He and Rowan moved with quick precision through the main lobby, dodging the flood of demons and inmates who roamed about crazily. It was like a scene from one of the horror movies that humans seemed to love so.
She made a quick turn to the right, slicing off the head of a demon as she went by, and disappeared down a dark corridor. The fire continued to rage over their heads, and the moans of pain and fear sounded vaguely familiar—raw and animalistic. It was the music of choice below, deep in the bowels of District Three.
They entered a long, dormitory-type area, with cells lining each side. Several of the cell doors hung wide open, and the small rooms were empty. Demons were everywhere and Rowan was like an avenging angel as she made her way toward each and every one of them, calling for her mother and slaying anything that stood in her path. The dumb bastards had no chance as they couldn’t see her, but a few of the demons sensed her presence just seconds before she separated head from shoulders.
Azaiel took the left side, and the two of them made quick work of it. They liberated poor souls still trapped as they made their way down the long rows, but when they reached the end, there was no sign of Rowan’s mother.
“She must be in one of the other buildings.” Rowan’s voice cracked, and he knew how hard it was for her to be there. To do this. Hell, less than a week earlier, she’d been playing the part of a normal human, safe and secure in her life on the West Coast. And now? Now she was an executioner, a demon-fighting queen with a master of darkness hard on her ass.
Her eyes met his then, and his breath caught in his chest. She was magnificent.
A small man darting through the chaos caught his eye, and he leapt forward, hands nearly crushing him as the small weasel tried to escape. He looked up, startled, eyes wide and arms flailing.
“Who’s there? What madness is this?” He was dressed for bed, his small, round body cloaked in red-and-gold brocade. One foot still wore a slipper while the other was bare, the fat, stubby toes pale in the dull light. The man coughed furiously, his body shaking as he tried to clear his lungs.
“Where is the James witch?” Azaiel growled, leaning forward and willing his face to bleed through the invisibility charm so that the little man could see exactly who held him.
The man stopped moving as his watery blue gaze stared into Azaiel’s features in astonishment. His energy shifted, and Azaiel realized he was fae. Dark fae . . . and the mention of the James witch filled the man with fear.
Interesting.
“Where is she?” Rowan moved in closer, and the man’s head whipped around crazily.
“Who are you?” he shouted into the darkness, while all around them demons continued to flood the room, searching for the same prize that Rowan so desperately sought.
“I’m going to be your worst nightmare if you don’t tell me where my mother is.” Rowan was inches from the man’s face, and though he couldn’t see her, his fear was palpable.
“Her line ended. The mark died out.” The whites of his eyes bulged, and a whimper fell from his lips. “We would never have taken her otherwise.”
“Her line has been remade.”
Rowan fell from shadow; for one brief moment, the small fae went limp in Azaiel’s hand.
“How can it be?” he whispered hoarsely. “I would know. Surely, Darrak would have . . .” A sob caught in his throat. “Sweet goddess, but you look so much like Marie-Noelle.” He paused, and something akin to fear crept into his eyes. “God help us.”
“News flash, buddy.” Rowan smiled harshly. “God isn’t here, and he sure as hell isn’t helping you, so listen closely. I will only ask one more time. Where is she?” Rowan held her bloodied and well-used sword aloft, and it seemed to Azaiel that she enjoyed the fae’s fear immensely.
“I knew it was a bad idea to take her. All those years ago. I knew this and now . . . now Mallick knows.” The little man gulped for air and coughed crazily as he struggled to breathe. “You must take her from here.” The smoke was thicker, and Azaiel knew they were nearly out of time.
“Where is she?”
“In the dungeon rooms on the other side of the island.”
Rowan raised her brow and sneered. “If she’s damaged in any way, I will rip your insides from your body and feed them to the blood demons who seek you.” She nodded. “Show us where the dungeons are.”
Azaiel tapped his com unit. “Priest? Nico?”
“Copy.” Priest’s voice sounded forced. “No luck here.”
“She’s in a dungeon on the far side of the island. We’ll get her and bring her to you. Keep the path to the boat clear.”
