King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

Rowan remained silent but watched him closely. A fine sheen of sweat coated his muscles, emphasizing their shape as he worked. Azaiel’s body was much the same, though his shoulders . . .

“There was a time when I tilled the soil and answered to no one but my god.” He stuffed a large handful of leaves into the bag, and their eyes met. “I miss those days . . . sometimes. Things were much simpler.”

“Who are you?” Rowan asked quietly.

Priest smiled, a flash of even white teeth, and grabbed a cigar from his pocket. The black jeans he wore hung low on his hips, and his smile widened as her gaze lingered there—and how could it not? The man’s body looked as if Michelangelo had carved it from stone . . . and had paid special attention to the abs and the hips . . .

“Don’t you mean what am I?” He shoved the cigar into his mouth and lit the end, taking his time to coax the flame. His dark eyes glittered with what Rowan called the otherworld glow. It was an extra spark—an imprint of power if you will—that lit the eyes from behind.

Azaiel’s was a golden shimmer. Priest’s was silken brown caramel.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” The tobacco scent was pleasant, reminding her a little of the pipe tobacco that Cedric favored. Though she supposed he’d given that up.

Priest stuffed the bag with refuse while she held it for him, and for several minutes there was nothing but the sound of buzzing insects, the rustle of squirrels in the bush, and the echo of voices from the front of the house.

Once the bag Rowan held was full, Priest handed her another, and they moved to the large piles of leaves.

“I was human once.” He shoved the last of the first pile into the bag, and they moved to the next. “A knight of the Templar, an arrogant one who lost faith.” His eyes narrowed, and he gazed at Rowan intently. “When things are their darkest, that is not the time to lose faith. That’s when you cling to it, when you hold it close to your heart. Arrogance and lost faith did not serve me well, and I paid the ultimate price.”

Rowan was quiet as he continued to fill the bag.

“I was foolish, made many mistakes, and lost my life. I wandered the gray realm for many years.”

“The gray realm?”

“Purgatory for want of a better word.” The cigar was clenched between his teeth as he stared down at her. The man was as tall as Azaiel and just as fierce. “I wasn’t meant to be there, so I wandered like a blind fool. I’d lost my faith and belief. It was”—he tossed a handful of leaves into the bag—“the darkest time in memory.”

“I think dying would be pretty hard to beat.”

Priest grinned at that, a rakish tilt to his mouth that made him look like a movie star. An action hero like Willis or Statham. “Dying is the easy part. Trust me. It’s but a moment in time. It’s what comes after that can be a challenge. With no purpose I was like a child, a blind, weak, sniveling child. My soul didn’t belong in purgatory and there was no moving forward or backward for me,”

“So what happened? How did you . . . escape?” Was that even the right word?

“There is no escape from the gray realm. You either move on, find the light as it were, or you live out your days in limbo. Never resting, always searching for something that you never really find.” Priest blew out a ring of smoke. “Or you make a deal with someone who has power.”

“You made a deal with someone.” It wasn’t a question.

He handed her the last bag. “I did.”

“Who?”

Priest shook his head, and she was struck at his raw, male beauty. “We’ve just met, Rowan James. Don’t expect me to share all my secrets with you.” His eyes flashed. “We haven’t even kissed.”

Her cheeks blushed a deep red, and she stared at her hands. Sheesh, Priest probably thought she was flirting with him, which was absurd. Sure he was hot and sweaty and freaking gorgeous, but the only one she wanted to kiss was . . .

Rowan cleared her throat and asked the question she was most dying to have answered. “So what’s Azaiel’s story?”

The Knight Templar straightened, his expression no longer easy. “What has he told you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing really, other than he’s Seraphim.”

Preist’s eyes narrowed at that. “Azaiel’s story is for him to tell.”

“Why don’t you like him? Why does Nico hate him?”

Priest exhaled and tied up the last garbage bag. “My feelings for the Fallen are ambivalent; as for Nico, I can’t really say. The shifter runs on emotion with a lot of highs and lows. There’s not much in between with him.”

“The Fallen? That’s what Nico calls him, and I know Azaiel doesn’t like it. What does that mean?”