King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

Chapter 1

There’s nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home.

Sixx: A.M.

Darkness had fallen hours earlier, leaving only the moon’s glow to illuminate the house on the hill. Rowan cut the engine of her rental, a frown furtling her brow as she stared at the large, rambling home.

The wind whistled and moaned, whipping dead leaves from the ground into a chaotic dance across her windshield. In the distance a once-vibrant sunset settled along the edge of darkness that encroached from below. The day was dying, and soon nightfall would be complete.

She glanced at the parking area next to the gift shop and was surprised to see it empty. The Black Cauldron was one of the premier bed-and-breakfast stops in Salem, and there were always guests in residence. Not even Cedric’s car was present. Nana’s caretaker and all-around handyman usually shared dinner with her at the Cauldron and had been a fixture at the place for as long as she remembered. He was . . . like family.

Her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to the house. The porch light was out, and though early evening brought with it a murky shade of gray mist, she saw newspapers piled up next to the door, the steps filled with leaves and debris. It looked as if it hadn’t been swept for days.

She pursed her lips and frowned. It was too dark and too silent. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Rowan pushed the door open—ignoring the way her stomach rolled with a queasy shudder—and grabbed her overnight bag as she slid from the car. Cool wind caressed bare legs, and a shiver wracked her body as she paused beside the vehicle. She was still dressed for Southern California, not fall in Massachusetts.

She smoothed the lines of her skirt, exhaled, and strode toward the house.

Her Nana had left a message on Rowan’s answering machine a few days ago—a quick hello as she had a habit of doing—a check-in that warmed Rowan’s heart. She’d been in Europe on business for her law firm and hadn’t gotten the message until the night before.

Her grandmother sounded as she always did though her voice held a hint of frailty Rowan hadn’t noticed before. As she’d listened to the message again, something hadn’t seemed right, and she’d decided to fly back for a surprise visit.

Now that Rowan was home, she was anxious to see her.

Using her toe, she swept a pile of twigs and maple leaves from the corner and bit her lip as the door opened beneath her hand. The house looked closed up, yet it was unlocked? None of this made sense, and the bad feeling in Rowan’s stomach doubled. Heck, to be honest, it tripled, spreading a sheen of sweat across her flesh and tightening the muscles in her neck until it was hard to breathe.

“What the hell?” she whispered, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. “Nana?” Her voice tentative, Rowan set her bag on the floor and locked the door behind her. Silence bore down on her ears. She swallowed nervously as she squinted into the dark. Inside the house, the shadows were thicker . . . longer . . . and more menacing.

Her hand felt along the wall and she flipped a switch, bathing the foyer in a soft glow, and Rowan relaxed a bit as she glanced around. It looked exactly as she remembered. Delicate roses adorned the wallpaper in the entry, and the floor at her feet was worn, the oak planks smooth from years of use and polish. In fact, the faint scent of lemon oil hung in the air as if it had been recently waxed.

The Queen Anne side table—the one that held Nana’s guest book—sported a large crystal vase. It was always filled with fresh flowers taken from the gardens out back and, depending on the season, held either a riot of color or the fresh greens of November.

But not tonight. She frowned at the sight of dark green water and the droopy remains of a bunch of sad sunflowers that hung over the side like limp soldiers.

What the hell was going on? Was Nana ill? Why hadn’t she called sooner?

She headed toward the back of the house, where her Nana kept a small apartment. As Rowan neared the kitchen the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and 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.

Fear for her Nana pushed Rowan forward, and she jogged the last few steps, her out-of-place leopard-print Fendis clicking across the hardwood in a sharp staccato beat.

“Nana?” she whispered hoarsely as she rushed into the kitchen. Her heels slid across the worn wooden 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 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, while shadows from the trees shot spidery legs along the wall as the wind picked up and howled. Okay, this was not the homecoming she’d been expecting.

Rowan nearly slipped again, and her gaze fell to the floor. A large stain marred the golden hardwood, leaving in its wake a macabre splash of dark art. Nausea roiled in her gut, and her eyes widened in horror as her brain processed what her eyes were seeing.

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, cut through the silence, and a sob escaped Rowan’s throat. It was Nana’s favorite song.

Her heart pounded crazily as she sidestepped around the sticky mess and moved toward her grandmother’s rooms. The door was ajar, and soft light fell from inside, spilling into the dark like a sunbeam, beckoning her forward. She paused, fighting fear and anxiety.