“I’ll give you ten seconds to get your ass out of my bar and take your new boy toy with you.” The unmistakable click of a gun sounded, and they both looked up at a small, blond, pixie of a woman. That she’d managed to sneak up on them without either Rowan’s or Azaiel’s notice said something.
Azaiel just wasn’t exactly sure what that something was.
She wore faded jeans that were so tattered they looked as if they’d been dragged behind his bike—all the way from Salem. A tight, bright pink tank top—with MOFO emblazoned across her chest—showed off trim, muscular arms that were covered in tattoos, or, on closer look, runes of some sort. Her short, spiky, platinum hair topped a face that was almost elfin in feature, wholly feminine, with large expressive eyes and a generous mouth free of gloss.
The look in the woman’s clear blue gaze, however, was anything but friendly. She was pissed as hell and aimed the gun in her hands directly between Azaiel’s eyes.
“Hannah.” Rowan stood, her face pale and lips tight.
So this was the cousin. Another surprise. And it seemed to him, Rowan and Hannah hadn’t parted on good terms.
“Don’t push me, Rowan.” Hannah moved closer. “You know I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
“For Christ sake, Hannah. It was six years ago. Are you still mad?” Rowan made a disgusted sound. “How can you still be mad?”
Hannah cocked the gun in answer and squared her shoulders. A loud gasp echoed in the bar, and Azaiel realized the band had stopped, and all eyes were on them.
“The bullets this baby is packing are special if you know what I mean, so if Mr. Blond God means anything to you, you’ll convince him to leave.” Her mouth thinned. “Now.”
Neither Rowan nor Hannah was focused his way, and that was fine—the gun was the only thing paying attention to him. Azaiel knew a bullet wouldn’t kill him—special or otherwise—it would just hurt like hell. He settled back into his chair, long legs stretched out casually as he gazed up at the two women.
This was going to be good.
Chapter 7
Rowan stared at her cousin and fought to keep some sort of control. Energy burned inside her chest and gathered there, growing in strength with each tortured breath she drew. She needed to get a handle on her emotions, or the damn gun was going to be the least of her problems.
She was too rusty to control her magick, and there were too many innocents in the bar. Rowan took a deep breath and stepped back though she let a flicker of power light her eyes crimson.
It was enough to let Hannah know she wasn’t going down without a fight, and though the cousins were both from the same bloodline—the James witches—Hannah’s magick wasn’t anything like the monster that Rowan commanded.
She eyed her cousin. How dare Hannah stand in front of her, a gun pointed at Azaiel, while the world as they knew it was gone. Could she not feel the empty space left by Rowan’s grandmother?
Mallick had flexed his muscles with deadly consequences, and Hannah had done nothing. Why hadn’t she gone to Salem as soon as she’d known something was wrong?
She thought a phone call would suffice? Had their family become that disinterested in each other? That fractured?
The empty beer glasses left on the table beside them began to shake, the light fixture overhead flickered and went out, while the oak floorboards beneath her feet creaked and moaned—a few split apart in protest to the anger she projected. Whispers floated on the air—or maybe they were screams—and several patrons left quickly, money thrown on tables and food left untouched.
The giant of a bartender moved toward Hannah, but with one flick of Rowan’s wrist, he stumbled and nearly fell.
“Don’t,” Rowan warned, as one of the glasses crashed to the floor.
The bartender cursed and motioned toward the door. “Maybe you girls should take this outside.” He glared at Rowan. “Not exactly good for business.”
Rowan glanced at Azaiel. His gold eyes had an amused look to them that pissed her off even more. “Give me five minutes.?
?? She spoke curtly and gave no chance for his reply.
She turned and strode through the door, inhaling a crisp shot of fall air as she walked along the worn wooden deck that ran the entire width of the Brick House. It was a weather-beaten gray building with cream trim and lots of fall displays. Pumpkins, cornstalks, and sunflowers filled the corners of the veranda, while bales of straw were scattered about. It seemed as if Hannah still had a soft spot for All Hallows Eve.
Rowan lifted her face to the sun and closed her eyes, suddenly so weary and tired of it all. Which was stupid. There was so much to do and tons of ground to cover, but the weight of her situation had been heavy for years, and she realized she might not be strong enough to do what needed to be done.
Sure, she’d fled to California, but had she ever truly believed her family could outrun Mallick? That he wouldn’t find a way to get to her? It had always been at the back of her mind—she’d just learned to ignore it and, as it turned out, had paid a very high price.
An image of her grandmother floated behind her eyes, and pain lanced across her chest. Her throat was tight, and her heart hurt. It was times like this a girl wanted her mother, and for Rowan, that had been Nana. God, how she’d love to rest her head against her grandmother’s breast. Feel the wiry fingers run through her hair, hear the beat of her heart—smell the soft vanilla scent of her bath oils.
But that was to be no more.