King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

Rowan shuddered as another strong gust of wind whipped along the veranda. She thought of how he’d gotten down on his hands and knees the night before and scrubbed her grandmother’s blood out of the floor. She sensed something dark in him, but there was also good. “He’s not the enemy. That’s all you need to know at this point. He’s a . . . a friend, I guess.”

“A friend.”

“Not that kind of friend.” Rowan’s cheeks were hot, and her thoughts turned, however briefly, to the ride in from Salem and how good it had felt to hold on to something so solid. So incredibly male.

“That’s what you said about Danny Bagota, and we all know how that ended,” Hannah said dryly.

“Look, we don’t have time to discuss Azaiel—”

“Aza—what?” The expression on Hannah’s face was near comical. “Shit, Rowan. Does he come from the land of the ice and snow? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“A—zee—el.?

? She pronounced the name slowly, an irritated frown furling her brows as she stared into the amused blue eyes of her cousin.

“Got it.” Hannah’s smile disappeared. “Okay, that doesn’t look good.”

Rowan followed Hannah’s gaze. A swirling black mass of something strange hung in the sky, off in the distance. “What is it?” she murmured, wincing as the bad feeling that had never really left her stomach returned with a vengeance.

“I don’t know, but I can tell you one thing. That sure as hell ain’t a storm cloud. It’s carrying full-fledged storm babies that are gonna drop a shit-ton of crap on top of us.”

The two of them studied the darkened mass for several moments until the door slammed open behind them. The shaggy bartender stood there, chest heaving, a worried expression on his face as he stared up at the sky.

“That there is trouble.” He ran his fingers through the greasy mess of salt-and-pepper hair atop his head and clenched his hands. His steely eyes settled on Rowan, and she felt his anger as clear as day. “Seems to be following you.”

Rowan bit back the pulse of irritation that throbbed near her temple. “The only thing that’s following me is your bad attitude.” She strode toward him. “And that’s going to change. I won’t work with someone who’s got his head so far up his ass, he can’t see the big picture.”

The bartender stared at her in shock, then a slow grin spread across his face. “You really are Marie-Noelle’s daughter.”

She arched a brow. “And?”

He stroked the beard that hung inches past his chin, his intense eyes never leaving hers. He nodded. “It’s about time you showed up.”

Chapter 8

Azaiel was on his feet when Rowan pushed back into the bar. The blond woman who’d been eyeing him up was no longer content to display her charms from across the room. She stood inches from Azaiel, her overly large breasts near to bursting from a low-cut cream blouse that barely kept them contained.

Rowan eyed the long length of trim legs exposed by the short, charcoal-leather skirt she wore. They, of course, were enhanced by six-inch candy red stilettos, and Rowan had to admit, the woman’s curves were enviable. She was attractive—in a dirty, skank, biker kind of way.

The woman turned, and the edges of a tramp stamp showed along her lower back as well as the top of her scarlet-colored G-string. Rowan made a face—the look was so yesterday.

Azaiel caught sight of Rowan and turned without another word—brows furled, eyes dark with frustration.

“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” she asked softly.

A scowl crossed his features. “Not at all. She’s annoying.”

Rowan glanced at the woman, who was now shooting daggers her way. “She’s got a great rack, though.”

She turned back to Azaiel, and her mouth went dry. Slowly he dragged his gaze from Rowan’s chest and gazed directly into her eyes. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Bartender man cleared his throat and stopped beside them, with Hannah close on his heels. “Hate to break up whatever the hell this is between the two of you, but like I said out there”—he nodded toward the door—“trouble’s on its way and we better come up with a plan or the shit’s gonna hit before we’re ready.”

“Trouble?” Azaiel barked. He shouldered between them and strode outside.

Rowan turned to the bartender. “You didn’t introduce yourself, so unless you give me a name, I’ll have to call you bushy bartender guy.”

“Bushy?” He smiled and ran fingers through the hair on his face. “I’ve been called worse.” He cocked his head. “Frank Talbot.”