“Done.” A rush of static filled Azaiel’s ear. “I’d hurry it up, princess; looks like another boatload of baddies has landed. Human soldiers mixed with otherworld. We’ll keep them busy, but don’t take all night.”
Azaiel turned to Rowan. “Let’s go.”
He half carried, half pushed the small fae along, taking out several demons as they made their way from the burning building out into a night sky that was on fire.
Rain had started to fall, thick, cold sheets of it hitting his face like bullets. Already the fires that raged along the tops of the three main buildings were starting to wither though the heavy smoke still billowed upward.
They ran through the chaos—the noise and the wall of pain that hung over the asylum—the small fae’s legs pumping as if the very devil were on his heels. Up ahead, through the torrent of water that fell, a small shape loomed against the dead gray sky.
The three of them arrived just as Nico and Hannah did. Both the witch and the shifter looked a little worse for wear—clothes ripped, skin covered in thick, dark soot.
“The roof caved in overtop of us just as we were about to leave. Took out at least six bloodsucking demons,” Hannah said breathlessly. “Unfortunately, I was underneath them all.” She cracked a grin and winced as she clutched her side. “Nico saved me.”
“It was nothing,” the shifter said gruffly.
The small fae had no clue who or what surrounded him, but he pointed toward the building. “She’s in there, but it’s charmed against intrusion.”
Rowan snarled and smacked the little man. Hard. His head rocked backward, and he howled in pain, turning wildly, trying to see her.
“You think that will stop me?”
The tone of her voice changed. It was subtle, but the hairs on Azaiel’s neck rose, and he caught the look that sat, however briefly, in Hannah’s eyes. Concern? Surprise?
They started forward, Rowan still in the lead, and she stopped in front of a large structure built into a massive hill. The rain had let up somewhat, the sheets of water now more a gentle fall than the furious deluge they’d experienced earlier.
“Can you see the charm, Hannah?” Rowan asked. “It’s unbelievable.”
Hannah nodded. “Yes, but it looks weird. Like nothing I’ve seen before and it feels . . .”
“I know,” Rowan whispered.
Azaiel glanced at Nico. He could see nothing. The shifter shrugged and watched as the women moved closer.
“It’s been reinforced by fae magick,” Rowan murmured and pointed. “See the double ring that binds it all? It mimics the power, hiding in the shadows, yet it strengthens the charm tenfold. It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Azaiel’s mouth tightened. The fae seemed to be up to their asses in this whole mess, and they rarely interfered in the affairs of others. It raised the question—why?
Chapter 15
“Fae?” Hannah was surprised. “How can we break through a fae spell?”
Rowan’s hand reached out, and sparks shimmered in the air as she came into contact with the wall of energy. Her fingers glowed, a deep crimson color, and cracks spread along the wall—a conduit of energy that infected the entire area. The cracks crystallized, and small bits of the ward shattered, falling to the ground in clumps of dust.
“I can do this.”
“I don’t get it.” Hannah gla
nced at the men, obviously uneasy. “How?”
Rowan exhaled. She shook her head, and whispered, “I don’t know.” The words slipped easily from her lips though the taste left behind wasn’t pleasant.
But really, what was one more lie amidst all the chaos?
Rowan stared up at the massive protective spell. It sparkled and shone like a wet, translucent bubble, one that encompassed the entire hill—very much like a snow globe. Again she reached her hands outward, and an incredible jolt of heat hit her as she connected with its power. It traveled up her forearms, leeching into her cells, sizzling across her flesh, until it settled in her chest. There it pulsed, and she lost her breath for a moment.
Behind her, screams, moans, and shouts of anger filled the air. It was a near-deafening cacophony of noise. She shut everything out, clearing her mind so the canvas was blank, then concentrated as hard as she’d ever done. This was crunch time, and there wasn’t room for mistakes.
The signature in the spell was old—there was weight to it—it felt almost familiar. She pursed her lips. Something about the way the lesions of energy flowed. About the design and pattern. Rowan frowned. It was familiar. She knew this charm. She’d seen it before . . .
