King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

Logan snarled and whirled away. He was a hellhound. His job was to retrieve souls that were beyond redemption and escort them to District Three—one of several levels in hell—for processing.

He neither liked nor hated his job, but he sure as hell was the best kind of animal for it. He was an elite hellhound shifter, born from the depths of hell and destined to straddle the realms. His hunting capabilities were legendary, his sensory skills unparalleled.

Logan’s lips curled as the faint smell of pine tugged at him once more. He stared at the mirror that hung on the wall in front of him. At a reflection so bizarre it was laughable. Askelon had outdone himself. His human façade was nothing short of brilliant. No one would ever suspect the short, round, balding man was in fact one of the most powerful beings in existence. If not the most.

Anger spiraled through him and Logan took a step toward Bill, not caring that the ancient could dish out a hell of a lot of damage with nothing more than the flick of his wrist.

He growled and passed his hands through the thick hair at his nape.

“Why are you here?” The last time he’d seen the little fuck, Logan’s life had taken a header right into the fires of hell. Literally. He’d defied direct orders from his Overlord because Bill had asked him to. Logan had led a child back into the human realm—one he’d been ordered to retrieve for processing—and he’d been brutally punished.

He’d been sentenced to the Pit—the shit hole many leagues beneath District Three. It was the one place in hell that everyone avoided, if they were smart or had occasion to. It was saying something that he, a creature born of fire and brimstone, had nearly been broken by it.

“I need your help, Logan.”

Logan paused, his face incredulous. “What part of ‘shove your fucking League of Guardians up your ass’ didn’t you understand the last time?” He arched a brow and smiled, his lips tight in a sarcastic grin. “Or is this something else entirely? You pulling a Vader and crossing over to the dark s

ide, Bill?” He flexed his arms—let his beast shift beneath the surface. “You want a ride down? Is that it?”

“The girl has been killed.”

“What girl?” A frown crossed Logan’s face. He didn’t like where the conversation was headed, and he really didn’t like the direction his mind was going.

“The same girl you were ordered to drag below fifteen years ago.” Bill sighed, rubbed his temples. “The one we saved.” If Logan didn’t know better, he’d think the little shit was tired.

“We? Seems to me, I did all the work and had my ass kicked for hundreds of years because of it.” Logan shook his head. No way was he getting involved again. “I’m done. I don’t give a flying fuck about that girl.” Did the Seraphim think he cared if she was dead? As far as Logan was concerned, she’d been on borrowed time anyway. If anything, she’d been granted a reprieve while he’d rotted beneath District Three.

Time moved differently there. In the Pit. What had been fifteen years to the human girl had been nearly fifteen hundred for Logan.

“Tsk, tsk . . . language, my friend.” Bill turned fully and nailed Logan with a direct stare. “You should care. We all need to care.”

“You’re talking in circles, old man. Elaborate or leave.”

Bill’s mouth tightened for the briefest moment and Logan knew he’d overstepped with his last statement. He smiled, liking the fact that he managed to get under Askelon’s skin. Score one for the hound.

“She cannot perish. Her future is hidden in the fabric that binds us all. But know this.” Bill’s nostrils flared as his anger thickened. “She will be protected. I will do everything in my power to keep her safe and make sure she meets her destiny.”

“Seems like a moot point, considering she’s already dead.”

Bill’s eyes narrowed. His face darkened and blurred . . . features shifting until his true self shone through. Gone was the pleasant, middle-aged human. In his stead a powerful, enigmatic creature stood. Two realities converged, and Logan had to admit the little shit’s mojo was impressive.

Bill’s voice vibrated, falling in layers that encircled Logan and filled his head. There was no mistaking. The Seraphim was livid.

“She is not meant to die—not yet. Someone is trying to alter her destiny and I need you to retrieve her for me.”

“She’s not my problem. Find some other dog.”

“Oh, but she is your problem. I need someone who can track her. Someone who knows her scent.” Bill leaned closer, his voice amplified even more. “Someone who’s tasted her soul.”

Logan had had enough. He growled and bared his teeth. “I don’t take orders from you. Not anymore. I don’t know why I ever agreed to it in the first place.”

Bill sighed, grabbed his bag of candy, and helped himself to a generous amount of the gooey mess. “You joined the League because you knew it was the right thing to do. Nothing’s changed.” He chewed and stared up at Logan, his hard eyes and unyielding mouth at odds with the image he portrayed.

“You will do this for me.”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest and spread his legs. The Seraphim was going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.

Logan reached for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey and dumped the last of it into his glass. “You’ve wasted a trip, old man.” He was dancing on the edge—tossing insults to one of the most powerful creatures in existence—and he didn’t give a shit.