King of the Damned: A League of Guardians Novel (6 page)

Chapter 6

A
zaiel followed Rowan out into the crisp fall morning. It was later, closer to noon, but the urgency of their situation wasn’t lost on either one of them. She cleared the porch, taking the stairs two at a time, and headed toward the parking lot. Her denim-clad legs covered the distance in no time until she reached the blacktop, where his bike and her car were parked.

They’d breakfasted—Cedric had insisted no foray into the supernatural could be successful on an empty stomach—and the elderly gentleman had created a tasty meal of bacon, eggs, toast, and sausages. Azaiel observed the easy warmth between Cedric and Rowan in silence as he made quick work of his plate. Neither one of them engaged Azaiel in conversation, but he was more than content to listen.

After millennia of existence, he’d learned many times over that actions belied a man’s innermost thoughts. And that more often than not, words unsaid spoke louder than those uttered. So he’d observed the two and learned enough.

The fact that Cedric kept himself between Azaiel and Rowan showed not just distrust for Azaiel—he was highly protective of the young woman. Cedric had served the James witches for most of his life, and the love the man felt for Cara and Rowan was as strong as any familial bond. The man would do whatever he could to avenge Cara’s death.

Azaiel also noticed that Cedric’s hand trembled though he tried his damnedest to hide it. The elderly man was much sicker than he wanted them to know.

As for Rowan, her pain and guilt at her grandmother’s death had been pushed aside, hidden away in some secret part of her soul, where it would fester. She covered her pain with false smiles and an overly happy voice. Azaiel knew from past experience that the witch was going to have to deal with it sooner rather than later. If not, it would eat away at her and do the one thing she wanted to avoid—impede her judgment and ability to complete her mission.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He’d followed Rowan across the parking lot and paused beside the small blue car. The door was open, and she was behind the wheel, cranking an engine that didn’t want to turn over.

She looked up at him in frustration. “This thing is a new rental; how the hell can it not start?” Her tone was almost accusatory. Did she actually think he’d toyed with the machine? Not that he was torn up over it. The thought of folding his large frame into the confines of the small vehicle did not please him. It brought to mind a gilded cage and endless centuries upon centuries of imprisonment below.

He nodded toward the motorcycle he’d “borrowed” from Cale. The open road and wind on his face was much more to his liking.

“We’ll take the bike.”

Rowan slid from the car, her brows furled into a frown.

“You afraid to ride?”

She looked startled at his question and shook her head, moving away from him toward the motorcycle. “No, of course not, I just . . .”

“You just?” he prodded, noting the tightening around her mouth.

“I prefer to drive.”

It seemed the little witch liked to be in control. Azaiel shrugged and nodded toward the bike, holding the key aloft. Hell, if she wanted to drive, he had no problems whatsoever climbing on board behind her. In fact—his gaze rested upon her rounded hips—it might be somewhat entertaining. “Fine by me, if you’re willing.”

“No,” she answered quickly. “I don’t want to be responsible for something this expensive. Is it yours?”

“Nope.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you steal it?”

Azaiel paused. “I borrowed it.”

She threw her hands into the air. “Great, so you stole it. Anything else you willing to share? Because now would be a good time.”

Azaiel ignored her question. The secrets that darkened his soul were not for anyone’s ears. Those he would keep close.

He settled himself onto the seat, his long legs easily gripping the machine, and waited for Rowan to climb up behind him. He wasn’t prepared for the energy that slid over his skin as she did so. It startled him, and for a moment he gripped the handlebars tightly, not caring for the sensation. Not caring for what it represented—a connection.

Azaiel wasn’t looking to connect with anyone. He’d do what he could for the League, but there was room for nothing else.

A soft grunt, or maybe it was a sigh of surprise was heard as she inched forward, and Azaiel wondered if she felt the connection as well. She muttered under her breath and wrapped her arms around his midsection, holding tight to him. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in the next few days.”

Azaiel revved the engine and let all thoughts of doomsday fly away as the powerful machine between his legs begged to be let out on the open road. The throttle growled, a low rumble that sounded sweet, and they sped out of the driveway, turning right as Rowan directed, toward Ipswich, a small New England town thirty minutes north.

