King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel

by Juliana Stone

  Azaiel revved the engine and let all thoughts of doomsday fly away as the powerful machine between his legs begged to be let out on the open road. The throttle growled, a low rumble that sounded sweet, and they sped out of the driveway, turning right as Rowan directed, toward Ipswich, a small New England town thirty minutes north.

  The air was fresh, the streets of Salem busy. Tourists by the hundreds walked the sidewalks, shopping, laughing, drinking in the ambiance—some dressed in witch costumes, others in casual clothes and comfortable walking gear. All seemed more than happy to open their wallets and spread the kind of cheer that made the local businesses happy.

  He spied a young mother pushing her child in a stroller along the sidewalk. They stopped to admire a large pumpkin decoration, and the mother reached for her child’s face and stroked the ruddy cheek affectionately. They looked happy. Content. So did the group of elderly women who elbowed their way through a crowd of youths.

  Not one of them had a clue what hunted amongst them. On the short drive through town, he’d felt the presence of several demons meandering through the crowds, sniffing out any who might fall easily into their embrace. By nightfall, the number would double.

  With Mallick’s eye turned this way, Salem would be overrun within a few days. If Azaiel and the League weren’t able to contain the bastard and his legions, the quaint little town would never know what hit it. The monsters and demons that they dreamed about—the ones they immortalized in movies and books—would show themselves.

  And they wouldn’t play nice.

  His gut tightened, and the lightness that had only recently settled in his mind was long gone. It was replaced with the weight of an almost impossible situation. And yet he knew it wasn’t time to despair. Not yet. Azaiel was living proof that hope flourished even when all was lost.

  It was some kind of miracle that he—the Fallen—had managed to find some bit of grace and come back from the darkness. If not for Bill, he would have perished, and for that he was grateful. He knew he wasn’t yet whole. The road to redemption was littered with the sins of his past, but he would walk it—one step at a time.

  Whether he was strong enough to reach the end . . . well, that was another question entirely.

  For a few moments, as the sun shone on his face, and the warmth of a woman crept up his back, Azaiel let the darkness inside him dissipate. He let the freedom of the road infiltrate his cells and gunned the motor, laughing at the squeal of protest that sounded on the wind.

  Rowan dug her hands into his sides, but he paid no mind. Hell, he could close his eyes and drive the damn thing safely if he wanted to. A little bit of otherworld mojo, and he’d be all set. Instead, Azaiel let the beauty that existed in this corner of the world—the burnt oranges, fiery reds, and brilliant golds—touch his soul, and he found that it offered some sort of comfort to the heaviness that weighed on him.

  They rode in silence for nearly thirty minutes, and as they approached Ipswich, Rowan’s hands tightened.

  The small New England town was old—older than most in these parts, and its history bled through like a living, breathing entity. If ever a place had “character,” this was it. From the architecture of the stately homes, to the old stone bridge, to the greenery and the water beyond.

  “Take the next right.” Rowan’s shouted words dragged him from his thoughts, and Azaiel maneuvered the bike around the corner, expertly guiding the motorcycle down a tree-lined street until he spied the bar at the end, on the left. Brick House.

  He pulled into the parking lot and drove the bike to a secluded spot where he could secure it. It wasn’t his bike, and he sure as hell didn’t give two shits about Cale, but he’d grown fond of the motorcycle on the drive up from The Pines, and it would piss him off if someone were to damage the shiny metal beast.

  Rowan slipped off once they were stopped, muttering the whole time. “Might as well have parked on the other side of town. Not like we have time for a leisurely stroll around Ipswich.”

  He ignored her mumbling and glanced up at the Brick House. The long, rambling building wasn’t a house, and there was not one brick to be seen.

  The parking lot was fairly full, but considering it was Saturday, that probably wasn’t surprising. Music drifted from inside—live music, the heavy bass beat told him so—and the swell of laughter followed in its wake.

  Rowan was tense. It was in the way she carried herself, the frown that furled her brows, and the thin line of her mouth.

  “You all right?”

  She seemed surprised at his question. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen Hannah.” A small smile curved her generous mouth, and Azaiel’s gaze settled there. It was a mouth meant for passion—for kissing and nibbling and sliding across skin. Not for the first time he wondered about the man who’d called for her. Mason. Were they lovers?

