King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

And they wouldn’t play nice.

His gut tightened, and the lightness that had only recently settled in his mind was long gone. It was replaced with the weight of an almost impossible situation. And yet he knew it wasn’t time to despair. Not yet. Azaiel was living proof that hope flourished even when all was lost.

It was some kind of miracle that he—the Fallen—had managed to find some bit of grace and come back from the darkness. If not for Bill, he would have perished, and for that he was grateful. He knew he wasn’t yet whole. The road to redemption was littered with the sins of his past, but he would walk it—one step at a time.

Whether he was strong enough to reach the end . . . well, that was another question entirely.

For a few moments, as the sun shone on his face, and the warmth of a woman crept up his back, Azaiel let the darkness inside him dissipate. He let the freedom of the road infiltrate his cells and gunned the motor, laughing at the squeal of protest that sounded on the wind.

Rowan dug her hands into his sides, but he paid no mind. Hell, he could close his eyes and drive the damn thing safely if he wanted to. A little bit of otherworld mojo, and he’d be all set. Instead, Azaiel let the beauty that existed in this corner of the world—the burnt oranges, fiery reds, and brilliant golds—touch his soul, and he found that it offered some sort of comfort to the heaviness that weighed on him.

They rode in silence for nearly thirty minutes, and as they approached Ipswich, Rowan’s hands tightened.

The small New England town was old—older than most in these parts, and its history bled through like a living, breathing entity. If ever a place had “character,” this was it. From the architecture of the stately homes, to the old stone bridge, to the greenery and the water beyond.

“Take the next right.” Rowan’s shouted words dragged him from his thoughts, and Azaiel maneuvered the bike around the corner, expertly guiding the motorcycle down a tree-lined street until he spied the bar at the end, on the left. Brick House.

He pulled into the parking lot and drove the bike to a secluded spot where he could secure it. It wasn’t his bike, and he sure as hell didn’t give two shits about Cale, but he’d grown fond of the motorcycle on the drive up from The Pines, and it would piss him off if someone were to damage the shiny metal beast.

Rowan slipped off once they were stopped, muttering the whole time. “Might as well have parked on the other side of town. Not like we have time for a leisurely stroll around Ipswich.”

He ignored her mumbling and glanced up at the Brick House. The long, rambling building wasn’t a house, and there was not one brick to be seen.

The parking lot was fairly full, but considering it was Saturday, that probably wasn’t surprising. Music drifted from inside—live music, the heavy bass beat told him so—and the swell of laughter followed in its wake.

Rowan was tense. It was in the way she carried herself, the frown that furled her brows, and the thin line of her mouth.

“You all right?”

She seemed surprised at his question. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen Hannah.” A small smile curved her generous mouth, and Azaiel’s gaze settled there. It was a mouth meant for passion—for kissing and nibbling and sliding across skin. Not for the first time he wondered about the man who’d called for her. Mason. Were they lovers?

He found he didn’t much care for the thought though he was quick to toss it aside. What was the point?

“We were pretty tight, like sisters really, and trouble always seemed to find us.” She chuckled softly. “Though I was always the one to get caught.” She bit her lip and sighed. “God, I miss those days.”

Azaiel let Rowan lead the way inside, all the while his senses scanned the immediate area for anything out of the ordinary. Other than one witch inside, he felt nothing—no otherworld presence was detected.

The interior of the bar was much like any other he’d seen both here in the human realm, and below in Hell. Darkly lit, with low-slung heavy wood beams across the ceiling, it was a cluttered mess of tables and bodies. Shadows filled in the corners, and neon-lit signs hung on the walls as well. Various witch paraphernalia were strewn throughout—broomsticks, hats, black cats, and even a stuffed white owl that rode the coattails of some small, bespectacled boy in a cape.

The room was filled with a few overly drunk patrons near the stage, dancing to a live band that played a mixture of blues rock with a hint of jazz thrown in for good measure. It was the kind of music fit for a Saturday afternoon, one meant for laziness and drink.

The bar itself was hopping, with a host of men and women enjoying their cold brews, settled on the high chairs, while a couple played darts in the far corner. A smattering of people ate at the tables near the back, with several waitstaff seeing to their needs.

A large mountain of a man tended the bar, and Azaiel was aware that his bushy brows were raised in their general direction even as he carried on a conversation with a young blond waitress who waited for her order.

As he and Rowan approached the bar, the bartender filled her order and sent the waitress on her way. He rested his meaty hands on the bar and glared at Azaiel. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Good to know.” Azaiel smiled, though the warmth never left the general area of his mouth. “We’re trying to avoid it ourselves.”

The bartender’s eyes narrowed into twin balls of gray. “Don’t be an asshole.” He clenched his fists. “I don’t like assholes.”

After his trial and subsequent punishment in the upper realm, Azaiel had been stripped of some of his powers. If not for Bill, his brothers would have left him as helpless as a newborn. As it was, he’d been banished from the upper realm for an undetermined time and left with only a few of his former powers. He could no longer travel through time and space at will, delve into the minds of humans, or—Azaiel eyed the arrogant bartender—kill with the blink of an eye.

He flexed his long fingers and squared his shoulders. He was, however, stronger than any human, and in fact most otherworld creatures, and he couldn’t be killed. If need be, he had no problem at all demonstrating how quickly he could crush the bartender or any who dared give him attitude.

“Boys, let’s calm down.” Rowan leaned toward the bar. “I’m Rowan, Hannah’s cousin. She around?”

The bartender’s gaze moved from Azaiel and settled on Rowan. He studied her in silence for a few seconds, then smiled, his large, beefy hand stroking the thick beard that c