King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel

by Juliana Stone

  Azaiel glanced at the rifle he held—the one aimed straight for his heart—and then back into coffee-colored eyes that were full of distrust and anger. He wasn’t afraid of the rifle—normal bullets would hurt like hell, but he’d survive. For curiosity’s sake, he’d play along.

  Azaiel raised his hands into the air and nodded toward the weapon. “I’d be careful where you point that thing.” Azaiel’s mouth tightened as the older man lowered the muzzle so that it was now aimed directly between Azaiel’s legs. He wasn’t so sure a shot in that particular area would heal satisfactorily.

  “Don’t think I won’t shoot you down. And just so you know, this here rifle is loaded with the kind of ammo that does damage to your type.” The voice was gravelly, and Azaiel knew that the gentleman meant business. “Who the hell are you, and where is Miss Rowan?”

  Chapter 5

  A small orange tabby weaved its way around the pumpkin patch, its lithe form navigating the large pumpkins with predatory grace. Its belly hung low, heavy with life, and Rowan figured the animal was about to give birth.

  “You’d best find someplace safe to have your kittens.” The cat meowed, a loud, plaintive howl, then slunk between the cornstalks. Rowan glanced back at the house. “Because it sure as hell isn’t here.”

  She closed her eyes and let the early-fall sun soak into her skin. Wind whistled in her ear, a soft breeze that caressed her hair and left a crisp feel in its wake. Birds sang to each other, quick, excited chirps that shouted, Winter’s on its way. In the distance, the sad drone of an airplane drifted across the robin egg blue sky.

  Fall had always been her favorite time of the year, but living in Southern California, while it had its own merits, just didn’t touch her soul the way Massachusetts did. Pain spiked across her chest, and she nearly dropped the vase as a myriad of memories and images assaulted her.

  She both hated and loved this place. The twist of emotion left a bittersweet ache in her heart, but Rowan had no time to tread down that path. There would be time to process them and grieve later. At the moment, there were other things to worry about.

  She needed to warn the coven, gather her troops, and spring her mother from the asylum. Marie-Noelle might be crazy, but Rowan needed her magick . . . and the knowledge buried inside her head. She clenched her teeth together. She wouldn’t fail this time.

  She had two weeks until Samhain. Two weeks to prepare.

  And then she’d deal with Mallick once and for all.

  Her hand was upon the door when the small tabby surprised her once more and slid between her feet. She nearly fell over and muttered, “What the?”

  Rowan glanced down and tried to move the animal with her booted toe, but the little devil wasn’t having any of it. “Who are you?” she murmured, balancing the large crystal vase in her hands while pushing on the door with her hip. “Were you a friend to Nana?”

  The cat darted ahead, and she followed it inside, nearly dropping the vase when she spied the older man. “Cedric!”

  Her Nana’s oldest friend and caretaker stood defiantly in the middle of the kitchen, rifle raised threateningly toward Azaiel. He looked as if he’d not slept well, with several days’ worth of scruff dressing his chin in a brush of gray. The sadness that softened his eyes was heartbreaking as he turned his gaze toward her.

  “Miss Rowan,” he said simply, and she noticed how the rifle shook. The damn thing looked to be an antique and most likely was. Rowan doubted it would fire even if he tried.

  “It’s all right, Cedric.” She nodded toward Azaiel. “He’s . . . a friend.”

  Cedric hesitated, distrust heavy in his eyes. “He’s not human.”

  “No, he’s not, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

  Slowly the man lowered his rifle and let it fall to his side as he eyed Azaiel warily, then walked toward her. He stopped a few inches away, his slight shoulders hunched forward. Cedric’s gaze fell to the floor, and he moved gingerly, as if he knew Cara’s life’s blood had slowly drained from her body in that very spot.

  Patsy Cline erupted into the silence, and the hair on the back of Rowan’s neck stood on end. Her eyes widened as a realization hit her.

  “She’s still here.” The words were whispered, and her legs felt like jelly as she crossed the kitchen and stood in the entrance to her grandmother’s rooms. It was empty, of course, but she closed her eyes and concentrated, opening her senses and searching.

