King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (27 page)

She watched him in silence, not knowing what to say.

“This is a work of art. A laborious rendering of your history—your family’s history and knowledge.” He paused. “It really is a thing of beauty.”

She nodded, still silent.

“It’s also a book of great power, and it found its way back to you.”

But how long will I have it? How long will I be here?

Priest knelt in front of her, and for a second it felt as if he were gazing into her very soul. “Were you able to decipher the old English in the text?”

Rowan nodded and shifted uncomfortably. His dark eyes were all-seeing. All-knowing. Did he see her fear? Did he understand it?

He watched her closely, and suddenly Rowan wanted to look away. To be alone, so that she could rage against all she’d learned. She wanted to scream and cry and yell. But she remained silent, pushing against the darkness until a state of calm settled upon her shoulders once more.

“It’s a near-impossible task,” he said simply.

“I know.” Rowan glanced away and focused on Elvis. Damn, what she wouldn’t give for a shot of “Heartbreak Hotel” at the moment. She needed a distraction. “I’m not sure where I can find this weapon . . . this sword of Gideon.” She swallowed thickly. “I’ve never even heard of it, and I doubt any of the others will know what the hell it is or where to find it.”

“I might be able to help with that,” Priest said quietly.

Elvis blurred as moisture crept into her eyes. “That would be . . .” she swallowed thickly, “great.”

“So you understand the simplicity of this spell? How to vanquish Mallick?”

Rowan closed her eyes for a moment. Fought the tears that threatened, and when she was sure she’d not blubber like an idiot she nodded and spoke. “We . . . the coven, need to bind him to the circle.”

He watched her closely, and Rowan started to feel a little uncomfortable beneath his gaze. He knew things . . . this man, and for the first time she was starting to grasp the depth of his power.

“Mallick is smart. How do you plan on getting him inside your circle?”

“That’s the easy part, believe it or not. I know how to bring life to his mark.” At Priest’s blank stare she continued. “How to undo Nana’s original spell. As soon as I revoke it, the eye in his mark will open, and he’ll know exactly where I am.”

Priest’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “He’ll come for you.”

“Yes.”

“Yet once inside you’ll be on your own. No one else will be able to penetrate the circle.”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It will be only he and I.”

“And the sword.”

She smiled at that and nodded. “And the sword if you can get your hands on it.” Rowan exhaled and closed her eyes, trying to visualize how it would look and feel. “I will use the spell to charm his essence from his body, trap it in a container.” She paused. “I’m liking a big-ass smelly old pickle jar. What do you think?”

Priest’s eyes softened. “I think that would be fine.”

“I’ll grab one of Nana’s. That way she’ll have a part in this.” She shrugged. “Once that’s done I’ll separate his head from his shoulders, and Mallick will be no more than a shot of energy in a used pickle jar.” She paused. “Easy enough, really.”

“And yet so incredibly difficult.”

Rowan arched a brow. “Anyone ever tell you, you’re a real downer sometimes?”

Priest laughed. “All the time. Just ask Nico.” His smile quickly faded as reality set in, and she shivered at how quickly his expression changed. “Rowan. We can’t allow him to take you.”

His words were like a punch to the gut. A cold bucket of water tossed over heated flesh. She shifted in her chair, and the lightness of the moment was gone.

“I know.”

Priest stood. “You should get some rest.”

She nodded but didn’t trust herself to answer.

He bent toward her swiftly, so fast she jumped, but then his hand was on her chin, his dark eyes searching with an intensity that touched her. “We will do whatever we can to help you defeat him. Know this, little witch.” Her breath caught in her throat as he lowered his head and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. She closed her eyes and he brushed his mouth across her forehead.

And then he was gone.

Rowan glanced at the bed and for a moment considered crawling between the soft covers. Instead she leaned back and drew the blanket up to her chin. She shivered beneath the cotton, and she thought that the cold in her bones would never go away. It would have been nice to slip into bed beside Azaiel. To melt into his arms and drink in his strength.

“Yeah, that’s just a pipe dream, Ro.” Her whisper faded into silence.

She’d just closed her eyes when the melancholy strains of Patsy Cline filled her ears. “Oh Nana.” She tugged the blanket closer and inhaled the familiar scent of her grandmother. “Stay close,” she whispered.

