King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (22 page)

“I’m not sure about anything, but it’s no matter. What’s done is done, and Rowan’s brother will accompany me.”

An hour later Priest dropped Azaiel and Kellen in Salem at the back of a small restaurant, something called The Greasy Spoon North. It’s where Samael had agreed to meet. Apparently there were several scattered across the country, and their specialty, besides the popular all-day-heart-attack-on-a-plate breakfast, was something called poutine. Azaiel had never heard of it before, but the thought of cheese curds and gravy smothered over fried potatoes nearly turned his stomach.

The place was open twenty-four hours and though it was barely past five in the morning, The Greasy Spoon North appeared full. Azaiel and Kellen walked in and immediately felt the weight of many eyes.

It was an eclectic gathering of hungry souls. Some of the patrons had been out all night partying—it was Sunday after all—and church was definitely not on the menu. The lull in conversation started up after a few seconds, and Azaiel relaxed somewhat. While there were a good number of elderly folk—those used to early-morning hours, bacon, eggs, and coffee—there was one in the back who didn’t belong.

He sat in the corner, facing the door, and though the place was lit up like a thousand-watt Christmas tree, shadows clung to him, making it hard for the average person to see him clearly. Azaiel had no such problem.

A large pair of aviators hid eyes not meant for humans to see while broad shoulders bore leather easily, and denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him as if he had all the time in the world.

Samael.

“Kellen James.” They turned as a slender woman with badly dyed magenta hair hacked to an inch past her ears walked toward them, dirty dishes and a menu in her hands. Her heavy, dark makeup hid what looked to be an attractive face, and the smile on her lips was genuine. “My God, it’s been ages. Where have you been hiding?”

“Hey, ah . . .”

“Kristina.” The girl’s tone was a tad sharper, her smile not quite so bright.

“Right, Kristina. It’s been a while. I’ve been in Boston.”

“Boston? That’s right, I think Hannah told me that last time I asked. You’re attending Harvard, right?”

“I was.” Kellen’s reply was curt. “I’m . . . not anymore.”

“Oh.” His tone made it obvious the subject was closed. “I heard that Rowan is back, too? What’s going on? Family reunion?” She laughed and smiled widely. “You’ll have to tell Miss Cara that we’re looking forward to sampling her pies and chili at the fair next weekend.”

Kellen nodded but didn’t answer.

Kristina turned her attention to Azaiel. “Who’s your friend?” She smiled at Azaiel. “You sure as hell aren’t from Salem. Heck we could surely use some more men like you around here, that’s for sure.”

Azaiel remained silent. Why did females talk so much?

“You guys want a table? We’re a little full, what with it being so close to Halloween, but there’s room at the back.”

Azaiel shook his head. “We’re good,” and pushed past the small woman. Samael was on his feet, his tall, muscular frame unfolding from the table in one smooth motion.

“Figures you’re here to see him. Just so you know, he’s got a nasty temper.”

Azaiel and Kellen ignored the warning and followed Samael down a narrow hallway that led past the restrooms and to the back exit.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Kristina’s voice followed them outside.

Samael kicked the door open, and the three of them strode into the still-dark alley. A drunk sleeping it off in the corner near the large waste bin was ignored, as were the rats scurrying about.

The demon of chaos turned and flashed a smile that Azaiel knew didn’t reach his eyes. The bastard hated him as much as everyone else, but for whatever reason, his vow to Askelon was solid, and Azaiel knew he could be trusted.

“Cale filled me in. You’re looking for a way down?”

Azaiel nodded.

Samael turned to Kellen. “You’re the witch’s brother?”

“That would be me. And you are?”

“Not interested in sharing names.”

Kellen folded his arms across his chest and glanced toward Azaiel. “Buddy, the guys you hang with aren’t exactly friendly.”

“No,” Azaiel murmured. “They’re not.”

“This one seems more of an asshole than the damn jaguar shifter.”