  How long she stood there, Rowan couldn’t be sure, but the vase grew heavy in her grip, and her shoulders ached from the strain. And still the music played on for several seconds until it stopped abruptly.

  A whisper of energy slid over her skin, and she shivered at the power she felt. He was there, just behind her. Azaiel.

  “Can you see her?” she asked quietly.

  There was a pause. “No.”

  Disappointment rushed through Rowan, and she pushed past Azaiel, setting the vase on the table before turning toward Cedric. She hugged him fiercely, not caring as the tears that had been threatening for hours fell unchecked down her cheeks. His body, frail with age and—shock filled her—disease, swayed in her embrace. She smelled the sickness inside him, and it only added to her grief. How much am I going to lose?

  “Miss Rowan, she’s gone.”

  They clung to each other for several more minutes before Rowan wiped away her tears and stepped back. “I know.” She took the gun from him and placed it on the table. “Where were you . . . do you know what happened? Who did this?”

  Azaiel moved to her side, and she was conscious of how large he was. How incredibly male he was. She couldn’t lie. There was a certain comfort in that, which surprised her. She’d only had herself to count on for so long, it felt strange to think there might be another to share the burden.

  “I had a suspicion but wasn’t sure, Miss Rowan.” Cedric’s soft Southern drawl had never left even though he’d lived over half his life in Massachusetts. His eyes were wide. “She came to me in a dream two nights ago. Told me to make sure you were safe and to keep you away from Salem. I wasn’t sure if it was just a bad dream, so I came home right away but . . .”

  Rowan digested Cedric’s words. “Did she . . . did she say how . . .” She paused, not wanting to verbalize what was in her head.

  “Did she say how she was murdered?” Azaiel interjected, his voice level and matter-of-fact. “Or more importantly, did she say who and why?”

  Cedric’s eyes narrowed as he swung his gaze toward the tall man. “I’ll ask again. Who are you?”

  “Azaiel. As Rowan’s already told you, I’m here to help and will do whatever I can to keep her safe and find the bastard responsible for Cara’s murder.”

  Cedric ignored Azaiel’s comments and arched a brow at Rowan. “And you believe him?”

  Rowan hesitated. She still wasn’t a hundred percent sure about the mysterious stranger’s agenda, but she knew he meant her no harm. “He says he’s a friend and at the moment our allies are few and far between.”

  “Huh.” The old man shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Surely you don’t think it’s a coincidence that he’s here now.”

  “He says that Bill, you remember him, don’t you? Nana’s friend? Azaiel said that he sent him.” She watched closely as Cedric digested that bit of information.

  “Huh,” he said once more.

  “Where were you when Cara was murdered?” Azaiel spoke, and she jumped slightly, hating the way her stomach tightened at the sound of his deep timbre. Hating the way he stated the facts so coldly. But then, why shouldn’t he? It’s not like her grandmother meant anything to him. He was only here as a favor to Bill.

  Pain lanced across Cedric’s features. “I’d gone to Louisiana for a few days to visit my granddaughter. She’d just had a baby you see, and Cara insisted I go seeing as I’m . . .”

  “Sick?” Rowan inserted gently.

  Cedric shook his head. “Yes.” A muscle splayed across his jaw. “Damn
cancer.” He glanced toward the floor. “Damn smokes. Cara had been on me for years to quit you know and last summer I finally did. I let her do some of her magick you see, and the craving went away.” Cedric snorted harshly. “Too bad the damn things left a little present behind.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rowan said softly.

  “Well, I’ve lived a long time and though I’ve not got many good days left, I sure will use what ones I have to make things right.” His dark eyes were lit with a feverish light. “Whatever you need, Miss Rowan. We’ll get the son of a bitch who hurt our Cara.”

  “Okay,” she said softly. “Have you talked to anyone from the coven? Mariah? Abigail? Do you know where they are? Do any of the others know what happened to my grandmother?” She paused and swallowed heavily. “What about Hannah?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Rowan, but we haven’t heard from any of your kin for, well, a long time now and Hannah, well, she comes around now and again, but I’ve not seen her in months.”

