She smoothed the lines of her short linen skirt, exhaled, and strode toward the house.
Her nana had left a message on her machine days ago asking her to come home, but she’d been in Europe on business for the firm. Now that she was home, she was anxious to see her.
She swept a pile of twigs and maple leaves from the corner of the door and bit her lip as the knob turned beneath her hand. The house looked closed up and yet it was unlocked.
“Shit,” she murmured as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. “Nana?” Her voice tentative, Rowan set her bag on the floor and locked the door behind her.
She bit her lip. Nana never left it unlocked.
Her hand felt along the wall and she flipped a switch, bathing the foyer in a soft glow. It looked exactly as she remembered. Delicate roses adorned the wallpaper in the entry though the bottom part of the walls sported golden oak trim. The floor at her feet was worn, the oak planks smooth from years of use and polish.
To her left was an antique Queen Anne side table. It held Nana’s guest book and sported a large vase. It was always filled with fresh flowers taken from the gardens out back. Depending on the season it could hold a riot of color or the fresh greens of November. Not tonight. The water was dark and the droopy remains of sad-looking sunflowers hung over the side. Their leaves were brown and curled, their centers moldy.
And the guest book? Well, from what she could see it was gone.
What the hell was going on? Was Nana ill? Why hadn’t she called sooner?
She headed toward the back of the house. Just off the kitchen, Nana kept a small apartment. As Rowan neared the kitchen something made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
She paused. A cold shot of something slid across her skin.
Hell, who was she kidding? She knew what that something was and it wasn’t anything good. Not in this part of Salem anyway. It was dark energy. Scratch that. Dark, powerful energy.
Dammit! Fear for her nana pushed Rowan forward and she jogged the last few steps, her out-of-place stilettos clicking across the hardwood in a thin staccato.
“Nana?” she whispered hoarsely as she rushed into the kitchen. Her heels slid across the smooth hardwood floor and she barely avoided a fall as her hands grabbed the edge of the large kitchen table.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She nearly went down again as she struggled to maintain her balance. “Shit!” she hissed, pushing a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear—the wind had pulled it loose from the tight ponytail she sported.
The window above the sink rattled as a wall of rain hit the panes.
She nearly slipped again and her gaze fell to the floor. A large stain marred the golden planks, leaving in its wake a macabre splash of dark art. Nausea roiled in her gut and her eyes widened in horror.
It was blood. There was no mistaking that coppery stench. A lot of blood.
The silence was broken as music erupted from inside her nana’s apartment, “I Fall to Pieces,” a sad lament sung by Patsy Cline. It had always been Nana’s favorite.
Her heart was pounding crazily as she sidestepped the sticky mess and moved toward her nana’s rooms. The door was ajar and soft light fell from inside. She paused, fighting fear and anxiety.
She hated Salem, the memories, the nightmares, the danger—the legacy that had taken many of her ancestors and driven her mother mad. It was the reason she’d left. Her nana wouldn’t have called unless things were bad.
Oh God, things must be bad.
Where was she?
Rowan slipped inside and was careful to keep to the shadows. It was an automatic reaction and one that she welcomed. Old habits might die hard but they sure as hell were there for a reason.
The room appeared empty but she knew in this world she inhabited—one with layers most people were unaware of—looks could be deceiving.
She crept toward Nana’s bed, holding her breath as she did so, eyes moving toward every corner. Her fingers grazed the stereo on the night table beside the bed and Patsy was silenced.
Rowan exhaled and glanced around the room once more, past the heavy crimson coverlet that was turned down. Past the robe flung across the chair at the foot of the bed. Past the book that lay open upon the pillow and the reading glasses that rested alongside it.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the book. A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth as her fingers touched the yellowed pages. To Kill a Mockingbird. How many times had they read the book together?
She held the novel tight against her chest and tried to clamp down the fear that bubbled inside but it was hard. The blood in the kitchen filled her with dread.
“Nana, where are you?” she whispered.
A sound echoed from somewhere in the house and it was one she knew well. It was the loose board near the front stairs—the one that she’d fast learned to avoid as a teenager when sneaking in late at night. She froze and her breath caught at the back of her throat in a painful gasp. When she heard it again sweat broke out on her forehead as a sharp stab of fear punched her in the gut.
She put the book back, just as it was, and reached for her cell phone, cursing beneath her breath when she realized it was in her bag.
Which was in the foyer.
Shit.
Someone was out there—she sensed the energy and knew it was someone powerful. Or rather, something. At this point she had no idea who or what the hell it was but she knew it didn’t belong. Not here in her nana’s bed-and-breakfast.
Rowan blew out a shuddering breath and centered herself. She needed to be calm.
She crossed to the sitting area beside the stone fireplace. An iron poker rested against the hearth and she grabbed it, holding it tight as she melted into the dark corner nearest her. With her back protected she felt more in control and had a clear view of the room.
She closed her eyes for a second, concentrated, and felt the familiar pull of energy sizzle along her fingers. There was no way she could charm or spell because her power was weak—ill used—but it would have to do.
She heard a step echo and then another. Anger washed over her skin in a hot wave that left her teeth clenched, her fingers tight, and her resolve firm. The bastard was playing with her.
