King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

The bartender swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing through the thick folds of skin at his neck. He didn’t know what to do. Run from whoever—or whatever—had blown into the place or pour the damn whiskey and be done with it.

His eyes darted to just behind Logan once more but he jumped when Logan barked. “Now.”

The bartender poured a generous amount of whiskey into the tumbler, and though he tried to be careful, his hands shook so much it was a damn miracle he didn’t spill the precious liquid all over the place.

The sound of clinking glass echoed into the dead silence, and when the bartender was done, he set the bottle to the side and stepped back. A pronounced tick pulsed near his left eye and he swallowed nervously as he stood there, shuffling his feet, eyes shifting from Logan to the door. His face was flushed a ruddy pink color, the skin shiny with sweat and fear.

Logan tossed some cash onto the dark grained bar and stood, his six-foot-six frame unfurling with the uncanny grace of an animal, which, considering his origins, wasn’t surprising.

Tension settled along his wide shoulders as he reached for the glass, but along with it, a shot of anticipation. He was itching for a fight. He’d just not known it until now.

He tipped his head back. Amber liquid slid onto his tongue and he welcomed the smooth, sweet taste. It burned—all the way down—yet he closed his eyes and savored the sensation.

Logan had been pretty much everywhere—in the human realm and beyond—and he could say with certainty Canadians knew how to brew their damn whiskey better than anyone else.

He let the liquid fire settle in his belly, then carefully set the empty glass back onto the bar. He arched a brow and nodded, a slight jerk to the right.

Now would be a good time for the bartender to leave.

Sweat beaded along the man’s top lip. It was quickly wiped away by a thick meaty hand, and then the bartender took a step back before he too disappeared into the shadows.

Logan slowly turned.

Two men stood just inside the door of the Neon Angel, their tall frames bathed in shadow. They were big. Well built and muscled.

And they’d not come to socialize.

Logan had no idea who they were, but judging from the otherworld scent that clung to them, he had a pretty good idea where they’d come from. But that was the tricky part, wasn’t it? Which realm d

id they call home?

No scent of demon twisted in the air, and yet . . .

His hands fisted at his sides. He could take them. Hell, he wanted to take them.

“Shit, that didn’t take you boys long.” Logan nodded toward the now empty bar. “You cleared the room in less time than it takes for a junkie with a needle in his vein to get high.”

Nothing. There was no expression or words.

Logan remained silent for a few moments and cocked his head to the side. He studied the two creatures—and creatures they were; there was not one drop of humanity in them. His nostrils flared as the subtle scent of pine drifted toward him once more, and he frowned.

A memory stirred, and with it a flush of heat, a dirge of anger.

Slowly his fists unfurled to hang loose at his sides, and Logan leaned back against the bar, elbows resting against the edge, long legs crossed in front of him.

“I’m not much for one-sided conversation, so unless you’ve got something to say, I’d suggest you turn your asses around and leave.” Logan grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the counter. “ ’Cause I’ve got some drinking to do and that sure as hell is something I prefer to do alone.”

A low keening vibration rippled through the room—an invisible thread that electrified the air and sent his radar crashing into full-on red alert.

Bright light lit the men from behind, beams so intense Logan took a step back and winced. His skin burned as if it had been touched by flames, and the control he had was fast slipping away.

Stars danced in front of his eyes and he shook his head aggressively as he moved forward, his mind emptying of all thoughts except one. Survival.

There was power here. Old, ancient power—the kind that always signaled shit was about to hit. Hard. Logan was determined that any ass kicking in the immediate future would not involve his own.

Sifting beams of light sizzled and popped, and for a second he saw nothing but glitter, small pulsating fragments of gold that drifted on the breeze and whirled around the shadowed forms. They merged, twirling faster as the keening vibrations became louder and they melted together into one large vortex of light.

Logan glared straight ahead, his gut tightening as the pine scent that hung in the air sharpened. It was fresh, tangy . . . and all too familiar.