King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

She grabbed the vase off the table in the foyer and headed toward the kitchen. She stopped just outside the room, her gaze drawn to the now-pristine wood floor. There was nothing to indicate murder had occurred in the house. No tremor of darkness in the air. Nothing to show that her Nana was gone.

“Dead,” she whispered softly, wincing at the coldness of the word.

She gritted her teeth and stepped into the kitchen though she was careful to avoid the area that had been scrubbed clean the night before.

Rowan tossed the limp flowers into the bucket beneath the sink, rinsed the vase, and placed it on the counter. Outside the window, sunlig

ht danced upon Nana’s pond, sunflowers swayed in the breeze, and to the left, her pumpkin patch was ripe, ready to be harvested.

A nervous flutter messed with her stomach, and a wave of nausea rolled through her. Samhain was only a few weeks away. She didn’t have much time. She needed to gather her coven, spring her mother from the loony bin, find the grimoire . . .

And then she needed to hunt.

“Was wondering how long you’d sleep.”

His voice was deep, husky, and she froze at the sound of it.

Rowan took a few seconds to gather her thoughts and turned. His shoulder rested against the doorframe, his long, denim-clad legs crossed casually. The jeans he wore were faded, well used, and rode low on his hips, held in place by a wide leather belt. His black T-shirt was formfitting, stretching taut across wide shoulders and muscular arms.

His strange golden eyes were intense as he stared at her. He was without a doubt visually stunning—perfect even—with his square jaw, chiseled nose, and full mouth. The day-old shadow along his cheeks only added to his sex appeal.

But perfect didn’t belong in her kitchen, especially the kind that was wrapped in danger and smelled like sin.

“Why are you still here?” she asked roughly, making no attempt to mask her irritation.

“I’m not the enemy, Rowan,” he said simply, pushing away from the doorframe as he moved toward her.

Rowan. The way he said her name sent shivers running along her skin.

She eyed him warily and fought the urge to step back. “Just because you helped with the”—she gestured wildly—“blood and stuff, and wasted a few demons . . . that doesn’t make us friends.”

His eyes narrowed, and he stopped inches from her. Damn, but she wished she’d gone for her six-inch boots instead of the comfy Docs that adorned her feet. They were old, well-worn, but gave her no advantage when it came to height.

The man in front of her was well over six feet. And he was dangerous. His energy was strong, lethal, tinged with something she’d never felt before.

Not good.

She glanced up into his eyes. “Let’s cut the bull. Why are you really here?”

“I told you last night, Rowan, I was sent by someone who—”

“Yeah, I know what you said, someone who cares about my grandmother.” She shook her head. “Well, my Nana is dead, so their fucking concern is days late.” She shrugged. “I’d rather have a name. I’ll ask again, who sent you?”

Rowan didn’t like the way he went silent. His eyes shimmered as he stared down at her, and she took a step back, needing some distance between them.

“You’re not safe.” His tone was matter-of-fact, and his eyes never left hers.

“Wow, that’s pretty goddamn observant.” She arched a brow. “Again, why do you care?”

He opened his mouth, but Rowan had had enough. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Let me be blunt, Azaiel. I don’t want you here, and I’m asking nicely for you to leave. This is my problem, and I’m going to take care of it.”

He stood with his arms crossed and glared at her, which only managed to piss her off more than she already was. A thread of pain weaved its way through her skull, and she winced as it settled behind her eyes. Great. A migraine in the works.

The phone rang, a shrill alarm that cut through the tense air with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. On the third ring, the answering machine cut in, and bittersweet longing clutched at Rowan as her grandmother’s voice filled the silence, her tone cheery.

Hello, you’ve reached The Black Cauldron. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you shortly.

A beep sounded, followed by a man’s voice, heavy with a slow Californian drawl.