Come on, asshole. Let’s do this.
Rowan slipped out of her heels, tossed them aside, and spread her legs slightly as she balanced on the balls of her feet.
Someone passed beyond the door and then there was silence. It stretched long and thin until she wanted to scream. Rowan’s heart was nearly beating out of her chest but her eyes never strayed from the door.
She called to the shadows, coaxing them so that they slithered along her flesh and covered her body with their darkness. A small thrill shot through her. She’d denied her gifts for so long she’d forgotten how good it felt to use them.
Suddenly the door swung open. Something big stood there, just beyond her line of vision. She couldn’t see it but she sure as hell sensed it. She grimaced, pissed at herself for letting her powers get so rusty.
She heard a scuff, like a boot scraping along the floor, and held her breath in anticipation. Who would have predicted ten hours ago she’d be hiding in her nana’s room, gripping an iron poker from the fireplace, waiting to attack?
Back in the day, before she’d reinvented herself, it had been the norm and something she’d taken great pains to distance herself from. Yet it seemed as if the ghosts of her past had found her.
A tall shape came into view. Impressively huge.
Rephrase: The ghosts of her past were about to kick her ass but good.
The door creaked as it slowly slid all the way open. She heard her breaths falling lightly as she struggled to keep it together and forced them to quiet. She needed to focus.
Rowan’s eyes widened as the intruder strode into the room and cast a long shadow along the threadbare carpet. It was a very large, very male form.
Denim and leather adorned his powerful frame, emphasizing long limbs and wide
shoulders. He moved with the grace of an animal—a predator—and she held her breath as his gaze swung toward her.
Was she safe? Could he see her?
His face was in shadow but the square jaw was visible. He reeked of power; even in her weakened state she was able to sense the enormity of it, and a sliver of fear bled through her determination.
Something awful had happened in her nana’s home. Had this man been involved? If so, what did he want?
He took a step forward, moving into the light, and her mouth went dry. His eyes were intense, an unusual shade of gold that was piercing. A day’s worth of beard shadowed his chin, covering it in scruff that was model-perfect. Dirty blond hair as thick as sable framed a face that was, without a doubt, the most devastatingly handsome one she’d ever seen. Hollywood had nothing on this guy.
Rowan knew she couldn’t take him. There was no way in hell. The man was well over six feet in height and (a) she’d just tossed her heels, and at five-foot-six she didn’t even reach his chin, and (b) the power that clung to him was incredibly strong. It cast a fractured light around his frame, one bled through with gold and black.
She’d never seen anything like it.
The stereo erupted once more and Patsy’s mournful soprano sliced through the quiet. Rowan’s heart took off, banging out of control and she tried to swallow her fear as the stranger turned fully in her direction.
For one sweet second she thought she heard her nana’s voice whisper to her. Always keep them off-kilter. Do the unexpected.
It pushed her into action.
Rowan fell from shadow and stepped forward. “Who the hell are you and where is my grandmother?”
Surprise flickered across his face though it quickly disappeared. She swallowed tightly as the stranger’s eyes narrowed. He raised his hand, and her fingers clutched the iron poker so tightly, they cramped.
She flinched as he flicked his wrist—it was a subtle motion that silenced the music.
He arched a brow. “Granddaughter?”
His eyes glittered, a strange shimmer deep within their depths. His voice was low and she detected a slight accent when he spoke. She couldn’t place it.
“I won’t ask again.” Rowan straightened, glad her voice was firm, no matter that her insides were mush. “Who are you and why is there blood in the kitchen?” A small tremor caressed the end of her sentence but it couldn’t be helped.
She was freaking out, scared as hell, and there was a mountain of muscle between herself and freedom.
The stranger cursed, words she didn’t understand, but they were definitely curse words. His tone and scowl told her so. “No one mentioned a granddaughter.” He cocked his head to the side and frowned. “We’ve got company.”
He crossed to the window and yanked the drapes into place in one quick motion. At the same time the glow from the nightlight was extinguished.
Rowan didn’t know what to think but she was starting to get pissed off.
“This is crazy, where is my nana?” She took a step forward.
“Cara is . . .” His voice trailed into silence as the windows began to shake, the panes rattling against an onslaught of wind and rain.
“She’s what?” Rowan’s eyes were huge as she stared up into a face devoid of emotion. There was a coldness there that was unsettling.
“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “She’s dead.”
The iron poker slipped from her fingers as she stared up at the stranger.
She heard the words but her brain wasn’t translating them. Rowan shook her head. “I don’t . . . that can’t be, I’d know . . .” She couldn’t articulate what was in her head. None of this made sense. Her eyes fell to the book on the bed, the reading glasses, and she felt something inside her break.
Nana.
In that moment she knew the truth, the pain and the guilt. It’s my fault. The whisper slid through her mind. I never should have left.
A low keening erupted, one that shot up several decibels within seconds until the window shattered. Glass blew everywhere and shredded the curtains into billowing tatters. They were long plumes of crimson silk that fluttered like crazed feathers in the wind.