The air was fresh, the streets of Salem busy. Tourists by the hundreds walked the sidewalks, shopping, laughing, drinking in the ambiance—some dressed in witch costumes, others in casual clothes and comfortable walking gear. All seemed more than happy to open their wallets and spread the kind of cheer that made the local businesses happy.

He spied a young mother pushing her child in a stroller along the sidewalk. They stopped to admire a large pumpkin decoration, and the mother reached for her child’s face and stroked the ruddy cheek affectionately. They looked happy. Content. So did the group of elderly women who elbowed their way through a crowd of youths.

Not one of them had a clue what hunted amongst them. On the short drive through town, he’d felt the presence of several demons meandering through the crowds, sniffing out any who might fall easily into their embrace. By nightfall, the number would double.

With Mallick’s eye turned this way, Salem would be overrun within a few days. If Azaiel and the League weren’t able to contain the bastard and his legions, the quaint little town would never know what hit it. The monsters and demons that they dreamed about—the ones they immortalized in movies and books—would show themselves.

And they wouldn’t play nice.

His gut tightened, and the lightness that had only recently settled in his mind was long gone. It was replaced with the weight of an almost impossible situation. And yet he knew it wasn’t time to despair. Not yet. Azaiel was living proof that hope flourished even when all was lost.

It was some kind of miracle that he—the Fallen—had managed to find some bit of grace and come back from the darkness. If not for Bill, he would have perished, and for that he was grateful. He knew he wasn’t yet whole. The road to redemption was littered with the sins of his past, but he would walk it—one step at a time.

Whether he was strong enough to reach the end . . . well, that was another question entirely.

For a few moments, as the sun shone on his face, and the warmth of a woman crept up his back, Azaiel let the darkness inside him dissipate. He let the freedom of the road infiltrate his cells and gunned the motor, laughing at the squeal of protest that sounded on the wind.

Rowan dug her hands into his sides, but he paid no mind. Hell, he could close his eyes and drive the damn thing safely if he wanted to. A little bit of otherworld mojo, and he’d be all set. Instead, Azaiel let the beauty that existed in this corner of the world—the burnt oranges, fiery reds, and brilliant golds—touch his soul, and he found that it offered some sort of comfort to the heaviness that weighed on him.

They rode in silence for nearly thirty minutes, and as they approached Ipswich, Rowan’s hands tightened.

The small New England town was old—older than most in these parts, and its history bled through like a living, breathing entity. If ever a place had “character,” this was it. From the architecture of the stately homes, to the old stone bridge, to the greenery and the water beyond.

“Take the next right.” Rowan’s shouted words dragged him from his thoughts, and Azaiel maneuvered the bike around the corner, expertly guiding the motorcycle down a tree-lined street until he spied the bar at the end, on the left.
Brick House.

He pulled into the parking lot and drove the bike to a secluded spot where he could secure it. It wasn’t his bike, and he sure as hell didn’t give two shits about Cale, but he’d grown fond of the motorcycle on the drive up from The Pines, and it would piss him off if someone were to damage the shiny metal beast.

Rowan slipped off once they were stopped, muttering the whole time. “Might as well have parked on the other side of town. Not like we have time for a leisurely stroll around Ipswich.”

He ignored her mumbling and glanced up at the Brick House. The long, rambling building wasn’t a house, and there was not one brick to be seen.

The parking lot was fairly full, but considering it was Saturday, that probably wasn’t surprising. Music drifted from inside—live music, the heavy bass beat told him so—and the swell of laughter followed in its wake.

Rowan was tense. It was in the way she carried herself, the frown that furled her brows, and the thin line of her mouth.

“You all right?”

She seemed surprised at his question. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen Hannah.” A small smile curved her generous mouth, and Azaiel’s gaze settled there. It was a mouth meant for passion—for kissing and nibbling and sliding across skin. Not for the first time he wondered about the man who’d called for her. Mason. Were they lovers?

