King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

Inside, down in that part of her soul she kept hidden, something stirred, and for a moment Rowan faltered. Fear, thick and acrid, clogged her throat, and she sputtered, stumbling backward, and would have fallen if not for Azaiel.

“Let me help you.” Azaiel’s voice sounded near her ear—his arms were secure around her shoulders, his warmth caressed her skin, and her heart calmed as the darkness evaporated.

“I’m good.” Rowan pulled away and nodded toward the door. “We should be able to get inside now.”

Nico passed them and walked up to the door. He squared his shoulders, cocked his head to the side as he studied the frame for a moment and kicked it in. It shattered down the center, and he took a step back as the door fell to the ground, splintered in half.

“You probably could have just, you know, turned the handle,” Hannah said wryly.

“I know,” Nico replied, and disappeared inside with the blond witch following on his heels.

Rowan hesitated, rubbed her hands along the side of her neck. She was tense, her chest tight.

“Let’s get this done.” Azaiel grabbed her hand and nodded toward the bunker. “We need to go.”

His hand was warm . . . and soft and hard all at once. She felt his touch deep inside, as if his energy penetrated the layers of her soul the same way her charm had defeated the fae spell. The connection was strong, and for one brief moment she let it linger. Wash over her like a gentle caress.

There was strength there, honor and courage. There was also much pain.

Azaiel leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering, his expression hard to read. “There’s no time for holding hands. We must do this now.”

Rowan yanked her hand from his, cutting the connection. The heat. “You think I don’t know that?”

He paused. “I think you’re afraid of seeing your mother again.”

“I think you need to step back. If I need a therapist, I’ll call a real one.” She whirled around and jogged toward the gaping hole left by Nico, drawing her dagger as she did so. The Seraphim was much too intuitive for his own good.

Rowan ducked to avoid a low-lying beam that had broken away from the doorframe and plunged into the waiting darkness. Azaiel was inches behind her; it was pitch-black, but she heard him. She called forth an illumination charm and held her left hand aloft.

They were in a narrow entrance, one carved from the rock that existed beneath the grassy knoll. It was rough-hewn and damp, with moisture sliding amongst the many crevices that lined the dull gray limestone, like wrinkles on leathery skin. It was a steady drip that fed the ankle-deep puddles at her feet.

The ceiling was low, and she glanced back at Azaiel. This dungeon or whatever the hell it was, wasn’t made for men of height, and yet he slid through with ease. He didn’t make a sound as he followed in her footsteps, his eyes flat, his expression grim with determination.

She broke into a run, and a wave of claustrophobia rolled over her as the passage narrowed, and the ceiling dropped even more. Behind her Azaiel grunted and cursed—from the sounds of it he’d smacked his head on something hard. She knew it wasn’t an easy task for him to keep up with her in such a confined space.

As they forged deeper into the tunnel Rowan began to sense different energies ahead. Hannah and Nico, of course, but there were others, including one like a song from her past—a memory newly awakened. The dread in her gut churned harder, and she swallowed bile.

She thought of the day they’d sent her here. Marie-Noelle had been out of control, piss drunk, and nasty. She’d been dragged home from Ipswich by Hannah’s mother after using magick in public, which in their world was a huge no-no. The bartender had cut her off, and she’d hexed him—a painful spell that took his voice and eyesight.

Marie-Noelle had always been weaker than most, a beautiful woman whose fragile spirit couldn’t handle the threat of Mallick’s curse. She’d used drugs and alcohol to get by but eventually her mind was so far gone, that even after Mallick had rejected her, she couldn’t recover.

Cara and some of the coven had taken her away and had her committed to the otherworld asylum. Of course, the warden hadn’t wanted anything to do with a James witch, and Rowan knew they’d resorted to dark means of magick to make sure Marie-Noelle was accepted.

They’d left her there and hoped that she’d find some kind of peace. And she had. She and Kellen had seen it firsthand six years ago.

Guilt hit with a hammer of pain, and Rowan winced. No one but Hannah had known of their clandestine trip to the asylum. Kellen had planned to liberate Marie-Noelle though Rowan’s agenda had been much darker. In the end, Marie-Noelle had stayed behind, a much more fragile flower than the one who’d greeted them both with open arms.

No wonder Kellen hates me.

She thought of the crazies she’d seen outside. Of the loneliness, the darkness, and the isolation of this place.

What was she walking into? What kind of mother would greet her? Had she recovered yet again? Was she the crazy lady from her teen years or the wonderfully whimsical creature from her youth? They had been happy . . . once, before her mother’s weakness and Mallick’s darkness had leeched into their world.

Rowan sighed and pushed such thoughts from her mind. There was no point. There would be no happy ending for her family, and if Rowan’s plan didn’t work, there would be no family at all.

She slowed as beams of light from her fingers cut through the inky darkness ahead. Water still dripped, oozing from the rocks like blood seeping from a wound, and the air was so cold she saw her breath in front of her face. Cautiously, she and Azaiel crept forward, both with weapons drawn and ready to fight.

The light grew brighter as the passageway opened up until Azaiel could stand without his head smacking the top of the ceiling. She hesitated as a wall of cold slithered over her flesh, and she shivered, a violent shaking that left her teeth chattering.