King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

A low keening erupted, one that shot up several decibels in seconds until the window shattered. Glass blew everywhere and shredded the curtains into billowing tatters, 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 solid, flat, black eyes were intense, 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 flash 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. 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 chalk—and her hackles rose. She didn’t have time to worry about the details.

“I’m Rowan. What should I call you?” she asked as she grabbed the iron poker off the ground.

“Azaiel.”

The name whispered through her mind.

The demons howled in unison, their voices rising into a crescendo of noise that dropped suddenly until there was nothing but the rain to break the heavy silence. It was eerie.

The tallest of the demons grunted and started toward them, a deadly machete trailing behind him in the mud as it took slow, deliberate steps. 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.”

Chapter 2

Azaiel turned from the woman and peered out into the dark, instantly dismissing such a notion. The ominous keening picked up once more, an off-key chorus that grated something fierce.

“Let’s go.” He had no intention of getting his ass kicked, especially not by the slimy bastards outside.

“The attic.” Her voice was husky.

He knew she’d just suffered one hell of a shock, but there was no time for hand-holding. “Lead the way.”

She ran past him, and Azaiel followed her through the darkened house and up the stairs located in the foyer. The wind and rain continued to duke it out, lashing against the brick with an intensity that screamed otherworld.

This was no ordinary storm. This was a gathering of the elements, called to this place by someone with great power.

“Wait here,” she whispered. They were on the second floor, and Azaiel paused as she slipped inside a room a few feet away. A crash and shattering glass was heard below. There wasn’t much time.

“This way.” The woman, Rowan, had a large bag slung across her shoulders. It was old and weathered, with a well-used look to the peat-colored distressed leather. Her cream-colored blouse had come loose, the buttons half undone, the ends no longer tucked neatly into the waist of her skirt. Her feet were bare, and her hair fell from its binding, long strands of crimson that hung wildly about her neck.

Diamonds glittered at her delicate ears. She was, if nothing else, a study in contrast.

A second stairwell was located at the far end of the landing, and they slipped up to the attic. It was dark, filled with all sorts of things—boxes, trunks, books, and furniture. There was a small window located to his right, but other than that, no other way to gain access except the stairs they’d just taken.