King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel

by Juliana Stone

  Rowan turned to the jaguar, her hand raised. “Are we going to go there, Nico?”

  The shifter’s grin died slowly, replaced with a scowl that was fierce, and he stepped back, arms crossed over his chest.

  Rowan exhaled, her voice barely a whisper as the heaviness of the situation pressed on her. “Let’s do this. Hannah, Priest, come.” She directed them around the table, Azaiel to her left, Priest on her right, and Hannah across from her. Once they were in place she cleared everything from her mind and went to work.

  She reached for the bowl, set it before her, and stared down at the dagger as her heart beat hard inside her chest. She was so damn hot. So damn scared. A week ago she’d been in Europe, flush with the excitement of her job, of being entrusted with an overseas meeting—and the lights of Paris. She’d had Mason waiting for her at home, Monday night cooking classes, and now . . . now her world was tilted, its axis spinning out of control, and she had no clue if she had what it took to set things right.

  Hannah pulled a strand of her mother’s hair from the brush and dropped it into the bowl.

  “You can do this Rowan.” Azaiel spoke quietly.

  She nodded okay and grabbed the dagger, slicing through her palm without hesitation. The sting was instant and the burn harsh. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she held her hand over the bowl and watched her blood drip downward.

  Not a word was spoken.

  When enough had fallen, she placed the dagger beside her and wiped off the excess blood with the linen cloth used to store the candles. She touched her finger to the wound in her palm, closed her eyes, concentrated, and recited a healing charm. It was one of the first her mother had taught her—a simple spell used to heal scrapes and bruises.

  And it was enough.

  Rowan held out her hands, and their small circle was completed. She felt the strength, the well of power that the men on either side of her harnessed, and she saw how Hannah’s eyes widened. She felt it, too.

  Blue eyes met as the two women gathered their own strength. Tapped into their wells of power and deep-rooted beliefs. Took from the goddess, whose spirit watched over them all.

  The candles erupted in fire, each one burning brightly, as Hannah and Rowan began their spell.

  Travel through the sands of time

  Find us that which is mine

  Allow the sight to reach its goal

  Bind to us our long-lost soul

  The bowl rose into the air, and Rowan watched it closely, sweat dripping from her brow as she concentrated and held the power still. She couldn’t lie—the thrill she felt as her energy connected with Hannah’s was intoxicating. The conduit of power from Azaiel and Priest electrified her cells in a way she’d never felt before.

  For one brief moment as the connection between the four of them solidified, images and emotions assaulted her. It was a heady mixture that left her panting. A cross. Instruments of torture. Fire. Rage. An eagle. Despair.

  They were gone as fast as they’d come, but a lingering touch stayed behind—an intrusion inside her head. Rowan gritted her teeth and slammed her mental doors shut—the ones that protected her innermost secrets—and pushed back. Hard.

  Someone wanted something from her, but who? Irritated, Rowan easily cleared her mind. She’d deal with it later.

  As she and Hannah continued to chant, the bowl turned in the air, slowly to the right four times, then back to the left the same number of turns. It hovered over the map, seeming to drift aimlessly. The weight of that bowl in the air was like a slab of stone pressed against her chest. It seemed to hover forever, but she knew that, in fact, mere minutes had passed.

  All eyes were on the bowl as it slowly stopped turning, and the cracks that ran along the circumference liquefied into long, spidery arms of black. Blood seeped through. One single drop slipped out and fell onto the map.

  Rowan tugged her hands from the men, grabbed the bowl from the air, and set it beside her. She pushed several strands of hair from her neck, hating how they stuck to her slick, sweaty skin. She was light-headed and jittery, but all was forgotten as she gazed upon the map. Hannah studied it closely as well, her eyes alive with a fever that Rowan knew all too well. Magick was like a drug, and the euphoric feeling that accompanied its use was indescribable.

  It had led many a weak witch to an early grave.

  Cedric, Frank, and Nico moved in closer, and they all stared down at the table. Rowan’s fingers trembled as she pointed toward the map. “There,” she whispered.