  Damn, how could she have let the coven get so fractured? Rowan flushed a deep red as she arranged the flowers in the vase. She knew why. Because I was too selfish.

  “Does Hannah still work at that bar in Ipswich?”

  “She owns it now.” At Cedric’s nod, a thought crossed Rowan’s mind. She turned quickly, and her nose smashed into the hard wall of Azaiel’s chest. “Jesus. Didn’t anyone ever teach you the rules about personal space?”

  His scent filled her nostrils. It was earthy, full of spice and something wholly male. The energy that slithered over his skin was potent, and it only added to his attraction—not that she was interested, of course.

  She didn’t give Azaiel a chance to reply but pushed past him. He wasn’t her type. That’s if she was looking for a type. She glared at the answering machine and shot a look of resentment at Azaiel. Which she wasn’t.

  The light was flashing, and the number indicated there were several messages. Rowan exhaled, squared her shoulders and pressed PLAY. Azaiel moved up beside her as did Cedric, and the three of them listened as three customers called to confirm their canceled reservations.

  She bit her lip and frowned. Weird.

  The next message was from Cedric, checking in to say he’d made it to his granddaughter’s and would call again in a few days. Rowan grabbed Cedric’s hand and squeezed as they listened together.

  Two messages were left, and she knew the last one was from Mason—damn, she needed to call him back before he started to worry.

  “Cara?” She gripped Cedric’s hand tighter as the soft voice sounded. It was her cousin Hannah. “Cara, pick up?” Static played over dead air, and her cousin exhaled loudly into the phone, a quiver of fear lacing her words as she spoke. “Cara. I . . . I’m just worried and a little freaked-out. I felt something tonight and I’m not sure what it means exactly but when you get this message, please call me.” Another pause. “Okay, uh, make sure you call as soon as you get this.”

  The line went dead, and Rowan erased Mason’s message.

  Silence weighed between them all, and after a few moments Rowan let go of Cedric’s hand and stared out the window, not really seeing anything, but she let her mind work its way through some things, and when she turned around a plan was forming.

  She glanced up at Azaiel, more than a little startled to find his light eyes focused on her. He was much too quiet. Much too intense. The man made her nervous in all sorts of ways. If she was going to get through the next few weeks with him around, she was going to have to learn how to deal with that.

  Starting now.

  “Cedric.” She turned to her old friend. “I can’t tell you to leave or to stay. You have to make that decision on your own.” He would have spoken, but she shushed him gently. “I’d rather you leave because danger is heading our way, and I don’t know if I can live through someone else I love getting hurt.” She smiled sadly. “But I know you have the heart of a warrior and that you loved Cara very much.”

  “This has to be made right,” the elderly man said quietly. “You need to be protected. He won’t stop.”

  “I know.” Rowan smiled bitterly. “Seems as if we’ve come full circle.” She nodded. “All right. Good.”

  “What do you have planned?”

  Rowan turned to Azaiel. “I need to gather the coven.”

  “What of your mother?” Cedric looked worried.

  “Once we’re organized, we’ll get her,” she answered carefully, not liking the way Cedric’s eyes narrowed. “Mom may be damaged, but her power is still strong. It’s locked away somewhere inside her, and I need it.” She was aware of Azaiel’s gaze and turned back to the window. A squirrel rooted through a pile of leaves, its tail the only part of its small body that was visible. “We need as much James mojo as we can get our hands on if we’re going to end this.”

  Rowan pushed everything from her mind but the task at hand and went into battle mode. It slipped over her skin with an ease born of the past, and for the first time in a very long while she just let it be. She accepted what she was with no guilt and no fear.

  She was a powerful entity, a warrior made of flesh and bone—but above all else one hell of a witch. Her fingers clenched tightly, and she closed her eyes.

  She would face Mallick but not until she was ready—not until Samhain—she needed her circle to be at its strongest, and before that could happen, she had much to do.