Samael arched an insolent brow. “I’m sure Nico would agree.” He tossed a small vial to Kellen. “Drink this. It will help to mask your scent, which I’ve got to say is interesting, human.”

Kellen’s eyes frosted, and his voice held no warmth. “You and I both know I’m not exactly human, now don’t we?”

Samael removed his aviators, and his shimmery eyes glowed as he cocked his head to the side and studied Kellen. “What you are, Kellen James, is a mystery at the moment, but make no mistake, mysteries are my specialty.”

Kellen’s face tightened. “Is that a threat?”

“No, my friend. It’s a fact. You won’t be able to take a crap without us knowing.”

“Us?”

Silence stretched long and thin. A large dragon tattoo shimmered against Samael’s neck, the colors luminescent and hypnotic. Azaiel knew what existed inside the ink and magick. The dragon was real, something Samael could call upon when needed.

It was time to go.

Samael ignored his question and turned to Azaiel. “You’ll be fine, Fallen. The stench of the lower realm still clings to your flesh.”

Azaiel’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s the portal?” Azaiel had no time for games and posturing. “We need to get this done, now.”

Samael returned the aviators to his face and turned abruptly, heading toward the far end of the alley with long, controlled strides.

“Don’t antagonize the demon,” Azaiel said harshly to Kellen. “He may be an asshole, but you’re in over your head if you think to insult him.”

“Who is he?”

“He is not the person you want to piss off.”

Samael held his hands palms out toward the worn, weathered brick. Several seconds passed, then the air shifted. The brick liquefied and melted into a swirling haze of red energy that pulsed and threw off an incredible amount of heat. Azaiel felt the pull immediately and clenched his hands together. He’d spent eons plotting his escape from District One and the gilded cage he’d called home.

A gilded cage that had sat prominently in Seth’s courtyard, there among the dunes. He’d been like a circus freak on display for everyone to see. Seth was the largest collector in the known realms, and Azaiel had been one of his biggest prizes. The son of a bitch was able to come and go as he pleased—Lucifer placed no restrictions on his travel—and he’d often brought those from the otherworld back to the dunes to see his treasures.

Samael turned and motioned with his hands—a quick gesture—and Kellen moved forward.

“Watch your back, Kellen James. A lot of the filth who reside below are hungry for your kind of meat.”

“Yeah? And what kind of meat is that?”

Samael flashed a smile and sniffed the air. “The only kind that’s good. Fresh meat.”

Kellen glared at the demon and stepped into the portal without hesitation.

Samael glanced his way. “Don’t screw this up Fallen.” Gone was the sarcastic tone. The demon was dead serious. “Mallick needs to be stopped, and if I could do it without attracting Lucifer’s or Lilith’s eyes, I would gladly separate his head from his shoulders and burn his remains to ash.” Samael shrugged. “Alas it would raise more questions than the League can afford, so you’d best make sure your little witch is up to the task or . . .”

The words didn’t need to be spoken.

“This portal opens inside the clock tower near the main square. It will only recognize your body signature for twenty-four hours, so don’t linger.”

Azaiel frowned. “I didn’t know there was a time limit.”

Samael shrugged. “What fun would there be if not for a sliver of danger? Be warned that I can’t guarantee an extraction if you miss the twenty-four-hour window.”

Azaiel nodded and took a step forward. He gave his body up to the pull and closed his eyes as the energy from within the portal seared his flesh. He would retrieve the grimoire for Rowan, and nothing would stand in his way.

Not even Seth the golden.

Chapter 22

I
t was nearly one in the afternoon when Rowan slid from her bed. She sat on the edge, dangling her bare feet over the worn wood floor for a long time and listening to the myriad of voices outside. It sounded like the bloody circus had come to town. The mad braying of a donkey punctuated her thoughts, and she smiled in spite of herself.

She stretched out her toes and rotated her ankle. Damn, she needed a pedicure. The blue polish she’d sported in Paris was chipped and sad-looking.

