“It’s Azaiel.” He knew the Seraphim warrior hated his guts, but then, every member of the League felt the same way. They all thought he was untrustworthy. A wild card. And they’d be right. Every day he fought the darkness inside and wondered what the hell Bill saw in him that was redeemable.
“You make it to Salem?” Cale asked.
“Had a welcoming party waiting for me.”
There was a pause on the other end. “A little elaboration would be nice.”
“A pack of blood demons. Seems the coven has been marked.”
“Marked?” Cale cursed. “Who the hell would mark a coven as powerful as Cara’s?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think they knew Cara had been murdered though they had no qualms about going after her granddaughter instead.”
“Her granddaughter,” Cale murmured softly. “The redhead?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought she was out of the picture. Last I heard she’d taken off to California.”
“Well, she’s back.” Azaiel leaned against the railing, watching the now-receding storm clouds. A clear night sky winked down at him, full of stars and black velvet.
“Was Cara marked because of her affiliation with the League of Guardians?”
Azaiel exhaled, straightened his body. “That remains unanswered.” He thought of the powerful entity he’d sensed and glanced into the darkness.
“Get back to me when you’ve got one. And about my bike, that’s a ’69 Shovelhead, you bastard. You had no right to take—”
Azaiel pocketed the cell and grinned. The Harley had been parked outside The Devil’s Gate when he’d been ordered to Salem a few days ago. Damned if he cared who it belonged to. That it had been Cale’s was fucking perfect. They’d never gotten along. Not even when they were new and full of light, although Cale’s exact origins were still a mystery, even to Azaiel.
He hopped the stairs, entered the house, and paused. A strange scratching noise echoed into the silence, and he followed it down the hall to the kitchen. The soft light from overhead illuminated the room. It was neat and tidy, with nothing out of place save for the woman on the floor.
Rowan was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bloodstains that marred the otherwise pristine wood floor with steady, determined strokes.
She paused, dipped her hand in the soapy bucket beside her though she didn’t turn to look at him. “It’s not coming out.” She sounded winded and upset. “It’s like sticking, and this water is hot and I squirted the whole bottle of dish soap into it and it shouldn’t be sticking and I”—she shook her head, her voice now tremulous—“I mean, it’s blood, right? It should just come off, nice and easy.” She exhaled and kept on. “I just . . . it’s soaked into the wood or something, and I don’t know why it won’t come off. I . . .” Her voice broke, and she continued in a whisper, “I just want it gone.”
She bent over once more, her slight shoulders hunched as she swiped furiously at the floor, then paused. “Do you know where she . . . where she is?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“No. I’m sorry.”
She waited a second, then began to scrub again, her hand circling fast.
Something unthawed inside him, a chunk of ice breaking free. It had been so long since he’d experienced any emotion other than ones tinged with darkness that he wasn’t sure what it was.
But he’d take it. Maybe there was hope for him after all.
Azaiel stripped his jacket off, threw it onto the table, and grabbed another sponge from the kitchen counter. He felt the weight of her blue eyes following him as he knelt beside her.
“You don’t have to . . . I can do this . . .” she whispered, shaking her head.
Azaiel dunked the sponge into the warm water. “I know you can,” he said gruffly, “but you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
Chapter 3
Rowan woke with a start, her chest pounding and muscles tight. She flung her legs over the side of the bed and leaned over the edge, groaning, as the room spun. Oh God, she felt like she was going to throw up.
She pressed her head between her knees in an effort to stop the panic inside. The terror beat at her mercilessly, and she knew if she didn’t get it together, she’d lose it big-time. So she squeezed her eyes shut and tried with all her might to make the panic go away.
Long seconds ticked by and eventually her breathing returned to normal, her heart rate slowed. Sweat pooled along the top of her lip, and she clenched shaking fingers into a fist. It had been forever since she’d suffered an attack.
Her lips thinned. Six years would be her forever. Fucking Salem.
She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears and glanced around her old bedroom. The furniture seemed smaller than she remembered, antique white dressed in soft pastels that were heavy on the pink. Hot tears stung the corner of her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily.
A long, shuddering breath escaped as her thoughts turned to her grandmother.
Rowan’s clenched hands tightened, the nails biting through skin until she drew blood. The pain was good. She deserved it.
Her grandmother had died alone. Violently. That was on Rowan, and one day she’d grieve properly. But not now. There was no time. She had much to do.
Her overnight bag was on the floor beside the bed, her bloodstained skirt and blouse stuffed in plastic nearby. She grabbed a change of clothes, groaning as she stood. God, she ached all over. Clearly she was out of shape, no longer the lithe, demon-fighting witch of the past.
Considering she had a shitload of hunting in her immediate future, she sure as hell needed to work on that.
Rowan drew back the blinds and winced as piercing rays of sunlight rippled into her room. She glanced down, arched a brow at the sight of the large motorcycle parked beside her rental, and sighed.
It must belong to the mysterious stranger who’d shown up at her door. Azaiel.
She mouthed his name, her lips moving slowly as the syllables rolled off her tongue. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. If only Nana was here.
After offering to help her, he’d not said a single word. The entire time they’d washed the blood from the kitchen floor—nothing.
