King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel

by Juliana Stone

Rowan glanced up sharply. She had no idea what was going on between the three of them and at the moment didn’t give two shits if they were enemies or best friends. She glared at Mohawk man—or Nico as Priest had called him—took in the scowl and disdain in his eyes, and let her anger boil over.

  Something rose up inside Rowan—something fierce that she had no way of controlling, and truthfully, in that moment, she didn’t want to. It was a familiar, scary feeling, and judging by the wary look that crept into Hannah’s eyes, it was ready to explode.

  A cold wind whipped along the ground hurtling dead leaves and sharp stones into the air. They flew at the newcomers, like bolts of lightning flung from the sky, and pushed the men back a few feet off the path that led to the house.

  “Ah, guys, I’d move out of the way if I were you.” Hannah ran past them and up the steps to the house. “Looks like she’s about to blow, and it ain’t exactly pretty.”

  Rowan’s eyes were fully black, and her hair swirled around her head, long ribbons of crimson that looked like blood against her pale skin. She tugged the hair from her eyes and spoke calmly though the ground rumbled beneath her feet, and the wind continued to push at them with great force.

  She focused on the two men and, for one small moment, let a touch of the real power inside show through. It’s not something she’d done in years—tapped into that part of her that not even her Nana knew about. It felt wicked and hot and wrong and powerful all at once.

  Priest’s eyes widened, while Nico remained stony, his eyes a glacial shade of winter.

  “I’m going to tell you what I told Azaiel, so you’d better listen closely. This is my turf. My war. Got it?” The men’s gazes were long as they stared at her in silence.

  The porch light flickered erratically, then went out.

  “Shit.” Hannah’s hoarse whisper floated down from the porch. “Here we go.”

  “I don’t care who you are or where you’ve come from. But if you want to stay—if you really want to help this situation because of some loyalty to my grandmother—I suggest you do two things.” Rowan moved forward, and by now Azaiel was leaning on her so much that she wasn’t sure she could make it up the steps.

  “What’s that, witch?” Priest spoke quietly, a dangerous edge to his voice that seemed to alarm everyone except Azaiel—who was nearly passing out—and Rowan.

  She paused inches from the tall stranger, who now stood blocking her path. “Move the fuck out of my way and show this man the respect he deserves. I don’t know much about him, but that’s a whole lot more than I know about either one of you.”

  “The Fallen does not deserve such loyalty,” the shifter spit.

  “Loyalty is earned,” she replied carefully. She thought of how he’d helped her clean up the evidence of Nana’s murder. Of the painful carving across his shoulders. Of how good he felt as she’d pressed against him on the Harley. “Azaiel has proved himself to me. Taken a bullet for Christ sake. That means something.”

  She pushed past them, her anger fueling her forward so that she had no problem at all getting the large man beside her up the steps. With relief she saw Cedric in the entrance, his face full of worry. When he saw the condition of Azaiel, fear filled his eyes.

  “We’re fine, Cedric.” Rowan nodded. “But we need Nana’s special healing herbs and some tools.”

  “What happened to him, miss?” Cedric asked.

  “I shot him with an extraextra special,” Hannah said sheepishly. “Twice.”

  Cedric studied Azaiel closely. “Well now, it didn’t kill him outright, so that’s good.”

  “Hurry, Cedric.”

  “Of course, Miss Rowan. Where are you taking him?”

  Frank had come inside and slipped his shoulder under Azaiel’s other arm. They both winced at the grunt of pain that fell from the tall Seraphim’s lips.

  “He’s burning up,” Frank acknowledged, and Rowan shot a worried glance toward the bartender.

  “Nana’s room.” It was the closest, and she didn’t think they’d be able to get him up the stairs.

  She started forward, down the hall, but paused at the sound of booted feet on the porch. She cocked her head to the side.

  “One more thing, boys. If either of you call me witch again, I will hex a part of you that neither of you wants hexed. Got it?” She nodded at Frank, and they started forward, the anger in her voice unmistakable.

  “My name is Rowan, and you’d both be smart not to forget it.”

