Nico slid in beside him, and Priest glanced toward the house once more before he put the SUV into gear and pointed the vehicle toward town. This was more than just complicated, and he made a mental note to fill Cale in on everything as soon as he got the chance.
Priest would do whatever it took to keep the witch from Mallick’s grasp.
Even if it meant he had to kill her himself.
Chapter 11
Azaiel woke with a start, heart pounding, body bathed in sweat. Unclear images wavered in his mind—ghosts from the past no doubt—and he pushed them away angrily, hating the weakness. He swung his feet around and groaned—his head swam, and his gut roiled. His shoulder throbbed like a son of a bitch, and for a few seconds his eyes were unable to focus.
Remnants of the nightmare rolled around his head and though he couldn’t remember specifics, it always left him feeling the same. Hopeless. Ashamed. Betrayed. Furious.
Where the hell am I?
He forced himse
lf to calm down as the darkness that slept with him fell away. Eventually his breathing returned to normal, and he opened his eyes as memory returned.
Salem. Demons. Rowan. Her crazy cousin and a couple of—he winced and gingerly touched his shoulder—extraextra specials.
Damn, it felt as if he’d been put through the ringer and thrown back in for a second round. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen, and the taste of cloves still clung to the back of his throat.
A poultice of some sort pressed into his wounds—he grunted and wrinkled his nose. The smell alone should have been enough to chase away the poison inside him. He supposed it had done much to ease his suffering; he just wished it didn’t smell like the back end of a dead rat.
Slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he realized he wasn’t alone. He got to his feet and sucked in a harsh breath, stretching out tight muscles as he walked toward the overstuffed floral-patterned chair tucked into the corner on the other side of the bed.
He recognized the room—it was Cara’s—and glanced toward the window. The shattered pane had been boarded up with plywood, and the remnants of broken glass were long gone. The flimsy bloodred curtains dressed each side of the window, their tattered ends trailing along the wooden floor like whispers of silk.
He thought of Cara. He’d never met the woman, but judging from the pain in Bill’s eyes and that of the League members, she was much loved. He hissed as a wave of pain skittered along the side of his neck. All this was wrong, and he gritted his teeth as he stared down at the foot that hung over the edge of the chair. It was covered by a fuzzy pink sock that sported a small hole along the underside of the big toe.
Rowan was asleep, curled up like a child, a quilt of many colors pulled up to her chin as she rested her head on the faded, worn armrest. A soft glow from the night-light plugged into the wall beside the chair caressed her features with shadow. She drew long, even breaths—seemed no demons stalked her dreamland.
Azaiel ran his hand over the rough stubble along his jaw and frowned. At least not yet.
She moaned softly and turned, her tongue darting out as she settled herself once more, her head at an awkward angle that couldn’t be comfortable. Judging by the grimace that touched the edge of her mouth, she was going to be stiff for sure.
The clock on the table near her glowed 5:15, and the sight of it filled Azaiel with frustration. Damn, he’d been out for hours. Once more his gaze rested upon the sleeping woman.
A large leather bag lay a few feet from her chair, and he spied the unmistakable hard lines of several daggers as well as the barrel of a rifle. She’d been hunting while he’d been passed out like a weakling.
He eyed the bed once more and before another thought entered his brain crossed to the chair and carefully scooped Rowan James into his arms. The pain in his shoulder was ignored, and for one small moment he stilled. Everything inside him quieted.
He held her close and took in her warmth, savoring the feel of her against his cool flesh. She was small and tucked into him perfectly. Her scent drifted in the air, invaded his body, and filled up the spaces that were empty—the spaces that were dead.
He closed his eyes, aching with a hurt that he didn’t understand. He barely knew this woman, yet she touched the dead places inside him. He didn’t deserve to feel. At least, nothing like this.
Something broke then, a crack in the wall he’d built around his soul. It was a sensation unlike any he’d felt before—a slow surrender from the inside out. It caught him by surprise, and for a moment he did nothing—he let the wall of feeling engulf him. He was hungry for her, aroused, and hard. A wave of hot need rolled through him, and he nearly stumbled.
What the hell?
Azaiel swore beneath his breath, ancient speak that sounded rough and belligerent. He ignored the erection that strained against his jeans and gently placed Rowan on the bed. The patchwork quilt was once more tucked under her chin, and he paused for a second, then—because he was weak—took the time to caress a silky strand of hair from her brow. She sighed, turned onto her side, her fingers clutching at the pillow, and buried her head in its softness.
He gazed down at her, took in the tumbled hair, candy red mouth, and creamy skin. Her long lashes swept downward, casting inky shadows onto her cheeks, and her mouth parted slightly as she exhaled. She was earthy, sexy, fierce, and loyal.
She was not meant for someone like him—the Fallen.
“She’s a beautiful woman.”
Azaiel stiffened.