King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (12 page)

Priest tucked the remnants of his cigar into his pocket. “We’re not going anywhere.”

A subtle shift in energy flew from Rowan. It was a quick, silent attack that no one but Azaiel noticed. Rowan turned to the tall Knight Templar and glared at him. “Then I suggest you keep your overgrown kitty on a tight leash and discuss the consequence of his bad attitude.”

For the first time in ages a genuine smile parted Azaiel’s lips. The look on Nico’s face was thunderous, the veins in his neck strained with the need to vocalize his displeasure, and yet he stood, glaring at the witch in silence.

He couldn’t speak. Azaiel’s grin widened even more.

“Or I will personally kick his ass all over Salem and back.” She shifted her gaze toward Nico. “I told you last night. This is my war, and I’m calling the shots. There’s only room for one alpha in this pack, and it sure as hell isn’t any of you. I’ll accept your help because I’m not stupid. The shit is about to hit, and it’s going to hit hard.” She gestured toward all of them. “Know this, gentlemen. If any of you get in my face, I’ll not hesitate to rethink our arrangement.” Her voice lowered then, a hint of menace in the tone that drew Azaiel’s attention. “And don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t back up my words with action.” She flicked her wrist, and Nico choked, curses flying from his mouth as he clutched his throat.

Seemed to Azaiel the little witch had wasted no time reconnecting with her powers. He was impressed. The woman was nothing like the one he’d first encountered nearly forty-eight hours earlier, and it was good a thing. She’d need a tough skin to get through what was headed their way.

Rowan rotated her head and glanced at Azaiel. “You must be hungry.” Gone was the warmth that he’d seen earlier—her dark blue eyes were hooded, and the garish bruise along her cheek more pronounced. He nodded, surprised at the pangs of hunger that sat low in his stomach.

“Let’s eat. We’ve got lots to get done before nightfall.”

Chapter 12

A
zaiel stared down at the orange tabby and frowned. The damn thing wouldn’t leave him alone, and he’d tossed it from his lap several times already. He’d been gentle—the little cat was obviously pregnant—but still, there was something unsettling in its long, slow blinks as it stared up at him. It looked almost . . . human in its regard and made him uncomfortable.

“I think she likes you.”

He glanced at Rowan. “If it liked me, it would go find a corner and relax.”

“She’s not an ‘it’ Azaiel. She’s a little tigress and needs a name.” Rowan finished her coffee and placed the cup in the sink. They were the first words she’d spoken since they’d come inside.

“Then give her a name.”

Her brow furled as she concentrated. “A name is so important.” She glanced up, and the smile that lit her eyes was something to behold. “You get it wrong, and the poor thing could be scarred, you know?”

Azaiel’s mood lightened. “Do you actually believe that the little fur ball knows the difference between a good name and a bad one?”

Rowan stroked the animal behind her ears, her long, delicate fingers massaging the tabby’s neck in slow, methodical strokes. As he focused on them, his mouth went dry, and his mind went south.

“Of course she’ll know.” Rowan glanced up. For a moment their eyes locked, and he was sure her heart beat as fast and hard as his.

He cleared his throat. “Well, then. You’d better get it right.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Oh, Lord.”

They both glanced toward Cedric, who stared back at them from his perch near the stove. His warm, chocolate eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed. “Uh-huh. You two best forget about that there feline and get some food into you.”

Cedric had cooked up a feast of eggs, bacon, toast, home fries, and the sweetest strawberry jam ever. Azaiel and Rowan dug in, and the quality of the food was more than enough to make up for the strained atmosphere—if anything, it kept conversation to a minimum though the covert glances were hard to ignore.

Nico wasn’t in his happy place, and the shifter had no qualms about letting everyone know his state of mind. He sat at the large table, legs stretched out in front of him while he stared out the window, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but where he was. His mood was foul, and not even Hannah’s attempts to engage the shifter worked. The little blonde had given her best shot and now chomped her way through a bowl of cereal as she glared at the Jaguar.

Priest returned to the kitchen and stood alone, his face expressionless, though his eyes touched them all. He’d left to make a phone call, choosing his cell over the landline—which meant the identity of whoever he was calling wasn’t meant for public consumption.

Azaiel caught Rowan’s eyes upon Nico several times, and, for whatever reason, he didn’t like it. He knew Rowan was full of questions—the jaguar warrior’s dislike wasn’t exactly subtle—but he was in no hurry to explain the sins of his past.

They were a sorry-ass bunch and needed to gel somehow, or they wouldn’t be successful. The thought of Rowan in Mallick’s clutches made him ill, but the questions Priest had posed earlier were troublesome. What had the Knight Templar been getting at?

Rowan pushed away from the counter, bent slightly, and scratched the little animal behind her ears. “What shall we call you?” She glanced up and caught Azaiel’s eye, a soft blush creeping up her cheeks before she straightened and looked away.