  Priest stood on the porch and watched the witch drag Azaiel down the hall until they disappeared from view. He leaned against the railing and grabbed a cigar from his pocket without offering one to the Jaguar.

  The wind continued to howl, carrying bits of debris and dead things into the air. The long fingers of sunlight were fast disappearing—evening came early at this time of the year, and he knew once nightfall descended the danger would triple.

  A smile crept over his features as he lit the cigar. He was fine with that. As much as his life was a lonely existence—had been for centuries—he enjoyed the battle when it came his way. Of late, he’d been pretty fucking busy.

  “It’s gonna be a long night.” Nico cracked his neck and stared off into the distance.

  Priest let the sweet tobacco settle on his palate—the Montecristo’s unique blend of cocoa and coffee was something he’d never get tired of. It was a smooth taste of heaven, here amidst the drudgery found in the human realm.

  He nodded but remained silent as wisps of smoke drifted in front of him. He’d never been a man of words, not even centuries earlier when he’d been made a Knight Templar. Priest had always been a man of action, and words seemed to get in the way.

  He glanced at Nico. The shifter was new to the League, and they’d only just met. Only days earlier, Nico, Declan O’Hara, and the vampire, Ana DeLacrux had been key in keeping the Mark of Seven contained—for now—and his initial impression of the shifter was that of a man on the edge whose loyalties ran deep and whose strength was impressive.

  But he was also dangerous and could prove volatile.

  O’Hara and DeLacrux were on another assignment for Bill—something to do with the Mark of Seven—and when Cale had put out the call for extra bodies to help out in Salem, there were only he and Nico. Priest preferred working alone, but in this instance, he understood that numbers would count. He only hoped they had enough.

  An owl hooted, an eerie cry that echoed into the coming dusk. Priest clenched the cigar between his teeth and spoke quietly. “Did you see the power that lives inside her?”

  Nico squared his shoulders and nodded. “She isn’t your everyday witch, now is she?”

  Priest pushed away from the railing and took the steps two at a time, his long legs eating up the distance to the black Suburban in seconds. “No.” He shook his head and opened the driver-side door. “She’s not. This complicates things.”

  “What is she?”

  “I don’t know, but you can bet your ass I’m going to find out.”

  Nico slid in beside him, and Priest glanced toward the house once more before he put the SUV into gear and pointed the vehicle toward town. This was more than just complicated, and he made a mental note to fill Cale in on everything as soon as he got the chance.

  Priest would do whatever it took to keep the witch from Mallick’s grasp.

  Even if it meant he had to kill her himself.

  Chapter 11

  Azaiel woke with a start, heart pounding, body bathed in sweat. Unclear images wavered in his mind—ghosts from the past no doubt—and he pushed them away angrily, hating the weakness. He swung his feet around and groaned—his head swam, and his gut roiled. His shoulder throbbed like a son of a bitch, and for a few seconds his eyes were unable to focus.

  Remnants of the nightmare rolled around his head and though he couldn’t remember specifics, it always left him feeling the same. Hopeless. Ashamed. Betrayed. Furious.

  Where the hell am I?

  He forced himse
lf to calm down as the darkness that slept with him fell away. Eventually his breathing returned to normal, and he opened his eyes as memory returned.

  Salem. Demons. Rowan. Her crazy cousin and a couple of—he winced and gingerly touched his shoulder—extraextra specials.

  Damn, it felt as if he’d been put through the ringer and thrown back in for a second round. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen, and the taste of cloves still clung to the back of his throat.

  A poultice of some sort pressed into his wounds—he grunted and wrinkled his nose. The smell alone should have been enough to chase away the poison inside him. He supposed it had done much to ease his suffering; he just wished it didn’t smell like the back end of a dead rat.

  Slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he realized he wasn’t alone. He got to his feet and sucked in a harsh breath, stretching out tight muscles as he walked toward the overstuffed floral-patterned chair tucked into the corner on the other side of the bed.

