King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel

by Juliana Stone

  “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.

  “You smell different,” it whispered slowly, and its smile widened. “Better than the witch.”

  The demon was puzzled—hence the hesitation—and Rowan knew this would be her only chance.

  The sounds of battle faded into the background as all her focus shifted to the demon that held her. It brought her closer still, and when its tongue flickered out to touch her, it took everything in Rowan to remain still. She needed to get as close to it as she could because the dumb bastard didn’t think she was strong enough to use the dagger that she still held.

  Pain sliced across her cheek as its tongue slowly traveled the length of her face. Her stomach roiled, and she thought for one moment that she was going to lose her breakfast. She knew the moment when it realized the truth—that she was, in fact, the witch they sought—but by then it was too late.

  “Suck on this, asshole!”

  Rowan gripped the knife with both hands and, as she dangled in the air, still held by the Replicatus demon, the power inside erupted from her fingers, fueling her strength and that of the dagger. She plunged it inside the demon’s mouth, withdrew just before it dropped her, and on her way down sliced cleanly through muscle and bone.

  Rowan rolled to the side, gagging on the odor that surrounded her as the head landed a few feet away, and its body tipped forward. She screamed at Hannah, who was pinned beneath the original demon. Its large hands were wrapped around Hannah’s neck, and she struggled to breathe, unhealthy gasps escaping her lips as she jerked about like an insane puppet.

  The demon’s swirling gaze focused on Rowan, its long tongue testing the air, twisting slowly like a snake in the grass. A growl rumbled from its chest, and it bared its fangs, obviously displeased it had been duped.

  Crimson energy surrounded the demon once more, but before it had a chance to replicate itself, its head was severed from behind. It was a clean swipe, and as the body tipped forward, Frank Talbot helped it down with a well-placed kick to the shoulders.

  Hannah rolled over and coughed hoarsely, inhaling deep gulps of air as she slowly got to
her knees. For several long moments, the three of them stared at each other, their faces lit by eerie shadows—and then Hannah laughed. It was a full-bodied, near-hysterical giggle that was infectious.

  Her cousin’s eyes were wide as she looked across the room at Rowan. “Holy fuck, but that kinda rocked.”

  “Potty mouth banished?” Rowan asked.

  “What?” Hannah made a face and grabbed her gun. “Like any addiction, it’ll take time to overcome.” She leapt to her feet, and, as she stepped over the body on the floor, the door to the bar crashed open, and Azaiel strode inside.

  Hannah reacted instantly. She yanked Frank’s rifle from his hands and, before Rowan could stop her, aimed both weapons and fired.

  Chapter 9

  The bullets punched Azaiel in the left shoulder, and the force of the hit lifted him off his feet several inches. It took him backward into the wall, and for a moment he saw nothing but stars as he slid to the ground, pictures crashing around him. He lay there, senses dulled, body aching, and realized he was on his back, splayed out on the ground like a helpless child.

  He grimaced and stifled a groan. Son of a bitch, but it hurt.

  Azaiel took a moment, eyes closed, as he focused his energy on the wounds—and they were significant. What the hell kind of bullets had the witch used?

  “Oh my God, Azaiel!” Rowan was at his side, and she sounded frantic.

  Fingers ripped through cloth—cool air caressed his bare skin, and, judging by the gasp that escaped Rowan’s lips, he was guessing the wounds were as bad as he’d feared. It would take a lot longer than normal to heal, and time was not something they had a lot of.

  Hands weaved their way across his chest, and he clenched his teeth as they gently touched his neck, his temple, and his jaw. Energy tingled along his flesh, awakening long-dormant emotions. The sensation left behind by her touch was exquisite—it had been millennia since he’d felt anything like it.

  And yet, it was not the time to deal with a tangled mess of want, need, loss, and desire.

  Rowan bent over him, once more dressing him in the heat of her body. He was so damn cold.

  “Are you alive?” The whispered words blew across his cheek, slightly tremulous, wholly feminine.

  Slowly his eyes opened, and he exhaled roughly as he tried to push her away. She was much too close and smelled too damn good.

  “You’re hurt.” She was anxious and more than a little rattled judging by the flushed hue to her cheeks.

  He grimaced and, refusing Rowan’s help, sat up with more than a little effort. He leaned against the wall, winded and in extreme pain. A harsh light entered his eyes as he glared up at her cousin, Hannah. “A couple of bullets will do that.”

  “That ammo should have killed you.” Hannah was surprised. She stood beside Rowan—with Frank a few steps away—her spiky hair even more askew, her expressive eyes shiny with an adrenaline afterglow.

  “Lucky for you they didn’t.” He glared at the blond witch and winced as Rowan ripped the rest of his shirt from his body.

  Her fingers trailed along his collarbone as she studied the damage.

  “You’re losing too much blood.” Rowan leaned forward, her head in the crook of his neck as she gingerly felt the back side of his shoulder. His first instinct was to push her away, but something about her touch held him still.

  “There’s no exit wound. We have to get the bullets out.”

  Azaiel inhaled sharply as her fingers poked at both of the ragged wounds, and he hissed. All right, the touching could stop.

  “Sorry,” Rowan whispered. “I’ve never been good at this kind of thing.”

  “I take it you’re not a nurse in your other life,” he said dryly as he shifted and eased a bit of the pressure.

  Rowan shook her head and offered a half smile that in no way hid her anxiety. “No. Far from it. I’d rather fight a pack of nasty demons than deal with pain and blood.”

  Her eyes hung like luminescent sapphires, all shiny and big, as if they held a host of secrets.