She rotated her neck and winced at the tightness that was so deep into her muscles it felt like her shoulders were going to snap. The beginnings of a headache clawed up the back of her skull, and her mouth was dry. Her window was open, and a warm breeze—at least for October—drifted across her skin, yet she shivered, cold and still so very tired.

She’d not slept well though she’d fallen into bed exhausted. How could she? Her dreamworld had been invaded by dark, erotic dreams. Dreams so intense she was sure they’d make Mr. Sandman blush.

She closed her eyes, flushed and aroused at images of Azaiel naked, his hard, lean, muscled body shifting in the shadows. Of his tongue inside her mouth, his lips on her breasts and throat. Of his hands everywhere. Of taut skin, of masculine smells, and moans of pleasure.

Rowan had never been so insanely attracted to a man before. She exhaled and ran her fingers through the tangled mess of hair that tickled her chest and bit her lip as she continued to gaze at her sad-looking toes.

The ache between her legs hadn’t lessened at all—in fact it was making her crazy. She swore and clenched her thighs together in an effort to alleviate it but to no avail. If anything, the throb increased, and a whimper fell from her lips.

Not fair. Had that Alexis bitch thrown some extra mojo her way? Created a thundercloud of desire that wouldn’t abate until she had Azaiel right where she wanted him? Between her legs. Inside her body.

She rubbed her eyes and forced herself to her feet. A shower was what she needed. A long, cold shower.

Half an hour later, she was towel drying her hair when a knock sounded.

“Rowan.”

It was Abigail. She crossed the room and yanked her bedroom door open. Her cousin stood there, hand in the air, about to knock once more.

A streak of soft orange ran past the two of them and jumped onto the bed. The small tabby issued a sad, pathetic meow toward Rowan as it turned in a circle and began kneading the coverlet.

“Holy crap, Ro, you look like shit.”

Rowan made a face—if she were ten again, she’d stick out her tongue—but stood back so that her cousin could slide past.

“Wow, this is like walking down memory lane. Your bedroom hasn’t changed at all. Gosh, the stool is still next to your window. I remember sneaking in late once and I missed it and nearly broke my neck.” She paused and looked around. “We had some good times.”

“Yes, well . . .” Rowan didn’t know what to say. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“I guess Nana Cara doesn’t use this for her guests.”

Pain stabbed Rowan in the chest, but she shook her head and tried to keep it together. “No. She doesn’t . . . didn’t.”

Abigail bit her lip and nodded silently, her large, round eyes as blue as Rowan’s. Her long blond hair was much like Hannah’s except the ends were dyed purple, and she had several interesting piercings in her nose, ears, and one bright pink stud in her eyebrow. Her features were pale, elfin almost, and delicate, but her mouth was generous and at the moment trembling.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” Abigail was dressed in tattered jeans and a tight white T-shirt that said
MOTLEY CRUE
. The girl hadn’t changed at all. Funny thing was, that used to be Rowan. Wild. Unpredictable. Devil-may-care. But California had changed her.
School
had changed her, and yet she’d managed to slip into her old skin without breaking a sweat. What did that say about her?

Rowan tossed the towel toward her bathroom and walked to the window. She gazed down at a sight that was not only sobering, it was impressive. The entire coven had gathered, and judging from the ragtag assortment of vehicles, sporting plates from several neighboring states, every last one of them had answered the call. All of them here to fight for her.

Did they realize how dangerous it was out there?

Her chest tightened, and she thumped her palm against the uncomfortable sensation. A lump had formed at the back of her throat, and she struggled to swallow.

“Hannah told me that Kellen and that sweet piece of ass you’ve been hiding left together.”

“I’m not hiding Azaiel. I barely know the man.”

“Uh-huh.”

Rowan glared at Abigail. “They’ve gone to retrieve the grimoire.”

Abigail was silent for a moment. “Sounds dangerous.”

The worry that sat at the back of Rowan’s throat tasted like crap. She swallowed and shook her head. She didn’t want to think about the danger. About how the thought of her brother and Azaiel in danger made her want to hit something.