Rowan hummed along to the song, but within minutes sleep claimed her, and she drifted off into a dreamless state of mind.

Chapter 27

A
zaiel avoided Rowan all day. It hadn’t been hard to do. He’d crashed hard and slept until midafternoon, something he’d not done in a long time.

This new existence was going to take some getting used to. The need for sleep? Pain? He stretched tight muscles and groaned. Damn but he’d taken a beating below.

He hissed as a particularly sharp stab tugged at his side, and he rubbed the sore area just to the left of his heart. He’d been pierced by a poison-tipped spear one of the Chakra demons had thrown. It had hurt like bloody hell, and not for the first time he cursed his brothers and their need to make him pay.

Pain—physical pain—was still relatively new for him. And though he would survive a fatal wound, it didn’t negate the fact that getting sliced and diced with any kind of weapon was going to fucking hurt.

“Need help with that?”

He glanced up in surprise. The entire clan was gathered outside, and he’d assumed the house was empty. Cedric had just shuffled by, arms laden with food meant for the three large barbecues that had been set up near the gift shop. One thing he’d noticed about the James clan and their human hunters was that they loved food. And drink. And sports.

All of it in excessive, copious amounts.

Marie-Noelle watched him hesitantly. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with skeletons across the chest and the words
GRATEFUL DEAD
in faded white. Her hair was thrown up into a ponytail, much like her daughter, the dull amber tones now softer, shinier. The woman looked ten years younger than when he’d first laid eyes on her though the haunted depths of her eyes would never change. Not really.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he answered.

He was still shirtless and very much aware of the scarred artwork on his back, so he kept Marie-Noelle in view. No sense in totally freaking the poor woman out.

“You’re Seraphim.”

He nodded.

“You have the same look about you as Bill.”

At Azaiel’s arched brow, Marie-Noelle smiled, and for the briefest second he saw Rowan reflected in her features. It took his breath away. The simple, classic beauty in these women.

“Not that you
look
like him obviously. My goodness you’re about as far away from Bill’s physical attributes as oil is from water.” She blushed prettily. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”

Azaiel helped himself to a cold glass of water. “No. It’s fine.” He took a long drink and set the empty glass into the sink. Outside the long fingers of sunlight were fast leaving, and it would be time to patrol. “Bill and I are . . . well, brothers.”

He wondered if they knew what hid behind Bill’s human mask.
Bill.
Was he ever going to get used to calling him that? Though he supposed it fit his current state of being. He wore the mantle of small, shuffling, and plain, but he was a Seraphim, and his true visage was nothing like “Bill.”

“He meant a lot to my mother,” Marie-Noelle said softly.

“I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother in person, but I know a lot of people who cared deeply for her.”

He watched a host of emotions flicker across Marie-Noelle’s face. “I just wish . . . I just wanted to be stronger.” Her eyes fell away from his, and her voice broke. “I was never strong enough.” Her pain was heart-wrenching. It coated her words and clung to her shoulders, hunching them forward.

“Marie-Noelle. We all have strength within us. Sometimes it takes a while for it to grow and mature.” He glanced around. “You’re here. You survived. Isn’t that what’s important?”

“But at what cost?” She shook her head. “You’ve no idea the things I did. How low I stooped in order to disappear in a haze of drugs and booze. All of it because I wasn’t strong enough to face my destiny and now”—she sighed—“now my children are paying the price.
Rowan
is paying the price.”

When she lifted her head her eyes were haunted, and he recognized it for what it was because the same emotions plagued him. Guilt. Anger. And shame.

“How can I be happy about being here when my mother is dead, and my daughter is about to sacrifice herself to that . . . that abomination. It should have been me.” Her voice was hoarse, and she put her fist to her mouth in an effort to stop the tide of emotion that threatened.

“I’m not sacrificing myself.” Rowan walked into the kitchen from the front hall. Her cheeks were flush and judging by the ponytail, T-shirt, shorts, and athletic shoes, he was guessing she was just in from a run.

Rowan grabbed an apple from the basket on the kitchen table. She looked it over quickly before placing it back and grabbing another. She took a bite and stared at the both of them.

