King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

Rowan had clung gingerly to Azaiel the entire way home. He was still in pain—it was pretty obvious he favored his left shoulder—so she took care not to hurt him any more than he’d already been. She knew what magick charmed the bullets he’d been hit with—it was Hannah’s specialty—and she didn’t want to think about the kind of power it would take for someone to overcome that.

Rowan made a silent vow to find out as much as she could about Azaiel and what he was capable of. She didn’t like being in the dark, and with the stakes so high, it wasn’t a good plan to enlist the aid of someone she wasn’t entirely sold on. She wasn’t scared of Azaiel, she just didn’t trust his motives—not yet, anyway.

Her eyes rested on the wings that had been carved into his flesh. The macabre rendering stretched across the width of his shoulders—a raw, angry etching that drew a wince as she gazed at it.

She couldn’t imagine the pain it would have caused, or the evil mind of whoever had done this to him.

“Looks like we’ve got company.”

They’d pulled in behind Frank, and the bartender frowned as he glanced toward the main house.

Hannah hopped from the truck, and Rowan carefully slid from the Harley, careful not to touch Azaiel any more than she had to. There was a large, shiny, black Suburban parked beside her rental, and it sure as hell wasn’t Cedric’s. His small red beater was closer to the house.

Rowan cocked the rifle in her hands and made sure her dagger was still tucked into the waist of her jeans. Power was close by—ancient power that reeked of otherworld. She glanced at Hannah just as two men appeared on her porch as if from thin air, their tall frames falling from shadow.

The first one stepped down, and she eyed him with suspicion. He was large, broad of shoulder, with lean hips and long, muscular legs tucked into black boots. A distressed black-leather jacket, black T-shirt, and worn denim jeans dressed a body that was impressive. There were strange markings along the right side of his neck that drew her eyes. Tattoos of some sort, but from this distance she couldn’t make them out. Tribal perhaps?

His features were bold, rugged—his eyes intense—but it was the blue Mohawk he sported that garnered the most attention—that and the piercings in his nose and ear. He was like a big-ass version of Gibson’s Road Warrior only ten times as dangerous. Ten times sexier. And he was otherworld.

Rowan’s gaze penetrated his energy—shapeshifter to be exact.

The second man moved past him, and Rowan swallowed slowly. He moved with predatory grace, his steps sure, his gaze unwavering.

“Sweet Jesus.” Hannah shot a look toward Rowan. “What the hell is going on?” Hannah pointed toward Azaiel. “There are three of them? Three? Are we in some weird supernatural version of The Bachelorette or something?” Her cousin turned back to the strangers, who remained silent and more than a little intimidating. “They’re hot. Really hot . . . in a scary I’m gonna eat you for dinner kind of way.” Hannah grinned. “Do I get to pick one?”

Rowan grimaced. Six years gone and Hannah hadn’t changed at all. At this point Rowan wasn’t sure these men were friendlies, and she was more than a little concerned about Cedric. Where the hell was he?

She didn’t take her eyes from the tall, dark-haired man who slowly made his way toward her. He was strong-featured, with prominent cheekbones and a square jaw. More than a day’s worth of stubble graced his chin, and the thick head of hair, while dark, was shot through with strands of gray. His eyes were so light they appeared white, but as he moved closer, she saw the merest whisper of ice blue in their depths.

He wore a long duster that swept the ground near his feet—it, too, was leather—seemed as if men who looked like that had some kind of dress code. Underneath he wore black military-type pants, heavy kick-ass boots, and a plain T-shirt with Five Finger Death Punch across his chest in large, red, metallic font.

Rowan gripped the rifle in her right hand and squared her shoulders as he stopped in front of her. The energy inside her pulsed, and she let it simmer beneath the surface, ready to call upon in case she needed to. Her cheeks heated as he held her gaze for several long seconds, and she jumped when Azaiel spoke, his voice strained and rough.

“Priest.”

Rowan glanced back toward Azaiel. He’d slid from the bike and stood several feet away. With the late-afternoon sun shining down on him, dusting his thick blond hair in a halo of light, he looked exactly like what he was—a fierce warrior with ties to the upper realm.

“Damn, this is like my birthday and Christmas morning wrapped into one yummy present,” Hannah said gleefully. “I haven’t seen this much beefcake since the last time Abigail and I went to the Foxes Den for her roommate’s bachelorette party. Mind you none of that beefcake can compare to—”

“Seriously, Hannah?” Rowan glared at her cousin, aware that blue Mohawk man had descended the stairs as well and was only a few steps behind the man Azaiel had called Priest. “Can we tone it down? There are no hidden cameras, and this sure as hell isn’t a game.”

“You look like shit,” the shapeshifter growled, his eyes cold as he glared at Azaiel.

“I’ve had better days.” Azaiel’s words were frosted, and judging by the closed look in Priest’s eyes, there was no love lost between these men.

An uneasy feeling coiled in Rowan’s gut. She didn’t much care for the mixed signals, and she really didn’t care for the overabundance of testosterone that littered her front yard.

Azaiel was beside her, and her heart lurched when she glanced up at him. His face was pale, a shade past gray, that left no doubt the man wasn’t well. She needed to get him into the house and treat him with something. Nana always kept healing potions and herbs on hand. There had to be something she could use to draw out the poison. If not, it was going to be a long night for him.

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced up at the house. Cedric would be able to help.

“I don’t know you,” she said with more than a hint of anger coloring her words. “But you’re uninvited, and as you can see, The Black Cauldron is closed for the next few . . . weeks.”

“Penance is a bitch, whose master is Regret.” The man called Priest ignored her completely, his eerie eyes focused on Azaiel.

“Trust me. Penance has nothing to do with this,” Azaiel hissed.

“Hello.” Rowan pointed her gun toward the two strangers. “I’m standing right here.” Nothing pissed her off more than being ignored simply because she was a woman. She’d dealt with that kind of nonsense at the law firm and knew it needed to be nipped in the bud right away.