  “That’s good to know.” What was it about her eyes that was so compelling? Witch, he reminded himself. She was a witch.

  Her gaze lingered a moment longer, then she said in a rush, “We still need to get them out.”

  He shook his head. “There’s no time. I took out two of the Replicati while you dealt with this one, but there’s still another out there.” His lips thinned. “They’re tenacious sons of bitches. It will come for you.” He directed his last comment toward Hannah, a cold smile claiming his lips. “Maybe this time he’ll be successful.”

  His gut roiled, and a wave of dizziness rifled through his head. “Damn, what the hell did you spike those bullets with?” Eyebrow arched, he glared at Rowan’s cousin.

  “Son of a . . . ah, I’m sorry,” Hannah whispered. “We thought . . . I thought you’d led them to us.”

  Azaiel straightened, teeth clenched. “And why would you think that?”

  “I . . . well, you just left and . . . you’re not human and . . .”

  Rowan’s mouth thinned into a tense line as she turned to her cousin. “You still shoot and ask questions later. That’s not smart, Hannah, and we need to be smarter than them.”

  “There was a time when you did, too,” Hannah said defensively. “Or don’t you remember? No demon fighting for you in college? And here I thought Buffy was a way of life in Southern California.”

  Rowan ignored her comments though her anger bled through in her tone as she spoke. “Those were your extraspecial specials?”

  Her cousin’s gaze faltered. “Extraextra specials now. I’ve juiced them up with belladonna. Sorry. I only keep the deadliest bullets in stock. I mean, what’s the point in using something that will only stun?”

  “Right.” Rowan stared down at him, eyes huge with worry. “Azaiel, this doesn’t look good.”

  The little witch sounded like she actually gave a damn.

  “Azaiel?”

  “Yeah.” His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch. His head pounded, and the taste of cloves and something he couldn’t quite pinpoint sat heavy in the back of his throat. It left him with the unwelcome feeling that at any moment he’d heave all over his boots. Or maybe hers.

  Rowan shook her head. “Azaiel, we have to get the bullets out. You won’t survive with them inside you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He nailed her with a look that brooked no argument. “Help me up.” His eyes softened a bit, more than a little surprised at her concern. “I’m not going to die on you. I promise. But if you could cauterize the wounds, that would go a long way toward helping my situation.”

  “Cauterize the . . .” She bit her lip and sat back on her haunches, her blue eyes now a shade darker than charcoal.

  Sweat beaded his brow, and he tried to shift, but the pain was too intense, and as a fresh batch of blood poured from his shoulder, he cursed.

  She held his ruined T-shirt tight to his shoulder. “Give me a second.” She cocked her head to the side and bit her lip. In the space of twenty-four hours he’d seen her do this several times—when she was upset or unsure. He kind of liked it.

  “Hannah, get all the ammo you have. Weapons . . . anything we can take. Do you have a vehicle?”

  “I’ve got my truck around back.” Frank stepped closer, wiped a meaty hand across his brow, and nodded to Azaiel. “You took out two of those bastards?”

  At Azaiel’s curt nod, Frank grinned widely. “Impressive. Well, it’s going to be a pleasure working with you my friend. We can always use an extra set of hands, especially when they seem to carry a lot of weight.” The bartender paused, a shadow crossing his face as he glanced at Rowan. “He is gonna be all right . . . right?”

  “I’ll be better once we get the hell out of here.” Azaiel hissed as another wave of pain sliced across his shoulder.

  Rowan jerked her head, a quick affirmative. “Grab whatever you can. He’ll be fine.”

  Frank and Hannah disappeared, leaving him al
one with Rowan. He stared up at her, but her eyes darted away, and he realized for the first time that she was nervous.

  “Are you sure you can you do this?” he asked softly, hoping like hell she could, or else the trip back to Salem promised to be as painful as his first trip down into the bowels of Hell.

  She nodded and removed the wadded-up T-shirt. Her face was pale—he saw that clear as day. “Yes. Absolutely.” She smiled at him, an overly bright attempt to make him feel better, and Azaiel played along. It was the least he could do.

  She swallowed, like a lump was stuck in her throat, then closed her eyes. Within seconds, the edges of her fingers glowed, spreading light until the two of them were cocooned in a bubble of heat.

  She made a noise, and he looked up, every muscle in his body tightening as their eyes connected. Rowan bent toward him, and he held his breath, suddenly thinking that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. The thought of her hands on him again filled his heated bones with a sizzle of red-hot energy that had parts of him excited—parts that might be considered inappropriate given the circumstance.

  He couldn’t help it. He was on fire, filled with pain and desire—a deadly combination that made him growl in agitation.

  “This will probably hurt,” she said softly.

  “I’m sure it will,” he bit out.

  “I’ll try to be gentle.”

  “Please do.”

  Her fingers touched his flesh, and he grunted as red-hot energy surged into the wounds. The pain was immediate, and he cursed in ancient speak, spewing words that no one would know but his brothers.

  Gone were the days when pain was nothing more than a notion. As Seraphim, he’d been endowed with unparalleled powers and magick that was unlike anything found in the human realm. Pain was not something he’d ever given much thought to until he’d fallen and been stripped of most everything he’d claimed from his heritage.

  Still, it was a sad blow to his ego that a weapon made by a witch could fell him in such a manner.

  Gradually the pain subsided as the wound closed and the heat from her fingers sizzled to nothing. Azaiel wasn’t sure if it was because his shoulder was numb or because she’d charmed the pain away.