“Mallick has been allowed to terrorize the James family for generation after generation. Using us and feeding on us.” She shook her head and took another bite. “It will end on Samhain.”

“But, Rowan. Isn’t there another way?” Marie-Noelle, wrung her hands in agitation.

“No,” Rowan said quietly. “There isn’t.”

“We need to talk.” Marie-Noelle had a bit of the deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes, and he knew it took a lot for her to face her daughter. “About a lot of things.”

Rowan was quiet for several seconds, and when she spoke her tone was . . . almost kind. “I know, and we will, but I can’t do it right now.”

“No, no . . . of course.” Marie-Noelle took a step back.

“I need to speak to Azaiel.” She paused. “Alone.”

Marie-Noelle pointed to the front yard. “I was just on my way out to find Mikhail.”

Rowan’s mouth tightened slightly though when she spoke her voice was neutral. “He’s actually in the back garden. He and Leroy got into it, and there was this scene . . .”

“I hope Mikhail didn’t hurt that animal, but seriously . . . where in the world did Vicki get her hands on that thing?” Her mother shook her head and moved toward the back door. “It belongs in a barn . . . far away from here.”

“Trust me, it’s not the donkey you need to worry about,” Rowan muttered.

Marie-Noelle left Rowan and Azaiel staring at each other in silence.

Rowan’s eyes darkened, and he caught the steady increase in her heart rate as she stood there, her gaze traveling the length of him. Slowly. By the time she met his eyes once more he was hot, his muscles tight, and an unmistakable bulge was present between his legs.

That the woman could do that to him with just a look was insane.

She chucked her apple into the wastebasket and took a few steps until she was so close he felt the heat off her skin. It seared across his flesh like a caress of fire. He smelled the fresh soap she’d used to wash, the sweet lemongrass in her hair . . . and heard the small catch in her throat when she touched him.

He was mesmerized by the sprinkling of freckles that splattered across her nose, like the sweetest dusting of cinnamon.

His hands clenched at his sides as she studied the mottled bruise he’d favored earlier. It still hurt like hell, but already his body’s fast healing capabilities were working, and the sting wasn’t quite as bad as it had been.

“Thank you, for getting the grimoire.”

Damn, but her touch was light. The pads of her fingers traveled up to his shoulder, then across and back down to his abs.

“For fighting for Kellen and making sure he came back to me.” Her eyes glittered, the blue depths smoky and alluring. He’d never seen anything as spectacular as the woman before him. He’d seen her in action—knew how tough she was and yet . . . her skin was like fragile bone china, and she was so small, so feminine.

He wanted to crush her to his chest. Feel her soft breasts against him, touch the silky skin beneath her ear. Sweep his tongue inside her mouth and claim her in every way that he could.

He made an animalistic sound, and her eyes widened. “Are you all right?” Her hand fell from his chest. “Did I hurt you?”

“You need to stop,” he said hoarsely.

Her tongue caressed the tips of her teeth, and the expression in her eyes changed. They smoldered. The heat between them doubled. Hell, it tripled, and the energy was intoxicating.

“Stop?” She smiled, a secret, soft smile meant for lovers. “Why?”

The little minx was playing a game, but the ferocity of emotion that rolled through Azaiel wasn’t to be trifled with. His eyes flashed in anger, and he grabbed her hand, not caring about the whimper that breathed from her mouth as he held her.

“You will stop this, Rowan, because if you don’t, I
will
bend you over the counter”—he leaned forward, and his voice dropped—“and rip your clothes off and finish what we started the other night.” His heavy breaths were matched equally by the woman he held. “And I won’t stop . . .” Her eyes were wide navy saucers, focused on his mouth. “ . . . until I’m done and sated, and you’ve screamed my name at least a dozen times.”

“A dozen times,” she said breathlessly.

Her mouth was so close to his. “A dozen,” he repeated, glaring at her.

He meant every single word he’d just uttered.

“Is that a promise?”

How long the two of them stood there, staring at each other, feeding off the sexually charged silence was anyone’s guess. It wasn’t until Hannah spoke that they knew they weren’t alone.

“Um, guys? The burgers and dogs are ready. We should eat and head out. With all this cloud cover, nightfall is coming early.”