Rowan winced at the sharp sting of shrapnel as it sliced into her arms and legs. Searing pain ripped across her cheek but she paid no mind. The wind pulled at her, whirling into the room with a hazy cloud of freezing mist that made it difficult to breathe.
The touch of his hand on her flesh pulled her from the darkness. The roaring dialed down and as she stared up at him, her lungs expanded and she was able to draw a shuddering breath.
“Who . . . who did this?” she rasped. She had no idea who the hell he was but in that moment she knew he meant her no harm. The darkness, the evil, wasn’t in this room. It was out there beyond the broken window.
“I think your answer is there.” His eyes were no longer gold, but solid, flat black, and the white of his teeth flashed through the gloom as he spoke. He pointed outside and Rowan turned to the window. Thunder and lightning had joined the chaotic dance of rain and wind. A bolt of energy streaked across the sky, illuminating the entire front yard in a sizzle of white.
It was a quick, precise hit, and gave just enough light for her to see seven hulking figures standing in the pouring rain.
Their scent reached her and she nearly gagged on the thickness of it. Demons.
Their eyes glowed red. Blood demons.
A weird calm settled over her. She’d come full circle, it seemed.
Rowan squared her shoulders and glanced up at the man beside her. “Who sent you?”
He was silent for a moment. “Someone who cared deeply for your grandmother.”
She felt her stomach twist. She didn’t like the stranger’s vague answer. If what he’d said was true, her nana was dead and outside seven blood demons called—his presence was no coincidence.
A guttural cry rent the night—a harsh echo that slid like nails against a chalkboard, and her hackles rose. She didn’t have time to worry about the details.
“I’m Rowan. What’s your name?” she asked as she grabbed the iron poker off the ground.
“Azaiel.”
She arched a brow. “Okay . . . that’s different.”
The demons began to howl in unison, their voices rising into a crescendo of noise and then it dropped suddenly until there was nothing. The silence was heavy. Eerie. It was the calm before the storm.
The tallest of the demons grunted and began walking toward them, a deadly machete trailing behind him. Another series of lightning strikes crashed across the sky and its ugly horned face split open into what she supposed was a grin.
“I’m sorry but it looks like things are about to get nasty,” she whispered, her gaze focused upon the gathering outside, “but then again with a name like that, I suppose you’ve not forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?” he asked, moving beside her.
Rowan whispered, “What it feels like to get your ass kicked.”
Want to know more about
the League of Guardians?
Keep reading for an excerpt from
Juliana Stone’s Avon Impulse novella,
WRONG SIDE OF HELL,
available now everywhere e-books are sold.
The door opened behind Logan Winters, bringing with it a gust of wind, the faint scent of pine, and complete silence. Like a ripple effect, conversations stopped, laughter faded, and eyes were averted.
Logan glanced up at the bartender, took notice of the stubby fingers grasped tight to the bottle of Canadian whiskey—the bottle Logan had been waiting for—and scowled.
The Neon Angel was a sad excuse of a drinking hole. It had seen better days, and from what he could tell, so had most of the staff and clientele. The bar was a rickety shack on the edge of a town he had no name for. It was the place he’d ended up at—no reason other than timing—and for a brief moment it had been the heaven he’d been seeking.
His eyebrows knit together tightly and h
is lips tightened. All he’d wanted was a drink. Just one fucking drink.
He exhaled and shifted slightly, giving himself more room as he pushed his bar stool back a few inches. The couple that had been sitting to his left was already on their feet, a wad of cash thrown onto the bar as they slid into the shadows that wrapped around the room.
The blonde who’d been eyeing him up but good downed her wine and smiled a crazy I’m-getting-the-hell-out-of-here kind of smile before wiping the corner of her mouth and turning away.
Guess he wasn’t getting laid, either.
Logan swore, a harsh string of words no one would understand, and nodded to bartender. “I’ll take that shot now.”
The large man ran his free hand through the thinning gray scalp atop his head and swallowed hard, his watery eyes wide as he glanced toward Logan. Thick bands of wiry gray brows curled crazily above round balls the color of peat moss.
His soft arms, bared to the world thanks to the faded black wife-beater T-shirt he wore, was filled with tattoos that jiggled as he rubbed the scruff on his chin. “Dude . . . not sure if that would be a good . . . uh . . . idea.”
Logan’s ice blue eyes narrowed as a snarl caught in the back of his throat. He felt the heat beneath his skin. The burn. The itch.
A rumble rose from his chest—a menacing warning—and the bartender took heed, his body jerking in small, quick movements as he jumped. Logan nodded toward the bottle, his low rasp barely containing the irritation he felt. “Pour me the drink.” He’d have his whiskey and then deal with whoever the hell had decided tonight was a good night to fuck with him.
The bartender swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing through the thick folds of skin at his neck. The man didn’t know what to do. Run from whoever—or whatever—had blown into the place or pour the damn whiskey and be done with it.
His eyes darted to just behind Logan once more but he jumped when Logan barked. “Now.”
The bartender poured a generous amount of whiskey into the tumbler and though he tried to be careful, his hands shook so much it was a damn miracle he didn’t spill the precious liquid all over the place.
Wicked Road to Hell Page 32
