King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

She unpacked her bag with careful, deliberate actions. “Do you know what we’re dealing with?” Her voice had changed. There was a new strength there, one fueled by tragedy. In situations like this it was the best kind, and he hoped it would be enough. One dead witch was all he had time to deal with.

“Blood demons,” she continued. “They’re nasty.” She glanced up at him and hoisted an impressive crossbow onto her shoulders. “First off don’t let them get close. Their tongues have a radius of nearly two feet, and the poison they wield”—she grimaced—“well, let’s just say that pretty face of yours will never look the same.”

Azaiel watched in silence. She was nervous, high on adrenaline. That was good, she’d need it.

He wasn’t concerned with the blood demons—not for himself—he could eat them for lunch and go back for seconds. It was the other, the malevolent presence he sensed beyond that held his attention. It watched and waited—he felt its interest—and that had him concerned. The energy in the air was thick with the scent of something ancient. But what did it want?

“Here.” Her voice was tense.

Azaiel arched a brow. She walked toward him, a dagger in her hand. “It’s charmed. I don’t know how strong it is.” She shrugged, shook her head, “It’s been lying in my bag for years.”

Azaiel accepted the dagger and felt a jolt of energy shoot up his arm as he touched it. “I think it’s still got some juice,” he murmured. Her eyes widened. They were blue, cerulean blue, like the warm waters of the Caribbean.

Her eyes had been blue as well. Azaiel turned away, banishing thoughts of Toniella, the betrayer. Would there ever come a time that thoughts of his ex-lover didn’t taunt him?

“They’re coming.” He glanced at Rowan. “Make sure you separate their—”

“—heads, or pierce the brain through the ears. I know. I may be rusty, but I remember how to kill them.”

He watched her load the impressive crossbow in seconds, and she slung it across her back before scooping up extra daggers and guns. She tossed him a Glock—modified of course—and a bag of ammunition.

She squared her shoulders and turned to face the stairs.

Azaiel shoved the gun into the back pocket of his jeans and felt the familiar rush of power flood his cells. He had no need for human weapons, modified or not, but sometimes it was fun to shoot the damn things.

He glanced at the dagger in his hand. The hilt was inscribed with powerful runes, and his fingers tingled wi

th the magick that resided there. This he’d keep. There was something poetic about using a sharp blade to slice through demon hide.

Rowan swore as five demons erupted from the hole in the floor. She shot two right away, their screams of pain as the charmed arrows ripped through their skulls, loud and abrasive.

They kept on, lunging toward her. But the little witch was fast. She ran toward a large trunk and used it to launch herself into the air. She sailed overtop them, and the crossbow let off once more, rifling their bodies with another round of the deadly spears.

The remaining three rushed Azaiel, and a smile broke over his face as they neared. The first one stopped suddenly, nostrils flaring, and Azaiel took great satisfaction at the look of fear that crept into its eyes.

These blood demons were bottom feeders—weak, pathetic creatures. They were no match for someone like Azaiel. He flashed a smile—one as cold as a winter morn—and held out his hand, beckoning with his fingers.

Come on, assholes.

They hesitated, and Azaiel attacked. He moved so quickly, he was inches from them before they could blink. He drop-kicked the closest, grinning as bone cracked, ribs separated, and blood erupted. The demon went flying into a solid support post and squealed harshly at the force of the hit. The second was silenced rather quickly by the crushing grip of his hand at its neck. He grabbed hold of it with his other and twisted violently, separating the head from its body in seconds.

Sulfur-laced blood spewed everywhere, and the third demon howled in anger as it slammed into Azaiel. This one was a little different. It was larger, heavier, and more than a little pissed off.

Azaiel rolled with it, his body loosening as he went. They crashed into a towering pile of boxes that toppled and fell around them. The demon hauled off and swung its fist. Azaiel’s head snapped back from the force of it, and he spat out blood as he rolled to the side.

Enough games. He was up in a second, his fist flying out and sending the demon flying backward. He flipped his dagger into the air, caught it, aimed, and nailed the son of a bitch to the wall.

It screamed bloody murder, curses in an ancient tongue that no one but an ancient would understand—something the bottom feeders shouldn’t know. A frown fell over Azaiel’s features. Who the hell did these demons answer to?

Azaiel growled as he walked toward the snarling demon. Its skin was smoking where the dagger had pierced it. The demon would have yanked it from its body, but Azaiel was there, one hand upon its forehead, the other gripping the hilt and holding it in place.

A loud crash sounded behind him, but Azaiel paid no mind. From what he’d seen, the witch could more than hold her own.

“Why have you come? Who sent you?” he asked, watching the demon closely as the monster struggled to speak.

“We’re collecting.” It sneered, staring at him in defiance. “Witches.”

“So you killed the old one, Cara.” Azaiel twisted the dagger some more and smiled as the demon roared in pain. He didn’t mind this part—the torture—though it was much nicer to be doling it out rather than receiving for once.