Azaiel glanced up, his expression fierce. Hannah’s mouth hung open, her lips pursed into an “O.” Her eyes widened, and when he scowled at her she nearly tripped over her feet in an effort to flee.

Rowan waited until the door closed behind her cousin. “My hand?”

“What?” he said gruffly.

Her eyebrows rose, and Azaiel let go. He took a step back and cursed under his breath, pissed at himself for losing control.

“Are you afraid of me, Azaiel?”

“Is that what you think? That a little slip of velvet and cream has me shivering in my boots?” His eyes darkened, and the air around him thickened. He grabbed his T-shirt off the countertop, and when he spoke again his voice held a hint of steel. “If you were smart, you’d run the other way, Rowan.”

She looked him straight in the eye, in that direct way he’d come to appreciate. She paused, licked her lips, and said so softly he barely heard her, “I’m done running.”

Azaiel watched Rowan follow her cousin from the house, and he let out a long, tortured breath when the door banged shut. An ache tightened inside his chest, and he knew it had nothing to do with the beating he’d taken. He stood alone, wondering what the hell it would feel like to call a woman like Rowan, his.

You can’t have her either.

Nico’s words echoed in his head, and the ache tightened more. If only . . . Yeah, Azaiel pushed such nonsense from his mind and headed outside. Happy-ever-afters didn’t belong to him. The Fallen.

R
ain started an hour after they’d dispatched teams into town. It came down in thick sheets that cut like ice and stung when it hit. Azaiel pulled the collar of his jacket up closer around his neck and blew out hot clouds of mist as he gazed upon the near-empty streets. It was damp, cold, and miserable.

What day was it? He had no clue. While he and Kellen had been in the Hell realm, at least three full days had passed up here.

“Guess the demons hate the rain as much as we do.” Rowan walked at his side, and he grunted in answer. So far they’d not encountered any otherworld creatures other than a pack of drunken goblins, and they’d fled as soon as they’d seen Azaiel. “Want a hot drink?”

She didn’t give him a chance to answer, so he followed her as she crossed the street and headed toward a quaint shop, The Coffee Bean. He spotted a few patrons inside as well as a man behind the counter and a woman serving tables.

He paused and glanced around. It
was
quiet. He supposed they could take advantage of the lull because it wouldn’t last long. It never did.

He followed Rowan inside and shook off the wet, his eyes taking in everything as he did so. To his left a young couple held hands, sharing an awfully large mug of hot, steaming liquid as they gazed into each other’s eyes. Lust hung between them, mingling with the sweet hazelnut they enjoyed. He gave them ten minutes at most before they fled, off in search of a dark, quiet place in which to act out their fantasies.

The male was stroking his lady’s hand, tugging her closer. Lucky bastard.

A group of elderly men sat in the far corner, chatting animatedly about the rash of violence and what they feared would happen in the coming days leading up to Halloween and the Witches Ball. They were the only other patrons in the coffee shop, and Azaiel grabbed the booth nearest the door—the one that gave him a view of the entire room—as Rowan ordered their coffee.

She slid in across from him and set two mugs on the table.

He took a sip and leaned back, welcoming the silence and the simplicity of the place. It was clean, not overly bright, and in a town that was teetering on the edge of crazy, The Coffee Bean was a slice of much-welcomed normal.

“So.” Rowan’s eyes stared at him expectantly.

He was wary. Didn’t like the look in her eyes. They’d danced around each other for the last few hours, and he was tense. His shoulders were as tight and sore as the wound next to his heart. Never had a woman gotten him so tangled up. Not even her. The betrayer.

“So,” he repeated, deciding a different approach was in order. “Good call, the coffee’s great.”

“What’s your story?”

So much for aimless conversation—didn’t seem like a different approach was going to work. “Excuse me?” Azaiel watched Rowan’s long fingers as they grasped the cup between her hands. She leaned forward and took a sip before wiping the corner of her mouth.

“Everyone has a beginning, middle, and end, Azaiel. I’d like to know your beginning and middle. For want of a better word, we’re a team, so don’t you think we should at least know the basics about each other?” She flashed a smile. “I’m sure that Batman knew everything there was to know about Robin.”

Another Batman fan.

“Of course I’m Batman, and you’re the sidekick,”