  Frank leaned in and nodded. “Okay then. Guess we’re headed to Maine.”

  Azaiel nodded to Priest. “A word?”

  Priest and Nico followed him outside. They left Rowan and Hannah quietly packing up their tools of magick, while Cedric and Frank had disappeared into the basement to check out the weapons situation.

  Azaiel’s long strides didn’t stop until he’d reached the far end of the property. A large oak tree spread its branches above him, most of the leaves dead and missing. The sun still shone—he felt the warmth on his face—but coldness settled inside him and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Priest lit the end of his cigar, his eyes hard as he clenched the cigar tightly between his teeth. “You felt it? You saw?”

  Azaiel nodded. “The power inside her is impressive. Above the norm even for a James witch.”

  Soft swirls of smoke blew between them. Nico glanced back toward the house, eyes flat, voice subdued. “What the hell is she?”

  “I have no idea,” Priest offered up, his gaze sharp as he stared at Azaiel. “But this changes things. A lot.”

  The coldness inside Azaiel fisted. He knew what the Templar was getting at. And he knew Priest was right.

  “Yes.” Azaiel nodded. “It does.”

  Azaiel followed Nico’s gaze and exhaled a long, slow breath. Mallick would never stop searching for Rowan. She held something inside her that made it impossible for the demon to do so—which meant that the demon had to be destroyed. He could not be allowed to claim her. The balance between the realms would fall apart and plunge their worlds into chaos.

  But Mallick was a demon lord. Destroying him wasn’t going to be easy. If only . . . Azaiel turned away in disgust, his hands clenched into fists, his jaw sore with tension. If only he had the full extent of his power, it would be within reach. But he’d been cut off, and rightly so.

  “If we can’t defeat Mallick . . .” Priest said, the cigar held tight in his mouth.

  “She’ll have to be destroyed,” Azaiel finished. Hearing the words spoken filled him with anger, and he rolled his head, stretching out the muscles in his shoulders and neck.

  “A shame,” Nico said grudgingly. “Even though the witch hates my guts, there’s something about her I like.”

  The coldness inside Azaiel evaporated, leaving a rush of heat that electrified his spirit and mind. He might be weaker than any other of his kind, but he was still Seraphim. He could still do damage. And he wasn’t alone.

  He addressed the two men, for the first time really feeling his own power—one that was fed with purpose.

  “Remember that, shifter, because I have a feeling this is going to be the toughest assignment you’ve had, and I”—his eyes bled black—“don’t intend for her to die.”

  “Well then.” Priest tossed his finished Montecristo into a pile of browned, dead leaves. “Let’s get this done.”

  They turned toward the house. “But Seraphim, one suggestion?”

  Azaiel paused, brow arched in question. He didn’t like the Templar’s tone.

  Priest grinned widely and pushed past Azaiel. “A change in wardrobe might be a good idea. I don’t relish the thought of storming an otherworld asylum beside a man wearing Hello fucking Kitty on his T-shirt.”

  Chapter 14

  They arrived on the coast of Maine at nightfall.

  A cold wind blew off the water, carrying with it a hint of darkness that immediately had everyone on edge. Overhead a moonless sky held up a bl
anket of diamondlike stars though their light was muted and did nothing to penetrate the inky black that hovered over them. Large swells of water broke against the shore, a melody Azaiel had not heard in eons, and though it was a crisp, cold, fall evening, there was something soothing about the sound that warmed his soul.

  “Goddamn, it’s miserable out here.” Frank shivered and pulled his thick black sweater closer to his burly frame.

  Nervous tension hung in the air—so thick you could cut your teeth on it—and Azaiel knew there was good reason for it. The otherworld asylum was well guarded with both protective spells and who knew what else. This was not an easy task.

  Their plan was simple in theory. Gain access to the island and split into three teams. The locator spell had given them the island, but it wasn’t an exact science, and Rowan’s mother could be anywhere. Once her mother was located and extracted they’d fall back to their boat and head to the mainland, then to Salem, where several of the coven were due to arrive.

