“If I want to go with you, I will. End of story.”
Anger sparked inside him, flushing him with heat. Azaiel had had enough. Maybe it was the way the light reflected in her eye, emphasizing her attitude. Maybe it was the fact that he was tired as hell. Maybe his fuse was running short, and it was time to blow.
Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to kiss her or dismiss her.
He grabbed Rowan’s arm and yanked her against him, effectively pinning her to his chest. The little minx started to struggle, and even though his brothers had pretty much castrated most of his powers, his strength was still considerable, and with her hands pinned to her sides, she couldn’t spell or charm.
When she finally tired and went limp he whispered near her ear. “This isn’t a game. This is life and death, and in case you aren’t paying attention, let me reiterate. It’s your head on the chopping block, understand? There is no way I’ll risk your life because you want to play the hero. And—”
“Wrong.”
“What?”
Rowan wriggled her ass against him, and his groin tightened even more. Disgusted he pushed her away.
“I’m a woman, Azaiel,” she began cheekily. “So, I’d be the heroine not the . . .” Her voice trailed off as her gaze dropped to the obvious bulge between his legs.
He glared at her, pissed off that she was able to get such a reaction from him without even trying.
“Details,” he ground out. “Yet the only detail you need to focus on is the fact that you are not going anywhere near District One.”
She cleared her throat before dragging her eyes back to his, her face flushed, eyes overly bright. “All right. I won’t go, but I warn you, Azaiel, if you don’t come back, if you fail to get the grimoire for me, I will hunt you down, and trust me, Mallick will be the least of your worries.”
She started off toward the house, and he smiled at the haughty set to her shoulders. “I don’t doubt that,” he called after her.
“I’m not fooling around.”
“Noted.”
They reached the edge of her driveway a few moments later, and she paused though she never looked back his way. “Just make sure you come back, all right?”
Azaiel didn’t say a word as she slipped between the shadows and disappeared from sight.
“Who’s your Robin?” Priest cut into his thoughts.
At Azaiel’s confused look Priest grinned. “Batman and Robin? Superman and . . . come to think of it, Superman never had a Robin.”
Azaiel shook the cold from himself. “I have no idea what that means. Kellen will accompany me.”
Priest considered that and slowly shook his head. “He’s strong and seems focused, but he’s an unknown.”
“Why does Rowan have the magick of her family, and Kellen seems to have nothing?”
Priest shrugged. “Magick is discriminate. The James witches only have female children, and therefore their magick is passed from mother to daughter with the firstborn line amped up considerably, which is why Rowan is so much stronger than her cousins. As far as I know, Kellen is the first male born into this family. I’d say the fact that they’re twins has something to do with it.”
Azaiel took a moment. “I find it hard to believe that as the product of both witch and fae, he’s not been blessed with something extraordinary.”
“I agree. But he might be more closely aligned with the fae side of his heritage. They mature at a much slower rate, mainly because they’re immortal. But judging by the kind of mojo Rowan’s packing, when, or rather, if he matures—Kellen James will be a formidable entity. Are you sure you can trust him?”
“I’m not sure about anything, but it’s no matter. What’s done is done, and Rowan’s brother will accompany me.”
An hour later Priest dropped Azaiel and Kellen in Salem at the back of a small restaurant, something called The Greasy Spoon North. It’s where Samael had agreed to meet. Apparently there were several scattered across the country, and their specialty, besides the popular all-day-heart-attack-on-a-plate breakfast, was something called poutine. Azaiel had never heard of it before, but the thought of cheese curds and gravy smothered over fried potatoes nearly turned his stomach.
The place was open twenty-four hours and though it was barely past five in the morning, The Greasy Spoon North appeared full. Azaiel and Kellen walked in and immediately felt the weight of many eyes.
It was an eclectic gathering of hungry souls. Some of the patrons had been out all night partying—it was Sunday after all—and church was definitely not on the menu. The lull in conversation started up after a few seconds, and Azaiel relaxed somewhat. While there were a good number of elderly folk—those used to early-morning hours, bacon, eggs, and coffee—there was one in the back who didn’t belong.
He sat in the corner, facing the door, and though the place was lit up like a thousand-watt Christmas tree, shadows clung to him, making it hard for the average person to see him clearly. Azaiel had no such problem.