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.”
Chapter 8
Azaiel 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 h
elp 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.
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