The last half hour had been an almost surreal expanse of time. There’d been no replay of the night before, and from what little he could see, a lot had happened. Aside from the bruise on Rowan’s jaw, Hannah sported several cuts along her forearms, and her middle finger was broken. She’d laughed about it and said she didn’t need the middle finger to unleash her extraextra specials. Azaiel had remained silent. He didn’t find the joke funny.

Frank seemed to be all right though he was limping a bit, and Nico and Priest remained unscathed.

The words unspoken, the plans that needed to be addressed were like a weight across his chest, and Azaiel opened his mouth, intending to do just that, but the phone rang, and he didn’t get the chance. For a moment startled silence followed its shrill sound. And then Hannah jumped off the counter where’d she’d been eating a bowl of Lucky Charms and scooped it up.

“The Black Cauldron, Hannah speaking.” Her light brown eyebrows bunched in concentration, and she turned slightly, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear her words. She listened for several seconds, and Azaiel noticed that both Priest and Nico watched with undisguised interest.

Rowan’s eyes were trained on her cousin as well though her expression was hard to read.

“Abigail, you
have
to come. Oh good.” Hannah’s eyes darted toward Rowan, who’d pushed her chair back from the table. “What? No! Seriously you can’t—”

Hannah bit her lip and shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She spoke lower, though Azaiel had no trouble hearing her. “I told you we’ve got some extra bodies, and once the rest of the coven is here . . .” She darted another look at Rowan. “Yep, sure, I’ll let her know. See you tonight.”

She hung up, straightened the ceramic lime green frog that was near the sink, returned a plastic red sponge to its mouth, and, with a bright smile pasted to her face, nodded.

“What’s the matter with you?” Rowan took a step closer. “You’re acting really weird.”

“So that was Abigail.” Hannah’s face looked pained as the smile forced upon it tightened even more.

“And?” Rowan prompted. She grabbed the ketchup off the table and threw it in the floor-to-ceiling pantry that stood beside the back door.

“She’s coming,” Hannah replied brightly.

Something was at play, and Azaiel studied the women closely. All was not good news.

“I got that.”

Hannah rinsed out her cereal bowl and carefully dried it before she continued.

“She’s uh, not coming alone.”

Rowan swore. Loudly. “She better not bring her Canadian lumberjack. She knows better than that. Humans just get in the way.” Her eyes darted toward Frank. “No offense.”

The bartender nodded. “None taken.”

Hannah’s eyes glittered strangely, and she swallowed carefully before clearing her throat. “Ah, nope. Actually, they broke up. This whole freaking—she made quotation marks with her fingers—
legions of doom thing,
really worked out well for her . . .” Hannah’s voice trailed off. “I mean, timing-wise that is.”

“Really,” Rowan answered softly. “So who’s she bringing? Cousin Terre? Maybe Vicki?” There was a dangerous edge to her voice, and Azaiel glanced at her sharply.

“She was pretty upset last night when I told her about Auntie Cara, and she’s really scared for you.”

“That’s nice, so who’s she bringing?” Rowan wasn’t fooling around and glared at her cousin. The tension in the room was palpable, and all the men had come to their feet.

“Oh Lord.” Cedric sighed. “I knew this was coming.”

“Don’t be mad.” Hannah’s voice held a pleading note.

Rowan’s frown deepened, and the two women had the undivided attention of every male in the room. Even the orange tabby jumped from the kitchen counter and weaved its soft length between the two women, as if trying to calm them both.

“Hannah,” Rowan warned.

“Don’t be mad,” she said again.

“She called Kellen didn’t she?”

Hannah nodded and winced.

Azaiel’s ears perked up at the name, as did Priest’s and Nico’s. He watched Rowan closely, his muscles tensing at the look of . . . was that pain in her eyes? His jaw clenched tightly, and he narrowed his eyes. What did this man mean to her? Not that he should care . . . not that he
did
care, he just needed the witch focused.

Keep telling yourself that, my friend.

“He’s not going to stay away, Rowan. Not when your life is on the line. Just because the two of you . . .” Hannah cleared her throat and stopped abruptly, obviously uncomfortable. “Just because the last time you were together all hell broke loose. And, let’s be honest here Ro, you were a bitch.”

Rowan froze, and absolute silence ruled the kitchen.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong, Kellen was a total dick as well, but I don’t think he deserved . . .” Hannah bit her lip and cleared her throat. “You two belong together. You always have.
Especially now
.”

Azaiel’s eyes went flat as he stared at Rowan. Her back was rigid, her shoulders tucked in as if she were trying to gather what comfort she could. But it was no use. The woman was in pain, and he was pissed that he cared.

Rowan carefully closed a cupboard. She was silent for a good long while, her fingers absently running along the top of the tabby’s back as its small body purred furiously.