He found he didn’t much care for the thought though he was quick to toss it aside. What was the point?

“We were pretty tight, like sisters really, and trouble always seemed to find us.” She chuckled softly. “Though I was always the one to get caught.” She bit her lip and sighed. “God, I miss those days.”

Azaiel let Rowan lead the way inside, all the while his senses scanned the immediate area for anything out of the ordinary. Other than one witch inside, he felt nothing—no otherworld presence was detected.

The interior of the bar was much like any other he’d seen both here in the human realm, and below in Hell. Darkly lit, with low-slung heavy wood beams across the ceiling, it was a cluttered mess of tables and bodies. Shadows filled in the corners, and neon-lit signs hung on the walls as well. Various witch paraphernalia were strewn throughout—broomsticks, hats, black cats, and even a stuffed white owl that rode the coattails of some small, bespectacled boy in a cape.

The room was filled with a few overly drunk patrons near the stage, dancing to a live band that played a mixture of blues rock with a hint of jazz thrown in for good measure. It was the kind of music fit for a Saturday afternoon, one meant for laziness and drink.

The bar itself was hopping, with a host of men and women enjoying their cold brews, settled on the high chairs, while a couple played darts in the far corner. A smattering of people ate at the tables near the back, with several waitstaff seeing to their needs.

A large mountain of a man tended the bar, and Azaiel was aware that his bushy brows were raised in their general direction even as he carried on a conversation with a young blond waitress who waited for her order.

As he and Rowan approached the bar, the bartender filled her order and sent the waitress on her way. He rested his meaty hands on the bar and glared at Azaiel. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Good to know.” Azaiel smiled, though the warmth never left the general area of his mouth. “We’re trying to avoid it ourselves.”

The bartender’s eyes narrowed into twin balls of gray. “Don’t be an asshole.” He clenched his fists. “I don’t like assholes.”

After his trial and subsequent punishment in the upper realm, Azaiel had been stripped of some of his powers. If not for Bill, his brothers would have left him as helpless as a newborn. As it was, he’d been banished from the upper realm for an undetermined time and left with only a few of his former powers. He could no longer travel through time and space at will, delve into the minds of humans, or—Azaiel eyed the arrogant bartender—kill with the blink of an eye.

He flexed his long fingers and squared his shoulders. He was, however, stronger than any human, and in fact most otherworld creatures, and he couldn’t be killed. If need be, he had no problem at all demonstrating how quickly he could crush the bartender or any who dared give him attitude.

“Boys, let’s calm down.” Rowan leaned toward the bar. “I’m Rowan, Hannah’s cousin. She around?”

The bartender’s gaze moved from Azaiel and settled on Rowan. He studied her in silence for a few seconds, then smiled, his large, beefy hand stroking the thick beard that covered his chin.

“You’re Marie-Noelle’s daughter. You look just like her.”

Rowan stepped back and nodded. “You knew my mother?”

The man nodded. “I did.” A sad smile now graced his rough-hewn features. “Back before she had her, ah, breakdown. She was full of fire that one.” His face darkened as he looked at Azaiel. “I don’t think she’d like the thought of you running around with someone like him.”

Azaiel arched a brow and stepped up beside Rowan. He was close enough to the bartender that if the man decided to insult him again, he could easily snap the man’s neck and be done with it. “Someone like me?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

The bartender, however, refused to back down. “Yeah, someone like you.” The man shook his head and took a step back. “Far be it for me to advise you on your choice of company.” He nodded to Rowan. “But you’re asking for trouble with him around. The kind of trouble that got your mom all messed up.”

Azaiel would have moved forward, but Rowan’s hand on his arm kept him still. “You don’t know anything about my mother.”

“I know more than you think I do,” the burly man growled.

“Who are you?” Rowan’s voice rose.

The bartender didn’t skip a beat. “I’m a soldier in this war, same as you. I might be human, but that gives me more of a stake in this mess, don’t you think? My family, my wife and kids, are everything to me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.” He sneered as his gaze settled on Azaiel. “Safe from the likes of him.”