  Rowan James was no one’s prize, let alone that of a demon lord from the Hell realm.

  She would end this. Or die trying.

  Chapter 6

  Azaiel followed Rowan out into the crisp fall morning. It was later, closer to noon, but the urgency of their situation wasn’t lost on either one of them. She cleared the porch, taking the stairs two at a time, and headed toward the parking lot. Her denim-clad legs covered the distance in no time until she reached the blacktop, where his bike and her car were parked.

  They’d breakfasted—Cedric had insisted no foray into the supernatural could be successful on an empty stomach—and the elderly gentleman had created a tasty meal of bacon, eggs, toast, and sausages. Azaiel observed the easy warmth between Cedric and Rowan in silence as he made quick work of his plate. Neither one of them engaged Azaiel in conversation, but he was more than content to listen.

  After millennia of existence, he’d learned many times over that actions belied a man’s innermost thoughts. And that more often than not, words unsaid spoke louder than those uttered. So he’d observed the two and learned enough.

  The fact that Cedric kept himself between Azaiel and Rowan showed not just distrust for Azaiel—he was highly protective of the young woman. Cedric had served the James witches for most of his life, and the love the man felt for Cara and Rowan was as strong as any familial bond. The man would do whatever he could to avenge Cara’s death.

  Azaiel also noticed that Cedric’s hand trembled though he tried his damnedest to hide it. The elderly man was much sicker than he wanted them to know.

  As for Rowan, her pain and guilt at her grandmother’s death had been pushed aside, hidden away in some secret part of her soul, where it would fester. She covered her pain with false smiles and an overly happy voice. Azaiel knew from past experience that the witch was going to have to deal with it sooner rather than later. If not, it would eat away at her and do the one thing she wanted to avoid—impede her judgment and ability to complete her mission.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He’d followed Rowan across the parking lot and paused beside the small blue car. The door was open, and she was behind the wheel, cranking an engine that didn’t want to turn over.

  She looked up at him in frustration. “This thing is a new rental; how the hell can it not start?” Her tone was almost accusatory. Did she actually think he’d toyed with the machine? Not that he was torn up over it. The thought of folding his large frame into the confines of the small vehicle did not please him. It brought to mind a gilded cage and endless centuries upon centuries of i
mprisonment below.

  He nodded toward the motorcycle he’d “borrowed” from Cale. The open road and wind on his face was much more to his liking.

  “We’ll take the bike.”

  Rowan slid from the car, her brows furled into a frown.

  “You afraid to ride?”

  She looked startled at his question and shook her head, moving away from him toward the motorcycle. “No, of course not, I just . . .”

  “You just?” he prodded, noting the tightening around her mouth.

  “I prefer to drive.”

  It seemed the little witch liked to be in control. Azaiel shrugged and nodded toward the bike, holding the key aloft. Hell, if she wanted to drive, he had no problems whatsoever climbing on board behind her. In fact—his gaze rested upon her rounded hips—it might be somewhat entertaining. “Fine by me, if you’re willing.”

  “No,” she answered quickly. “I don’t want to be responsible for something this expensive. Is it yours?”

  “Nope.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Did you steal it?”

  Azaiel paused. “I borrowed it.”

  She threw her hands into the air. “Great, so you stole it. Anything else you willing to share? Because now would be a good time.”

  Azaiel ignored her question. The secrets that darkened his soul were not for anyone’s ears. Those he would keep close.

  He settled himself onto the seat, his long legs easily gripping the machine, and waited for Rowan to climb up behind him. He wasn’t prepared for the energy that slid over his skin as she did so. It startled him, and for a moment he gripped the handlebars tightly, not caring for the sensation. Not caring for what it represented—a connection.

  Azaiel wasn’t looking to connect with anyone. He’d do what he could for the League, but there was room for nothing else.

  A soft grunt, or maybe it was a sigh of surprise was heard as she inched forward, and Azaiel wondered if she felt the connection as well. She muttered under her breath and wrapped her arms around his midsection, holding tight to him. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in the next few days.”