Hannah glanced over to Cedric, but the old man was busy with some invisible speck of dust in the corner. Frank’s face was white, which didn’t bode well as far as Azaiel could tell.

He couldn’t be quiet any longer. “Who the hell is this Kellen?” His words sounded a whole lot harsher than he’d meant them to. He ignored the sharp glance Priest sent his way, as well as the smug grin that lightened the jaguar’s craggy features. To hell with them.

Rowan exhaled and ran her fingers through the loose hair at her shoulders. She, too, glanced at Cedric, who’d turned back to them, his dark eyes wary.

“Kellen is . . .” She scooped up the cat and held on tightly, so tight that the small tabby squirmed, and she let her hop back onto the floor.

Azaiel leaned forward and found himself hanging on, wanting to know and afraid to hear her answer at the same time. He thought of the man who’d called the first night, Mason, and narrowed his eyes as he studied Rowan. Did the woman have lovers wherever she laid her head?

She glanced around the room once though her eyes skimmed them all as if she were searching for a place to hide. A shadow crossed her face, and she shrugged. “Kellen is a ghost from my past that I’m not sure I can face.”

She was bitter.

Azaiel watched as she walked past all of them and slipped out into the backyard.

Bitter and hurt.

R
owan held her arms tight around her body, seeking what warmth she could even though inside she was as cold as ice. The sun was up and had burned off the frost that had coated everything only an hour ago, leaving the brown, dead things that littered the ground in warmth.

She kicked at a pile of shriveled leaves and watched them tumble and scatter in the breeze. She’d always loved fall. The turning of the seasons . . . it was one of the things she missed most about living in Salem.

But now? She watched a large maple leaf swirl in the air before it fell back onto the gray cobbled stone path. Now, she felt as dead and empty as the leaves seemed to be. Dislodged from their anchor, they went wherever the wind took them, wandering aimlessly. Lost. And in the end, they died alone.

Rowan’s chest tightened, and she bent over to pick up the large leaf. It had turned a vibrant yellow, yet the frost had edged the tips with brown, and it was no longer soft but had a hard, crisp texture.

It was already half-dead, and by Samhain, would be nothing more than a shriveled-up piece of waste.

She held the leaf up to the sun, letting the anger inside rush through her veins. Was this to be her fate? To wander the next few weeks anchorless? Would she perish, a prisoner of a demon lord? Destined to spend her youth and whatever she had left deep beneath the human realm, ensconced in the underworld?

The leaf fell from her fingers and drifted away, catching a tide of wind that took it high into the sunshine, only to disappear beyond the gardens.

Would she survive Mallick’s onslaught? Would she have the chance to grow old and have children? She thought of Azaiel and her cheeks flushed crimson. She shook her head and squared her shoulders. Why the hell would she think about him? Sure, he was gorgeous with his abs of steel, wide shoulders, long legs, and to-die-for mouth.

But he was also dangerous. She knew this. She felt it in her bones. And Rowan had vowed never to involve herself with a man who was otherworld. What was the point? It only complicated things, and her life . . . her very existence . . . was complicated enough.

Besides, she had Mason waiting for her when this whole crazy mess was over. So he’d not seemed overly concerned when she’d called to tell him she’d be staying a few extra weeks. He hadn’t even asked why. It wasn’t their way. They didn’t have an intense relationship. It was calm. Comforting. Trusting.

With his lazy Californian way and slow kind of charm, the man was kind of perfect. He never got in her face, or asked questions about her family, or left the toilet seat up. He was stable. Had a good job and with his bookish ways, loved the quiet life, which for Rowan had been the prize she’d sought after such a tumultuous childhood.

She bit her lip. So maybe the sex wasn’t all that great, but it wasn’t bad either. Okay sex was better than nothing. Wasn’t it?

I bet sex with Azaiel would be mind-blowing.

Rowan swore and banished all thoughts of Azaiel and sex from her mind. Why would she even go there?
Because he’s got a killer body, and you’re dying to see him naked.

She whirled around, eyes narrowed as she gazed at the house. Dammit, was Hannah putting these thoughts into her head?

Rowan sighed. There was so much to think about. So much to plan, and now with Kellen coming back . . .

She sniffled and wiped at the corner of her eyes, wincing at the pain that crept along her jaw. She couldn’t think about Kellen right now. Couldn’t think about the way they’d parted. The anger, harsh words, mistrust, and, ultimately, the disappointment that was between them.

If
he was coming—and she’d believe that when it happened—then they’d have it out, but right now there were more important things to do. Time was ticking away, and she needed to put the first part of her plan in motion.

Rowan pulled up her big-girl pants, turned her butt around and headed back inside. There was no time to wallow in self-pity. No time to dwell on memories filled with ghosts and bad tidings. If she lost this war, there’d be time enough for all of that, but right now, she needed to gather her troops.