  He recognized the room—it was Cara’s—and glanced toward the window. The shattered pane had been boarded up with plywood, and the remnants of broken glass were long gone. The flimsy bloodred curtains dressed each side of the window, their tattered ends trailing along the wooden floor like whispers of silk.

  He thought of Cara. He’d never met the woman, but judging from the pain in Bill’s eyes and that of the League members, she was much loved. He hissed as a wave of pain skittered along the side of his neck. All this was wrong, and he gritted his teeth as he stared down at the foot that hung over the edge of the chair. It was covered by a fuzzy pink sock that sported a small hole along the underside of the big toe.

  Rowan was asleep, curled up like a child, a quilt of many colors pulled up to her chin as she rested her head on the faded, worn armrest. A soft glow from the night-light plugged into the wall beside the chair caressed her features with shadow. She drew long, even breaths—seemed no demons stalked her dreamland.

  Azaiel ran his hand over the rough stubble along his jaw and frowned. At least not yet.

  She moaned softly and turned, her tongue darting out as she settled herself once more, her head at an awkward angle that couldn’t be comfortable. Judging by the grimace that touched the edge of her mouth, she was going to be stiff for sure.

  The clock on the table near her glowed 5:15, and the sight of it filled Azaiel with frustration. Damn, he’d been out for hours. Once more his gaze rested upon the sleeping woman.

  A large leather bag lay a few feet from her chair, and he spied the unmistakable hard lines of several daggers as well as the barrel of a rifle. She’d been hunting while he’d been passed out like a weakling.

  He eyed the bed once more and before another thought entered his brain crossed to the chair and carefully scooped Rowan James into his arms. The pain in his shoulder was ignored, and for one small moment he stilled. Everything inside him quieted.

  He held her close and took in her warmth, savoring the feel of her against his cool flesh. She was small and tucked into him perfectly. Her scent drifted in the air, invaded his body, and filled up the spaces that were empty—the spaces that were dead.

  He closed his eyes, aching with a hurt that he didn’t understand. He barely knew this woman, yet she touched the dead places inside him. He didn’t deserve to feel. At least, nothing like this.

  Something broke then, a crack in the wall he’d built around his soul. It was a sensation unlike any he’d felt before—a slow surrender from the inside out. It caught him by surprise, and for a moment he did nothing—he let the wall of feeling engulf him. He was hungry for her, aroused, and hard. A wave of hot need rolled through him, and he nearly stumbled.

  What the hell?

  Azaiel swore beneath his breath, ancient speak that sounded rough and belligerent. He ignored the erection that strained against his jeans and gently placed Rowan on the bed. The patchwork quilt was once more tucked under her chin, and he paused for a second, then—because he was weak—took the time to caress a silky strand of hair from her brow. She sighed, turned onto her side, her fingers clutching at the pillow, and buried her head in its softness.

  He gazed down at her, took in the tumbled hair, candy red mouth, and creamy skin. Her long lashes swept downward, casting inky shadows onto her cheeks, and her mouth parted slightly as she exhaled. She was earthy, sexy, fierce, and loyal.

  She was not meant for someone like him—the Fallen.

  “She’s a beautiful woman.”

  Azaiel stiffened.

  “We need to talk,” Priest said softly, then he was gone.

  Azaiel flicked his wrist and extinguished the night-light before turning and following the Knight Templar from the room. He closed the door behind him, nodded to Cedric, who was busy at the sink, and rolled his shoulders in an effort to loosen up the stiffness that had spread across them and down his back. His chest was still bare, but at the moment, his overheated state meant the chill in the early-morning air eased his discomfort.

  He grabbed a milk carton from the fridge and strode down the hall. Priest and Nico were on the porch, their low-pitched voices echoing into the still morning. He had no idea where Frank or—a scowl crossed his face—the witch Hannah was, though judging by the hour, they were most likely asleep somewhere.

  He ignored the two men lounging to his left and drank the entire carton before he turned to them. Nico’s barely contained hostility was palpable. The tall shifter literally thrummed with repressed anger.

  Azaiel understood it. The warrior was a man of honor, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the shapeshifter would never trust him.