  They’d decided to go ahead with the extraction and not wait for any members of the coven due in to Salem—time was their enemy, and the sooner they retrieved Rowan’s mother, the better. They’d left Cedric at The Black Cauldron, safe behind a heavily fortified protective wall that Hannah and Rowan had worked on for several hours. The charm should be enough to keep anything that didn’t belong out.

  “There’s the boat.” Priest nodded toward the dock. He’d made a few inquiries and found someone willing to take them out to the island—but more importantly someone willing to wait for their return. Who knows what the hell they faced.

  “Let’s go.” Rowan led the way, and several moments later their boots treaded soundlessly across a rickety dock until they stood before a tall man Priest addressed as Scar.

  He was otherworld, there was no mistaking the scent of it, but exactly what he was remained a mystery. Priest hadn’t offered up that information, and no one had asked. It was enough that he’d been willing to get them to the island though apparently he owed Priest a favor. Judging by the scowl that settled on his craggy face, it most likely was the only reason he’d agreed to it.

  Scar stared at them in silence for a few moments, eyes narrowed. Each of them had charmed guns strung across their shoulders, as well as daggers tucked into scabbards tied to their waists and boots.

  “Time to do this.” Scar motioned toward the boat.

  Azaiel waited until all were on board, then hopped over to land a few inches from Rowan. She’d been quiet since they’d located the island though he’d caught her eyes upon him a few times. Questions hung there and maybe . . . fear?

  He thought of the mysterious Kellen, who most likely would be waiting for them when they got back. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like that this Kellen meant something to Rowan.

  His mouth tightened, and he looked away. He sure as hell didn’t like that he was thinking about her ex-lover when he should be preparing for what promised to be an intense mission.

  Scar was aptly named—a jagged raw line ran from his temple down his cheek and disappeared beneath the edge of his coat. His expression sharpened as he settled in behind the wheel. “Hold on. These waters are rough, and I’m sure you can sense the ill wind that blows.”

  Azaiel drew his jacket closer. The man was right. He didn’t like the feel of things out there and knew by the way Rowan kept biting her lip, she felt the same.

  Silence fell between them all as the boat slowly moved away from the dock, and, once clear, Scar gunned the motor.

  The ride was rough as they navigated their way through several islands. Some of them were nothing more than large rocks protruding from the water, while others were miles long and sported luxury hotels or private homes.

  After nearly twenty minutes the boat slowed as thick fog rolled around them in waves of cool mist that swirled crazily, pushed along by the wind. There was no sound other than the motor, and Azaiel’s heart beat against his chest, a strong pounding that fed the adrenaline inside.

  They were close. He felt it.

  He glanced down at Rowan and, without thinking, his hand rose, his fingers dragging softly against her cheek. For one brief moment, she leaned into his touch, and something inside him unraveled, filling him with such intense emotion that it startled him, and he pulled back.

  “Stick with me, and you’ll be fine,” he said roughly.

  She cleared her throat and shot him a grin, answering cheekily. “More like the other way around, I think.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  He nodded. Good. She was going to need all the spunk she could handle in order to make it through the next few hours.

  “Something’s not right.” Nico stared into the darkness ahead, and they gasped as the mist evaporated, and the craggy shoreline of the asylum island came into view. Huge swells of water rushed against the rock, spilling massive fists of foamy water into the air, threatening to crush anything that came close.

  But it wasn’t the near-impossible landing that grabbed everyone’s attention.

  “Holy fuck.” Hannah’s tortured whisper pretty much said it all.

  A lighthouse perched overtop the edge of the island was in darkness, its shape only discernible because behind it, all the buildings that made up the asylum were in flames.

  Like the turning of a page, reality bled through the charms that hid the island from human view. Chaos reigned, and shouts of pain and anger colored the night sky.

  “Hurry,” Azaiel barked. He glanced at Priest. “Is he here?” And cursed his need to ask. As Seraphim, he should know if the demon lord Mallick was close. He hated that he’d been blinded in this way . . . that he could sense something dark but had no clue what it was.