He was different from anyone she’d ever met. It wasn’t just his silence, his lack of words. It was something in his eyes—something she recognized. Pain. A soul stained with a darkness that lingered. Seemed he was just as damaged as Rowan.
She sighed and pushed away from the window. The man had an overabundance of testosterone, and the intensity she sensed beneath the surface put her on edge.
He was otherworld, but what the hell was he? Demon? Shifter? Magick? It was weird that she had no sense of his origin.
All she knew for sure was that he was a complication, and that’s something she could do without. There was no way he could stay. Not with what she had planned. She needed to be on her game one hundred percent.
She let the blinds fall back into place and headed for the bathroom. Maybe he’d be gone by the time she was showered.
A half hour later, she was dressed in boots, jeans, and T-shirt. She headed downstairs, her fingers trailing along the railing, a bittersweet smile on her lips as a kaleidoscope of memories danced in front of her. This had been her home once. She’d been happy here, back before her mother had gone crazy.
She grabbed the vase off the table in the foyer and headed toward the kitchen. She stopped just outside the room, her gaze drawn to the now-pristine wood floor. There was nothing to indicate murder had occurred in the house. No tremor of darkness in the air. Nothing to show that her Nana was gone.
“Dead,” she whispered softly, wincing at the coldness of the word.
She gritted her teeth and stepped into the kitchen though she was careful to avoid the area that had been scrubbed clean the night before.
Rowan tossed the limp flowers into the bucket beneath the sink, rinsed the vase, and placed it on the counter. Outside the window, sunlig
ht danced upon Nana’s pond, sunflowers swayed in the breeze, and to the left, her pumpkin patch was ripe, ready to be harvested.
A nervous flutter messed with her stomach, and a wave of nausea rolled through her. Samhain was only a few weeks away. She didn’t have much time. She needed to gather her coven, spring her mother from the loony bin, find the grimoire . . .
And then she needed to hunt.
“Was wondering how long you’d sleep.”
His voice was deep, husky, and she froze at the sound of it.
Rowan took a few seconds to gather her thoughts and turned. His shoulder rested against the doorframe, his long, denim-clad legs crossed casually. The jeans he wore were faded, well used, and rode low on his hips, held in place by a wide leather belt. His black T-shirt was formfitting, stretching taut across wide shoulders and muscular arms.
His strange golden eyes were intense as he stared at her. He was without a doubt visually stunning—perfect even—with his square jaw, chiseled nose, and full mouth. The day-old shadow along his cheeks only added to his sex appeal.
But perfect didn’t belong in her kitchen, especially the kind that was wrapped in danger and smelled like sin.
“Why are you still here?” she asked roughly, making no attempt to mask her irritation.
“I’m not the enemy, Rowan,” he said simply, pushing away from the doorframe as he moved toward her.
Rowan. The way he said her name sent shivers running along her skin.
She eyed him warily and fought the urge to step back. “Just because you helped with the”—she gestured wildly—“blood and stuff, and wasted a few demons . . . that doesn’t make us friends.”
His eyes narrowed, and he stopped inches from her. Damn, but she wished she’d gone for her six-inch boots instead of the comfy Docs that adorned her feet. They were old, well-worn, but gave her no advantage when it came to height.
The man in front of her was well over six feet. And he was dangerous. His energy was strong, lethal, tinged with something she’d never felt before.
Not good.
She glanced up into his eyes. “Let’s cut the bull. Why are you really here?”
“I told you last night, Rowan, I was sent by someone who—”
“Yeah, I know what you said, someone who cares about my grandmother.” She shook her head. “Well, my Nana is dead, so their fucking concern is days late.” She shrugged. “I’d rather have a name. I’ll ask again, who sent you?”
Rowan didn’t like the way he went silent. His eyes shimmered as he stared down at her, and she took a step back, needing some distance between them.
“You’re not safe.” His tone was matter-of-fact, and his eyes never left hers.
“Wow, that’s pretty goddamn observant.” She arched a brow. “Again, why do you care?”
He opened his mouth, but Rowan had had enough. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Let me be blunt, Azaiel. I don’t want you here, and I’m asking nicely for you to leave. This is my problem, and I’m going to take care of it.”
He stood with his arms crossed and glared at her, which only managed to piss her off more than she already was. A thread of pain weaved its way through her skull, and she winced as it settled behind her eyes. Great. A migraine in the works.
The phone rang, a shrill alarm that cut through the tense air with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. On the third ring, the answering machine cut in, and bittersweet longing clutched at Rowan as her grandmother’s voice filled the silence, her tone cheery.
Hello, you’ve reached The Black Cauldron. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you shortly.
A beep sounded, followed by a man’s voice, heavy with a slow Californian drawl.
“Hey, ah . . . this message is for Rowan. Babe, you’re not answering your cell, and you were supposed to check in last night.” There was a pause. “Call me when you get this.”
She turned from Azaiel, exhaling loudly as she ran fingers along her temple. Crap. Mason.
“Who’s that?”
“No one,” she answered a little too quickly and knew she was losing her edge. Azaiel threw her off her game. “You need to leave,” she said once more.