“Stand back,” she whispered hoarsely.
Rowan closed her eyes and held her hands aloft, drawing from the center of her own unique power. Energy sizzled along her fingers and sparked ferociously against the charm, sending showers of light into the air. She winced, felt the heat of it on her skin, but held her ground.
Her magick rolled overtop the fae charm, invading, feeding, duplicating, and eventually weakening. She wove intricate patterns, carefully dissecting the fae magick until it wavered. Until it frayed along the edges.
Until the beauty disintegrated and fell away like the tide leaving shore.
Inside, down in that part of her soul she kept hidden, something stirred, and for a moment Rowan faltered. Fear, thick and acrid, clogged her throat, and she sputtered, stumbling backward, and would have fallen if not for Azaiel.
“Let me help you.” Azaiel’s voice sounded near her ear—his arms were secure around her shoulders, his warmth caressed her skin, and her heart calmed as the darkness evaporated.
“I’m good.” Rowan pulled away and nodded toward the door. “We should be able to get inside now.”
Nico passed them and walked up to the door. He squared his shoulders, cocked his head to the side as he studied the frame for a moment and kicked it in. It shattered down the center, and he took a step back as the door fell to the ground, splintered in half.
“You probably could have just, you know, turned the handle,” Hannah said wryly.
“I know,” Nico replied, and disappeared inside with the blond witch following on his heels.
Rowan hesitated, rubbed her hands along the side of her neck. She was tense, her chest tight.
“Let’s get this done.” Azaiel grabbed her hand and nodded toward the bunker. “We need to go.”
His hand was warm . . . and soft and hard all at once. She felt his touch deep inside, as if his energy penetrated the layers of her soul the same way her charm had defeated the fae spell. The connection was strong, and for one brief moment she let it linger. Wash over her like a gentle caress.
There was strength there, honor and courage. There was also much pain.
Azaiel leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering, his expression hard to read. “There’s no time for holding hands. We must do this now.”
Rowan yanked her hand from his, cutting the connection. The heat. “You think I don’t know that?”
He paused. “I think you’re afraid of seeing your mother again.”
“I think you need to step back. If I need a therapist, I’ll call a real one.” She whirled around and jogged toward the gaping hole left by Nico, drawing her dagger as she did so. The Seraphim was much too intuitive for his own good.
Rowan ducked to avoid a low-lying beam that had broken away from the doorframe and plunged into the waiting darkness. Azaiel was inches behind her; it was pitch-black, but she heard him. She called forth an illumination charm and held her left hand aloft.
They were in a narrow entrance, one carved from the rock that existed beneath the grassy knoll. It was rough-hewn and damp, with moisture sliding amongst the many crevices that lined the dull gray limestone, like wrinkles on leathery skin. It was a steady drip that fed the ankle-deep puddles at her feet.
The ceiling was low, and she glanced back at Azaiel. This dungeon or whatever the hell it was, wasn’t made for men of height, and yet he slid through with ease. He didn’t make a sound as he followed in her footsteps, his eyes flat, his expression grim with determination.
She broke into a run, and a wave of claustrophobia rolled over her as the passage narrowed, and the ceiling dropped even more. Behind her Azaiel grunted and cursed—from the sounds of it he’d smacked his head on something hard. She knew it wasn’t an easy task for him to keep up with her in such a confined space.
As they forged deeper into the tunnel Rowan began to sense different energies ahead. Hannah and Nico, of course, but there were others, including one like a song from her past—a memory newly awakened. The dread in her gut churned harder, and she swallowed bile.
She thought of the day they’d sent her here. Marie-Noelle had been out of control, piss drunk, and nasty. She’d been dragged home from Ipswich by Hannah’s mother after using magick in public, which in their world was a huge no-no. The bartender had cut her off, and she’d hexed him—a painful spell that took his voice and eyesight.