  “You still look like shit, Fallen.”

  Azaiel placed the carton on the window ledge. As it was, he didn’t give a rat’s ass if Nico trusted him or not, but if they were going to work together, some rules needed to be established.

  “Do not call me that again.” Azaiel said the words slowly so that there wasn’t any confusion—the shifter had not earned the right to call him Fallen. They had no history. No connection. “I have a name.” He turned to the jaguar, whose teeth were now bared. “Use it.”

  He might have been stripped of some of his power, but it was time for Azaiel to let the jaguar warrior know he wasn’t to be trifled with. He was still Seraphim, and if the shifter was smart, he’d back off.

  Azaiel took a step forward, muscles bunched, nerves tingling, but Priest interrupted. “We’ve no time for posturing, boys. Let’s try to get along.” Priest let the cigar in his mouth roll to the corner, and he glanced at the shifter. “Understand, Nico?”

  The shifter growled but kept silent.

  Azaiel slowly unclenched his hands and inhaled the fresh, crisp, morning air. In the distance a line of fire spread out along the horizon, signaling the imminent arrival of dawn. He arched a brow and addressed Priest, sensing it would be better for them all if he and Nico kept communication to a minimum.

  “What happened last night?”

  Priest withdrew the cigar and studied the red glow that burned on the end as he slowly twirled the long, brown stogie between his thumb and forefinger. “We were busy.” His pale eyes narrowed as he glanced up at Azaiel. “Busier than I thought we’d be. The demon numbers were significant, and though I caught the scent of vampire, I didn’t come across any.” He arched a brow, his pale eyes intense. “But they’re close by, and Dark fae have joined the party.”

  Azaiel shook his head. That wasn’t good. The fae hardly ever interfered with the affairs of men. They were content to live in the between worlds and watch from afar. So why now did they think to involve themselves in a witches’ war with Mallick?

  “The human Frank held his own as did the other witch, Hannah. She’s a little excitable, but her aim is always true.” Priest’s gaze fell to his shoulder. “As I’m sure you already know.” He exhaled and took a few steps, turned, and leaned against the white railing that ran the length of the porch. “Rowan is impressive. She preferred to hunt alone and refused
help from any of us. I followed her at a distance.”

  Azaiel’s eyes narrowed. “And how did that go?”

  “Like I said. She’s impressive, and it only took her a few minutes to lose me.”

  Azaiel found that hard to believe. “You’re a Knight Templar. How did that little slip of woman evade the likes of you? Witch or no?”

  The air stilled around them, and Priest blew out a long plume of smoke. “Well, now. That seems to be the question of the hour, don’t you think?”

  An uneasy feeling rolled through Azaiel’s gut. What the hell was Priest getting at?

  Priest butted his cigar, leaving a long line of gray ash on top of the railing, and cocked his head. “Mallick can never be allowed to claim her.”

  Nico moved forward, and the two of them stared at Azaiel, their faces intense, their eyes dark with hidden meaning. Something wasn’t right.

  “What are you not telling me?” Azaiel stretched out long fingers in an effort to release the tension that held everything inside him tight and uncomfortable.

  Priest looked off into the distance. “Do you know who her father is?”

  Azaiel frowned. “She hasn’t mentioned a father.” He didn’t like the look that passed between the two men. “What the hell are you getting at?”

  Priest opened his mouth to retort but slammed his mouth shut before uttering a word, his pale eyes glittering harshly as he gazed behind Azaiel.

  Azaiel felt her presence before she stepped foot onto the porch, and when he turned to her his chest tightened in a way that was becoming all too familiar. She was barefoot, must have lost the pink fuzzies that had adorned her feet, and even though frost covered everything in a thick coating of white crystals, she didn’t seem to notice.

  Her plain pink T-shirt clung to her curves, and he felt his heart quicken as he took in the faded, worn jeans that hugged her hips and followed the sleek lines of her legs. Long strands of hair hung in disarray, curling past her shoulders, and her sleep-heavy eyes widened, their navy depths filled with concern as she walked toward him.