Scratch that. Two someones.
Rowan fisted her palm against her eyes, trying to clear them, and stepped to the side. She banged into Azaiel’s hard body and moved forward, trying in vain to see what was there.
Suddenly the dagger was wrenched from her hand and an iron grip closed around her neck. She was lifted several feet off the ground and slammed into the wet rock at her back.
Stars danced inside her mind, and she struggled to breathe, her fingers clawing at the large hand around her neck. Azaiel made an inhuman sound—a bark or a cry of rage—and charged forward only to stop dead in his tracks when the owner of the iron grip spoke.
“One more inch and I take her head off.” His words were heavily accented, and he spoke slowly, with careful enunciation, so there was no mistaking his intent.
The fact that he squeezed harder drove his point home with a vengeance. The man would not hesitate to snap her neck. Rowan was furious—at herself. How could she have let this happen? The bloody cloaking charm must have failed.
Cold steel pressed into the base of her neck and sent shock waves of pain dancing across her skin. Azaiel growled like an animal—a sound that would make most take notice—yet the knife pressed in harder. It drew blood. She felt every single drop that dripped down into the crook of her neck. The blade was charmed—heavily so—and the burn was fierce.
Slowly the gray haze faded from her vision like fog rolling away at dawn, and her sight cleared. The man who held her wasn’t a man at all . . . at least not in the normal sense. He was massive—had a few inches on Azaiel—with skin the color of peat moss and eyes as yellow as a sunflower in bloom. From the chest down his body was humanoid—powerfully so, with muscular shoulders and arms of steel—and what appeared to be wings hovered behind him. Yet his face was definitely not human.
Her eyes widened, and she squirmed as his eerie yellow ones studied her. His features were demonlike, with a wide forehead, small horns protruding from his skull, and fangs peeking from between his generous mouth. Two large silver rings pierced his nostrils, and an intricate marking, or tattoo, was etched from temple to jaw. He sported a mane of hair that was thick and wavy, hanging well past his shoulders.
He was beautiful and repulsive at the same time. Rowan’s vision blurred once more as she struggled to breathe.
He was also strong as hell.
“Gargoyle,” Azaiel spat. “Take your hands off her now, or I will destroy you.”
The creature smiled—a macabre caricature that stretched his face tightly. “You could try, but she would be dead before you moved.” The smile left, and he loosened his hold. “Who are you and why are you here?” he growled.
The light from behind him grew bright just then, beams of energy falling over his shoulder and blinding Rowan with its intensity. The gargoyle snarled and dropped her to the ground like a piece of garbage.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rowan spat as she struggled to her feet. She had no idea what the hell was going on, but she was pissed. Pissed and tired and pretty much fed up. The ominous darkness that pressed on her was too much. Something was coming, and she didn’t need two fucking guesses as to who it was.
They needed to get off the island. Like yesterday.
The gargoyle stared down at her, the dagger clutched in his hand, his eyes confused. “What trickery is this?” he said harshly.
Rowan pushed her hair off her face and glared right back at him.
“Who the hell are you?” she rasped, rubbing her hands along the tender skin at her neck.
“I am . . . Mikhail.”
Azaiel was at her side in an instant, his hand warm against her cheek. His eyes were full-on black, and the energy that slithered across his body was just as dark.
The Seraphim was livid. Blood would be spilled.
He whirled around, slammed his fist into the gargoyle, and both of them tumbled to the ground inches from a slight figure draped in long robes that once were ivory yet now were yellowed with age.
“Rowan?” The voice was tentative. Strained. And so very familiar.
The gargoyle and Azaiel rolled away from her, both on their feet in an instant, squaring off in silence as the woman stepped closer. Her long auburn hair was shot through with bolts of silver—it hung to her waist in tangled waves. A face so achingly familiar stared at her in wonder.
It was a face that was older—more wrinkles and a softening of features—yet the glittery rage of crazy wasn’t there. Her eyes were clear and more than a little wary.
Rowan stood on shaky legs, feeling all her strength waver as she looked upon a ghost from her past. Her throat constricted. Tears pricked her eyes.
Mother.
She supposed if she were eight again, she would have run into her mother’s arms. Laid her head on her breast and let the warmth of her mother’s embrace seep into the coldness inside her. She would have clung to the woman with all the mad longing of a child who didn’t know better. One who still believed in fairy tales at bedtime, and hot chocolate and giggles and hugs.
Rowan cleared her throat. Too much ha