Marie-Noelle had always been weaker than most, a beautiful woman whose fragile spirit couldn’t handle the threat of Mallick’s curse. She’d used drugs and alcohol to get by but eventually her mind was so far gone, that even after Mallick had rejected her, she couldn’t recover.
Cara and some of the coven had taken her away and had her committed to the otherworld asylum. Of course, the warden hadn’t wanted anything to do with a James witch, and Rowan knew they’d resorted to dark means of magick to make sure Marie-Noelle was accepted.
They’d left her there and hoped that she’d find some kind of peace. And she had. She and Kellen had seen it firsthand six years ago.
Guilt hit with a hammer of pain, and Rowan winced. No one but Hannah had known of their clandestine trip to the asylum. Kellen had planned to liberate Marie-Noelle though Rowan’s agenda had been much darker. In the end, Marie-Noelle had stayed behind, a much more fragile flower than the one who’d greeted them both with open arms.
No wonder Kellen hates me.
She thought of the crazies she’d seen outside. Of the loneliness, the darkness, and the isolation of this place.
What was she walking into? What kind of mother would greet her? Had she recovered yet again? Was she the crazy lady from her teen years or the wonderfully whimsical creature from her youth? They had been happy . . . once, before her mother’s weakness and Mallick’s darkness had leeched into their world.
Rowan sighed and pushed such thoughts from her mind. There was no point. There would be no happy ending for her family, and if Rowan’s plan didn’t work, there would be no family at all.
She slowed as beams of light from her fingers cut through the inky darkness ahead. Water still dripped, oozing from the rocks like blood seeping from a wound, and the air was so cold she saw her breath in front of her face. Cautiously, she and Azaiel crept forward, both with weapons drawn and ready to fight.
The light grew brighter as the passageway opened up until Azaiel could stand without his head smacking the top of the ceiling. She hesitated as a wall of cold slithered over her flesh, and she shivered, a violent shaking that left her teeth chattering.
Azaiel stepped in front of her, his large body blocking the light, and she was struck at the massive expanse of his shoulders. At the larger-than-life air about him. At the fierceness that clung to his frame and the power that resided there.
And she was grateful he was there.
“Azaiel.” Her whisper sounded on the air, a slight murmur, and at first she thought he hadn’t heard her. She was fine with that. What the hell was she going to say to him? Rowan’s chest tightened, her heart was pumping blood like she’d run a freaking marathon, and when he turned slowly, when his golden eyes glittered down at her, she felt as if time were suspended.
The space between them widened and lengthened, stretching out until her every cell thrummed with energy—his energy. Her dry lips parted, her tongue moistened, and his eyes darkened, the gold gone as the blackness swept over.
She wanted to run into his arms, bury her head against his chest. Feed from his strength and pain. She wanted to crawl inside him, experience his soul, taste his darkness, and touch his flesh.
She wanted him to say everything was going to be all right. That her mother would forget the past and welcome her with open arms. That she’d be able to forgive herself. That Kellen would see she’d had no choice. That Mallick would be defeated. That no one else she loved would die. That she’d grow old and have babies and grandbabies.
Rowan wanted everything from him in that moment, and the intensity of those emotions left her breathless. She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. How could she?
“I know.” His voice was like a rough whiskey-soaked kiss.
She exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “Thank you.”
He nodded as if they were having an everyday conversation, and she followed him toward the light.
They paused at the entrance to what seemed to be a large chamber, and Rowan held her dagger in her left hand, while in her right she grasped her Glock. She nodded to Azaiel, and they both entered quietly.
The chamber wasn’t overly large, and the light source was nowhere to be found. It glowed as if the very rock that it had been carved out of was charmed with the sun. The effect was eerie, a translucent wash of illumination that bred shadow and light.
Two glass-encased cells were built into the rock—one on each side—but they were empty. The one to Rowan’s left had a small cot, a table and chair and a row of books stacked neatly on a shelf above the bed. The blankets were rumpled as if there’d been someone there recently, but other than that, there was no sign of life. No color. No pictures or anything personal.
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