“They’re big boys. They’ll be fine.”
I hope.

“You’re right.” Abigail flopped onto the bed and scratched the tabby behind its ears. Its little body thrummed loudly as it purred and moved closer to her cousin. “So we were pretty busy last night.”

“Yes. I think we all were. Salem is not a good place to be right now.”

“I talked to Shane McTavish this morning . . . you remember him from high school?”

At Rowan’s blank look, Abigail made a face. “He played football with Kellen. The wide receiver?”

Rowan shrugged, and Abigail made a disgusted sound. “How can you not remember him? He was the most gorgeous guy in high school. Tall, with long dark hair and the most amazing eyes.”

“He sure as heck made an impression on you.”

“Hell yeah. We necked at a victory game party once. It was the highlight of my night, but he was so drunk that he didn’t even remember me the next day.”

Ah, football and beer rarely mixed well.

“So what about him?”

“Anyway, he’s on the police force now if you can believe it, which is weird because he was always in trouble.”

“Must be why you liked him so much.”

Abigail guffawed, a wholehearted laugh that filled up the emptiness in the room. The sound lightened Rowan’s heart a little. “He was the guy that stole the Griphon’s mascot, remember? No? Well, whatever.”

Rowan smiled, listening to Abigail. One thing about most James women—they liked to talk.

“I ran into him at the coffee shop this morning on my way back here. He told me they had more calls last night than ever before, and a lot of them were violent . . . domestics, etc. He also said several women had been raped.” She shook her head. “It’s really, really bad out there, and Samhain is still over a week away. How are we going to keep all these people safe until then?”

“We’ll do it the old-fashioned way—the Buffy way. By patrolling every night and killing anything that isn’t human.”

Abigail nodded, her hands still stroking the satisfied tabby, and Rowan knew this wasn’t the reason for her cousin’s need to chat.

“So, I had tea with Auntie Marie a while ago.”

Rowan’s lips tightened.
Here we go.
“And?”

“Well, she seems . . . good. Really good. Her mind is clear.”

“For now.” Anger unfurled within her gut. “Until she decides that the bottom of a vodka bottle is something she needs to see again.” Sarcasm dripped from her mouth, but she was helpless to control it. “We’ll see how long this lasts.”

Abigail frowned. “But isn’t that what you want?”

“I only care about its lasting until Samhain.”

Abigail sat up, and the cat meowed, unhappy with the sudden lack of attention. “Rowan, that’s an awful thing to say. She may have screwed up a lot in her life, but she is your mother, and everyone deserves a second chance.”

“You’re right. Except Marie-Noelle passed her
second
second chance years ago.”

“Rowan, what did she do that was so bad? The woman had an addiction problem. A lot of people have addiction problems. It’s not that uncommon.”

Rowan stared at her cousin, suddenly weak from the emotion pummeling away inside her. “You have no idea,” she whispered. “No one does, not even Kellen.”

Abigail was silent for a moment, twirling the piece of pink hair between her fingers. “Then tell me.”

Rowan sighed and glanced out the window. “It wasn’t just that she had an addiction. It’s what she did because of it.” She wrapped her arms around her midsection and closed her eyes. “She stole from Nana. Performed illegal magick for drug money. She sold our clothes, our furniture.” A tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she whispered, “She sold herself.”

“Ro—”

Rowan wiped at her face angrily and turned to face her cousin. “She tried to sell me to a goblin who wanted to bed a virgin. He’d promised her unlimited access to the drug of her choice.”

Shock swept across Abigail’s face like a lightning strike. “Oh, Rowan.”

“I was twelve.”

“Did he . . .” Abigail bit her lip. “Were you . . .”

“Raped?” Rowan shook her head. “No. Kellen came home, and she came to her senses I guess because she kicked the bastard out.”

“She must have felt awful.”

“I don’t know what she felt, and I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about my mother.”

Abigail nodded. “Okay. Let’s talk about the hot dude you were patrolling with.”

Rowan had forgotten how irritating Abigail could be. “I don’t want to talk about him either.”

