King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

“Well, there is that. Hold on.” Cale yelled to someone in the background, and Azaiel heard shouting, some loud grunts, and a crash that had him holding the cell phone inches from his ear.

“Trouble?”

“Nah, just a couple of blockheads reenacting the latest UFC fight. Samael is bored.”

Azaiel didn’t reply because he had no clue what UFC was.

“All right. I’ll see what I can dig up on Mallick and the James witches. In the meantime, hold tight, and I’ll send a team ASAP.”

The line went dead, and Azaiel pocketed the cell phone. He moved toward the sink and peered out the window. Sunshine spilled through thick, fluffy clouds, finding its way to the earth and kissing the vibrant colors of fall in a soft glow.

Vines crawled along the trellis, their once-soft green leaves already turning dull brown, and in the corner of the yard, large stalks of corn swayed in the breeze as pumpkins littered the patch beside them. It was no longer a time for flowers and soft pastels. The yard was filled with oranges and reds of every shade. Leaves whistled by the window, falling from the huge oak trees that bordered the property. In the distance he spied Rowan, vase in hand, filled with cattails, twigs, and sunflowers.

An interesting combination.

Her hair looked as if it were on fire, and he found himself mesmerized by the fluid movement of her limbs as she meandered through the garden. There was a loneliness to the picture she presented, and it pulled at a melancholy rooted deep within him.

Azaiel pushed away from the counter abruptly. It was time to come up with a plan, but first . . .

He turned around and came face-to-face with an elderly black man. The newcomer’s short, coarse hair was peppered with gray, and his small frame was lean and whipcord hard. He wore a bright red-and-white-checked shirt tucked into faded jeans held up by a thick leather belt that had seen better days. His nose was sprinkled with dark freckles, his mouth thinned into a grimace.

Azaiel glanced at the rifle he held—the one aimed straight for his heart—and then back into coffee-colored eyes that were full of distrust and anger. He wasn’t afraid of the rifle—normal bullets would hurt like hell, but he’d survive. For curiosity’s sake, he’d play along.

Azaiel raised his hands into the air and nodded toward the weapon. “I’d be careful where you point that thing.” Azaiel’s mouth tightened as the older man lowered the muzzle so that it was now aimed directly between Azaiel’s legs. He wasn’t so sure a shot in that particular area would heal satisfactorily.

“Don’t think I won’t shoot you down. And just so you know, this here rifle is loaded with the kind of ammo that does damage to your type.” The voice was gravelly, and Azaiel knew that the gentleman meant business. “Who the hell are you, and where is Miss Rowan?”

Chapter 5

A small orange tabby weaved its way around the pumpkin patch, its lithe form navigating the large pumpkins with predatory grace. Its belly hung low, heavy with life, and Rowan figured the animal was about to give birth.

“You’d best find someplace safe to have your kittens.” The cat meowed, a loud, plaintive howl, then slunk between the cornstalks. Rowan glanced back at the house. “Because it sure as hell isn’t here.”

She closed her eyes and let the early-fall sun soak into her skin. Wind whistled in her ear, a soft breeze that caressed her hair and left a crisp feel in its wake. Birds sang to each other, quick, excited chirps that shouted, Winter’s on its way. In the distance, the sad drone of an airplane drifted across the robin egg blue sky.

Fall had always been her favorite time of the year, but living in Southern California, while it had its own merits, just didn’t touch her soul the way Massachusetts did. Pain spiked across her chest, and she nearly dropped the vase as a myriad of memories and images assaulted her.

She both hated and loved this place. The twist of emotion left a bittersweet ache in her heart, but Rowan had no time to tread down that path. There would be time to process them and grieve later. At the moment, there were other things to worry about.

She needed to warn the coven, gather her troops, and spring her mother from the asylum. Marie-Noelle might be crazy, but Rowan needed her magick . . . and the knowledge buried inside her head. She clenched her teeth together. She wouldn’t fail this time.

She had two weeks until Samhain. Two weeks to prepare.

And then she’d deal with Mallick once and for all.

Her hand was upon the door when the small tabby surprised her once more and slid between her feet. She nearly fell over and muttered, “What the?”

Rowan glanced down and tried to move the animal with her booted toe, but the little devil wasn’t having any of it. “Who are you?” she murmured, balancing the large crystal vase in her hands while pushing on the door with her hip. “Were you a friend to Nana?”

The cat darted ahead, and she followed it inside, nearly dropping the vase when she spied the older man. “Cedric!”

Her Nana’s oldest friend and caretaker stood defiantly in the middle of the kitchen, rifle raised threateningly toward Azaiel. He looked as if he’d not slept well, with several days’ worth of scruff dressing his chin in a brush of gray. The sadness that softened his eyes was heartbreaking as he turned his gaze toward her.

“Miss Rowan,” he said simply, and she noticed how the rifle shook. The damn thing looked to be an antique and most likely was. Rowan doubted it would fire even if he tried.

“It’s all right, Cedric.” She nodded toward Azaiel. “He’s . . . a friend.”

Cedric hesitated, distrust heavy in his eyes. “He’s not human.”