  “No,” Rowan answered bitterly. “He’s still hiding, but it’s obvious he knows my mother is here.”

  Priest’s terse nod confirmed her answer, and he breathed a bit easier. If the demon lord had decided to come on this raid personally, that would open up the whole can of worms regarding Rowan’s need to live. Or die.

  Azaiel wasn’t ready to deal with that just yet.

  “We need to get to her before they do,” Rowan said quietly. He nodded and turned.

  We will.

  Scar guided his boat around the top end of the island and brought them in alongside several boats already moored in place at a large, rickety dock. Frank and Priest jumped onto the platform and tied up the boat while Rowan, Azaiel, Hannah, and Nico followed them onto the dock.

  “Well, now, at least we can thank these dumb bastards for one thing.” Frank adjusted his rifle and waved his Glock toward the asylum.

  “What’s that?” Priest asked, his eyes trained on the chaos before them.

  “They pretty much took care of security. There’s no one here.”

  Rowan exhaled. “We stick to the same game plan and use the craziness up there to our advantage. As soon as we locate my mother, signal the rest of the teams and fall back. Hannah and Nico take the left side, Priest and Frank the right. Azaiel and I will take the center.” She glanced at each and every one of them, and it struck Azaiel how easy it was for the woman to take command and be a leader. “Remember, we’re cloaked under a powerful invisibility charm, but I have no idea how long it will last. We need to make this quick.”

  Azaiel nodded. “We all set?” he asked. The jaguar was still, his eyes narrowed as he studied the terrain before them.

  “Nico?”

  “Sure.” Nico smiled harshly. “Hundreds of crazy-ass otherworlders on the loose, a pack of who the hell knows what waiting for us . . . we’re outgunned and outnumbered . . .” The shifter grinned, his eyes lit with an unholy fire. “What the hell are we waiting for?” Nico pushed Hannah forward. “Let’s go.”

  The two of them disappeared from sight as they scrambled up the steep steps that led to the top of the island. Frank and Priest followed suit. Azaiel looked down into Rowan’s tense features. He knew how hard this was for her. It wasn’t just
another mission to run. This wasn’t just another target to retrieve. It was her mother.

  “Ready?” he asked softly.

  Rowan nodded, eye focused on the steps. “More than ready, but the question is”—she arched a brow and smiled, a bit of crazy lighting her features—“are you?” Rowan took off at a run, leaving him to follow in her tracks as she followed the others. Once they cleared the steps that led from the shoreline up the cliff, he was greeted by a sight that was sobering to say the least. It looked as if the entire world was on fire.

  Bodies littered the immediate area—some demon, but most were guards. Nico was right. The outer security detail had been decimated.

  Cries of anguish ripped through the night, followed by screams of pain and bellows of rage. “Hurry!” Rowan shouted, and she was off running full tilt for the largest building in the center of everything. Its shell consisted of large slabs of slate stone, but the roof was awash with flame, and through the windows, more of the same was visible, with the added bonus of billowing black clouds of smoke.

  Azaiel followed on Rowan’s heels, his large sword unsheathed and held in his right hand, while a deadly modified Glock in his left pointed ahead. The bullets were freshly charmed and would rip apart anything—human or otherwise.

  They zipped past an intense battle between a pack of blood demons—the aggressive creatures seemed to be Mallick’s demon of choice—and a security detail of mixed otherworld creatures, including magicks, vampires, and a couple of gargoyles. The blood demons were ferocious creatures, and he understood why Mallick cultivated their loyalty. Death was the only thing that stopped the damn things.

  The large door to the building was open, barely hanging from its hinges, and thick smoke continued to erupt from inside. Rowan dove in without pause, Azaiel inches behind.

  Fear was as thick as the smoke that clogged his throat, and Azaiel stared into eyes half-crazed from the weight of it. A female werewolf, howling in pain because her body was caught in half shift—her bottom half lupine while the top still human—stumbled past him and disappeared into the chaos outside.