A tingle of energy slid across her skin, and she froze. He was right there, so close the heat from his body teased the coolness of her flesh.
“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”
There was an arrogant tone to his voice that pressed hard on Rowan’s last button. Anger unfurled, deep in her gut, and her fingers tingled as a shot of energy sizzled through her veins.
She whirled around, chest heaving and eyes blazing.
“I don’t have time for this shit.” She pushed him, hard, and felt a sense of satisfaction that she was able to move him back a few inches. The man was a solid mass of muscle. Score one for the witch.
“My grandmother is dead—gone forever—murdered.” She let out a ragged breath and tried to get hold of her emotions. She wouldn’t break down in front of this man. “I’ve got two weeks to find the bastard who’s responsible. So I suggest you get the hell out of my way or else.”
“Two weeks?”
“Samhain is in . . .” she shook her head, mad because she’d already said too much. “Forget it.”
“Who’s marked your coven?” He moved closer, and her hands itched with the need to zap him once more, this time with ramped-up juice. She clenched her fingers as she fought the urge.
“It’s not about the coven.” She took a step back, frustrated and filled with anger. “Nana was just collateral damage, and if I don’t deal with this soon, there will be more bodies.” Oh God, to hear the words was like a punch to the gut.
“If not the coven, then what?” His arm shot out, and he grabbed her wrist.
She glanced down. His hand was large, his skin golden against her paleness. She felt his strength; it had a subtle hum of energy that slid over his flesh and melted into hers.
“Let me go.” She barely managed to get the words out. She felt her temper tickling the edges of her mind and clamped down quickly. She needed to keep a cool head—needed to stay in control. Bad things happened when she wasn’t.
Silence filled the space between them as she stared up in defiance. The gold of his eyes shimmered, and she watched as small rivers of black bled through them.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” she whispered. The slow burn of energy in her gut erupted and slid over her body in a seductive crawl. It infused her cells, electrifying them.
His grasp tightened, and his eyes were hard as he glared at her. “Why do you defy me?” His voice was low, controlled. “I’m offering to help, and you would turn it away.”
She yanked her hand from his. “For Christ sakes, can we not do this?” Rowan snarled, her anger bubbling over into ugly. She was done. Her pin had been pulled, and there was no going back. “Why do I defy you? What are you, a fucking Neanderthal? You hiding Tarzan’s balls in there?”
Her gaze fell to the crotch of his jeans.
“There’s no room for anything that’s not mine,” he answered dryly.
Her cheeks reddened as a slow smile drifted across his face, and her hand rose, the tips of her fingers sizzling with a blast of energy. She wanted nothing more than to wipe the smile from him, in the most painful way she could.
“Do it.” He was goading her.
Fuck you.
Rowan ducked, blasting a shot of energy at him as she twisted, her booted foot aimed for his gut. Unfortunately, she came up empty and would have fallen on her ass, except two strong arms slid around her midsection, pulling her from behind.
Goddamn but he’s fast. What the hell is he?
She cursed as the released energy exploded into the wall and watched as bits of plaster crumbled to the floor, along with the cuckoo clock—the one that hadn’t cuckooed since she was ten. It crashed to the floor and, wonders of wonders, let out one sad “cuckoo” before the little blue bird was silent once more.
She tried to wig
gle free from his grasp—even considered biting him—but gave up. He was too strong.
“Who watched from the shadows last night?” His breath was hot against her neck, and shivers ran down her spine as he spoke. His body was hard, harder than she’d imagined, and she bit her lip at the realization her ass was tucked securely between his powerful thighs. “I know you felt it.”
She shifted, and he stilled, his right arm underneath her breasts as the other moved down to her hip. Something changed; the air thickened as the energy between them darkened.
“Look, nothing personal, but this is not your fight.” She shook her head. “It’s never been anyone’s but mine.” The anger left her suddenly, like air whooshing from a balloon. She would have stumbled if not for his arms. “I thought I could outrun it.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “I thought I could disappear and live someone else’s life—a normal life. Go to college, get a job . . . and I did for a while.”
She leaned back against him, resting her body upon the solid wall of man behind her. It was nice, to have that security, even for only a few seconds.
“It felt nice for the two minutes it lasted.” There was no way to keep the bitterness from her voice.
“Who are you running from, Rowan?”
Rowan glanced toward her Nana’s rooms. If only she’d come sooner. If only . . .
“Rowan?” he prompted.
“Let me go,” she whispered.
He released her, and she moved a few feet from him. Outside, a ribbon of leaves blew by as the wind picked up, gold, reds, and shit brown. In a few weeks, the trees would be bare, the ground covered in early-morning frost. Where would she be?
“My family has lived in Salem since the early 1600s. Our coven fled Europe when the witch trials were at their bloodiest.” She shook her head. “Was it bad luck they ended up here? Or was it fate?”
What are you doing?
Rowan ignored her conscience and turned to Azaiel. She saw his strength. His warrior soul. His arrogant attitude.
He wanted to help? He was going to need all of that and a shitload more.
She carefully lifted the heavy mane of hair off her neck and turned just so. She knew he’d see the mark clearly. It wasn’t hard to miss.
King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel Page 3
