise. Her eyes were now fully black, the pupils dilated. They shimmered like pools of liquid ebony.

  She was no ordinary witch.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at her and frowned. “There’s a bounty on your head. You will stay inside.”

  “A bounty.” It wasn’t a question, and she wasn’t surprised. “No kidding.” She looked away as silence fell between them. Azaiel studied the woman. She knew something—or at the very least suspected something.

  Lightning cracked across the night sky, splitting through the dark and illuminating the room in a flash of white energy. It was then that he felt it once more, the probing, silent presence beyond. A small gasp escaped the witch, and he saw the way her eyes darted toward the window as a mix of emotions crossed her face. She pushed at the mess of hair around her face and wiped her mouth, avoiding his eyes as she did so. She felt it, too.

  Interesting.

  “Stay here and keep to the shadows. Do not show yourself unless it’s me.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Azaiel was down the stairs before she could utter a word, and he threw up a barrier of magick that should hold her for bit. How long depended on just how much mojo the young witch possessed. Azaiel hadn’t been given much information but from what he gathered, the James line of witches had been blessed with powerful magick.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he paused. There was no power, so everything was awash in darkness though the steady strikes of lightning illuminated the dead sunflowers on the table and a bag on the floor near the door.

  A ripple of energy and the touch of heat on his skin had him fully alert. His nostrils flared, and he gathered his power. Something was outside, just beyond the porch.

&n
bsp; A thrill rushed through Azaiel, and he clenched his hands as a shot of adrenaline pumped through his body. Was it sad that he felt alive when he was about to maim or kill? Whatever the reason, he’d take it. Anything was better than the emptiness and hatred he’d felt for millennia.

  He moved with stealth, melting into the shadows, and with a flick of his wrist, the door yawned open. He slipped outside between the sheets of rain and wind, his gaze moving quickly as he sought the enemy.

  Azaiel hopped the railing with ease and crouched low, letting the cool water wash over him like a blessing from above. Ironic that thought.

  It was eerily silent, with only the sound of rain against the roof echoing in his ear and the dance of wind through the trees. Overhead the moon was hidden, and night covered everything in a murky gray mist. Lightning struck at random, sparks of light that tainted the surroundings in fire. They sizzled along the ground, then were gone.

  He blinked, wiped some excess moisture from his eyes, and focused on the small building to his left. He’d start there.

  Azaiel slid through the dark, a silent assassin who blended with the shadows like a plume of smoke amongst a fire.

  He felt a shift in the air, a sliver of matter that didn’t belong, and changed direction, approaching a small car in the driveway with caution. Something was there, just beyond the vehicle.

  Azaiel withdrew his dagger and jumped, easily clearing the car with a few feet to spare, but there was nothing for him. No demon, human, or other. He felt the barest whisper of energy against his skull, and slammed his mental barriers shut.

  And then it was gone.

  Azaiel’s breathing returned to normal as the adrenaline inside dissipated, washed away by the cold rain. He frowned as his eyes scanned the entire area. Damn, but he’d been itching for a fight.

  He turned and made his way to the porch, and once sheltered from the elements, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone.

  It was answered on the first ring.

  “Cale,” the voice was terse.