King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

“It’s okay, Rowan.” She shrugged, nonchalantly, but Rowan knew it wasn’t. Her cousin was scared, and so was she. Neither one of them had faced something like this before—and they’d faced a lot in their day. For as long as Rowan could remember, the James witches had protected Salem. Ever since the infamous witch trials of the 1600s, the entire area had been a hotbed of demon activity. But this? This was unprecedented.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve gotten out of hand, don’t you think? And I don’t know about you, but I’m kinda looking forward to kicking some demon ass.”

Rowan stared at her cousin, helpless anger bubbling to the surface. She couldn’t stand to lose anyone else. Not Hannah. Not Abigail. Not anyone. There would be no more James blood spilled. She glanced at Azaiel. Or anyone else’s for that matter. Not if she could h

elp it.

Hannah tucked the gun inside the waistband of her jeans and grinned. “So what’s the plan?”

“We leave this place,” Azaiel said. “There are too many innocents, and if we stay, there will be casualties, of that you can be certain.”

Rowan nodded. “The Black Cauldron is where we need to be. It’s where we’re the strongest and because it’s on the outskirts of Salem, it’s isolated. There’s less chance of any civilians getting hurt. I don’t think a second wave will look there again. Not yet.”

“So that leaves the first wave to deal with,” Hannah inserted.

“Sure does,” Frank answered.

“It will be dangerous.” Rowan needed him to understand the severity of the situation.

Frank’s pale eyes glistened with a fire that she recognized all too well. He was a warrior, and it was obvious that he wanted to fight.

“Call your family and get them as far away from here as you can.”

“Already done.”

Rowan nodded. “Okay. Let’s head to Salem.” She turned to Azaiel. “Do you know how many we’re dealing with?”

He nodded. “I saw four lightning bolts.” He cocked his head, put his finger to his mouth, and for several tense moments there was silence. “One is already here.”

“Shit,” Hannah whispered, her hand on the gun once more. “Frank, get our gear.”

The bartender disappeared into the kitchen just as the lights flickered and went out. It was early afternoon, yet the darkness that surrounded the bar was as thick as night. Outside, the wind howled and moaned, lashing at the Brick House with a ferocious slam of power. Otherworld power. The air was rancid with the smell of it.

Rowan threw her hand out and called forth an illumination spell—even then she held her breath, not sure if it would work or not, which for a witch was sad indeed. She exhaled in relief as a warm glow fed from her fingers to light up the darkened room.

Eerie shadows flickered in the dark as she turned, throwing grotesque images along the wall. The Harry Potter replica that hung from the ceiling became a macabre monster with horns and long, spidery legs. A shiver rolled over Rowan as she gazed at it.

“Here,” Hannah whispered.

Rowan accepted a large modified rifle, as well as two sharp daggers with intricate charms carved into the shiny blades. Power emanated from them.

We’re going to need it.

“Where’s the big guy?” Frank asked.

Rowan whirled around, her eyes moving quickly as she scanned the entire room. What the hell? Azaiel was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s gone,” she whispered, unsure if that was good or very, very, bad.

“Crap,” Hannah said roughly. “I knew he was too good to be true. He probably led the bastards right to us.”

“No. He wouldn’t do that.” Her spidey sense was going haywire, her heart beating like a jackhammer inside her chest. She set the rifle on the table beside her. “It’s here.” She turned in a circle, both hands gripping daggers, her feet planted apart.

“I feel it, too. But where is it?” Hannah whispered.

“Right here, you dumb bitches.” The voice was rough-hewn, like amplified, thickened nails being dragged across a chalkboard.

Crimson light emanated from within thin air, a spiraling dirge of bloodred energy that solidified into a tall, gruesome-looking creature. Its thin frame was draped in several layers of robes the color of wet clay, and they swept along the ground, billowing outward as if riding an invisible breeze.