  He found he didn’t much care for the thought though he was quick to toss it aside. What was the point?

  “We were pretty tight, like sisters really, and trouble always seemed to find us.” She chuckled softly. “Though I was always the one to get caught.” She bit her lip and sighed. “God, I miss those days.”

  Azaiel let Rowan lead the way inside, all the while his senses scanned the immediate area for anything out of the ordinary. Other than one witch inside, he felt nothing—no otherworld presence was detected.

  The interior of the bar was much like any other he’d seen both here in the human realm, and below in Hell. Darkly lit, with low-slung heavy wood beams across the ceiling, it was a cluttered mess of tables and bodies. Shadows filled in the corners, and neon-lit signs hung on the walls as well. Various witch paraphernalia were strewn throughout—broomsticks, hats, black cats, and even a stuffed white owl that rode the coattails of some small, bespectacled boy in a cape.

  The room was filled with a few overly drunk patrons near the stage, dancing to a live band that played a mixture of blues rock with a hint of jazz thrown in for good measure. It was the kind of music fit for a Saturday afternoon, one meant for laziness and drink.

  The bar itself was hopping, with a host of men and women enjoying their cold brews, settled on the high chairs, while a couple played darts in the far corner. A smattering of people ate at the tables near the back, with several waitstaff seeing to their needs.

  A large mountain of a man tended the bar, and Azaiel was aware that his bushy brows were raised in their general direction even as he carried on a conversation with a young blond waitress who waited for her order.

  As he and Rowan approached the bar, the bartender filled her order and sent the waitress on her way. He rested his meaty hands on the bar and glared at Azaiel. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Good to know.” Azaiel smiled, though the warmth never left the general area of his mouth. “We’re trying to avoid it ourselves.”

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed into twin balls of gray. “Don’t be an asshole.” He clenched his fists. “I don’t like assholes.”

  After his trial and subsequent punishment in the upper realm, Azaiel had been stripped of some of his powers. If not for Bill, his brothers would have left him as helpless as a newborn. As it was, he’d been banished from the upper realm for an undetermined time and left with only a few of his former powers. He could no longer travel through time and space at will, delve into the minds of humans, or—Azaiel eyed the arrogant bartender—kill with the blink of an eye.

  He flexed his long fingers and squared his shoulders. He was, however, stronger than any human, and in fact most otherworld creatures, and he couldn’t be killed. If need be, he had no problem at all demonstrating how quickly he could crush the bartender or any who dared give him attitude.

  “Boys, let’s calm down.” Rowan leaned toward the bar. “I’m Rowan, Hannah’s cousin. She around?”

  The bartender’s gaze moved from Azaiel and settled on Rowan. He studied her in silence for a few seconds, then smiled, his large, beefy hand stroking the thick beard that c
overed his chin.

  “You’re Marie-Noelle’s daughter. You look just like her.”

  Rowan stepped back and nodded. “You knew my mother?”

  The man nodded. “I did.” A sad smile now graced his rough-hewn features. “Back before she had her, ah, breakdown. She was full of fire that one.” His face darkened as he looked at Azaiel. “I don’t think she’d like the thought of you running around with someone like him.”

  Azaiel arched a brow and stepped up beside Rowan. He was close enough to the bartender that if the man decided to insult him again, he could easily snap the man’s neck and be done with it. “Someone like me?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

  The bartender, however, refused to back down. “Yeah, someone like you.” The man shook his head and took a step back. “Far be it for me to advise you on your choice of company.” He nodded to Rowan. “But you’re asking for trouble with him around. The kind of trouble that got your mom all messed up.”

  Azaiel would have moved forward, but Rowan’s hand on his arm kept him still. “You don’t know anything about my mother.”

  “I know more than you think I do,” the burly man growled.

  “Who are you?” Rowan’s voice rose.

  The bartender didn’t skip a beat. “I’m a soldier in this war, same as you. I might be human, but that gives me more of a stake in this mess, don’t you think? My family, my wife and kids, are everything to me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.” He sneered as his gaze settled on Azaiel. “Safe from the likes of him.”

  “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

  Rowan 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.