Rowan bent and slipped into a pair of running shoes, tying her hair back into a damp ponytail. Maybe a run would do her good.

“So, who are these guys?”

“What guys?”

“The hot guys.”

“My God,” Rowan said, exasperated. “What is this, twenty questions?” She shook her head. “They’re friends . . . of Nana’s.”

But are they?

Abigail stood up, and they both ignored the irritated wail from the tabby. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s awesome that they’re here to help us, and Lord knows they’re freaking easy on the eyes. Hell, Vicki is falling all over herself trying to get at least one of them into bed. She nearly had a fit when that Nico guy growled at her like an animal, but . . .”

“But what?”

“What do we really know about them other than the fact they’re otherworld?”

Rowan stared at her cousin in silence. As a lawyer, she was always prepared. She researched and knew her cases from every angle possible. So why now, when she was involved in the most important fight of her life, was she clueless?

She glanced out the window and spied Nico with Hannah. The scent of sweet tobacco wafted in the air, and she knew that Priest was nearby.

“You’re right.”

“I am?” Abigail said warily.

Rowan nodded. “I think it’s time I get some answers of my own.”

She found Priest in the back garden, tending to the overgrown sunflowers that bloomed in a huge cluster along edge. He’d doffed his shirt, and Rowan watched him work for a few moments, enjoying the view.

He really was impressive. His shoulders were wide, his chest and arms muscular without being over the top. An intricate cross was tattooed across his left pectoral, the design interesting though the colors were muted, as if it was old.

With his dark hair and chiseled features he was one hell of a man; except she knew that was false. He was not your average everyday
man.
So what was he?

“You going to stand there all day or offer to help?”

His voice startled her, and Rowan nearly tripped over her feet as she picked her way through the leaves that had been raked into several huge piles along the path.

“Grab that, will you?” He pointed to a large garbage bag, and she held it open while he stuffed the refuse he’d trimmed from the tall plants. “I miss this.”

“This?”

“Working with nature. Using my hands for something other than killing otherworld filth.”

Rowan remained silent but watched him closely. A fine sheen of sweat coated his muscles, emphasizing their shape as he worked. Azaiel’s body was much the same, though his shoulders . . .

“There was a time when I tilled the soil and answered to no one but my god.” He stuffed a large handful of leaves into the bag, and their eyes met. “I miss those days . . . sometimes. Things were much simpler.”

“Who are you?” Rowan asked quietly.

Priest smiled, a flash of even white teeth, and grabbed a cigar from his pocket. The black jeans he wore hung low on his hips, and his smile widened as her gaze lingered there—and how could it not? The man’s body looked as if Michelangelo had carved it from stone . . .
and
had paid special attention to the abs and the hips . . .

“Don’t you mean what am I?” He shoved the cigar into his mouth and lit the end, taking his time to coax the flame. His dark eyes glittered with what Rowan called the otherworld glow. It was an extra spark—an imprint of power if you will—that lit the eyes from behind.

Azaiel’s was a golden shimmer. Priest’s was silken brown caramel.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” The tobacco scent was pleasant, reminding her a little of the pipe tobacco that Cedric favored. Though she supposed he’d given that up.

Priest stuffed the bag with refuse while she held it for him, and for several minutes there was nothing but the sound of buzzing insects, the rustle of squirrels in the bush, and the echo of voices from the front of the house.

Once the bag Rowan held was full, Priest handed her another, and they moved to the large piles of leaves.

“I was human once.” He shoved the last of the first pile into the bag, and they moved to the next. “A knight of the Templar, an arrogant one who lost faith.” His eyes narrowed, and he gazed at Rowan intently. “When things are their darkest, that is not the time to lose faith. That’s when you cling to it, when you hold it close to your heart. Arrogance and lost faith did not serve me well, and I paid the ultimate price.”

Rowan was quiet as he continued to fill the bag.

“I was foolish, made many mistakes, and lost my life. I wandered the gray realm for many years.”